#It'll get better i promise <:)< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[whenthewallfell]

Haymitch Abernathy the retired bounty hunter and reluctant homesteader who would really like everything to just not right now

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

what a beautiful day to not give a flying fuck about the sexuality of a dude who's an actor.

[peace-hunter]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do a previous moment of B-127 in sub level 50 like a couple minutes before Orion Pax and D-16 arrived, acting emotional and wishing someone was there with him; then his thoughts while meeting Orion and D-16.

P.S. I love your art, it makes me happy. (:>)-->--<

erm. well. he's never gonna be bored again for sure (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞

i'm really sorry i know this isn't really what you asked for but i couldn't get the idea out of my head and i just had to draw it out (/▽＼) i hope you still like it and i promise i'll try to do something more angsty later 〜(￣▽￣〜)

[onegiantmeep]

i love my tragic gay men

this came to me in a vision after seeing this post by @lampgate

[driftsart]

Have this thing I'm working on lol

[heywardsdoll]

dad pope? maybe? pretty please? with a cherry on top?

since you asked so nicely ! 🤍

tell me why pope would be the most supportive dad ever. there is no way he wouldn't be trying to do everything for his kid, and the minute you became pregnant, he was reading all of the pregnancy books, and then even getting the baby to listen to classical music because maybe that would make them smarter. you would always giggle when he got the headset out, and put it on your baby bump. it was always some sort of niche genre, sometimes rocking it out to indie, or soft lulluby, but always something that made you remember why you loved him so much.

but you had to admit, sometimes you got a little clingly. sometimes he was doing his little work, and all you wanted from him was a kiss. sometimes thats all you wanted.

pope would be so focused on putting on the small pink head set, making sure it didn't hurt you, eyes zoned in, tongue stuck out as he adjusted it gently, "that alright?"

you would nodd, before trying to kiss him. every time he did something like this for you, you had the biggest urge to just grab him and kiss him hard. unfortunaly for you, pope had more to say.

"now, listen here. so if the baby listens to this music, they'll know it—"

"damn it!"

pope raised his eyebrows, hands pulled out to touch you before suddenly looking back at you with alarm, "hey! you good?"

suddenly you felt guilty for giving him a scare, and gently pulled away the headset off your stomache. instead you looked ad him more gently. looked at the way his eyelashes fluttered, and how his adam apple bobbed as if he was really scared. all of a sudden you were frowning, looking down at the baby bump.

"hey..hey?" pope whispered, gently lifting your chin so you were looking into his eyes. "something wrong?

it was here you would pout, "enough of this talking, of this dad business. kiss me, damn it."

then pope grinned, "hey mama, if you wanted it so bad, you could have asked nicely."

"this is me asking nicely." then you grabbed him by his very nice shirt, and his very nice hair and, you know for all of you that you gave him a very nice kiss.

[starkivist]

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: Captain America (Chris Evans Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Tony Stark Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Movie: Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), Pining, Nightmares, Dealing with PTSD, I promise it has a happy ending, True Love, author's first fic Summary:

“How’s he doing?”

Caught. Steve swallows, though the rush of rising feeling in his stomach isn’t guilt—it’s nervousness, excitement. Awareness bordering on hope. He can tell it shows on his face; he can tell his smile burns something earnest, tell that he walks taller, nowadays. Ever since Bucky’d agreed to stay in the Tower.

Bucky. Waiting for him upstairs. Safe, where Steve can find him. Where Steve can keep him close, shield him from the pain and darkness he’d found the strength to crawl out of. To start crawling out of.

God, but Steve’s proud of his Bucky.

“Rogers?” Natasha’s voice curls upwards in question, bemused.

He can’t help it if his face flames even more; he’s a blusher. “Uh,” he starts, “Bucky? He’s…” and he trails off. Well, shit. How was Bucky?

---

After being so sure that he'd never know Bucky Barnes again, even in this new life he'd been afforded, Steve Rogers is suddenly faced with the miracle of having him again--safe, in Avenger's Tower, where he can recover from HYDRA's conditioning. Still, it's clear that both of them have a long, long way to go to escape what haunts them. OR Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes re-learn how to care for each other. ---- HELLO I wrote something! it’ll get bigger. also better. xoxoxo

[milolovesbmc]

Sometimes I will be drawing Whizzer and I'll be like "Oh this looks terrible" but then I remember it could be worse. I could be making him look like a twink.

[tinyarmedtrex]

Thanks for the tags @judasofsuburbia and @onthewaytosomewhere

I posted chapter one of my Bachelor AU earlier this week! Here's a sneak from a later chapter:

"Thanks for the rescue." Alex said, his voice slightly breathless. 

"Happy to." Charlie flashed him a charming smile.

"I'd love to repay you." 

The pit was now the size of a basketball. If Henry had any self-preservation he would look away, but he didn't. Instead, he watched as Charlie drew Alex in and kissed him. It was a perfect on camera kiss. Sweet and gentle, with no spit as they separated.

Behind him people whooped, glad that Alex was finally showing interest in someone. He pushed to his feet as Paula slid Marc five dollars, deciding that it was time to be alone. 

I know it's late but tagging @zwiazdziarka @kelliealtogether @babygirlgalitzine @bbreaddog @hotpinkmurex @seths-rogens @dreamtigress @sophie1973 @thighzp in case anyone else wants to share a late night wip!

[felinisnoctis]

Bonded Pairs: Apothecary pt 2

CW: Depression/self-hatred, mentions of past abuse/torture

Language guide: Gothic Battle Sign

More thanks to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for the use of Zariel, I hope I did your boy justice with some difficult patients.

Both marines heard the heavy steps on the stairs to the basement. A voice called out to them from around the corner. “Ultramarine Apothecary Zariel, I was told there were a couple of brothers in need of care here?” As he rounded the corner the apothecary could see one of the marines curled up in a corner under a heavy knit blanket. The other was…ah, on top of the fridge, reddish eyes and bared fangs glaring down at him.

Asariel watched the apothecary’s entrance carefully, waiting for him to fully enter the door before signing to him, not shifting out of a wary crouch on top of the fridge.

Why are you here? And where is here?

The blood angel was in enough control to communicate rather than attack at least. You are on Terra, but in a different time. What year is it the last you knew?

Not sure. Been in the warp a few centuries. Not nearly long as my beloved has been though. Early M42 last I knew. This is Terra you say?

Terra in M3.

Asariel tilted his head for a long moment, considering all this information, still poised to attack.

My brother. Can you help him?

I will try. Another moment of consideration, then Asariel jumped from the fridge to land next to his companion, tapping a message rapidly onto the blind ultramarine’s shoulder. Gerhardt was shivering despite the blanket but tapped something in response, leaning back against his companion’s chest. His breathing was shallow and labored as Zariel moved closer.

An ultramarine apothecary, of all the things to find. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with me.

That’s my job, to patch brothers up. Zariel was getting close enough to listen to Gerhardt’s vital signs. He heard the sounds of twin hearts beating rapidly, and a single lung working to bring oxygen in. What happened to your lungs? I can only hear one of the three. For the moment he opted to ignore the implications of Gerhardt’s statement, other than to mentally file a note to recommend a chaplain.

Gerhardt made a noise that could almost have been a laugh but came out more like a sob. Removed to make me less dangerous. Along with several other things. One hand touched the blindfold covering his eyes thoughtfully. The owner of this place. Can you tell me what they look like? Asairel thinks I’m being foolish. Asariel shot a grouchy look over his brother’s shoulder at that remark, wrapping his arms around Gerhardt’s shoulders protectively. Gerhardt leaned back with a slight smile, nestling his shoulder in the opening of Asariel’s robe. Something about the shape of the robe looked wrong to Zariel - he would need to examine the blood angel as well of course.

They’re young, with long red hair and dark green eyes. When I came here they were wearing a grey t-shirt and black jeans and some kind of striped jacket. And sensible boots. Was the ultramarine bonded to this human? Zariel almost hoped so, since it would make his recovery and adjustment so much easier. Especially with a human who was already used to astartes.

They sound delightful. I wish I’d had a chance to know them back when I was useful. They worry too much; they need someone they don’t have to worry about.

Ok so “making recovery easier” might be relative here. I need to take a look at your chest. May I shift the blanket off? Gerhardt nodded at Zariel’s request, even as Asariel looked ready to pounce. Under the blanket he was shaking despite a heating pad and the relative warmth of the basement. Zariel reached out a hand to check on muscle tone and felt Gerhardt tense and try not to flinch.

Asatartes-grade painkillers. He’s in withdrawal. The blood angel signed over his brother’s head. Zariel signed back an acknowledgment. Addiction was more difficult in Astartes, but it wasn’t impossible.

If he’s in withdrawal, and with this much damage, he really needs to be in a clinic where he can be monitored.

Gerhardt pulled the blanket back over himself. No clinic. Not worth it anyway. The blood angel pulled him in closer to his chest, before signing back Will it help him?

He’s stable for the moment, but he needs to be somewhere where someone can keep a closer eye on him. And perhaps also find more answers as to what the hell had happened to these two, but Zariel wasn’t going to say that out loud. I’ll go see what the transportation options available are.

[soaps-mohawk]

Out of the tf141 who does reader like the most?

It's hard to say.

I'm not sure the reader does like any of them more than the other? I mean, the reader's naturally inclined to be closer to Price and Gaz because of them being Price's bonded omega. But, that doesn't mean they like Soap any less. Of course Ghost is kind of a touchy subject after Chapter 8, but he's working on it.

I mean, I think reader is trying not to like any of them more than the others. They're all a pack so...you kind of want to like all of them. It definitely makes things better.

Of course, though, there's the natural inclinations to be more attached to others, but in this universe that doesn't really count because they can't control that.

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 3: Breaking isn't weakness, It's the climax.

They know everything now—your fantasies, your shame, the twisted stories you whispered in the dark. You thought you'd be humiliated. Maybe punished. But all they do is wait. Watch. Want.

WordCount: 2,030 words

⚠️ Content Warning for Chapter 3: Breaking Isn’t Weakness, It’s the Climax

This chapter contains emotionally intense themes including: Psychological distress and crying, Power imbalance, Implied dubcon elements, Possessiveness and jealousy between characters, Consent-focused dialogue and pacing, Emotional vulnerability, grounding touch, and affectionate dominance.

No explicit sexual content, but highly suggestive, with physical intimacy, aggressive tension, and a strong focus on the reader's agency and emotional state.

Reader discretion advised.

If you're not ready for three emotionally complex fictional men to kneel, growl, and beg for your boundaries, maybe sit this one out.

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

You go still.

Not calm. Not composed. Just—broken. The human mind can only take so much heat before it warps, before it melts into something pliant, raw, real. And you’ve been pressed—eyes, hands, voices, truths you should’ve never admitted, fantasies you were never supposed to voice out loud.

And now?

They know everything.

And it’s too much.

Your body trembles, knees pulled to your chest, your face buried in them, hiding from the storm you summoned. Tears finally come—hot, helpless, humiliating.

You hear Scaramouche sigh, dramatically. “Oh look. The goddess bleeds.”

“You’re not helping,” John snaps, low and gruff, but not unkind. He kneels next to you—combat-trained, precise—but something soft slips in. His voice lowers. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Shinsou doesn’t move. But he doesn’t need to.

His voice threads into your thoughts like smoke.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close but not touching. “It’s alright.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you whisper, voice shredded with shame. “I didn’t mean for anyone to ever—I was alone. It was just pretend. Just—mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Scaramouche says, prowling behind you like a stormcloud in boots. “You don’t get to erase us. You birthed this. You thought we wouldn’t notice how filthy you really are?”

You curl tighter.

Walker lays a hand on your back. Big. Heavy. Warm. “You’re not disgusting.”

“You’re obsessed,” Shinsou says—quiet, steady. “That’s different. People write stories about us every day. But you… you imagined hard enough to rip the fabric of reality. You think that’s pathetic?”

You don’t respond.

Scaramouche crouches behind you, his breath against your neck. “No, baby. That’s power. That’s magic. And now you’re ashamed of it?”

He laughs.

“Fucking tragic.”

John squeezes your shoulder—not hard. Just a grounding weight.

“You think you’re weak for crying?” he murmurs. “You think it doesn’t turn us the fuck on knowing you were thinking about us this hard? Enough to manifest us here? You wanted something. Maybe not this exactly—but we’re here now. We’re not leaving.”

You lift your face—wet, trembling, vulnerable to the bone.

Shinsou is crouched in front of you, hands in his hoodie pockets, those violet eyes locked to yours.

“You’re allowed to break,” he says. “But don’t hide it.”

Scaramouche hooks a finger under your chin again, rougher now. “You gonna cry for us, sweetheart? Beg? Let us rewrite the stories in your head the way they should’ve gone?”

Walker's eyes darken. “You wanted us.”

“And now,” Shinsou whispers, “you’ve got us.”

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

John’s breath is ragged—controlled, but only barely. You can see it now, beneath that tactical chill, that iron-spined discipline: the ache. The need. And he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

You’re trembling in front of him, shattered glass in human form, and instead of stepping away, he steps in.

Close.

He crouches again—no weapons, no mask, just those sharp blue eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to this reality.

His hand brushes your cheek.

It’s so gentle, you think maybe you imagined it. But it’s real. He’s real.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like it’s just for you. Not sweet. Solid. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

You nod—small, hesitant.

His thumb catches a tear—and lingers at the corner of your mouth, like he’s deciding if he wants to taste it.

“You still scared?”

You nod again.

But your lips part. Just enough. Just barely.

He watches that like it’s a command. Or an invitation.

Then, slow as sin, he leans in. Closer. Inches. Until his breath ghosts over your lips.

“This is what you wanted,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked on your mouth like they're his lifeline.

“Isn’t it?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not with your pulse drumming so hard it echoes in your teeth.

“Yes,” you whisper.

So he kisses you.

Soft. Barely there. His lips graze yours like a promise, a tease, a slow pull on a thread wrapped around your spine. It’s not hungry yet. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting something holy. Something he’s not supposed to have.

But that’s the problem.

He always takes what he’s not supposed to have.

Not like Scaramouche. Not cruel. Not like Shinsou—who makes silence feel like surrender. John’s kiss is steady. Like falling into something you already swore to never survive.

Your hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer without even meaning to. Your mouth opens under his without hesitation now, and John—John—groans. Low. Deep. Like a man breaking rank. Losing protocol. He cups the back of your head and drags you in harder.

You should pull away. Should say something. But all you can do is open your mouth and take it.

The kiss deepens. No longer patient. Tongue sliding against yours, wet, hot, real. His other hand clamps onto your hip, steadying you like you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you.

You moan into his mouth, helpless.

And that’s when you feel Scaramouche behind you. Still watching. Still smirking. One hand now casually curling around your shoulder.

“Look at you,” he drawls. “All broken and begging, and it only took a little attention from your favorite action figure.”

Walker doesn’t stop kissing you.

Doesn’t flinch.

His teeth scrape your lower lip, claiming you right there with the heat of a man who’s been trained to destroy—and now he’s using it to devour.

And Shinsou?

Still crouched in front of you.

Eyes hooded. Breathing slower. One hand between his thighs, barely gripping the fabric, just enough to betray how hard he’s getting watching you fold.

"You gonna let all three of us in?" he murmurs. "One kiss from him and you're already falling apart... what happens when we stop holding back?"

You try to catch your breath—but you don’t get far.

Scaramouche hasn’t moved, but you feel him.

The heat coming off him is different now. Not amused. Not playful.

You blink up at John, still breathless—and that’s when it happens.

The shift.

A sound. A scoff. Sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Scaramouche’s smirk dies on his lips.

He was fine when it was teasing. When it was power-play. When it was you blushing and stammering under three sets of eyes. That was fun. That was his game.

But now?

Now you’re kissing John like he’s the only one who exists. Like he’s your oxygen. Your gravity. Like he’s the answer to every unspoken prayer your body’s ever made. Your fingers are in John’s hair now, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and Scaramouche sees red.

Pure, petty, murderous red.

“Wow,” he sneers, venom curling off every syllable like smoke off a firecracker. “So all it takes is one kiss and you forget I even exist? Thought I was the one who lit the fuse in your filthy little mind.”

John finally pulls back—just enough to suck in breath, eyes still locked on yours, hand still tangled in your hair. He doesn’t look at Scaramouche.

That’s what really sets him off.

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps, stepping around, boots striking hard against the floor. “You think this is a John fantasy now? No. No, sweetheart, I was the one you imagined doing unspeakable things to you behind closed doors. I was the one with the lightning in your veins. And now you’re melting into this walking brick of moral ambiguity like I wasn’t just about to bend you over your own kitchen counter?”

Walker still doesn’t look at him. He just tilts your chin up with two fingers, forces your eyes back to his.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmurs. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad he’s not first.”

That earns a bitter little laugh from Scaramouche.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he snarls. “You think this is about order? It’s about claiming.”

Then he’s on you.

Fast.

He grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tilt your face toward him, just enough to make you see the frustration burning in those stormy, violet-blue eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you—not right away. He breathes against your lips, just barely brushing, torturing you with that tension he’s so good at. Then he pulls back a fraction and smirks.

“No. Not yet. You want it? You earn it. Beg me. Say my name.”

Walker’s hand tightens on your hip.

“Back off, punk,” he growls. “She’s not some chew toy.”

Scaramouche grins wider. “No, you’re just pissed she likes my attitude.”

“Boys…” Shinsou finally speaks, voice like silk and smoke from the shadows, still seated, still watching with those hungry eyes. “…why don’t you let her decide?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to you like a slow, steady spell.

“She’s the one who summoned us. She’s the reason we’re all here. She broke the rules. Let her break one more.”

And oh yes she will.

They’re waiting.

All three. Staring. Tense.

Oh, that look in your eyes—like prey with a pulse just shy of panic, trembling but curious, soaked in tension. You lean back, hands behind you fumbling, until your thighs bump the edge of the sofa, and down you go. Slow. Not graceful. More like collapsing. A mess of nerves and heat and what the fuck is happening.

And still—still—you watch them all.

Scaramouche freezes mid-prowl, eyes sharp, mouth open like he had one more vicious quip loaded and ready. But something shifts in him when he sees your chest rise too fast, your hands clutch the edge of a cushion, your pupils flick toward him and stay there.

Fear.

Real, raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind he can tease. Not the kind anyone laughs about.

The other kind.

And it hits him harder than a thunderclap.

He straightens. Just a bit. That cocky posture eases—his shoulders drop a few centimeters, his smirk falters, just long enough to show something else behind it. Something he rarely lets surface: uncertainty.

“Hey…” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s lower. Smoother. Quieter. “...You’re really afraid of me?”

You say nothing. Can’t even look at him directly.

That silence cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

“Shit.”

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, pacing now—but it's different. It’s not for show. He’s thinking. Crashing. Fighting the instinct to lash out, to make it worse.

Then… he drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No leering.

Just him, eye-level with you, hands resting on his thighs.

“Look, I…” He breathes out, glances to the side, then back to you. “I come on strong. Too strong. I know that. I just—when I got dropped into this world, into you, it felt like… like I was supposed to fight for space. And I thought… if I pushed you, I’d get closer.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, softer this time. “Not really. You just… looked like you could take it.”

He glances away again.

“…Guess I was wrong.”

Behind him, Shinsou is watching all of it like a scientist in a lab, one hand pressed to his mouth. Not judging. Just processing.

“Scaramouche,” he says quietly, “that’s the most emotionally intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no venom in it.

Then—a weight beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

John. Calm. Steady. The gravity in your solar system.

His arm brushes yours on the cushion.

“You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

Shinsou shifts now, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t approach—just stands, taking a few steps, stopping when you glance up. He meets your gaze with nothing in his face but openness. Calm. Curious. Like he’s trying to see you, not pressure you.

And then he says, “What do you need from us right now?”

The room stills.

Even Scaramouche looks up at that.

Because that’s the moment you realize—despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the overwhelming presence of these three impossible men

————————

They’re all waiting on you.

Your fear matters.

Your pace matters.

You could whisper a word and John would hold you like glass. Scaramouche would back off. Shinsou would read your silence like scripture.

But…

You could also whisper another word—and all three would devour you.

[strugglinggranola]

New Chapter Up!

Hear ye, hear ye - a new chapter of Carved in Bone, Branded in Flesh is up!

[kckuhaku]

i will come back to being productive and writing soon maybe when i finally put xiv down (doubtful)

[problemnyatic]

Look, no matter how you cut it, if you don't take those terrifying steps forward, you'll stay right here.

[frogwithgun]

Omg what is happening guys?

Y'all loved part one so much lol

So screw it part two here!

Anyways enjoyyyyy

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

"Dad come on! You've been sitting here forever." Nanako said, attempting to push Geto off the couch. Why was he on the couch anyways?

Great question.

See, Geto had the rare opportunity to meet the CEO of Six Eyes Inc.. Where he failed to recognize that unmistakable face and charm. And then got asked for his number. Which would have been a dream come true for the man.

The girls know from all those hours he'd spend watching interviews about Gojo Satoru that he had a celebrity crush of some sorts. So he should have been elated to give out his number! And he would have as well.

If he hadn't told him that he doesn't give out his number while working. "No. Let me die here." Mimiko came along and together the twins were able to push him off the couch and onto the floor. Still he didn't move.

"Dad come on! You need to go to work." Now they both tried to get him to sit up. And it wasn't easy to move him. So they just gave up. Making Geto hit his head on the hardwood floor. "Ow! Alright fine." He grumbled.

And that is how he found himself standing in front of that corner store wondering if he took a wrong turn. The store had been redesigned entirely. It looked expensive now. Jesus did they all want modern looks?

He brushed it off and walked inside. Stepping behind the register and into the break room. At least that was the same. The air conditioner still screamed in protest. The lights still flickered slightly. And the furniture was still broken.

Geto set his things down on the table carefully. He knew that slamming them down would make the table collapse. Whether that was from experience or not he wouldn't say.

He turned around and jumped. "JESUS CHRIST!" He cried and put a hand over his heart. The man who had snuck up on him looked far to formal to be there.

His hair was a almost perfect blonde. And he wore glasses that suited him well. His eyes were a shade of hazel that looked beautiful. And he wore a suit for some reason. The strangest part was that he had a gray suit, with a blue undershirt, and a yellow speckled tie.

Just what was going on? The man didn't smile. Nor did he laugh. He simple sighed. "Not Jesus. Nanami Kento." Geto nodded. Still slightly jumpy. Now he really was suspicious. "Uh hi? I'm Geto-" "Yes I know your name." Rude much? Geto thought to himself.

Nanami seemed to know what he was thinking. And chose to ignore it. "I am your new manager. Your place of work has been bought by Six Eyes Inc. and I have been chosen to oversee it. You report to me." This had to be some dream.

Or maybe it was a joke? Yeah that was probably it. Geto laughed and shook his head. "Alright, you got me. Hilarious." Geto started to gather his hair into a half bun. "Come on man, let's get to work." Nanami raised an eyebrow.

Then Geto stopped and mimicked him. "Stop that at once. You think I would joke about this?" Geto looked around the break room. Making a vague gesture around. "I mean, yeah." Nanami looked at the break room in disgust.

Then Nanami sighed. "You are not what I was expecting." He muttered. Geto nodded. The gauges in his ears were probably strike one. And the fact that he had lip piercings, an eyebrow piercing, and a septum piercing.

Of course that combined with the fact that he had a couple tattoos was probably what Nanami was talking about. "Are you in a gang or something?" Geto laughed and shook his head. "No. Just have a lot of tattoos." Nanami sighed.

This was going to be a headache.

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

Yeah this is definitely a headache.

It had only been an hour into his shift and he's already had three customers complain about the quality of certain products. "Ma'am I just work here. I don't make the products." Despite that, none of them listened.

The only thing going for him was the fact that Nanami actually defended him. Unlike his previous manager. That was something going for him at least.

And Nanami happened to be rather observant as well. He could tell when a customer was about to blow up or when they were about to try and trick Geto. Which he did not stand for at all.

Nanami is terrifying.

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

"So Six Eyes inc., what's that like?" Geto was trying to make small talk with Nanami. And found it very difficult. "The CEO is a manchild and impulsive. He acts like he's 12 when he's 28. It's like he never grew up." Nanami said exasperated.

Geto nodded. I just wanted to know what it was like, not your whole life story. But ok I guess. "Oh that sounds bad." Nanami nodded. "It is. He's so immature and reckless. Honestly the only reason the company hasn't collapsed yet is because of me." I doubt it.

Geto felt like Nanami might hate Gojo. Just a little bit. "So why do you work there?" Nanami looked at him. Face blank. "Money." Well, at least he's straight forward? Nanami gave a slight huff and leaned his head back.

Still terrifying.

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

Ijichi jumps as the doors to the office slam open. A disheveled Gojo holding them open with a gleam in his eyes. "Ijichi!~" The man in question gulps. That sing song tone of voice is never a good sign. Not even when it's said in such a cheerful way.

Gojo strides into the room with a slight bounce in his step. "The store is mine now! So that means," he drums his fingers on the desk as he plops down into his plush leather chair, "he's my employee!"

Again, poor Ijichi cannot tell where this conversation is going. "Yes?" Gojo laughs and springs out of his chair. Striding over to Ijichi and tossing his arms around him. "Yes! That means I have an excuse to talk to him!" Because just talking to him like a normal person would be so hard. Ijich thinks to himself.

But he says nothing. To afraid of the white haired man to say anything other then "Yes sir." Which Gojo takes happily. "Now I just have to figure out how to get him in here." Ijichi looks at the still open doors.

So close, yet so far. "Ijichi! Don't run now! We were just getting started!~"Oh God he's trapped.

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

Three grueling hours later and Gojo has concocted a 'master plan'. And Ijichi is still staring longly at the now closed doors.

Gojo happily sits at his desk. Eating a lollipop. As he often does. In many interviews he has admitted to freely having a sweet tooth. He's more famous for it because of the amount of candy he eats in interviews.

Seriously it is a major problem. "Alrighty then! All I have to do is call him into my office and bada bing bada boom, we start dating." Of all plans Ijichi has ever heard, that one is probably the worst.

Scratch that, definitely the worst. "Sir do you even know anything about him?" Gojo puts a hand over his heart. "I am wounded! Of course I know about him! He's 6'3, has two daughters, works at the corner store I bought, and is the one."

"How do you know he has two daughters?" Gojo smiles. "He has hair on his work uniform. I imagine they like to hug him a lot. And the hair colors just didn't match his." Now Ijichi is just disturbed. "How long have you spent looking at him?"

Gojo waves his hand and turns away from Ijichi. "Oh just two or three years." He mumbles. And Ijichi just decides he'd rather ignore it then say something. "Sir you need to talk to him." Gojo rolls his eyes. "My good looks will talk for me."

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

His good looks did not in fact talk for him.

He called Nanami and told him to bring Geto to his office. And now they are just staring at each other. Not saying a single word. And it's starting to look like Gojo might actually have to try.

"¥2,000 says Gojo fails and fucks it up." Nanami whispers to Ijichi. Who shakes his head. He's sure Gojo won't fuck it up. After all he's Gojo-

"You stupid prick! How could you?!" And he spoke to soon. Nanami holds his hand out to Ijichi who reluctantly hands over the money. "No I just meant that I could never because they're a waste of time!"

Oh Gojo is really fucking it up.

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

And here is part two! I'm sorry if this isn't written very well lol. English is very hard and I'm not the best with it. But I do hope you enjoy this shitty part two.

Lots of love tadpoles 💚💚💚