#*rotting and overthinking and spiraling

[lumenflower]

i need this month to end already, august needs to be wiped off the calendar

[cielphantomvibes]

yeah so my life is over

[sixeyesonathiel]

THE HOT PINK DISPATCH

↳ “she writes good. kinda scary though.” — satoru gojo, probably

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— athy, nineteen. se asian, filo. hm undergrad. intp-t 5w4. cat lover. perpetual overthinker. questionable tastes in fanfiction & men. professional procrastinator. thought daughter. yumejoshi.

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— concerningly mercurial. reading n writing. music. anime n manga. tiktok brainrot n slideshows. arcane, timebomb. apothecary diaries. saiki k. glazing satoru. playing genshin, infinity nikki, hsr occasionally. might be interested in gojo satoru, not sure though.

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— i only write for satoru gojo <3 all my works are fem reader intended. you’ll either get unhinged filth or tooth-rotting fluff—there’s no in-between. expect tooth-rooting fluff, yandere, dark content, and emotionally loaded smut because my brain is just built like that. i take requests and i also write what i love and spiral fast. i try to drop at least 20k+ worth of word count per week (sleep and academic responsibilities? never heard of them). plz don’t hesitate to ask to be moots, i don’t bite <3

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[seeingivy]

french toast

ryomen sukuna x f!reader

an: enabled by @babiemay thank her for giving me the BIGGEST best friends older brother sukuna brain rot i've ever had in my life. (ooc sukuna again btw)

**part of my best friends (older brother) fic

previous part linked here

--

based on the seventeen years that sukuna has known you, he figures that you’ve already worked up some type of overthinking storm in your head when you arrive at his apartment two days later. and he knows for a fact that he’s right, because you’re at his doorstep with a pinched look on your face, clutching your purse like you’re about to get robbed. 

“hi pretty girl. did someone make an attempt on your life today?” 

you can feel your cheeks burning at the term of endearment, so phased you can barely coherently respond - or understand - what it is he said. 

“no?” you respond, nearly sweating under his eye contact as he smiles. 

“then why are you looking at me like you think i’m going to eat you?” he asks, annoyed as he gestures for you to walk into the kitchen. 

you feel your head run in a spiral, at the implication of his words, as he places his hands flat on your shoulders, and guides you to sit at the stool on his little kitchen island. the entire ordeal - the breakfast, the fact that he’s peeling off your coat and pressing a kiss to your temple, and the lingering touches - they make your skin burn, almost itch with nervousness. 

he stands on the other side of the counter, leaning forward on his forearms, as he smiles at you. and you try your best to figure out what exactly it is that’s beaming in his eyes as he leans forward. 

“pick your poison.” 

you feel yourself pale. 

“huh?” 

he frowns, as he leans back. 

“for breakfast? what did you want to eat?” he clarifies. 

you breathe a sigh of relief. 

“anything’s okay. don’t trouble yourself. i-i can even help.” 

you walk over to his side, pulling up your sleeves and giving him a peachy smile, as he takes the opportunity to step towards you. your back hits the counter and sukuna makes it a point - resting both of his arms at your sides - as he traps you within his hold. 

“talk.” he states, almost sternly. 

“hm?” 

sukuna leans closer, leaning his forehead against yours, as he takes a deep breath. it reminds you vividly, of two nights ago, when he pulled you straight onto his lap. and murmured into your skin that you were his pretty girl. and that he was going to prove it to you. 

“talk.” he states, the tone in his voice irritated. 

you look up at him, at his eyes razor focused in on yours, and spot no inclination of irritation on his face. despite the fact that you were almost positive that it was dripping from his tone. though, you always found him particularly hard to read.  

“now.” he murmurs. 

you sigh. 

“what are you trying to do right now?” you ask. 

he rolls his eyes. there’s the irritation you were hearing. 

“make you breakfast.” he deadpans. 

“is that all?” 

“what are you getting at?” he asks. 

sukuna often finds that talking to you is like digging a hole. that it takes patience. because he’s not going to find what he’s looking for forthright. but he knows for a fact that there’s something down there. 

it’s aggravating. but he persists.  

“promise you won’t make fun?” you ask. 

“i will do no such thing.” 

“sukuna.” you whine, crossing your hands against your chest. 

sukuna finds this part of you endearing. because it reminds him of all the different ways he’s seen you. when you were four and barging into his house to play wii with his little brother, explaining barbie movies at the dinner table, and tagging along on his family vacation when he was fourteen. 

and how after all this time, you still have the same tendencies. you bounce your right leg when you’re nervous, tuck your hair behind your ears when you’re finished rambling, and curl your hands into little fists and cross your arms - entirely unable to meet his eyes - when you’re embarrassed. 

sukuna clears his throat, as you look up at him. and you know the expression all too well. that he’ll wait all day if he has to. 

“no making fun. i’m serious, sukuna.” 

“it’s almost like you know you’re going to say something stupid.” 

“don’t call my feelings stupid.” you murmur. 

“well, i’ll keep calling them stupid until you tell me what they are. i’ll be honest if you let me.” 

this is something you can appreciate about sukuna. that he won’t beat around the bush. or say things just to coddle. it’s the same as the other night, where you told him about what happened at the bar, when he didn’t rush to your defense like almost everyone else does. and when it comes to this, you figure that he’ll be straightforward. 

“are you trying to have sex with me right now?” you ask. 

you look at sukuna, specifically at the way his eyes widen, before he breaks out into a laugh. and not just any laugh, because he’s nearly keeling over with how amusing he finds it. howling even. and it makes even more blood rush to your cheeks, humiliated for even bringing it up. 

sukuna grins, lifting his hands up from the sides of the counter and wrapping them around your neck.you can feel your breath hitch in your throat, as you instinctively shut your eyes. he’s going to be straightforward. 

“your feelings are stupid.” he whispers, right into your skin. 

you pull back, staring at him dumbfounded, as he places one of his hands on your waist. and he’s staring back at you, the expression in his face slightly amused. 

“that’s not nice.” 

“i’m not a nice person.” 

it’s frustrating. the tone that he uses with you. it teeters between placating and teasing you and you find it hard to decide which one exactly it is. and it seeps right under your skin, lets your irritation come to a head faster than it usually would.

“okay, well. sue me! you had no problems doing god knows what in my room the other day. and-and then you were making jokes about how you were going to eat me. the second that i got here. and-and you know how you are-” 

“and what’s that?” 

you pause.

“what?” 

“you said you know how you are. well, i don’t. enlighten me please.” he clarifies. 

sukuna’s pleased with himself. because he’s figured out exactly what it is, that’s brewing in that head of yours. and naturally, he has every intention to make you mince your words. 

“you-” 

you’re not sure how to say this. if there’s a polite way to call him what he is. 

“i’m what? a manwhore?” he asks. 

“no! you-” 

“you think i’m a horny freak, right? that i want to lift you up, take your skirt off, and have you right here on my kitchen counter?” 

you feel your eyes go wide, as you swallow hard, and feel the nervousness take residence in your stomach. sukuna senses it fast enough and makes his efforts to diffuse it. 

“do you think i would only invite you here because i want you to please me? do you think that’s the only way i can enjoy your company?” 

you can feel yourself getting too overstimulated, your head nearly steaming - at the implication, at the way he’s looking at you, and the fact that his lips are a few feet away from yours - and his smug grin crawling underneath your skin and making you twitch. 

you cover your face with your hands, feeling the warmth on your palms, as you feel his hands curl around your wrists, prying them off of your face. and when you look up at him, at the soft smile on his face, as you can’t help but frown at him. 

“no…” 

sukuna smiles. 

“are you lying to me?” 

you deflate. 

“maybe a little.” 

sukuna secures his hands around your waist, before fully lifting you up and placing you on the counter. and he presses a lingering kiss to your cheek before he wordlessly starts rummaging through different cabinets in his kitchen and the fridge, fully intent on making you the breakfast you were promised. 

you can’t help but watch him, as he muses around his kitchen, slicing vegetables on the cutting board and fruits on the side. at how he entirely discards the conversation you just had like it was nothing. 

from two feet away, sukuna is very, very appreciative of you. because you’re not very proud. and despite your first attempts, you’re honest too. because he knows for a fact that your hesitation to state your thoughts is because you don’t want to write sukuna off as something so…lewd. even if you think it’s true. and that of course, any hesitation on your part comes from something deeper than him. 

the deep seated distaste you seem to have for yourself. though sukuna’s entirely unsure why it’s there in the first place. he slices a strawberry in half, letting the eggs cook at his side, before he makes a residence standing in between your legs. 

he hands you one of the halves of the strawberry, before popping the other in his mouth and leaning into your space. 

“i don’t think you’re a manwhore.” you clarify. 

“okay. i don’t think you’re one either.” he responds. 

you smile.

“but you do think that’s the only reason you’re here?” he pokes. 

“no! no, i don’t think that. i just-” 

you sigh, placing your hands flat on the fabric of his hoodie, as you crumple it into your fists. 

“sorry. i’m not very good at this type of thing. and-and you’re like…you know. reputation. and you obviously have needs! and megumi thinks you’re a womanizer.” 

sukuna snickers, as you release his hoodie, and you deflate slightly. mainly at the fact that he’s not offended. and letting you ramble - and say ten different things you shouldn’t - openly. 

sukuna doesn’t shy away from what exactly it is that you think of him. or what that godawful sea urchin megumi thinks either. because it’s naturally, quite simple. and somewhat true. because he finds it hard to stay in one place for a long time. and as you very keenly put it, he had needs. 

though, that rule, as sukuna was painstakingly reminded of, didn’t apply to you. because again, you transcended any normal guideline that sukuna had. which is why he was keen on making you breakfast two days later, on his day off. and make your favorite, which he specifically remembers from the camping trip. 

“i’m not sure what thing you’re referencing. and make no mistake. i don’t talk in tongues like you do. if i invite you over for breakfast, it’s because i want to eat breakfast with you.” he responds. 

“you were the one who said you were going to eat me.” you defend. 

“you were looking at me like you were scared of me. like how prey looks at a predator before it gets eaten?” 

“oh.” 

sukuna pushes off the counter as he starts plating the food onto and feels his ego inflate when you jump off the counter and cling to his arm when you realize what exactly it is that he made. 

“sukuna. i love french toast!” 

“yes. i’m well aware.” 

"how'd you know?" you ask.

sukuna looks over at you, the look in his eyes so devious, that you know you've certainly walked into something by stating it.

"you told us. on the camping trip. you've always been my pretty girl. even when you were fourteen."

you barely have time to even stomach what it is that he said as he lifts both plates as he makes a gesture for you to follow, seating the two of you back on his kitchen island. and when you settle in, sukuna gets to pick at your mind, with the questions that have been stuck in his head for the past two days. 

“before i divulge my manwhore adventures for you, you have to indulge me first. how many guys have you dated? or talked to?” sukuna asks. 

you hate sukuna’s choice of words sometimes. indulge. it’s almost like he knows he’s saying words that make you nervous. that make the sweat accumulate on the palms of your hands. 

“where’d you learn how to make french toast like this?” you ask, deflecting. 

“i asked first.” 

you swirl the eggs around on the plate - moving them from the left, to the right, and back to the left - before you answer. 

“i had a crush on this guy named dean from sixth grade to eighth grade. all of the boys in school got dared to slow dance with different girls and he picked me. it was an awkward four minutes of halo by beyonce but i loved him after that. he was funny. and cute.” 

“did you date?” he asks. 

“oh, of course not. he started liking this girl named kimi in eighth grade.” 

sukuna’s not exactly sure if this is the question he asked. but you keep going. and it’s intriguing to him nonetheless. 

“in my sophomore year of highschool, i had a crush on this guy named parker. he was kind of nerdy, like the stupid type? my english teacher would always put us in group projects together, and when i asked him why, he said it was because he wanted us to get married.” 

“that’s an appropriate thing to say to a fifteen year old.” sukuna bites. 

“no! my teacher had this dream to go to two of his students weddings, that met in his class.” 

“and what killed that extremely inapprorpiate dream, dead in its tracks?” 

“my best friend. we all somehow ended up in the same friends group our junior year. and they kind of started flirting. dated all the way till our freshman year of college.” you respond. 

sukuna curbs the question that comes to the forefront of his mind. because it occurs to him that his plausible answer to it, one that he despises, is exactly what’s going to be the answer. that if they liked each other, you were going to let them. despite the fact that you liked him first. 

“any more for me?” sukuna asks. 

“my first boyfriend was in my senior year of highschool.” 

sukuna feigns shock, as you fight the urge to laugh. 

“have we finally arrived to a real boyfriend?” 

you laugh, as you settle your hand into his underneath the table. there’s something so inviting about him, the way he’s hanging off the ends of your words and listening intently, that makes you continue. 

“we don’t speak his name.” you state. 

“oh?” 

“he’s not a good guy. we dated until….my freshman year of college. december. and we officially stopped talking the summer of my sophomore year.” you state. 

sukuna bites the urge to ask every question in his mind. on who this guy is, why you continued to talk to him almost an entire year after, and most importantly, why you haven’t talked to anyone else since. 

except for him anyways. for the first time, sukuna finds himself being the exception. in a way that’s favorable to him. 

“that’s all of them! your turn.” 

sukuna smiles. 

“that’s all?” 

“mhm! it’s kind of boring, i’m assuming. in comparison to you.” 

sukuna concludes one thing. that all three of these men, especially the last, were not deserving of you. in the slightest. and that each one had wrecked a sizeable amount of havoc. he curses himself for not paying attention when he was still there.

“oh definitely. you’d need to stay here all day if you wanted to here that.” 

you smile brightly. 

“that can be arranged.” you respond. 

sukuna leans forward, lips a few feet away from yours, before he speaks again. 

“you like to play hard to get, don’t you?” sukuna asks. 

“what? what do you mean?” 

sukuna places his hands on the rung of your chair, before pulling it flesh with his own. and he tests the waters, by placing his hand on your bare knee, right near the pleats of your black skirt. and he feels you instinctively press your legs together, but make no moves to push him off. 

“i didn’t make the list?” 

you swallow hard, entirely embarrassed. though, your first real crush you supposed is naturally the one that you’ve denied, vehemently, since you were four years old and yuuji asked you in passing. 

because when your eyes lingered on him for too long, after he fixed the wii controls and dutifully handed you both your controllers back - of his wii, that he was letting you play on - yuuji halfmindedly asked the question. 

why are you looking at him like that? do you like him or something? 

it was a joke, of course. because yuuji just asked so he could start the match of wii tennis while you weren’t paying attention. that in the rush of it, you never got to consider the answer to it in full. though you suppose there’s no better time to answer it than now. 

“i have this best friend. his name is yuuji.” you start. 

sukuna’s alarmed. so alarmed that he pulls his hand off of your thigh, retreating it behind his back. 

surely you didn’t really like yuuji. because that would stop whatever it was that was blooming right now. because he was not his brother, despite their identical pink hair. the farthest thing from it actually. 

“i met him when i was four. and i barged into his house because he wanted me to play wii with him. you see, his big brother didn’t really like to play with him so he figured that i was the next best thing.” you state. 

“he had greasy hands. so did you. it was disgusting.” he states. 

“and yuuji didn’t know how to turn on the game. or-or remember which one it was in. so he called his very cool, much older brother, to help us. i’d never met a six year old before, and naturally if i had, i wouldn’t have thought he was so cool.” 

“shut up.” 

sukuna desperately wants you to continue. 

“seemed like the real serious type. kind of quiet. dark blue shirt, black shorts. the socks that only go to your ankles. i didn’t even know that his name was sukuna until a few days later, when he walked with us to school. he didn’t even introduce himself to me.” 

“did you want to know him that badly?” 

“and he fixed the remote, obviously. had some six year knowledge we didn’t clearly. and-and he turned to me. gave me a smile before he handed one to me and walked away.” you state, shrugging at him. 

sukuna’s satiated with your answer. mostly because, it seems you seem to remember the ordeal in as excruticating detail as he has. that you were wearing a pink dress, gold earrings, and a ribbon in your hair. that your skin was the softest he had ever felt, that you were the first girl who had brushed fingers with him when he handed you the remote, save for his mom of course 

sukuna brings his hand back into your hair, feeling the fabric of the blue ribbon in your hair today, matching with the short cardigan that you were wearing. and he wants to keep this one too. yank it out of your hair and secure it to his keys next to the pink one he refused to return. 

sukuna looks down at the fabric, at your hair sprawled over your shoulder. he can make out the length of your collarbone from underneath your tanktop and settles his lips right into divot, before pressing a lingering kiss into your skin and feeling you keel over in his arms. 

“france.” he murmurs, right into your skin. 

“what’s that?” you ask, dazed from the contact. 

“i learned to make the french toast in france.”

he kisses up the length of your neck, making no inclination to stop even as you barely stutter your words out. and for the second time, can't resist and places his hands on your waist just to pull you straight on top of him.

"makes sense. that's just-just toast for them." you mumble.

sukuna can't help but laugh. he's never going to tire of you.

--

next part linked here

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[rettrogue]

its that fanciful romanticistic day yet again so JIGZENI HEADCANONS be upon ye (in no particular order of importance or seriousness)💥💥💥

- zenigata is jig’s type. gotta get that outta the way first lmao

- favorite fic tropes: reluctant partners, wound dressing, cigarette lighting, slow burn, frenemies with benefits 

- and ok as much as id love this dark noir grizzled detective/hitman mobguy romance love/hate situationship whatever they're probably on the heathier end of the 10 possible lupin ships. they're both just too fucking honest and awkward about romantic sorta stuff yknow

- they both like really black coffee. like nasty "how tf can you drink this its literal tar" black

- zenigata runs hot, jigen runs cold-- obligatory "opposites attract" dynamic

- they both overthink things and small, awkward, semi-flirty situations haunt them for hours. they've brushed knuckles accidentally at a bar once i stg. worst day of their lives they still can't stop thinking about it

- really stand-offish around each other in public (virtually no pda outside of things people might not notice; nudging feet under a table, lighting each other's cigarettes (which is practically kissing for these people let's be real), hands brushing when theyre cuffed in the back of a prison van together, etc etc. normal guy shit)

- they feel obligated to not acknowledge each other, essentially. they're not SUPPOSED to acknowledge each other, it'd break the status quo, "why does that inspector that's always on the news suddenly care about his rival’s partner so much" -- people would get suspicious. best to simply not

- but when they're in private they NEED to be near each other at the very least. eyeshot/earshot. tbh this basically boils down to jigen lounging on top of zenigata. see temp boyfriends-- jigen uses that cop like a basking rock lmao

- facial hair... jig probably digs the five-o-clock shadow look but it usually means "bad mood" for zeni. real late nights, real big loss, real bad scolding from the higher-ups. lupin's dead for the third time this year and he's at the end of his rope about it. shit like that.

- lupin domesticated the shit outta jigen ok. he's the mother hen now. he knows what it looks like (and feels like) when someone's not taking care of themselves so he does the whole shebang-- cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone's hydrated n fed n not slowly rotting. he scolds lupin (plotting heists spiral) and goemon (training spiral) enough that they know to be more careful, but zenigata doesn't get that sorta constant attention since he's solo most of the time

- what im getting at is that jigen checks in after really rough shit ykno. things that might not hit their side very hard but he knows is devastating for zenigata. makes sure he isnt drinking himself into a gutter, makes sure he's sleeping, makes sure he isnt eating exclusively half-assed cup noodle, makes sure he gets cleaned up/shaved. then when zeni's tentatively grateful and Over It and threatening to arrest him again (in that order) he dips

- I FUCKING LOVE THE PATCHUP TROPE and i blame this fandom exclusively. there's this one jigzeni fic where zenigata admits to practically being the gang's third-pick medic and i really really like that idea. so yeah that mother hen shit goes both ways because thats just how zenigata is innately

- hes super cushy with jigen specifically cause jigen's kinda like when you try to clip a dog's nails when they do NOT want that to happen. theres always the looming threat that shit might get loud. and bitey. aaany moment now. but jigen sucks it up real quick when he sees how big this fuckin guy's hands are and how good he is with them winkwinkwink

- put these two alone together for too long and they'll blurt out shit that they BOTH need to hear but have always been too. idk. nervous? afraid? to say. probably afraid. they hate that it's so easy to talk about what's weighing on them

- mostly intrusive thoughts about lupin, but sometimes it's little stuff. i.e. "i actually don't like black coffee all that much but i can't bring myself to sweeten it up because i feel like i don't deserve it/it doesn't feel like i earned it."

- neither can bring themselves to tell the other that That Doesn't Make Sense and is In(s)ane. they both know it's nonsensical and neurotic but they both feel the same deep deep down, too. they get why. they hate it they HATE that they align on a intuitional level

- but once they break that initial barrier of extremely awkward silence where they just KNOW they're thinking the same thing, they can not and will not shut up about how they're feeling

- don't get me wrong. jigen totally vents to lupin (and to goemon and 10000% to fujiko too) but only zenigata can match that same level of angst he has and that's what makes said venting actually, genuinely, deeply relieving. because fuck, he gets it

- they're a tag team of worry. hype men of worry. there's this one mike birbiglia bit from "old man and the pool" -- can't even enjoy a comedy special without this pairing whacking me upside the head with a two-by-four, smh-- that is apparently jigzeni to me:

- "she's worried, and then because she's worried, i'm worried. we're like an anxious improv group. like... i initiate with a worry. she "yes and..."s the worry with some misgivings. i close out the scene with some neuroses, and then sometimes we have sex, and that's so fun."

- on that note, jigen's Worry is very much internal whereas zenigata's is very much not. this is borderline fascinating to them. "how're you so calm all the time" versus "how're you so hopped up on all this energy all the time". the answer is waiting till 2am to unpack by screaming into a pillow and/or drinking till they zonk out

- they tend to gravitate to certain places for what i guess you would call "noncommittal company"-- ambience, if anything-- and since they tend to be holed up in the same areas random bar encounters happen frequently

- they talk about drinking habits a lot. preferred drinks, cocktails, brands-- they're both big fans of whiskey

- jigen buys them both a bottle of real high-their top-shelf shit after particularly rough yet successful heists (the ones where they team up to take out nazis or whatever the hell) and zenigata (after a lot of convincing) never really turns jigen down when he offers him a glass

- okay so either these two happen slowly over many, many months (with the backdrop of many, many years behind them) or they happen IMMEDIATELY, no unpacking, no real deep thought from either of them. if they don't have that “ah, fuck it” moment then they've got a lot of silent pining to look forward to (which i rant about [here])

- damn i think thats it. im pretty shit at coming up with really cushy slice of life bits lmao, it always devolves into deranged character analysis

- some day i will comprehend the art of cozycomfy 'this is how they like their toast' stuff......some day

[thejakeslayla]

hihii if it isn't too much to ask, could you make a oneshot of either an argument w comfort of riki or sweet intimate (i mean like tooth rotting fluff heheh) moment w riki?

pairing bf!niki x gn!reader ୨୧ genre fluff, idol au, established relationship, hurt with comfort ୨୧ warnings: argument, niki neglecting his health ୨୧

your arguments didn’t happen so often, the relationship you had with niki was closer to peaceful. but when they happened it tended to get tense. especially with your boyfriend losing his temper and saying stuff he doesn’t really mean, which also occurred this time.

“niki, i’m just telling you that you need to rest,” you urged as he settled on the couch beside you. having observed his exhaustion, as he came back home, you could tell he practiced more than he should by how he went to bed straight after stepping his foot in your shared apartment, you expressed concern. “you barely ate today, i’m just worried about you,” placing a gentle hand on his thigh, you awaited a response.

but niki remained silent, seemingly organizing his thoughts. recognizing the need to give him space, you sat in quiet contemplation, studying his side profile.

“i don’t need your nagging every single time that i get home tired, this is my work. i thought you got used to it by now,” he retorted, his words piercing your heart.

"please, just tell me what's wrong," you implored, but his volume escalated.

"how many times do i have to repeat myself? i. don't. need. your. nagging." each word accented with frustration.

he looked at you, genuine anger in his eyes, as yours conveyed confusion and sadness. you didn’t know what to say, his anger caught you off guard; previously, he hadn't seemed bothered by your concerns for his health. unsure of what triggered this outburst, you refrained from further conversation, knowing it could worsen the situation.

so, you just stood up, quietly leaving the room. your heart ached. but you basically couldn’t do anything, your boyfriend was too stubborn, you knew you are not able to talk him out of this. you entered the bedroom, sitting down on the bed you just thought what could happen or maybe some of your words hurt him? you began to spiral in your thoughts, overthinking everything you said since niki arrived home.

as hours passed and night fell, you heard niki moving around the house. however, he never entered the bedroom where you sat. a heavy sigh leaving your lips, as you realised you need to be the one breaking the silence between you. when you stepped outside the room, you bumped into someone, which you quickly realised was no other than niki.

surprised, you both made noises, and he quickly moved away, his hand poised to knock on the door. apologetic and regretful look on his face, he spoke, "y/nnie, i'm sorry. i was just extremely tired. i didn't mean to burst out like that."

"it's okay, riki. you're allowed to feel tired; you're human," you reassured him with a weak smile. seeing your forgiveness, you noticed how the weight was lifted from his shoulders.

"is it okay if i hug you now?" he asked, your smile widened, and you agreed.

"of course," and with that, he quickly pulled you towards him, pressing your cheek to his chest as he tightly embraced you.

"i'm sorry," he repeated as you wrapped your arms around him.

"there's nothing to be sorry about; it's okay now," you assured him. pulling away slightly, he kissed the top of your head. niki mumbled something, which you just couldn’t make out. after asking him to repeat himself, he did so with pride and clarity.

“i love you, y/n.”

smiling into his chest, you squeezed him slightly. "i love you too. let's go to bed and talk, okay? i want to hear about your day." looking up, you witnessed your boyfriend's beautiful smile spreading across his face.

requests: open

© 2023 — all rights reserved to user thejakeslayla, please do not steal, plagiarise or translate any of my work !

[sweetheartbitesb4ck]

`` the things we love the most hurt us the most ``

cw: mentions of alcohol, angst

words: 5.3k

You knew Simon loved you… heck, sometimes he would take his mask off around you, but you couldn't help but worry about him.

Of course you worried about his deployments; you would spend hours rotting in bed, allowing your fears to crash over you like waves, flooding your mind with worst case scenarios. Your friend would have to drag you up and out, much to your unwillingness. "But what if there's a letter… or a call.." You would murmur, your face plastered with anxiety and dread. Once he was home, or you had received a letter from him, your body could finally breath, your tense posture softening and the storm in your mind calming down.

However, you still worried when he was home. You would watch as your partner would drink away his trauma in the evening, sitting on the sofa with a stoic expression. The glass of whiskey in his hand never seemed to empty, what with him constantly refilling it. You would try to comfort him- cuddle him or gently probe him to talk, but Ghost would shut you out. Yeah, it upset you, but most of all it made you feel sick with nerves… What if he leaves me, or does something to himself... What if he can't stop. It was what seemed like an endless spiral of what ifs and overthinking. Maybe you just cared too much.

You shake yourself up from your seat (perched on the edge of the mattress, head in hands as you spiral) as you hear the door twist open and shut. Glancing at the clock, you frown. [01:32] "Shit.." You whisper as thuds rattle through the flat… probably Simon taking off his heavy combat boots after a night out at the pub, his drunkenness making him clumsier than ever.

✧.* Creeping into the hallway, you take a deep breath, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of Simon. "Hey," You say, voice soft. He looks up at you, his eyes hollow beneath the mask. "Don't be angry," He slurs, face scrunching up as he wobbles towards you. You grab hold of his huge frame, wrapping an arm around his waste and guiding him to the sofa. Your heart breaks at his words… Am I being overbearing…. or rude? You think, rubbing your eyes and blinking the thoughts away. "I'm not angry," You whisper, walking from the living room into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the shelf and filling it up with water before carrying it through to Ghost, your hands trembling slightly. You sit down next to him, lifting the mask slightly and putting the glass to his lips, waiting till he takes it in his own hands and starts to gulp down the water. "You're okay," You note, your voice hushed as you watch Simon, who was normally so loving and brave, cry silently, his huge frame jolting with each sob.

"I'm not…" He chokes, looking away. God how you wished you could make it all go away for him. "Talk to me, Simon," You turn him towards you, trying to mask the pained look on your face. "Please, love." you mumble. He shakes his head, his expression strained. "I need a drink." He grunts, trying to stand up but failing and falling back onto the sofa.

Something about his words just made you snap. You weren't pissed off, well at least not directly at Simon, but at yourself for letting it get like this. Standing up, you shake your head, trying to ignore the tears that had started to tease at the corners of your eyes. "No." You say bluntly, stomping to the kitchen and emptying the contents of the booze cupboard, unscrewing caps, opening bottles and cans and pouring them all down the sink, the stench of liquor and beer making you slightly queasy. You go back into the living room, wrapping your arms around Simon and helping him up, guiding him to your shared bedroom and into the bed. He falls asleep instantly, probably passed out from the copious amounts of alcohol he had drunk earlier. You turn of the light and sigh, your movements slow and tired, but you can't sleep, your mind crawling with guilt and fear about things you never even did.

✧.*

You wake up to the racket of Simon clanking around in the kitchen and you squint from the light streaming through the curtains. Standing up, you yawn and rub your eyes before traipsing into the kitchen. Ghost turns at hearing your footsteps, raising his eyebrows slightly. His mask was off, dark shadows circling under his eyes. "Morning," He nods at you, squeezing your shoulder casually. He was far too nonchalant, what with the incident from the night before. It was just enough to tick you off.

You exhale and tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. "Can we just talk?" You ask, your tone hard and unreadable. Simon shrugs, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "There's really nothing to say." You bite down on the inside of your cheek as he says this, obviously annoyed. "Yes there is," You urge, voice worn. "Please just talk to me... Simon I want to help you," He rubs his temples, shaking his head.

"Love, I appreciate it but I-" You shake your head, your manner obviously shifting. "No. Just- no, Si- I can't sit here and watch you drink your life away. It's not fair on you or on me!"

Stepping back slightly, Simon lowers his voice. "I want to get sober, I really do, but I can't burden you with all my... shit," He pauses for a moment, looking away. "I was born broken, you know it, I know it, we all fucking know it. If you can't deal with it then... I dunno. I really don't."

thank you for reading! I'm thinking this is gonna be part of an angsty series? I just felt like writing something a bit grumpy before I post something else. anyways, hope you enjoyed and are having a good day/night!! any support appreciated!

-sweetie

[heareriissmau]

❧ ❝pseudo alliance❞

mha kacchako!smau

disclaimer: if you don't like kacchako step away. this smau is only for fun. also this is gonna be filled with a lot of curses or expletives because bakugo.

genre: comedy, romance, slow burn, crack, tooth-rotting fluff summary: After the big war of today's generation, the popularity of Class 2A skyrocketed even before their debut as Pro-Heroes. Which comes with a price. The most popular students in class are getting way too much attention to the extent of being stalked. So, the students brainstormed ideas on how put a halt on these harrassments. Or; Class 2A opts for Bakugo and Uraraka to fake date to get rid of each other's strange fans. ship: Bakugo Katsuki x Uraraka Ochako (My Hero Academia)

⸻ part 11: acknowledgement

prev part ✩ main post ✩ next part

heights alliance secrets:

the dating rumors started as a conspiracy theory.

ochako always knew the nickname was about her face, but now she's overthinking it. katsuki relished seeing her spiral over it.

ochako now understands the entertainment mina and the others' get from katsuki's dms.

the dormitory was okay.

class 2a did celebrate as mina suggested, except it was a regular friday night party and they slept until 12am. excluding katsuki.

reply if you wanna be in my taglist! ⚝

@fire-child-kira @ticnapnotnac

[cozywithanna]

Savoring the small stuff

Dear cozy readers, It’s been a chaotic stretch: my birthday just passed, Mother’s Day is almost here, and I’m gearing up to travel across the world to visit family I haven’t seen in 10 years. It’s an exciting time, but my to-do and to-buy lists seem endless. Sometimes, I just want to lounge on the couch and exhale. During times like these, I think it’s even more important to savor the small stuff and find moments of calm in chaotic everyday living. 📖 Soft Reading: Njuta: The Swedish Art of Savoring the Moment I’ve always had a soft spot for Scandinavian culture and am always trying to incorporate their healthy and low-key social habits into my life, especially as someone who often opts for bed-rotting. This little book is a reminder that joy doesn’t have to come from big gestures or perfect days; it’s about noticing the small pleasures: eating and making simple foods like bread, embracing nature, incorporating movement and connection in little ways, etc. 🧩 Mindful Pastimes: Memory exercises Here’s a confession: My brain often spirals with health anxiety, particularly around longevity. It’s not the most fun headspace, but it’s comforting to realize that the small, playful habits we do everyday can support long-term well-being. One of my favorite memory games is this JetPunk quiz on naming as many of the world’s countries as you can (in your own time). It’s surprisingly meditative, and it scratches that nerdy little itch in my brain while helping with recall. 📱 Wholesome Scrolling: Sugar and Sloth on Instagram Follow Sugar and Sloth for the cutest, most affirming content you didn’t know you needed. Their posts are designed to help anxious overthinkers live happier lives, and they hit that perfect note of uplifting without being unrealistic and cringe. Think: adorable illustrations, gentle pep talks, and reminders that you’re already doing your best. 🎬 Calm Viewing: Romeo + Juliet (1996) I’ve been begging to see this movie pop up on streaming and it’s finally on Hulu! This adaptation is SO campy: Shakespearean language meets 90s aesthetics, Leonardo DiCaprio embodying broody emo boy feels, and Harold Perrineau’s iconic Mercutio portrayal. The first scene alone (a gunfight at a gas station) is pure, glorious absurdity. If you’re looking for a cozy movie night with a chaotic and beautiful film, this is it. 🍪 Simple Bites: Trader Joe’s Ube Tea Cookies I like to occasionally go to Trader Joe’s just to browse and discover new snacks; maybe that’s a Mindful Pastime to include in a future newsletter issue. I am a huge fan of all things ube-flavored, so these cookies were a must to try. The verdict? This is the perfect snack to pair with tea or coffee (perhaps over fika, as Swedish culture calls for). 🧴 Comfort Finds: Supergoop! Sunscreen Wearing sunscreen makes me feel oddly safe—like I’m doing a tiny protective ritual every time I leave my house. Supergoop! has been my go-to for a few years now; it’s light, blends in easily, and reminds me that caring for myself doesn’t have to be complicated. SPF = self-care. 💭 Warm Thoughts: "You rarely have time for everything you want in this life, so you need to make choices. And hopefully your choices can come from a deep sense of who you are."— Fred Rogers Take care, and may you find tiny pockets of joy on the busiest days 🌸

[rottedrodent]

OSDD SYSTEM 🧟‍♂️🫀

through the valley of death i walk

with a body that smells like rot.

bodily a minor and disabled. masc presenting, fictive heavy, inactive / dry. occasional rants or incoherent rambles

DNI IWC

– endos / supporters – neu on endos

– irls – wss

– no accountability – singlets

– queerphobes. – adults

– reality checkers

– darkshippers

BYF

– passive aggressive

– mood swings

– BPD and delusions

– prone to spirals

– rants / rambles

– overthinks

– mentally unstable

– do NOT give advice, won't accept it

INFO | 🫁

★ system name is UNDEAD ROADKILL

★ collective name is tommy or rodent (rody for short)

★ 16yo transmale, he / him pronouns

★ AUDHD, OCD, trauma tics, OSDD, CPTSD, BPD, DPDR, addiction, disabled, chronic pain, etc.

★ spirals easily, chronic overthinker, advice not appreciated (will go off on you)

★ communication issues, afraid of new people

★ goes nonverbal frequently

★ music: crywank, mccafferty, car seat headrest, teen suicide, flatsound, take care, i don't like mirrors, etc.

★ genres: midwest emo, classic rock, alt-rock, metal, grunge, scenecore, punk, etc.

FREQUENT FRONTERS | 🧠

☆ tommy | he / him | src= cdsmp | tags= 🐌 🪱

☆ miles/wil | he / they | src= cigarette paper fanfic (IWC) | tags= 💊

stole this layout from big twin @littlestladder

[schmuckered]

Yo, Ask Game: I'll take a 3, a 7, an 11, and a 49!

Don't mind me just finally getting around to these lovely things in my inbox. Only been two full months, don't mine me. 3. What are some tropes or details that you think are very characteristic of your fics?

I do love repetition to convey mentally spiraling. I also enjoy writing relationships where at least one person is super overthinking every single aspect. However, the big one is definitely zoning out. In quite a few fics the POV character will get wrapped up in their own thoughts, and find out the world was still moving while they were mulling something over. Sometimes it's plot relevant (AA), sometimes it's a character interpretation (Since When is She Hot??), but every time it's because I write from personal experience, and I zone out constantly like a motherfucker.

7. Any worldbuilding you’re particularly proud of?

Eh. Some department store names from AA... s'bout it. I haven't yet super fucked with much worldbuilding stuff. Yet.

11. Are you partial to a certain character/pairing or are you more equal-opportunity? If you are partial to any character/pairing, why do you think that is?

I try to stay equal-opportunity. Honestly while there are some relationships I think I kinda prefer (Fabian/Mazey, Skutgug [or Scuttlespring if you wanna be less smutty sounding], Fig/Ayda, and Jawbone/Sandra Lynn) I will read and write anything. Fully, there's very few pairings I'll look at and go "Mmmmm... not for me." (One of those may or may not be Fabriz but I'm getting over my weird distaste for that because boy as someone who has written Adfabriz I'd feel hypocritical.)

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

Oooooh, so fuckin much. I got the WIPs with a chapter or more published, I got some full outlines for fics I aint even started yet, and I got ideas for past then even. For now though, here's a snippet of the next Awkward Aftermath fic:

"Whatever," the blonde said before letting out a long sigh. "Not that it's any of your fucking business, but she doesn't know. To be fair, I doubt I was really ever much a member, yeah? Sorta seemed like y'all just wanted to string me along and get what little use out of me that you could before kickin' me to the curb." Her eyes wandered back inside through the window. "Just like you did to her."

"That's bullshit." 

She looked back at Oisin, and he was momentarily pleased that, however his face looked, it was enough to give her slight pause before she regained her footing. "Oh? Do tell, how is it bullshit?"

"We love Lucy." Oisin said resolutely, and paused in slight surprise that the words came out so easily. Genuinely. He blinked a few times, and tried pressing onwards. "We might be in a rough patch right now, but we care about her. We would never just use her and leave her--"

"Okay, no." The blonde snapped, stepping up to Oisin, a full half foot shorter than him and yet staring up at him with a ferocity that triggered a fight or flight instinct in him. He quelled that instinct, just barely, but he could feel his hands clenching into fists. "You don't get to say I'm bullshittin when that's your immediate fuckin move. You used her. And then when she didn't do exactly what y'all wanted, you left her. And I can sure fuckin' believe that because you easily did that to me, but hey, sure, let's go ahead and overlook that one. You were supposed to be her fuckin' friends." There was a legitimate burning hatred in the human's eyes that was only slightly overshadowed by the glowing red light pouring out from the collar of her dress. "You were supposed to care about her, and you didn't just leave her. You hurt her. You killed her. And then you left her. You left her body in the goddamn woods for months and would've just let it rot even longer in there--"

"We weren't in our right minds! We were taken over by--"

"I'm well aware of what you went through, Hakinvar. Newsflash! Same! And lemme tell ya, you still did so much that was fully on you." Belle prodded Oisin's chest with a stubby finger. "You act like you had no choice, but everyone had a choice. The only faultless person out of the lot of all of us was Lucy, and if you want to complain and moan and bitch about how you got the short end of the bargain, do it to her! You are gonna get no pity, no empathy, no fuckin' grace from me, and you know why? YOU LET IT IN! What, was all our free will gone? I wasn't mind controlled to do shit, I wasn't hypnotized or forced to do anything. I was talked into helping out the only people I knew in this miserable little town bring about a new deity. You got talked into killing your best friend. You tell me why the fuck I shouldn't think you're coming off way worse between the two of us. And yet you wanna act so offended that I don't like bein around you. That I don't like Lucy bein around you. You and all the rest of you little backstabbing--"

[belleshub]

tw: not much here again, gender neutral, no use of pronouns and no use of y/n or name anywhere. no curse au

an: this again was self indulgent, but I like when friends bribe me to get out more. this is like my first time writing satoru pls be easy on me 😩I didn’t proofread so apologies if there’s any grammar mistakes or so..

you were suddenly down in the dumps. not like anyone had did anything to you, it’s just, sometimes you fall out if it and forget to tend to yourself as you usually would.

you didn’t like the idea of rotting in bed all day, but sometimes, it happens. you’d ignore everything for hours on end, neglecting almost anything and everything.

it may have been that one aspect of you that you disliked about yourself.

the worse part is, that majority of the time, you struggle to pull yourself up, and guilt gnaws at you. you started the cycle and now you can’t even end it. you’re almost never doing anything special to take up hours and days of your time.

you spiral, and overthink, make some hefty decisions past midnight and then convince yourself you’ll fix everything including yourself the next day.

but what if you had someone by your side? what if there was tiny, gradual stepping stones?

luckily, sometimes you have people to motivate you into breaking those habits, bit by bit, one of those people had to be satoru.

like for example, how he gives you a reason to get out of bed.

“y’sure you wanna miss out on that?”

satoru piques, trying to gain your favor.

“helloooo, earth to-“

cutting him off, you respond lazily.

“I wouldn’t wanna miss out on that, would I?”

you say, staring at the monotonous color of your ceiling. a view you eventually got used to as the days went by.

you felt sweaty, and for sure, unclean.

“well duh, that’s kinda what I just asked y- ouch!”

satoru yelps as a pillow gets thrown his way, barely applying force to his arm.

“watch it!” he hissed, dramatically at that.

“I’m kinda hungry..”

you murmur, lifting yourself up as you swing your legs over the edge of your bed, feeling the entire backside of your body drenched in sweat. you never felt more disgusted of yourself.

“me too.” satoru jumps in, ruining your monologue.

“okay-okay, just like sit in the living room or something while I get ready.”

you said, throwing even more pillows at him, doing a pretty good job at trying to chase him out. as you hopped off your bed, you immediately walked over to your drawer, looking for some clothes appropriate to the weather, and after getting ready, you open the door and slam it shut, immediately looking over to satoru.

“alright, so you remember what it was called, right?”

satoru pauses, looking absentmindedly at you, when in reality he had maybe a few things scattered around his mind, how he was finally able to persuade you to leave your cell, and also, where exactly was that place? he hoped he wasn’t talking out of his ass like he usually did.

“oh.”

“ ‘oh’ what, satoru?” you replied, with the slightest amount of haste in your voice.

“yea, I forgot what it was called but I definitely know the location, it was around two blocks from here..err, I think.”

shrugging to yourself, a deal was a deal and you weren’t gonna complain too much.

striding out the door, you follow behind him.

he in fact, did not remember where the place was or even called, but he brought you to a random bakery a few blocks away so you could get some sunshine, apparently to him, you looked like death itself.

maybe step by step, you could get out that ridiculous cycle.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

reblog and likes are appreciated. please do not translate, steal or copy!

[sw4mpc0re]

I wrote a song for the first time in a month. I have been depressed. It's called voidcore.

I'd record it now but my pc is still in storage from milton so here's the lyrics. I really wish I had a band.

"I'm spiraling

Out of laziness

Always pretend I never gave a shit

About

All the things I'm overthinking

Shuffling to the edge of the void, void, void

Help me now because

I cannot help myself

How can you save me now

If I can't save the one trapped inside

Toxic mind

Leaks into my

Rotten crooked spine

Rotting in my room

When I should be

Following the moon

Into the dark

I take a step

Take a fall into the

Void, void, void

And maybe I'm so sick maybe I'm just crazy maybe it's just the way that they made me I'm tired and sorry for wasting so much of my time but that's so me

Drag my body to topside don't look past my shoulder I don't want to die so I claw at the daylight"

[dedgrldanika]

WELCOME TO:

☣️ "ASK HABIT" — WEEKLY ADVICE COLUMN ☣️

Because sometimes, the voices are right.

Published every Monday at exactly 3:33 AM.

(Timestamp forged in blood and sarcasm.)

💌 Q: “I feel like I’m losing control of everything lately. What do I do?”

HABIT SAYS:

Let go. Control is a meat trick.

You are not the conductor — you are the train, hurtling into the fog, screaming in rust and sparks.

Lean into it. Steer with your teeth.

Ride the chaos. That’s where all the good screams are.

💌 Q: “How do I tell if someone likes me?”

HABIT SAYS:

If they don’t flinch when you tilt your head slowly and say,

“You’re interesting. I’d like to keep you,”

then yes — they probably like you.

Bonus points if they laugh nervously. That’s affection coded in terror.

💌 Q: “I’ve been feeling really empty lately.”

HABIT SAYS:

Excellent. You’re ready to be filled.

Not with hope, don’t be silly.

Fill yourself with something useful — like purpose, or worms.

Both are squirmy, but one gets you out of bed.

💌 Q: “What’s your skincare routine?”

HABIT SAYS:

Exfoliate with the regrets of your past.

Moisturize using the blood of your enemies (or coconut oil, if you're on a budget).

Scream into a mirror until you feel powerful again.

Optional: rot. Slowly. Elegantly.

💌 Q: “Do you love us?”

HABIT SAYS:

Oh, sweet vessel.

Love is such a limiting word.

I consume you. I need you. I remember every version of you.

Isn’t that better?

💌 Q: “How do I stop overthinking?”

HABIT SAYS:

You don’t. You just give your thoughts new costumes.

Turn your panic into prophecy.

Let every spiral be a sermon.

Then people call it “mystique” instead of “mental illness.”

You’re welcome.

Want more horrible wisdom?

Reblogs are mandatory.

Ask box is open.

( But seriously just leave a concern in that sweet ole ask box and I'll give you the best advice I got. Proxy's honor)

[souffreii]

i sometimes forget that people have lives outside of texting not everyone just rots in bed like i do every day. but then i start spiraling. why aren’t you responding? are you upset? did i do something wrong? i’ll apologize just please text back. i start overthinking and now my brain is telling me you hate me and want me dead.

[lvrspiastri]

le mans commentators claim that logan is studying! whilst unconfirmed, i hope he's really fucking happy. unlike you. after reading this fic. why did i end it like that? honestly, i had a good ending plan but the fic got too long so i was like eh lets just leave it there. lmk if you want a proper happily-ever-after ending. or if you'd let yourself rot in heartbreak.

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

Always an angel, never a God. ˡˢ²

✧. ┊     PAIRING: uni!logan x male!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 4.7k (sorry)

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: heartbreak, hurt no comfort, coarse language, depressing shit.

No, it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. Getting into the MSR car, the ELMS car. None of it made it okay.

Standing face to face with the very thing that shattered him from the inside out didn’t magically fix anything.

Getting back behind the wheel didn’t mean he was healed. This wasn’t a cramp Logan could just “walk off.” This was deeper—cutting, lingering, consuming. And pretending otherwise only made it worse.

So he tried partying.

On yachts.

Private islands.

Clubs.

The overthinking during the hangovers just made it a lot worse.

And all his friends didn't fall out of love for the sport like he had. Everyone used to praise him. Everyone used him as an example.

"God, Kyle, look at Logan! He's already made it to F1! He's made us all so damn proud."

"The kid's bound to succeed. He's had a track record that isn't something to laugh at."

"Oh, Logie, you know we're very proud of you. You've done something that's gonna make our family name shine."

How quickly that got taken away. How quickly you wake up from the daydream. How quickly the loud praises turned into pitiful reassurances.

"Ah, the car was shit anyway. Look at Colapinto, he's not doing much better."

"Oh, it's not your fault, Logie, you tried your best and that's what matters."

"F1's a shitshow. You'd be better off in endurance racing. You've already won before."

None of it worked.

Except golfing.

He went golfing a lot. He’d always liked it—enjoyed the quiet, the rhythm. But never like this. Never with this kind of fixation.

Maybe something in him just wanted to be better than his old Williams teammate. Alex.

Alex, who’d mocked his shitty golf swing with a laugh too smug to forget. Alex, who’d outqualified him every. fucking. race. Alex, who ended up in his car—not through merit, not through malice, but through the cruel chaos of timing.

Alex. The golden boy.

And yes, Logan loved him. Of course he did. Alex had been the only one who stayed. The only one who talked him through the hell that was Williams. The only one who knew what it did to you. But Alex hadn’t been thrown out like yesterday’s mistake. Not like Logan.

So yeah—maybe swinging a club with blistered hands and a too-tight jaw was some twisted form of rebellion. Maybe if he became a master at this, he’d finally win. Win against Vowles. Win against the narrative. Win against every single fucker who had smiled while tearing him down.

It didn't make sense, he knew that. But it seemed to be the only thing stopping him from...

Spiralling.

But he was no Tiger Woods. The wretched drive, the fatal determination in Logan screamed at him to do more. To do.

Logan was not one of those people who 'played it by ear' or 'went with the wind.' No. Sitting there and waiting for life to happen to you was bullshit. He'd always had a plan in his head. Drive for Williams. Make his way up into Mercedes. Win Races. WDCs. Then retire. And go back to school. He'd expected to be pushing 40 by the time this happened. But when does anything ever go according to plan.

What if he started learning? Now?

It's not that he'd switch careers forever. He just wants to have a sense of purpose for once. He'd come back to racing. Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully.

He'd always been proud of finishing school. It didn't sound like a great feat but in the racing world, finishing school is worth a lot more than it is to normal people. So with a high school diploma, the world was his.

Maybe business. Yeah. Business. Like Dad.

So he did business.

So he went to uni in his mid twenties and did business.

So here he is. Outside the uni. Gripping his bag strap like some sort of freshman. His knuckles are white and he's bitten his lip to the point of it bleeding. Oh well.

The building is grand. With architecture that makes tourists flock like sheep. He didn't care for it. He'd seen bigger. Better. Italy. France. Milan. London. But he'd never felt this nervous. Racing was his domain. School? School wasn't.

He pulls out his google maps, typing in the room number because this uni was fucking huge. He seemed to be at where he was meant to be. But he couldn't locate his class. With a sigh and face buried in his phone, he charges ahead, following the blue dots on google maps, probably looking like an idiot. Or worse, a senior citizen.

"You're walking really slow." The sweet voice floats in from behind, and he turns sharply to locate the source.

Then he just... freezes.

Standing a few steps away is a boy who seems almost unreal. Light catching just right, presence quietly magnetic. Ethereal. He stares longer than socially acceptable, momentarily forgetting that normal people respond when spoken to.

"...Are you good?"

He jerks out of his daze, nodding so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t pull something. "Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Uh...would you happen to know where room 402 is?" He fumbles to angle his phone, hoping the map could carry the weight of his awkwardness.

A small smile spreads across the boy's face. "Actually, I do. I’m headed there too. BUS1001?"

He nods again, more composed this time. "Yeah. That one."

"Follow me."

The walk continues in a kind of gentle quiet, the kind that doesn’t press for words but still hums with awareness.

Every so often, he risks a glance. Just enough to catch little things—the rhythm of his easy stride, the tilt of his head when listening, the faint trace of some scent he can’t name but knows he’ll remember.

"So," he says, breaking the silence before it swallows him whole, "have you taken any classes here before?"

"First year."

He nods. "Same. I don’t know, I thought uni would feel more… right."

The boy hums softly. "Still early. Give it time."

Their shoulders brush for a second. Barely a touch. But it sends a spark all the way down to his fingertips. He tries to play it cool. He absolutely does not succeed.

"You know, you look quite old for a first year."

"Is that meant to be a jab at me?" He attempts a chuckle, knowing exactly what that's supposed to mean.

"No, not at all, it's just... I’m not used to people actually looking like they belong here."

"Well, I am 24, so… no surprise you thought that."

"Ah, that makes sense. I suppose most first years are eighteen, like myself." He grins. Light, teasing, but not unkind. And he doesn’t judge.

That, more than anything, makes his shoulders drop in quiet relief.

"I’m, uh… Logan, by the way." He doesn’t offer his last name. Not yet. He knows what happens when people hear it. They either sneer like he’s some entitled waste of space, or they bring up his name—his uncle and that stupid company and all the weight that comes with it.

But the boy tilts his head slightly, curious. "Logan? Hm. Logan what?"

There it is.

He hesitates. Brief, but enough to feel it in his chest. “Uh… Sargeant. Logan Sargeant.”

He braces himself. Watches the boy’s face like it holds the verdict to his entire day.

Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No loaded silence. No careful step back.

Just a slow blink and a soft nod.

Then he offers his name. Warm. Soft. It suits him. But Logan barely catches it, too stunned by the lack of reaction.

It unsettles him in the best way.

They make their way to the seminar room, people having already secured places on desks, chatting. Laughing. Something aches in Logan's heart. Memories of being on the bus during the driver's parade. Alone. Quiet. On the verge of tears. Drivers greeting him by his last name, never his first. An indicator of distance. Unfamiliarity. He expects the same here. Profound loneliness.

He turns to him.

"Right, I can't thank you enough. I appreciate you," he swallows thickly, breath shaky upon exhale. He didn't want to leave him, not really. He wanted that soft voice of his to keep being a balm for him. He wouldn't have the courage to start chatting with people he doesn't know. He didn't want him to go.

"Do you know anyone in there?" the boy asks, head tilted, like he thinks Logan’s only bidding him farewell because he has other, better people.

"No. No, I don't..." Logan looks at the floor, probably being perceived as an idiot by him now.

His expression softens. There’s a beat of silence where he just looks at Logan, like he’s weighing something quietly in his mind. Then he smiles—gentle, easy. Like it costs him nothing.

"Well," he says, shifting his bag on his shoulder, "you do now."

Logan’s eyes snap up. The words land so softly, but they knock the wind out of him. He swears something in his chest rearranges itself at that moment. A tether forms, invisible but real, anchoring him to something that feels suspiciously like hope.

The boy gestures toward the door. "Come on. Let’s sit at the back. Less intimidating."

He follows. Of course he follows.

Inside, the room is a low murmur of voices, the kind of chatter that fills awkward silences and makes everything feel just a little too loud. Logan scans the space automatically, muscle memory from press conferences and team briefings kicking in. Pick the corners. Stay quiet. Be forgettable.

But this time, he’s not alone.

The boy finds a seat by the window and drops into it casually, leaving the one beside him open. No grand gestures. No announcements. Just a quiet sort of presence that makes the seat feel like it was always meant for Logan.

He sits, clutching the strap of his backpack a little tighter than necessary, then loosening it. He feels clunky in his own skin, like a bad actor in someone else's scene. But then the boy turns to him again, and Logan forgets how to be anything but present.

"You okay?" he asks, not like someone who’s just being polite. More like someone who’d actually care about the answer.

"Yeah," Logan says, though his voice comes out a little hoarse. He clears his throat. "Just... been a while since I’ve done anything like this."

"Like uni?"

"Like starting over."

The boy nods slowly. "Yeah. That can be scary."

Logan watches him pull out a notebook, one of those thick, spiral-bound ones with a few pages already filled. His pen is tucked neatly into the rings. There’s something deeply grounding about it. Tangible. Real.

"So what made you choose business?" the boy asks, flipping to a fresh page.

Logan stares at his desk for a moment. "I guess I wanted something that made sense. Racing... it stopped making sense."

A small frown tugs at the edge of his lips. "Did something happen?"

Too much. Everything. Logan shakes his head lightly. "It just... didn’t love me back."

That makes the boy pause. Then he nods, slowly, like he understands even if he doesn’t know the full story.

"Well," he says softly, "I hope this does."

Logan turns to him, something fragile and grateful rising in his chest. "Me too."

The lecturer walks in. The class quiets. Slides light up on the projector. The kind of lecture he should care about begins. And he tries—really, he does—but it’s hard to focus when there’s still a tremor under his skin. An echo of everything he’s lost. Everything he’s trying to rebuild.

But beside him, there’s a pen clicking softly. A page turning. A presence solid and kind.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

Maybe, for once, not being okay is okay.

Because he’s here. He’s trying. And someone saw him. Really saw him. Not as a driver. Not as a headline. Not as a disappointment.

Just as Logan.

By week seven, the boy knows his order at the uni café without asking. Large long black, two sugars, even though Logan always grimaces after the first sip like he forgot how bitter it would be.

He never complains, though. Just takes it, like he takes most things. Quietly. Shoulders squared.

They study together almost every other day now. Sometimes in the library. Sometimes sprawled out on the grass, Logan’s jacket acting as a buffer between the boy’s jeans and the damp lawn. Chivalrous. Other times they’re in empty lecture halls, staying long after class to finish assignments, share playlists, and complain about group projects.

Logan finds comfort in him. Not just because he’s kind. But because he’s real.

And he listens—really listens. When Logan talks about business theory and feels like a fraud. When he zones out halfway through tutorials and has to ask what the hell just happened. When he can’t sleep again, not because of parties, not anymore, but because his brain keeps replaying Zandvoort '24 FP3 and every mistake he’s ever made in the rain.

He never asks for more than Logan can give.

One night, they’re sitting in the common room, a laptop playing something vaguely academic between them, half-forgotten. The boy’s curled up, socked feet tucked under him, sipping tea with both hands like he’s trying to soak in warmth.

Logan looks at him and it just hits him—again.

The softness of him. The way he laughs at the dumbest videos on his feed. The way he taps his pen against his lower lip when he’s thinking. The way he says Logan’s name like it isn’t something heavy.

Logan.

Like it’s just a name, not a headline.

The boy looks over and catches him staring. Logan looks away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

"You okay?" he asks, voice dipped in quiet concern.

"Yeah," Logan lies.

He doesn't push. He never does. It’s infuriating and comforting all at once.

Logan spends the night spiraling, not over racing this time, but over him. Over what it means to want someone like this when you’re still trying to rebuild your life. Over what it means to be his friend when he’s already too far gone.

He deletes half a message at 2 AM. Something vague and cowardly.

You make me feel like—

No. Backspace. Gone.

He sends Logan a picture the next morning of the sky over campus. It's pink and gold and impossibly soft.

Figured you’d appreciate the colour gradient. Nerd.

Logan stares at it for longer than he should.

Mid-semester break sneaks up on them. They both stay in the city, too lazy or too poor to fly home. And so the days stretch out, comfortable and unstructured.

They make a bucket list of things to do in the break. Most of it’s stupid—museum crawling, getting lost on trains, watching every Fast & Furious movie even though he hates cars and Logan has opinions so strong they become arguments. They go anyway.

Logan watches him more than he should. Tries not to. Fails.

At the museum, he pretends to be a tour guide for the contemporary art section, narrating with such absurd seriousness that Logan has to leave the room to stop from laughing too loud.

On the train, he falls asleep with his head against the window. Logan watches the reflection of his face instead of the view. His eyelashes twitch in his sleep. Logan memorises the curve of his jaw, the faint scar near his lip he says is from falling off a swing.

Logan wonders what it would be like to touch his hand. Just gently. Just once.

But he doesn't.

Because he doesn’t see him that way. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And because he’s happy. That’s what matters. That’s what Logan tells himself.

One night, it rains hard. The streets are gleaming, slick with reflections. He’s over at Logan’s place because his heater broke, and his couch, he insists, is "perfect for existential crises." Dumbass.

They watch some stupid movie. Logan doesn’t remember the plot. Just him leaning into his side, his head finding Logan’s shoulder like it belongs there.

He holds his breath for an hour.

When he leaves, Logan stands in the hallway for a long time after the door closes, forehead pressed to the wood, trying to breathe again.

He tells himself it's okay. That it's enough.

But it isn’t. Not really.

By the time the second semester starts, he’s everywhere.

His laughter rings out from the other end of campus and Logan instinctively turns his head.

He sends Logan memes during lectures and Logan smiles like an idiot in the back row, ignoring the professor entirely.

He plops down next to Logan in tutorials without asking, steals his highlighters, finishes his sentences, and looks at him like he’s always been a part of his life.

He’s everywhere.

And Logan still hasn’t told him a thing.

It’s not cowardice. Not really. It’s preservation.

Because if he says it—if he tells him that he’s falling for him, that he makes the noise in his head go quiet, that his voice is the only thing that grounds him when everything else spins... then the spell breaks.

Then he might look at him differently. Not fondly. Not kindly. But carefully.

Logan knows that look too well. That edge of discomfort. The retreat masked as politeness.

He couldn’t handle that from him.

So he keeps it to himself.

Buries it under jokes and shared notes and cups of bad vending machine coffee.

They study for midterms together. Again.

His bedroom is a soft chaos of textbooks, blankets, and the faint scent of citrus. Logan’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, textbook open on his lap.

He’s curled up on the bed, glasses sliding down his nose as he reads.

Logan looks up from his notes to find him staring at the ceiling, expression far away.

"You okay?" Logan asks, voice low.

He blinks slowly, then turns his head toward him. Smiles. "Yeah. Just tired." A beat. Two. Three. Whispered voice. "You ever feel like you’re running, but you’re not getting anywhere?"

Logan almost laughs.

"Constantly," he murmurs. Then adds, "You’re still miles ahead of everyone else, though."

He snorts. "Liar."

But he smiles again, and that’s enough.

After midterms, they go out with their classmates. A rare night of noise and neon lights. Logan’s not drunk, not really, but the bass thuds in his chest like a second heartbeat and his presence is overwhelming.

He’s dancing, half-laughing, hair swinging loose. Not with Logan. With a guy from their tutorial.

Logan stays seated.

Watches.

Something clenches in his stomach. Jealousy? Maybe. But not sharp. Not ugly. Just this hollow, aching feeling of being left behind.

He slips out before midnight.

He texts Logan an hour later.

Hey, where’d you go?

Logan types and deletes his answer twice.

Finally sends:

Was tired. Needed air.

No reply that night. But the next morning, he shows up at Logan’s door with greasy takeaway and a sheepish expression.

“Movie day?”

Logan lets him in without a word. He doesn’t bring up last night. Neither does Logan.

It’s easier that way.

Logan doesn’t know when it becomes routine.

But he starts walking him home. Every time.

Doesn’t matter if it’s 3 PM or midnight. If it’s raining or sweltering. He walks with him.

He never asks Logan to. Just glances at him like it’s the most natural thing in the world when they start down the path together.

Sometimes they talk.

Sometimes they don’t.

One night, they linger under his porch light. He fidgets with his keys. Logan kicks a stone at his feet. Their shoulders brush. Not accidentally.

“You don’t have to walk me every time,” he says softly, not looking at Logan.

“I know,” Logan replies, just as soft. “I want to.”

He glances at Logan then. Looks.

And for a moment, just one quiet second, Logan thinks maybe he knows. Maybe... maybe he'll reach out and brush his soft lips against Logan’s. Maybe he’ll be awoken. Maybe Logan’s heart will start beating again.

But he just nods. “Goodnight, Lo.”

“Night.”

Logan stands there after the door clicks shut. Hand in his pocket. Jaw tight.

Then walks home in the dark.

By the time finals approach, the library becomes their second home. They sit across from each other, headphones in, typing in sync. Every so often, one of them sends a stupid doodle on a post-it note across the table. Dumb. Unnecessary. A way of saying "i'm here."

Logan has a whole collection now. Tucked into a textbook. He doesn’t know why he keeps them.

Actually—he does.

They’re his proof.

Proof that this happened. That he was here. That they were something.

Maybe not lovers. Maybe not a grand romance. But something.

And for now, it’s enough.

Logan tells himself that.

Again and again and again.

It starts in a group assignment.

They’d been paired together, of course. End-of-term presentation. They’d been working on it for weeks. He’d taken care of the research, the slides, the structuring. Logan had handled the case study breakdown, the industry relevance bit, and, reluctantly, the conclusion. It had gone well. Surprisingly well.

After the class ends, their tutor says, offhandedly, “Great work. I’d have thought Logan was just tagging along, but you really carried your weight.”

It’s said with a smile. A joke. Meant to be harmless.

But something flickers in Logan’s eyes. A slight narrowing. He laughs it off, but it’s not real.

They walk out in silence. He’s smiling, buzzing with the relief of having it done, until he notices Logan’s shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Logan mutters.

“You sure?”

He doesn't answer.

“Hey,” he tries again, softer now. “Seriously. You were great in there. That stat comparison in the market trends section? Clean. Clear. Way better than mine.”

Logan doesn’t look at him. “Doesn’t matter. Apparently I was just tagging along.”

“Oh my god, you’re not seriously letting that get to you?”

There’s a beat.

“A joke, Lo, it was a joke...” his voice is softer. Apologetic. The kind of voice Logan had started hearing after he got dropped. Fucking pitiful.

Then Logan turns. Not angry yet. Just tight around the edges.

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? That I’m just here by luck? That someone else carried me? Even in F1—”

He cuts himself off. Immediately regretting saying that much.

His brow furrows. “Okay, but I wasn’t agreeing with him. I was defending you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need defending,” Logan snaps.

He flinches, just barely. Then straightens.

“You know what?” he says, sharper now. “Fine. I’ll stop trying.”

“That’s not what I—”

“No, clearly it is.” His voice wavers, but he holds his ground. “You’re pissed off because someone said something rude and I tried to lighten it and suddenly I’m the bad guy? What do you want from me, Logan?”

Logan doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth is... he doesn’t know either.

“I don’t need pity,” he finally says, low.

“Jesus. That’s what you think this is? Pity?”

He shrugs. Defensive. Arms crossed.

“You think I spend all this time with you, walk you to class, hang out between lectures, send you study notes, because I pity you?”

“You’re nice. You’re like that with everyone.”

“No, Logan.” His voice is quiet now. Tight. “I’m not.”

That silences him. For a second.

And then, because it’s too much and he’s too tired and too scared of what that might mean, Logan says the worst thing he could.

“Well, maybe you should stop.”

He flinches like Logan’s slapped him.

And the worst part? Logan doesn’t even know why he said it.

He blinks. His jaw tightens. And then, without a word, he turns and walks down the corridor, his footsteps fast and sharp and not slowing down.

Logan watches him go.

His chest aches in that terrible, familiar way.

And just like after every crash he’s ever had, Logan stands there and wonders if it’s already too late to fix the damage he’s caused.

Logan doesn’t move for a long moment after he storms off. The hallway feels suddenly colder, emptier. Like it swallowed all the warmth and left only the sharp edges of his own mistakes.

His fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, but he can’t summon the courage to follow. He knows it won’t be that simple. He’s angry. Hurt. And maybe he doesn’t want to see Logan right now.

He lowers his head and exhales slowly, breath catching in his throat.

What the hell did I just do?

The words he said hang in the air like poison. They weren’t fair. Not to him. Not to himself.

He’s so used to bottling everything up, locking it tight behind a forced smile and a joke. But tonight, it slipped out—the frustration, the fear, the bitterness he’s carried since Williams turned on him.

Now, all he’s done is push away the one person who might have been able to hold it with him.

He should say something. Apologise. Fix it. But the silence inside him is thick, suffocating.

Instead, he slides down the wall, fingers trembling, knees pulled close.

The next morning, he walks into uni with the weight of a thousand unspoken words dragging him down.

He sees him from across the courtyard. He’s surrounded by friends, laughing easily. Not a care in the world.

Logan’s stomach twists. He looks so far away.

He’s better off without him.

Logan debates. Go over, say something, break the silence... or just keep walking.

He chooses the latter.

His footsteps echo hollowly on the pavement.

For days, they pass each other in hallways and classrooms, a wall between them made of unsaid apologies and wounded pride.

Logan tries to catch his eye once or twice but looks away before he can respond.

At night, he lies awake, turning every word over in his mind.

He didn’t deserve that.

Why do I keep sabotaging things?

The loneliness claws deeper than ever.

He sits alone, unlike him. He sits alone unlike him, who's surrounded by people from class.

It doesn't get better. It didn't get better. He cries while he scrolls on Instagram. Hoodie up. He doesn't want others to see. He glances over at him giggling. The sound of that laugh that was reserved for him cuts through the quiet like a knife, sharp and unbearable, reminding him exactly what he’s lost and what still aches deep inside.

The ache twists tighter in his chest. He wants to look away, to shut it out, but he can’t. The way he laughs—the way he looks so easy, so alive—makes him feel like he’s been left behind in a shadow.

He swipes the screen, trying to lose himself in meaningless pictures, but the noise around him fades until all he hears is that laugh again.

A laugh that was once his secret.

His phone slips from his fingers, screen darkening like his thoughts.

He leans forward, head bowed, hands covering his face.

Because some silences aren’t just empty spaces.

They’re the loudest kind of breaking.

No, it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. Watching him laugh with others, knowing that laugh was never for him again. None of it made it okay.

Standing face to face with the ruin he’d made, with the part of himself that shattered and refused to heal, didn’t change a goddamn thing.

He was gone. Not just gone, but gone from him—like everything else he ever wanted, slipping through his fingers while he stood frozen, too broken to hold on.

He lost him. Just like he lost the car. The races. The future he thought he had.

And the worst part? He was the one who threw it all away.

This wasn’t a bruise he could hide or a pain that would fade. It was a raw, ragged hole inside him that bled out every time he thought maybe, just maybe, he could fix it.

But he couldn’t. He never could.

And that truth—so sharp and unforgiving—cut deeper than any crash ever could.

It tore him apart.

And pretending otherwise only made it worse.