#i just also think that maybe just maybe he should find a reason to play football for himself before he burns out and decides to never play

[kikufufuku]

unconsciously, you

pairings: university!bestfriend!gojo x reader

warnings: two idiots pining, mild angst, mild swearing, dumb(?) oblivious(?) gojo, soft!gojo, jealousy

wc: 6.5k-ish? first work! hope u guys like it ᵔᴗᵔ

Satoru considered himself as a smart man, no, he knew. He’s basically the pride of his university, flying to different countries to participate in academic challenges. His name never dipped below number one on the rankings. Ever.

Everybody knew him not only for his ability to answer algebra questions under 15 seconds but also because of his looks. With long white eyelashes, paired with stunning blue eyes—one wink and he could bring a girl to his knees. He did. Flirting with them as he laughed at how they looked. He couldn’t understand what they were feeling. To him, they were just pathetic. He was handsome. He was intelligent. That was a fact. A truth as absolute as gravity.

So why couldn’t he figure himself out?

OR

Emotionally constipated Gojo Satoru who can’t seem to figure out what this specific feeling in his chest is.

Shoko lit up a cigarette.

She’s leaning next to the vending machine, ignoring Utahime’s complaints about how she shouldn’t do that on school grounds and she’ll get in trouble. As if Shoko gave a fuck. What are they gonna do? Expel her? As if. She knew they wouldn’t, no, they couldn’t. She was a top student and they couldn’t afford to lose her for the sake of the university.

“Ugh, fine, do whatever you want,” Utahime rolled her eyes, sipping her milk. “Where’s Geto anyway?”

“Right there, with Satoru,”

Utahime followed her line of vision and squinted, nodding as she saw their figures, standing near the grassy field.

“Geto looks like he's yapping his ass off,” Utahime snorted. “Gojo looks like he couldn’t give a shit.”

Shoko took a drag. “He’s doing it again,” she muttered.

“Hah? Do what? Gojo?”

“Yeah. He’s staring like a love-struck idiot.”

Utahime cackled, “To whom? Gojo? Love-struck? Please. That man flirts with air.”

But Shoko wasn’t smiling. “Exactly. He flirts with everyone. But he never stares.”

Utahime paused.

Gojo Satoru didn’t do romance.

He played with it—joked about it, teased it, weaponized it when it was convenient. But love? No.

He didn’t fall. He hovered safely above it, untouchable and unbothered.

And yet—

There he was.

“I doubt he even knows what he’s feeling,” Shoko exhaled a thin stream of smoke, amused. “He’s doing it subconsciously.”

“You think his feelings are reciprocated?”

“Hm.”

You laugh, running through the field as your friend chases you with a frog.

Satoru watches.

He knows he should be listening to whatever Suguru is saying, what he’s rambling about—maybe philosophy, the problems of the world, academics, who knows. Satoru sure as hell doesn’t know because he’s not paying attention. Sure, the words are there but they’re just background noise, like a low radio hum.

He’s in a trance. Watching you. You’re laughing. You’re happy. And for some reason, it made something in his chest shift.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t like not understanding things. Gojo Satoru always knew what he was feeling. He could identify an emotion, categorize it, file it away.

But this? What the fuck is this?

This strange, warm pool in his stomach? It was warm. Gentle, almost. Like sunlight filtering through a window on a quiet afternoon.

Only when your head turns to him, beaming as you give him a big wave, before facing your friend as you plead for her to stop, does he snap out of it.

“So, what do you think?” Geto asked.

“Huh?” Satoru blinks, “Yeah, sounds cool.”

“Fucker. I just said I made the decision to go bald.”

“WHAT?!” Satoru yelled, catching other people’s attention as Geto slapped the back of his head.

“I just said that to find out whether you were actually listening or not. And I was right, you weren’t,” Geto deadpanned, like he was tired of his shit, “You were staring at her for 10 minutes.”

“I have not,” he says, a little too fast. Okay, that was too fast.

“You’re obvious.”

“No, I’m observant.”

“You’re whipped.”

“Shut up.”

Geto laughs and claps a hand on Satoru’s shoulder. “You’re in denial, man.”

Satoru scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Geto challenges, still grinning.

“Fuck if I know,” He removes his hands from bis pockets, ruffling his hair, before groaning in both of his hands, “She’s my bestfriend, along with you guys. I care for her,”

“Right… Now I’ll go because the love of your life is on the way here,” The black haired man laughed and went on his way. Satoru gritted his teeth out of annoyance, the defense already in his throat, ready to yell SHE’S NOT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE, as he removed his hands from his face, only to look up and see you. The anger died as quickly as it came. Oh, Suguru wasn’t lying about you coming.

“Sup?” You sat down next to the chair beside him, looking up to see him looking down at you. He looked down at you, looking at the way your eyelashes flutter, your forehead shiny with sweat, and the way your chest heaves up and down. Nope. Not admiring. Just looking.

“So you’re also afraid of frogs huh?” He grinned, the ends of his lips curling up to reveal a teasing smile, his hand coming up to brush some strands of hair away from your face.

You rolled your eyes, slapping his wrist away, “No. I’m not.”

“Right.. let me add that to your list of fears. Cockroaches, spiders, heights, and now.. frogs.”

Kicking his ankle, you cackled as he nearly stumbled to his knees. “What are you even going to do with that list anyway? And I’m literally not afraid of frogs! I just ran because it was dead. Dead. I’m not afraid of living frogs.”

“Ouch!” He stood up, pain etched onto his features before he ruffled your hair, making it messy as he laughed, “I’m gonna show up to your house one day with cockroaches, spiders—make it infest your home,”

“You’d be dead before you even cross the gate,” you warned, swatting his hand away as you tried to fix your hair. “And it’s funny how you’re the one collecting this list like some obsessed maniac.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “Well, someone has to remember the details you forget. What if we’re in an apocalypse and I have to protect you from all your irrational fears?”

You narrowed your eyes, “In an apocalypse, you’re the first person I’d sacrifice.”

“Harsh,” he said, hand on his chest like you’d wounded him. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

“Oh? What exactly have you done for me?” you challenged, raising a brow.

Satoru tilted his head, putting a finger to his chin as he listed off things, “Hmm.. Letting you rant at ungodly hours, waiting for you after lectures, sharing my food and hoodies with you.. Holding a tissue up to your nose after you bawled because of—“

“RIGHT!” You screeched, slapping his forearm, “I get it. I get it.”

Satoru laughed at you as you slapped his forearm. Pouting. He wanted to grab your cheeks and squish, play, squeeze them. He didn’t. Instead, he sat back down beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

It stretched into a long, comfortable, silence with both of you admiring the campus field in front of you, students walking by and the sounds of birds chirping present. The silence was nice. Before you broke it.

You sighed and leaned back, your elbows resting on the table behind you. “It’s nice out today.”

“Mhm.”

“Warm. Bright.” Satoru looked at you.

“Yup.” He murmured, looking away.

You glanced at him, catching the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. He looked away, feigning interest in the clouds like they were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen.

“Stop being weird,” you teased.

“I’m not weird,” he muttered. I just feel specific things about you right now and I’m not exactly sure what it is.

“You’re being weird. You’re, like, extra quiet. That’s suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“That’s not even a comeback.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say it was.”

“Come on, what’s up, Toru?” Toru. Toru. Toru. You’ve always called him Toru, even Sat, but why does it feel different right now? He curses his emotions. He’d have to study on this later, maybe run a fucking experiment, write a thesis, because he is, unfortunately, still lacking for he cannot even comprehend what he’s feeling.

“Toru? Sat? Hellooo?” God help him. He could feel the warmth spreading to his ears as he forced himself to ignore your curious gaze, and instead opted to look at the grass field and clouds in front of you. What the fuck is happening to me?!?!

He couldn’t just tell you that he was feeling things. Not normal things. But complex things in his heart, his stomach, his ears, his brain—everywhere. So naturally, he panics. And panicking means deflecting.

“Okay, you know what’s actually up? The vending machines.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’ve replaced the lemon soda with some abomination called ‘citrus sparkle’ and it tastes like disappointment and floor cleaner. I’m serious, I think it gave me an existential crisis earlier. Like, if I can’t trust the lemon soda, what can I trust?”

You raise a brow, amused. “You’re ranting about soda now?”

“It’s betrayal in a can! I’ve been loyal to that drink since year one. It’s been there through my academic journey, study sessions, heartbreak—”

“Heartbreak? And as if you study.”

He freezes. “Figure of speech. And I do actually study! I’m literally at the top of the school, duh. Anyway, I just think we should stage a protest. Or a petition. At the very least a boycott. Don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is a matter of integrity.”

You laugh, fully now. “You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet you continue to spend time with me. Tragic,” he sighs, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes like a distressed poet.

“Of course, you’re my Satoru. My bestfriend. I think you’re fun.” You say, nudging his shoulder.

His breath hitches. My. My. My. My. I’m malfunctioning. Help. I have to play it off. He peeks at you from under his arm, expression unreadable for a second too long.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

A breeze passes. His arm drops. He looks at you like he wants to say something else—something real, something not about soda—but instead he just hums, the corners of his lips tugging up faintly.

“Then I guess I’ll keep being fun.”

You snort. “You do that, Toru.”

He looks at you again. Toru.

God, why does that sound like a problem now?

Satoru thinks he’s going insane.

No—scratch that. He knows he’s going insane.

Because how the hell is he supposed to finish this thesis when he hears your laugh in his head like it’s been hardwired into his brain? Every time his fingers hit the keys, he hears it—bright, familiar, cutting through the silence of the lounge like some parasitic melody that’s made a home in the corners of his mind and refuses to leave.

And no, it isn’t even just for today. You’ve been haunting every inch of his mind for how many weeks now, and he can’t—with all his intelligence—figure out why. You’re all he thinks about as soon as he wakes up, brushing his teeth and even on the way to campus. He should resent you for creeping in the depths of his mind but he won’t. He can’t.

You’re sitting across from him in the school lounge, sitting with your legs criss-crossed on the couch, headphones in, nodding along to whatever music you’re listening to, occasionally smiling at your screen like it said something funny. You’re doing nothing. And yet. Why? How? How are you tormenting him like this?

He grits his teeth, fingers smashing across the keyboard in a hurry, before backspacing for the nth time. He’s written the same sentence three times and erased it three times because halfway through typing “The prevalence of fast-food consumption..” his brain replaces it with “Are you hungry? Are you comfortable?”or “why are you laughing like that?” or “you’re so.. knskqjsownakakq” and he malfunctions.

He’s doomed. He knows he’s completely, utterly doomed.

“Hi, Satoru!” A high pitched voice says. Annoying. He slowly looked up from his laptop, seeing a familiar girl smiling shyly at him. She looks familiar. Meh. Probably one of the girls he flirted with before.

“What’s up?”

“Wanna go.. get dinner later?” If he was the same Satoru 4 weeks ago, before you were haunting him, he would say yes. He would say, sure babe, with a matching wink. But now.. now he finds himself glancing over your direction.

He finds you staring at him with an unreadable expression on your face. You meet his eyes as you raise your eyebrow, tilting your head to the girl before going back on your phone.

Satoru feels his throat dry up.

The girl was still waiting. Looking at him like he was the goddamn sun. And yeah, he was used to that. People looking at him like he was untouchable, like saying yes was a given, like they already knew the answer. Because he would actually say yes back then.

But now.. he glances at you.

And for some reason, now, the thought of disappointing you—even just a little—suddenly made his chest ache.

“Nah. Busy.”

He could hear the disappointed whimper of the girl, but he could care less as he went back on to looking at his laptop again. Occasionally stealing glances at you. Satoru couldn’t resist the small smile on his lips, his heart fond of just looking at you. He didn’t understand it—not really. He didn’t have the words or the framework or the damn thesis title that could explain why watching you scroll on your phone made him feel like he was home.

But maybe he’d embrace it.

“Toru,” you giggled, “Look at this. Come.”

“What is it?” He grinned, standing up, but not before deleting the tab.

TAB I. heart does backflips whenever you’re near somebody hELP ME GOOGLE

Deleting…

“Is it a silly cat video, again?” He sighed in exasperation, but it was filled with fondness. He playfully pushed you to give him space on the couch as he plopped beside you, leaning in, giving no regards to your personal space as he watched the Tiktok.

The warmth of your shoulder against his. The way your laugh vibrated through your chest, so close he could feel it. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just reacting. Just existing next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then you both looked up at the same time.

Face to face.

So close that your breaths tangled in the air between you. Your eyes widened just a little, and his mouth parted like he was about to say something—anything—but nothing came out.

He could see all the details on your face. Your mascara, smudged just slightly under your lashes from hours of wear. The color of your eyes—he never realized they had those flecks of color near the center. The way your pupils dilated just a fraction as you stared back at him.

Even under the mascara, he could count your eyelashes. He could see the way your eyebrow twitched, ever so slightly that he doubted you even noticed. Do you see me too? The words were on top of his tongue, but somehow, he had no strength to say nor whisper it.

Do you see me too? He wonders what you’re thinking about right now. Are you counting his lashes? Do you see the details of his blue eyes? Do you see how his eyes dilate when he looks at you? (Even though he can’t directly see it, he knows. He knows, knows, knows.)

He could see the way your lips parted in surprise, feel the heat rising in his ears again, and for the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what the hell he was supposed to do.

His ears were warm, so warm that he could feel the warmth radiating from them. His heart had twisted, backflipped, cartwheeled into different directions all at once.

A beat passed. Neither of you moved.

His gaze dropped, unconsciously, to the curve of your lips. Soft. Dangerous. He swallowed hard. He flickered his gaze back to your eyes.

God. You were so close. He could just—

You blinked, a small breath escaping you—and it brushed against his cheek. His heart stuttered.

He didn’t understand this. Not really. But suddenly, understanding felt like the least important thing in the world. It was the least important thing when he’s this close to you. He can see the fine hairs near your temple, the tiny scar on your cheek when a cat scratched you—he remembered that day. He remembered taking a picture and laughing at you, but he also remembered putting a band-aid on top of it, sending you funny memes later that night to cheer you up.

He didn’t understand this shit. All he knew was that he really wanted to fucking kiss you.

If I move even an inch, I’ll kiss her.

And worse—I want to.

Then—

Your phone buzzed, making you both jolt and immediately pull back, laughter spilling between you like it had to make up for the tension.

“Jesus,” you laughed, voice strained. “That scared me.”

“Yeah,” he coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Totally.”

You like Gojo Satoru.

There’s no use pretending. No dramatic denial, no inner monologue trying to convince yourself otherwise. You like him. With all his chaotic charm, razor-sharp wit, stupidly perfect face, and that rare, fleeting softness he only shows when no one’s looking.

Who wouldn’t?

You fell for him. Slowly, then all at once. Not because he was untouchable or because everyone else seemed to want him—but because when he laughed, really laughed, you felt like the world made a little more sense. You saw how he offered you his umbrella in the rain even though he was the one sneezing the day after. How he shared his last kikifuku mochi like it was some divine offering.

You fell for the late-night talks. The ones that started with memes and ended with “Do you think we’ll still be friends when we’re old and grey?”

You fell for how he remembered the smallest things. Your favorite snack. That one show you loved 3 years ago. The way you like your coffee. The way you don’t like bugs or anything remotely small and crawling.

And even though you knew he was too flirty, flirting with everyone in the goddamn campus, you still stayed. Even as he leans too close to some girl in the hallway, says something dumb and flirtatious just to make her giggle. When he winks across the cafeteria and it’s not for you.

You still stayed.

Stayed as his best friend. Because being his best friend was better than being nothing at all.

“He likes you!” Shoko groaned, rolling her eyes as she played with her food. You both were in the cafeteria, getting lunch when suddenly she brought up Satoru. “I swear to god, if I have to watch him stare at you with that love sick look on his face one more time—”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Ieri, he literally flirts with the student librarian. He calls her sweetheart. You think that guy likes me?” He flirts with everyone. I doubt he even knows what love is.

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you trust me? Yes that guy—who didn’t show up to his thesis presentation because of your period cramps. That guy who buys an extra bottle of your favorite drink and pretends it was an ‘extra.’ That guy who literally forgets his own birthday but remembered the exact date of your friendship anniversary and bought you a box filled with gifts. Yeah. That guy likes you.”

You looked away, focusing instead on peeling the corner of your bread like it was the most important task in the world. “That doesn’t mean he likes me. He’s just… like that. He’s sweet. He cares. That’s what he does.”

“Sweet?” Shoko snorted, “He fucking told Suguru his haircut was ugly and that it was a cry for help. He laughed out loud for 10 minutes.”

You tried not to smile. “Okay, yeah, that was kinda uncalled for.”

She leaned forward, tone softening. “Listen. I’m not saying he’s easy to read. Because he’s not. But he’s obvious with you.”

You looked at her. “But I’m just his best friend.”

“Exactly,” Shoko said. “And it’s always the best friend.”

Right. Right. In these cases, wasn’t it always the best friend who ended up with the main character? The one that’s been supporting them and being with them silently. Reassuringly. For God knows how long. You laugh bitterly in your head, as if. As if this was a movie plot. This was your life. But still.. You let the silence hang between you both for a beat too long. Because part of you wanted to believe her. Part of you wanted to take every accidental brush of his hand, every too-long glance, was filed under something more than friendship.

Yeah. Maybe there is a chance.

“Maybe,” You laugh, eyes crinkling up before you paused mid-bite, as your eyes flicked across the cafeteria—and then froze.

There he was.

The bane of your existence but also the love of your life albeit unrequited. Gojo Satoru, with that lopsided grin and messy hair he never bothered to fix unless someone told him to, standing near the vending machines. Talking to someone.

Your eyes flickered to the girl standing in front of him. You feel Shoko follow your line of sight from the corner of your eye but you don’t pay any attention to it, you can’t. Not when he was laughing. That laugh. That stupid, genuine, crinkly-eyed laugh that you used to think he only gave to you.

You watched as he offered her a drink from the vending machine. A citrus soda.

“They’ve replaced the lemon soda with some abomination called ‘citrus sparkle’ and it tastes like disappointment and floor cleaner. I’m serious, I think it gave me an existential crisis earlier.”

He said something dramatic, complete with flailing hands and a look of exaggerated betrayal. The girl laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth.

And you knew.

You knew what he said. You’ve heard him say it.

You aren’t as important as you thought. The voices in your head whisper, and suddenly the wounds of unrequited feelings hit you harder more than ever. It stings. Like someone poured salt on it. You thought it was your own little inside joke huh? Hah, as if.

You tore your eyes away before the ache in your chest turned into something visible. Your throat felt dry. You reached for your drink just to keep your hands busy. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Shoko didn’t say anything, but you knew she saw it too.

And she knew—because she sighed softly, nudging your plate a little closer like that would somehow anchor you back.

“I told you,” you murmured, eyes glued to the table. “He’s just like that. With everyone.”

“I still stand with what I said.” Shoko murmurs back, taking a bite of her food.

You don’t say anything.

Gojo Satoru leans back against the fence, eating a piece of kikufuku mochi, grimacing at the taste.

“Ugh,” He spat it out, throwing the packaging at a nearby trash can. “This brand sucks. They didn’t have the usual,”

“I told you it was disgusting,” Suguru voiced out, not bothering to look up as he played a game on his phone.

“Well, I don’t trust you. Especially with sweets. But I guess you were right this time,” Satoru grumbles, “It sucked. Fucking betrayal in the form of mochi. I miss my usual brand,”

Shoko raises an eyebrow from her spot beside him, pulling out a lighter to spark her cigarette. “You’re such a drama queen. You probably hoarded your usual brand and that’s why they’re out of stock.”

“I’m passionate,” he corrects, pointing a finger at her lazily.

“Sure,” she says dryly. She takes a slow drag and exhales. “Speaking of passions—when are you going to admit you’re in love with her?”

Suguru snorted.

He chokes. Actually chokes. Coughs into his sleeve like she just announced his funeral. The fuck? Unprovoked?

“What?” he gapes, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “Who?”

Shoko gives him the flattest look known to mankind. “Don’t play dumb. You know who.”

He scoffs. “I’m not in love with her. Jesus, Shoko. She’s my best friend. My best friend.”

Love? He cackles at the idea. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do love.

Not because he’s running from it, but because he’s never really known what it feels like. He’s familiar with affection. That, he is a pro of. He knows how to charm, to tease, how to say all the right things to make someone laugh or blush or fall a little too fast. But love? The deep, shattering, love that he knows from the movies? Loving someone unconditionally? It’s not that he’s cold, or incapable. It’s just… foreign. Like a language he never learned. People say you just know when you’re in love. That it hits you out of nowhere, that it’s clear. But Satoru doesn’t know what that’s supposed to feel like.

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

“I just—care about her. Deeply. As a friend. A very important, high-priority, top-tier—platonic—friend. Like with you guys.”

“You’re fucking hopeless,” Suguru pitched, laughing with that infuriating voice of his. Satoru feels the urge to smack the back of his head but fortunately, he doesn’t act on his urge.

“Do you even know what a crush feels like?” Shoko stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

“A crush?

“Yeah. That fluttery, stupid, irritating feeling in your chest when someone’s around. When you look for them in a crowd without meaning to. When their name sounds different in your head. You know… a crush.” She said it slowly, like she was explaining basic math to a toddler.

“Well..” Satoru chewed his inner cheek, “I like people.. sometimes. ‘Specially pretty people, I guess.”

He thinks of you.

“That’s not the same,” Shoko said, huffed, “Liking someone because they’re pretty or smart or fun isn’t the same as catching feelings.”

Satoru raised a brow. “Catching feelings,” he echoed, like the phrase was foreign.

“Damn, so you’re saying with all the women you get, you’ve never actually catched feelings for any of them?” Suguru snorted, shaking his head.

Catching feelings.. He absentmindedly hums. Has he ever catched feelings? He has flirted, teased, women, gorgeous gorgeous women—hell he has kissed a few but he never felt that tight feeling in his chest. Or that weird fluttery thing Shoko is talking about. He doesn't look for anyone in a crowd.

Suddenly, his mind wanders to you. The way his eyes immediately zooms in your figure whenever you’re around in a crowd, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way you roll them at his antics but still always save him a seat. The way your name sits differently in his head, softer somehow.

His lips press into a line.

“Yes, Satoru. Catching feelings.” Shoko snapped him out of it as she groaned, “Do you not realize what’s happening? With her? The way you look at her?”

His jaw tightened, just slightly. “I just care about her, okay? She’s my best friend.”

“Dude, there's nothing wrong with falling in love with your bestfriend. Why are you deep in denial?” Suguru groaned, “Fuck this game,” He scoffs, turning his phone off.

Shoko leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Right. Bestfriend. Look over there,”

Satoru snaps his head, his eyes instinctively flicking over to your figure. There you are. His chest immediately bursts into.. fondness, but it dies down as quick. Because there you are. Talking to some guy. Tall, decent-looking, too comfortable for Gojo’s liking. He can’t hear what the guy’s saying, but you’re laughing again, hand gently touching the guy’s arm.

Something snaps in his chest. His heart. But unlike the other times when he’s with you, it’s not doing cartwheels nor backflipping in multiple directions. This.. doesn’t seem pleasant.

He frowns. His jaw clenches.

Why does it feel like his lungs forgot how to expand?

“Still think it’s just friendship?”

You were curled up on your bed, blanket tangled around your legs, face contorted in a mixture of pain and annoyance. Heat pack pressed tightly against your abdomen, you were barely able to focus on the messages flooding your phone.

“Fuuuuck,” you groan, clutching your abdomen as you curl up on your bed. This fucking sucks. You grab your phone, eyes blinking and trying to focus on the messages. Satoru.

[toru <3 : on my way.]

[toru <3: u want ice cream orrr]

[toru <3: what do u want other than icecream]

[toru <3: my treat 🤑🤑]

You squinted at your screen.

[You: didn’t u have ur thesis presentation today????]

[You: wtf go focus. gl]

[toru <3: otw lol just stay there]

[You: be fr rn. dont.]

[You: hELLLOOO? reply]

[You: holy shit dont come]

[You: ok ure not replying i hope thats bc youre focusing on UR PRESENTATION!!!]

[You: im ok bruh istg]

No reply.

And then, a knock. Three taps, light and rhythmic.

You didn’t even have time to sit up before your door creaked open and there he was—Gojo Satoru, holding a bag of snacks, two lemon sodas and what suspiciously looked like a plushie shaped like a uterus. He walked in like he owned the place, kicked off his shoes, and dropped everything on your desk before coming over.

“What the fuck-“ you rasped, sitting up, “Didn’t you have your thesis presentation today?!”

“Reschedulable,” he said nonchalantly, already pulling your chair beside the bed and sitting down. “You, however, looked like you were about to wage war on your own organs.”

“That’s because I am,” you gritted out, clutching your stomach, “Still! Holy shit, go back right now, I can feed myself.”

“You’re in pain. So I’m here. Duh.”

“So?! You skipped your thesis presentation for me?!” You screeched, debating on whether to throw a pillow to his face or bawl your eyes out.

He shrugged, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at you. “It’s not like I can let my best girl suffer alone while I talk about.. well. My thesis. Besides,” He leaned in slightly. “You sounded like you were crying earlier. That kinda overrides all academic responsibility.”

You blink. And before you know it, before you can help it, your face has slowly turned red. You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

My best girl. My best girl. My best girl. My best girl. My best girl. My best girl. My best girl. My best girl. Mybestgirlmybestgirlmybestgirl—

“You good?” He brings a hand to your forehead, “You look red. Flushed. Don’t tell me you also have a fever,”

He was so unfair. So fucking unfair. You looked away, throat tightening. Why say that shit and don’t mean it?

“I’m fine.”

“Mhm.. I brought lemon soda. And ice cream. And, uh…” He held up the plushie. “This little uterus guy because I thought he might help you emotionally, or something.”

You stared at the plush, then at him. “You are actually insane.”

“I prefer ‘endearingly selfless,’” he grinned.

You shook your head, the smallest smile threatening to form. “You shouldn’t have skipped, Toru. Really.”

He was absurd. Irresponsible. Unbelievably dramatic. But in that moment, all you could feel was warmth—a strange, fluttering warmth that had nothing to do with the heat pack on your stomach.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“Haaahh?” He grinned widely, a glint in his eyes as he leaned even closer, “What’d you say? Say it again, I didn’t hear. You said thank you? Wow! Say it again. Am I dreaming?”

“Fuckface!” You pushed his head away, not making eye contact with him. Because God knows that if you did, you would’ve fallen in love even more. And that was dangerous.

You were already falling so hard.

“Ugh,” You groaned, skimming through the papers of your thesis. “These fuckass groupmates.”

Your room is quiet except for the soft rustle of papers and the occasional frustrated sigh you let out.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, a thick stack of thesis drafts spread out around you like a paper battlefield. Red ink stains the corners of your notes, your highlighter is uncapped and dying, and your group mates are currently the number one reason you’re considering changing majors.

Satoru is on your bed, sprawled out like he owns the place. He’s flipping through one of your pillows like it might entertain him, long legs dangling off the edge, hair a mess from the way he’s been turning over and over like a restless kid.

“You need better pillows,” he says absentmindedly, voice muffled into the fabric.

“You need to go home,” You roll your eyes, fingers flipping through the pages, “You can’t exactly insult my pillows when you’re laying on top of it.”

He chuckles, the sound light and aimless. “You love my company.”

You don’t reply—just glare down at a sentence so poorly structured it makes you genuinely angry. ‘The qualitative data was analyzed in a manner that is significant to the research aim, showing results that may be indicative of patterns which can be observed over time’ Be so fucking for real. Word salad. Did they just jumble words together and hope for the best?

You flip through another page with more force than necessary.

Then, out of nowhere:

“Hey,” he says, softer.

You glance over your shoulder. “Hm?”

He’s lying on his side now, head propped on one hand, the other playing with the edge of your blanket. His gaze isn’t on you—it’s on the ceiling, distant and thoughtful. Unusual for him.

“Have you ever felt like…” He pauses. “Like something’s wrong with you because you don’t know what you’re feeling?”

The question lands heavier than you expect.

You swallow, “What kind of feeling?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, brows furrowed. “It’s not bad. Just… weird. Like my chest gets tight for no reason. And I look for someone without realizing it. And it’s like—when they talk, everything else just fades out.”

You press your lips together. There’s no name, but your mind wanders to the pretty girl he was talking with at the cafeteria. How he laughed, laughing like he does with you. Your heart sinks.

You know that feeling all too well. You feel it when he’s with you.

“That sounds like a crush,” you say lightly, careful to keep your voice from cracking.

He hums thoughtfully. “Shoko said the same thing.”

You force a smile, eyes scanning your paper without reading a single word. “Well, sounds like she’s right.”

You know Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t do crushes, nor love. You know him, too well. He’s interwoven in your soul and you can figure him out like a basic math problem. I guess that’s why it hurts, you think. Hearing him struggle to understand this feeling, realizing it’s real and meant for someone—someone who isn’t you—it hurts like hell. Because you know he’s never liked anyone before. Not like this. And now, for the first time, he actually does. But it’s not for you.

“I don’t really get it,” he continues, unaware of how still you’ve gone. “Like, I flirt with people. A lot. But this doesn’t feel like that. It’s not about how they look or what they say. It’s just… being near them feels different.”

You want to ask. You want to look up and say who? But the question stays lodged in your throat, too scared of the answer. The open wound of unrequited love stings. It’s throbbing. You want to wince, to let the tears fall out but you can’t.

Instead, you nod, flipping a page you don’t see. “Yeah. That’s a crush.”

There’s a long silence.

He sits up slowly, eyes flicking toward you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“Have you ever felt that way?” he asks.

This time, it’s your breath that catches. Your hands are still on the edge of the paper.

You finally glance at him, and he’s watching you now. Closely.

And you wonder—just for a second—if he’s asking you something else entirely.

“…Yeah,” you whisper, and you wonder if he hears the way your voice shakes.

Satoru just nods, almost like he’s relieved you understand.

And you wonder how someone so brilliant can still be this oblivious.

[You: IERI I’m SO FUCKED]

[ieri the loml: ?]

[You: he likes someone. im sure of it. he has a crush. yk that right. he told me u said the same thing]

[ieri the loml: yea]

[ieri the loml: did he tell u who it was

[You: NO but holy shit i feel so.. sad]

[You: i feel like its the girl we saw at the cafeteria ughhh]

[You: he was looking at her like she hung the STARS]

[You: i can do that too :/]

[You: whatever im gonna move on. REAL THIS TIME hahaha fuck this shittt]

[You: he doesnt do crushes! nor love!! i know him!!! so it hurts even more bc he now likes someone!! HE LOOKED SO INLOVE IERI I SWEAR]

[You: hellooooo do u have anything to say]

[You: comfort me pls]

[You: i dont wanna look at his stupid face anymore]

[You: ok im lying i still do]

[ieri the loml: wow that fucking idiot]

[You: ??????]

Gojo Satoru has finally realized something.

He likes you.

Not in the easy, casual way he’s used to. Not the harmless, flirt-and-move-on kind of interest he’s thrown at a dozen others. No—this one’s different. It’s uncomfortable. It lingers. It aches in quiet moments.

He doesn’t know when it started. Maybe it was that day you fell asleep beside him mid-rant, and he just sat there, watching your lashes flutter in your dreams. Maybe it was the way you always saw through him, even when he was hiding behind jokes. Maybe when you scolded him when he skipped his exams, just because.

He can still hear your voice.

“You stupid idiot! You skipped your exams just because?! Huh?! Well just because you’re the top fucking student and the university favors you doesn’t mean you can just— just do whatever you want! That exam was important, oh my god—“

He chuckles.

He doesn’t really get it. He really doesn’t. Not fully, atleast. The way his chest tightens when you smile, or how his ears go hot when your hand accidentally brushes his. How his brain just short circuits when you say something kind. Or worse—when you’re quiet, and he finds himself staring, admiring the little details on your face. He has done that so many times he thinks he can draw your face from memory.

He’s never done feelings. Never caught them. He thought he was immune.

But now?

Now he’s losing sleep thinking about you. Not in a desperate, obsessive way. He wasn’t a goddamn creep, but in that soft, terrifying way where you creep into his thoughts at the strangest times. Like when he hears a song you’d like, or when he passes by a store and thinks, they’d love that.

So this is what it feels like.

He hums, glancing at you. The park was quiet at midnight, cloaked in that rare kind of stillness only late hours could bring. The sky was deep blue, borderline black. Speckled with stars barely visible, and the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the occasional zooooom of cars.

You were seated on the swings, gently rocking back and forth, your sneakers barely skimming the dirt. Satoru stood nearby, leaning against the metal frame. The glow from a streetlamp a fee feet away cast soft shadows across his face. He sighed, pushing himself from the frame and walked to the bench.

“Sit with me,” he says.

“Hm? Okay?”

He hears the tilt in your head, he knows you’re tilting your head even when he has his back facing you. He knew you all too well. He doesn’t hear the creak of the swings anymore, and he knows you’ve stopped. He hears your footsteps and he sits down, spreading his legs wide. You glance at him, before sitting down beside him. He can feel the heat of your body next to his.

He never meant for this to happen.

His eyes glance to your thighs before flickering back to the moonlight. God, he was fucked.

No, this was never part of the plan.

He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking until he hears his own voice, low and unsteady:

“I think I like you.”

The words hang in the air, and for the first time in a long time, he feels exposed. Fuck, say something. The usually confident Satoru, the Satoru who answers algebra questions in under a minute, the Satoru, top of his university, the Satoru, who carries his group in all of his research and thesis, the Satoru, who, for the first time in his life, feels his hand sweat.

He hears your breath hitch and fuck, he wants to run. He wants to play it off. Say he’s joking. That you heard wrong. But he can’t. He won’t. Not this time.

Because suddenly, all the late nights and inside jokes and the way he remembers your coffee order without trying—it all adds up. This equation is clear.

He ignores your look, still gazing at the stars above. “I think I’ve been liking you for a while. I just didn’t know that’s what it was.”

Satoru expects you to laugh, or a disbelieving ‘hah?!’, or hit him on the shoulder. But instead, you’re quiet. That scares him more than anything. His heart’s pounding, his palms are sweating, and he wants to disappear—but he forces himself to stay, because this is the first time he’s being honest in a long, long time.

He sees you stand up from the corner in his eye, and his heart leaps out of his throat. Are you leaving? Fuck. Fuck—

But before he could dissolve into an overthinking puddle, before he could have an existential crisis, he finds himself staring at your eyes. He blinks. You were standing now. Infront of him. Looking down at him as he sits down.

“You said it wrong.”

Your voice is quiet, but it slices through the air like a blade.

Satoru blinks, startled. “What?”

You take a breath. “You said ‘I think I like you.’”

Another pause. Your gaze doesn’t waver. “But you don’t think, Satoru. You do. You do everything at full force. So don’t half-ass this.”

The breath he didn’t know he was holding escapes in a shallow exhale. His lips part—words caught in the knot in his throat.

You grab his hands, fondling with his fingers. His heart stutters as you pull him up to stand. His hands are trembling.

“You don’t need to be sure about everything all the time,” you murmur, squeezing his hand, “but when it’s me… when it’s this… I want you to mean it.”

His eyes finally meet yours. Wide, open, terrified.

So he swallows, shaky and raw, and says again—louder this time, more certain:

“I like you.”

Fuck it, he yanks his hand from your grip and instead brings both of them to your face — warm, trembling slightly. His thumbs brush your cheeks. Your breath catches.

“I like you, and it’s stupid and scary and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he breathes, leaning forward.

“I’ve flirted with a dozen people,” Satoru admits. “Laughed with them, kissed some. None of it felt like anything. Just noise.” He pauses, “But you… you’re different. And I didn’t know how to name it. Not until recently.”

You exhale. He can’t tell if you’re relieved or scared. Maybe both. God knows he is.

“I started looking for you everywhere,” he continues, the words spilling now, like a dam breaking. “In crowds. In hallways. I noticed how I can’t stop listening when you talk, even when I pretend I’m not. And when you’re not around, I just…”

“I just miss you. Fuck, it’s always been you. Unconsciously, you.”

“Say it again,” you murmur, “but without thinking too hard.”

“I like you.”

You smile, and he thinks, Beautiful, “Good.”

He doesn’t even look at the stars anymore.

Just you. Your eyes are more beautiful than the entire milky way out there.

“I like you too, idiot,” you whisper, and when you lean in—when his lips finally meet yours—his heart bursts.

Under the cold midnight sky, Gojo Satoru finally lets himself fall.

[fatuismooches]

Rooibos tea with pantalone??? ASCENDING 🙏🙏

rooibos tea; what’s their favourite thing to do with their s/o?

It’s hard to pinpoint what Pantalone’s favorite thing to do with you is.

After all, when you’re someone who has as much wealth as Regrator does, you’re most likely at no loss for activities to do. Despite the sentiment being debated, money does, in fact, buy happiness.

Starting from the classic, shopping. Actually, scratch that. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t really go shopping with your husband. Rather, he is the one who shops by himself (for you) because whenever you two go out together, your poor heart aches for the agents that need to transport all of the clothes, accessories, jewelry, and a multitude of other items back to the mansion. Not to mention, you don’t even need these things. Of course, you’ve tried to stop him, mainly by holding both of his hands hostage so he can’t pull out a check. But then you later find your closet has some new additions within the next few days anyway.

The Harbinger does not understand the concept of window shopping either, unfortunately. Pantalone claims that it’s good for the Snezhnayan economy, which you’re sure has some truth to it, but you’re also sure it’s a way to appease your scolding instead. Of course, you appreciate how sweet he is, but you’d just rather have an agent buy anything you need instead. However, he proceeds to get pouty whenever he finds out you “went behind his back”. You think he’s being silly since he gave you your own bank account with an unfathomable amount of Mora for a reason. 

Putting that aside, the shopping is just a prerequisite to the actual activity you two do together, which is none other than dressing you up with the things he bought. It’s very obvious that he enjoys seeing the fruits of his labor being spent on his dearest beloved, specifically in physical form. It is one of the most important uses of his overflowing funds!

Although technically this is supposed to be relaxing, the banker can be surprisingly strict. Pantalone has a very good sense of fashion, most likely due to all his experience being in the public spotlight. Prepare to be fussed over about which clothes match with what accessories and shoes, and spending ages creating just one outfit (which you will wear as his partner to the next gathering). 

“Pantalone, I’ve been posing like this for at least fifteen minutes! Can I sit down?!”

“Just a bit longer, my love. This angle truly brings out your beauty,” Pantalone always says as he circles around you, holding an item up to you and squinting at your frame. Sometimes you wonder if this is tiring for him, but you guess not because he is very enthusiastic about this…

But another activity you two rather frequently partake in is the simple act of shared meals. Yes, his work as a Harbinger keeps him busy, but you two still spend a pretty good amount of time together (maybe that one other Harbinger should take notes). And what other way to do so than by eating together? The banker truly believes that sharing an exquisite meal while chatting with his beloved is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

Though he never says anything, perhaps the reason he is so fond of doing this with you is how contrasting it is with his own childhood. A meal used to be hard to find. It used to be tasteless and unable to be savored, a lonesome thing. And yet now, your presence makes everything worthwhile, even if it’s just food.

“Come now, ‘Lone, open wide!” You attempted to spoon-feed him some of the unwanted vegetables left on your plate.

“Very well,” he chuckled and let you feed him, happy to play along with you. Even though Pantalone now had refined tastes, he could eat practically anything. “Now then, it’s your turn.” You were always unable to escape from his clutches, unfortunately.

Ah, but you two do enjoy the arts from time to time, namely, plays and the like. In fact, the Ninth even funds some performances that catch his eye occasionally. It is something rather nice to indulge in sometimes, mostly with you as his company. Of course, anything that the Harbinger attends is always bound to draw crowds and gossip, which he doesn’t mind. If anything, as possessive as he is, he enjoys the compliments directed at you. Anyone with eyes can surely recognize the priceless treasure he was fortunate enough to procure - a treasure so lovely, but so out of reach, that none other would dare to touch.

“You know, that character reminds me of you. Ambitious, mischievous, intelligent, cute, handsome…”

“Dearest, I’m not sure whether to be pleased you think I’m handsome and cute, or bothered by you calling another man those things.”

But as much as Pantalone deeply enjoys these moments of bonding, it would probably be inaccurate to claim any of them as his favorite. So then, what would one of the wealthiest individuals in Teyvat most enjoy doing with his lover? It’s a curious question indeed.

Well, to put it in Pantalone’s wording, it all comes down to the concept of “fair exchange” once again, only that it gets a bit twisted since it has to do with his lovely spouse after all.

Regrator is a man who manipulates others and the flow of money with ease, goals and plans so great that it’s unsettling, and a mind so sly and intricate that anyone would be frightened to go against him.

And yet he, too, possesses a heart fueled by resentment.

Though Pantalone would never dare to reveal a potential weakness in front of others (unless it was on purpose to lure others into traps), he still grapples with this hatred contained deep in his heart. Every day, he walks high and mighty, his previous status still lingering behind him. A perfectly forced smile that doesn’t seem forced to the average person’s eyes. And there’s a reason why he seldom shows others his eyes - they would show his sheer disdain for them.

So, how does he balance these unruly emotions?

Well, it wasn’t uncommon for your husband to take a break from his duties in the middle of them from time to time. Sometimes, he even visited you. This was one such time, but you just knew from his demeanor that he wasn’t feeling himself.

“Come here,” you urge him with your arms spread wide. Without words, Pantalone lets himself be wrapped up by you and nuzzles into your warmth (despite him already donning that huge coat of his). It was a bit silly for him to feel so validated from the mere act of you hugging and holding him close, but he truly loved it. He feels that you really do understand him.

“… Want me to talk your ears off?” You suggest, knowing that Pantalone rarely ever wants to open up all that much, especially when he was heading right back into the world that cast him out soon after. And so, he likes it when you talk instead. You have a talent for making a genuine smile quirk up on his face, which is something he admires. 

When you murmur your husband’s real name and press kisses alongside his neck, he lets you. He relaxes in your embrace and lets your comforting soul do the rest. This, he thinks, is what he’s rewarded with. Being able to be comforted by you is what he desires.

Despite the radio silence that the Gods had given him, they surely didn’t anticipate him receiving a gift as spectacular as you. He’ll take it - take you - over and over again as an exchange for his past, and never let you go.

It is probably an unsatisfactory answer, compared to the mountain of other exciting things he can do with you. But Pantalone has never cared, since you are the only one who can balance the scales of his heart and the world.

[rosakuma]

Why YOU should vote for Ninomiya Youhei for the first student spotlight of Tetro Blue(when it comes out)

Okay okay I know what you’re thinking here. “Rosa…Tetro Blue not even out and we haven’t even seen the rest of the cast…WHY ARE YOU PROMOTING YOUHEI TO GET THE FIRST SPOTLIGHT!?” or “Rosa he already had a spotlight in Okazaki’s spotlight!”

To that I say WELL EXCUSEEEEEE ME PRINCESS BUT I GOT REASONS WHY WE SHOULD MAKE HIM THE FIRST SPOTLIGHT!

Besides I'm also trying not to be bias in promoting Ouno Nanae first just because I became very interested in her because we don't know much about her compare to Ninomiya.

Anyways~ So why should we once Tetro Blue comes out make Ninomiya Youhei the first student spotlight of Tetro Blue?

Points:

Point 1# We know the most about him: Okay so knowing the most about him would make him less likely to be picked right? WRONG! This just gives us more material to ask him personally on topics we already know about him thanks to Hanano. We can ask him about his parents, his drug use, his home, his lack of commitment, his cowardice, his diabetes, his relationship with Hanano etc. Sure, Hanano answered most of these for him, but that’s the thing. Its from her perspective. For all we know, Youhei might actually have a different answer to these questions or maybe go more in detail. Its different from getting it from an outsider than the source about something, so this is the perfect opportunity to.

Point 2# He’s student number 2: Its silly I know, but hear me out…I think it would be funny if we make it a trend where student 2# gets pick for the first student spotlight of every Tetro season. Harada got picked first during session one and his student number was 2. So if we want to keep up the pattern, we gotta make Youhei the first interviewee.

Point 3# His relationship with Okazaki: So with what we know from studentside and staffside a little. We know that Youhei is Okazaki’s roommate she ended crashing at his house after she burn down her van house. Their relationship was…intimate and he seemed to know and vibe with her super villain persona. So having some questions to get to know what he thinks of her with no worries now of her ever finding out what he’s saying, this would be a great opportunity to do so! Especially when you take in the info Hanano gave us with him “Having a hard time to committment”, “Nobody he would kill for” and “romantic relationships that only last a month”. This could be true as maybe he shared with her about how hard it is for him to find someone he wants to stay with knowing how he no longer has any connects with his family anymore. Not to mention he did have Okazaki as a romantic partner. Or this might be entirely true on Hanano���s part and she just assumed from her perspective that he was just afraid of making new friends or staying in relationships(this could apply to theirs as well). Another important point to this is knowing how the students were actually gone for 9 months instead of just one month. We could get some information on what time and month it was when Okazaki disappeared and hopefully Youhei(like Harada) remembers a little bit of what he was doing before he got kidnapped. Along with how he was doing handling Hanano’s disappearance.

Point 4# His talent: Obviously we gotta ask him about his talent! Along with how it correlates to his lifestyle. We know that Youhei is rebellious and has a punk sort of lifestyle. Very different from his parents and most likely created from how his parents treated him. But what is confusing is how he plays violin, an instrument that is usually considered elegance and sophisticated. This seems more like something from his lifestyle when he was with his parents right? So did he ended up playing violin because of them? And if so, does he still play it out of enjoyment he has for it despite how his parents force him to take it? Or does it resent it, possibly hating it now and even more now being given the talent of “Ulitimate Violinist”.

Point 5# He might die: Okay I know it really depends on the signs during ch.1 whenever we see it and us knowing how it was during Tetro Pink, we all grown to now see the potential death flags early and also how to do student interviews a bit better(Hama’s is still hilarious though). With Youhei, as much I hope he lives longer and even becomes a survivor. That’s is not a guarantee and I’m unsure if he’ll be on the chopping block early due to his having the biggest known connection to Tetro Pink being Okazaki’s roommate. So best to be safe than sorry in my opinion to at least try to get him a student interview early rather than risk it of waiting for future chapters. Not to mention even if he doesn't die in ch.1 and we have another chance in ch.2, we don’t know if any of those special events might happen that prevents a student from attending a spotlight(ex. Wada in ch.1, Hiroaki in ch.2 post ice fairy I think, Hayashi in ch.3 after she got teleported and beaten up, and the example we did get that happen to us Ojima Takeshi ch.4 student interview). So idk Youhei might explode or get beaten up in ch.2 so let’s get him an interview early!

Andddd that’s all the points I have for him. I might either reblog this for promotion or make a part two of it once ch.1 of Tetro Blue is out. But I hope this stays in y’all minds as we wait for Tetro Blue to come out. See you until Tetro Blue for promoting our favs to get voted!

Also vote for Ninomiya or THE PHANTOM THIEF OF NAGOYA WILL RETURN FROM THEIR GRAVE TO HAUNT YOU KONKONKON~!

[shepscapades]

Hiii Shep! I've started finally listening to your DBHC playlists and I have a couple reactions for you! The first is that I should let Derivakat change my brain chemistry, actually. And CG5. And everyone involved with Panorama. And—*gets shaken*

Ahem. Second is that villain songs are always the best, and apparently that extends to villain playlists, because I have NOT stopped playing 24's playlist repeatedly since I first listened to it, and I will not stop anytime soon, thank you. It scratches my brain so good <3

Third is that aside from Panorama, Xisuma and Android 24 also share Breathe by Mother Mother and Ego by daysormay. I can see why 24 gets Ego, but can I ask why Xisuma also gets it? And do why they share Breathe? Or do they both have it for separate reasons? (Like, perhaps, when 24 got sent into a coughing fit on April Fools ….)

Tldr; thank you for making these playlists because they are so good and they've reactivated the writing itch in my brain. I'm having a lot of fun listening to them :D

Hi!! I’m so glad you’ve been enjoying the playlists!! :D

First of all, LOOOVVE cg5, he was my top artist last year and it totally shows <3 derivakat also has some bangers—I often find myself falling in love with an artist, going through their discography, and just dealing out songs to various dbhc playlists LOL. And in some cases, there are some groups that really just fit the vibe for certain characters :D (like, joywave for etho, polite fiction for xisuma, jhariah for both x and 24… and then bands like cg5, saint motel, everything everything, half alive, etc just kinda end up everywhere :)

Secondly, I TOTALLY AGREE, 24’S PLAYLIST IS LITERALLY BANGER AFTER BANGER. It’s 100% one of my favorite playlists to just put on for the sake of enjoying the songs <3 glad this resonates with you too =w=

Lastly, regarding the doubled songs across playlists—this began as something I actually tried to avoid, bc i didn’t want to associate totally different characters/moments/emotions into the same song, but more recently I’ve actually really enjoyed weaving meaning into those doubles, for multiple reasons! For example, X and 24 share a lot of the same songs (not always but often) because they spend a lot of season 8 together or interacting with each other. Panorama is the representation of the start of s8, for the both of them, and if I were to do an animatic to this song, it would focus just as much on xisuma as it would on 24, and so for that reason, I put it on both playlists because I think it’s important for them both. It kind of ties both characters’ timelines together in that moment, if that makes sense. It’s a good marker for time, like, hey! This is where the season 8 begins on the timeline of this chronological playlist (for both of them)!

Maybe this is kinda obvious, but each song on dbhc playlists usually represents either a specific moment for that character, their perspective of an emotion, or kind of a longer period of time/arc/montage, and usually for moments that are shared by characters, I’ll find multiple songs that represent each side of that moment/event/emotion to fit each character respectively? But for some moments (like the start of s8/the evil empire), it’s cool to be able to say “this song represents both of them equally” and represents the same point in time on each of their playlists. Ego by daysormay is another such example of this—It’s an important event/moment X and 24 ‘share,’ and it stamps a marker onto their timelines at the same time, significant to their story and honestly kind of a turning point in their narrative, without saying too much! (I’mnormali’mnormali’mnorm

In other cases where I use the same song on multiple playlists, it’s more… uh, symbolic? I suppose? Of similar themes b/w two characters, and that’s more of what Breathe my Mother Mother represents for them. It’s not the same event—if I remember correctly, i believe Breathe is placed at drastically different parts of X and 24s playlists respectively—but rather the repetition of the song is kind of meant to be ironic? I guess. I can’t really go into exaaactly why Breathe is particularly significant for 24 (though ur definitely on the right track and I’m winking at you)—or really, why it’s ironic that they both share that song—but iirc, I put Breathe on Xisuma’s playlist as a representation of the moment immediately following Don’t Let it Reach the Heart! <3 So yeah I honestly love that pick for the both of them even though their playlists aren’t done :D

ANYWAY! I’ve rambled enough, it makes me soooo happy you’re enjoying the playlists!! Thank you for sharing :DDDD

(reminder for those who aren’t aware: Etho’s Playlist is the only officially finished and posted DBHC au playlist, but if you go to my profile from that playlist, you’ll see WIP versions of playlists for lots of other dbhc characters! They’re all at various stages of completion, but some are more fleshed out than others, and you’re welcome to go root around and take a peak at any playlist you like! <3)

[wrathofrats]

Mushy May Day 20: big spoon/little spoon

Dew/phantom Sfw with some nsfw jokes, 800 words, prompts by @forlorn-crows !

Read under the cut or find all my mushy mays on ao3!

Dew opens the hotel door to find one bed, much to his dismay. Phantom has no problem with this

Or dew doesn’t like phantom, and rather sleep in the cuck chair.

"Oh copia is fucking dead when I catch him" dew froze in the doorway, staring at the singular bed in the middle of the room as if he could make it spontaneously combust, or somehow split by mitosis. Phantom peered over his shoulder, craning his neck to try and see what the issue is. he muttered a couple questions that dew entirely ignored, rubbing his face with his hands before grabbing his bag.

He threw it on the cuck chair as they so lovingly called it, studying it to see if maybe it was worth anything to sleep in. Though the scratchy, almost plastic feeling green upholstery was telling him that the answer was probably not. Though, he could make phantom sleep in it with enough bitching.

But, that would be cruel. Even for dew.

It wasn't even that fact that it was just one bed, if it was one king sized bed then dew could deal with that. But no, it was a full. Only a little bigger than a twin which is honestly cruel and dew doesn't even know how copia found a place like this.

He opened his phone and shot off a quick text to rain asking about their room situation. Maybe if he's lucky he and mountain got two beds and would be willing to cuddle. Those freaks are into that anyways, and dew could have a bed all to himself.

Sorry dew, only one for us. Besides, mountain has other plans for me tonight ;)

Asshole.

Phantom had no problem settling in. Already laying against the pillows tapping away on his phone. Probably playing that stupid merge game he saw from an instagram ad. Something's wrong with this kid, where copia even find these things?

It wasn't even that dew necessarily hated phantom himself, though a strong annoyance may be a better term for it. Dew just wanted his own space, or his own space with someone he was comfortable with. Not the new summon that had too much pep in his step and he rarely chose to interact with beyond accidentally catching him sucking Swiss' dick backstage one too many times.

Though maybe rain had the right idea. Maybe he could make the kid give him a quick blowjob and then make him sleep on the floor. Bdsm or something- god knows dew had to sleep in a cage once. Fuck aether and whatever weird shit he's on.

"You ok?" Phantom finally cocked his head at him. Dew must have been staring at lot longer than he thought. "Should be enough room for you. Was thinking about heading to sleep pretty soon, long show tonight"

Phantom had scooted to the edge of one side of the bed, practically hanging off of it. He patted the other, pulling up the covers to make room for dew. He looked, happy almost? Like he was excited for some reason to share a bed with him. Even if the kid was annoying at least he was sweet, though that didn't make dew move any faster. He gave another longing look to the cuck chair before sighing and flopping down.

"You stay on your side though. Don't touch me, Swiss says you kick in your sleep"

"I only kick Swiss because he kicks first"

Even with the warning it was almost impossible to not be touching each other considering how small the bed was. They'd both need to be laying on their side, flat as a board in order to achieve that. Unrealistic- borderline impossible much to dews dismay. It was also freezing which didn't help. Usually dew didn't care if it was cold, he could just grab the ghoul next time him and they could warm up in other ways. It was still an option. He could still make phantom sleep on the floor.

Dew sighed. He wasn't that cruel. And the poor thing was clearly shivering but trying not to bother dew. At least he had manners.

"Come here" dew finally rolled his eyes and turned over to face phantom.

"What? Why?"

"Your shaking is bothering me. I know you're cold" dew wrapped an arm around his chest and dragged him in, immediately using his element to warm him up. Phantom made a noise of protest that quickly died out as the warmth hit him, almost impossibly cozy. "Now shut up and sleep, and don't mention this ever again"

Dew nuzzled his face into phantoms hair. He forgot he was actually bigger than him, though he admitted he was nice to hold onto, at least he wasn't freezing cold like rain usually was. Phantom gave a stupid giggle and closed his eyes, grabbing dews hand to warm his up as well.

"So you're saying we can't room together again next time?"

"Nope."

[cicada-candy]

I get the sense that Nina is gonna haunt the next season.

[starweed]

heyyy, guess who’s back with more thoughts about itoshi rin????

so, we’ve already established that rin is a very extrinsically motivated person, at least when it comes to football. he doesn’t play football for himself, and he never has. and in a setting like blue lock i just don’t think that’s a sustainably way to play football. blue lock is a place that wants people have a real love for the sport, and would play it every single day of their lives if they could. ego wants people who want to win and want to be the best striker in the world.

rin,, doesn’t really want that. sure, he wants to beat isagi and prove his brother wrong, but that’s not really a longterm, sustainable goal. what happens when he succeeds? does he just stop and say, “okay, that’s good enough”? what happens if he never succeeds? if isagi just continually gets better and better and rin never beats him in a way that makes sae acknowledge him?

having extrinsic motivations is good and normal, but you also eventually have to do things that you want to do for you or you’re going to get burnt out. and i feel like that’s the path that rin’s headed towards if we’re being realistic about this. he just goes and goes and goes in a really unsustainable way, and eventually it’s going to catch up to him.

he’s a really interesting foil to isagi, who’s motivations are almost entirely intrinsic. part of why isagi’s mindset feels more sustainable to me is because he really only plays football for himself. he plays because he really loves the sport. and we don’t ever really see that in rin, so i feel like it’s eventually going to kind of blow up in his face as we’ve seen in previous rounds of blue lock.

or i’m entirely wrong about this. idk, i’m not kaneshiro. i’m just saying that i don’t think that rin’s got anything sustainable going on in how he plays football ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

[britneyshakespeare]

you know i'm usually the last person to have strong opinions on movie casting announcements but the idea of jacob elordi playing heathcliff stirs a fiery sense of indignation in my heart

[welcometogrouchland]

Getting back into comics is fun. Minus the Getting Back Into Comics part of it all

[burgojo]

DISTURBIA. MAHITO / M!READER

summary. in the golden age of jujutsu, mahito had you, and lost you. a thousand years later, he seeks to bring you back.

wc. 9.1k

tags. smut | sub bottom mahito, top reader, heian era!mahito & cursed spirit!reader (manifestation of fear of night/absence of light), reader had a cult/worshippers. mention of blood & gore. mahito with a pussy, size difference, breeding kink, mention of babytrapping. fingering + oral (mahito receiving), doggystyle, exhibitionism (mention of others overhearing), jealousy, praise, multiple orgasms (mahito receiving), creampie, ahegao (?), god kink (reader), temp play (reader is naturally cold)

notes. obligatory ooc warning. also, i made up a lot of lore for the reader('s abilities), so scroll down about halfway to skip it and get to the good part :)

[ requested ]

Deep in the beech forests of Northeast Japan, Geto Suguru stands delicately amongst the verdant green undergrowth. He glances around, petting his large winged cursed spirit absently, and gathers his long dark robes in a hand. He glances over his shoulder.

"Despite your insistence on coming here, you've been awfully quiet. Is it not what you imagined?"

Bent at the waist to inspect massive green leaves as large as his face, Mahito looks up. "Huh? Oh, I was just curious about how they went about their plan. This place is maaassive. How are we supposed to find him? Maybe they cut him up? Sprinkled him from the highest mountain?" He sighs. "Whatever they did – they chose a green place to do it. Hanami would probably like it."

Dismissing his cursed spirit with a wave of his hand, Suguru chooses a direction and begins to move. He doesn't so much as walk as glide, his long skirts and the heavy undergrowth obscuring his steps. The tall, slim beeches are set just far enough apart for one person to slip between their trunks, and Mahito is forced to fall into step behind Suguru.

He flexes his fingers; stretches his arms; kicks ferns. Twigs tug at his hair and he huffs, glaring at the tree that dared touch him. He clasps the section of hair to his chest, dragging his slim fingers through it obsessively.

"You're twitchy," Suguru says without turning around. "You never did say how you heard of this curse. Seeing as you're not busy running your mouth, why don't you tell me now?"

Mahito sighs, skipping over a fallen log overrun with moss. He gazes up at the trees and notices the way the thick emerald canopy filters the sunlight until all that's left is an even, misty glow. Shadows are soft and deep around here.

"Not much to say," he hums thoughtfully, knocking a branch out of his way. "Lotta curses back in the day. Just makes sense to have some hidden around the place."

"Yes, but how did you come across such old records? Surely sorcerers would've kept something like that far, far away from prying eyes."

"Humans get tired. They get clumsy. They misplace things."

Suguru raises a brow. "And you kept it? For a thousand years, without purpose?"

Airily, he says, "So what if I did? You really expect me to act like one of you, doin' things with reason and purpose? C'mon. I liked the pictures on it."

He may think Suguru falls for it, but Suguru is nothing if not perceptive. Mahito flings his arms out too wide. Each stride is too long, each twirl around a slender beech too motivated – no, he sees it all. He's playing at carelessness when it couldn't be further from the truth.

Absurdly human of him, really.

Suguru hums, halting in his tracks. Mahito almost bumps into him. Again – too eager. Suguru lifts a hand, palm down and fingers splayed, and closes his eyes. Thrums of warm sorcery crackle through his veins – weak, barely trace amounts. Expected for thousand-year-old jujutsu. To be able to feel it still was a feat all in itself. Just how intense was the battle that raged here?

"We should be right in front of it," Suguru claims, dropping his hand and opening his eyes. They stand before a slight ridge of the earth, exposed tree roots weaving in and out of rich brown soil. A heavy blanket of moss hangs over the ridge and ivy grows beneath their feet. "Yet... I don't sense any spirits nearby."

"Hey," says Mahito suddenly. "The scroll mentioned a 'tomb'. You said in front of ya, yeah?"

Nodding, Suguru folds his hands within his robes. He watches as Mahito's arm lengthens into a massive cleaver, and he steps back at the wicked smile that spreads across his lips.

Mahito lifts his arm, pale eyes glinting dangerously. "Man, I so hope I'm right!"

With a slam that rumbles the ground beneath their feet and strips the nearby trees of their leaves, Mahito splits the earthen mound before him clean in two, leaving a shallow ravine that extends into the horizon. The soft earth parts like melted butter, soil and chipped wood exploding forth with such strength that Suguru narrowly avoids a pointed root that embeds itself into the trunk behind him.

When the dirt and leaves settle, they reveal the chiselled stone set into the earth. Split not quite perfectly in half – for Mahito loves chaos, and halves are better off-kilter – is a room carved into stone, hollowed out with a single podium erupting from the centre.

Upon the roughly-carved podium is a mid-sized box plastered with ancient seals and talismans. Peeking inside reveals that the inside of the 'room' is covered in the stuff, too – old, yellow, and faded, they flutter from wind they haven't felt in aeons. One peels off and comes to rest gently at Mahito's feet.

"Huh," he says eventually, staring at the cuttingly-familiar brushstrokes. He reaches for the wooden box, soft and rotted with age. The moment his fingers brush the surface, he pulls back with a jerk and makes a face. "Ouch! Spicy."

"Strong seals," Suguru comments, making no move to help. Mahito huffs and blasts the talismans away with a burst of cursed energy, testing the now-bare box with the tips of his fingers like one might with a freshly-microwaved plate.

He cracks the box open. Inside, innocent as a fresh lamb, lays a shallow, red-lacquered suzuri-bako.

"A... writing box?" Mahito murmurs to himself. He reaches in and takes the smooth box into his hands. It feels much heavier than it should, and an oppressive weight shudders through him, dark and cold and familiar. "Geto-san? It's a cage. I don't have the key."

"Let me take a look." Suguru stretches out a hand.

For a fleeting moment, Mahito hesitates – the slightest tilt of the box towards his chest. And Suguru knows.

With a growing smile, Suguru folds his hand back into his long sleeves. "Ah... I see. You know this spirit."

"I—" He pauses. "Maybe. Once upon a time."

"Interesting," says Suguru, "that something as old as this still has an effect on you."

"Nah – boring, actually. I'm old and sentimental." He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. He chuckles and tosses his hair over his shoulder, tracing the edges of the box. Power tingles against his skin. "Pretty thing, for a cage. Maybe I could just – ease it open—"

Suguru raises his long sleeve to shield his face as the box pulses with a sudden, growling shockwave, forcing him to step back to keep his balance. The ferns sway around his knees.

Mahito clicks his tongue, a pout forming on his lips. "Damn it! This should be simple!"

The second attempt has the birds squawking and flying into the skies as the surrounding trees shudder violently. For the third, Suguru winces slightly as Mahito slams his fist – a giant mallet – against the box, resulting in another shockwave of barbed cursed energy. He lifts a hand, placating.

"Ah, Mahito... Perhaps I can give it a go?" he suggests. "It may need a... sorcerer's touch."

Mahito's eyes widen. Of course! Those ancient douche-canoes probably knew he would come for what was his. It only made sense to weave his name into the seals.

"By all means," he replies, stepping aside. "Take a gander."

Stepping forward, Suguru tugs his sleeve to his elbow and scoops up the box from the floor. He dusts off the cover. "Lovely craftsmanship," he muses and hovers his palm over it despite every nerve in his body writhing and begging to pull away. Some instinctual, ancient force warns him off it. He lets energy seep into the age-made cracks in the seals, and from within, gently burns away the net holding its prisoner still – like taking a lighter to the end of a frayed rope, creating spaces big enough to squeeze through.

The lid cracks open.

Like a floodgate opening, freezing shadows and smoke pour out of the gap, forcing the lid to clatter uselessly to the ground. Darkness bleeds down the walls. Suguru's eyes widen as his pale fingers, deep within the thick black smoke continuing to billow forth, begin to turn blue at the tips, visible frost surging over his skin. Smoke fills the air around them, fading out the sun until it could be a misty grey night. Rivers of shadow pool thickly around his knees until he can't see his feet, and he hurries to set the box on the podium.

As he lets go, a shadowy tendril curls around his exposed hand and arm, burning white frost into his skin. His breath hitches.

A freezing hand seizes his wrist. Inch-long black nails dig rivulets of blood – his red, all-too-human blood – out of him, and his heart plummets at the sight of the hand, wrapped completely around his forearm as if it's a thin piece of rope. On instinct, he yanks back, and the hand comes with.

Then, a flood of smoky shadow spews from the open box – and a cowled figure claws its way out, formed from the very shadows that plunged them into a sudden night. It rises and straightens, towering over them both.

Suguru's arm hurts. He clutches his wrist, his blood coagulating over the delicately-patterned frost, and chances a glance back at Mahito.

Arms spread wide and palms open, an unnervingly breathless smile plastered on his lips, Mahito gazes up at the wispy figure unblinkingly. Wide-eyed and panting softly, he laughs – bright and jubilant, victorious.

"Yes! Yes! There you are!"

He skips past Suguru, giggling madly as he takes one large, clawed hand in both his own. He presses the palm to his cheek as he hops in place, stretching up to reach for the round silver brooch pinning the cloak of shadows together over the shoulder. He hasn't seen his eyes in so long, and this stupid hood is in the way!

Mahito?

The voice comes from within Suguru's head. But, unlike Hanami's, this voice slithers among his own thoughts, slipping between them as light as a ghost. It could've been his own, for all he knew, except for the fact it carries a sorrow so profound it eclipses every other thought – he can focus on nothing else.

—

Everything is on fire. Everything is on fire and it is all because of you.

Of course, the fire was the easy part. One day, perhaps your beloved will forgive you for using such an overzealous amount of cursed energy to make your grand entrance. It completely overshadowed his own.

Everything would change here. It would be your end, or your beginning. Before you stand the most powerful sorcerers in the land, all gathered to rise against you one final time – or die trying.

All so tense. A sigh flutters through your lips as you brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Mahito has influenced you too much – you are bare from shoulder-to-waist, oil-slick blood coating your arms up to the elbows, and facing the strongest adversaries you have ever met. Yet, all you can fret about is your poor hakama, now no more than a shred of memory. You donned your best silks for this, and the first thing the cruel little bugs did was burn it off you.

At the very least, your sashinuki may be salvageable.

"You are strong," a white-haired sorcerer calls above the roar of the flames towering into the sky. "Some call you divine and pray to you for aid, but you do not listen."

"I listen," you reply coolly, and slick back your hair with a blood-soaked palm. "I help them to lose the burden of their regrets and relieve their physical pains. I daresay I help more than you."

"They call you a healer, but what you do is not healing. Once, you numbed a man to his wounds until he fell to exhaustion fighting in your name. You are a spiteful creature. Desperation is your lure."

"If I hear it, I answer. If they think I am their saviour, who am I to disagree? It's a rather pretty title – though, it is amusing to be lord of maggots. I like to watch them squirm."

How did a curse of night, of the endless dark, grow so powerful? Every secret done in the dark, every lie and gnawing shame, was yours. There had always been something different about you, and they were fools to ignore it, even upon your first meeting:

You, tall and regal, kimono the darkest shade of navy blue damask, had been nothing like their other curses. You looked quite human. Perhaps there was something godly in your stride, something primordial in your voice, that cowed them all like children. You spoke to them, soft and paternal, and suddenly, each and every one of them was afraid of the dark and you were their only solace against the monsters beyond the window.

Enchantment, they'd called it, upon blinking awake and finding you gone. Perhaps it was your domain, to cull their thoughts until all that remained was the ancient instinct to fear the black night. Had you heard them discussing you, hands shaking and faces drained of blood, you would have laughed.

—

Suguru's eyes flicker, and the scene flips to a forest clearing.

—

"Mahito!"

The cry of his name is guttural, a thousand voices coalescing into a roar and a shriek. Across the battlefield, he falls, and you catch the flames reflecting in the shine of his widened eyes as he grasps the unfamiliar black blade piercing his chest. His soul writhes around it, pierced by it, unable to slip away unscathed as he has so many times before.

In that split second, your attention lapses, and black chains lash your body, slamming you to your knees. You snarl, straining against them.

"Surrender," the sorcerer before you orders, white hair stained red with blood. Despite his injuries and the loss of an entire arm, he stands tall and steady above you. "We will let him go if you choose to die."

"If I choose to die?" You run your thumb over your knuckles, regenerating three lost fingers. A rather good trade, you think, for taking off his arm in the process. "You'd allow a spirit, able to shape the soul into something inhuman and unrecognisable, to walk free in exchange for my life? My, my. I must be particularly disruptive to your little society."

"You're beaten." His voice is sharp despite his clear exhaustion. He struggles to restore his arm. "No matter how many of us you kill, you will lose first. Give up."

"Such misplaced confidence. 'Choose to die'..." You sneer and the black iron chains wrapped around you tighten, far colder than you are. You have warmed, somewhat, in Mahito's presence. You cannot be bitter about it when it is he who marks your soul. "Hah! Nothing stops you from killing him anyway – so, politely, I decline. There are only so many of you. You will run out of bodies before I do."

As you speak, your image flickers in an attempt to split your consciousness into the deep shadows around you. The chains chew into your skin and you hiss as your control dissipates like a candle blown out.

"Interesting," the sorcerer murmurs, gazing down at you pensively. The red flames swirl behind him. "Interesting that your bond with that curse truly did win us this fight. I admit – I was sceptical it would work. You're... not what I expected."

You turn your gaze to Mahito, crumpled on the ground with his long, straight hair creating a curtain over his features. He grasps the handle of the blade, trembling slightly, and his breaths are shallow and rapid as he attempts to pull it out. He can only whimper in pain – too quiet for anyone to hear. But this battle is a secret under darkness and belongs to you. You close your eyes to his furious cry and panicked breaths as the blade refuses to budge and saps more of his strength with every second.

Run, you implore, and his head shoots up, pale eyes meeting yours. Cursed energy surges beneath your skin, rippling and bubbling with bloodthirst. Run and don't look back. Mahito, you must survive at all costs. Do you understand?

The chains quiver and the links bend out of shape, their strange unearthly metal creaking. Your body strains against it, fingers elongating into claws and mouth growing jagged fangs. Your skin rips and flickers, bleeding dead galaxies. The chains bite into your shadowy flesh, but you grow larger despite it.

The sorcerer takes a step back.

Go, your voice rasps in his head, syllables rough and struggling in the monstrosity of your own body. Mahito's eyes widen as the chains groan, shuddering with effort – and snap.

He pulls himself to his feet, pale grey kimono tattered and stained. He grips the blade lodged in his chest and stumbles away, chasing the safety of the tree line.

You roar, twice as tall as the sorcerers around you, cutting them down with rapid, decisive blows. In his state, he doesn't notice the sorcerer turning in his direction.

But you do. With a shriek, you launch yourself at him, breaking through the ranks of sorcerers trying to stop you in a burst of viscera and bone. You seize the man giving chase after Mahito, and his whip-like technique is nothing against the overwhelming strength of your new form. One slash of your razor-sharp claws and his technique putters out in his limp hands.

Mahito spares you one last, desperate look, before turning and running into the darkness. You pull the shadows closed after him, deepening the shadows around him until you have him in your grasp.

Live, you say wistfully, releasing him from your shadows as far away as you can by a riverbank. He collapses and attempts to slip the blade out from between his ribs. He quivers with effort, and you don't turn back to the sorcerers picking themselves up for one last push. As long as none of them find Mahito, you will accept the consequences of your hedonistic actions. Live for me. Please.

You languish in your prison for one thousand years.

—

Mahito beams, nodding so hard his head threatens to fall off. "You remember me! I knew you would!"

Slowly, as if learning how to move one muscle at a time, the hand cupping his face brushes its knuckles down the edge of his cheek. When it reaches his chin, long fingers wrap around his throat as if to choke – then, they release. Using the first three fingers, the shadowy spirit grasps Mahito's face, turning it further up towards him. The top of Mahito's head only reaches the spirit's ribs – or where they would be on a human.

Mahito, the spirit calls joyfully, lifting its other hand to cup his face with a flourish of a long, wispy sleeve. Draped over him, the spirit's shadowy robes engulf him almost entirely. Oh, Mahito, my darling pale bone-shard...

He laughs, accepting everything with a smile that seems too ancient for someone like him. It's the smile of one who's known loss – not his usual grin of frivolous naivete.

"You look awful," Mahito says, with a little pout and a frown. "Come! I'll get you back to full strength. But I suppose that guy behind me will want introductions. No number of old scrolls or tomes would get him your name."

That name was never mine, the curse declares. Humans could never know me as you do. My strength is not theirs to invoke.

"Alrighty," Mahito says. He spins on his heel, hair bouncing, and points above him, where the spirit stands – floats – behind his shoulder. "Geto-san! This is YN! I knew him back in the day. He had a bit of a cult, too, so I think you'll get along splendidly."

That piques his interest. That white-haired sorcerer – probably a member of the Gojo clan, Suguru thinks with an achy little throb, if his paleness was a family trait – had mentioned something about your perceived divinity. He wonders why you'd pay attention to any of those ignorant monkeys.

"You're probably thinking about the whole cult thing, right?" Mahito comments offhandedly, tossing and catching the silver brooch he stole from you. Despite this, you haven't pulled down your hood. The straggly ends of the cloak hang by your arms.

"I won't say I didn't wonder."

"Don't worry, it's not a long story." He clears his throat importantly. "Back in the day, we didn't have curtains or anything to hide the results of our actions, so what we did must've seemed like magic or something paranormal to humans. My YN was often seen before and after destruction like plagues and floods, so word began to spread of a beautiful man who would save those he appeared to. Of course, this was survivorship bias. If he killed 'em, not like they could say that to anyone, right? So that's how people began to worship him."

"How fascinating," Suguru murmurs, eyeing you up. "Before, I saw your... memories. Was worship how you grew so much stronger than a normal curse?"

You finally look up, having been concentrating very hard on Mahito and his new appearance. His clothes are strange, but you're beginning to come around to them. Apologies. My body is not quite... complete. Some portion of me may have passed through you as I formed. You touch Mahito's hair, rubbing the strands between your fingers, and he giggles up at you. Perhaps you are right. Evolution was always within Mahito's portfolio, not mine. I should have been constant, unchanging, like the night. Odd, isn't it?

"The form you gained right before you were sealed away – do you still have it? Or was it a result of their belief?" If he could sway you to his side – gain your abilities – it might be enough. Just enough.

You consider his question. Human emotion is potent. I may no longer have shrines made with my image or prayers whispered in my name, but there are infinitely more humans now to draw from. I may gain it back – in time.

"Fascinating," Suguru repeats. He extends his uninjured hand with a kind smile. "Then please – allow me to be your host in this new era. I own a temple with a not-insignificant number of human visitors. It may help you recover."

You glance down at Mahito. He nods encouragingly. "He's not a bad guy to be around, I promise! A little uppity, but with the strength to back it up. You'd be with me. We'd be together again."

You pause, your large hand halting on top of Mahito's head, where you'd been petting him. He blinks up at your featureless face, and shadows waft from your shoulders –  a sigh, or what passes for one with your inhuman anatomy. Very well, you relent, taking one of his ponytails and tugging lightly, I will follow. Be grateful that I bow to you.

"Oh, yes," Mahito giggles pleasantly, leaning into your stomach. He props his chin on your ribs, staring up at you with a grin. "Verily, my lord. When we arrive, I'll even show you how grateful I am."

You cup his face gently, squishing his cheeks. You run a thumb over the stitches below his eye. Dubious little creature... Lead on – we have much to talk about.

—

Recovery, you find, requires mostly time. The first thing you do when you regain sufficient strength is create a new body – one Mahito is familiar with, and which looks almost entirely human. For all your distaste, their physical anatomy is simple and useful, and you can spend less effort holding it together than most other shapes. Geto Suguru, as you come to know him, is incredibly interested in you and your capabilities, almost invasively so, and hates humanity quite a lot. You avoid him where you can.

You enter the room you were given by ducking under the lintel, one which Mahito now shares with you. Once you heard where he used to reside and what it was had been explained to you, you had been firmly insistent he come with you rather than you with him. Sewers, you claimed, were no place for the beloved of a god.

He is at the dresser in a grey kimono, which grabs your attention. He runs a brush through the pale blue-grey hair swept over his shoulder. He opens his eyes at the sound of the door sliding open, a smile automatically tugging at his lips.

"You're back," he says warmly. "What did Geto-san want this time?"

"He has trouble sleeping," you reply, taking a seat on the bed. It is odd, you thought once, that a traditional temple like this would incorporate such modern furniture, but Mahito seemed to like it, so you kept your mouth shut. "I drew him to slumber."

Mahito hums knowingly. "Humans, right? So messy. Him especially. Man, emotionally, that guy is a wreck – gets so worked up over nothing."

Politely, you ignore the invitation to complain. You may be a curse, but you have some dignity. "He freed me from a thousand years of imprisonment, Mahito. It's the least I can do to repay him."

He frowns. "I freed you."

"The seals prevented you from doing very much, Mahito," you say, amused. "If he wasn't there, you'd still be banging away at it. However, you did figure out where they kept me and kept me alive in your memories when no other did. I am grateful for that."

"If you were less judgemental of the other curses, I'm sure they woulda remembered you fondly," he rebuts. "You were too much of a lone wolf. 'Ooh, Sukuna's eating my worshippers 'cause I told him he's not cool! Kenjaku badgers me way too often about his dumb plans!' If you didn't complain about them to their faces, I'm sure they would've been happier to remember you."

You scoff. "Why should I care? I have you."

The tone of your voice warms what passes as his heart. He turns on the stool to face you, setting down the brush and picking up his hair ties. He begins to section his hair into three parts.

"I mean that much to you, do I? Little old me, more important than the favour of the great King of Curses," he coos, rising to his feet. He offers you a hair-tie with a soft smile, and you accept it. He crawls into your lap, sitting with his back to your chest. He hums as you comb your fingers through his hair, fumbling only slightly with the intricacies of a braid. It's been a long time since you've had hands.

"What does the King of Curses have that I care for? He is strong, but has many enemies. He is an arrogant, fickle creature and desires no equal, only slaves and followers." You adjust the thick locks of hair you've left loose to frame his face. He seems to like threes, so you'll keep it similar. "I like to do as I please. He is feared – I am fear."

You consider your next words. "He is also very rude."

Mahito barks out a laugh. "Careful. If he hears that, you'd be sliced up quicker than you can say 'oops'."

"You say he is now little more than a set of relicts. I wonder – if I kicked him around, would he know it and come later to kill me?"

Mahito presses a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "I don't think so. They don't seem to hold any sentience by themselves. Even curses empowered by the fingers don't look like they contain any part of 'him'."

"Interesting."

"Remind me to never let you carry his fingers."

"Of course." You tie off the end of the braid, sitting back to admire your handiwork. A human had come in with something similar, and you'd been too preoccupied with how it might look on Mahito to really care for what Geto was doing.

(You didn't care much for what any of them were doing, truthfully. Their idea for a world of curses was not quite uninhabited enough for you, as the god of the endless night and the perfect, empty void. It was only because of Mahito's unique technique that you let him live beyond your initial meeting, after all.)

"You kept your hair long," you say, voice a low murmur.

Mahito glances over his shoulder, gazing up at you through his messy bangs. A sly smile curls at his lips. "Oh, you know," he waves a hand carelessly, "you liked it better this way."

You prop your chin on top of Mahito's head. He grins. "You always wore it like this?"

"Well, I sat like a rock at the bottom of a river for a couple hundred years, so no, not always. But when I did like to have hair – yes, it was long."

You rest your hand around his throat, like a collar. Mahito smirks, dancing his fingers over your knuckles. "Hey, now... What's this doin', big guy? Careful – I'm half your size."

"You do not have to look like you do. I would adore you regardless."

"How cute! But it's no fun when we're both too big for the bed." He turns in your lap, straddling your thighs, and playfully plucks a thread loose from your haori. He cocks his head to meet your eyes with a smile when a brief scowl crosses your face. "C'mon, lighten up! You're out of the slammer! What better way to celebrate than with me? If you want, we don't have to do it on the bed. Maybe on the floor... Out in the forest... Drenched in human blood..."

"Mahito, Geto is across the hall. You are loud."

"He can plug his ears. I'm sure he's got a curse somewhere in him for that." His grin broadens freakishly. "I also want a curse inside me."

"Mahito," you growl, your grip tightening on his hips.

"Oh, say that again." He shows the whites of his eyes briefly with a teasing moan. He drapes his arms over your shoulders, wiggling around and settling comfortably in your lap. Your shoulders tense. "Such a bore. Hey – I'm better with my technique nowadays. Y'know how much fun we could have?" He leans in with a giggle, lips brushing your earlobe. "Gimme ideas. I'll make you feel so good."

Concentration was always the common denominator. He was once easily overwhelmed – he'd like to think he improved.

"I still tire quickly," you say, and not even you can obscure the annoyance in your voice. "Belief is so hard-won these days. I fear you'll have to be gentle with me."

He giggles, though his expression softens – or as much as it can for him; perhaps 'less-crazed' is a fairer term –and he drags his tongue hotly against your jaw. It's a kiss – his version of one.

"Okay," he sighs dramatically, kicking his legs childishly. "Hm... How about this? Tonight, shall I be your prince, princess, or," he winks, "your master?"

Your lips purse. "Gods do not have princes or princesses. 'Divine right'." You scoff. "Don't make me laugh."

"You'll always gimme your 'divine right', though, yeah?" He wiggles his brows cheekily. "Your sacred sceptre. Your god rod—"

"Mahito."

He sulks for only a moment before perking up again, tugging at your sashes and collar to open you up for his eyes only. He traces the marks on your skin with a hum.

"You and Sukuna have a lot in common, you know."

"He's a fool. I hope that's not what you mean."

He snorts. "Relax. I didn't mean it like that. I like you more, anyway."

"I'd certainly hope so." You flex your fingers, lifting one hand to measure against his waist. "I endured a thousand years of imprisonment for you."

"You're gonna bring that up constantly, aren't you?"

"Only when important. Do you know how small it was on the inside?"

He sighs. "I'm never winning an argument again."

"You've already won my heart."

"Your heart!" He laughs. "What a human thing to call it."

You lean back, allowing him to push your kimono off your shoulders. "Call it what you like. Be what you like. I've spent too long away from you to care for names and titles." You trace the stitches running across his hips. You lift your eyes, and Mahito's breath hitches at the hunger in them. They swirl with empty galaxies and dead stars, and he finds himself subconsciously leaning in, longing for that cold, dark and very gentle place. One day, at the end of all things, you will bring him there, lord of nothing and lord of everything. Perhaps he'll learn how to touch his soul to yours, like bubbles, and you'll never have to leave him again.

"Is this what you want?" he whispers as you strip him bare, his grey silk kimono pooling on the floor. "Me? Just me?"

"I have no need for anything else. Power, armies, what have you... Sukuna, Kenjaku, even this Geto – their plans are so short-sighted. Everything will come under my hand eventually. Until that day arrives, I am content with you."

"So romantic," Mahito murmurs, a coy smile pulling at his lips. "Can I also come under your hand? Pretty please?"

"Must you ruin everything I say with a filthy joke?"

He pushes you backwards onto the bed, hovering over you with a grin. He grinds down on your lap under the pretence of getting comfy and he relishes in your groan. "You just set them up so perfectly for me! How could I not?"

You click your tongue. "I indulge you too much."

"Not enough, I'd say. Took me way too long to get into your pants. Do you know how desperate I was at times? You expected me to see you doused in human viscera and not want you all up in my guts, too... Ridiculous, in my humble opinion."

"Sex is such a human notion."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he whines. "I have to say, it's pretty fun. You like it, too, don't you?"

"Hm."

"C'mon, we're both here because of humans. We aren't, like, appropriating anything." He reaches down, palming the bulge below your kimono. His grin widens. "If you don't like it, why did you give yourself the parts for it? Ha! Checkmate."

He yelps as you grab him and toss him down onto the bed, pinning him under your weight. He stares up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his loosened kimono gaping at the chest and stomach.

You rake your eyes down his lithe, pale body, humming when his breath hitches at your touch. You glide your hand down his side, tracing the smooth curve of his waist and hip.

You reach down by his hips and part his kimono further. When the silk falls open, you are greeted by a neat patch of grey hair – and glistening pink folds.

He giggles at your expression. He twirls his hair around a finger and bats his lashes, which might be thicker and longer than usual. "Now we match."

Clicking your tongue, you curl your fingers around his slender thigh and part his legs, eyeing him unblinkingly. He's not sure if he should be aroused or offended – you're hard to read and he's never sure what you like. Perhaps that's part of why he stayed – you were like a game – but now, a thousand years later, he can't help but feel... unsure? Nervous?

Afraid?

He wants to laugh at the concept. Him? Afraid of your opinion of him? How disgustingly fragile.

You're talking now, and the sound of it snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts. You've always had that effect on him.

"I'm not sure how we match at all, Mahito," you're saying. "As spirits, we are incapable of siring spawn. I would say we match less."

He whines. "Hey...! I put all this work into looking nice for you, and you're telling me now that you don't like it? Besides, who're you to say we can't have some little curse babies, asshole? There's never been another me – maybe I'm the exception. Maybe I'm better than the rest of 'em."

At last, you lift your eyes. Mahito wants to curl up beneath your gaze – you are terrifying and comforting all at once. "No," you say softly. "You are one of a kind."

A smile splits his face, cocky, and he sits up, leaning back on his palms. His kimono slips teasingly from his shoulder. "Mmhm, that's right... Boy, you sure know how to make a guy feel special."

You tilt your head, considering something. You stroke his thigh, absent-minded, and he presses into your touch. "You don't know for certain – about spawn."

"Obviously not. I was sitting among the rocks of the Shinano River for, like, eight hundred years. You want me to fuck a fish?"

"Why?" You lift a hand as he opens his mouth to snark at you. "About the river, Mahito. Not the fish."

He frowns, his lower lip jutting out slightly. "You told me to survive! I did just that. I'm not sure why you sound so disappointed."

"You, resting in the same place for hundreds of years? Wouldn't you have grown bored? I'm sure it did not take that long to heal from your wounds."

He huffs, crossing his arms. He tugs his leg out of your grasp. His hair falls over his features. "You were dead, for all I knew! When I didn't know much about anything, you were there to teach me. For the first time ever, you were gone, and if they'd managed to kill you, what would they do to me?" He flicks a wrist, sleeve whipping your side. "You told me to live. To survive. So I did, okay? After all, it was the last thing you ever said to me. I had nothing else left of you."

The air is heavy. Neither of you moves a muscle.

"Mahito," you say softly.

He throws himself backwards onto the bed with a bounce and a soft thump, hands over his eyes. He tries to kick you, but you catch his ankle. He scowls. "Stupid. Asshole. Jerkface. Don't say my name like that."

"Mahito."

He gulps as you close the distance between you, your palm pressed to the mattress beside his head. His breath hitches as your hand glides from his ankle to his calf, holding it over your shoulder. You don't quite pin it there, but you leave your palm open, steady against the outside of his knee as it presses against you.

"You've grown soft," you observe.

He crosses his arms and tries to glare. It's a little hard when you're kneeling between his legs, your lips six inches from his own. Do you still taste the same? "No, I haven't. You just knew me before I lost everything."

"Let me return this to you, then." You part his kimono fully, the silk pooling on the bed. You reach for your own clothes, though your eyes remain trained on his. They remind him of a fox, quick and clever and sly. "Can I make it up to you, Mahito?"

He sniffs, glancing aside. His arms uncross. "Fine."

"Thank you."

You're so stupid. And polite. Ugh.

Your fingers travel down between his thighs. His throat bobs as you slide your middle finger between his wet folds, coating it in his slick. He shifts as you thrust it in gently, exploring him. Your warm palm cups him, something possessive in your touch, and as he relaxes around you, you slip a second finger in.

He gasps sharply, his hands shooting up to wrap around your biceps. You halt, buried in to the knuckle. It's hard not to be – his walls pulse around you, sucking you in.

"Am I hurting you?"

He shakes his head. He offers a brief, breathless grin. "Nah. Just feels different. Good different. Keep going."

You nod, sitting back on your heels to watch the way his cunt flutters around you. You stroke the leg thrown over your shoulder, kissing the ankle, and Mahito lets out a muffled mewl as your thumb presses against his clit.

"Sensitive," you murmur to yourself. You glance up. "Have you done this before?"

He licks his lips, steadying his voice. "What, changing myself like this?"

"Yes. For your own pleasure, rather than for battle."

"No," he admits, legs tightening around you. "This is the first time."

Humming, you glance up at him, allowing a smile to grace your features. "Then we can explore it together."

You pull your fingers from him – and with a thoughtful look, you place them in your mouth. Mahito's breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around your fingers, relishing in the taste.

"Sweet," you declare, and place his leg gently down on the bed. You settle at the base of the bed and tug him down by the thighs, staring up at him with playful eyes. "You wouldn't mind if I had a taste from the source, would you?"

He shakes his head, and it tips back with a moan as you bury your head between his thighs. You lap at his soft pink folds, and as you push your tongue inside, he slickens up, walls hot and pulsing around you. He squelches as you push in deeper, slick dripping from his eager hole. He grips your hair with both hands, moaning in delight as you fuck your long tongue in and out of him, curling roughly against the spot inside him that makes his head spin.

"Awh, fuck," he whines, laughing breathily as his spine arches and hot pleasure laps at the base of his spine. "F-Feels even better than I thought it would—! Ah, hah, gimme more!"

You draw your tongue out of him, making him whine and pull your face further into his fluttering cunt. You suck at his clit, lifting a hand to raise the hood of it as your tongue circles and your teeth graze it – he jolts in surprise, hands tightening in your hair. 

"Patience," you purr, tongue laving over his reddened clit. You push it inside him, wriggling about experimentally as his throbbing walls stroke the length of it, hungry and devouring.

"I already waited a thousand years!" he says, almost angrily. His heels dig into your shoulders as he lifts his hips, chasing a high. Your tongue is so long – it massages that rough patch of nerves at the back of his cunt and he seizes, crying your name as you grip his hips and lift him to your lips.

He takes what he wants rather inconsiderately, slick dripping down your chin as you kiss his hot folds. He's practically humping your face, grinding against your mouth and the tongue sinfully deep inside of him. You groan as his moans pitch higher, whorish, and he begins to tremble around you.

So quickly? You're amused. He's missed you more than he's willing to let on.

You fuck him with your tongue, saliva and slick mixing on his fair skin, and he's positively dripping, every thrust squelching and pushing out a sweet gush of pleasure into your waiting mouth. You swallow it blissfully, your thumb circling the wet nub of his clit.

With a wobbly, high-pitched cry, he shoves your face into his gummy cunt and comes on your waiting, writhing tongue, thighs seizing around your head and locking you in place as he coats your chin in his hot, sticky slick.

With your tongue buried deep inside him, flicking about and pressing curiously against his soft walls, he lets out a shaky whine, grinding against you with rough rolls of his hips. It's not an unfamiliar motion. He takes you so prettily, soft smooth folds now dark with lust.

Shakily, Mahito releases you, body sagging into the mattress. He pants and gasps, the tense heat between his legs unbearably achy and needy. He wants to melt.

"S-So… good," he sighs, a broad grin crossing his face. You lap at him lazily, and he twitches. "Mm… Now gimme your cock, 'kay? Nice 'n' deep. Promise me."

"Promise what?" you ask, licking your lips and wiping away his come. Your eyes glint with satisfaction as you set down his unsteady legs and crawl between them, the bulge in your trousers straining in its confines.

"That you'll fuck me up," he whines, turning onto his stomach and lifting his perky ass. He gazes over his shoulder at you, wiggling his hips and spreading his knees further to show off his tight holes. "You can have either one – jus' want you in me, okay? I miss having a big cock in my belly, miss being fucked and filled up until 'm all swollen and can't move." He pouts, his eyes half-lidded, and presses his ass against your bulge, grinding lazily. "C'mon, big guy. Don't you wanna put your baby in me?"

His eyes shoot wide open and his jaw drops as a thick, throbbing intrusion splits his pussy apart. He can't help his eager moans as you set a steady pace, his loosened pussy sucking you in with ease. He scrabbles at the sheets as your grip tightens on his waist and drags him down to match every thrust – he grabs the headboard as your cock kisses his cervix, making his eyes roll back.

"Oh! Y-You're cold – big – so muh – much," he cries brokenly, pressing his palm against his stomach. He shudders at the icy temperature of you inside him, making his hot walls ache and throb with such need that it borders on pain.

On every harsh thrust, he feels you glide against his palm, filling him up so completely that he can barely breathe – that feeling, of every breath physically restricted, makes his eyelids flutter and his pussy clench and flutter. His wet warmth surges down your thighs with his high, and you groan as he jolts and whines.

"You can handle it, Mahito," you note with a soft hum. Your touch grazes his clit and his breath stutters. "You have before, haven't you?"

"I-I'm rusty," he tries to joke, but it comes out flimsy as you shift and he clamps down punishingly around your cock with a moan. "Oh, fuck!"

Your hips snap into him and he fumbles slightly, grabbing one of your hands on his hip. He slumps into the mattress, lifting his hips as you fuck into his swollen heat, slick and soft around you. Little chained moans fall from his lips as he twists the sheets in his fist; his body jolts back and forth with your thrusts, his long blue-grey braid bouncing over his shoulder.

"Feels so g-good," he slurs, legs shaking like leaves. He spreads them, reaching down to split his sticky pussy lips with the V of his fingers. His lower lip quivers as he gazes at you over his shoulder. His bangs are a mess over his lust-blown eyes. "More – more, more, I want more—! Make me yours again, ah, right there—"

"Quiet now," you murmur amongst his choppy moans. "Geto will hear you."

"Wh-Whose fault is that?" he whines, the expression on his face fucked out and deeply flushed. "H-Hah – bet he'd be jealous, anyway! He wants you but you're all mine! Mh—"

You chuckle softly, leaning over him with a palm braced by his head. He feels small like this – protected. He whines into the bedsheets, his pussy dripping down his inner thighs.

"Mahito," you say, almost admonishingly. "Are you jealous?"

"Of that – ah – human? No!"

You trail your lips up his shoulder and neck, nipping at his ear. "Mm, of course. But I do think it would be prudent to watch him carefully. That technique of his may prove... troublesome."

Mahito sniffles, come-slick walls clamping around you and making you grunt. "S-Stop talking about him."

"So you are jealous."

"I just don't like it when you talk about other people when you're inside me." He attempts a glare, but his ruined expression quivers when your cock kisses his womb, tears welling up along his lashes and sticking them together. "Th-That's a normal, hn, r-reaction."

"Would you like me to talk about you, then?"

He averts his eyes and nods, tiny, into the sheets. You press your lips to the stitches trailing over his shoulders, admiring the contrast between the dark lines and Mahito's pale skin. You pick up the pace, thighs clapping against his ass, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as his pussy flutters dangerously around you.

"My Mahito is so sweet to me, greeting me with this little piece of heaven here," you purr with a particularly teasing thrust into his cunt, nuzzling into his hair as he grips your forearms for stability. He nods reverently, lips parting and eyes rolling as you shift your hips and fuck him quick and hard into the mattress. His toes curl as he cries out, every thrust knocking a whiny moan from his throat. "My Mahito did so well, listening to me all that time ago... You're so good at obeying me, aren't you?"

"M-Mmhm," he whimpers. "Yes! Yes, I did, I always listen to you, oh, god—"

"Ah-ah-ah... You've been spending far too much time around humans, Mahito." You kiss his neck, and he shudders, your cock filling his belly until he can think of nothing else. He whines as you stroke his side, fingers fluttering over his stomach.

"I am your god," you murmur. "I taught you. I saved you. Perhaps I can even..." You press the smooth bump in his stomach and he lets out a ruined noise, muscles tensing. "Gods create, don't they?"

A choked, whorish wail rips past his lips. The glide comes easy – hotter, wetter. Waves of heat pulse through his core. His hole squelches as a thick ring of white forms around your base.

"Mahito." You tug his braid sharply and he whimpers as his head jerks back. "If you cry out to a god, it will be my name on your lips. You are mine. I won't tolerate anything less than your total loyalty. Do you understand?"

He babbles, whimpered half-words slipping from his lips. He nods to the best of his ability with your grip on his braid, arousal curling hot and powerful in his gut at the growl in your voice. "Yes!" he cries, his ass ricocheting off your hips. The rough pace makes his knees knock together. "Yes, yes, I'm your bitch, 'm sorry – you're my god – hnn, f-fuck, don't stop—!"

"Good, Mahito. Always so obedient for me."

Perhaps he reshapes himself because suddenly he's vice-tight, throbbing around you with a gooey slickness that tugs pink around your shaft when you try to draw your hips back. You suck in a sharp breath.

"Mahito," you coo, stroking his stitched cheek, and he whimpers, tears clouding his vision. "Let me go, dear. I can't give you what you want if I can't move."

"I don't want you to leave again," he sobs, curling his fingers through yours.  He can't think straight.

If – if he gave you a child, an heir... you wouldn't leave him, right? You couldn't. You liked him for his uniqueness – he wasn't like any other curse you'd ever met. You told him so. With the return of the Six Eyes, each day brings forth more powerful spirits, and you are like Ryomen Sukuna, whatever you say. You, too, are fickle, and you are cold as the night over which you reign. If some other curse – or, fuck him, a human – catches your attention, it's not impossible you might drop him for them.

After all, you're so much older than him. What is he but an indulgent curiosity?

As his thoughts spiral away from him, his body reacts to you – his glossy, silken pussy hugs your twitching cock, and the smell of sex lingers heavy in the air. "Oh god, oh god," he whimpers sweetly, brainless and drooling and pierced on thick cock, "oh, god—"

"Yes," you hiss. "You belong to me." You bury your nose in his hair, skin slapping rhythmically and rocking the bed. You bury yourself in his sloppy cunt over and over again, wrapped so perfectly around you. With a low growl that has Mahito's pussy throbbing, ropes of thick come paint his insides, filling him up and dripping from his hot, slippery folds.

He arches into your cold, firm embrace with a frenzied wail of your name, a sound wrecked with pleasure and pent-up desire. He trembles as he creams around you, milking your cock with a hungry desperation, and the pale curls over his pussy are damp with a filthy mixture of slick and come. He throws his head back. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his eyes roll back at the feeling of your seed spurting deep within him, his insides so much more sensitive.

Or maybe he's just missed you. Either way, his throat feels raw, and the shattered whimpers that crumble from his lips as he collapses into the bedsheets are all he can manage, his pale eyes half-lidded and fluttering as you continue to pump him full. You stroke his stomach as if he's something sacred and murmur sweet nothings into his ear as he twitches in your arms.

He mewls, panting, as you eventually pull out, his gaping pussy clenching around nothing as your seed dribbles down his thigh. Without your grip on his hips to keep him up, he crumples to the bed in a dazed, soiled heap. His cunt squelches when he moves and he licks his lips, trembling slightly as he raises his head to look at you.

You're beside him now, gazing back with those beautiful eyes of yours. If he stares into them long enough, deep enough, he might catch a glimpse of clashing black holes and dying stars.

That battle an age ago left you with something inescapable. Things used to be easier – you were of the night, and the night was simple with the whisper of something shadowy within the dark. Now you have sparks of something hotter within you. Evolution, change, all of it – Mahito had more of an effect on you than anyone could've guessed.

He presses himself into your side and you wrap his lean body in your embrace. You stroke his hair with a soft hum, combing your fingers through his bangs and tucking them behind his ear.

At last, he speaks up, head resting upon your chest. "I got all dolled up for you," he says quietly. "You made a mess of me. Ruined my hard work."

You kiss his forehead. "Is that not what you wanted?"

"Hey... Don't twist my words."

"I'm sorry."

Silently, he leans up and nips at your jawline, soothing the spot with a kitten lick. He settles back down and you trace the stitches crossing his body, making him hum as you reach the ones following the V of his hips.

"I won't leave you, Mahito. Not again."

He glances up, a fist curling gently on your chest. "Really?"

You nod, staring at the ceiling. He fits perfectly into your side and you clutch him there, protective and possessive in the way he adores. "Yes."

He stares up at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Okay," he says, and closes his eyes with a secret little smile.

[yeyinde]

The 141 finding out you've never had sex.

Just casually drinking, playing cards. A joke causes it to slip out.

body electric: the virgin edition

Gaz, the instigator, mutters something about not having been fucked in ages. this springs up a sudden surge of comradery, because, yeah. neither have they.

Soap's devote Catholicism (i like to imagine) leaves little room for flippant intimacy. he tries to be a good boy. key word, of course, being: tries. but the last serious relationship was years ago. back when he was grunt. he's pent up. abstinence, yeah? he holds it tight in his hand. but the thing about fists is that they're often mistaken for anger. Soap's a realist masquerading as an optimist. he knows whoever falls into his jowls next will be a MacTavish by the time he's through with them. and commitment. well. his comes at a price. a hefty one.

Ghost prefers casual flings where he doesn't have to take any clothes off. unzips his trousers, frees his cock, and then tries to pretend he's a real, flesh and blood, human. to feel something, anything, except a vacuum between hollow bones. but his tastes are peculiar. on the side of unhinged. he hasn't found the perfect body yet satiate himself with.

Price. well. with his bloody hands, he thinks he'd rather not dirty the same people he swears to protect. and divorcing at the age of 30 does that to a man, maybe. his role as a captain (an excuse in retrospect) also keeps him from unleashing his wants. the very same ones that are probably best under lock and key, anyway. it's just for the best, really. something he ought to do because the moment he has another chance to sink his teeth into someone's neck, he'll tear them apart. break them into pieces.

despite bringing it up, Gaz knows the real reason he's single is because he's pushy. he wants. so he takes. and then takes some more. more. more. until his gullet is full of the person he's obsessed with. carrying them around in his breast pocket everywhere he goes. the perfect mate. the one he can shower with unfettered affection. a deluge, in all honesty. one with the ideation to drown. biblical floods. trapped beneath him. he likes it more than he should, but. singedom, then, he supposes.

and then you roll the dice. admit, sheepishly, that, technically, you have them all beat. zero is always lesser than five, ten, twenty. but it's this misstep—zero, never—that catches their attention.

suddenly, you're not surrounded by kin but a pack of wolves. all hungry in their own ways, all starving. it just makes sense to quench their hunger with you, doesn't it? friend, ally. pretty little thing. so sweet for them. and perfectly mouldable. putty they shape to their hearts desire. the perfect mate.

Soap grips his rosary. the sign of the cross, heavenly Father and Holy Spirit, digging into his palm like the burn of a baptism. what's devotion if not pain? he cuts himself on the gold. offers blood of the sacrament to whoever might be listening, and leans in, sniffing.

Price's knuckles are white. he leans back, hidden in shadows. all you can see is spark of burning orange from his cigar as he takes mouthful after mouthful of smoke, contemplating. assessing.

"that so?" he doesn't even need to look at his Lieutenant to know that the man has gone still. too bad for you, it's not from shock.

Ghost barely holds himself back. keeps tight in his seat. fists clenching. unclenching. he has a good enough read on the people around him to see the unfiltered desire ripping across their face. scorching. but to bite, with his mouthful of jagged, seraded teeth; ones meant to rip, break, tear, would ruin you. permanently. unequivocally. and—

"wanna give it a go?" all eyes turn to Gaz, electric in his seat. eyes smouldering umbre. "i mean, you trust us the most, don't you?" us. it's stunning, he thinks, the way Gaz can weave tapestry in the air like this with just his words. one tangled like shibari binds. "and we care for you a lot. we'll be gentle. it's up to you, of course, but—"

Soap's bloody hand disappears under the table. you gasp. "yer askin' fer it, ain't ye? beggin' so pretty fer it."

"n-no, i—"

"mind your manners." Price. his voice is chiselled into char, authoritative; low. a lulling command spoken in a breath of smoke. "and don't lie, love. or i'll have to take you over my knee."

the tension is thick. Soap's arm moves, slow. deliberate. Ghost has clench his jaw to avoid bearing his teeth. snarling.

Gaz cuts it with a knife. hews compliance into your skin with a fine needle point. "it's okay. we'll take such good care'a you. make you feel so good."

your submission is a heavy thing. oppressive. the shallow dip of your chin, the blistering heat simmering under your flesh, burning right, is the prettiest fuckin' thing he's ever seen. he does clench his jaw this time. tight, tight. tight

until something pops.

"okay." you yield. head bowed. beautifully submissive.

when he looks around, catches the predatory crackle in the air. his hackles raise. immediate. instinctual. and ah, right.

it's easy to forget he's surrounded by a wild pack of stray dogs. starving ones, too.

[greenglowinspooks]

To be honest. DCxDP where the reason Danny meets the bats is Ace the Bat-hound

Like, just think about it for a second. Danny is in Gotham for college, or maybe he just moved out to find a city where having mad scientist parents isn’t actually that unusual.

He can see ghosts.

The ghosts know this.

Now he’s getting harassed left and right by spirits trying to get closure. Fine, whatever, most of them are a one-and-done type deal, and the amount of ghosts trying to get his help steadily decreases.

Except for this one very stubborn dog.

It just keeps showing up and leading him to crime scenes! He doesn’t know how many “anonymous tips” he can call in to the cops before they trace his phone! And this dog, this incredibly good boy, will not stop trying to help the city. He’s never met anyone with such a strong sense of justice, let alone a dog. Can dogs even have a moral compass?

And so Danny just accepts the fact that Ace isn’t going anywhere and becomes his reluctant sidekick/dedicated medium. He leans into the whole thing, dressing up in a mix of traditional magic-user attire and accessories that pay homage to the ghost dog.

He becomes somewhat well known. The psychopomp detective following around the shadowy figure of a German Shepard? That’s unusual! That’s weird! I mean, it’s not the weirdest thing in Gotham, sure, but he’s a new vigilante and he’s got a ghost dog that people can only see when it’s around him. Someone’s gonna notice.

Damian, as Robin, is the first to reach out to him.

Ace doesn’t know Damian but he does know a Robin, and while this isn’t his Robin, he’s still friendlier than usual. Danny’s panicking because oh god the bats are here and also is this kid gonna steal my ghost dog, Damian is absolutely delighted by Ace, and Ace is just happy to see a Robin again.

Damian decides that the psychopomp isn’t a danger to anyone, and there’s no reason to put this encounter into his reports, really, and perhaps Danny can help with some of his cases in the future.

Danny is sweating bullets because Damian basically tells him that he’ll keep him secret as long as he gets to play with Ace. Ace is happy that he’s finally getting some bat affiliated crime-fighting assistance.

And so, Danny is now both Ace AND Damian’s reluctant assistant. At least whenever he’s in trouble, he can always call a middle schooler to help him.

(Is Robin even in school? He’s out patrolling damn near every night, and he stays out late as hell. Does he have a bedtime? He should.)

Eventually it gets to the point where Damian is going over to Danny’s house. When he first sees it, he has a damn bitch you live like this moment, to which Danny responds that not everyone has the money to afford a nice place. Damian counters that he could at least take the time to clean up, and Danny replies that he’s working, going to school, and being a vigilante assistant to a ghost dog, something’s got to give.

Danny nearly has a heart attack when he checks his bank account the next day and sees that someone transferred him 10,000 dollars.

And so they get into a routine. Danny and Damian fight crime with Ace at night, and occasionally Damian stops by during the day to play with Ace and have Danny help with his homework.

(Damian is smart enough to do it on his own, but some of the instructions are written incredibly confusingly, and he would never admit to needing help to his family. Danny is just glad that the kid is in school and cares about his education, blissfully unaware that he’s basically emotionally adopted him.)

Damian is used to being in Danny’s company.

Eventually, when going over a case with the family, Damian absentmindedly remarks that he’ll have to ask Danny about some of the clues that they might be missing. Nightwing asks who he means and Damian makes a face like he just swallowed a lemon.

Cue shitstorm.

Who is “Danny?” Why is Damian willing to ask for help from anyone, much less someone outside of the family? Does he know who Damian is? Has Damian been compromised? What the hell is going on?

Damian now has to explain that Danny is the psychopomp with the ghost dog who he might have met hunted down while on patrol and conveniently not mentioned, but he’s not a bad person, really, and he lets him play with Ace, and he’s been quite helpful on certain cases due to his ability to talk to ghosts.

Bruce insists that the family meet Danny. Damian, hoping that he won’t just skip town the second he hears the news, relents.

Danny is surprisingly eager to meet the bats, considering his earlier fears.

Damian, blissfully unaware of what’s coming, sets a time and place to meet.

Once everyone is there, he gives Bruce the earful of a lifetime.

Robin is in middle school! Danny knows that there’s no way to stop the boy from going on patrol, but you could at least shift his schedule so he gets enough sleep on school nights! Does the Bat even know where he is half the time?! (No) And why isn’t he comfortable asking his family for help with both cases and homework? Did they ever even notice how much time he was spending at Danny’s house? If Danny was a bad person, he could have seriously hurt the poor boy! Shame on you!

Nightwing is mortified that Damian didn’t trust him enough to tell him about any of this. Red Hood is laughing his ass off, because yeah Danny is making good points but he’s also chewing out the literal Batman. Tim is recording the whole thing. Steph is delighted by the absolute gall of this Danger Twink™️, and already planning to add him to several groupchats. Damian is more embarrassed than he’s ever been in his entire life.

You, he points to Nightwing, did your academic life feel supported when you were a Robin? Nightwing is too stunned to speak. Red Hood, eternal shit-stirrer, says that oh, we all prioritized patrol over our education, that’s just how it is. Red Robin actually dropped out of high school to avoid distractions, did you know that?

Danny honest-to-god shrieks at this.

He finishes his angry rant and leaves, everyone too stunned to stop him.

And as it turns out, Tim wasn’t the only person recording the whole thing.

The entire internet is blowing up with Psychopomp The Danger Twink™️’s rant. People are taking sides. Things are getting messy. Red Hood literally admitting on-camera to previously being a Robin is somehow not the main focus here.

Eventually someone connects some dots from the video, as well as stories circling the internet about the psychopomp. A ghost dog named Ace, who is the literal only reason that the psychopomp is fighting crime at all, which seems incredibly fond of Nightwing and Robin.

A crime-fighting dog who wants constant attention from both the current and original Robin.

Oh my god, Ace the Bat-hound died and became a crime-fighting ghost.

And, somehow, that’s still not the strangest thing going on in Gotham.

[rhaeverie]

was not, were not, is — ldh

pairing. haechan x reader  genre. friends to implied lovers, drunk confession wc. 1.5k summary. sober you would beat you up if she heard the bullshit spilling from your mouth; in which alcohol is both your best friend and your worst enemy warnings. excessive amount of fluff, reader’s drunk as hell, Donghyuck’s love language is acts of service  an. a little warm up writing before I start writing longer fics again—I REALLY like the drunk confession microtrope,,, this whole thing was either written at 5AM on my work breaks or 5AM bc my sleep schedule is fucked up,,, pls enjoy!

You couldn’t give any less of a fuck that the bare soles of your feet were touching the cool pavement. 

In fact, you couldn’t give any less of a fuck about anything.

Mind hazy, still tipsy from the shots your cousin had shoved in your hands, you briefly recall Donghyuck telling you that your mom had requested to bring you home—something about staying back to help clean up the venue and something about crashing out?—who the hell cares. 

You let out a snort for no reason.

Maybe you should’ve brought extra shoes.

But again, you don’t care.

Donghyuck tails you, not too far behind. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, a smile playing lightly upon his lips as he watched you stumble under the lights of the venue. He knows he should be at your side in case you lose your balance, but it hadn’t even been five minutes since you declined his arm.

“You sure you don’t want to wear my shoes?” 

You stop in your tracks and look back at him. It’s only now that you notice how sweaty the man was, bangs stuck to his forehead from all the dancing. This could also explain why your feet were killing you, “What shoes would you wear?”

He holds up the pair of heels dangling from his fingers, “Yours.” 

You scoff and continue walking, “You in heels? Funny.”

And although your intentions were to offend Donghyuck, the smile on his face stays put, “Well, if it means you could walk comfortably, then I’d endure that pain and embarrassment.” 

You roll your eyes, using all the strength in your entire body to not physically react to Donghyuck’s choice of words, “Please never say that ever again.” 

“I’m serious,” he responds, “Also, I told you about bringing extra shoes.” 

Donghyuck’s eyes trail further down the walkway, noting down that the parking lot was inching closer and closer. He recalls from this morning that the parking lot was sprinkled with pebbles. He frowns, “Can you please just put my shoes on?” 

“I’m fine, Hyuck,” you groan, “I think that the car isn’t even far from here.” 

“You’re right but…” 

You hear him sigh out deeply before you hear his footsteps pick up in pace, the heels of his dress shoes clicking against the pavement. The alcohol pulls your eyes shut for just a moment, and when you finally gain control of them again, you find your best friend kneeling down in front of you, back turned towards you, “Get on.” 

“Hyuck, I said I was fine,” you attempt to walk around him, but the man somehow predicts which way you’re going and scoots right in front of you. 

“And I said to get on,” he orders gently, “Please.” 

The ‘please’ causes you to giggle and you find yourself staring at the back of his head, dwindling on a few possible answers. His hair looks soft, like something you’d want to reach out and touch. “Don’t wanna… risk you dropping me.”

If you weren’t completely insane for your best friend, you would’ve hopped onto his back no problem. Hell, with the alcohol you felt a little bit bolder than usual, but nothing could mistake that little kick in your heartbeat telling you that if you decided to take his offer, you’d probably melt the second you make contact with him. 

“I’ll throw a tantrum if you don’t,” Donghyuck threatens (was that even considered a threat?), “C’mon.”

“I hate you,” you mutter. But your actions completely contradict your words as you carefully secure yourself onto Donghyuck’s back, arms wrapping right around his neck. He follows in pursuit, hooking his arms right under your knees before he stands up. “You suck.” 

“See, it isn’t so bad,” he laughs, “I’m strong. I won’t drop you.”

Your brain’s telling you to mock him back, but your words falter because you’re hit by Donghyuck’s perfume. Fuck—of course he smells good. You can’t remember a time that he didn’t. 

It takes every ounce of your sobriety to not bury your face in Donghyuck’s hair. 

“I actually had fun,” Donghyuck begins, referring to the wedding, “Honestly, I was scared to meet your other relatives. You always talk about them and they sound scary. But I actually had fun.” 

“That’s good,” you reply quietly, almost dazed, “I’m glad you had fun.” 

Your head flops onto Donghyuck’s shoulder, hair falling in front of your face and tickling his ear. His car finally comes into view and Donghyuck wastes no time to swing the door open. 

“There you go, Princess,” Donghyuck jokes. He lowers you down gently, allowing you to plop into the passenger seat. Once he’s sure you’re seated, he turns around to face you, combing the mess of hair away from your face. “Comfy?” 

“What if I said no?” You giggle, head falling back against the headrest. 

Another sigh leaves Donghyuck’s lips and he pokes your side, “Then I’d do whatever it takes to make you comfy.” 

“Quit talking like that,” you groan.

He hums, “Like what?” 

The leather seat squeaks when you shift to face the other way, letting your eyes draw close. 

Fatigue was definitely catching up. 

I don’t know… you think, Just… like that. 

And although your mind struggles to piece letters together to word how you were feeling, your heart knows exactly what you were thinking about. 

Donghyuck shuts the door and his shadow crosses the light leaking through your eyelids. The driver’s door clicks open and then Donghyuck’s settling in the seat next to yours. 

“Well…” You hear his foot hit the brake before he taps at the button to start the car, “Did you have fun?” 

“Mmmm…” your lips form a pout, suddenly hit by the events of the wedding. You feel like you’re teetering between sobriety and intoxication, unsure whether or not you should be genuine, “Yo.” 

Donghyuck raises a brow and tilts his head at you, “Yo?” 

“Yes and no,” you clarify, almost as if he was supposed to know what you meant, “I had fun but didn’t.” 

Again, Donghyuck’s eyebrow jerks, “Whatever you say.” He’s unsure whether he should wait for you to settle before he pulls out of the parking spot. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” You whine. One of your eyelids draws open, just enough to peek out at him. 

He huffs, playing along, “…why?”

“I had fun because my cousin and her partner were cute and the dancing and the drinks, the games and everything…” You list, “But also, I didn’t have fun because all I could think about was the fact that I may never find the love they have.” 

Your best friend lets your words sink in, trying to make sense of it while stringing together the right words to say—ones that wouldn’t give it away. 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you will find that love you want.” 

Then tears start leaking out of the corners of your eyes and Donghyuck doesn’t hesitate to reach over to wipe them away. He can’t help but laugh, watching as you’ve finally reached your crying phase, simply meaning that you’d pass out next, “Why are you crying? I’m telling you the truth, you know.” 

You shrug sluggishly, “I don’t completely doubt you, Hyuckie.” Another tear slips out and you feel the pad of Donghyuck’s thumb swipe across your cheek. 

“Then why are you crying?” he frowns. 

“Well, what if…” you trail, “What if the love I want is with you?” You’re too far gone to even realize what you’ve just said, “I just feel like it’ll all be wrong if it wasn’t with you…” 

The pounding in Donghyuck’s ears almost drown out your voice. You’re speaking so quietly that he needs to lean in to hear you. 

Another tear—wipe.

“It’d be weird if it wasn’t your hand I was holding, if it wasn’t you I was waking up to, if the kisses I was getting weren't from your lips…” 

Your eyes remain close and the more you speak, the more spaced out the words come out your mouth. Sober you would not believe what you were confessing to a sober Donghyuck.

“I want you to love me,” you finally confess, like saying it out loud validated all your feelings, “And everyday I feel like that’s too much to ask.” 

“We should talk about this another time, Y/N.” 

You groan at his response, almost as if you weren’t satisfied with his answer. But before he could get another word out, he watches as your head flops onto your own shoulder. 

“Of course,” Donghyuck chuckles to himself, shaking his head. He reaches over and pulls the lever to recline your chair, letting your head fall back comfortably, “There you go… comfy…” 

Donghyuck sits back in his seat and admires you for a moment, a delicate frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

He wishes you weren’t drunk and saying these words, afraid that when the alcohol wasn’t running through your body, that none of them would even mean anything to you. 

Because if the love you wanted was with him, he’d do anything—everything—to give it to you.

[sweeterthanficstion]

— all the right reasons || l.s.k

pairing: older!rockstar!leon x popstar!fem!reader

tags: music au, set in 2011, leon is a rockstar (obviously), and reader is a popstar (think like, sabrina carpenter type). rivals to lovers, lots and lots of shitty banter, feelings are CAUGHT!, really bad music related puns, MDNI 18+, unprotected p in v, reader rides that dick into next weeeek, vaginal fingering, lots and lots of dirty talk too. sappy ending <3

summary: You're a sugarplum tabloid darling who's making headlines across the globe, he's a tried and true rockstar who's a household name. Leon S. Kennedy was just another thorn in your side. Until he wasn't. He’s older, meaner, and too good with his hands. You’re supposed to hate him. So why do you feel like you’re falling in love?

word count: 8.4k

a/n: omg... so like... hi again... it's been a while!! i dragged myself out of the depressive pit that is trying to date real men and reminded myself of what REALLY matters (writing fanfiction of men who don't exist) so that's how i'm back here, lmao.

also, BIGGEST thank you's to my gorgeous girls vivi and lea for offering to beta read and leaving the silliest, funniest comments and feedback

anyway enjoy asshole-older-rockstar leon, he's stolen my heart and i want to [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]... i've been shot 47 times

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3

You never liked Leon Kennedy.

He’s always been bark and bite, broody and callous. All whiskey breath and tired denim and the kind of stubble that looked more like laziness than effort. Too jaded. Too old. His time has come and gone, and still, somehow, he was headlining festivals, charting on billboards, signing tits.

You’d met him twice before you ever really spoke. Once at an awards afterparty, where he didn’t even look at you when you said hi—just brushed past with a half-hearted “sorry, sweetheart,” before disappearing into a crowd of laughing industry men. The second time, backstage at some benefit concert. He’d been in the wings, watched you be hurried past in a blur of glitter and gold, murmured something you can only imagine was unsavoury under his breath.

So yeah. You weren’t exactly dying to be his friend.

Which is why it’s so fucking inconvenient that your first real single is now under the same label as his—why you pass each other in the hallway at Capitol every other week, the scent of his cologne arriving before he does, heavy and heady and masculine.

But you’re not stupid either. You knew who he was long before you ever stood in the same room as him. You knew the album that broke him, the single that went triple platinum, the first stadium he sold out. You knew the way critics talked about his guitar playing like it was something they’d never seen before. You might’ve even had a crumpled tour shirt buried somewhere in your closet from high school, but that was a long time ago. That was before you learned what it meant when people said never meet your heroes.

But still there were moments, little things that made you reconsider. Once, at the label offices, he held the elevator door open for you even though you were halfway across the hallway. He didn’t look at you when you stepped in. Just said, “You gonna hit the button or stand there all night?” but his voice had been warmer than you expected.

And maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe he’s not thinking about you at all. Maybe he’s just that kind of man—coated in disinterest, carved out of concrete. Still, there’s something behind the way he looks at you that you still haven’t quite figured out.

It’s midnight when Leon finds the fork in the road that decides his fate.

It’s the voice of an angel that seals it.

He’s not even supposed to be standing in the liminal space outside your door and wondering if he should go in. He’s not even meant to be thinking about you at all.

He was thinking about the rain. About how he’d failed to remember an umbrella, about how his car smells like mildew and the CD player is still shot. About how he hasn’t written a decent song in six months. His manager had so kindly told him to go home, sleep it off, stop showing up to the label’s building like a ghost to its haunt.

And fuck if he’s already had his fill with the shitty elevator. Leon’s busy jamming the buttons to the ground floor, stuck on the second, when he hears it.

A pretty litany of sun-soaked lyrics that spills into the hallway and the elevator the same way the light from the half-opened door does.

That’s how he finds himself here: standing outside your studio door, staring at the plaque with your name engraved in gold like it’s daring him to knock.

He doesn’t. Just opens it.

“Didn’t know they let you keep the studio past your bedtime.”

It’s a joke. Kinda. He winces halfway through delivery, like he hears it too late. Nose scrunching like he didn’t mean it, and truthfully he doesn’t think he did. God, Kennedy, didn’t anyone teach you to think before you speak?

You flinch—just a little—eyes snapping open as you pull off the headphones. The track dies in your ears, and the silence feels abrupt, almost rude, like it’s been interrupted mid-confession.

You glance over your shoulder. Leon stands in the threshold looking exactly like he always does—leather jacket, dark jeans, stubble that's a little more dirty than charmingly rugged. He could be anywhere else. He should be anywhere else. And yet.

Your brow lifts, unimpressed. “Didn’t know they let you out of the retirement home either. Should I call someone?”

Leon scoffs. “I’m not geriatric.”

“Sure.” And you turn back to the soundboard like he doesn’t exist.

He stands there, lips pursed like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So… what was that?” he asks.

You sigh like it costs you. Slip the headphones off and let them settle around your neck. “A song. You’re familiar, yes?”

Leon rolls his eyes. “Plenty. You’ve got a smart mouth, kid.”

You grin, all teeth. “Thanks.”

He lets that hang in the silence for a beat, then has the bright idea to push off the doorway. He wanders in and makes himself at home in your space. His boot grazes a stack of scribbled sheet music, and he nudges it aside with his toe like he’s being polite. Then he drops onto your couch without asking—moves a cushion, spreads his knees, settles like it’s shared property.

You shoot him a look. “Comfortable?”

Leon shrugs. “Your feng shui needs work.”

“What do you want?” You finally ask, defeated.

He nods toward the board. “Play it.”

You blink. “What?”

“The song. Play it.”

“You’re really bad at this, y’know.”

“At what?”

“Basic human interaction. Hospitality. Small talk.”

He blinks, caught off-guard like he’s never been told that a day in his life.

“Sorry,” you say sweetly. “Too honest?”

“Play the damn song.”

You raise a brow. “Magic word?”

Leon just stares.

You sigh, press spacebar. The track tumbles out of the speakers, raw and half-finished. It holds for a moment, teeters, then collapses—unfinished and unsatisfying. You pull your headphones off with a huff. Leon thinks it's cute.

The weight of his gaze burns a hole into your back, makes heat crawl up your spine. You glance at him when it gets too much. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he hums.

“Felt like you wanted to.”

He laughs a little then, like the meekness to your voice is amusing. “I was just gonna say it’s close.” He murmurs, “But it’s stuck.”

You exhale through your nose, lean back in your chair, swivel from left to right. “No shit.”

You don’t see him move as much as you hear him, the creak of the aged leather couch, before there’s the familiar dull ring of your guitar.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks as he slips into the second chair next to yours, you try to ignore the way your skin prickles when his knee knocks yours.

“Mi casa, su casa,” you sigh defeatedly, his lips quirk and you find yourself smiling against your will.

Leon decides your song just needs some weight to it. Typical of him. All his music has weight. A smoky, heady bass, a sexy guitar, heavy drums, but what he plays for you is none of that.

Yes, it holds weight, but a different one to what you pinned him for. It carries something gentler, softer chords that fill your lungs with exactly the type of yearning you were aiming for. 

You pause. “That’s…”

“Exactly what you wanted?”

You nudge his knee with your own, hit record on the soundboard, “do it again.”

And so it begins. 

You find that Leon isn’t so bad when he’s writing music with you. In fact, within the four soundproof walls of your studio, he’s almost nice. He listens when you tell him to change a chord. He lets you needle him, prod at his composure like you’re tuning a guitar string too tight just to hear it snap.

Most nights you’re in the studio until the twilight hours before sunrise. You stay until your voice is worn ragged, fingers blistered from overuse. Until your limbs give out and you’ve passed out in the swivel chair, curled up like a cat in the glow of LED strips and mixing boards. You always wake to something left behind—a lukewarm cup of coffee, a half-drunk energy drink, sometimes the old throw blanket draped over your shoulders. It’s a rhythm now, syncopated and strange, yet something you’ve grown fond of.

It’s only inevitable, the way you grow closer with time. 

“Don’t lie sweetheart,” he murmurs one night in the hush of your studio, “I think I’m growing on you.”

“Like black mold.” you shoot back, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays you.

And it’s just all too easy to think about him when he's not there.

You remember watching his set from the wings at that summer festival—the first time you’d shared a stage. The downpour had been terrible and insistent his entire performance, rain slicking his thread-bare shirt to his skin, turning his hair dark and wild. He’d looked like straight up sex appeal, sweat and storm and strobe lights, and you’d had to physically stop yourself from reaching for him when he walked offstage.

He’d smelt like a thunderstorm, heady as he’d squeezed your shoulders like he was grateful, damp and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. “How’d I do?”

“Not bad, rockstar,” you’d said, but your voice had come out all soft.

Now he lives in your notebooks.

That’s the real inevitability of it, you think. Unreleased verses tucked between grocery lists and studio appointments. Lyrics written in the haze of 2 a.m., voice notes left half-sung on your phone, songs you’ll never show him during your secret writing sessions.

They’re not the kind of songs you should be writing.

They’re laced with want—velvet and teeth, obsessive and desperate. They don’t sound like you, not the way your label wants you to. They’re darker, sultrier, leave you flushed when you play them back. 

It’s not like you mean to write them about him. They just come out that way. Something about the way his voice sounds when he's two glasses of whiskey in and recounting a silent film he’d watched three fortnights ago. They’re all pent up tension—the way he pretty much knows his way around your apartment now, well enough to find where you keep the good wine anyway, the way his fingers move over the fretboard of his Paul Reed Smith with a guitar pick between his teeth, the phantom weight of his palm on your lower back when he passes by you.

You bottle every look, every breathy half-laugh, every fleeting moment where you wonder what his hands would feel like if they dipped lower.

Your songs are about him, yes, and they’re for him, in all the infuriating ways you wish they weren’t.

So naturally, the smartest thing to do is keep them buried—demo files hidden in unlabeled folders, notebooks tucked behind equipment cases. Off-limits. Confidential. A bomb waiting to go off. 

At least, until tonight.

You’re curled up on the studio couch, Leon’s out at some fancy party tonight, said he couldn't write. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine and the glow of your laptop screen to keep you company, but it’s not enough not the same without him.

There’s a particular song that haunts you. It’s a confession wrapped in delicate ribbons of sultry melodies. Your voice a touch away from a moan, lyrics that dance around his name.

You shouldn’t have written it. 

Definitely shouldn’t have recorded it either.

And now you find yourself hovering over the file like it’s taunting you.

Maybe you can blame it on the buzz in your veins, or the way you’d caught his eye earlier that morning in the breakroom. He’d looked at you over the rim of his mug, winked at you like he could read you. You curse yourself under your breath at the memory. He totally knows he’s getting to you. You’d dropped the I-hate-you act three moves back.

So you drag-and-drop the demo. Chew your lip. Hit send.

Check and mate.

But by the time you’ve sobered up enough to panic, it’s already much too late.

Seven minutes. He texts back, and it sounds nearly like a threat.

Bad, bad, bad idea. No, actually, bad doesn’t even begin to encapsulate how horrific of an idea that was. A category-five hurricane of a mistake. 

What were you thinking? 

Well, clearly you weren’t.

You clamber to your feet, pace barefoot on the studio carpet, wearing a frantic path into the fibres. Back and forth, back and forth. Damage control is like a roulette wheel spinning in your mind, you could delete the message, a phone malfunction, yes, totally. Your label leaked it by accident, or it’s just one big elaborate joke.

Or, or— and this is the best one yet, you could change your name, dye your hair, move to another country where six-time award winning rockstars with stupid voices and stupid fingers on guitars don’t exist.

You’re halfway through plotting your escape through the window when the door clicks open exactly seven minutes later.

You startle like a deer in headlights, eyes wide when they snap up to the man of the hour—to Leon— and your stomach drops clean through the floor.

“You drive fast,” is what you manage. Leon clicks the door shut behind him.

His hair’s an artful mess, like he’s either run his hand through it a million times on the drive here, or just rolled out of bed. You like the former option so you pretend it’s that. His shoulders look tense, jaw tight, and his eyes—dark, sharp, dragging over you like he’s trying to see right through you.

His eyes flick to the littered coffee table, your notebook, the bottle of wine that looks at least a quarter drained.

Something strange flickers in his gaze, and for a minute you paint him as disappointed. 

Oh. You realise, with startling clarity, that he thinks you’re wasted.

It’s like a light at the end of the tunnel, a saving grace. It’d be an easy way out, wouldn’t it? Oops, Leon, sorry, wasn’t in my right mind, don’t even remember sending it, haha, how embarrassing!

But you’re not, at least not anymore, you’re standing in front of him with unfortunate sobriety. 

“Are you drunk?” He asks, voice low and rough around the edges.

Your mouth falls open, as if you’ve been scandalised. “Uh, rude?” You gesture wildly to the wine, then yourself. “I had two drinks, max. I am perfectly—” you take a dramatic step forward, stop, then another, arms out like you're proving a sobriety test, “—-fine.”

Leon doesn’t budge, stands there with his brows cinched like he’s in deep thought. It gives you space to take the upper hand back, if it was ever yours in the first place. “You, on the other hand,” you point an accusatory finger across the room, “are looking at me like I crashed your car or something.”

You might as well have with the way you have his heart hammering up his throat. He hates it, how you make him lose his carefully crafted cool. Being this nonchalant doesn’t come easy.

His tongue swipes over his teeth. And fuck him, because that shouldn’t be so distracting.

“Fine,” he starts, slow, “you wanna play dumb?’

“M’not dumb, it’s called being coy,” you hum, all too self satisfied.

Leon lets out a short breath of laughter, sharp, shakes his head and turns away like he needs to physically remove himself from you before he does something stupid.

And you should leave it there, because his buttons are officially pushed, yet you don’t feel familiar satisfaction curl around your chest like it should. “If this is about the song—”

His head tips, just slightly. “If?”

You swallow. “I mean—”

He scoffs. Sharp. Disbelieving. Runs a thumb over his lips. “If this is about the song,” he repeats, like he can’t believe you even tried that.

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. "I—"

“Don’t,” he mutters. “Drop it.”

Your jaw shuts, and it takes less than a second for Leon to close the distance between you, effectively stealing all the air from your lungs. You resist the urge to back away, to give him that satisfaction, even when your body screams at you to. Not out of fear, but because he’s looking at you like he can finally see right through you.

"You sent it to me first," he says, quiet, but sure. His eyes flick down, over your lips, your throat, back up.

Your stomach turns, and you force yourself to bite back your words, despite how hard they are to swallow.

“And I wanted to believe you were drunk when you sent it,” he says, voice rougher now than before, “would’ve been easier that way.”

You shift your weight, but don’t bow your head. “Easier?”

Your gaze flickers to where his jaw flexes. "Would’ve been a mistake, then. Would’ve meant I could just forget about it."

Forget about it. That shouldn’t sting.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. "So forget about it."

His voice, that stupid calibre of his, drops to something even lower, something  barely above a whisper. 

"You really want me to?"

Your breath stutters. He takes your loss of words as an answer.

His fingers brush against your wrist, deft hands circle around the bone, his thumb brushing up against your pulse. Your skin burns where his finger’s graze. His other hand skims up your other arm, brushes against your jaw, and it’s so soft, tentative in a way that makes you shudder, an oxymoron to the storm brewing in his eyes. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “if I kiss you right now, are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?”

The question hangs in the space between, thick like tar.

It’s only when his thumb brushes against your cheek, that you feel your restraint, thin as hair, give. Slowly—so slowly—you tilt your chin up, just a fraction, just enough to close the distance so that your lips ghost over his, an echo of a kiss, but not quite one. Your move, rockstar.

It’s a thread-thin dangerous thing that sets his jaw tight, he inhales sharply, and you swear you see him tremble. 

You laugh softly at that, sweet as ever.

Leon caves.

His hand shifts, curls around the nape of your neck, pulls you flush and slots his lips against yours. 

The press of his mouth is warm, wanting, firm and demanding. 

But then you smile against his lips—satisfied, smug, victorious—and he groans something devastated.

It’s a low, deep, wrecked sort of sound, something that comes right from his chest, heavy with everything unsaid. His other hand finds your waist, squeezes tight, feels your skin give under his hold, like you’re finally his to keep and he can’t quite get enough. 

“Minx,” he mutters, breathless frustration bleeding into his words.

You revel in it, your skin erupting in goosebumps.

His hand tightens around the back of your neck, tilting your head just so—like he’s determined to kiss that satisfaction right off your lips.

Spoiler: he won’t.

Because you kiss him back just as fiercely, just as insistently, pressing up on your toes like you need to get closer, like you could crawl inside his skin if he let you. 

Your hands curl around his shoulders, move up to the junction where they meet the column of his throat, tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. You tug and he lets out something that sounds dangerously close to a moan.

And you wonder if he hates this, how easily he unravels for you, how easily you undo him. It’s like you’ve been sent right from heaven to torture him.

His hands find the curve of your waist, skate down the warmth of your skin, the swell of your hips, the back of your thighs, until he’s pressing in, guiding you backward—steady, steady—until the backs of your knees hit the couch. 

Your balance wavers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, half-amused like this is funny to him.

He doesn’t give you the grace of finding your footing, pressing forward until you’ve sunk into the cushions.

Leon stands there for a second, looking down at you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something that makes heat coil in your stomach. He drags a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to wipe away whatever impulse is written across his face. Like it might be something reckless, ruining. 

Then, he exhales. Sharp and quiet, he sinks to his knees in the space between your legs, a sight so devastating you forget to breathe. 

Broad hands wrap around the plush of your thighs, fingers pressing half-moon divots into your skin. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to you, something dangerously close to adoration lacing his words. His thumb brushes absently along the sensitive skin just above your knee, gaze tracking the way your breath shudders. Ruining, indeed.

And then—oh, then— his palm slips to hook underneath your knee, pulls your leg over his shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, unable to tear your gaze away from his; bright blue eyes that sparkle something wondrous in the low light. 

You try to handle yourself, lest he watch you fall apart from a simple look. “If you think I’m just gonna melt the second you put your hands on me, you’re—” Your breath unfortunately hitches the second his grip tightens around your thigh, makes your pulse jump.

He raises a brow, infuriatingly smug, like he’s daring you to finish that sentence.

You clear your throat. “—you’re sorely mistaken.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Sorely?”

You fruitlessly dig your heel into his back, a half-attempt at a kick, a half-attempt at saving some of your dignity. “Yes, sorely.”

His hands slide up in a wordless answer—dragging his nails back down your thigh, nosing at the soft fat, pressing his mouth against the skin. The brush of his lips alone unravels you enough that you can’t muster an appropriate response, shivering, sighing instead.

“Someone’s quiet,” he muses lazily, drags his teeth just barely along your skin before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Where’d all that attitude go?”

You scowl before you can stop yourself. “It’s recalculating.”

A shit-eating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah?” He does it again, open-mouthed this time, sucks supple flesh between his lips, bites, pulls away. “Let me know when it’s back."

Your chest feels like it’s on fire, so instead, your hands find the broad line of his shoulders, curl into the fabric of his shirt, and pull him up by the collar. He follows without much give, your thigh falls off his shoulder when he climbs up to press you into the plush cushion, cages you in. And fuck—you don’t think you should be this turned on by his weight atop you, by the heat of him, by that look in his eyes.

You can hear the way your heart pounds, blood rushing in your ears. Can feel it in your fingertips when you drag them down his chest, his stomach, until they catch the hem of his shirt. You push it up enough to reveal the hard muscle of his abdomen. He shudders atop you.

Leon’s lips are back on yours before you can even think to be smug about it, before the teasing grin can curl at the corner of your lips. It’s hotter now, deeper, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to drown you. And in the heat of it, his knee presses between your thighs. You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, if it’s a brilliant accident, but either way it makes you keen, a gasp of pleasant surprise tumbling from your lips.

He groans into your mouth, one hand tightening on your hip. “You sound better than I imagined,” he breathes heavily, and heat floods your face.

You swallow hard. Shut up, shut up, shut up. 

Your heart jumps at the thought of him having imagined this. Having imagined how you sounded, how he would’ve imagined you falling apart. It does horrible things to your head and even worse things to the slick heat between your thighs.

You should have a response by now, something sharp and devastatingly witty, but all you can really focus on is the way he looks at you. Like he’d let you ruin him and call it a privilege. And then he moves, pressing closer, knee pressing up between your thighs more purposefully than before, and whatever witty remark you had queued up promptly exits the premises.

The sound that leaves your mouth is embarrassing. Mortifying, even.

“Oh,” Leon murmurs, voice all smoke and velvet, “there it is.”

You absolutely despise how much you like that, refuse to let him have it. Can’t. Won’t. His ego is slowly swelling to the size of a stadium, and the last thing you need is for him to think he has you all figured out.

So, you do what any self-respecting, prideful person in your position would do: you take the liberty to push at his shoulders, and when he leans back, you seize the opportunity. Grip the front of his shirt, and push him down against the couch. He lets you, laughing under his breath, hands settling easy against your thighs as you straddle his lap.

“Don’t look so smug,” you warn, fingers sliding down, slow and deliberate. His stomach tenses beneath your touch.

“I’m not smug,” he argues, but he’s smiling something devilish—lazy, lopsided, thoroughly enjoying himself. His hands flex against your legs, and you let yourself believe he needs it to ground himself. “Just waiting to see what you’ve got planned.”

Your pulse thrums in your throat, but you play nonchalance better than he gives you credit for. “You got a request?”

“Don’t think I need one,” he says, watching as your hands dip lower, brushing over his belt buckle. “You wrote a song about it, m’sure you have ideas.”

If looks could kill he would be dead, because you’re glaring at him like he’s said something horrific. He is right, but you don’t let him have the satisfaction of hearing you admit it.

Instead, you hook your fingers under the leather, tug just enough to make him suck in a harsh breath. His eyes darken, and it’s thrilling—watching him unravel, shift beneath you.

“Aw, is that all it took?” You coo, pleased beyond words, leaning in close to brush your lips against his jaw. “Usually so put together, doesn’t take much to get you like this, does it?”

Leon huffs a laugh, but goes willingly, tilts his head to let you mouth down his throat. “You wanna talk about falling apart? What was that sound you made just a minute ago?”

You bite down, enough to make him hiss. “Stop talking.”

You can picture the smile that tugs at his thin lips, feel the way his warm, broad palms skim up, under your shirt, pressing into your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, slipping under the band of bra.

His belt slips free with a quiet clink, and you savour the way his muscles jump under your hands as you undo the button of his jeans, the steady sound of his shallow breathing when your fingers brush against the sharp line of his hip bone. 

He tries not to push, but you can just about feel the restraining in him, the way his fingers twitch where they rest against your thighs, jaw clenched, muscles tight like a wire pulled taut.

You drag your nails lightly over the plane of his stomach, card your fingers through the thin trail of hair that leads down from his navel, just to see what he does when you do.

Leon sucks in a sharp breath, his head tipping back against the couch, and the sound he makes—low and barely restrained—sends a rush of heat straight through you.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He swears, voice beyond wrecked, and for a second you think he might start begging for mercy. 

“No,” you hum, tilting your head, hands running up his chest, under his shirt. “Just having fun.”

Leon laughs—all breathless, shaky around the edges. But there’s something desperate in the way he exhales, in the way his hips shift up just barely like he’s fighting every instinct to meet you halfway.

There must be a devil on your shoulder, he thinks, because you make it worse.

Your hips roll down, testing, barely any pressure, but enough he feels it. His breath punches out of him like you’ve knocked the wind from his lungs. His fingers dig into your thighs, desperation in his grip.

His head falls forward, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and fuck, you really weren’t prepared for how he looks at you—half-lidded, dark with something simmering just beneath the surface.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it pains him to think too hard.

A grin stretches across your lips, heart thrumming with satisfaction, you’ve won, you think, made him fall to pieces without even touching him properly. 

But then he exhales sharply through his nose, takes your hand.

He presses it to his chest, right over his heart—fast, heavy, pounding. 

“You feel that?” His voice is low, his other hand, still on your back, coaxes you closer. Close enough your lips brush. “You did that.”

You let out a shaky breath, Leon curses because he thinks he finally has you breaking.

You didn’t expect him to do that, to let his walls come down and show you just how much you affect him. Didn’t think he’d pull the rug from under your feet and admit defeat in one fell swoop. He looks at you like he actually wants you, not just the game of it, not just for the win.

He wants you. 

…You want him.

Leon watches your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but when you don’t, when your lips part like you’re about to ask for something, maybe even beg—he decides.

He leans up, closes the short space between you, and kisses you deep and slow. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. He doesn’t rush, nor does he fumble. Just touches you like he means it. Like he really has thought about this more than he’s willing to admit.

His fingers push at the hem of your shirt, sliding up your ribs, pulls the fabric off like it’s nothing. And when your body trembles against his, he swears to himself he’d do just about anything for you.

He lets you tug his jeans lower, helps you. His hands are steady, careful when he presses against the fabric of your underwear.

Leon watches your face, watches the way your lips fall open, breath uneven, the way your fingers tighten in his shirt, and then—

Then you make a sound so sweet, so utterly wrecked that his resolve snaps like a thread pulled too tight.

“Christ,” he mutters, like it physically pains him, and then he’s kissing you twice as hard as before, deep and wanting, swallowing every breath, every soft noise, every shaky exhale.

His fingers press firmer, so, so eager, willing to coax any sound out of you that you’ll let him. Your hands curl at his shoulders, hips bucking deftly against his palm.

“Leon, Leon, Leon,” you murmur, breathless and shaking, spilling his name into his own mouth.

He stills just barely, and fuck, it wrecks him—he doesn’t know if it’s the way you say it, like he’s something sacred, or the fact that you’re coming undone just for him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling away even if it kills him, pressing warm lips against your jaw. “Gotta use your words.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Don’t baby me.”

His mouth twitches. “You don’t want me to baby you?”

You want to tell him everything. That you want him to touch you like this, and talk to you like that, but also see you, really see you. Want him to want all of it—not just your body, not just the thrill of it, but the gentler parts too. The parts of you that ache when he leaves the room. The parts that want to believe someone like him could care that deeply.

“I want—” you start, then stop, teeth sinking into your lip.

He softens. Just a bit. Just enough. 

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Tell me how you want it.”

Your throat works around the words. You reach down, let your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers, and look him dead in the eyes.

“Wanna ride you.” You whisper, voice is thin with adrenaline and want.

Leon groans like it’s been punched out of him. “Fuck. Jesus. Shit.”

You grin, all teeth, trying to ease the gravity in your chest. “Oh, c’mon, rockstar. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve had a girl say that before.”

He huffs out something like a laugh. “S’different,” he says quietly.

You’re too scared to ask how.

So instead, you kiss him like it’ll shut out the question. Like you can pour your want into his mouth and he’ll take it, keep it, like your secret's tucked somewhere between your teeth and if he’s patient enough, if he presses hard enough, he’ll find it there.

Leon groans into it, hands dragging along the curve of your waist, your hips. His palms are firm there, like he’s claiming something, like he’s grounding you both.

“You ride me,” he murmurs against your lips, “and I swear I’m not gonna last long.”

“Aw,” you tease, all syrup and heat, brushing your nose against his, “poor baby.”

He bites your bottom lip in retaliation, gentle but pointed, and you gasp.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you whisper, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt before finally, finally, dragging it up, over his head, revealing sweat-warmed skin that you wish you could lick clean with your tongue.

Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much more time to waste. Leon’s handsiness, you’ve discovered, is both a curse and a gift—he can’t seem to stop touching you, and you’re in no hurry to make him. 

He helps you shimmy out of your underwear, breath catching when you’re bare before him. He drinks you in, staring like a man praying for patience. Then you sit back slightly, thighs spread over his lap, and he does it again, that mouth of his.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t believe his luck. “You’re unreal.”

It makes your head swim, the way he says it.

In hindsight, you should’ve taken more time, wish you’d used your hand to stroke his length until he was begging for more, but the heady haze of sex-soup your brain is swimming in doesn’t leave you much choice. You’ll get him next time, you decide.

So instead you hide the flush of your cheeks with the sink of your hips, and you think it just about does it. Leon groans like it knocks the wind from him, his head tips back against the couch, throat bared, lashes fluttering.

The stretch is deep, thick, just shy of overwhelming. It steals your breath and then your balance, and you fall forward, catching yourself on his chest. He’s warm there. Bare skin and heart beneath your palms, his pulse kicking against your fingertips like it might leap out and run to you.

“Fuck— God you’re warm. You’re so warm,” he mumbles, and it’s so hot and heavy it makes you blush hard enough you feel it in your ears, your chest, your thighs.

“Romantic,” you breathe against his jaw, trying for wit but inevitably melting into the moment.

He huffs out a laugh, half-amused, half-ruined. “Mouth on you.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” he grits out, squeezing your thighs. “You gonna move or just sit there lookin’ pretty?”

He feels you grin against the column of his throat first, then feels you roll your hips sickeningly slowly second.

“Christ,” he moans obscenely, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re—fuck. This is a bad idea.”

You pant, shake your head. “I think we’re way past bad ideas.”

Leon’s hand slides up your back, catches at the nape of your neck, forces your mouth back to his like he needs to taste your smugness. You feel him twitch inside you when you moan into the kiss—high and desperate, something wild climbing up your throat.

“You sound so sweet when you’re full of me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it’s awful, the way your body clenches down at the filth of it. “All that smartass attitude, but now you’re just—” he cuts himself off with a groan, “—fuckin’ whimpering.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Your hand finds the back of his neck, you tighten your grip in his hair and drop your hips again, slower this time, grinding until he groans like you’ve punched the air out of him. You want to crawl inside him, disappear beneath his skin.

“Pretty girl,” he says, low and reverent. “You sound so fuckin’ sweet.”

You whimper at that. Your rhythm stutters.

Leon finds it really doesn’t take much to melt your poor brain. You’re already gone—thighs trembling, mouth open, whimpering nonsense between the slick drag of your hips. He takes advantage where he can, thrusts up into you with a force that makes you hiccup on a wet moan. Cute, cute, cute. 

“Leon,” you whisper, voice thin and cracked and ruined. You’re not sure what you’re asking for. More? Less? Everything?

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, eyes glassy as they flick between your face and where your bodies meet. “Feels good, huh?”

God, his voice. You want to drown in the low timber that rattles through your head when he speaks like that. And of course, you nod. Desperate, mindless, somewhere between obsession and devotion. Your nails dig half-moons into the meat of his shoulders, your hips rocking pitifully.

“Can’t—can’t think,” you admit, a choked sound riding the edge of a sob.

Leon lets out a sharp breath through his nose, swears under it. “Good.” His voice is hoarse, fraying at the edges. “Don’t wanna hear you think. Just wanna hear you come.”

“Yours,” you whisper without thinking, tears burning and cresting your pretty lashes. “Yours, yours, yours—”

“That’s it,” he groans, “My girl.”

Your head jerks slightly, like the words ripple straight through you.

“Your girl?” you echo, dazed, like it floated up out of your mouth before your brain could catch it.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Just thrusts up into you slow and deep, like he can fuck the truth back into you. Kisses you like you’ve ruined him completely. 

And just like that, it’s all too much.

The rhythm you’ve managed to keep starts to splinter, your movements losing precision. You’re clinging to him, breath coming in hot, wet gasps, thighs shaking, body screaming for that last push.

Leon feels it. Sees it in your face.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants, hands sliding down, down, gripping the back of your thighs as you lift and drop, roll and press. “You gonna soak my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”

“Don’t wanna yet,” you whisper, but it’s fragile, a lie at best. You’re already falling apart.

He groans like you’ve stabbed him. “Jesus, you’re killing me. I haven’t fucked you stupid enough yet, huh?”

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit, circling slow and punishing.

You arch into him with a cry, loud and unfiltered, every inch of you unraveling.

“There she is,” he breathes, reverent and wild-eyed, watching you fall to pieces on top of him. “God, baby. Just like that.”

“You’re bein’ mean,” You whine, words all slurred, as the tears begin to well and dribble down the pretty apples of your cheeks.

“Oh, angel,” He coos, and god you really do hate how smug he gets. “Me? Mean? You wound me, pretty.”

“Shut up,” you pant, whining high and rutting hopelessly against him. 

“C’mon,” he pants, thumb still working lazy circles against the throb of your clit, “I wanna feel you beg for it.”

It’s cruel. Cruel, the way he says it—rasped out like a curse, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever ask for. His hand is steady even as his breath breaks apart. He’s wrecked. Close. You can feel it in the way he shakes under you, in the stutter of his hips against yours. 

You giggle helplessly into the crook of his neck.

His thumb presses firmer, tight figure eights.

“Leon—!” your voice catches on a sob, you’re so close it’s dizzying, so wet and full and tense that your whole body tightens like a string about to snap. “Can’t—too much—”

“Too much?” he echoes, low and amused, and god, it shouldn’t sound so tender. “Thought you said you didn’t wanna come yet. Changed your mind?”

You nod before you can stop yourself, head lolling as your hips rut down in frantic little circles, chasing the friction.

He groans at the sight, palm spreading wide across your spine like he’s trying to hold you together. “Fuckin’ knew it. Talk big, but look at you now—makin’ a mess on me.”

One arm tightens around your waist, locking you down, and the other braces at your back as he thrusts up into you again—deeper now, sharper, fucking the air right out of your lungs.

You keen, and he laughs—breathy and soft and so fucking fond that it breaks you open.

“Look at you.” He noses at your cheek. “You’re outta your mind.”

You are. You really are. And it’s all him. The heat of him, the rough scrape of his voice, the way he touches you like you’re something to worship and ruin in the same breath.

“Gonna come,” you choke out, breath hitching as your thighs start to shake. “Please—Leon, please—”

“Fuck,” he groans, and his hips stutter. “Go on, baby. Let go. You’ve been so good for me.”

That’s all it takes. The words hit like a match to gasoline. Your whole body seizes—tight and trembling and gasping as your climax crashes over you like a wave, dragging a whine out of your throat that doesn’t sound human.

Leon holds you through it, rocking you through every pulse, every shudder. He murmurs something into your skin, something quiet and unintelligible, and then he follows—his body locking up beneath you, his breath catching.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hisses, head tipped back, mouth open. You feel the heat of him inside you, feel the full-body tremor that wrecks him. He’s still buried deep, still gripping you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

It’s a long moment before either of you moves.

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, wild and unsteady. 

“You alright?” he asks after a minute, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod, cheek resting heavy against his shoulder, still trembling even when he eases you back. Your body feels like it’s been rung out, soaked in sugar, nerves singing somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.

Your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, and you murmur something against his neck—something nonsensical, vowels dragging like honey.

“What was that?” he asks, voice hoarse but amused, his hand smoothing over your back, tracing your spine like a secret.

“Dunno,” you mumble, “I think I saw God.”

Leon huffs a laugh. “You talk a lot.”

You don’t respond, just hum again, lost in the float of it—too far gone to be embarrassed, too fucked out to pretend you’re not still clenching around him. You feel him begin to shift, and what starts as a delighted little hum, turns to protest, a whimper slipping from your lips before you can think to stop it when you realise he’s pulling out.

“No,” you whisper, eyes glassy, fingers curling weakly at his wrist like maybe you could keep him there. “Wait—Leon—mmph.”

His laugh is breathy, wrecked. “That good, huh?”

You glare, or try to. It’s weak at best. “Don’t—don’t be mean to me.”

“You’re the one whining.”

“You made me whine,” you grumble, but it comes out slurred, a little dreamy.

Leon grins like he’s won the lottery. He’s still so close, and maybe the way his hands are smoothing over your thighs, up your hips, dragging the touch out like he can’t stand to stop can make up for how empty you feel now.

He has no shame when he cups between your thighs again and presses two fingers there, slow and lazy, you jolt. “Leon—”

He hums, smug. “Messy,” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds. “Look at what you let me do to you.”

You shiver hard, half from oversensitivity, half from the way his voice drips with possessiveness. You’re too blissed out to argue, too soft to push him away. Especially when he slides one of those fingers back in, just enough.

You gasp. “Ohhhhh,” you sigh, all delight and dazed affection.

You squirm against him a little helplessly, make a face when you feel him push a little deeper, like he’s guiding what’s left of himself back into you. Your head tips back with a helpless sound.

“Leon—what the fuck?”

He has the audacity to look smug. “What? Can’t let any of it go to waste.”

“Gross,” you whine, trying and failing to wiggle away. He keeps you right there, hands firm but fond, and you know, deep in your bones, that you don’t really want to go anywhere but where he is.

He offers you a real clean-up after your thighs have stopped shaking, drives you back to your place and walks you to the door like a gentleman. It feels all too sweet for the type of night you’ve had, and every part of you wishes this won’t be the last of them.

You half expect him to say something—to ask to come in, or kiss you goodnight, or at least promise to see you again.

But he just smiles. Nods. Taps two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute.

“Night, sweetheart.”

Then he’s gone.

And in the warm lull of dawn, with your sheets still cold and your heart beating somewhere between your ribs and your throat, you wonder what to do with the ache of him still lingering under your skin.

So when morning properly comes—sun high, coffee half-sipped, hair still tangled from the night before—you call.

Just to see if he’ll pick up. Just to hear the line connect.

It rings once.

Twice.

And then you hang up in a panic.

You curse under your breath. Call yourself a hundred kinds of idiot. Your thumb is still hovering over the screen when your phone buzzes in your hand.

Leon Kennedy is calling you.

Shit, shit, shit! You muster whatever dignity you have left, swallow, and answer.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is all sleepy, a little hoarse with morning, makes your heart bloom with warmth. You sink deeper into your mattress at the sound of it, curl into your pillow like it’s his chest.

“Yeah?” you say, like you’re afraid you’ve imagined the whole thing.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“You called?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna say something?”

You pause to worry your lip between your teeth.

“…No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. You can hear the rustle of sheets over the line, the sleepy shift of his weight. You picture him in bed—bare chest, tousled hair, phone pressed to his ear, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

And then he hangs up.

You stare at your phone, wide-eyed like you can’t believe he really did it. Then you hit call again before you can talk yourself out of it. He answers right away.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice quiet and curious like a secret. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

You roll onto your back, smiling helplessly at the ceiling. “No.”

He chuckles, quiet and fond. “Me neither. Was already thinkin’ about you.”

You close your eyes. “I liked your voice just now.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“I like yours too,” he says, voice thick. “Sound all soft. Like I should be wakin’ up next to you.”

The room feels warm again, like the night before never ended, whatever figurative line that you’ve drawn in the sand between you seems thinner than ever.

“Maybe next time,” you say softly.

There’s a careful pause. You both hang in the quiet, waiting to see if the moment passes.

“Have you…” he starts, then clears his throat. “Have you eaten yet?”

You shake your head although he can’t see. “No.”

“You want me to bring you something?”

The question bowls you over. It’s too sweet, too easy. Like he’s asked it a hundred times before, like this is just what you do.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper, but the fond curl of your lips slips into your voice and gives you away.

“Didn’t say I had to. Just figured you might want it.” A pause. “Something hot and filling.”

Your throat closes up a little, an uncharacteristic flush to your cheeks. “You mean pancakes?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Among other things.”

“Leon,” you say his name urgently, too much bubbling to the surface all at once.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You’re being…” You trail off, plucking at the fraying cuff of your sweater, too afraid to name it how it is, to ruin a good thing.

Another pause, you can hear the soft rise and fall of his breath. “I can be soft on you.” He murmurs, “If you let me.”

You press the phone harder to your ear, eyes stinging. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He says finally. Then, “Any coffee left at your place?”

“Only if you make it.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [3]

during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!

But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.

Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.

But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.

Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.

he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.

now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.

far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.

“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking” 

“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”

there is a pause …  he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.

“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.

“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”

“oh you simply must come visit!” 

well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.

their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.

but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.

There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?

Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.

Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t. 

He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.

so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.

It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.

it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere

Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy. 

And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.

Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?

He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.

he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.

Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.

If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions. 

Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.

[monzabee]

the smallest man who ever lived - cl16

masterlist || part 2 || part 3 ||

Summary: The one where you’re thrown into a conundrum when you learn the news of your husband, Charles’, infidelity.

Pairing: charles leclerc x wife!reader; carlos sainz x reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: angst, cheating, crying, manipulation(?), charles is an absolute asshole (but so is the reader) (but she’s kinda also badass?) (toxic relationship?), even more assholish carlos (gasp), blackmail, mention of pregnancy, mention of sex and sexual acts, physical confrontation (literally just pushing someone off but still)

Request: “Hey girl can I request something angsty with Charles? Maybe Charles cheating on Y/N (we’re already famous and have been married to Charles for years) and the fighting, the finding out, his guilt, angst, etc.”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! thank you to the anon who requested this because i had the time of my life working on it, and it might be the first fic i wrote in one go for the last six months or so!! also thank you to the getting cheated on playlists i found on spotify and amy dunne for giving me the inspiration to make the reader as toxic as i could. special thanks to @norrisleclercf1 and @percervall who had to listen to me talk about this fic NONSTOP. this is definitely something very different to what i usually write, but i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

There are moments in life where you feel like a complete and utter idiot. Although it could be for no apparent reason at all, there is a perfectly explainable reason why you feel like that right now, in the middle of your trailer on the set, with your manager and publicist both looking at you like you could explode at any given moment. It took you a good amount of time to wrap your head around the news, the news that wrecked you into a million of pieces which left you as the only person who can put them back together.  

“Let me get this straight,” you start, still trying to wrap your head around the news, “they were photographed leaving the club, and there’s a–?” 

“Sex tape, yes.” Your manager mumbles, earning himself a side-eye from your publicist. “It was so kindly attached to the email.”  

“And it is anonymous?” You ask, earning curt nods from both. “Well,” you manage to get out, pressing your lips together not to let out a sob, or a laugh, both? “That is very ambitious of him.” 

Your publicist shares a concerned look with your manager, then turns to you, “I guess so? How would you want us to handle this? I can buy us some time until these are released to public, but I think getting a statement ready just in case is essential given the fact that both of you are public figues. We can say that you’ll attend marriage councelling–” 

Your loud laugter cuts her off in the middle of her sentence. “And just why would we do that?” 

“I–” She gives you another concerned look as she softens her voice, which is quite uncharacteristic for her, you realise. “How would you want us to approach it then?” 

“I don’t want you to approach it at all.” You voice cuts through the tension, your gaze fixed on her. “I’ll handle it.”  

“But Charles–” She tries to reason, but you cut her off again.  

“Decided to get his dick wet where it certainly didn’t belong, he’s a big boy – he’ll survive.” Fixing her with a final look, you turn to your manager instead. “I don’t want this going to Charles or his team’s ears, that’s what the email said, and we should honour it, no?”  

His expression turns into a smirk, matching the one playing on your lips as he nods in thougt, “Would you like us to do anything else? We can talk with the production if you need a couple of days to… well, recuperate. Greta would understand.” 

“No.” Your answer is final as you shake your head. “She thinks this is an Oscar worthy project, I’m not throwing it away because my husband decided to think with his dick and not his brain. Just call my lawyers and tell them to be on stand by.” 

“Should I also book you tickets to Monaco still?” He asks in a monotone tone. 

“Well of course,” you reply in a sweet voice, widening your eyes for dramatic effect, “it’s a family event.” 

Your publicist eyes the both of you, “Okay,” as she drags the word out, “are you sure you don’t want to take a couple of days off?” 

“Positive. I have an EGOT to win.” Raising the script you have in your hands in the air, you announce, “I have lines I need to go over, is that all?”  

And as they leave your trailer to give you some space to ‘go over your lines’, you let a few tears escape your eyes, promising yourself that you would make Charles feel a thousand worse what he made you feel in the moment. 

It is not surprising or a sudden revelation that Monte Carlo has good weather all year around. But as it happens with the last few weeks following you learning about your husband’s infidelity, all you feel is cold – and no amount of warm weather is enough to make your heart feel warmer again. As you stand at the terrace of Café de Paris, overlooking the cityscape of Monte Carlo, all you can think about is how you just want to get this part of you plan over with as fast as possible.  

“Chérie!” The voice you hear makes a lump perpetually situate itself in the middle of your throat, but you brace yourself for the worst as you turn on your heels to face the person you’re most scared of facing in this whole situation. “Look at you, you look incroyable! You had me scared when you told me you were catching the redeye, and that we just had to talk!” 

“Pascale,” you breathe out as the woman pulls you into her arms with the warmness of any mother would do, and for that brief moment, you feel better than you have in weeks. “It’s so nice to see you again,” giving her the warmest smile you can muster up in the circumstances as you pull back, fixing your gaze at the figure behind her as you nod your head in acknowledgement, “Arthur.” 

“Maman is right,” Arthur says as he opens his arms, “you do look good.”  

“Well, thank you.” You reply as you give him a quick hug, and motion the table as you pull back. “Shall we?” Call it common curtesy, or cowardice, the fact that you don’t directly get to the point. Either way, you talk about what you’ve missed in the couple of months in which you’ve been away filming. You’re not necessarily paying attention, though the endtail of Pascale’s sentence catch your attention. “Excuse me, can you repeat that?” 

“Well, I was just telling how sad I was that Charles doesn’t come home as often this season. Though I understand he’s coming out to see you on set, distance can be so hard even for–” 

“He’s not coming out to see me, Pascale.” You voice is softer, and appears more broken than you would want it to be, but your words convey the message enough. It takes you a couple of moments to organise your thoughts, and Arthur calling out your name, to get you back into the moment. “There’s something I need to talk with the both of you, something I’ve already talked with Lorenzo, but I thought it would be better for you to hear it from me.”  

“Okay?” Arthur mumbles, then gives you a supportive smile, “You can tell us anything. Though don’t tell me I’m about to be an uncle because I don’t think my ego can take it at the–” 

You attempt to swallow the lump in your throat as you direct your words to the woman sitting across from you. “I’m divorcing your son, and I thought you should hear it from me and not him.”  

It takes a few minutes for both Pascale and Arthur to say something, and it concerns you that you somehow managed to give your mother in law a brain aneurism, but eventually, she manages to get out, “What? How? Why? Are you okay?”  

“I’m… fine.” You reply, albeit it comes off calculated. “I found a couple of weeks ago that he was cheating on me, I’ve came back to give him the papers myself.”  

“He what?” Arthur exclaims, then realises the level of his voice, and lowers it down as he asks, “Are you sure this is not a misunderstanding? The guy has been in love with you for over a decade, he wouldn’t do this.” With a resigning sigh, you find what you’re looking for in your phone and hand it over to Arthur. Who then, upon seeing what you have pulled up, immediately hands it back to you and turns to his mother, “Trust me you don’t want to see it.” 

“I’ve came to tell you the news, and well, to apologise.” You turn to face Pascale again.  

“Apologise?” She repeats, “Why on earth would you apologise to me when my son cheated on you?” 

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me ever since we’ve met, both of you.” You acknowledge Arthur with a look, and then focus your attention back on the woman, “Though I will make sure you don’t get caught in the crossfire in any way, I wanted to apologise for what I’m about to put your son through.”  

You honestly don’t know how you manage to act as if everything has been going fine in your life during race day. Given the fact that your husband doesn’t expect you to be at his race due to your rigorous filming schedule, and his family members being willing to hide your existence from him, you have no obstacles in your way to carry out the rest of your plan in motion. Which is exactly why you’re sat in the dark, waiting for your husband to walk through the doors of your apartment overlooking the city. With you seemingly being absent for the weekend, he has no reason to not believe that he is coming to an empty house.  

So, imagine his surprise when he enters his home; with his girlfriend in his arm, no less, and sees his wife sitting on the couch with her legs crossed and a drink in her hand. The look on his face is priceless, and despite all the pain and frustration you’re feeling, it manages to bring you some semblance of joy, knowing that it’s going to hurt him just as much as it hurt you.  

“Ma chérie,” Charles stammers, eye wide as he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights, “I – I didn’t know y–you were coming back this weekend.” 

“Well obviously,” you scoff, taking a generous sip from the drink in the glass tumbler in your hand, “otherwise you wouldn’t bring your little girlfriend into my house to fuck her.” You hear a gasp from the scaredy brunette wedging herself closer to your husband’s side, and for the first time you take a good look at her – young, much younger than you, tall, leggy; all the telltale signs that she is exactly your husband’s type. Tilting your head to the side, you rest the glass on the arm of the armchair you’re sitting in, “If you could leave now, I would greatly appreciate it.”  

You hear Charles whisper something in her ear, probably telling her to leave and that he’ll contact her tomorrow, and watch as she gives him a scowl, screeching, “You’re just going to let her throw me out?” 

“Well, considering the fact that this is my house, yes.” You give her a look of pity, watching her face light up with anger.  

“Listen to me, you bitch–” She starts, but your husband quickly cuts her off.  

“Mon cœur!” He exclaims, “S'il te plaît!” 

“Yes, listen to him, like a good little girl,” you egg her on, a smirk widening on your lips as you start swinging the leg resting on your lower one, choosing to focus on your nails instead of your husband trying to soothe his lover. 

You hear her scoff, take a few steps as her heels click on the marble floor of the entrance, “I wouldn’t be so calm if I were you, I’m not someone you want to be on bad terms with, considering the fact that he’s going to leave you for me!” 

“Oh, honey,” you coo, focusing your attention back on her and seeing the look of concern in your husband’s face through the corner of your eye, “and when did he tell you that, like a year ago? Two? Three?” A realisation dawns on her face as the smug expression starts to fade. “Don’t worry, though, you can have him when I’m done with him.” Pushing yourself off the armchair, you down the rest of the drink in the glass before slamming it down onto the glass coffee table. “And not only do I not care if you think I'm a bitch, but I hugely prefer it. Now get the fuck out of my house before I call security and get your ass thrown out.”  

You watch as she looks at Charles with indignation, lets out another screeching sound and slams the door behind her as she stomps out of your apartment. Only then you turn your gaze back to your husband, who has the guts to look at you with a worried look on his face. “How long have you known?” Is the first thing he asks you, taking a few steps closer.  

“A couple of weeks, a month, maybe?” You answer him, leaving your place to get to the small bar in the corner of your living room to get another refill of your drink. “There’s a video of the two, it somehow got into my hands, and it has very graphic details of the two of you having sex.” Popping a lemon into your cup, you make your way back to the armchair and sit down, “Are you stupid enough to cheat on me and make a fucking sex tape, Charles?” 

“I-I didn’t mean to–” He tries to plead, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.  

“You didn’t mean to what?” You ask him; your voice soothing, almost understanding, and it does the job of fooling him. “Cheat on me? Fuck another woman in my bed? Break the vows you’ve made?”  

“Ma chérie,” he whispers, “please.” 

“No.” Your voice is colder all of a sudden. “Tell me how long this has been going on for. Was I right? How many years?” 

“It started five years ago,” his voice is soft, somber and he tries to appear as genuine as he can in the situation, you suppose, “but I knew her, from before...” 

“Before what?” You’re seething now, the complete opposite of his calmness, “Did you fucking cheat me when we were dating, Charles?” 

“Ma chérie,” he gives you another pleading look, “please, I can change. I’ll go to therapy.”  

Now that, manages to get a bark of laughter from you. It’s ripped from the back of your throat, making you throw your head back as you lose yourself in the laughter to the point that there are tears in your eyes when you finally manage to calm yourself down. Putting the glass down on the coffee table once again, you wipe them off, mindful of your mascara, as you shift your attention back onto your husband. “Are fucking kidding me right now?” He gives you a concerned look, hands on his hips as he opens his mouth to answer you, but you quickly shut him down again. “You were bringing her into my house to fuck her, I caught you, I have your fucking sex tape – which is going to be streamlined for the world to see within twenty-four hours, do you honestly think I would go back to you?”  

“Wait, what?” He exclaims, looking at you with wide eyes and a shocked expression. “What do you mean they are going to streamline it, why didn’t you go to the lawyers? 

“I did go to the lawyers,” you shrug, innocently, “my lawyers,” you point out. “Why would I cover up your mistakes after everything you’ve done?” 

“Because I’m your fucking husband!” He barks, his arms widening to his sides as he finally loses his mask and his composure.  

His little tantrum only makes you let out another laugh, “Now, you’re my husband? Not when you’re cheating on me when I’m away shooting, but when you need me to clean up after your mistakes?” 

“How did you even get the video?” He asks, eyes narrowing down, “Who- who– who?” 

“Who? Who? Hoo? What are you, a fucking owl?” You exclaim, this time raising your voice. “You’re honestly more concerned about where I got it and not about the fact that the entire world is about to see you fucking someone other than your wife?” 

“What are we doing to do?” He asks, “Fuck, I have a race tomorrow.” 

“We’re not going to do anything.” You shrug, leaning forward to grab the glass and take another sip, “Or scratch that, we’re actually going to do something.” You stand up from the armchair, walk towards the table and hand him the file. “Congratulations, we’re getting a divorce.” 

“That is not happening.” He scoffs, not even bothering to look at the papers.  

“I don’t think you’re in the position to bargain with me, Charles.” You seethe, “You’re going to sign the damn papers, and you’re also going to sign away your rights to the baby.”  

“What the–?” He looks at you in disbelief, “You’re pregnant?” 

“Congratulations, it’s a boy.” You bite out, “Like you wanted.” 

“You’ve been drinking the entire night.” He points to the glass, “Do you expect me to believe you’re pregnant?” 

Offering him a sweet smile you hand him the glass, tipping it towards him, “It’s soda water, would you like a sip?” 

“Don’t make me do this,” he pleads, “give me another chance.” 

“I would’ve, if you were honest with me from the start.” You resign, a sincere look in your eyes. “I’ll give you a choice: us, or her.”  

He rears back with the offer, looking at you in disbelief. “What?” 

“You either choose me and the baby or you choose to be with her, and in that case, I will never let you near my baby, Charles.” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach protectively.  

For a second, his eyes linger around your stomach.   But you know his choice when he meets your eyes again.  

“What have we done to each other?” He whispers, and you can barely see the tears in his eyes.  

“We didn’t do anything, Charles. I gave up everything for you, but you just took me for granted.” Walking back to the dining table, you grab your coat and bag, and when you come face to face with him again, your voice is soft despite all the anger you still feel towards him. “You, Charles Leclerc, are truly the smallest man who ever lived.”  

The hotel lobby is calm and empty as you sit at the bar, and it’s surprising when you consider that fact that it is the weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix, meaning that there must be hundreds and thousands of motorsports fans visiting. Not that you’re complaining about the silence, of course. After the night you’ve had, silence and calmness are all you could ask for.  

“I’ll get a whiskey, please, whatever top shelf stuff you’ve got.” A voice cuts through the moment you are having, and you instantly recognise the distinct accent of the stranger sitting next to you. “Thought you were in the States, finishing off filming.” This time, the comment is directed to you, and you roll your eyes as you push the empty glass towards the bartender on duty.  

With a sigh, you turn to the man on your right, “What do you want, Carlos?” Your voice conveys your lack of energy, and Carlos is not dumb enough not to notice the dark circles under your eyes beneath your makeup.  

“I came to check on you.” Is his answer. Simple, curt and to the point. You’d certainly appreciate it more if you had the patience for his antics.  

“Well, you did, have a good night.” Slamming down a hundred-Euro bill onto the counter, you make a move to get up from your place, but a gentle hand on your wrist stops you. “Let me go.”  

Though there is no venom to your voice, Carlos knows that it is not the time, nor the place, to test your patience. “I’m sorry,” he starts and when you take a good look at him, you can tell that he’s being sincere, “I really did want to check up on you, and considering the fact that you have a perfectly good penthouse but instead in a hotel, I think I was right to do so.”  

Crossing your arms across your chest as you get back onto the barstool with a huff, you glare at him lightheartedly, “I didn’t want to stay in the same house as him,” raising your eyebrows, you continue with a lower voice, “thanks to chilisade5594@gmail.com, but I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” The way his cheeks redden under the dim lights of the lobby bar would make you chuckle under normal circumstances, but you push the thought aside, “Honestly, what were you thinking? You’re lucky it was me who realised it was you, if it was my agent or publicist, we’d have another scandal to deal with.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off with a swat of his hand, “I’m sorry I put you into that position.” 

“Don’t be,” you mumble, tilting your head to the side, “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t sent me the video. Just tell me why you did it.” 

“What?” He turns you with a confused look on his face.  

“Why, Carlos?” You ask, voice encouraging yet soft, “Why did you send it? Why now?” 

He keeps quiet for a while, not answering your questions but not taking his gaze off you either. Eventually, he exhales a deep sigh as he gives you a sheepish shrug, “I didn’t like the way he treated you. And I didn’t want to make you worry about it without concrete proof, so I guess everything just... worked out.”  

“Huh,” you let out a small hum in agreement, “I guess you’re right.”  

Expecting more than the words you chose to answer him with, he raises an eyebrow as he takes a big gulp of whiskey from his glass. “That’s it?” 

“Well, what more is it there to say?” You ask, sheepishly shrugging. “We’re getting a divorce; he’s going to move out and I’m gonna make sure the entire world knows just why.” 

Carlos flags down the bartender as he mumbles, “I feel like you need a stronger drink if we’re going to talk about your impending divorce, cariño.” 

Taking a deep breath and exhaling an even deeper sigh, you shake your head. “I can’t.” Thank God Carlos is one of the people who is the proud owner of a braincell around you, because he catches your insinuation quickly.  

With widened eyes, he quickly turns towards you, eyes softening as you offer him a sad smile. “Dios mío,” he murmurs, eyes running over you worriedly, “are you okay?” 

“Well... no.” You let out an unexpected laugh at his expression, patting him on the shoulder lightheartedly. “I’ll be fine, Carlos, I’m a big girl. I can handle this.” 

“I know you will,” he assures you, “but does Charles know?” 

Now that manages to bring a grimace to your face. “He signed his parental rights away along with the divorce papers.” The look he gives you after hearing your words has you worried that his eyes are going to pop out of their sockets, but you try to calm him down as best as you can. “Carlos, it’s fine.” 

“It’s most certainly not!” He exclaims, his voice echoing in the almost empty hotel lobby. “Is he out of his mind?”  

You give him an awkward smile and another shrug of your shoulders. "I... feel like whatever I’m going to say is going to be wrong. So... yes?”

“Cariño,” he says, exasperated, “how are you so normal about this?” 

“Lots of women raise their kids as single mothers while working, Carlos.” Your expression quickly taking the form of a frown, “I can handle this, I don’t need Charles or anyone else to hold my hand and tell me I’m doing such a good job.” 

“I know you can do this alone, tonta,” he rolls his eyes as the endearment making you roll your eyes, “but you’re not going to be alone. Because I’m here.” There’s a certain finality to his words. And just as you’re about to object to his words, he quickly shuts you down. “I know you can do this on your own, but you don’t have to, okay? I’m going to be with you every step of the way.”  

“What if I need waffles in the middle of the night?” You ask, your eyebrow raised in a skeptical way.  

“I’ll adjust my pancake recipe.” His reply his immediate, and he shrugs lightly as he adds, “Pancakes are better, anyway.”  

Rolling your eyes you continue, “What if I need someone to hold my hand in the delivery room? It can get quite gruesome, you know?” 

He provides you with another nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve never really been affected by it.”  

“Okay, this is ridiculous, Carlos!” You exclaim, pushing yourself off your seat as you turn your body to face him. “I don’t need you to bail me out, I don’t need your help!” 

“I know you don’t,” he nods.  

“I am capable of doing this on my own!” You shriek, and the fact that your face is starting to get progressively redder worries Carlos.  

“I know you are, but–” he tries to reason.  

“No buts! I’m going to be a good mother, okay?” You point an accusatory finger towards him. “I’m going to choose him!” 

The way your voice breaks at the end of your sentence has Carlos instinctively pull you into his arms, which is not that hard given the fact that you are almost the same height as him as you stand in front of the bar stool he’s sitting on, and he doesn’t say a word as you sob into his chest – letting out all the emotion you’ve bottled up over the past few weeks, no less. He doesn’t you offer you empty promises or tries to soothe you with cliché phrases. Instead, he stands still, holding you between his arms as you sob continuously into his chest. Giving the bar tender an awkward smile over your shoulder, he hands him his card to close out your tabs.  

He only starts talking again once you’ve pulled away and trying to wipe the remnants of your tears from under your eyes. “Do you feel better now?” He asks, handing you a napkin.  

“Yeah,” you mumble, sniffing as you play with the corners of the napkin. Then, you flip your eyes toward his, and fix him with a glare. “You are not becoming my kid’s stepdad.” 

“Of course not, cariño,” he assures you, “I’ll be the dad that stepped up instead.” 

You let out a teary chuckle as you slap him lightly on his chest. “I’m serious, Carlos.” 

“So am I.” He replies softly, and you can see the genuine look on his face. “You’re not alone anymore, I’m choosing you.” Tentatively, he presses his hand softly against your stomach as he maintains your gaze. “Both of you.” 

And though the last thing you want is a promise, this one seems like a real one. So, you let yourself believe that he might just keep it up.