#and getting over my hatred of inking

[myokk]

Poppy + unicorn😇

[buck-yyyy]

man, today has been such a Day <- i say this as though every day doesn’t feel like such a Day

[4unnyr0se]

❥ call out my name | kei tsukishima

warnings: timeskip! tsukishima, fem! reader, confessions, out of character tsukki (i'm so sorry), slight choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, hickeys, making out, hair pulling, feral/possessive tsukki

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 3.4k

a/n: IM BACK BITCHES WHATS UP?? also this is not proofread in the slightest so buckle up

part two of shameless

❥ song: call out my name - the weekend

Any relationship is complicated, no matter the nature of the relationship. Humans are stupidly complex creatures, after all. First, they want one thing, then another, and another. Humans are greedy, lustful, depraved creatures with desires that are so disgusting that even God himself can’t leave heaven because he is scared of what he has created. And you were ashamed of what you so craved, what you desired. It wasn’t money or power. That’s too simple. And your grades were already so perfect, so you didn’t need that either. No…what you wanted was someone. Someone who you hated with a fiery passion that rivaled the sun. And yet, he lit a fire inside you with even the simplest disapproving glance filled with such mockery.

Kei fucking Tsukishima.

Tsukishima was the one person on Earth that you seriously considered committing a felony over. Every time he flashed that smug little smirk, it only added more gasoline to the pyre of your hatred towards him. He was the worst, and he knew that too. He made no effort to get along with anybody who wasn’t Yamaguchi, bless that sweet boy’s soul. 

And yet, you found yourself in Tsukishima’s dorm room, alone with the bastard, at least three times a week, maybe more. You weren’t proud of it, and you did everything you could to deny it openly. Those hickeys? You just happen to get drunk in a bar and make out with some stranger in their car. Your roommate kept asking where you were most nights, and you told her you went on dates in the library. She wouldn’t check, obviously, because she would never step foot in a library. 

You hated him, but you were addicted to him. Addicted to the way his lips rolled alongside yours in such a sinful dance. Addicted to his molten fingertips sliding under your tight top to grope your breasts from behind as his teeth sank into your neck. Addicted to how his tongue slid across your core, making you feel like you were floating on a cloud as you came undone before him. And especially addicted to how Tsukishima fucked you like you were his, and he was yours. The way his body moved expertly with yours, the way his hands caged your head between them as he fucked you, rolling his hips against yours as his massive cock hit all the right places that made you both see stars.

The worst part was how nice he was after he came. He would pull you into his arms, brush your hair to the side, and kiss your neck. It was such an extreme juxtaposition to how he fucked you. You weren’t entirely sure what part of his personality was just an act. Or, maybe it wasn’t an act. Maybe he genuinely cared for you…yeah, right.

You glanced at the clock on your desk. Almost midnight, great. Your ballpoint pen was clicked off, thrown into the Star Wars mug with the rest of the pens that were dangerously low on ink, accompanied by highlights that ran dry weeks ago. You glanced at yourself in the desk mirror, observing how strained your eyes looked. 

“So much for blue light glasses. These things never fucking work,” you muttered under your breath, pushing them further up against your exhausted face. Your roommate, fast asleep on your dorm's other side, looks unusually peaceful. A strong contrast to how bitchy she was with her other bottle-blonde friends. You looked away, groaning as your head started to throb. Maybe working on a paper for seven hours straight wasn’t the best idea.

Your office chair was pushed aside as you carefully stood up, examining yourself in the larger mirror on your door. Incredibly messy hair, a thin white tank top with a loose strap, and pajama bottoms that were more appropriate for Christmas morning. 

“Not like anyone will see me anyways,” you grabbed your keycard and swiftly opened and closed the door to your room, hissing as the ugly fluorescents that decorated the halls offended your eyesight. Horrible, and you pay all this tuition for shitty lighting.

The water fountain hated you, and you hated it. Although it was responsible for kickstarting your passionate encounters with Tsukishima, maybe it wasn’t so bad. You glanced at your palm, looking at the dinosaur bandaid he had so carefully applied many nights ago. It was amazing that it hadn’t fallen off. 

The water was a relief as it touched your lips—cold, crisp, and hydrating. Water was always best late at night when everyone else was asleep, and the halls were devoid of the ramblings of your dormmates. Peaceful, almost.

“I didn’t expect to see you out of your room until morning.” a familiar voice broke you out of your moment of serenity. Damn.

“Hi, Tsukki,” you sighed, wiping the stray bits of liquid from your lips. “I was working on a paper, and I lost track of time, I guess.”

Tsukishima chuckled. “I’ve been there before, but Tadashi was always there to snap me out of it. I guess your roommate doesn’t have that same level of courtesy, I suppose.” he shoved his pants in his pajama bottoms, SENDAI FROGS VOLLEYBALL TEAM embroidered on the side with green and yellow thread.

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hair out of what was left of your messy bun. “Yeah, well, Tadashi is a sweetheart. My roommate is…less than desirable. I’m never doing a random roommate assignment again, that’s for sure.”

Tsukishima took a step forward. “Tadashi is asleep at the library. He’s working on some notes for the Edo period lecture,” he smacked his lips. “Wanna keep me company?”

You blinked, and he was in front of you, tracing your lips with his calloused thumb. “C’mon, you know I like it when you pretend that you hate me and everything that I do.” his hand encircled your waist.

You gasped, quickly adjusting the loose strap on your tank top. “Listen, as much as I would like to have you fucked the shit out of me, I just finished staring at a computer screen for seven hours straight,” you took his thumb away from your lips. “I’m not really in the mood.”

His gaze saddened. Was that a hint of disappointment? “Well, who said we had to fuck?” he smirked, adjusting his glasses.

“Uh, maybe the two-dozen times we’ve fucked since I cut my hand?” you pointed to the fountain.

He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Keep your voice down, yeah? You might wake up the R.A.” Tsukishima smiled as an angry blush bloomed on your tired face. “How about some coffee instead? My older brother got me a miniature coffee machine before he moved me in. Claims it got him through many sleepless nights.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “And why are you being so nice to me?”

He leaned down, his golden eyes boring into yours. “Because sometimes, I’m not a total asshole.”

His side of the room was immaculate, with everything in place. Tadashi’s was messy, as per usual, but it was alright with you. Tsukki’s desk was also impossibly neat, boasting a stack of perfect papers and ballpoint pens that all seemed to work well enough. And the crowning jewel, the mini coffee machine with four different kinds of pods to choose from, how incredibly classy. 

“I never took you for someone who drank anything except dark roast,” you said, picking up a coffee pod with caramel decals on the label. “Did your brother get you these as well?”

Tsukishima shook his head. “No, Tadashi did. He got mad because he claimed I’m missing out on a full coffee experience, whatever that means,” he sighed, sitting in his desk chair. “Honestly, I’ll never understand him. He’s so positive all the time, it’s strange.”

You took a seat on his neatly made bed. “Well, one of you two has to be. There’s always a grumpier one in a duo, especially roommates.”

“Are you the grumpy one in your dorm?” he placed a mug under the coffee dispenser. 

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you smiled, admiring how Tsukishima looked in his dorm's dim, warm light. The fairy lights on Tadashi’s side of the room subtly illuminated his face, softening Tsukishima’s sharp facial features. “But, you’re even more grumpy than I am. I’ve never seen you genuinely smile.”

Tsukishima placed the coffee pod in the machine and closed it. “I can smile without being sarcastic, you know.”

The whirring of the coffee machine filled the awkward silence as he sat down on his bed next to you, his lithe fingers dancing over your knuckles. “You just don’t see me smile.”

“Well, when do you smile?”

Tsukshima licked his lower lip. “After we fuck. When you’re in my arms, and I’m brushing your hair. You can’t see because you’re facing away from me, but I smile.”

Your heart stung at those words. Why was he being vulnerable with you, and now of all times? His hand intertwined with yours, his gorgeous golden eyes not daring to make contact. “I told myself that if I ever grew feelings, I would cut this off right away,” he sighed, staring at his slippers. “But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It would be torture for me, even though you hate my guts.”

Wait a damn minute. “Tsukki, is this a confession? You’re confessing to me, and I look like this? Oh, god.” you stifled a chuckle.

“Shut up and let me talk!” his cheeks boasted an angry blush. “I like spending time with you, even with your bratty attitude. When we kissed for the first time, it was like…it was like I finally reached the end of a long road. I sound so stupid, I can’t believe I’m being…soft.” he placed his hand in his palms, muttering curses into them.

You smiled and moved closer, pulling his face out of his hands. “Tsukki, do you have a crush on me?” you tilted his chin to face yours. “Because I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have a crush on you.”

He bit his lip. “Really? You aren’t being a smartass right now?”

“Really.” your face matched his red hue, offering him a genuine smile that he craved so desperately. 

“Fuck, come here,” Tsukishima pulled you flush against his chest, cupping your face as he slowly kissed your bitten lips. His hands secured themselves around your hips, massaging the exposed skin between your tank top and pajama bottoms. You sighed into the kiss, admiring how soft and gentle he was being with you. 

He slowly pushed you down so your head was almost hanging off the foot of his bed, his rough hands sliding up and down your waist. Your arms locked around his neck, tugging at the loose blonde baby hairs at the base. After what seemed like ages, Tsukishima reluctantly pulled away, resting his burning face between your neck and shoulder.

“Somebody’s embarrassed,” you teased, lightly massaging his back. Fuck, had his back muscles gotten stronger since the last time you saw each other?

“I’m not embarrassed,” he groaned into your neck, placing feather-light kisses along your jugular. “Love confessions are stupid, that’s all.”

“So why did you confess to me, hm?” you pecked his cheek.

Tsukishima clicked his tongue. “Because I don’t think I could live with myself if you started seeing someone else. Or even worse, someone that I knew. You,” he squeezed your arm. “You belong with me, isn’t it obvious?”

So fucking adorable. “So, why won’t you look me in the eyes and say it?”

He peeled himself from your neck and pressed his forehead against yours, doing exactly as you told. He observed how beautiful your eyes were, how they reflected off of the fairy lights. Fuck, you were a goddess. 

“You’re so stupidly beautiful, fuck,” he pressed his lips against yours once again, more passionate than before. Your legs wrapped around his waist, securing his position as his teeth nipped at your lower lip, groaning as you raked your hands through his golden curls. “So pretty.”

Tsukishima’s hands grasped your wrists, pinning them above your head on the plush mattress. Breaking the kiss, his molten lips trailed down to the sensitive spot above your collarbone, suckling harshly. His hips roll into yours, his erection prominent under his sweatpants.

You groan into the kiss, opening your mouth for his tongue to explore as your mouths sinfully dance together lazily. Tsukishima’s lithe fingers leave your wrists and grasp at your breast, silently cursing the bra you wore. 

He reluctantly breaks the kiss. “Fucking take it off. Let me see you.” he groans, flinging his shirt across the room without hesitation. 

Your hands slide under your shirt, slowly removing it as your face bores a confused expression. “You’re just gonna call me a slut for being so easy, aren’t you?” your voice is barely a whisper as your gentle hands unclasp your bra, allowing your breasts to spring free.

Tsukishima feels his breath hitch in his throat. He’s going to die, and it’s all your damn fault for being so fucking sexy. 

“Not tonight, love,” he whispers against your clavicle, his thumb rolling over your pert nipple. “Tonight,” his tongue dances around your areola. “I’m gonna show you how much I like you, you stupidly pretty girl.”

Your fingers dance in his hair as he shamelessly sucks on your breasts, alternating between massaging them and kissing them, leaving no breast unattended for too long. Your thighs wrap around his waist, pushing his erection closer to your clothed core.

“Tsukki-” he cuts you off with a harsh kiss.

“Kei,” his hoarse voice groans, fidgeting with the hem of your pajama bottoms. “Call me Kei. Fucking scream it, let the whole damn hall know who’s making you feel so good.” 

His finger glides across your soaked cunt, dipping inside with ease as your sweet, candied moans fill his ears like an opera. His fingers work fast, not even bothering to slide your panties to the side as your voice spikes octave by octave.

“Say my fucking name,” Tsukishima demands, his thumb rolling over your sensitive clit. “Say my fucking name like a good little girl, and then I’ll make you see stars.” his erection is painful inside his sweatpants, precum staining the boxers underneath. 

“K-Kei! Oh, fuck, I’m so fucking close!” you cry out, your hands tugging on his hair like a feral animal as his fingers continue working their way to your precious orgasm. His teeth, sharp as a vampire, nip and suck at your neck, leaving a blooming pattern of black and purple hickeys on your delicate skin, marking you as his until they eventually fade away. But he’ll just keep giving you another hickey, and then another, until everyone on the entire fucking campus knows who you belong to.

Just as you were teetering on the edge of release, he pulls his fingers out of your sobbing pussy and licks them, not breaking eye contact with you once. “So fucking good,” he groans. His hands pull down your bottoms along with your panties, leaving them dangling around your ankle as you lay beneath him, naked and unsatisfied.

“Kei, what the fuck? I was so fucking close!” you complain, lightly shoving his chest. “What’s your deal, man?”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond. Instead, he shoves apart your thighs and wraps them around his head, bending you in half. His chapped lips trail delicate kisses inside of your thighs, nipping at the apex before his tongue licks a teasingly slow stripe on your core.

“Oh, fuck,” you sigh, groping your tits as his tongue begins to lap up and down, occasionally sucking on your clit.

“Can’t fucking get enough of you, oh my god,” Tsukishima groans, sending vibrations throughout your pussy. “You taste like nectar, love.”

Love. That was the first time he ever called you something affectionate. Something other than degrading you and making you feel lesser than he was.

“Kei,” you breathe, feeling the familiar sensation of your stomach coil tightening up. “I think I’m gonna-”

“Cum.” he commands. “Cum on my face like a good girl,” he whispers, mouth covered in your slick as he suckles on your throbbing clit one final time, sending you over the edge and into an ocean of euphoria.

Your back arches into the pillows behind you as you ride out your orgasm, Tsukishima licking up every last drop of your release with vigor to rival a man starved. Finally, he allows your legs to rest back on the mattress, wiping your cum off his face.

“That was amazing,” you reach your arms out to cuddle him, thinking it’s all over.

“We aren’t done yet,” Tsukishima takes off the rest of his clothes, his painfully hard erection slapping against his tone stomach, precum drooling down the tip. “What, did you think you got to cum just because I was feeling generous?” his voice is laced with sarcasm.

“Well, yeah-” he interrupts you yet again.

“You’re wrong, love,” his forehead connects with yours, golden eyes staring into your own, the plain lust and desire for you swirling within. 

His filthy mouth parts open. “I’m going to fuck you so hard that the thought of another man will make you sick.”

Tsukishima aligns his cock with your entrance, slapping his throbbing tip on your clit a few times. “Beg for me to fuck you, pretty girl,” he commands, not even bothering to reach for the box of condoms next to the bed.

You bite your lip. “Please, Kei,” your voice is shy. “Please, fuck me. I want you so badly, please,” your small hands wrap around his neck. “Show me how badly you want me, Kei.”

As his name leaves your lips like dripping honey, something inside of him snaps. Tsukishima plants his hands on either side of your face, shoving his cock inside of your soaked core without giving you time to adjust. His expert hips start to roughly piston in and out of you, shaking your body and the bed altogether. 

“Holy fuck!” you sob, your hands quickly migrating to his back, nails scratching hard against his muscles. “Kei, too much! Oh fuck, too rough!” you beg and plead, your cries falling on deaf ears as Tsukishima is lost in a frenzy of lust. Lust for you, lust for your body, lust for your brain, lust for everything that could make you you. He was secretly and disgustingly obsessed with you. The thought of another man touching what was so obviously his drove him insane. Why not just take what was his?

“Fucking take it, you’re so fucking beautiful when you take my cock,” he roars into your ear, his hand wrapping itself around your throat for a gentle squeeze. “You’re all fucking mine, aren’t you, love?” his cock is ruthlessly fucking your poor pussy, his balls slapping against your ass as he hits that one spot that makes you see stars.

“A-All yours, Kei! I’m all yours. There’s no one else!” you sob, wrapping your legs around his slender waist once more so he can fuck you impossibly deeper. 

His mouth contorts into a wicked smile, glasses falling off his sculpted features and onto the floor to be forgotten about. “That’s right. Oh, I fucking love it when you’re smart.” his hand presses against your belly. “You can feel me in here, can’t you, love?” he harshly thrusts.

“Kei!” you shriek, your nails making crescent-shaped indents in his skin. “I-I’m gonna fucking cum, Kei! Fuck, make me cum!” tears swell in the corner of your eyes as that familiar coil sensation fills your gut once more. 

“Hold it. I’m, fuck, I’m so fucking close. Cum with me, yeah, my love? Cum with me like the good girl I know you are.” his voice becomes shrill as he feels his own release approach him, slotting your lips with his as both of your climaxes approach at the same time.

“Fuck, cumming. I’m, oh yeah, cumming-” his cock twitches inside of your ruined cunt, spilling his white hot seed into your womb as you release all over his member, coating it in your slick that he loves so dearly. 

The room stays silent as Tsukishima collapses into your chest, giving each one of your tits a chaste kiss. “Fuck…I got too carried away, didn’t I?” his golden eyes land on the faintest of hand marks around your bruised neck. “I’m…I’m so sorry, love.”

Your delicate hand cups his face, kissing his nose. “It’s okay, Kei. I got what you meant.”

Tsukishima becomes shy again. “Yeah, of course you did. You’re smart like that, smart girl.” he rolls over and pulls you into his chest, pressing a lingering kiss on your sweaty forehead. “...sorry about now using a condom.”

“What was that?”

“Shut up and go to sleep, dummy.”

“Okay, cutie.”

“And don’t call me that!”

[writing-blocked-me]

I’ve been rereading The Folk of the Air series and I just can’t get Cruel Prince Gojo out of my brainnnnn🧠 - had to come back from my loonnnng hiatus just to post about it

part 2 part 3

cruel prince!gojo who is the youngest prince of Elfhame and flaunts that status to no end. As the youngest child of the king, he knows he will not be chosen as successor and so, despite his clear power and capabilities, chooses to do as he pleases. That being causing chaos.

cruel prince!gojo who is never seen without his two friends by his side, who only ever encourage his behaviour. Geto, with his quiet, subtle cruelty, who manipulates people as if they were actors on a stage, all for his own amusement. Then there was Shoko, too, relaxed and all too comfortable to simply sit back and amuse herself, watching the calamities the other two caused, occasionally joining in herself.

cruel prince!gojo who you have despised since you first met him. He was rotten and cruel and spoiled and yet everything you wished you could be, a true part of Faerie. You were merely the human foster daughter of the Grand General, given a place in the court only because of his status. Merely a human, plain and unremarkable compared to the ethereal beauty of the Folk, compared to gojo.

cruel prince!gojo who took every opportunity to make your life a living hell. When you were younger, he’d tug on your braids and shove you in the mud. As you got older, he only got worse, torturing you, merely because he saw himself as better, as superior to who he’d call a “dirty, mortal liar”. He’d kick dirt on your food, make snide comments during lectures, generally creating nuisances for you.

cruel prince!gojo who only got worse once you decided to stand up to him. Whenever he was nearby, at revel’s or during lectures, you could feel his eyes burning into you. His ‘pranks’ worsened, too, Rather than simply making comments, or being a general nuisance, he’d actively direct his cruelty towards you. Ripping off charms, feeding you Everapple, he’d do anything he could to make you susceptible to his glamours and make you bend to his will. It’s what you deserved, after all, for defying a prince of Faerie.

cruel prince!gojo who you blatantly defied, over and over again. He could not seem to break you. Never had he ever had to try as hard as he did with you. Most things came easily to him, and the things that didn’t, well, he never had to bother with again. But you, you were a challenge he could never give up on. All of Elfhame cowered and bowed in his presence, but not you. You defied him, even bested him on occasion (a fact that Naoya, the eldest in line for the throne, never failed to remind him of).

cruel prince!gojo whose note you found, sending shivers of discomfort down your spine with each line you read. There was no threat, no purpose to the ink-scrawled page, just your name written repeatedly, almost obsessively. The only thing you could conclude is that he really must hate you.

cruel prince!gojo who cannot get you out of his mind, who is beginning to realise, disgustingly, that it may not be because of hatred.

[chow0w]

Hello! It’s me again :3

So you already covered that you think sandwings are punk and what you think seawings styles are. But what do you think the other tribes aesthetic’s are/how they dress? Thank you for your time!

Hi! thanks for the question! This was an amazing chance for me to explore more alt styles!

Goth Icewings: why it would(n't) work

About the Goths

Museum of youth culture defines goth as a music genre, fashion scene and cultural bubble usually pertaining to a 'dark' aesthetic, stating 'Goth developed from various other youth subcultures, including punk... in the late 1970s to a more commercial visibility in the 1990s. ' It has the same loose political origins as its punk cousin, even if these ideologies are slightly less visible/represented through mainstream media. in the context of the icewings, I think goth would be more about the ice/nightwing feud - specifically as a promotion of peace and unity between tribes. I'll talk more about that later, as this post explores the many ways goth fashion could work - and not work - on Phyrria.

There are also a handful of other cultures/fashion styles I can see being present in rural icewing villages, which I do plan on exploring in the future! The only reason I chose goth this week was because I was listening to goth music and ended up liking it a lot.

The Magic Behind the Makeup

Now that we understand what Goth fashion means to Phyrria, the bigger question remains: how the FUCK did they get to look like that? Figuring this out actually ended up being pretty difficult the more I thought about it, because there are a number of different logistical issues that arise when it comes to dragon makeup. For one, Icewings have little to no access to fire - any dyes or makeup would have to be either imported charcoal, squid ink, or other pigment - which would be expensive to northern villages. Secondly, applying water-based makeup must be a literal nightmare if you life in the tundra. All products would have to be oil-based (which is actually not too unreasonable, given that the Icewings have unlimited access to seal fat.) But still, would these products even last? The short answer is no: goth icewings would need to be seriously dedicated in order to consistently dress this way. (Although, that does add well to the peace message.)

but moving on to the 'hairstyles,' what are icewings doing to achieve this? For sake of this headcanon, I am going to assume the spines don't have nerve endings, and are also able to move with enough time and pressure. Using enough wires and pressure, Icewings may be able to give themselves 'braces' for their spines - twisting them into the right shape over the course of a few years, and keeping them in place using the nightly retainer routine. (I can feel your mouth hurting right now.) but hey, it would certainly hurt more if the icewings tried to use a straightener.

I imagine there are some permanent things you can do to become goth, like dying your spikes with ink or getting a tattoo. Clothes could also be made to last - or alternatively, 'tattered' clothing could just become part of the look. You could also argue that the goth look would be easy to achieve if it were born outside of the icewing kingdom but pioneered by icewings, somewhere like jade mountain.

Why Jade Mountain, and Why not now?

I imagine goth fashion would be more than controversial, both in and out of the icewing kingdom: especially given how violent (and a lot of the time unprovoked) nightwing violence on icewings is. My best example is definitely from book one, where Morrowseer has the nightwings slaughter all 6(?) icewing prisoners in Queen Scarlet's arena. While these dragons would've probably died in the arena anyways, the attack could still be interpreted by icewings as and act of hatred. So, the ideals behind goth fashion - striving for diplomacy, peace and an end to the conflict - are probably not fit to live in the same timeframe as any of the current books.

Knowing this, I first argued that the best place for goth fashion to go would probably be Jade Mountain Academy. Being the only place where young dragons of both tribe can interact without being in an explicitly violent setting, it could be a good starting point toward healing, grieving and discussing the feud. And this totally could've started during the JMA arc, but...

There is one small roadbump that prevents this happy ending.

Darkstalker's secret 4th power: Ruining Everything

JUST when the nightwings were out of the volcano and under a more reasonable leader, JUST when the sandwing succession war ended, JUST when a school opened specifically for teaching intertribe peace... Darkstalker (the bitch) decides to re-heat his own nachos and literally try to kill every single icewing via plague. And then fight them on top of a school.

Ultimately, I do think there is a place for Goth fashion in Phyrria, the same way there is a place for peace between the nightwings and icewings. But both of those things would require a time, effort and open-mindedness - as well as recognition of the wrongs committed on both sides, and ample opportunity to grieve.

Adopts! Wow!

I promised I would start making adopts to go with these fashion posts, and I am determined to commit to this. So, this lovely dragon you see above you is going to be available in my Kofi, right here! I named them Permafrost for my own convenience, but you can do whatever you want with this guy when they belong to you.

I'm literally scrambling to post this on time so I'll keep it short, but thank you all so much for your support! My pinned post contains a navigator toward any and all of my other fashion posts, as well as links to my discord server + socials. AND I SAW YOUR FASHION REQUESTS AND I LOVE THEM!

Later ( =ω= )

[ashwhowrites]

WWE request!

Rhea Ripley x female reader (the reader is girly and opposite of dark Rhea )

Liv is trying to steal the reader ( like how she does with Dom ) but the reader would never because she loves her girlfriend. But just some good Rhea being jealous

First time writing for the WWE universe!! It was fun and I love my girl Rhea ❤️

Don't get greedy

Liv was on her revenge tour and wanted to take everything Rhea loved away from her. It started with the judgment day, and next was her championship. Rhea figured that was the end, but Liv wasn't done there.

Liv danced around with gold around her waist, taunting Rhea backstage. Rhea shrugged it off; she knew she would win the title back. And the judgment day? All Rhea lost was a fake family.

Rhea didn't care how much she lost because she still had her girlfriend, Y/N. She was all Rhea truly needed. Which didn't go unnoticed by Liv. Her blue eyes watched Y/N's every movement, learning her routine. She tried to remain unseen, needing to steal Y/N right under Rhea's nose.

Before hatred took over, Rhea, Liv, and Y/N were all very close. All great friends before Rhea and Y/N began developing feelings for each other. Liv always had a slight crush on Y/N and was upset that Rhea won her over. Rhea was dark, tall, and intimidating, she was the opposite of Y/N. Liv was slightly darker than Rhea; she knew how to be a girly girl, and she matched Y/N's personality. In a way, Liv was jealous of Rhea because Y/N was the one thing that Liv couldn't easily steal.

Liv's crush never went away, instead, it haunted her every second. She couldn't see the couple without anger, jealousy, and hurt filling her to the brim.

~~~

"Truthfully, I don't think we need Y/N part of the judgment day. You've got us, and you've got the title, Liv. I think you've done it all." Finn explained, his accent thick but Liv didn't bother to listen.

She rolled her eyes, popping her gum as she turned to him with a giant smile. "Finn, whose revenge tour is it? Finn's? No, I don't think so!" She clapped, her face turning emotionless as she looked up at him. "It's my revenge tour and I'll decide when I'm done."

Liv marched off with her title, leaving the judgment day behind as she ran into the hall. Her body smashed into another as she turned the corner. Before she fell to the floor, a strong grip yanked her back up.

"You okay?"

Liv blushed as Y/N stood there, holding her up. Liv melted into her arms, a smile naturally reaching her face.

"Yeah, just... nothing!" Liv shrugged. Y/N softly removed her hands, worriedly looking at the small blonde.

"You sure?"

Before Liv could answer, Rhea's heavy boots echoed towards them. An inked arm was thrown over Y/N, and Liv felt a disturbance in her stomach.

"Ready, love?" Rhea's deep and thick accent was meant for Y/N but Rhea kept her eyes on Liv.

"Yeah, let's go," Y/N said, giving Liv a small smile before the two walked off, hand in hand.

Liv was not going to let Rhea win ever again.

~~~

At the next RAW taping, Rhea wasn't scheduled but Y/N was. Rhea wasn't feeling the best and stayed behind at the hotel to rest. With the promise, that she'll watch her girlfriend's match.

Word that Rhea wasn't around met Liv's ears quickly. A plan already forming in her head as the show began.

~

Liv waited for Y/N's segment, watching as she stood with Cathy as they did a small interview. Liv thought back to the days when there wasn't tension between anyone and she wished the feud hadn't started in the first place.

Liv made her presence known as she skipped her way into the interview, pushing Cathy aside. "Hi, I just wanted to wish you good luck on your match, not that you ever need it. And might I say," Liv said, her eyes running up and down Y/N's body in her gear, "You look sexy tonight," a glittery wink was sent to Y/N as Liv walked off. Y/N stood in shock as Liv's hips swayed until she disappeared.

"What was that?" Cathy asked

"I have no idea"

~

Rhea was blowing up Y/N's phone as she watched RAW. The tiny moment with Liv sent Rhea's blood on fire. She didn't care how sick she felt, she was going to put Liv in her place.

Y/N was stretching for her match, with no idea her girlfriend was marching to the arena with a snarl. Her music hit and she made her way down to the ring. Half-way through her match she noticed Liv making her way down the ramp.

Y/N kept a watchful eye on her the best she could as she kept focus on her match. Liv walked around the ring, skipping and not bothering to look at Y/N.

The taunting got too much and Y/N ended up flat on the mat as the bell rang. She held her head as it began to pound, before she could roll out of the ring a body straddled her.

Y/N looked up in shock as Liv smiled down at her, her long hair framed around their faces blocking out the crowd.

"What are you doing?" Y/N asked, moving her hands to Liv's hips to shift her off but Liv kept herself planted. She leaned down, almost like she was planning to plant her lips on hers.

Before Liv could say a single word, Rhea's music blared through the arena and Liv was fast to jump off. But she wasn't fast enough. Y/N sat up as Rhea chased Liv to the barrier, grabbing Liv's hips and tossing her straight to the floor.

Y/N quickly rolled out of the ring but Rhea was already manhandling Liv. She was punching, kicking, and tossing Liv around like a rag doll. Liv barely could fight back, screaming for help.

"Rhea!" Y/N called, trying her best to pull her girlfriend off of Liv. "Calm down."

"Stay away from her, Liv!" Rhea demanded as she dropped Liv back on the floor, glaring. "You got what you needed, don't get greedy."

Medics came to help Liv and Y/N used the distraction to pull Rhea away. Rhea allowed Y/N to drag her to the back and into the locker room.

"I thought you were sick!" Y/N said as she crossed her arms. Rhea clicked the lock on the door, making Y/N perk up.

"I was," Rhea started, turning around. "But I wasn't going to sit and watch Liv trying to move in on what's mine." Her raspy voice made Y/N shiver as she walked closer.

"So let me remind you who you belong to," Rhea said as she slid her hand around Y/N's neck.

[dearjoons]

🫟 SCENEKID!JUNGKOOK HEADCANNONS

warnings: himbo energy. likely a very innacurate depiction of scene kids. set somewhere between 2007-2012. he’s kind of a loser. in a hot good way.

lulu speaks: I LOVE HIM SO BAD YOU DONT UNDERSTAND.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who walks into class late everyday, blasting asking alexandria loud enough that you can hear it clearly through his headphones.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who hangs out in the back of spencer’s with his friends and points out every inappropriate item like he’s so brave.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who doesn’t flirt. he just zones out and stares at you with his chin propped up in his hand like an actual idiot.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who uses corny typing quirks like mixing capital letters with lowercase letters in a sentence that ABSOLUTELY does not need to be as dramatic as he makes sound.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who buys EXCLUSIVELY fruit flavored vapes. no exceptions. except maybe a cotton candy one if he’s feeling expiremental.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who is probably the biggest gyopo you’ll ever encounter in your life.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who sits at the back of the cafeteria with his friends, eating some red 40-filled bullshit while trying (and failing) to gawk at you without garnering their attention.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who has a gif of zim and gir kissing in the corner of his myspace page.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who posts grainy, horrible quality pictures of himself baring his teeth and captioning it with soemthing corny like, “TEEF >:3”

✶ scenekid!jungkook who wears his green-striped zip up hoodie and tight black skinny jeans to the mall, sipping on a coke while giggling like a 10 year old about the “i ♥︎ boobies” bracelet in zumiez. he then buys it and does a shit job at hiding it from his mom.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who gets detention for blowing a suspicious, sweetly scented white cloud from his mouth behind his textbook, which was propped up to conveniently hide his whole face from his teacher. yes, it was his watermelon pen. he calls it “a free air freshener”. the school calls it a safety hazard.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who has a real lip ring, but says it’s fake around his mom (she still has no clue he got it done).

✶ scenekid!jungkook who poses for pictures by pouting and mimicking a fake tear by dragging his finger down his face.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who has NO type. scene girl? he’s down bad. emo girl? would die for her. goth girl? oh, he’s barking. popular girl? foaming at the mouth. he just loves women. period.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who gives the jocks and preppy guys death stares when he’s walking down the hallway. he’s silent with his hatred, but NOT subtle. not in the slightest.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who always keeps his ipod clipped on his hoodie pocket.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who sharpie tattoos himself all over. any skin that’s not clothed is getting covered in tiny, senseless doodles. his mom tells him he’ll get ink poisoning. he rolls his eyes when he scrubs it off.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who once got called “kinda hot in a weird way” by a popular girl. he got hard.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who would go on a multiple hour-long tangent about monster flavors if you’d let him. and BOY does he want to.

✶ scenekid!jungkook who accidentally walks into walls, doors, and windows because he’s too busy flipping through the songs on his playlist to find one that matches his exact mood.

lulu speaks pt2: SAW THIS BOY AT THE MALL LAST WEEK, GOT THE KIND OF LOOK TO MAKE ME FREAK . THAT LONG ASS HAIR WITH THE TIGHTEST JEANS, MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE ON HIS TEE. HE LOOKED SO SICK LIKE HE WAS DYING, IF I SAID HE WASN’T HOT THEN I’D BE LYING. PLEASE, HANDSOME, DONT BE COY, COME ON, FUCK ME, EMO BOY 🗣️🗣️🗣️

cai bot. masterlist. navigation.

[ladybirdswritings]

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS, FIC — rhysand x reader.

DESCRIPTION: an anonymous journalist exposes the dark secrets of prythian’s elite, but when rhysand, the sharp and relentless owner of the night court gentleman’s club, uncovers her identity, she’s thrust into a dangerous game of blackmail, power, and unexpected attraction. NOTES - i HAD to do an ACOTAR fic. this is a modernish au with the brother’s best friend & enemies to lovers tropes. rhys is a rich playboy, reader hates him. steaminess ensues. leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

one;

“I’m going to tear that wretched bitch limb from limb the moment I find them.”

You flinched as glass slammed against the counter, the sharp sound reverberating through the otherwise quiet house.

Rhysand was never subtle. Even in stillness, he commanded a room like a shadow cursed to expand—endless, suffocating, all-consuming. Tonight, he was a storm unrestrained.

He didn’t look at you. He never did. Then again, no one else did either, not with you tucked behind a fortress of old books. Romances, plenty to keep you sated. Tonight, you sat at the table, half-buried in their pages, your too-large glasses slipping down the bridge of your pointy nose.

And there he was—draped in black silk and leather, his movements precise despite the whiskey in his hand. The veins in his forearm protruded most inhumanly as he gripped his glass, his jaw taut with sparsely-contained frustration. Lucien, ever the diplomat, poured him another drink with the practiced ease of someone who’d been smoothing over Rhysand’s outbursts for years. He had.

“The fine people of Prythian won’t care about whatever drivel this so-called author is printing,” Lucien said smoothly. “The Night Court has been thriving, Rhys. No need to let petty gossip get under your skin.”

Gossip.

You winced at the dismissal, your knuckles tightening around the spine of your book. It wasn’t just gossip. It was your work. Your words. The invisible sister of Lucien Vanserra had finally found her voice—albeit from the shadows. If no one would listen to your words spoken aloud, they’d damn well read them. At first, it had been an act of silent rebellion, a catharsis as much as a challenge.

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

Behind closed doors had spread like wisteria vines through Prythian’s small town and beyond, and the Night Court’s elite. And while they laughed and whispered about the scandalous columns over their evening drinks, you watched from afar, quietly vindicated. No one could suspect the shy, unassuming adoptive sister of Lucien—odd, foreign, and entirely overlooked. It was empowering. It was ironic.

And it was dangerous.

“Trashy gossip?” Rhysand echoed, his voice low and cutting, dragging your thoughts back to the present. He smoothed a sheet of parchment across the counter, your latest piece, the inked words practically searing into his violet eyes. “Do you think the author would call it merely gossip? Or perhaps truth, Lucien?”

He read aloud, mockery dripping from his tone. “‘The pretty ladies of the Night Court have found their respect elsewhere. Swaying hips grow tired of catering to the insatiable demands of Prythian’s elite, their so-called leader no better than the braying beasts who frequent his clubs.’”

Your heart hammered as his voice sliced through the air, cold and unrelenting. Hatred dripped like serpent’s venom from his pearled teeth. Rhys crumpled the paper in one hand and let it fall to the floor, his lips curling into a humorless smile.

“Poetic, isn’t it?” he sneered, downing the last of his whiskey. “Two of my finest dancers fled last month, and suddenly, every fool with a pen thinks they’re the arbiter of truth. Do you think they imagine themselves clever?”

Lucien frowned, pouring himself a drink now. “You’re letting this rubbish get under your skin. I doubt anyone takes it so severely.”

“Oh, they do take it severely,” Rhys said darkly, quickly— running a hand through his perfected raven locks. “Whoever’s writing this isn’t just clever. They’re precise. Calculated. This isn’t some scorned drunkard’s ramblings; it’s surgical. And you—” he jabbed a finger in Lucien’s direction, “—you’re telling me to laugh it off while my name and my life’s work is dragged through filth?”

You sank deeper into your chair, praying they wouldn’t notice you. A silly worry seeing as most times, they never did.

“Whoever wrote this, I imagine they know you well,” Lucien said, his tone light but edged with something sharper. “You think it’s a man?”

Rhys scoffed. “Of course, it’s a man. No woman is that cunning.”

A sour taste filled your mouth, and you finally dared to glance up. His words, so casually spoken, ignited something in your chest. He was dismissing you. Because what, you didn’t hone the same parts as he did? Annoyance surged your posture straighter and your palms to fists. Before you could stop yourself, you muttered under your breath, “I think whoever wrote it doesn’t like you very much, Rhysand.”

The room stilled.

Lucien choked on his drink, half-shocked, half-amused. Rhysand, however, turned slowly, his violet gaze locking onto you with the weight of a predator assessing prey. Bat to bleeding, weak little bug. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow to the space between the two of you. You only dared a blink when his lips curved into a slow, mocking smile.

“And what would you know of such things?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. “You hardly seem the literary type.” His sarcasm was a direct mockery of what he’d called “rubbish” on more than one occasion. Your romance novels.

“Works of the devil, himself. Keep reading that rubbish and it will keep you lonesome forever.” He’d said once, one of the only times he’d spared you any words.

Heat flared in your cheeks, but you held his gaze, refusing to shrink beneath it. “Maybe not,” you said, barely above a whisper, “but I know truth when I read it.”

Rhys tilted his head, the smile slipping from his face. His stare lingered, uncomfortably long, as though he were trying to peel back your skin and see what lay beneath. You squirmed in your seat.

Lucien stepped in before the tension could thicken further. “Careful, Rhys. She’s sharper than she looks.” He gave you a fond glance, but his words carried an undertone of warning. Behave.

“Sharper?” Rhys echoed, turning back to his drink. “Hardly. Your sister is as meek as they come.”

You gritted your teeth, your nails digging into the dilapidated cover of your book. Without another word, you stood abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor. You gathered your things with deliberate slowness, each movement a silent protest, before stomping toward the stairs.

Behind you, Lucien sighed. “She won’t appreciate your company if you spend the night.”

Rhys’s laugh was low and awfully amused. “Even more reason to stay, then.” There was a gleam in his wicked eyes.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to turn back. But as you ascended the stairs, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Rhysand’s violet eyes lingered on you far longer than they should have.

“She doesn’t like you,” Lucien said once you were out of earshot.

Rhys was silent for a strained moment before he finally spoke, his tone almost… thoughtful. “No,” he murmured, more to himself than his old friend. “She doesn’t.”

The realization hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. And somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, you felt the first flicker of unease. Why had he assessed you, spared you a glance for a moment longer than necessary? It was unlike him. It was for a reason. It had to be.

Though you tried to convince yourself that your mind was only making shadows from things that were not in the light yet— you just couldn’t shake the feeling…

Your secret was no longer safe.

[arathain]

Seams

Stone walls screeched in song as the light parted open, metallic footsteps softened by the contents of the reservoir. The roiling shadow stood directly beneath the Great Charter Stone, waiting. Expectant. As the figure approached the centre, the facade of the their discontent melted away, to give in to a pointed, relaxed smile.

'You have misbehaved much, haven't you?' happily said the figure, admiring the frankly unacceptable state of their surroundings.

Mouthpiece snarled. 'I know what you're here for. Get on with it.'

The figure's eyes snapped to them, while their head remained perfectly still, stilted at an awkward angle.

'And what would that be?'

The ghost's eyes narrowed.

'You fucking know what it is, you-'

Their throat froze in place, as the figure continued to examine them. Snapping their head to face Mouthpiece, they walked up to stand immediately before them, the clothed being towering over Mouthpiece as still as a statue.

Mouthpiece dropped to their knees, their body straining in flickers as they attempted to move. A soft whimper escaped their lips, a strange, dissonant sound.

'*Please*'

Piercing, burning eyes snapped down to the kneeling ghost.

'You still haven't voiced your wish, though.'

The creature reeled.

'END THIS' they spoke, the timbre of their tone splitting into disconnected things. Voices.

'FREE US- ME- FROM THIS. FROM EVERYONE. LET ME GO AWAY.'

'Oh, that.' the figure mused. 'I can do that.'

The Augur descended in an instant, water splashing as the two figures fell to the reservoir floor. Sharpened claws tore into spectral insides, all of a sudden growing less and less ephemeral. The ghost screeched in pain, voices separating, straining to break free.

Faces broke through the inky mist, only to sink into oblivion again; a half-mask, a square head, a rat mask, yellow glasses. Having ripped the rib-cage open, the Augur began gorging on the entrails, blood splattering as they savoured the flesh. Fat, muscle, and bone unravelled in stringy pieces, as the figure continued to scream in agony, limbs and joints splitting, contorting, and merging; orange and black skin, woolen hands, blue shirt, red sweater, and ink - so, so much black, bitter ink. Remnants of the Mason oozed in taloned hands for brief moments before being consumed - countless, immeasurable, spiteful voices. The Augur's smile grew a little, gazing lovingly at the flailing soon-to-be corpse.

'I get it, I really get it. The brightest light hurts when all you know is darkness. But it was not your choice, and I'm rather sad I could not witness them before the fall myself. You were far too selfish, my beloved - all too fitting, so consider this your reward.'

Mouthpiece's vision grew hazy, as their parts were chewed and swallowed one by one. Ugly; so, so ugly. The Augur's tongue wrapped around Mouthpiece's head as they bit down, mist crumbling into golden ichor. It hurts, hurts to see yourself; always, everywhere. Sensing the hurt, the pain, the Augur smiled in exultation. Two bodies intertwined, a lone, gleeful fire consumed the hateful, bitter remnants of everyone, everything. Sorry. I couldn't take us all down together.

No time at all later, the Augur stood up, licking their teeth and lips clean with their forked tongue. Looking around, they wrapped their arms around themselves to contain the sheer ecstasy of all that they now witnessed, all the hatred and pain now swallowed and digested. Standing up, the Augur's wide, wild grin calmed down into a controlled, innocent smile.

'Well' the Augur mused to themselves, looking up at the uncut aqueduct walls 'I believe there is work to do.'

They say the misfortune of others tastes like honey; but that is not the whole story. It is the struggle, the potential for happiness, that sweetens the pain - for the utmost showcase of power, the greatest mastery of the flame, is to smother it.

[myokk]

different

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 4,2k

summary: Sebastian is not as she remembered.

cw: enemies to lovers, dark sebastian (I guess?), relic!Sebastian, smut (18+ ONLY), unprotected sex, maybe he has a breeding kink...I just don't know what to tag this it's angsty

a/n: or: Sebastian has probably gotten in over his head even though I don't specify what's going on with him🤭

Sebastian Sallow is not as she remembered.

There's something...unkempt about him. Feral. Unhinged. Uncontrolled. She feels absolutely ridiculous thinking it, of course, could never confide in anyone about what she's noticed.

Everyone knows she hates Sebastian Sallow and shouldn't be noticing anything about him. But...when they sit next to each other in their NEWT Arithmancy class and are forced to spend time with each other, there are things she cannot help but see.

Because of proximity, of course.

As she glances over to him, all she can think of is how his hair is more tousled than usual, a strange, feverish flush spread across already ruddy-freckled cheeks, his normally pristine uniform wrinkled and the top buttons undone. She is used to hating him from afar; their previous years at Hogwarts have been spent glaring at each other across the Great Hall, fighting to be the first to answer questions in class, him purposely antagonizing her and going out of his way to make sure she's annoyed by his presence and...

Well.

In the short first month of their seventh year (arriving to Hogwarts without his sister), so far he has been avoiding her. Avoiding everyone, really. More reclusive, less of the magnetic and commanding presence that demands people pay attention to him. As much as she thought she would rejoice the day he stopped bothering her, it is rather disconcerting.

He looks over at her, catches her staring at him, and his glazed-over-glossy eyes flash in fury.

"What," he hisses, barely disguised hatred poisoning his deep voice, "are you looking at?"

She starts, the quill she's holding slips out of her fingers and clatters to the table, and ink splatters across the page of notes she was working on. "N-nothing," she mumbles, before clearing the mess away with a wave of her wand.

The rest of their time together is spent in silence, both determined to not look at the other.

She secretly observes Sebastian any time they share a class - it's impossible to see him between classes, as he's disappearing to Merlín-knows-where, but he's still yet to be fully absent.

Some days, he looks better than others, almost like the mischievous Sebastian who used to torment her. A small smile might even grace his full lips.

But most days, there's an unhealthy pallor to his flushed skin, his shoulders holding an ungodly amount of tension; last week in Charms he snapped five quills in half, one for every squeak of Professor Ronan's chalk on the blackboard. She was sitting right behind him, unsure if anyone else noticed, but how could she miss it? The tension in his broad shoulders seemed to radiate off of him in waves, the skin she could see of his neck between his collar and his tousled hair was flushed and sweaty, and as soon as class was dismissed he was pushing his chair back and striding out with long legs, black robes billowing behind him.

This has been repeated more and more often as of late.

Where is Anne? -

"What do you think of Sebastian this year?" She's trying to act like she doesn't care about the answer, pushing food around her plate, resting her chin in her hand, but the truth is she's dying to have someone else acknowledge what she's been seeing.

"He's grumpier than usual," says Leander helpfully.

"He almost singed my eyebrows off in Charms," pipes up Garreth.

Cressida is too overcome by giggles to speak properly at first. "I've been trying to count the freckles on his forearms every chance I get," she confesses, "but every time I reach forty he turns around and I'm worried he'll kill me. Why? Are you upset he's finally moved on from his infatuation with you?"

None of them seem to be worried about him like she is. At Cressida's last question, she flushes and glances across the Great Hall and her eyes find his immediately. It's almost as if he's heard their conversation; his eyes are two black pits glowering into her own and she's worried that if she keeps staring she might fall in. Gaunt is sitting next to him, murmuring who knows what in his ear. The contrast between the two of them: one blond and elegant and deathly pale, the other flushed and disheveled and full of rage: is eerie.

She shivers and looks away.

As the days progress, Gaunt seems more and more upset with his friend. She catches the two of them having heated discussions under their breath on more than one occasion; the tip of Gaunt's wand flaring like his nostrils as they quarrel.

Normally, the two of them walk the halls of Hogwarts together like they own the place. The fact that they are almost never seen together anymore is preoccupying, to say the least.

She soon abandons any pretense of being nonchalant, of secretly watching, and finds herself looking forward (if it can be called that) to every class shared with Sebastian Sallow. His presence is intoxicating somehow - she couldn't look away from him even if she'd wanted to, and she is simply too curious to see how far he will fall.

Is he going to be normal today? she wonders as she sets up her station in Potions. Almost hoping to the contrary, but he doesn't show up.

She's...disappointed.

Or maybe she's just bored. Watching Sebastian has started to consume her, his strange behavior the only thing that seems to interest her these days.

When he barges into the Potions classroom five minutes late - not enough for Sharp to chastise him - their eyes immediately meet and he beelines for her station, unceremoniously dumping his bag at the empty spot next to her. Although they don't speak for the entirety of the class, she shows him the recipe she is working on and he pulls the cutting board towards him, surprisingly gentle with the knife as he starts chopping up the ingredients.

Soon, his robe is shed off. The classroom feels muggy and stifling and even she feels dazed from the heat and fumes of the combined cauldrons. He silently slides the cutting board to her, everything cut perfectly; she glances at him before nodding slightly and adding everything in with precision. Sebastian takes over the stirring as she adds the ingredients one by one, but soon he's pulling at his tie and collar to loosen then as he stands over the flames, rolling up his shirtsleeves and exposing his tan, freckled forearms. For one mortifying second she wonders if he's going to take off his vest too.

He's so different from the exasperating boy she thought he was. Before, he was mischievous and charming and annoying and always getting into trouble with his sister. But now...now, he's angry in a way she isn't used to: his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turn white, his dark brow always furrowed in displeasure.

She finds she wants to smooth it away with the pad of her thumb.

At the end of the class, they get a rare 'well done' from their professor, and then before she can blink Sebastian is striding out of the class just as quickly as he has been for the past month. She hurries to shove everything into her bag and stumbles out after him, almost sprinting to catch up as he's already at the end of the hall.

"W-wait," she gasps, reaching out a hand that grazes his sleeve. He slows down a bit but keeps walking, not acknowledging her presence otherwise. "Sebastian."

He stops at the sound of his name, the fury in his glare makes her pause - maybe she shouldn't be addressing him like this, but they were friends before, weren't they? And now he continues walking, much slower this time, but still with purpose.

She takes this as an invitation.

She doesn't let go of her grip on his robes, not wanting him to disappear on her again.

The truth is, although everyone knows she hates Sebastian Sallow, she always kind of liked the attention he gave her. Out of all of the girls he could have pursued - almost any of them - she was the only one he ever paid attention to. As much as she was exasperated by him in previous years, there had been a few moments last year when...

She shakes her head to get rid of the thoughts. Clearly, that Sebastian lives in the past, and the one she is following now is someone else entirely.

Sebastian pulls her into an empty classroom and whirls around to look at her after the door slams shut, his cheeks colored and more ruddy than usual, and her heart is pounding as she stares up at him. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to follow him, and she curses herself for her damn curiosity. But...she can't deny that a thrill runs through her body, heat pooling in her stomach as she sees him glower at her. Maybe she's missed having Sebastian's undivided attention, and now she has it.

"I-" he starts, taking a deep, shaking breath as he looks down at her. He closes his mouth, runs long fingers through his hair, disheveling it more (she quite likes it, but -), paces around the room. She just stands there, watching him, clutching the strap of the bag that's pressed across her chest. "I know you're watching me."

"I," he says again, looking down at her, his warm breath fanning across her face, "cant get you out of my damn mind. You're always there, and it's..."

She feels his words tremble down her face, slide down her neck; she shivers. In fear? In anticipation? Heat pools deep in her stomach at their intense eye contact, at the fact his mouth is mere inches from hers, the fact that he's looking at her like that.

"Y-you don't hate me?" she whispers, moving the tiniest bit forward. Her lips brush his lower lip as she speaks, a thrill runs through her body at the contact. Sebastian is stock still.

"No," he responds. This time he is the one who moves the tiniest bit forward, his head inclined the tiniest bit more towards hers. Now, with every breath she takes, every inhale, their lips are touching.

She doesn't know who moves first: between their shallow-soft breaths mixing and mingling and the general haziness of her mind that still lingers after their Potions class: all she knows is that somehow, their mouths have crashed together and all reasonable thought has left her mind.

As Sebastian's lips move hungrily - desperately - against hers, her fingers clutching the collar of his robes so she doesn't lose her balance, one of his hands grips her by the hips to keep her pressed against him. His other hand comes up to her face: caressing her cheek: bringing his thumb to her jaw to feel her pulse as they kiss: slowly moving to tangle itself in the soft hair at the nape of her neck so she can't pull away.

She feels as if she should feel embarrassed at all of the small noises escaping her mouth, but she can't help it. His lips are soft against hers, a contrast to the hard body pressing against her, the sharp angles of the desk she's being pushed against. And besides, Sebastian's making just as much noise as she is. The sinful noises coming from him are making an unfamiliar heat spread through her body, making her feel as desperate as he is acting.

But...- as she's moving to undo his tie, her mouth wandering down to kiss his pulse point as she uncovers it - noises that somehow slip through the hazy bubble of just her and Sebastian make her pause in fear. A burst of happily chattering students walks past the classroom and makes her wonder what the bloody hell she's doing.

They could have been caught - and then what? She would find herself in a forced betrothal to this bizarre, dangerous version of the boy she once knew. Because, of course, propriety would have to be followed.

It's as if the scales have fallen from her eyes and she pulls away from Sebastian slightly, her chest heaving. She just lost control of herself for one second. His strange magnetism hoodwinked her into thinking - or lack thereof, she's not sure that any thinking was involved when she kissed him back - that she wanted this.

There's no other explanation.

She pushes him away slightly, scowling at his bemused expression. Merlin, he's insufferable. His lips are swollen, his freckled face flushed, and all she wants to do is grab his stupid face and keep kissing him.

She pushes his chest again, and this time he stumbles back a bit. Now that she's free, she bends down to grab her discarded school bag, her robes crumpled to the ground at her feet. As she shrugs them on, she glances at Sebastian over her shoulder.

The open expression on his face is already starting to close off, the scowl that she's now used to taking its place.

If she had thought Sebastian Sallow was strange before their -

She gives her head a small shake and rests her chin on the palm of her hand, trying her hardest to listen to Garreth speak about whatever it is he's telling her. It's impossible however, with Sebastian sitting across the Great Hall from her.

There might be a couple hundred students sitting between them, chattering about inconsequential and trivial matters, but it's as if none of them exist. She knows how many times he's taken a bite of his lamb, how many time's he's turned to whisper something to Ominis before realizing that his friend is not by his side. It's a stormy night, and every so often an occasional bolt of lightning cuts the Great Hall in half, illuminating the whole room in an eerie light - almost making everything look black and white for a split second before thunder rumbles in the distance. And, she swears that every time the room is lit up, Sebastian is glowering straight into her eyes.

For as much as she is trying to pretend that he does not exist (and failing miserably), Sebastian is not hiding the fact that he is watching her. She can feel his eyes boring into her back as she walks down the halls between classes, and she feels uncomfortably seen in a way she is not used to.

She can't get rid of the feeling of being watched, not even when she knows she's alone in her dormitory. Sebastian and his all-consuming presence are haunting her mind, and she often finds herself waking drenched in sweat in the middle of the night, needing him in ways she isn't used to. In ways she decidedly doesn't want.

After her meal's finished, she scurries out of the Great Hall as fast as she can, like she has been for the past week since their wretched kiss. Another bolt of lightning shoots across the ceiling; everything is painted with that eerie silver light again for a brief moment and thunder is beginning to rumble through the air as the huge wooden door closes behind her.

She's not quite sure where she wants to go, and she makes a mental inventory of the castle. Her common room is boring - nobody of interest will be there and is she really just going to sit around by herself pretending to be occupied? The library is off-limits, due to Sebastian's propensity to show up in her periphery when she's trying to study, it's too early to sleep and she's scared of what might happen if she's alone in her bed, the...

She huffs as she marches aimlessly through the hallways. Maybe the occasional ghost crosses her path, but otherwise it's empty. Every suit of armor she walks past, every empty classroom, every portrait, reminds her of moments when she was spying on strange-not-the-same Sebastian this year. She hates him. Why couldn't this year be a continuation of the previous years, with their harmless flirtation? Things feel different this year, more dangerous, and...

Somehow, she ends up in the Transfiguration Courtyard, and she decides to march through it, rain be damned.

She's soaked to the bone by the time she reaches the old oak tree in the middle of the courtyard; the storm seems to have somehow picked up, but she finds she doesn't mind it. In fact, she might like it. In her own over-active imagination, she feels as if the rain is helping numb her over-sensitive emotions, the raw feeling she's been harboring in her chest all week isn't as awful as it has been all week.

She breathes a sigh of relief and lifts her face to the sky as the rain pours down against it; when she feels the brush of someone's robes against her arm as they sit by her side she isn't surprised.

It's inevitable, after all.

"Sebastian," she says, so quietly she isn't sure he can hear her over the noise of the storm, "why are you following me?"

If he says anything in response, she certainly doesn't hear it. But what she doesn't hear is made up for by his touch. A hand slides up her arm, clumsily - her eyes are still closed, face still upturned to the pouring heavens - and when it makes its way up to her jaw, tilting her head slightly, she lets him. When his lips brush against hers, she allows it.

(maybe she's been hoping for this very thing)

The kiss isn't sweet for long: maybe it's the cold rain, maybe it's the thunder rumbling in the background, maybe it's the quickly darkening night: but their kiss grows desperate faster than she can fully realize what's happening. Sebastian groans into her mouth, his lips hot and demanding against hers, and when his tongue swipes across her lips she lets him in without thinking.

It's impossible for any thoughts to be in her brain whatsoever, apart from the overwhelming lust that's currently heating up her body and causing her to be greedy and want more. Maybe, if she were in a proper state of mind, she would be embarrassed at how quickly his touch has unlocked something feral inside of her. Sebastian's hands are running down her back, sliding to her waist, pulling her closer to him. One hand comes up to brush against the underside of her breast and her gasp seems to spur him on.

She finds her hands moving of their own accord to caress his face, her fingers glide down his cheeks and up his neck to run themselves through his soaking wet curls - Merlin, what's gotten into them, into her? Snogging in the middle of a thunderstorm that only seems to be picking up.

She pulls away slightly, breathing hard as she finally peels her eyes open. Sebastian's eyes are dark, his brow furrowed as if to ask her why she's stopped; she just gives him a small smile, leaning forward to brush her lips against his before lacing her fingers through his and dragging him to the covered area of the courtyard overlooking the Lake.

She can see a question forming on his lips, but before he can say anything, she reaches forward and grabs him by his collar, pulling his face down to hers and he's eager to reciprocate. She's worried that maybe, if words are spoken between them, it could break the tenuous connection the two of them seem to have. Because they are connected somehow, aren't they? Something is compelling and pushing them together, time and time again, and she is simply curious to see where it's headed.

As his hands drag down her back, holding her tight at the waist, pulling her closer, she's reminded of the fact that they're soaking wet. She fumbles with her wand, whispers a hasty drying spell, and then it clatters out of her hand as Sebastian roughly pushes her towards the wall. She's moaning, gasping, yearning into his mouth as the kiss deepens, as she's pressed between the cold wall and his too-warm body, and she vaguely wonders if he can hear her, if he can taste her desperation for him in their kiss.

She's not quite sure what she wants, the sweet kisses she's shared with Garreth she now realizes were chaste in comparison to Sebastian's overpowering, addicting presence. He practically growls as he pulls his lips away from hers, but before she can whimper in protest, his lips have moved to her jawline, her neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses and it's all she can do to stay upright. Her head falls back against the cold stone wall, her hands scrabbling in his hair to hold him closer, try to find some purchase so she can stay upright.

Her knees go weak as Sebastian slowly moves a hand up her thigh, dragging her skirt along with it. The feeling of his fingers ghosting over her woolen stockings - her whole body is so sensitive that she may as well be wearing nothing - is causing an unfamiliar heat to pool low within her stomach and, oh, Merlin, he's reached the top of her stockings where her skin is bare. She doesn't recognize her voice as she moans, Sebastian moving his mouth back to hers to devour every noise she makes and - yes, she thinks, there: his hand grazes the edge of her knickers. He lets his fingers brush over her folds - barely-there touches that she's not even sure are happening outside of her imagination - and she is insensible. Nobody has ever touched her there apart from herself, lately, thinking of Sebastian - and she feels herself get wet at the mere thought of Sebastian touching her.

When he pushes her knickers to the side and starts slowly circling her clit with his thumb, all she can do is moan. His other hand is helping keep her in place, and she soon finds herself rocking against his hand. When he slips a finger inside of her, far from being uncomfortable, it causes a jolt of pleasure deep inside of her and she gasps against his mouth. She's unsure if she should feel embarrassed at how wet she is, but she's past the point of caring how she comes across.

"So good," Sebastian murmurs against her lips as he inserts another finger without warning, and she just moans in response, bucking her hips against his hand. He's curling his fingers inside of her, still rubbing her clit with his thumb, and he can But, as she feels pressure building deep within her, he slowly pulls his fingers out of her. She opens dazed eyes to glare at him, fully prepared to chastise him as how dare he stop? When -

Sebastian grabs her by the arse and lifts her up, and she instinctively wraps her legs around his waist, her skirt still bunched up, still completely bare to anyone who were to walk past. He slides his arms underneath her knees, bracing his arms on either side of her, and she feels something decidedly different than his fingers pressing against her soaking wet entrance.

A bolt of lightning and its resounding thunder fill the air as she whimpers against his mouth while he slowly pushes himself inside of her - there's no resistance - how could there be, when she's as wet as she is? He stops once he's fully inside of her, pulling away from her mouth to take a deep, steadying breath. His lips move clumsily across her face - her eyelid, her nose, her cheek - as he gives her time to adjust to the feeling of him inside of her - Merlin - how does it feel so good?

Soon, however, Sebastian decides that patience is not a virtue, and he drives into her, hard, over and over again, and they fall into a rhythm of sorts. The obscene wet noises, his grunts, are overpowered by the storm around them, and she's unsure if he hears her moaning his name as she feels herself getting close. The heat inside of her, building up in her, is unbearable: "Please, Sebastian - don't stop - please -"

He doesn't slow down his pace, hiding his face in her neck, desperately kissing her wherever he can, and she could almost cry in relief as her orgasm crashes over her; she shudders against his mouth, moaning so loudly it's nearly a scream. Her every muscle tenses, contracts, her body is squeezing and trying to hold Sebastian inside of her for as long as it can, and yet he doesn't slow his pace at all. It's unbearable - she's so, so sensitive, and yet he doesn't stop.

But then - his whole body tenses against her and he pushes himself as deep inside of her as he can. He gives out a low groan, pulling away from her slightly to look her in the face as he comes. It's an expression she has become accustomed to this year, uncontrolled, dangerous, and as the two of them are breathing hard, staring into each others' faces, realizing what they've just done, he moves slightly. He's still deep inside of her, she can feel every twitch he makes, but...when he moves...

Something metallic clatters out of his robes.

Lightning strikes, and, through half-lidded eyes, she sees a strange object fall to the ground.

"Sebastian, what -"

He hushes her with a dizzying, toe-curling kiss as he slips out of her.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

I'll Look After You Chapter Two

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Summary: {Y/N} reunites with a lost soul, learns the fate of two of her old friends

Cw: Use of {Y/N}, mentions of injury and mourning}

Wc- 5142

Taglist- @otterlockholmes @stylesann @adhxmoony

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of your quill tip against the edge of your inkwell filled the small cubicle. With Moody away on a mission, you had no one to snap at you about the small fidgets and bits of noises you made. This was your least favorite part of your internship, just waiting and acting like you had things to do. You knew once Moody got back he'd once again break down how to fill out the mission reports and go back to ignoring your existence. 

You sighed out dramatically and pressed the feathers of the quill between your upper lip and nose. Not noticing as a bit of ink stained your cheek. It had been a few weeks after the dance and the last thing you needed was to be alone with your thoughts. Instead, you focused on the ambiance of moody’s office. The sound of ruffling paper and the scratch of quills to parchment. The buzz of battery operated lights were preferred to the heat trap that was Moody’s desk, his instance on candlelit space and lanterns that burned threw oil like mad, only succeeded in making the small space unbearably hot.

It did set a melancholy, the warm yellows and hazy space truly made you a bit tired. Arms crossing and leaning down on your desk, chin against your arm, before a voice cut threw the monotony.

“Having fun here, gorgeous?” A voice cut threw your thoughts and dragged you out of your slump. Slowly, you smiled to yourself, leaning back and looking over to the familiar figure in the entrance of the mini office. 

“Barty Crouch Jr.” you hummed and he put his hand over his chest in a fake offense. 

“My full name? What happened to ‘little bastard’?” Barty purred and you couldn't help but laugh.

You and Barty never talked at school, even with your small friendship with Pandora and Regulus. He had a certain hatred for your rowdy bunch, and in turn, you hated him. However, ever since you got picked up on your apprenticeship, he was always around the corner.

The first few days of pretending you didn't know him didn't work. His father had a habit of dismissing him during hearings, leading him to stray to you. After the first two trivial encounters of fiddling fingers and weird familiarities, the visits became more willing, unfortunately. He was funny, a bit of a flirt, but you learned quickly it was his expression of love, both platonic and intimate. You usually spent this time together listening to him rant and rave about that Evan Rosier kid in Slytherin.

He was another you didn't care for, but Barty was smitten and you never had the heart to tell him how much you disliked to hear about how Rosier had very kissable lips.

Barty was depraved and his filter was non-existent.

You liked him a lot.

“A thousand apologies, lil bastard. What brings you to my slums?” You hummed and he walked over, taking Moody’s seat, man spreading and leaning all the way back. Using his heels to spin the chair around to face you, before idly swaying. 

“Dad stuff.” He hummed and looked at you before gesturing to the paper in front of you. You lifted the page so he could get a good look at the scribbles. Doodles, your signature signed the paper in several different ways, and some places with swirls and stars. He laughed.

“That's what they have you doing all the time?” He cheeked and grabbed your quill, still between your lip and nose. He fiddled with it while you smirked.

“Yup, I am the big dog here. They wouldn't dare give me real work. They fear my potential is too great. I may tarnish a record or two.”

“Or your father’s reputation.” Barry mumbled and your smile slowly fell. You sat up and leaned your head in your palm. You carefully looked him over. His confident and excitable posture seemed a bit mellow, and his eyes were drifting everywhere but you.

Ah, that's it.

“Did he say something to you?” You mumbled and he gave a loud exaggerated groan, trying to cover up his watery throat. “I just hate coming here. I mean, my dad is kissing ass all day for a chance at the Minister role, basically ignoring me until he's telling me just how awful I am.” He scoffed and tossed your quill on the counter. 

Your brow pinched at his words. Over the very short time you've known Barty, he's always been honest and open with you about his feelings. Maybe it was the anonymity, knowing you wouldn't say a word, you were practically strangers. Or maybe it was how he was with everyone, again, you hardly knew him.

“You know that's not true, right?” You whispered, inching yourself closer by your toes. Barty looked up and slowly smiled at how ridiculous you looked. 

“Yeah?” He mumbled.

“Yeah.” You nodded firmly. “You don't have anything to prove to him.”

“It certainly feels it.” He admitted, looking down. Only for a voice to cut in. 

“Ah! Good to see you feel comfortable, Junior, please, take the whole desk!” Moody boomed from the entryway before he gestured to the two of you. “The two nepotistic children fancy each others company? Who would have guessed.” 

You sighed and gave Barty an apologetic look and he waved his hand. You almost didn't catch the black ink peaking through the top of his sleeves. You quickly reminded yourself that it was likely just a tattoo. Barty was one of the smartest boys you knew, if not the smartest. He wouldn't.

“I'll see you next time.” He put back on his confident look and sent you a wink. You slowly smiled and rolled your eyes, watching as he left. You gathered your things as Moody began to sit down. 

“And where do you think yur goin?” He snarked as you filled your bag. 

“It's five, Moody. I don't have to waste any time in this building after closing for another two years. Be seeing you.” You dismissed him and he scoffed, “Just because the clock says you're done, you give up? That's not how this world works, girl!”

You scoffed at him, before a familiar voice called out to you two. “Oh, come on, grump. Let the lil Niffler go, she had school in the morning.” 

You snapped around on your heel to be greeted by the Prewett twins. Smiling bright at Fabian who was rubbing the back of his neck with a yawn, before Gideon gestured you over. Both of them clearly packed up and ready to go.

“Come on then, we'll walk you to a floo flame.” The older twin spoke up and you nodded, smiling brighter. Hurrying over with a mutter of thanks. 

“And stop calling me Niffler.”

“Anything for our little coffee runner.” Gideon mused and threw his arm over your shoulder, making you groan.

“Actually, Niffler is fine.”

~~~

You woke with a stir, once again, from a knock on your bedroom door. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, taking in your surroundings with a start, before you slowly calmed. That wasn't the first time you had a dream about your past memories, but it was the first time it had been that vivid. It was reassuring to be met with the dark thistle print wallpaper, the wood furniture, and the absolute plush mess that was your bed.

Your bedroom wreaked of your youth, records on the wall, half eaten by the vermin that invaded the home. Gryffindor memorabilia that trumped your small touches of green, somehow staying the brightest thing in your home. You did your best to restore it, but it had been a three month long mission returning it to its past glory.

The knock came again and you snapped from your thoughts, sitting up and groaning. “Come in!” 

You rubbed your eyes as the door opened, peaking between your fingers as they strained the skin around your eyes, as if that would help wake you.

“Morning.” The familiar sweet honey-like sound filled the room. You slowly smiled as you saw Remus enter, holding two cups of coffee. His voice was always deep in the mornings, more hoarse than most. He must have been up for a while.

“Moony, you're the absolute best.” You mused and made grabby hands for the cup. He laughed and set it in your hands, tapping your calf. You bent your legs on command and he took the space your legs previously occupied.

“Did I wake you?” He hummed before he took a sip of his own bitter mixture. You nodded along and took in the rich smell of what was once expensive and surely delicious foreign coffee, drowned out by an excessive amount of sugar and milk. 

“Mhm.. how long have you been up?” You quizzed and took a sip of your overly sweet drink. 

“Just a few hours. Padfoot took Harry out to go fly on his new broom over the fields. Woke me up.” He chuckled and you gave a fond smile. The summer had gone so smoothly so far, everything was domestic and homely. It had only been two months, but you fell into an easy routine.

“I hope he takes good care of this one. It would be poetic, Sirius gave him his first and last broom.” You smiled and stared down at the bubbles forming on the top of the coffee. Remus turned to look fully at you, before he slowly reached out to grab one of your ankles, his large hands covering a bit of your calf as well, before he began to rub the skin a bit. You had to bite your bottom lip to keep your mind on one side of the road.

Living with the boys was domestic bliss, living with Remus and Sirius was marital hell.

“You're drifting.” He whispered and you nodded, setting your cup down.

“Just.. odd is all.” You mumbled and looked down at your thumbs. He pressed his thumb flat against your ankle and tried to persuade you to continue. “Odd?”

“Odd. I know the years I lived as a muggle weren’t real, based on fabricated memories..” You trialed off and looked away. “But finding out those memories weren't real and..” You gestured around. “Learning all that's happened. I'm sure there's more I don't know. I had to learn from an old newspaper what happened to Harry, Moody wouldn't give me specifics.”

You slowly sunk into the pillows and folded your arms over yourself. “And I just.. I missed 12 years. 12 years of my life. I've learned not to be bitter about it, no use to it. But sometimes I'll remember things about people I… I should have known better. Then Harry.” You whispered and covered her face.

Remus leaned forward and reached out to tilt your chin up, his touch gentle and comforting. His deep hazel eyes locked onto yours, filled with understanding and a hint of something more. Something so familiar. Something that once broke you down to your most basic form and shattered your heart. Something you hated to say you longed to see in his eyes again. The air between you crackled with unspoken emotions, a tension that had been building for some time now. Like the egg shells you walked on when it was just you two the first month were swept away.

“I know it must be overwhelming, to feel like you've missed out on so much,” Remus began, his voice low and soothing. “But you have a chance now, to make new memories, I don't think I've seen Harry so happy. He's reverted to a child, it's amazing to watch.” He chuckled. “And you're not alone in this, I'm here for you, always. Uhm..” He cleared his throat. “Sirius too.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through you. Then the guilt sunk in at his last words. Quickly, you looked away from him and took your face from his hands. Right. The reminder of Sirius made your heart ache helplessly in your chest. You closed your eyes with a small sigh before looking back to Remus. The way he looked at you, with such intensity and care, made your heart race in a way you couldn't quite explain. A painful way. A way that showed just how badly you wanted him. 

Then, the words from the Shrieking Shack would ring in your ears.

“Ah yes, how could I ever forget my favorite of the furry bunch?” Remus’s words sunk into your mind easily. 

“She's yours?” Harry gasped.

“She's mine.” Sirius snapped back before he looked at Lupin. 

The guilt settled in quickly. If you were his, why did he act this way? Why did he push you away? Why did he act like you were nothing? Why didn't he give you the ring back?

You looked down at your fidgeting hands and Remus gave a low sigh through his nose. You met his eyes again and he gave you a strained smile, patting your knee. “It's alright.” He mumbled, before he could dismiss himself, the door suddenly rushed open.

“{Y/N}, darling, are you ready?” Sirius’s excitement was cut off when he saw you both. Remus’s hand on your lax knee and practically swallowing your form from where Sirius stood. Both boys clenched their jaws and you shooed Remus off, standing and turning to your wardrobe. “What is it, Sirius?”

“I uhm..” He gathered himself before he shook his head. “Harry, has been invited to the Weasley’s for the World Cup, seems they would like him to head there early.” 

The room was thick with tension and you cut through it as if it wasn't there. “I'll be right out. I have to change first.” You spoke to them without turning. Remus slapped his palm to his thigh and sat up. Nodding to Sirius as he passed him, but Sirius never moved.

You turned to him and arched your eyebrow, he crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway. “Its nothing I haven't acquainted myself with.” He mused nonchalantly, slowly smirking. “Intimately.”

This bloody bastard, what was he trying to prove here?

You gave a laugh turned scoff and lifted up your left hand, wiggling your ring finger. Sirius frowned and you glanced back at him again. “Out.”

You put on something light, simple for the heat. Your eye caught the snake ear clip the twins had gifted you years ago, looking around the red covered room before you slowly smiled and picked it up. The only Slytherin inspired gift you'd ever received, of course, the twins always saw the houses for what they were. It only made sense they would be the ones to admire that about you.

You and Sirius packed up the car, as Remus went over everything Harry needed to buy this year, making sure he had packed everything.

After a fair bit of goodbyes, you and Harry set off to the Weasley’s. Not after Sirius asking for the thirteenth time if he could tag along. During your ride to the Weasley’s, Harry managed to stay up the entire time. Talking to you about his morning venture into the town with Padfoot. 

~~~

When you finally made it to the burrow, it was midday. Molly and who you assumed to be Ginny were sitting outside the house, talking idly. You landed the car a bit away from the house, and from the corner of your eye, you spied how interested Harry seemed to be that the girl was coming to greet him.

Interesting development.

“Boys! Come help {Y/N} with her bags!” You heard Molly shrill and laughed, climbing out of the car and waving off Molly. 

“Me and Harry are plenty alright, Molly! It's just his bags for now!” You called over and she tutted, closing the distance between you two. The grass fields brushed against your calves and the sun was practically cooking your skin. Harry grabbed his bags and his owl himself and hurried over to Ginny.

“Harry, why don't you go greet Ron?” You hummed and he nodded, turning to Ginny who stuck her tongue out at him and ran inside. He laughed and hurried after her, making you smile. That was so familiar.

“Oh, now, {Y/N} dear, before you go inside I have some news for you.” Molly fussed as you both walked to the front door. You began to fan yourself with your hand and use your other to block the sun from your eyes.

“Oh please make it quick, it's bloody scorching out here.” You laughed and put your hands on your hips, leaning forward to squint at her. Both of you facing each other outside the cracked front door. 

“Well, we have company,” She started, her hands clasped together in front of her. “I don't expect him to be here so soon, honestly I forgot I lettered him, and he certainly didn't tell me he would be coming so soon.” She rambled on and you gave a nervous laugh.

“You have me worried here, Molly.” Before you could continue your thought, you felt something wet and cold against your ear and Molly’s face dropped. You snapped your head around and your eyes locked onto two beady black ones. A bloody Niffler. Pilfering your ear ring! 

“No! You put that down!” You shouted and tried to catch the weaseling little thing. It crawled down your entire body in a spiral motion before dashing inside. 

“You rotten rodent!” You shouted and ran inside after it, Molly’s cry for your attention falling on deaf ears. You were not going to lose one of your favorite pieces of jewelry to a damned backwards goose. “Get back here!”

You dashed across the house for it, knocking around tables and hitting your hips on protruding corners, before it wiggled its way into the kitchen with squeaks of distress. 

You were panting, coming up the the lively open kitchen, grabbing a chair back as you gathered yourself. “Who's ever.. bastard child that is.. I have a few words..” You wheezed, gesturing to the blurry figures in front of you. It seemed the full family was there, talking to someone you thought to be Arthur for a moment.

The murmuring settled down before you rubbed your eyes as spotted the little criminal. You gasped and pointed at it, as it crawled up the leg of the man. The small group, George, Fred, Ron, all stepped aside and watched as you gathered yourself.

Then you heard a laugh.

A laugh you knew better than the owner's voice.

Your face fell and your eyes raised to meet hazy brown ones. 

Gideon fucking Prewett.

You took the chance to take him in, still in shock. He was older now, had to be in his late forties, looked it too. His smile was fuller, his eyebrows bushy and his fiery red curls were long enough to frame his bearded face, with speckles of white. 

Broad shoulders, if you were allowed to say that, considering his left arm was completely gone, up to his shoulder. He just kept smiling at you, reaching back with his palm out for the Niffler to return it. “Don't steal from your name sake, Vix.” He tutted and you crumbled.

“Gideon-” Your voice broke and he opened his arm. You hurried over and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He chuckled and patted your back, returning the earring to your ear.

“I thought I lost ya, Niffler.” He whispered in your ear and you gave a watery laugh. 

“So you replaced me?” You jabbed and he laughed.

“Needed something to annoy me. You and Fabian…” You shook your head and hugged him tighter.

Molly entered the kitchen and smiled fondly at the reunion, before ushering her kids out. The twins complaining as they left. Molly and Gideon shared a nod before he nudged you softly. “So, I assume you have some questions.” He mumbled into your temple, and you nodded. 

“And me to answer them?” He chuckled and you nodded again. 

“Just.. just a little longer..”

~~~

You found yourself again, at the Weasley’s, having a conversation with a dear old friend.

You both set up in the kitchen, sitting at the table. You were fiddling with your finger and he gave you a patient and loving smile. It seemed he grew calmer as he aged. You could still see that spark of mischief in his eyes, but it was mellowed out, possibly drowned out by the excitement he had when he looked at you. 

Your eyes slowly fell to his arm and he gave a small chuckle. “Well, I guess it's time I tell you what's happened, hm?”

“That night, when you apperated?” 

He nodded and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I panicked when I heard Fabian scream. It broke my concentration. I was redirected home.”

~~~

The crackle of apparition snapped through the empty room. Not even the moon light slipped into the dark space, as it became more and more clear to him, he wasn't at the ministry. 

He heard thundering footsteps hurry up the stairs, he was growing foggy. The door slammed open and he slowly looked over, his eyes locking with Mary’s. She was smiling, holding up her status reports he had tasked her with before he left with his brother merely an hour ago.

Her face slowly fell as her eyes widened in horror at what she was faced with. Gideon Prewett, sprawled out across a broken desk, with a brutal twist to his arm that she could practically feel. Slowly, he grimaced and tried to stand up, only for all the pain the adrenaline had kept at bay to come rushing forward.

He let out a pained wail, much like his brother’s, and fell forward. His mind was still not clear, but he saw Mary. The only person he could protect at the moment. From what? He didn't know, but she was within reach. The sounds of papers falling to the ground and heels against his wooden floor filled his ears as Mary ran over to him and put her hand to his chest. Lifting him back up as he wrapped his good arm around her shoulder. Clinging to her arm with a rough grip that made her wince. “Boss-”

“We need… we need ditany.” He spoke carefully and through his grinding molars. She quickly tried to pull away but his grip tightened on her. Suddenly, the idea of his own apprentice leaving him, with you and Fabian’s status unknown, was far more terrifying than he would like to admit. Mary looked at his hand and quickly looked around the office. She took her free hand and lifted her wand to the roof, commanding her patronus forward.

Her glowing brown bear manifested before her, as Mary felt her throat tighten as her eyes grew wet watching Gideon slipped in and out of consciousness. She had no choice, she knew, even with all the pain he had caused her in their youth, she couldn't lose her Prewett. “Take this message to Snape..”

Gideon slowly faded away, loosening his grip on her shoulder and falling limp against the shredded wood and scattered parchment, the last thing he could recall was her patronus running off into the curtained windows, the very blinds she soon opened when he lost his grip.

He woke up an hour later, in his bed. He winced, a muted and groggy pain filled him. The tense and rocking pain was something he was used to, his muscles tightening and his blood rushing, paired with a splitting and deep sting. Without that sting, he felt off, like the pain was just around the corner, waiting to bite back.

He could feel something in his hand. Gripping a bit tighter the numbing buzz was pushed aside and he was able to feel the familiar warmth of another hand in his own. He turned his head and blinked away his grogginess, seeing Mary staring at him with so much worry and care. He gave her the sweetest smile he could muster but it only worked to break what little resolve she had.

He rubbed his thumb over her smaller hand, and she leaned forward from her chair to press her head to his knuckles. Like she could process that he was alive, but the fear of losing him was so great that him smiling at her could only show her what would have been lost. 

“I'm alright, grizzly.” He croaked and she shook her head, sniffling as she dried her cheeks.

“Dumbledore went to retrieve them..” She whispered and he was snapped out of his mind and shoved back into reality. He tried to sit up, but his left arm didn't quite respond and with Mary clinging to his right hand he could only lay back. He looked across the room and noticed Snape’s slight wince and his drifting eyes. 

“What's happened?” Gideon commanded across the room and Severus avoided his eyes. He tried again to lift himself but Mary tightened her grip, pressing him closer as she began to cry. His face fell and a dread filled his chest.

“What's happened to them?” He croaked out, his turn to try and hold back a sob. He knew the moment Mary began to let her sobs wrack her body. The way she held his hand let him feel the warm tears that wet her face. He knew they were gone.

He let his head fall against the pillow and he stared up at the ceiling. He tried to stay stoic, only for his grip on Mary to once again tighten as he sniffled, letting out a sob, crying out. Mary quickly let go of his hand and looked down at him, only for him to wrap his arm around her back and pull her full weight against him. It was grounding and she was quick to hug him, letting him sob into her shoulder. 

She was all he had left and he didn't plan to leave her behind. 

~~~

“When I left for America, I took her with me.” Gideon mused and took a sip of his tea that Molly had hurried over to make. Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack. A million questions passed through your mind at once, but one took president over everything else.

“Mary? Mary is alive?” You pushed and he grimaced a bit. 

“She is. She sends her love but..” He rubbed his neck and bit his cheek, trying his best to gather himself. “This place, it's painful for her. Even with you home, she doesn't want to face this.” 

You nodded and furrowed your brow at your hands. Giving a low huff. “Not that I ever had the choice.”

“Given it, would you have come back?” He pushed. “She's built a life out there. I have too. You can't blame her for choosing her peace.”

You clicked your tongue before slowly nodding and leaning back in your seat. Trying to think back on everything you had been told, before you winced a bit. “Madeye. He said she was attacked, that they found her at our hideout.” 

“She was hurt. But alive.” He reassured and took a steady breath. “I was out of commision and Remus couldn't face it. Mary went to retrieve what she could from your safe house. Her clothes, her research, her gear. I had offered her Fabian's room until she could join me in America.”

You began to pick at your nails and slowly looked up. Your voice crackles a bit. “And?”

“Mulciber was there. Mary told me bits and pieces of what's happened but.. it seems she's blocked a lot of it out. Says it was similar to what happened back in her school years, she hardly managed to hold on. Then Remus found her and..” He sighed through his nose. “The boy was already rattled by what was going on, sent her to St. Mungos and then she came to live with me.” 

You nodded and closed your eyes. You remembered what had happened to Mary in your seventh year, you didn't happen to see it but you remembered the night terrors and the bits she told you in your shared dorm. You always thought it was unfair, Mary was such a sweet girl, quiet and reserved, but she was brave to a fault. When she told you she defended a first year muggle born you already knew it would end poorly. She was alone, she was scared, and what happened to her terrified you.

You were sure that night is what made her change her profession choice. She wanted to protect people, be able to protect herself if that ever happened again. She said she wanted to be strong, like you.

It made you wonder how differently she would see you if she knew the truth. Yes, you could fight, yes, you were strong, but that meant nothing if every time you were faced with significant danger you folded in on yourself. 

“Where have you gone?” Gideon called over to you and you snapped out of your trance.

“Sorry just.. a lot on my mind.” You admitted and looked down at your own tea cup. “Are you going back to America after this?”

“As much as I'm sure you'd love to get rid of me.” He mused and shooed his Niffler away from his spoon. “I am here to help with the tournament this year.” 

“Really?” You huffed with wide eyes, straightening your back. “Do they really need all three of us? I thought it was excessive that they wanted me to come along with Moody.” You huffed and he chuckled.

“Well, he's getting old.” Gideon mused. “Also said we'd be a great help to the defense against the dark arts class.” 

“You are an awful teacher.” You deadpanned and he gave a playfully horrified gasp. 

“Mary seemed to catch on quick.”

“Mary is as smart as a whip.” You challenged and he scoffed. You slowly found yourself smiling before you looked down again. “We should start heading there now. Don't want to give Moody any more of a reason to be upset with me.”

“Upset?” He parroted.

“Yeah… turns out, if you don't want to be on Moody's bad side, don't run off with a wanted criminal to confront a dead man.” You waved your hands about. “And definitely don't get caught with a lycanthrope on a full moon.”

You looked back up at Gideon after a moment of silence and couldn't help but laugh at his shocked and scandalized look. 

“You what!?”

You stood up and rang your hands together. “Do you have your bags? I'll tell you on the way to Hogwarts.”

[mahowaga]

THE (NOT SO) SUBTLE ART OF BEING A NUISANCE | K.C. — PART TWO

SUMMARY: you're a sound tech. he's a dj. you hate him. he hates you. (allegedly.) but that's okay, because who needs love when you can be a complete and utter nuisance and make his life hell?

PAIRING: dj!choso x sound engineer!fem!reader CONTAINS: rivals (mild annoyances) to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity TEASER: here NOW PLAYING: casablanca by fly by midnight WC: 7.0k WARNINGS: they swear a lot, choso is still insufferable, but it's endearing, mc is still the personification of a troublemaker

setlist | part one

— Tongue-tied? Here’s a USB and a dream. Sprinkle some charm in there, too

Choso has been unbearable ever since that night.

Ever since he’s played that godforsaken track. Ever since you’d stood there like a complete idiot, too flustered to do anything except pretend you weren’t as affected as you actually were.

Ever since you’d lost, and he’d won, and he knew it.

And now?

He is smug. So insufferably smug.

The worst part of it all? He isn’t even saying anything. He doesn’t need to.

He’ll just show up to the club, shoot you a lazy glance from across the room, and you already know.

You can feel it.

Like an unspoken victory speech, his eyes linger on you for just a second too long, before he goes back to pretending you don’t exist.

It’s driving you insane.

And tonight? Tonight is no different. In fact, it’s probably even worse than usual.

You arrive to your shift and find another sticky note (purple with black ink) slapped onto your soundboard.

It’s mocking you, you just know it.

Try not to fall in love with my set tonight, yeah? I know it’ll be hard. –Your one and only DJ Dumbass

Ugh. You roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your past lives all lined up in the afterlife, judging you.

You crumple the note in your fist, seriously contemplating arson.

Then, as if summoned by the sheer force of your hatred, Choso appears, walking into the club like he owns it, like he knows (he does) that everyone loves him (except for you) and that he’s the people’s favorite DJ.

His hood is up, headphones slung around his neck, hair pulled up into a half-up, half-down situation (that looks hotter than you would ever admit).

Instead of looking at you, like he always does, he simply goes to the CDJ and starts prepping for his set, adjusting knobs and flicking through the tracklist.

He’s ignoring you. (Why? You have no idea. You also have no idea why it bothers you.)

You have two choices:

Let him win.

Be as insufferable as humanly possible.

Guess which one is the right choice?

Yeah. The latter.

“So,” you drawl, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. “Should I start writing my Yelp review now, or after you completely ruin the club’s reputation?”

Choso doesn’t even look up. (His focus is made of steel. Nothing shakes this man.) “Bold of you to assume they care about your opinion.”

You narrow your eyes and scoff. “Bold of you to assume I won’t sabotage the entire sound system out of spite.”

Ah, that gets his attention. He looks up.

And smirks.

Shit.

“Go ahead.” He shrugs, too relaxed, too confident. It pisses you off more than you can describe. You literally threatened to carry out a sonic hate crime and this is his response? “I can work with static.”

You make a mental note to replace all of his tracks with the sound of dial-up internet loading.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter, watching him set up.

“Mm. You like me that way.”

You nearly trip over thin air. (Embarrassing. All this for some idiot man.)

He says it so casually, like it’s a fact, like it’s the weather, like it’s just something everyone already knows. Everyone, except, of course, you.

Your face feels hot. Or is that just the temperature in the club right now?

“I-” you sputter, grasping for literally any words that aren’t oh my god oh my god OH MY GOD. But Choso isn’t listening, because when has he ever listened?

No. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a USB drive.

He hands it to you.

(You have to give it to him. He’s the embodiment of ‘never let ‘em know your next move’.)

You stare at it like he’s just handed you a grenade. Shit, it might as well be one.

“What is this?” you ask, suspicious.

Choso raises an unimpressed brow. “A USB. Are you okay?”

You resist the urge to throw it at his forehead. “I mean what’s on it, you fucking idiot.”

He exhales, like he’s already exhausted by you and your million questions. “Just listen to it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Oh, wow, so convincing.”

Choso clicks his tongue, irritated, turning back towards the CDJ. “Or don’t. Whatever.”

(Any normal person would see that he’s annoyed and back off. But you? You aren’t normal. Far from it, in fact.)

You squint at him.

Something’s off.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a hey, I secretly committed a felony way (which you hope he hasn’t, for the record).

But in a he is being too nonchalant way.

Like he’s trying too hard to seem like he doesn’t care.

Which means that whatever’s on this USB here in the palm of your hands definitely matters.

…Which means, and get this, you have more leverage than you initially thought.

You perk up instantly. (You love how your brain works sometimes.)

“Ohh,” you grin. “Ohh, this is important, isn’t it?”

Choso’s jaw clenches. Got him.

Victory.

He ignores you and grabs his headphones from around his neck.

So, naturally, you make it worse. It’s your time to shine.

“Oh, I see,” you say dramatically, holding the USB up to the LED light. “It’s some tragic sadboi lo-fi mix, isn’t it? You’re about to pour your deepest, darkest feelings into my ears. Probably some emotional slow beats - ooh, maybe even a voice memo of you journaling your thoughts-”

Choso turns to you sharply with a flat, unimpressed stare.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I know something’s embarrassing for you, no.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you smirk, spreading your arms, “here you are. Giving little old me a gift. Careful now, people might think you like me or something.”

He holds your gaze like a balloon he’s not ready to let go of.

For a second too long. A second that tells you something you’re not ready to fully accept.

Then he says, “I have a set to start. Go back to the booth, pretty girl.”

He turns back to the CDJ, putting the headphones over his ears.

You feel like you just got shot. He didn’t answer your question and he called you pretty girl.

Your stomach does a somersault. (You hate to admit it, but that nickname of his really has a terrible effect on you.)

Oh.

Oh no.

You realize something.

If he didn’t deny what you just said…

That means…

Ah, shit. You’re so screwed.

Kamo Choso never follows the setlist. Not once. Not ever.

It’s like a fundamental, unspoken law of the universe - death, taxes, and Choso ignoring the lineup he made like the absolute pain in the ass he is.

(Seriously, you don’t know why you still bother practicing through his lineup when you know he’s going to switch it up.)

And so because of this unequivocal truth, you sit back in the sound booth, your gear all plugged in and running, glancing at the track progression for the night, bracing for impact.

But-

Wait a second.

You lean forward in your chair, pressing your headset harder against your ears as if it’ll help you hear what he’s playing in even better resolution (not possible), and you realize with a feeling that resembles being dragged down into the ocean with weights tied to your feet that he’s actually following the setlist.

For the first time in his entire miserable career (lie), he’s playing everything in order.

You barely have to adjust anything, having practiced earlier. No surprises. No remixes pulled from the void. No sudden jumps in tempo that make you want to hurl yourself into a speaker and disintegrate into sound waves. No smug little glances shot in your direction, daring you to keep up.

It’s not one of his signature rogue, self-indulgent remixing disasters that force you to scramble mid-set.

You should be relieved. That’s a normal thing to feel.

Instead, you are suspicious as hell.

Why, you ask? Because this now means two things:

He is up to something.

You are now basically free of distractions - there’s nothing gatekeeping your attention from the USB sitting in your palm.

You twirl it between your fingers, tapping it against your knee, hesitating.

It shouldn’t, but it feels oddly heavy. Like there’s something life-changing stored inside of it.

Just listen to it, he said.

His voice echoes in your head, lazy and casual, but there’d been something else beneath it. Something uncertain. Something almost, dare you say, nervous.

Choso. Kamo Choso. Nervous.

It doesn’t make sense. Sure, the guy is cocky, full of himself, thinks he is some kind of Messiah of groove, and occasionally gets tired of your antics, but he doesn’t get nervous.

But you think about the way he’d looked at you before you walked away.

You exhale sharply, tapping it against your palm.

Fine. Whatever. It’s just some insipid beats in this USB, anyway. He probably mixed another one of your laughs into it and is afraid you’ll actually kill him this time. That’s all. (Or this could be some kind of elaborate joke, seeing how he’s actually such a master of acting anxious and secretive before pulling a complete 180 on you.)

At the very least, you’re hoping Choso is smart enough to know not waste your time.

With a click, you plug the USB into your laptop.

A folder appears instantly, neat and simple.

[CH MIX – FOR YOU.]

Your stomach does something weird (huh, it’s almost like your stomach flips).

You blame it on the club lighting. You’re reading too much into this. You need to relax.

This is, after all, probably just another one of his dumb power moves, just a new way to mess with you.

That’s all.

Still.

Your fingers hover over the touchpad for a moment too long before you finally click.

Inside, a playlist.

You swallow hard, schooling your emotions, a whirlwind wreaking havoc inside of you, scrolling through the tracklist.

They’re all original mixes.

Okay. Not unusual. Choso makes new sets and mixes and tracks all the time.

But your breath hitches when you see the titles.

All of them.

And your brain short-circuits (you know, the way it does when you think about him).

These aren’t normal track names. They’re inside jokes. Petty arguments. Moments. The kind only the two of you would get.

Stop Making the Speakers Weep

EQ Crimes & Misdemeanors

This One’s for My Favorite Pain in the Ass

DJ Dumbass

Turn the Bass Down

My Pretty Girl

Your heart is pounding in your chest. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening to you right now. This has to be a joke.

You click play before you can psych yourself out and have a mental breakdown.

The music pours into your headset, and immediately, you recognize it. His style.

He made these. These aren’t just remixes he was playing around with. He made these from scratch, just like the track from the other night - the one with your laugh.

Heavy bass (without a doubt). Deep, rich synths. A smooth, low hum that wraps around you like velvet. But layered into it-

Your voice.

Not just your laugh this time. Not the one he’d sampled before (how? You’re still unsure).

More.

Clips of you talking. Snippets from actual conversations. Your grumbles when fixing the soundboard to patch his messes. Your complaints about his terrible timing. A breath. A muttered curse. A quiet hum you hadn’t even realized you’d made when adjusting the settings one night. The flat, deadpan oh my god from the time he’d looped an airhorn over a bass drop just to piss you off (an act of love, he’d teased).

“That’s too heavy on the bass, dumbass.” “You’re impossible.” “Oh my god, did you actually follow instructions? Mark the calendar.”

All of it, woven seamlessly into the music.

Your stomach drops out from under you. You cover your mouth with your hand.

Because this isn’t just some mix. Some playlist. Some random tracks.

This is a timeline. A story - it’s you and him. The fights, the pranks, the slow, stupid build-up of whatever the hell has been happening between the two of you for months.

You don’t know what to do. The playlist keeps going, unaware of your jumbled feelings, a seamless progression from one track into the next, each carrying little pieces of you buried inside it. A song built from the background noise of you. As if he’s been collecting your existence this whole time. As if you’ve already been a part of his music before either of you had noticed.

Your face is burning. Oh, Choso, you big, dumb idiot of a disc jockey.

And then it transitions into the last track: My Pretty Girl.

The beat dies out. No layering. No filters.

There’s a little static. A pause.

Then, Choso’s voice, snaking its way through your headset and into your ears.

“...Okay, so, this is stupid. I am aware.”

Your lips press into a thin line. You can’t tell what sort of direction this is going to go in. You’re hoping it’s not veering towards the He’s going to say some really romantic shit to mess with me and then hit me with a ‘Just kidding!’ at the end type of finale. Then you’d really have to pull your slacks up and hit him with a roundhouse kick. Preferably until he can no longer qualify to be a DJ.

“...You’re probably making some obnoxious face right now, huh?”

He sounds exasperated. (And you absolutely are making an obnoxious face right now. He’s right on the money.)

“God. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

There’s a deep breath, like he’s already regretting even doing this. You’re not sure if you should feel good about that or not.

“You’re annoying. So damn annoying. You get on my nerves all the time. Did you know that? Oh, wait, it’s you. For all I know, you fucking do it on purpose.”

Your breath catches. Not because of what he said, well, yeah, that, but also the tone - his voice is soft, resigned, but there’s not a single trace of anger laced in his words. It’s almost… affectionate.

“You make my job hell. You never shut up. And you’re-”

A pause. A sharp inhale. Like he’s fighting himself.

“And you’re- shit, you’re my favorite part of every night.”

Your brain goes blank. You cover your face with your hands, mortified on his behalf. (That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.)

“You drive me insane. Like. Actually insane.”

His voice is slightly muffled, like he’s dragging a hand down his face.

“Look, I don’t know when it happened, okay? Probably when you decided to be a chaos gremlin on night one. But suddenly, it was just… you. Every Friday night. Every set. Every stupid note you left on the console. Every time I looked up and saw you there, working your magic.”

A pause.

“I started, I don’t know, looking forward to it all. To seeing you.”

You bite your lip, because now you’re really afraid he’s going to say it’s all a joke.

“And I really, really hate that.”

Shit, shit, shit-

“Listen, I like you, okay? So much that it’s been eating at me from the inside, consuming my every thought. I can’t think when it’s you.”

You forget how to breathe.

His voice is quieter now.

“I don’t expect you to say anything. You don’t have to. Just- fuck. Throw something at me if you don’t feel the same way. Just… not my equipment. Please.”

You yank the headset off and toss it onto your laptop. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your brain is completely empty. Your face is burning.

You risk a glance up through the glass and see Choso, engulfed by the music, bouncing along as he mixes through the tracks. You’re lucky he doesn’t look up and see you, because then he’d see that you’re currently malfunctioning beyond repair.

You stare at the laptop screen, at the track still playing, almost done now, at the waveform of his voice still moving.

This is insane. This is not happening. You’re waiting for the punchline, but you don’t get one. 

He’s serious. (You’re royally screwed.)

Choso - Kamo Choso - had just-

He’d just-

You’re going to pass out.

— Confronting your demons–oh wait, that’s just Choso

His set ends.

You know it ends because the music cuts and the crowd erupts into cheers, a sweaty, adrenaline-fueled mass hyped off the last bass drop Choso had thrown their way. The club is buzzing, neon lights flickering as people push toward the bar or the dance floor, unwilling to let the energy fade so soon.

But you’re not paying attention to any of that.

You’re still sitting there, in your chair, in your booth, reeling.

Because Choso - that absolute menace of a DJ, your mortal enemy, your favorite person to argue with (what?) - just confessed to you over a mix.

And you?

You have no idea what to do with yourself. The confession is still rattling around in your brain, ricocheting off every corner like a pinball on steroids.

Your fingers drum erratically on the edge of the console as you overthink yourself into oblivion.

Okay. You could pretend you didn’t hear it.

But that would be a dense move.

You could throw something at him like he told you to.

Tempting, but that would imply acknowledging the confession in the first place. Plus, that would mean you didn’t-

“You listened to it, huh?”

You jump, whipping around so fast that you nearly knock your laptop off the booth.

There he is. Choso. The bane of your existence.

He’s standing there, sweaty from the set, hair still half-tied, hoodie missing, probably draped over a chair somewhere. He doesn’t seem to care about it too much. He’s got a towel slung over his shoulder, fingers idly fidgeting with it - his usual post-set routine.

Except he’s looking at you instead of drying himself off.

Waiting.

And you? You’re still in malfunction mode.

Abort mission.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you blurt out, like the liar you are.

He exhales a short laugh, tipping his head to the side. His dark eyes flick to the abandoned headset on your laptop, the USB still plugged in - like he knows.

Like he can see right through you.

“Oh yeah?” he muses, arms crossing over his chest. “Then why do you look like your brain just blue-screened?”

“I do not look like-”

“You absolutely do.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

Shit. You hate how he can read you like an open book. You also hate how smug he’s being right now.

Choso watches you for a second longer, his usual smirk threatening to creep onto his pretty face, but his gaze alters.

It’s subtle, but you catch it.

A flicker of hesitation. The faintest twitch of his fingers against the towel. The way his weight shifts, like he’s bracing himself.

It hits you then: he’s nervous.

Choso.

Nervous.

You try not to read into it. The last time he looked nervous was when he’d played his track for you, the one with your laugh woven into it, and then he’d switched up into his usual cocky demeanor. An actor great enough to rival you.

But this is somehow different from the other night, too. This is uncertainty.

Damn. This is him waiting to be rejected.

Something in your chest does a weird, complicated flip that would earn you a gold medal at the Olympics. And you don’t like that.

You don’t like any of this.

He beats you to the punch before you self-destruct. “Did you listen to it?”

You tense. His voice is softer now, like he’s testing the waters. Like he isn’t sure if you’re about to throw him into the sun or do something even worse (you would).

You swallow. “...Maybe.”

The corner of his lip ticks up.

“Maybe?”

You scowl. “Yes, maybe. What do you want from me?”

His grin widens, and damn does he look good. “An actual answer?”

No. Not happening. You grab a nearby clipboard, the one with the setlist of his set tonight, and slam it over your face, hiding from him.

Choso laughs. Laughs. Like this is the funniest shit in the world to him.

You want to throw something at him. Preferably a speaker, and you start looking around for one-

He does the worst thing imaginable. He reaches out and tugs the clipboard down.

You resist.

He wins. (Fuck.)

The clipboard is pried away, and now it’s just you and him, standing in the dimly lit sound booth, the glow of the screens casting weird shadows across his face.

His stupid, warm, beautiful face that you suddenly want to punch for making you feel like this.

He studies you, eyes flicking over your expression. It’s like he’s wrestling between being amused and anxious.

You know he sees the way your ears are burning.

“Alright,” he says, slow and deliberate. “You listened to it.”

You clench your jaw. There’s no way out of this now. He’s already seen the proof of your listening session anyways. Still, you double down. “Maybe.”

“Stop saying maybe.”

“Maybe.”

He lets out a deep sigh, dragging a hand down his face. You smirk, triumphant-

Until his hand shoots out again, grabbing your wrist.

You freeze. Completely. Your body locks up.

His fingers curl loosely around it, warm and solid and firm. Not rough, not tight - just there.

“Then tell me,” he says, voice lower now. “What did you think?”

You can’t answer. Because your pulse is too busy freaking out and screaming at your brain, causing a panic all over your body. It’s thumping wildly against his fingers, giving away everything.

Choso feels it. You know he does, because his grip tightens slightly, just like last time. (You hate it when history repeats itself.)

You try to yank your hand back, but his hold is unyielding. You’re trapped, so to speak.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “If you hated it, just say so.”

You need to regain control, because this right here? This is going to make you lose your marbles.

He’s so close.

Close enough that you can smell the faintest trace of cologne, mixed with sweat, with him.

Close enough that you can see the way his pupils are slightly blown out, like he’s daring you to run.

And suddenly, you’re very, very aware of how much space is between you. (Or rather, how little.)

This is not normal. This is dangerous territory.

You straighten your shoulders, trying to steady yourself. (The last thing you want him to think is that you’re down bad for him or something.) “So, let me get this straight,” you say, keeping your voice even, desperately trying not to look down at where he’s still holding your wrist. “You’re telling me that you - Kamo Choso, pain in my ass, professional menace, guy who deliberately messes with my sound levels every chance he gets - actually have feelings for me?”

He blinks at you, amused. “Still processing, huh?”

“I’m asking an honest question.”

Choso breathes out, rubbing the back of his neck as he lets go of you and takes a step back.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.”

At this point you really shouldn’t be surprised when you feel your heart flutter or your stomach flip, and yet, somehow it still catches you off guard every single time.

“But, like,” you start, because apparently you don’t know when to stop talking, “are you sure? Like, have you considered that maybe you actually just enjoy bullying me?”

That earns you a flat look.

“Did you just try to talk me out of liking you?”

“I’m just making sure you’ve really thought this through.”

“Oh my God.”

He places his hands on his hips and exhales while looking at the ceiling. “You’re making this worse than I thought.”

You scoff. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was the problem here.”

“You absolutely are.”

“That sounds like a you problem, actually.”

“You know what?” He points at you, leveling you with the flattest, driest look imaginable. “Forget it. I take it back. This never happened.”

Your heart lurches so hard it nearly falls out of your chest to create the bloodiest crime scene imaginable.

“You can’t take it back!” you blurt out, offended.

Choso raises a brow. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not how confessions work!”

“Oh-ho, so now you’re an expert?”

“I- that’s not the point!”

Choso just smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Oh, that absolute bastard.

You glare at him, refusing to let him see how off-balance he’s thrown you. Refusing to acknowledge how warm your face is, how fast your heart is racing, how much, despite everything, you don’t actually hate this. Or, for that matter, hate him.

Because that would mean admitting something to yourself that you’re not ready to deal with.

So you do what you always do.

You push. (Anything to drag out the inevitable. God, you need some serious help.)

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat and waving a dismissive hand, “if you like me so much, why haven’t you done anything about it before now?”

Choso snorts, taking a half-step closer to you. “Because you’re impossible.”

“I happen to be a delight.”

“You are a gremlin who thrives in chaos.”

“I think you’re projecting.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He looks to the ceiling like he’s pleading for divine intervention - maybe to help him with his clearly thinning patience or to simply strike him down and vaporize him. “This is exactly why I was suffering in silence.”

“Suffering in silence?” You grin, because now you have the upper hand. All the cards are back in your favor. “Oh, that’s rich. What part of you sampling my laugh into a mix was ‘suffering in silence’?”

Choso very visibly flinches.

“Oh,” you gasp, dramatic as ever. “Oh my God, you did not just cringe.”

“Shut up.”

“You totally did.”

“I will throw you out of this booth.”

“You’re so embarrassed right now. This is incredible. Ground-breaking.”

Choso groans and looks away, pinching the bridge of his nose. And that’s when you make the devastating mistake of looking at him properly.

Because the thing is, and you’ve known this from the first time you ever laid eyes on him, Choso is attractive.

Like, objectively.

But that’s never been the problem. Not really. You’ve always been able to ignore it. To shove it into a box labeled ‘Irrelevant Information’ and go about your day.

Right now - standing there, arms crossed, sleeves shoved up his forearms, hair half-tied and messy, jaw sharp under the neon glow of the club lights-

It’s very, very hard to ignore.

Panic. Immediate, uncontrollable panic. (All you’ve been doing tonight is panicking, at this point.)

You tear your eyes away before you start thinking things you absolutely should not be thinking.

Choso notices, because when does he ever not notice your microexpressions, and the smirk that creeps across his face tells you you’re doomed.

“...Huh.”

Your stomach plummets. It might as well be bungee jumping. “Don’t.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Choso.”

He leans forward slightly, and your pulse skyrockets.

“Are you-” His grin widens. “Are you flustered?”

“No.” (Your cheeks are red.)

“You totally are.”

“Absolutely not.”

He tilts his head. “...You like me, don’t you?”

“I will end you.”

“Oh my God.” His eyes gleam with triumph. “You like me.”

You don’t dignify that with a response (a page out of his book). No, you do the only thing you can think of doing - you grab the nearest object (a sound level meter) and chuck it at his head.

Choso dodges effortlessly, laughing as it clatters to the floor. “Okay, yeah, that reaction is definitely not normal and not defensive at all.”

“You are so lucky I have not committed a crime against you.”

“You wanna kill me so bad.”

“I do, actually.”

“Then do it.”

Choso is having the time of his life. You, on the other hand, are having a breakdown.

Not externally, of course. Externally, you are composed. (Mostly.) Externally, you are fine. (Debatable.) Externally, you are most definitely not about to make a life-altering decision that will change everything forever. (Complete and utter lie.)

But internally? Internally, your brain is on fire. Your thoughts are running in circles, screaming at each other. Every single alarm bell in your body is going off at full volume - bass at its max, too.

All because Choso is looking at you like that. Like he already knows the answer to the question he asked before. Like he knows you won’t actually kill him. Like he’s already won.

And that? That cannot stand. Absolutely not.

“Wait,” he says, cocking his head like he’s studying you. Like he’s enjoying this way too much. “Was that a no, then?”

“Huh?” You blink up at him, trying to figure out what his latest bullshit is. (You’re also in some type of haze that consists of him and only him, so you really can’t be blamed for any of this.)

Choso gestures vaguely to the sound level meter currently lying on the floor, the one you just hurled at his face in an act of complete emotional instability.

“You threw something at me,” he explains, as if that clarifies anything. “You know - like I said. If you didn’t feel the same way.”

Your entire body glitches.

That- oh, oh my God.

Your stupid, ridiculous, emotionally constipated ass-

You threw something at him.

You threw something at him right after listening to his confession and him asking you if you liked him back.

Ah, shit.

You’ve accidentally rejected him. (Yes, you’re hearing this right.)

Choso stares at you, expectantly. Amused, but expectant. Definitely not like a guy who just got rejected by a girl he just made a whole playlist for. Smug. So fucking smug. (He already knows the answer, that son of a bitch. He’s just making you suffer.)

Meanwhile, your soul is ascending - and not in the good way.

“I-” you start, but then immediately stop, because holy shit.

You can’t even be mad at him for misunderstanding (even if you’re ninety-nine percent sure he’s fucking with you) because it’s completely valid. Because you really did chuck something at him right after he confessed.

And Choso, being Choso, just rolled with it, because of course he did. You hope he’s not crying internally or something.

He’s still waiting for an answer.

Still watching you, head tilted, expression lazy (you really need to learn how to read his emotions - he goes through them like nobody’s business, giving you whiplash), like this is all one big game to him. (It better not be.)

And okay. Fine.

If this is a game-

Then you’re about to win. Because you’re a winner, through and through.

You take a deep breath. Square your shoulders. Set your jaw.

“Oh my God,” you whine, dragging your hands down your face. Here goes your pride. “I can’t believe I like you, cause you’re such an idiot.”

Choso freezes. “You-”

You don’t give him a single second to react.

“You’re so fucking dense,” you continue, pointing at him, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Do you really think I would go out of my way to torment you every night for fun if I didn’t like you?”

He blinks.

“...Yes?”

You gasp, clutching your heart. “That is so rude! What do you take me for? A monster?”

Choso raises a brow. “You did throw something at me.”

“I panicked!”

He snorts.

“I did! You freaked me out, holding my wrist and asking me shit!” You throw your arms up in exasperation. “What was I supposed to do?”

Choso smiles, slow and sharp and entirely too self-satisfied. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “Not throw something at me?”

“Shut up.”

“No, really.” He crosses his arms, grin widening. “Anyways, this is good information to have, cause what I’m hearing is, if I want to get you flustered, all I have to do is-”

You slap a hand over his mouth.

“You finish that sentence,” you warn, voice low, “and you’re going to have a very short DJ career, and an even shorter lifespan.”

Choso laughs against your palm, and something in you melts.

You scowl, fully prepared to keep him like this indefinitely, but then-

He licks your hand.

You shriek.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You snatch your hand away like it’s been burned. “YOU’RE GROSS. YOU’RE ACTUALLY DISGUSTING.”

Choso, unbothered, just keeps grinning. “Worked, though.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you seethe.

“We just went through this,” he says easily. “You won’t.”

And that’s just it. That’s what does it. That’s what makes you snap.

Because he’s right. For all your bravado, all the things you’ve ever said, all the threats you’ve made - you won’t.

You won’t, because you like him.

Because you have always liked him.

Because he makes every shift more bearable, more eventful, every long night worth it, every moment filled with music and laughter and ridiculous banter.

Because you like the way he leans against the table during his sets, the way he always takes a second to find you in your booth, the way he pretends he’s not paying attention when he absolutely is.

Because he’s here, right now, looking at you like you’ve hung the moon and simultaneously managed to blow it up, and you just can’t take it anymore.

So you grab his shirt, yank him down to your level-

And kiss him.

Choso makes a sound against your lips - not of surprise, but like he’s been waiting for this, like he knew it was inevitable (show-off).

His fingers dig into your waist immediately, like he’s anchoring himself, like if he doesn’t hold onto you, you’ll disappear. And maybe that’s fair, because you feel like you might actually disintegrate, combust or cease to exist. Or all of them, at the same time.

It’s stupid how good he is at this.

How right it feels.

Like he was meant to kiss you, like you were meant to pull him closer, like your banter, your bickering, the months of pushing and pulling were always, always going to lead to this moment here.

Choso kisses like he does everything else - with intention, with control, with the perfect mix of smugness and ease that makes you want to either kiss him harder or strangle him.

(You choose the former, but the latter is still on the table, never fear.)

He is meticulous.

His lips part slightly, and your breath catches when his tongue brushes against yours - just enough to make your knees buckle. He grins into the kiss at the way you clutch the fabric of his shirt, a noise of satisfaction low in his throat like he’s won something.

(You’ll yell at him for that later. You’re kind of busy right now.)

But then, just when you start to lose yourself in it, just when you really start to forget everything else-

You feel movement near the soundboard.

Without hesitation, you break the kiss and smack his hand away.

Choso groans, exasperated. “Oh, come on.”

“You were gonna mess with my settings, weren’t you?”

He rubs the back of his hand, utterly repentant. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?!”

He grins, lazy, smug, love-drunk. “I was testing a theory.”

“Asshole. What theory?”

He leans in, voice dropping. “I wanted to see how distracted you were.”

You glare. “I will end you.”

“Hm. You just kissed me, pretty girl. That’d be a little contradictory.”

“Oh, trust me.” You poke a finger into his chest. “I can multitask.”

Choso chuckles, shaking his head like you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. “You are actually impossible.”

“Yeah, and you’re insufferable. And a dumbass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He tugs you closer, voice softer now. Smaller. Intimate. “But you seem to like me anyway, huh?”

And ugh.

Ugh.

Because, yet again, he’s right.

You do.

More than you should, maybe. More than you ever planned to.

So, obviously, instead of answering, instead of confirming what he already knows, you grab the front of his shirt again and press your lips to his.

Harder this time. (Almost like a punishment.)

Choso laughs against your lips, triumphant.

— Falling in love, one ridiculous mix at a time

Choso should’ve known the whole fucking club was in on it.

Scratch that. He did know. He just hadn’t realized the sheer extent of it.

Because, sure, he’d caught on to the way people had been watching - the not-so-subtle glances exchanges whenever he and you were in the same space, the whispered conversations cut short when he walked into a room, the smug little smirks far too many people wore whenever you and he bickered over the sound settings.

Hell, even Nanami had made a passing comment once, in the world’s most casual voice, about how he was “looking forward to an upcoming development”. At the time, Choso had assumed it was just Nanami being cryptic for no reason, because he did that sometimes. But now? Now, Choso realizes that that was code for I put money on you two idiots getting together.

But this? This goes so much deeper.

“You owe me, hardass.”

Choso doesn’t even flinch when Toji slaps a heavy hand onto his shoulder, grinning like he’s never won anything better in his life. Like he’s just secured generational wealth. The man is positively smug, downright gleeful, radiating satisfaction as he stands behind the bar, flipping a bottle in one hand.

“You bet on us?” Choso asks flatly, like he doesn’t already know the answer (hint: you already spilled the beans).

Toji barks out a laugh. “Bet on you? Nah. I bet against you. Thought you’d choke before you ever said anything.”

Choso rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, it wasn’t personal,” Toji shrugs. “I just figured you were a stubborn bastard. No offense.”

Choso side-eyes him. “Right.”

“But Nanami,” Toji continues, nudging Choso with his elbow, “he had faith in you. Said you’d crack sooner rather than later.”

That catches Choso off guard. “Fuck off. You’re telling me Nanami bet on me, too?”

“Sure did,” Toji confirms. “Said he’s been watching your downfall for months.”

Downfall. Fantastic.

Choso rubs his temple, equal parts exasperated and impressed. The thought of Nanami - calm, collected, suit-wearing, no-bullshit Nanami - placing a bet on his love life is almost too much.

Then again, Nanami has been around long enough to witness every single dumb interaction between you and Choso. If anyone saw it coming, it was probably him. Him, or, of course, your boss.

But still.

A literal betting pool?

That’s ridiculous.

Even worse? You were in on it.

And Choso had found out in the worst way possible.

— Two days ago, five days after you first kissed him - The moment of betrayal™

“I can’t believe you profited off of my emotional turmoil.”

You barely look guilty. In fact, you look delighted.

Choso is still reeling. Still trying to process the fact that everyone around him had been making money off of his inability to cope with his own feelings.

“I’m an opportunist,” you say, way too smug for his liking.

“That’s called being a menace,” Choso deadpans.

“And yet.”

You smirk. You actually smirk. Like this is the best thing that has ever happened to you.

And the worst part? You might be right.

Choso groans loudly, throwing his head back like he’s been personally wronged. “This is so stupid.”

“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy,” you tease, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re stupid.”

He grabs your wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop you from getting away with this unscathed.

You blink at him, completely unbothered.

Choso squints. “Did you just call me your pretty, pretty boy?”

You grin, clearly enjoying this way too much. “What, you gonna throw something about it?”

Choso considers it.

Briefly.

But then you’re laughing, and the sound is so good, so bright, so fucking annoying that he has to kiss you just to shut you up.

— Falling in love, one ridiculous mix at a time (contd.)

Choso sighs, deeply and dramatically, rubbing a hand down his face.

“So let me get this straight,” he says slowly, looking back at Toji. “You bet against me. Nanami bet on me. And my own girlfriend won money off of my emotional crisis.”

Toji just grins. “Technically it’s both of your emotional crises. She just embraced it.”

Choso stares. Then he sighs again, because of course.

Of course that’s how this all played out.

Toji claps a hand on his back, the picture of unbothered amusement. “Hey, don’t take it too hard, kid. The important thing is, you got the girl.”

Yeah.

Yeah, he did.

Choso glances across the club, eyes finding you instantly.

You’re perched in your booth, adjusting levels with an ease that never fails to impress him, head bobbing along to the beat of the track the current DJ is spinning. Every now and then, you glance over your shoulder at him, like you’re checking to make sure he’s watching.

(He is. He always is.)

And, God.

Choso is so in love with you.

So deeply, ridiculously, unapologetically in love with you.

Even when you’re a little shit.

Especially when you’re a little shit.

Maybe that’s why, when he finally makes his way over to your booth, the first thing he does is reach for your soundboard, just to piss you off.

Your hand smacks his away immediately.

“No.”

Choso grins. “What, I can’t touch?”

“You can touch me, not the soundboard.”

He hums, pretending to consider it. “Oh? That an invitation?”

You shove his face away, laughing. “Get out of my booth, Kamo.”

Choso leans in even closer instead, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another just below your ear, just to see you squirm.

You do squirm, but you’re smiling.

And Choso? Yeah, he’s screwed.

But he’s okay with it. More than okay, in fact. Because the more he falls for you, the more he realizes - he’s got no desire to be saved from the chaos that’s you. The greatest nuisance in his life that’s you.

He likes it all just the way it is, and, damn, if you aren’t the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

NOTE: thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed part two as much as part one, and i also hope you stick around for the little extra stories i've whipped up for them! (art by omagatokii on X)

[signanothername]

saw your recent post about Nightmare's room for Dream, and it reminded me of a fic, where due to Dream still physically and mentally being 6 in the stone, Nightmare was preparing for what to do now as the 'older brother'

which made me wonder

I'm betting Ink or someone from the Omega Timeline found Dream first when he was freed from the statue

What would've happened had it been Nightmare? When faced with this small six year old who is nothing like he remembers, would Nightmare's true self and corruption be mentally first fighting on what the hell to do?(The mental image of this is a bit comical)

Aw that’s adorable dhhxhxhxh

So funny enough, I kinda already made 2 comics that explored what Nightmare’s reaction will be to a small 6 y/o Dream before, just under completely different circumstances

But here’s the thing, while i have explained before how Nightmare’s corruption works in my eyes, I don’t think I was really clear in my explanations, so I’m taking your ask as an excuse to explain it better >:) (i’ll get back to your main question I promise hdhdhdh i just wanna help you connect some dots when it comes to Nightmare’s behavior)

So something to keep in mind is how Nightmare’s mind isn’t truly strong enough to fight off his corruption/corrupted thoughts from controlling him and guiding his actions, and while Nightmare is in absolute control of his mind, his corruption has shaped it in its own twisted way, that’s why he’s an absolute fucking bitch, that’s why Nightmare can be extremely cruel to those around him

Think of his corruption as a parasite, it feeds off Nightmare’s own pain and in turn it’s what makes Nightmare feel that pain (and his own emotions) magnified times a thousand

So when say a normal person who isn’t corrupted feels anger for example, they would feel that anger through stages from it being a mere mild frustration that turns to anger and then full blown rage (depending on the situation of course), but even then a normal person would be able to control that frustration so it doesn’t escalate to anger and in turn never turns to rage, or even if this person were to immediately jump to rage, then they’ll be able to calm themselves down by venting that anger a bit

Nightmare on the other hand,

A- doesn’t go through those stages for his emotions, he immediately experiences the most intense form of them

and

B- those feelings never go away, they linger and fester inside him like an infestation as it is what his own corruption feeds on

He feels angry? That anger is a full blown rage inside him, he feels sad? That’s crushing depression for him, he feels hate? That hate is nothing but raw loathing for everyone and everything around him, he feels fear? It’s fucking paralyzing to the point Nightmare seeks power so he won’t have to feel afraid, he feels happy? It’s tainted by his now sadistic behavior as Nightmare finds sick satisfaction and glee in hurting those around him

Of course, how he deals with that changes as he grows and learns and adapts, so such emotional intensity/ instability is extremely apparent on him as a newly corrupted 6 y/o who feels all alone and lost in the world while it shapes his personality and who he becomes as an adult with a lot more control over his actions/reactions (corruption + bad experiences that shapes his mind = Mean Girl Bitchmare)

What I’m trying to say is that his corruption contributes to his emotional instability, and that corruption knows what to feed on exactly, it makes it so Nightmare feels dependent on negativity so he won’t have to experience what it’s like to feel powerless again, it feeds on his fear, pain, anger, hatred and it extends to Nightmare’s sadistic cruel actions that in turn brings more negativity, which in turn makes him stronger and by extension the corruption stronger which contributes to magnifying his emotions even more, which leads to more cruelty and so on, it’s a never ending torturous cycle that no one is aware Nightmare’s in.. including Nightmare himself, Nightmare is as much of a victim to his corruption as those poor souls who have to deal with Nightmare cause of it

The corruption magnifies Nightmare’s emotions too much for his mind to even be able to process them let alone regulate them, (and Nightmare already has problems understanding his own emotions to begin with) and in turn that corruption only got to his mind as well

Imagine it this way, Nightmare’s mind is plagued by his now corrupted thoughts, he can’t truly think clearly through the thick suffocating corruption, trauma, and horrifying experience in his first 500 years of corruption, it’s like looking through a broken mirror, the pieces of the mirror are still there, and they still show his reflection, but they’re too distorted and messy to form a clean and clear reflection, Nightmare looks at himself in that mirror, but all he sees is scattered pieces of who he used to be (he can no loger recognize his reflection) and so as Nightmare keeps trying to put the pieces back together, it’s more and more clear that not only do they now show the reflection of he used to be, but also who’d he become, the shattered mirror pieces reflect both his corrupted and passive self in a distorted messy way (that’s who Nightmare is now)

Ok if that’s the case, how come Nightmare has kind moments that contradicts his own corrupted state of being? Cause despite his corruption, he’s still Nightmare, I can never emphasize that enough

Despite the cycle he’s in, despite the state of those shattered pieces of who he used to be, those pieces that has his passive self STILL EXIST alongside his corrupted pieces, Nightmare’s own mind, thoughts, emotions and identity beyond that corruption still linger inside him, even if if in a sort of a limbo state

Ok with that all in mind, what the fuck does that have to do with a 6 y/o Dream? Everything

Just like I showed in the comic before, Nightmare would be too blinded by his own pain and hatred (that’s magnified by his corruption) to actually slow down and realize that Dream is 1- literally still a 6 y/o in mental and physical capacity, and 2- is just as in much pain and with such as much trauma as he is

Nightmare hates Dream with a passion

But the thing is, as I showed in this comic here, apart of Nightmare still deeply cares about Dream, even when Nightmare’s in absolute denial about it, I dare say Nightmare doesn’t even realize how much that lil part of him cares

And that would reflect on how he deals with Dream, Nightmare would be conflicted alright, but his corruption would win first and foremost and as such, he’ll deal with Dream with cruelty (that he later realizes was a mistake)

I will not lie, I’ve yet to decide on what I love to think happened to Dream as a statue, but allow me to say that it’s one of 4 options, I like to believe it’s either

A- Nightmare kept him in Dreamtale beside the corpse of their mother

B- took Dream with him to his own castle where he kept him in a safe space

C- left him in a remote part of the multiverse in an empty universe devoid of life (which later got populated)

D- a combination between A and B and C in a linear timeline (i think option D is my fave so far, but I haven’t made a final decision yet :’D)

That being said, the moment Dream breaks out his stone prison, I believe Dream would be too confused and scared to understand what’s going on, hell, would probably think the Apple incident happened just yesterday, not that 500 years passed (you can imagine Dream’s shock later) only to start frantically searching for Nightmare and when he does find his twin? Nightmare doesn’t look like Nightmare anymore, where’s his golden crown? Where’s his tunic? Why is he so much taller? So many questions, and Nightmare’s not in the mood to answer

Nightmare would definitely be shocked to see Dream out of his prison, a big part of him hates that Dream escaped it, Dream doesn’t deserve to be free, another part of him (the one that cares) is relieved cause turning him to stone was never the plan, and then the more dangerous corrupted part of him is sadistically gleeful, he could finally get a proper payback and to have the golden apple from such a weak, small and helpless child

Dream would start talking about how he wants Nightmare back and you can imagine how pissed Nightmare would be at Dream’s daring audacity to bring up the apple incident

Their first interaction after Dream is finally freed is not at all pleasant (the fact Dream is still a 6 y/o physically and mentally doesn’t deter Nightmare’s cruelty)

Nightmare eventually realizes he should’ve been a lot more merciful on his twin when he first broke out his prison, yet that sadistic gleeful part of him can never be quelled (unbeknownst to Nightmare that the glee he feels at Dream’s misfortune is just his trauma shaped in a twisted manner due to his corruption, he feels like Dream hadn’t suffered like he had, so Nightmare will make Dream suffer himself)

And the rest is (kinda) history :)

[pocket-watcher]

Everyone simply adored Daniel.

From his perfectly charming smile to his deep brown eyes to the way his hair seemed to always fall perfectly, even when he’d just spent the last hour out for a run.

Stupid Daniel with his gorgeous face.

How could they not see?!

The hatred started when you’d noticed he never actually said anything of use.

Once you’d listened (or tried to, through the door) for 40 minutes as he talked the downstairs neighbour around and around in circles about a noise complaint.

“I’m so deeply sorry.” He’d said. “It’s so difficult for me to think of how you must be feeling. You don’t want to be mad at me, do you? I just hate that sinking feeling I get when someone is mad at me. Just relax. I’m sure we can work something out…”

The conversation ultimately ending up with the neighbour apologising to Daniel.

Then there was the constant sex noises.

Stretched out moans, slowly ramping up and down and up and down, teasing his partner to the edge before bringing them right back again.

It was as if Daniel’s dick was a gift from God.

You found yourself wishing he was into BDSM so he’d gag whoever he had in there. No sex is that good, you thought.

It had been easy to avoid him and his infuriating-ness. Until now.

You stared down at your doormat at the tiny little note scrawled in thick black ink “LEFT WITH NEIGHBOUR”.

Of course it had.

It had been a long day at work. You were exhausted, and all you wanted was for you and your package to be left alone.

Away from the rhythmic thudding and moans from next door. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Away from Daniel.

You didn’t even wait for him and whoever he had in there to finish. In a huff you slammed your fist against his door.

The orgasmic moans echoed for a moment, and then shuffling was heard. The door opened.

Now, you’d expected the door to open just enough for a conversation. A tiny crack. After all, every tenant in the building knew what had just been happening, so you’d expected some shame.

But this was Daniel.

He swung the door full-force open, shirtless, bed head, and a very revealing half-askew boxers.

“…Yes?”

You cleared your throat and willed your face to turn back to its original, not flushed colour.

“You have a package for me.” You said, looking down at the floor.

He followed your gaze but looked between his legs instead.

“Do I?” He teased, before turning to retrieve the box.

“Y-You should keep it down, you know.” You found the courage to say.

“Sorry about that.” He laughed, handing you the package, your fingers touching his.

“Y-Yeah, well…”

“You’re welcome to join if you’re feeling left out.” He looked up at you through his eyelashes.

You angrily looked for signs of joking on his face. When you didn’t find any, you exploded.

“And what makes you think I’d want to do that?!”

“Oh… nothing.” Your eyes trail down his abs towards-

You shake the thought out of your head.

“I just have this thing about me, you know? I tend to draw people in.” He comments. “I don’t know if it’s my eyes that you could get lost in, or how you imagine my hands on your chest pushing you down onto the bed, or maybe it’s the way my words just push every rational thought out of that pretty head of yours…”

You realised your mouth was open slightly. You snapped your gaze away from his eyes, then his lips, and then his boxers.

Fuck.

It was like his body was magnetic. You felt your legs heavily moving towards him, the rational part of your brain sinking back for something else to take over.

What’s worse, you felt yourself drooling.

“There’s just something so alluring, isn’t there? The mystery of the unknown. That constant sound. Don’t you want to experience bliss like that?” He asked you.

Your anger had faded. Your mind, a puddle, melted by that look in his eyes.

He was growing taller. No. Your knees were buckling. Sinking. You were kneeling in front of him. Your mind a constant flow of his voice. Sink. Kneel. Obey. Drop.

Your eyes looked up at him. Glossy. Blank.

“Why don’t you come inside.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

[mangilingo]

Fault Lines

Summary- A heated academic rivalry with Luigi slowly unravels into undeniable tension, forcing you to confront feelings beyond competition

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ `✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

You should’ve known he’d be here.

It’s a Thursday night, and the library is suffocatingly silent, except for the quiet scribbling of pens and the occasional rustling of pages. You’ve had a long day, one filled with lectures and barely concealed frustration at the newest assignment from your shared statistics class. And, of course, as if fate enjoys taunting you, the very person you least wanted to see is sitting right across the table.

Luigi.

The moment you spot him, his sharp hazel eyes flick up from his notebook, his brows raising ever so slightly in acknowledgment. There’s always something infuriatingly unreadable about his expressions, like he’s amused by something only he understands. His lips quirk up at the corners, just enough to let you know he knows you don’t want him here

“You look awful” he remarks, his voice a low drawl as he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. The sleeves of his adidas hoodie push back slightly, revealing forearms dusted with ink smudges-probably from a day spent scribbling out notes he’ll never let you borrow.

You slam your books onto the table. “Bite me.”

Luigi chuckles, tilting his head. “That an invitation?”

You glare at him and take a seat opposite his, throwing your bag onto the table between you like a barrier. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mario’s brother”

That gets a reaction. His smirk falters just a fraction, and there’s a flash of irritation in his eyes. “Creative,” he mutters dryly, before tapping his pen against his notes. “You here to study or just to be a pain?”

“I’d get more work done if you weren’t constantly breathing in my vicinity.”

“Ah, so you do find me distracting.”

You grit your teeth. He’s always like this. Always turning your words into something he can use against you, always pressing buttons until he gets a reaction. It started in your first year, when the two of you realized you shared almost every advanced course together. He was the only person who ever rivaled you in grades, and worse-he was just as competitive. If you aced the exam, he’d beat you on the next. If he set the curve, you’d make sure to obliterate it next time. It was a constant battle, neither of you willing to yield an inch

And yet, somehow, no matter how much you despised him, you always ended up in the same space. The same classes. The same study session. The same competitions.

It was exhausting.

But it was also impossible to stop.

You flip open your textbook, refusing to rise to his bait. You have work to do. You can’t waste time on Luigi and his stupidly sharp cheekbones or his annoyingly deep voice or the way he always smells like coffee and old books-

“I can feel you glaring at me.”

You scowl. “I’m imagining ways to end you”

Luigi hums thoughtfully. “Poison? Knife? Ooh, maybe push me down the stairs? Though, knowing you, you’d probably monologue first and give me time to escape”

You grip your pen so tightly it nearly snaps. “God, I hate you.”

Luigi just smirks. “You wish you did.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the worst part. Because some nights, when the library is too quiet and he’s sitting too close and your usual hatred feels like something else-something unnameable-you wonder if he’s right.

But you’ll be damned before you admit it.

The library clock ticks away the minutes, each one stretching the silence between you and Luigi like a taut wire ready to snap. You force yourself to focus on the equations in front of you, but it’s impossible to ignore him when he’s right there-sprawled in his chair with his fingers idly tapping against his notebook, deep in thought.

Luigi studies like everything comes easy to him. It’s infuriating. Where you spend hours combing through each problem, rewriting notes, and double-checking formulas, he just glances at something once and it sticks. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying half the time, which only makes it worse when he still manages to match—or beat—you.

The scratch of his pen against paper pulls you out of your thoughts. You don’t mean to look, but you catch the tail end of whatever he’s writing. A near-perfect solution to the problem you’ve been struggling with for the past half hour.

Your jaw tightens.

“You got that wrong.”

Luigi doesn’t look up. “No, I didn’t.”

You slide your book toward him, tapping the margin where his mistake is glaring back at him. “Right there. You miscalculated.”

Finally, he glances up, eyes flicking between you and his notes. His expression doesn’t change, but you swear you see the tiniest flicker of irritation. “Huh.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “Guess I did.”

There’s something oddly unsatisfying about him admitting it so easily. No argument, no teasing, just quiet acknowledgment.

You arch a brow. “That’s it?”

“What, you want me to fight you on it?” He smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You roll your eyes and return to your work, ignoring the way your pulse still thrums from the exchange. This is how it’s always been—sharp words and competition, the constant need to one-up each other. If he ever stopped pushing, if you ever stopped fighting back, the balance would break.

But something feels different tonight.

The air is heavier than usual, charged with something unspoken. Maybe it’s the late hour, the exhaustion from a long day, or the fact that it’s just the two of you in this dimly lit corner of the library.

Maybe it’s the way Luigi hasn’t said anything else, his gaze lingering a little too long when he thinks you don’t notice.

You force yourself to ignore it. You have an exam to prepare for.

Minutes pass, the silence stretching between you. Then, out of nowhere, Luigi exhales sharply and mutters, “You’re exhausting.”

You blink, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, his eyes shadowed with something you can’t quite place. “This whole thing. The competition. The constant need to be better than me.”

You scoff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “Oh, I’m sorry—does it bother you that I don’t let you win?”

Luigi’s lips twitch, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? You think this is just about winning.”

Your heart stutters for a second before you shove the feeling down. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies you, his gaze sharper than usual, like he’s peeling back layers you didn’t realize were visible.

And then, softly, he says, “You don’t hate me as much as you want to.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

But the way your stomach twists, the way your skin burns under his stare, the way your mind always drifts back to him—

You don’t let yourself finish that thought.

Instead, you shove your chair back, grabbing your books in a hurried, graceless motion. “I’m done for the night.”

Luigi doesn’t stop you as you stand, but you can feel his eyes on you even as you turn away.

And just as you reach the door, his voice follows—quiet, but sure.

“You’re running away.”

You don’t look back. You can’t.

Because if you do, you might have to face the fact that maybe—just maybe—he’s right.

You don’t run from fights.

You never have. Not in academics, not in competitions, not even in the countless debates where you and Luigi had gone head-to-head, each too stubborn to let the other have the final word. But that night in the library, you had run—because for the first time, it hadn’t felt like a fight you could win.

For the past three days, you’ve avoided him. You take different routes to class, show up early to lectures just to grab a seat on the opposite side of the room, and ignore every opportunity to engage with him.

It’s pathetic, really. And worse—it’s not working.

Because Luigi is still everywhere.

Even now, you can feel him watching you. You’re in your statistics lecture, pretending to focus as the professor drones on about probability distributions, but every so often, your eyes flicker toward him.

He looks… annoyed.

Not in the usual way, where he rolls his eyes at your comments or smirks when he knows he’s getting under your skin. No, this is different. His brows are furrowed, his jaw tense. Like he’s waiting for you to acknowledge him, and the longer you don’t, the more it irritates him.

Good. Let him be frustrated for once.

But then, just as you’re about to turn away, his eyes catch yours.

You expect him to smirk, to say something cocky like he always does. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he holds your gaze, unwavering.

And suddenly, you remember the way he looked at you that night—the quiet intensity in his expression, the weight of his words.

You don’t hate me as much as you want to.

Your stomach twists, and you snap your attention back to your notes, gripping your pen so tightly it might snap.

You don’t have time for this. You won’t let him get into your head.

But as the lecture drags on, you realize you’re not absorbing a single word.

—

Later that evening, you find yourself in the student lounge, determined to get through the problem set you’ve been putting off. It’s late, most students have cleared out, and you finally have some peace—

Until a chair scrapes against the floor, and you know before even looking who it is.

Luigi drops into the seat across from you, arms crossed, gaze locked onto yours. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You force yourself to keep writing. “Go away.”

“No.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. “I’m busy.”

“Don’t care.”

You inhale sharply, finally looking up. “Seriously? What is your problem?”

“My problem?” He lets out a dry laugh, leaning forward slightly. “My problem is that you’ve been acting weird ever since the library.”

You scoff. “I haven’t—”

“Don’t lie.” His voice is lower now, quieter. “You don’t ignore me. You don’t avoid me. That’s not how we do this.”

There’s something dangerous about the way he says it—something that makes your pulse stutter.

You glare at him. “Maybe I just got tired of the constant competition.”

Luigi hums, tilting his head slightly. “Right. And that’s why you look like you’re about to set your pen on fire every time you catch me staring.”

You freeze for half a second—just long enough for him to catch it.

And that’s when he smirks.

“You are running,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. He sits back, looking almost pleased, like he’s just solved an equation no one else could crack. “Huh.”

You slam your book shut. “You’re so goddamn full of yourself—”

“Am I?” His smirk softens just a fraction, but there’s something sharp behind it. “Then why won’t you look me in the eye?”

You do. You force yourself to meet his gaze head-on, ignoring the way your heart pounds against your ribs.

And for the first time in all your years of rivalry, you realize something terrifying.

This was never just hatred.

It was never just competition.

It was something else—something deeper, something messier.

And Luigi knows it, too.

The realization knocks the breath from your lungs, and before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you do the only thing you can—

You grab your things and leave.

And as you walk away, you hear him chuckle under his breath.

Like he knows you’ll be back.

Avoidance is a temporary solution at best. You know that. And yet, for the past week, you’ve done everything in your power to keep your distance from Luigi.

It’s exhausting.

Because no matter how hard you try, the universe seems determined to shove you back into his orbit. Group projects, class discussions, overlapping schedules—he’s everywhere, and every time you see him, that smug, knowing look in his eyes drives you insane.

You tell yourself you’re just imagining it. That the way he watches you—so damn patiently—isn’t making your skin burn. That the tension isn’t unbearable. That this… thing between you isn’t shifting into something unrecognizable.

But deep down, you know better.

And tonight, you finally reach your limit.

—

It starts with an assignment.

One that, unfortunately, you and Luigi have been forced to collaborate on.

You arrive at the library later than planned, already in a foul mood, and find him sitting at your usual table, flipping lazily through his notes. He looks up as you approach, and predictably, the first thing out of his mouth is—

“Thought you weren’t gonna show.”

You throw your bag onto the table, ignoring him as you pull out your laptop. “Not everything is about you, Luigi.”

“Sure.” He smirks. “Just most things.”

You glare at him, but before you can retort, he leans forward, resting his chin on one hand.

“Y’know, you’ve been avoiding me all week,” he muses. “Kinda hurts my feelings.”

“Oh, please—”

“Really makes me wonder what exactly you’re running from.”

Your hands clench into fists. “I’m not running.”

Luigi tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Then prove it.”

Something in you snaps.

You slam your laptop shut and shove it aside. “What the hell do you want from me?”

He doesn’t even flinch. Just watches you with that infuriating calm, like he’s been waiting for this. “I want you to admit it.”

Your pulse pounds. “Admit what?”

Luigi exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. And for the first time in this entire godforsaken rivalry, he looks… tired. Frustrated.

“That it’s not just hatred anymore,” he says quietly.

The words hang in the air, suffocating.

You open your mouth—ready to argue, to deny, to fight—but nothing comes out.

Because you can’t lie. Not this time.

Not when every late-night study session, every heated debate, every lingering glance is flashing through your mind like a cruel, undeniable truth.

Luigi watches your expression shift, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I don’t think it ever was.”

Your breath catches.

This isn’t a game anymore.

It’s not a competition.

It never was.

And suddenly, you realize—maybe the thing you feared most wasn’t losing to him.

Maybe it was letting him win.

Because if you let him win, if you acknowledge this thing between you, then everything changes.

And change is terrifying.

You shake your head, shoving your chair back as you stand. “I can’t do this right now.”

Luigi doesn’t stop you this time. He just watches you leave, his expression unreadable.

But as you walk away, heart hammering, one thought keeps repeating in your mind.

You don’t hate him.

You never did.

You don’t sleep that night.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling of your dorm, replaying the conversation over and over, dissecting every word, every glance, every shift in Luigi’s expression.

You had spent so much time convincing yourself that what you felt for him was hatred—but now, the foundation of that belief has cracked, and the truth is slipping through.

You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that he figured it out before you did, or the fact that you can’t unhear his words.

It’s not just hatred anymore.

You roll onto your side, groaning into your pillow.

It shouldn’t matter. You should be able to brush this off, push it down like you do with every other inconvenient emotion. But the problem with Luigi—your real problem—is that he doesn’t let you ignore things.

He waits. He pushes.

And you know he’s not going to drop this.

—

The next day, you manage to avoid him—at least until your shared statistics class.

You slide into your usual seat, relieved when you don’t see him. Maybe he’s late. Maybe he won’t show up.

Then someone slides into the chair beside you, and you know before looking who it is.

Luigi.

You tense, staring straight ahead as the professor begins the lecture. You can feel him watching you, his presence annoyingly solid, his chair just a little closer than necessary.

Minutes pass. You pretend to take notes.

Then, quietly—so quietly that only you can hear—Luigi murmurs, “So, we’re back to pretending I don’t exist?”

You don’t react.

He leans in slightly. “Not very convincing, by the way.”

You grip your pen harder.

Another pause. Then, just as you think he’s going to drop it, his voice lowers further, amusement threading through it.

“You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

Your hand twitches, nearly knocking over your notebook.

Luigi hums, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s a yes.”

You turn sharply toward him, whispering furiously, “Would you shut up?”

Luigi smirks, completely unbothered. “Make me.”

Oh, you hate him.

You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how he turns everything into a game he knows he’ll win. You hate that he’s right.

You hate that you have been thinking about it.

Your eyes flicker over his face, searching for something—anything—that will give you the upper hand. But all you see is certainty.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And you don’t have a single defense left.

The rest of the lecture is a blur, your brain too clouded with frustration, confusion, and the lingering echo of his words.

By the time class ends, you’re practically out of your seat before the professor dismisses you.

But just as you reach the door, Luigi’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“See you at the library tonight.”

You turn, frowning. “I never agreed to that.”

Luigi shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “No, but you’ll be there.”

And damn him, because you already know he’s right.

You tell yourself you won’t go.

You won’t give him the satisfaction of being right. You won’t sit across from him in the library again, won’t let him smirk at you like he knows something you don’t.

But of course, hours later, you find yourself walking through the dimly lit halls, your feet carrying you there before your brain can come up with a valid excuse not to.

It’s stupid. You don’t even know why you’re going. Maybe it’s because you actually need to study. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to give him another reason to gloat.

Or maybe it’s because a part of you is desperate to figure out what the hell this thing between you actually is.

You push open the library doors, the familiar scent of old books and coffee hitting you instantly.

And there he is.

Sitting at your usual table, a coffee cup in front of him, legs stretched out as he leans back in his chair. He looks up the second you enter, and the slow, satisfied smirk that spreads across his face makes you want to turn right back around.

But you don’t.

You straighten your spine, schooling your expression into something unreadable, and march toward him. You drop your bag onto the chair opposite his and sit down, pulling out your notes without a word.

Luigi watches you for a long moment. Then—

“Knew you’d show.”

You don’t look up. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re predictable.”

“I’m predictable?” You scoff. “You’re the one who sits in the same damn spot every night like a pretentious asshole waiting to be worshiped.”

Luigi raises a brow, feigning offense. “Worshiped?”

You shoot him a glare. “You act like you’re some untouchable genius, but the truth is, you’re just an insufferable nerd who can’t stand the idea of someone beating him.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something sharp and challenging. “Funny,” he murmurs. “I could say the same about you.”

Your pulse spikes.

Because he’s right. And you hate that he’s right.

You hate the way he sees you too clearly, the way he refuses to let you hide behind your usual defenses.

The air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Why do you even care so much?”

Luigi stills.

You hadn’t meant to say it—not like that, not so raw. But the words are already out there, hanging between you like a challenge.

His expression darkens, something unreadable settling behind his eyes. “Why do you?”

You don’t have an answer.

Or maybe you do, but you’re too afraid to say it.

The silence stretches. Your heart is pounding, your fingers gripping the edge of your notebook like a lifeline.

Then, just when you think he’s about to drop it, Luigi leans forward, voice quieter now. “You keep acting like this is just about competition.”

Your throat goes dry.

He studies you carefully, his gaze dipping just slightly—to your hands, still clenched around your notebook—to the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Then, just as his eyes meet yours again, he murmurs, “But you and I both know it’s not.”

Something inside you fractures.

And before you can even think, before you can stop yourself, you shove your chair back and stand. “I need to go.”

Luigi doesn’t stop you.

But as you walk away, you feel his eyes on your back.

And you know this isn’t over.

You don’t sleep. You barely make it through your morning classes. Every conversation, every assignment, every second that ticks by feels like background noise to the only thing occupying your mind.

Luigi.

His words. His gaze. The way he looked at you like he had already won.

You hate him for it. You hate that he’s inside your head, that he’s forcing you to confront something you’ve spent years denying. But more than anything—more than the anger, more than the frustration—you hate that you don’t hate him.

Not even close.

By the time night falls, you know what you have to do.

—

You find him exactly where you expect him to be—alone in the library, in your usual spot.

He looks up the moment you enter, something unreadable flickering across his face. He doesn’t smirk this time, doesn’t gloat. He just watches as you approach, as you drop your bag onto the table, as you lean forward with your palms pressed flat against the wood.

“We need to settle this,” you say, voice steady despite the way your heart is racing.

Luigi tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something sharp. “Settle what, exactly?”

You grit your teeth. “This.” You gesture between the two of you. “Whatever the hell this is.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Took you long enough.”

Your stomach tightens. “So you knew?”

“Of course I knew.” His voice is softer now, lower. “I was just waiting for you to admit it.”

Your hands curl into fists. “You’re so—”

“What?” Luigi leans in, voice barely above a whisper now. “Infuriating? Impossible? Completely, utterly distracting?”

You swallow hard.

Because yes. Yes to all of it.

But most of all—

“You drive me insane,” you grit out.

Luigi exhales slowly, his gaze dropping—just for a second—to your lips. “Funny,” he murmurs. “Because you do the same to me.”

The space between you is practically nonexistent now. The tension is unbearable, crackling like a live wire, pulling you closer and closer and—

And then, finally, finally, you break.

You grab the collar of his shirt and crash your lips against his, pouring years of frustration, tension, and something deeper into the kiss.

Luigi reacts instantly, hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is desperate, rough, like neither of you knows how to slow down. And maybe you don’t. Maybe this is how it’s always been—fast, intense, an inevitable collision you were both too stubborn to stop.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Luigi presses his forehead against yours, a smirk curling at his lips.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You groan, shoving his shoulder—but you don’t move away. “If you ever bring this up in a competition, I swear—”

Luigi laughs, and for once, it’s not mocking. It’s warm. Real.

And as much as you hate to admit it—

You think you could get used to this.

[ofallthingsnasty]

tw: yandere, kidnapping/basement spousery, depression, mentions of noncon, gn reader characters: Crocodile, Sanji, Doflamingo, Law word count: 1.3k

One thing I learned recently is that I'm definitely a social creature and would get horribly, horribly depressed as someone's basement wife, even a well entertained one. All the books, the crafts, the soft music in the world couldn't prevent me from sobbing into my pillows, couldn't get me to crawl out of bed and to paint a smile on my face. Oh, but how would your captor react? For some, it's definitely a necessary evil - Crocodile comes to mind here. Annoyed by your lethargy, by your random tears and your meek, taciturn responses, he finds himself frustrated at times. This state of mind really isn’t ideal - he wanted you docile, sure, but not lifeless. Yet it's also awfully convenient when you just let him push you around, let him caress and touch you - and not out of fear of him, simply because you don't care to struggle. He discovers that he can forgive a lot when you're especially shaken and cling to him, bury your head in his chest because he's the only human you'll ever know again and the world is so bleak around you and you just need him right now. Of course, it would be nicer if you didn't do it because he's the only warm-blooded creature that you interact with, but he'll take what he can get. (And with time, it weirdly grows on him: him turning into the center of your life, the way your eyes seem to light up the tiniest bit when he comes home to you, something he thought mildly annoying at first turning out to be awfully convenient.)

To others, it's devastating. Sanji lives for your smiles, your warmth, the way your eyes crinkle and you jut your head forward when you fully, genuinely laugh - total apathy is worse than antagonism to him. If you were to scream, shout, put your fingers around his neck and squeeze with the desperation of a cornered prey animal, he'd at least get a reaction, some signs of life out of you. But you don't even do that. You just sit and try to suppress tears while he holds your hand. Sometimes he just cries with you, letting himself fall into the same hole you're being pulled into. It makes him regret taking you so utterly, bitterly, makes him feel all those memories from when he was a child bubble up in his stomach until they force themselves out and he has to vomit to be rid of them. He’s just like his father, he thinks, and it makes him sick. He’s rotten down to the very core, cursed from birth and now he has gone and soiled you, too - he’ll end up sobbing into the crook of your neck more than once, full of genuine remorse. And all you’ll be able to do is absentmindedly pat his hair, thoughts spilling like an knocked over ink well. No, you slipping into a deeply depressive state is only going to worsen the hatred he has for himself, is going to poison him slowly and steadily until he’ll be in agony. Maybe it’s his just punishment.

Then there are the ones like Doflamingo who simply don’t care. You don’t crawl out of bed until noon? You just stare into space or bury yourself in books when you finally do? You’re just lifeless by his side, just blink, shrug your shoulders when spoken to, just exist? Whatever, he has always treated you like a doll from the start. He can even weather the elusive bouts of sobbing and crying (even if he hates it when they happen), because most of the time you’re just his poseable thing and he is nothing if not generous to allow you a tantrum here and there. He doesn't feel bad about you being a more of a hollowed out shell of a person than a fully-fledged human with a rich inner life and doesn't care that most of it is his fault - his fault that you fester and rot beneath the surface, his fault that all the opulent, vibrant clothing and the scorching hot days by the pool still leave you frosty and weirdly bloodless, like a cold-blooded creature in winter. Food is ash in your mouth and only sours your stomach but you still eat when he tells you to, touches feel foreign and loveless but you still let him fuck you if he so wishes. Why should he care what circles around in your head when he gets to do anything he wants to you? That you feel like life is no luster, only desperation? The truly bothersome parts are taken care of by his myriad of servants and the family. Messes left behind get cleaned up, baths are forced on you regularly, as are grooming sessions. If you don’t get dressed on your own either someone else will see to it or he will - and he’ll have his payment for his time, trust me. The solemn mood, the non-existent smiles… he doesn't care for that. You’re not here for your entertainment, you’re here for his. And you just accepting your fate and letting him do whatever it is he wants… That’s just perfect, isn’t it?

Of course, let’s not forget about the ones who secretly love it. Law is a prime example, especially with his medical background. He isn’t surprised that your mood sways - he expected as much when he restricted your every move, declared the outside world to be too unhealthy for you. Of course you’d slip into a depressive episode. And it’s not a flaw, it’s intentional. Because now - now, when you can’t peel yourself out of bed, when everything feels too much, when you can’t feed or move or dress or take care of yourself- he gets to swoop in. He gets to do it for you, gets to tell you that he’s here and that he’ll always catch you when you fall. That his assessment of your condition was accurate - that you always needed him, right from the start. Dependency is worth more than all the love in the world to him. It simply doesn’t matter if you’d rather slit his throat than to behave for him out of your own volition - as long as you can’t leave. Even if he genuinely loves you, he’s not deluded enough to cling to daydreams of him and you living a quiet, happy life full of reciprocated affection, that ship has long sailed - sailed ever since his childhood got irrevocably destroyed. No. Love is nice and good and makes him wash you gladly, makes him care for you with delicate hands and with a patient brow - but your sickness makes you stay, renders you unable to leave him. It’s the only currency he can trade in when it comes to you. He’s your savior and tormentor rolled into one person; but above all he is the only one who cares and will forever care. You could rot yourself into a pathetic, sweat-soaked, disgusting corner, could turn into nothing but a husk and he’d always, always nurse you out of the ditch he’s found you in, just at the right time.  What he doesn’t tell you is that he could help you. At least artificially. Boost your moods with SSRIs until you bounce off the walls with nervousness and sweat thrice as much; make you giddy and shaky until you get used to the dose. Until the world seems worth living in once more, until at least some color returns to your drab eyes. He could get you the medication, even try some speech therapy, could help you like a good boyfriend should. But why? It makes no sense. Why help you only to get some fire back, maybe even for you to slip through his fingers? It’s easier to sit in twosome silence with tired eyes watching him, eyes that one day might be grateful for all the work he has put into them. Until then, it’s of utmost importance that they stay right where they are: in a cramped, dirty corner of a bed, dull and lifeless.