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sswed · 2 months ago

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is it a crime?

alexia putellas x policeofficer!reader

A/N: pure unadulterated smut and a g!p reader, thus minors DNI, thanks

part two found here: everybody knows im a good girl, officer

wc 2.6k

Alexia doesn't actually know just how she gets herself in these kinds of situations but this isn't really the time. She's gotten pulled over, in a foreign country, where she can barely speak the language and the only other person in the car is Jana.

Which means that they aren't getting to the stadium on time or maybe even today for that matter.

You gesture for Alexia to roll down the window and she feels her breath get taken away for a moment. You have the sleeves on your uniform rolled up, which allows her a peak at your rather muscular forearms and the vest you're wearing is tight around your chest.

You're like the hot cops out of those weird police dramas that play on the television sometimes and Alexia cannot believe her luck. If you weren't the one pulling her over, she'd ask if you wanted tickets to the game or maybe even her number.

You knock on the window and Alexia scrambles to roll it down while shushing Jana's giggles.

"Afternoon, ma'am," You say politely while taking a look inside the car.

Jana is sitting in the passenger seat and you can only see two bags on the back seat, both black and from nike. Nothing to worry about really which makes this so much easier to dismiss.

"Afternoon," Alexia replies in a murmur.

"Licence please," You put your hand out and take Alexia's drivers licence to glance over it quickly.

You smile, "Do you know the speed limit here?"

Alexia curses under her breath and looks around, all the street signs show only directions. She's about to get a ticket, in England, while she's running late for pre-match training. She knew that she shouldn't have let Jana convince her to rent a car for the few days they were here.

"Err..."

You laugh a little and smile kindly again, "Where are you from?"

Alexia feels her heart speed up at the dimples on your face and the way you casually lean against the car to run a hand through your hair.

"She's from Barcelona!" Jana leans over Alexia with a grin, clearly she's a little more outspoken than Alexia.

Your eyes lighten up. The time to use your Spanish has finally come and maybe your co-workers would stop teasing you for taking classes every week if you tell them that it has finally come in handy.

"Right, I'll let you off with a warning this time but be careful and pay attention to the speed limit, okay?"

Alexia is taken aback. Your Spanish is flawless, like a local's and she wonders whether you're from Spain even though you don't look like you are.

"Y-yes, of course," Alexia stutters out and elbows Jana when goes to lean over again.

You pat the hood of her car and lean back, "Have a nice day."

"You too!" Jana waves at you and you wave back as you walk to your police car.

Alexia turns to Jana abruptly, "Never again."

Jana laughs while Alexia starts the car again.

"You thought she was hot, Ale!"

Alexia clenches her jaw and decides to ignore her passenger, instead she turns on the radio and drives to the stadium. This time following traffic rules.

Barcelona won over Chelsea the next day. They go from being two down in aggregate to winning 4-2 mostly due to Aitana and Pina but they all go to celebrate with the fans in the away end.

To Alexia's surprise, you're there with a Barcelona shirt on, hugging Lucy and congratulating her with a pat on the back. The shirt you're wearing is a little tight, clearly not yours but Alexia thinks it looks brilliant on you anyway.

"You have to come to the party!" Lucy's trying to convince you to join their "party" in order to properly celebrate the win and place in the final.

"Don't you have training tomorrow or something?"

You shrug her arm off you and raise a brow. You've known Lucy for a while now, ever since secondary school actually so it would be a sin to miss a game of hers if she's playing in England but that doesn’t stop her from being annoying.

"Tomorrows a free day," Lucy argues and you sigh, she's stubborn like a mule.

"I have work tomorrow," You try but Lucy doesn't fall for it.

"You have a night shift, so you're free."

You scoff and eventually nod. You'll stay for a maximum of an hour, then when Lucy finally lets you go, you'll take the opportunity to slip away.

The opposite happens. Lucy drags you around to meet everyone, one by one and you introduce yourself to them, mostly using Spanish and before you know it, it's been two hours and a drink later.

"Now this is la Reina or capitana."

You blink a few times. This is the exact same woman that you pulled over yesterday for speeding. It's just your luck to run into probably the most sexy person you've pulled over at an after party and find out that she's a world class athlete.

You try to smile but it comes out like a grimace, "Hola."

Alexia looks just as shocked. You're still wearing that tight Barca shirt that makes your biceps pop and there is now a visible sweat on your forehead from the heat in the room. You look like walking sex and Alexia wishes that you didn't pull her over yesterday.

"Hi," Alexia replies and then takes a sip of her coke.

You nod at her and turn, hoping that Lucy will drag you away but she's gone. Lucy's just disappeared on you and by doing so, she's left you with Alexia. Who is the hottest person you've ever seen and someone so off limits it's ridiculous.

"Err..." You shuffle awkwardly, gripping the glass in your hand tightly.

Alexia is dressed magnificently. Her t-shirt is perfectly cropped just above the waistline of her jeans and you can't help but let your eyes wander over her figure.

"Listen, can we pretend that I didn't stop you yesterday?" You ask sheepishly and relief floods into you when Alexia nods.

It turns out that you and Alexia get on better than you thought you would. Actually, you hit it off. Talk about your dogs, her job and yours, about London and Spain. Then before you know it, you've been at this party for three hours and you're in a bathroom with your back against the door and Alexia's tongue down your throat.

"Shit, Ale.." You mutter through the kiss.

Your hands are firmly placed on her ass, gripping the fabric of her jeans and occasionally kneading into the flesh. She's gasping into your mouth with her strong arms wrapped around your neck so that she can kiss you comfortably.

Then she lets one of her hands fall from your neck to your stomach where your abs flex under the silky material of the shirt. Alexia runs a nail down the middle of your stomach and you groan into her mouth.

You don't think you've ever been harder in your life and Alexia is making it difficult not to do anything. Then she lets her hand drop to your belt and stops kissing you.

You pull back and look at her with hooded eyes. Alexia looks like a vision, her lips are slightly red and pupils are blown wide open, making her eyes impossible dark.

"Can I, Officer?" Alexia smirks and you can't help but groan.

You nod furiously and Alexia unloops her other arm from around your neck and it joins her other one on your belt. She unbuckles it with quick and nimble fingers then slides one of her hands into your trousers.

"Ah, fuck," You gasp out when a hand palms your clothed cock.

Alexia smirks, "Is that a baton in your pocket... or are you just happy to see me?"

You let out a shaky laugh before moaning deeply when Alexia presses her palm firmly against your cock. God, the feeling is beyond deadly. You need her so bad it hurts.

You give her ass a firm squeeze that makes her jump a little. She's teasing you, letting her hands roam around the inside of your trousers without actually slipping into your underwear. It's making the want pool in your stomach at an alarmingly fast rate.

"Don't tease," You say through clenched teeth, you're desperately trying not to moan loudly.

After all, there is no reason to make this a public announcement.

"Sorry, Officer," Alexia mewls then unexpectedly drops to her knees.

The image is one you'll forever have burned in your mind. She's got her hands on the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you expectedly with a cat-like smirk.

Fuck it, you whine loudly, you've stopped caring about what people think. Right now, you only want her.

Alexia takes that as the go-ahead and swiftly pulls down your underwear. She's greeted by your hard cock and you can't help but hiss at the cold air of the bathroom.

She wraps a hand around you and you moan slowly. You need her, so, so bad but you resist the urge to buck in her hand.

"Come on, please..." You groan out, hands splaying on the polished wood of the door.

Alexia obliges you with a smile and takes you into her mouth. It feels like heaven. Her mouth is so wet and warm that your eyes roll back into your head for a moment.

"Shit," You moan out and resist the urge to tangle your hands into her hair.

Alexia swallows down another inch with ease before taking both of your hands and placing them onto her hair. You raise your brows and only card through her scalp with a gentle hand.

This is clearly not what she meant because Alexia looks up at you a few moments later, then pulls off you to speak.

"Need a little encouragement?" Alexia says suggestively and you scoff.

You take a handful of her hair and urge her back down. You aren't shy this time, you let yourself thrust a little into her mouth and use her hair to stabilize yourself.

"That's so good, shit, you're so good," You murmur out praise in quick succession.

Alexia responds by hollowing her cheeks and sucking harder. You see stars then, she feels so good and you know that you're not going to last long if you keep this up.

You tug Alexia back and off your cock, she, in turn, looks up at you with questioning eyes.

"I want to fuck you, can I?"

Alexia smirks and stands while you tuck yourself back in for a moment. This time, you lift her so that she is seated on the sink and lean forwards to kiss her hard.

You can taste yourself on her lips but you don't care. Your hands roam down her body, feeling every mountain and fall and she's palming your stomach with needy hands.

She pulls back slightly, just so you can still feel her breath going into your mouth and her nose touching yours.

Alexia whispers, "Are you going to fuck me, Officer or no?"

"Be patient and you'll find out."

Your hands travel down to her jeans and you quickly discard them so that they are merely a heap on the marble floor. You then place a hand over her pussy, she's soaking wet. So much so that her underwear is drenched beyond belief.

"Someone's needy," You chuckle and Alexia rolls her eyes.

You kneel down and tug her underwear down, then throw them to join her jeans. You look up at her while you lick a long stripe up her cunt and you can feel the way Alexia shudders underneath you.

"Oh God," Alexia moans loudly and you smirk against her.

"No, no, just me, darling."

Alexia goes to roll her eyes again but mid way through, you twirl your tongue around her clit and her eyes roll back into her head involuntarily.

You suckle on her clit with hollowed out cheeks and Alexia howls above you. The whole place can probably hear it but that's the last thing on your mind right now.

You flick your tongue against Alexia and her hands fly to your hair while her legs wrap around your shoulders. There is practically no way out, not with Alexia's strong thighs wrapped around your head but you don't want an escape either way.

It only takes a few more minutes before Alexia is cursing out loudly, her hands tugging your hair in different directions and her thighs are squeezing around your head.

"Shit, shit-" Alexia moans out quickly and you smirk against her.

You use your hands to pry her thighs off your head and stand once again. Alexia's finger ball up the front of your borrowed shirt and drag you closer until she can kiss you firmly.

"If you don't fuck me now," Alexia mutters the threat into the kiss and you smile.

You pull her off the sink then twirl her around and press her to the front of it. You meet her gaze in the mirror and smirk wildly while she looks at you with slightly widened eyes.

"You want this?" You lean forwards to murmur into her ear and you see her nod in the reflection.

You push down your underwear and wrap a hand around your cock, give yourself a few pumps before sliding into her. She's so wet and tight that you immediately screw your eyes shut and join her in a high pitched moan.

"You feel so good,"

You plant your hands on her hips and give a few shallow thrusts. This is everything you wanted when she suggested going to the bathroom.

You close your eyes and let the sensations overtake you for a moment, she's clenching around you each time you bottom out and it drives you crazy.

You open your eyes and meet Alexia's in the mirror again. She's got her mouth slightly open, panting as you speed up your thrusts. It takes a minute until you find a perfect rhythm but when you do, you have Alexia clawing at the porcelain sink .

"Harder!" Alexia whines out and you give her a thrust that sends her forwards from the force.

"Yeah, right there," She's moaning uncontrollably, loudly so that it echoes through the room.

You think about pressing a palm to her mouth, shushing her but you decide that the damage is done. There's no point trying to be quiet when the two of you have already been too loud.

"I'm close," You whimper out while your thrusts become erratic.

"I'm going to come soon, Ale."

"Give it to me, Officer," Alexia winks at you in the mirror and you can't help yourself.

You groan loudly as you come inside Alexia. It feels Godly and you feel her tighten around you as she reaches her peak as well. You moan lightly as you pull out and brace yourself against the sink.

"That... was," You gasp out, breathing heavily.

Alexia catches her breath next to you. She's got a thin layer of sweat on her face that matches yours and her cheeks are flushed red. You turn to look at her and she presses a soft kiss against your lips.

"Fantastic?" Alexia raises a brow and you laugh.

"Yeah, fantastic."

A loud knock sounds on the door and it is followed by a few others.

"You done, capi?" Patri calls out, clearly laughing.

Then she's joined by Lucy, "You were supposed to be my ride!"

Both your eyes widen and you turn to look at Alexia.

"Maybe we should stay here forever?" You say, embarrassed and flushed.

Alexia nods with wide eyes, "Si."

When you walk out a few moments later, you’re greeted by a crowd of cheers and Lucy’s smirk.

#woso x reader #woso fanfics #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #barca femini x reader

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yuujispunches · 1 month ago

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Where the moon doesn’t reach ~ R.S.

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x fem!Reader

Summary: A demon that’s hurt beyond repair stumbles into a quiet herbalist. He’s hates everything soft, weak but somehow the way you smile has managed to make its way into a heart he didn’t even know he had.

CW (content warning): set in Feudal Japan, Sukuna should be a warning on it’s own, ooc!Sukuna (he’s somewhat nice), mentions of blood and injuries, smut, MDNI (+18), fingering, p in v sex.

AN (author’s note): I saw a video on TikTok of an animation of Sukuna and an OC that was really cute and it gave me this idea. I’m also finishing up the second part of the Megumi college AU that I posted yesterday. As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there’s any typos/mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send them! (you can check the list of character I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

He undressed you slowly, reverently. His calloused hands mapped every inch of your skin like it might vanish beneath him. When he saw the hitch in your breath as he cupped your breast, he leaned down and took one into his mouth, tongue flicking gently over the sensitive peak. His other hand slid between your thighs, testing your readiness. You gasped, arching into his touch.

The wind howled through the ancient pines, rattling their skeletal branches as if they too sensed blood in the air. Deep in the belly of Honshu’s mountains, the forest had borne witness to centuries of death—but none quite like today.

The soil steamed with residual cursed energy. Trees had been split in two as if some vengeful god had rent them apart. And at the epicenter of it all knelt a man.

Not human, a monster, a curse.

Ryomen Sukuna, the sorcerer who would become the King of Curses, staggered through the wreckage of the battlefield. Two of his four arms hung limp, shredded by the final, coordinated strikes of the onmyoji. His body, normally swift to mend, refused to heal. The ancient seals those bastards had carved into their talismans burned his flesh with something foreign and cruel. Something divine.

His vision blurred, his mouth gaping open and silent. The world swam between crimson streaks, and his steps faltered. He didn’t fall. Not yet. But he bled like never before, cursing internally.

And so he ran. Or limped. A king shouldn’t flee, but even kings sometimes must vanish to fight another day.

He didn’t know how long he walked before the scent of smoke and herbs pierced the haze. Soft. Earthy. Human. He snarled, chest heaving.

A hut? Out here?

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

If it was a threat, he’d erase it. If it was a priest, he’d flay him slowly.

But it was neither.

Instead you opened the door. And you smiled.

——————————————————————————

You’d been living in the woods for three years now, ever since your grandmother’s death. With no family left and no appetite for the world’s endless wars, you stayed in the cabin she’d built, harvesting herbs, tending to the wild animals, and preserving what peace you could.

So when the man appeared on your doorstep, bleeding and silent, you didn’t scream. You didn’t bolt the door or brandish a knife.

You blinked once, slowly. Took in his wounds. His four arms. The blood.

“Gods,” you whispered, voice calm. “You’re dying.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I am not.”

“You’re bleeding all over my floor.” You stated flatly.

He let out something that resembled a grunt. “Touch me and you’re dead.”

You simply sighed “If you don’t treat those wounds now you’re going to bleed out and I don’t want a dead man in my house.”

“Fine but if I die I’m pulling you to hell with me”

“Seems fair”

Then he collapsed.

——————————————————————————

He woke up three days later on your futon, half of his body wrapped in bandages that still hadn’t stopped bleeding.

You were crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle in the corner.

“You’re awake.” You said gently. “You really shouldn’t be moving yet.”

He growled. “What did you do to me?”

“Cleaned your wounds. You had poison in your blood, something I’ve never seen before. Your body’s not accepting normal medicine, but cedar bark and tiger lily have helped stop the rot.”

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“No. Should I be?” You asked him in return.

That earned you a long, suspicious silence.

“You don’t know who I am.”

You smiled, soft and warm. “You’re the man who bled on my floor. That’s enough for now.” It made him want to flee.

——————————————————————————

You learned early that he hated talking, so you filled the silence with stories instead. Of your grandmother. Of the time a fox stole your rice dumplings. Of the way the moon looked like a pearl in the lake on clear nights.

Sukuna didn’t respond, but he didn’t stop you either.

He healed slowly. Whatever the sorcerers had done to him, it kept his cursed energy from mending the damage. His muscles refused to knit. His ribs stayed cracked.

You changed his bandages every morning and evening, your fingers gentle even when blood had glued the cloth to his skin. He hissed only once, and you pressed a hand to his.

“Sorry.” You whispered. “Almost done.”

He never flinched again.

——————————————————————————

“You’re too trusting.” He pointed out one night, watching you slice dried lotus roots for stew. He’d begun moving on his own, though stiffly, and preferred to sit where he could watch the door.

“Maybe.” You said. “But you’ve been here two weeks and haven’t killed me, so I think I’m alright.”

Sukuna bared his teeth. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

You looked up at him, your eyes clear. “You don’t know the things I’ve forgiven.”

Something in him stilled.

——————————————————————————

Winter came, hard and biting. Snow blanketed the roof and forest floor. You had stored enough food to survive, but Sukuna insisted on helping once he was able to walk.

He brought down a deer with his bare hands one morning and dropped it outside the door like a cat presenting a gift.

You laughed and hugged him without thinking. His arms stiffened at his sides.

But he didn’t pull away.

——————————————————————————

He asked your name one evening, out of nowhere. You told him.

Then he told you his.

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

The name echoed in the cabin. You stared at him, blinking.

“I’ve heard that name before. From travelers. They said you were a demon.”

“I am.”

You met his eyes and shook your head. “No. You’re just angry.”

And he was. He’d been forged in blood. Betrayed, hunted, twisted into a monster because the world feared the power he wielded. He'd killed, countless times, but he’d also survived.

And now here you were. Untouched by that world. Kindness made flesh.

He didn’t know how to speak to that.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned against the doorway later that night, watching as you hummed softly while you washed his blood from another tunic. And for the first time in decades, his hands didn’t ache for a weapon.

They ached for something else.

——————————————————————————

You kissed him first.

It was the middle of the night, a cold snap creeping through the trees. He stood by the fire, shirtless, his scars catching the firelight. You crossed the room barefoot, unable to sleep, and rested your hand against his chest.

“Do you ever wish it had been different?” you asked.

“No.”

“You don’t wish you’d known peace?”

He didn’t answer.

So you kissed him. Softly. Slowly. You weren’t sure he’d let you. But his hand came up behind your neck. They were rough, hot, possessive and he kissed you back like it was the last thing he’d ever be allowed to feel.

——————————————————————————

That night, the forest outside vanished. There was only him, only Ryomen Sukuna.

He lifted you easily, carrying you to the futon with a reverence that rivalled with the hunger in his gaze. His mouth found your throat, kissing a line down your skin, his teeth scraping lightly before he soothed each bite with his tongue.

“Still not afraid?” He growled, his voice a rasp against your ear.

“No, never of you.” You whispered, fingers digging into his back. “I want this.”

You felt him smirk against your collarbone.

“You’re soaked.” He murmured. “You really want me this badly?”

“Yes- please-” You breathed out almost desperately.

He spread you open with careful fingers, watching your face as he eased two inside. You moaned, your back arching as his thumb found your clit, circling it with practiced skill.

When you reached for him, he pinned your wrists above your head.

“Not yet.” He said, voice low. “You’ll come for me first.”

You did. Hard. Your thighs shook, your breath caught, and he didn’t stop until you were whimpering, overstimulated and breathless.

Then he unbound his robes, revealing himself fully.

You swallowed.

He was large, thick and hard and flushed, his length veined and already dripping at the tip. You reached for him again, and this time he lets you touch him. Your hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly, marveling at how even this most monstrous part of him could tremble under your gentleness.

“Enough.” He grunted. “I need to be inside you.”

He entered you slowly, with a curse under his breath. You were tight, the stretch delicious, overwhelming. He paused once he was fully seated inside you, resting his forehead against yours.

“Still good?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “Better than good.”

He began to move, hips rolling in a rhythm that grew faster with each thrust. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the cabin. You wrapped your legs around him, anchoring him to you, crying out his name as he drove deeper.

It was carnal. Sacred. Desperate.

“Say that you’re mine.” He mumbled against your neck before biting it, as if to mark you, claim you.

“Ryo- ” You moaned out, his thrusts made it almost impossible for you to make any coherent sentence.

“Say it”

“I’m yours” You managed “Yours.”

Right then he knew he was done for.

When you came again, he followed with a groan, burying himself inside you with one last thrust. He shuddered, arms shaking as he collapsed beside you.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then he reached for you an arm around your waist, dragging you against him. Mine, that touch said.

And you let him claim you.

——————————————————————————

Sukuna never said the words. But he didn’t need to.

He brought you the first cherry blossom of spring in his hand, his expression unreadable.

He watched you sleep like you were something holy.

He killed a bear that came too close to the cabin, and when you scolded him, he didn’t argue, just let you wrap his knuckles in salve after the fight.

He stayed.

And in his silence, you heard the heartbeat of a man rediscovering his soul.

A man that now was almost human, even if it was just for you.

——————————————————————————

The day he left came without warning.

You woke to find him dressed in black, his katana strapped across his back.

“They’re coming.” He said. “The sorcerers. I can’t let them find you.”

You stood, heart cracking. “Then I’ll go with you—”

“No.”

His hand cupped your cheek. His lips brushed yours.

“I kill everything I touch,” he murmured. “But you… I want to protect.”

“Then do it.” You pleaded. “Stay and protect me.”

And he did, at least for now, at least until you fell asleep in his arms that night.

Then he vanished, not before tucking a strand of your head, not until he made a silent promise. He left, leaving behind in that small cabin a heart he didn’t know he had until he met you.

——————————————————————————

You waited. Days passed. Weeks.

Then one spring morning, you found a severed talisman nailed to a cedar tree outside your home, the kind used by onmyoji to track curses.

It had been torn in half.

Below it sat a single cherry blossom petal.

And you smiled because you knew.

He would come back. He would always come back.

Taglists are open, so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

#jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jjk fic #jjk smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen smut #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna smut

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shadowmor · 5 months ago

Text

Mc is not fluent in Japanese part 2

Idea/summary: The Mc/Reader is foreign and knows just enough Japanese to express basics ideas (almost A2 level).

Part 1

-> Hotarubi & Sinostra house

✋️Obviously, this is not canon. Just a scenario idea

Kusanagi Haku

He already had some doubts about you being from outside Japan before interacting, but he quickly confirmed it.

"No, I'm not taking you to a clinic. Yes, to Darkwick, do you know it?"

But instead of seeing you searching on a search engine, he noticed that you typed the institution's name (incorrectly) into an online dictionary. Oh.

"No, Darkwick is an academy."

"Ah."

Before saying goodbye when you were taken to talk to the teachers, he briefly asked what your native language was. – You only understood the reason behind the question when he greeted you in your native language the first time you entered the Hotarubi house.

He studied some greetings (lazily) in case he saw you. If being cursed was already horrible, imagine not being able to express yourself the way you want?

Even if it wasn't much, Haku thought that by learning your language, you would feel less lonely and scared.

Besides, he noticed that his pick-up lines go in one of your ears and out the other since you don’t seem to understand unless it's in a literal sense.

"..."

"You didn't get it, did you?"

"I just didn’t understand the comparison between me and spring."

"Of course..."

Don’t be surprised if he throws a pick-up line at you in your native language —somehow, he sounds quite fluent in that aspect. (Maybe the color change on your cheeks and ears when you hear it is part of his motivation to practice more.)

Overall, Haku is a great teacher. Extremely patient with your mistakes and playfully teasing in a way that doesn’t make you feel mocked.

Oh? Speaking to me in such a casual tone... are you implying that we are actually closer than I imagined?"

Haku hates working more than necessary, let alone studying. But well, he won’t say no to a study date with you.

That is, until he realizes that you two weren’t the only ones in this study session. He looked at you strangely as you brought the Frostheim newbies.

"Maybe I misunderstood, MC. Wasn’t it just the two of us?"

"Is there a problem?"

"No, not really." It was.

He also learned to say your name correctly on the first try, just like Tohma.

Haku seems to know a mix of languages, from the most well-known to those he selected out of personal interest (yours made it onto the list).

Subaru Kagami

Although I sometimes doubt that Subaru's external personality is completely genuine, I'll write assuming it is.

At first, he didn’t realize you were a foreigner. Like Alan, he vaguely thought you just weren’t good with words. – For a moment, he felt identified.

But doubts arose when you two started communicating directly. A few pronunciation mistakes here and there, confusing text messages, and the fact that Haku always greeted you in another language made him suspect.

"Hm."

"What’s wrong, Subaru?"

"If I'm wrong, please don't take it personally, maybe I misunderstood. MC, are you from another country?"

"Yes"

Subaru quickly joined the study group, even though he firmly stated that he wouldn’t be very helpful, but demonstrated the complete opposite.

He is a great teacher, simple and direct in explaining grammatical sentence structures or the meaning behind some kanji simbols.

Studying with him is always nice because, in the end, fresh tea and some cookies are ready for your break.

He rarely corrects you outside of study hours, and when he does, he always seems reluctant or annoyed with himself.

If he’s with you and someone misunderstands you, he’ll try to clarify the situation.

Subaru already wanted to study your language to get closer to you and make you feel more comfortable, but what really pushed him was hearing you murmur in your native tongue —he found the intonation so beautiful.

Certainly, it would be a shame if you couldn’t speak in such an expressive way.

Like Alan (again), he prefers learning directly, but to avoid being a bother, he also studies through other resources. – Haku brought some textbooks he found in the library.

He only mispronounced your name twice.

Zenji Kotodama

The best of the best 🙌

He thought it was just a peculiar way of your speaking, but he admires that you went to another country despite not being fluent.

Although his songs may seem a bit confusing, they actually help you correct your pronunciation because he enunciates each syllable slowly.

He sometimes follows you around the academy to keep you away from trouble caused by your lack of comprehension.

"No, no, no, gal! This young man understood something else! Repeat after me so he doesn’t get confused."

He asked you to sing in your native language—he found it nice and tried to imitate it. (It sounded more like phonetic gibberish.)

Now you've been admitted to work with Haku in managing Zenji’s posts!

Congratulations, you're now responsible for adding subtitles to his video-songs in your language. The more people who understand and appreciate the meaning of his words, the better the world will be, right? He needs to touch more hearts.

Zenji is better at explaining the meanings of symbols than strict grammar, but he's still good.

"Oh, my dear. It’s not this, it’s this here. Write it again."

He pronounces your name in an overly dramatic way

He doesn’t mind if you speak to him casually (even if it’s by mistake).

When he accompanies you to the library, you just need to point at a symbol, and he will express what it means. (Maybe his metaphors confuse you, but he will try to be clearer if he notices your confusion.)

---------------------‐----------------------------------------------

Taiga Hoshibami

You almost got grazed by a bullet when you spoke informally to him upon entering the casino for the first time.

Interacting with Taiga is a bit unsettling —one moment, he's laughing at your funny way of speaking, and the next, he’s pressing a gun to your forehead, ordering you to speak properly.

He doesn’t correct you; he genuinely enjoys watching you mess up. Sometimes, he pretends not to understand just to see you desperately trying to replace the word you used.

You might end up being subconsciously registered in his mind as the girl who speaks funny. (Not a good thing. If your Japanese improves, he might pull out his gun again in your next conversation. Better be known as the kitten.)

He might start pointing at objects, waiting (forcing) you to say their names with your flawed pronunciation.

No, he still doesn’t remember your name. If he already struggles to remember the honor student’s title, imagine a foreign name.

Like Subaru, he heard you murmuring in your native language and immediately asked you to speak like that while using your thighs as a pillow. But don’t try saying anything funny—Taiga is extremely sharp to know when someone is making fun of him.

If someone mocks the way you speak while he's around and still remembers who you are, someone’s going to need medical attention. It should only be funny for him.

Taiga seems to know other languages; he might know yours, but I highly doubt he’ll speak it with you—unless he has a real reason to threaten you.

Romeo Lucci

The audacity you have to speak to him so casually using his first name.

Romeo likely knows other languages, being a noble businessman that he is.

He knew you were foreign at first glance and pronounces your name correctly after hearing it once.

You were truly an annoying thing—not just because of your writing mistakes in the reports, but also because even after he explained abbreviations, you still seemed confuse.

"You are such a WOE!!"

"..." Just from your expression, he knew you didn’t understand.

"Waste Of Effort!!"

Yet, there was that same blank look—how the hell did you not get it, even when he patiently explained?

If he knows your language, he might make a slight effort to communicate about necessary matters using it — like Kaito’s routine or about a mission

His corrections always come through frustrated sighs or yelling.

Yet, he somehow always returns your reports corrected, helping you understand what symbols you got wrong.

Ritsu Shinjo

He possibly knows other idioms —a lawyer must be aware of their client’s needs in any circumstance! How would he defend someone without understanding what they’re saying?

He still has your audio response to his question about you being a foreigner (why).

If he has time, he will join your study group. However, he already corrects you in any communication you two have.

Ritsu corrects you directly, pointing out the mistake and the solution. He doesn’t really care about how he’s explaining things or whether you feel embarrassed—similar to Jin in that aspect. Why are you embarrassed? He’s helping you.

As his business partner, your communication must be clear, objective, and efficient.

So, if he doesn’t know your language, he will find ways to learn it. You found it amusing that, just because you’re his associate, he spends nights studying your language. (And he doesn’t understand why that surprised you.)

Despite his "lawyer-like" demeanor, Ritsu is very helpful. He gathers books for you, ranging from basic to advanced Japanese.

He mispronounced your name a few times (maybe three in total).

Sorry, maybe i did wrote too much. Please forgive me for any grammar mistakes TT

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunkers #tkdb #tokyo debunker x mc #tokyo debunker x reader #sinostra #hotarubi #haku kusanagi #romeo lucci #taiga hoshibami #ritsu shinjo #subaru kagami #zenji kotodama

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ap-kinda-lit · 2 years ago

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Fun Dragon Ball headcanons

Goku and Vegeta are experienced with video games because of their sons. They even sometimes play them together. Goku's favorite is Sonic the Hedgehog and Vegeta's Mortal Kombat. Vegeta is usually the victor in their matches.

Bulma makes up to Vegeta by letting him give Bulla a middle name. He picks Eschalot of course. He chooses this name after a famous Saiyan princess. Princess Eschalot was known as the ideal Saiyan princess: strong, intelligent, brave, beautiful, and a fierce warrior. She refused to marry and decreed that she only would if the suitor beat her in combat. Not only did she defeat each and every one, she even killed them.

The gang sometimes go to Yamcha's baseball games. The kids even have his baseball cards.

Piccolo's favorite water is from watermelons. Dende's is coconut.

Trunks and Bulla are grossed out when they learn their mother and Uncle Yamcha used to date.

Goku sometimes stops by Tien's school to observe or participate in lessons.

Goku and Chichi planted their own apple tree in their backyard shortly after they married. It's still there all these years later.

Vegeta is very approving towards Mai as a match for Trunks, especially since finding out she was an assassin.

Goku likes to bring Chichi souvenirs from his adventures. They could be a stone from a foreign planet, a seashell from the ocean, or a flower from the mountains.

Vegeta is a secret Taylor Swift fan. He listens to her music when he's training or thinking by himself.

The children like Broly and love to play with him.

Goku can be a jealous husband in a subtle way. If he notices a man checking Chichi out or trying to flirt with her, he will hold her hand and refer to her as his wife or use endearing names towards her.

As far as the public is concerned, Vegeta's a cryptid. Everyone knows his name and recognize him as Bulma Briefs' husband, but that's about it. Nobody knows who exactly he is, where he came from, or how he and Bulma met and got together. It's even more difficult since journalists are too scared of him to approach him for an interview.

Since he can remember, Goku has had dreams where he is floating in a yellow void, surrounded by large shadows of people and muffled voices. Most of the time, he sees and hears a small and friendly woman, a large man with a deep voice, or a short child who likes to knock on glass. Goku doesn't realize until many years later that these are memories of his time in his incubator and the people he was seeing/hearing were his parents and young Raditz.

"Hungry like a Saiyan" or "eat like a Saiyan" are common metaphors among certain alien races.

Krillin stays in touch with his Buddhist roots. He visits temples, even his old temple where he was raised. He sometimes brings 18 and Marron with him.

While it's not shown, Launch does stay in touch with everyone.

Chichi speaks fluent Cantonese and Mandarin. She personally teaches Gohan and Goten from a young age. Goku has even picked up some terms here and there. When she’s angry enough, Chichi will curse in either language.

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blushonmycheeks · 1 month ago

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■ TICCI TOBY HEADCANONS 《🌲🪓》

Doubt - Twenty One Pilots ‧₊˚♪

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

~ art in second pic is by shatteredankles ♡

~ TW: mention of injuries, weapons, & violence!

~ want more? maybe some nsfw/dating ones? 👀 let me know and i will deliver! <3 im new here, so likes and comments are VERY appreciated!!

¤ listens to music like radiohead, nirvana, the cure, and likes most slipknot, ghost, korn, etc. a rock/alternative guy. you will NOT catch this man listening to pop. occasionally dabbles in some 80s rock too, although that's more of masky’s thing. he basically just has a virgin, white boy music taste lolol

¤ very fidgety. will twirl his hatchets, will twist the strings on his hoodie, pick at the gash on his cheek when it scars over, etc, etc.

¤ probably knows russian or some foreign language. when he's not running around doing slenderman’s bidding he's def cursing at duolingo or some shit /hj

¤ zones out A LOT. he's kinda detached from reality; constantly finding himself picking at the locks in his brain he shouldn't be trying to get into, before coming back to the real world and shoving whatever thoughts he had deep, deep down.

¤ he's a tease. he'll taunt his victims, taking his sweet time with them. he's not in any rush. the kinda guy to be gutting someone while saying, “Oh, c-c'mon! Intestines can stretch up to 20 feet! I'm sur-sure you can take more…” likes to hear their screams and pleas. it feeds the darkness in him; the side of him that only comes out when he's in the act of something that illicit.

¤ called slenderman ‘daddy long legs’ once as joke. he knew pretty quickly after not to do that again.

¤ lowkey a bastard. he will make snarky remarks all. the. time. he especially likes to push masky and hoodie's buttons. they've probably punched him square in the face before for saying some stupid shit that touched a nerve.

¤ (kinda a continuation of the last one) he laughs when being hit. due to his CIP, (congenital insensitivity to pain) he finds it amusing watching victims kick and hit at him, trying their hardest to inflict damage, all while he just grins.

¤ his smile is too wide. uncanny and not human-like. the way his lips stretch back, paired with the gash on his cheek, easily gains a shudder from basically anyone.

¤ his skin is as pale as PAPER. i don't think he's been tan once in his life. comes back from long missions in the summer with pink, sunburnt cheeks.

¤ freckles. freckles. freckles. on his cheeks, shoulders, etc.

¤ weed > cigarettes. he doesn't mind cigarettes, sometimes he'll snag a few from masky, but nothing relaxes him like a blunt after a long day. he's def the type to be relaxed by it and not anxious. the first time he tried it though it made him hella paranoid. nowadays he couldn't be bothered to care.

¤ knows some guitar. he's not the best at it, but he knows a few riffs and plays here and there when he has nothing else to do (which is rare).

¤ not at all a veggie or fruit guy. he's basically a carnivore. chicken, beef, pork, steak, ham; he'll eat up any kind of meat regardless of the animal. tried human meat once just for the hell of it and decided it didn't really suit his palette all that well, though.

¤ cursed with a sleeper build. looks skinny and scrawny but could throw you across the room if he pleases.

¤ smells like a campfire. 24/7, 365. no matter how many showers he takes or lack thereof, it will not go away.

¤ cuts his own hair. his tics have caused him to fuck up and accidently cut off too much before. he could not be bothered by how choppy it looks in spots, though. other times he goes a while without cutting it and will pull it back in a messy bun or loose ponytail just to get it out of his face. he sucks at doing hair.

¤ has not cried for many months if not years. there's definitely an untapped part of him filled to the brim with unresolved trauma that he can't remember or doesn't know how to talk about.

¤ has a happy trail (to my happy meal) sometimes he'll stretch and you can catch a glimpse of it. it's hard not to stare.

¤ an avid converse wearer. this man will wear his chucks until the soles are coming off and they're caked with mud (real).

¤ going off of the hc that him and all of the other proxies have the operator symbol somewhere, he has his on the inside of his wrist; carved into his skin permanently. sometimes will tug down his hoodie sleeve subconsciously if he feels it begin to ride up on his wrist with the scar.

¤ always has short nails due to his terrible nail biting habit. he also has slim, veiny hands paired with that.

¤ has naturally sharp K9's, giving his teeth a vampire look to them.

¤ hazel eyes that usually look brown, but have a ring of green around his iris in the sunlight.

¤ pretty average height for a male; around 5’9 maybe 5'10.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

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riizegasm · 7 months ago

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International Relations || K. DH (Leehan)

❀ pairing: president’s son!donghyun x rival!reader (implied fem reader), ft. various foreign idol cameos

❀ genre: enemies to lovers, suggestive (like it gets very tense and a little graphic at the end), minor fluff

❀ word count: ~5.5k

❀ warnings: explicit language, suggestive content, drug mention, alcohol consumption

❀ summary: In the perpetual game of cat and mouse, you always find yourself on the offense. So why does Donghyun look like the cat who got the cream? And why is defeat so hard to admit?

❀ A/N: SURPRISE!!!! Just a reminder that this is a work of fiction and is in no way related to the global political landscape. Please let me know how you guys like this one :)))

It’s too early on a Tuesday morning when a loud knock rings out throughout your bedroom, instantly rousing you from your slumber. You barely have time to open your eyes before a familiar face is letting himself into your room. Hanbin is clearly frazzled, his normally perfect appearance marred by a necktie with an improper knot and a severe case of bed head. You imagine you don’t look much better.

“You need to get up, now,” Hanbin rushes, beginning to flit about your bedroom at a panicked pace. “You have an interview with Kim Donghyun in an hour.”

Even through your sleepy haze, the statement immediately has you sitting up straight. “What?!”

As the darling son of the South Korean President, Kim Donghyun was more than just a household name. He was held as a sort of international superstar, known for his mellow temperament and his stunning looks. As the child of your own nation’s president, you have crossed paths with him quite a few times; enough times, in fact, to know just how much of an utter asshole he is.

“What do you mean interview with Kim Donghyun?” You ask, as Hanbin hadn’t bothered to clarify.

The man is still pacing the length of your lavish bedroom, typing something angrily into his phone.

“It’s for the BBC. They are doing some story on the children of international government officials. Since the Kim family is here for the United Nations Gala later this week, they asked to squeeze in an interview for you two to do together.”

“Together?” You groan, running your hands through your already messy hair. “Why didn’t you tell them no?”

“Your mother’s assistant accepted before I even heard about it. She also just so happened to forget to tell me until 15 minutes ago,” Hanbin sighs, finally stopping his hurried movement. “Please, just get dressed. There will be hair and makeup at the interview site, but we have to leave soon.”

You can’t help but groan again, fighting the tantrum building up in your core. A last minute interview would already irritate you enough, but having to do it with Kim Donghyun is enough to have you cursing the universe.

It blew your mind that he was able to be the world’s golden child when he had such a rotten core. He was disgustingly cocky and spoiled, clearly used to having everyone in his life cater to him. He couldn’t be bothered with anyone who he didn’t perceive to be of his status, never choosing to mingle with anyone except for his exclusive inner circle.

What makes it all worse is how disgustingly attractive he is. His blonde locks always frame his face perfectly, sometimes falling to obscure one of his ever-so-sparkly eyes. His full lips are always twisted into that cocky smirk he constantly wears, his left cheek always dimpling with the expression. He was tall and built like a model, his godly proportions always highlighted by the perfectly tailored suits he wore.

He’s so beautiful; you fucking hate him.

His deplorable beauty twists your stomach into knots an hour and a half later, when you slide into the seat next to him. The interview space has been set up so that the two of you are seated in chairs just inches apart, bright lights shining down on you so that the cameras can capture virtually any flaw. But of course, Donghyun still looks perfect, greeting you with his signature smirk.

“Y/N,” he drawls, voice deep and syrupy like honey. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough, clearly.”

You pointedly ignore the deep chuckle that your remark earns you. The sound still manages to slip past your barriers, setting the pit of your stomach ablaze.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you missed me.”

You can’t help but scoff, rolling your eyes even though Donghyun can barely see it. “You wish.”

“Yeah,” Donghyun whispers, barely audible. “I do wish.”

Palpable tension is nothing new for the two of you, your perpetual spats and teasing always leaving the air in the room a bit thicker than it had been before. The flirting always adds another layer. It’s not as if either of you mean anything by it, nor would anything ever happen between the two of you. But something about the smooth ways Donghyun counters your banter while looking like he wants to eat you alive makes you consistently hot under the collar.

It’s at that moment that the interviewer makes her way onto set, greeting you both with a warm smile. She’s clearly a fan of Donghyun, seemingly only addressing him in the few moments you have before the interview officially starts. The moment you get the countdown and the notice that they’re rolling from the director, however, she slips on her professional mask and begins the interview.

The hour slot goes by both painfully slow and surprisingly quick. You find it easy to get lost in Donghyun’s answers, fighting the urge to stare at his mouth as he speaks. But when it comes to your own answers, you find it hard to articulate exactly what you mean. It makes the minutes trickle by at a snail’s pace, only for the time to pick back up when Donghyun opens his mouth again.

You let out a sigh when the interview is finally over, the journalist thanking both you and Donghyun before disappearing somewhere off set. It leaves you and Donghyun seated while various crew members fuss over you to rid you of your mics. The silence between the two of you only lasts for a few moments before Donghyun decides to break it.

“You should come over.”

You can’t help but look at the man as if he’d grown another head, gaze flickering between Donghyun and the rest of the crew that lingers within earshot. He just shrugs, clearly uncaring if anyone overhears.

“What the hell are you talking about?” You whisper as harshly as you can. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Ehh…not yet,” Donghyun smiles. “So come over.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“I have some, uh, business matters I’d like to discuss with you.”

Before you have a chance to respond, Donghyun is standing from his chair, mile-long legs making themselves known as he rises to his full height. It takes everything in you not to stare at how stupidly tiny his waist is or how disgustingly broad his shoulders look in his suit jacket.

“I’ll have my people contact your people,” Donghyun says as he turns to leave, shooting you the tiniest smirk. “I’ll see you at eight, Y/N.”

. . .

You choose to show up to the specified address closer to 9:30pm than the expected 8. Hanbin says it’s out of spite, but you just consider it being fashionably late. Of course, no one is ever fashionably late to a business meeting, but a nagging feeling in your core tells you that it will be anything but that.

Your interactions with Donghyun have never simply been about business. The two of you always find yourselves in too close proximity, heated arguments ending up with you getting in each others’ faces or quiet insults whispered between a minimal space. Every attempt that the two of you have made to be cordial and civil just ends in fire and flirtation. So, the two of you have simply stopped trying. You no longer hide behind the guise of business or international affairs, choosing instead to be transparent in your desires to see each other. After all, both of you want nothing more than to push each other’s buttons.

Your suspicions are confirmed the minute you’re let into a swanky penthouse in the financial district of town, a well-known area for foreign ambassadors and their family residences. A sleek black door opens to reveal a shocked face that quickly melts into smugness. Donghyun simply smirks before opening the door wider, motioning for you to come in.

What was supposed to be a business meeting is obviously much more of a house party than anything else. You recognize a few familiar faces: Ricky Shen, the son of the U.S. vice president, Ning Yizhuo, the daughter of your country’s ambassador to China, and even the Yoon brothers, the sons of the Canadian Prime Minister. It seems like all of the children of top officials are here, drinking and chatting idly around the lavish apartment. If you were an outsider, you would laugh, the scene seeming all too much like a shitty movie interpretation of the life of the elite. But you know all too well that this is how it goes.

You’re sure that somewhere, there’s a stash of the world’s purest cocaine for anyone to indulge in. There may even be pills and other harder drugs if anyone wished to partake. The combined net worth of this crowd is well over $1 trillion, and that alone makes them untouchable. They are free to do as they please, simply enjoying the ability to be imperfect while the entire world sees them as the exact opposite.

“I’m surprised you came,” Donghyun whispers, his deep voice much closer than you remember it being.

When you turn, you find yourself almost nose to nose with the man, his greasy smirk still poised on his flawless face.

“I thought we were going to talk business,” you manage out, sounding much more confident than you truly feel. “Didn’t know that business involved so many people.”

Donghyun cocks a perfectly manicured brow. “You wish it was just the two of us, then?”

You can’t help but scoff, instantly reminded of your deep disdain for the man. “I wish you would stop fucking with me, Donghyun.”

A call of the man’s name sounds from somewhere deeper in the apartment, forcing the two of you out of your unintentional bubble. Over your shoulder, you can spot Donghyun’s typical entourage of friends, all beckoning him over with a frantic wave of the hand. Donghyun seems to notice at the same time, sighing deeply before taking a long swig of the beer in his hand. You struggle not to track the movement of his throat as he swallows.

“Well,” he sighs. “Duty calls. Try to have a little fun, sweetheart. You look like you need it.”

The man is gone before you can give him a piece of your mind, leaving you alone in the room full of people. Luckily, they’re all people that you know, having been well acquainted since early childhood. Everyone in this world knows everyone, which leads to a revolving door of familiar faces at every function. As much as you crave novelty, you can’t help but appreciate the familiarity.

Even still, it takes you a couple drinks to relax into the atmosphere. You find yourself giggling and making rounds as you mingle, spending extra time indulging in people that you know push Donghyun’s buttons. As much as you don’t care about the man and his reactions, you can admit how fun it is to see him riled up.

“I swear you get more beautiful every time I see you,” Jake gushes, plush bottom lip trapped between his teeth. “There’s no way you’re still single.”

You shrug, preening under the praise. “I don’t know. I guess I just haven’t found anyone who wants it bad enough.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Jake looks like he’s only a few seconds from devouring you whole, eyes raking your form despite the fact that your outfit reveals nothing. He reaches forward, his fingertips just barely brushing the curve of your waist before you’re snatched backwards. You stumble into a firm chest, the arm wrapped around your waist keeping you steady against the tall figure behind you.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a deep voice mumbles, easily recognizable. “I just need to steal Y/N for a second. Feel free to grab another drink or something in the meantime.”

You can barely register the confusion on Jake’s face before you’re being whisked away, only managing to shoot the boy a quick wave before you’re ushered down a hallway. It’s only once you’re decently far away from the noise of the party that you’re backed up against a wall, Donghyun’s frame leaning over you. He’s far enough that it would seem casual to an outside viewer. But you know that it’s anything but.

“No dating scandals for years, and yet you’re willing to risk it all for Jake Sim?” Donghyun chuckles cruelly. “Didn’t peg you for that type.”

“I didn’t peg you for the type to be all up in my business,” you retort, crossing your arms across your chest defiantly. “You jealous that it’s not you?”

“We both know that it could be…that it should be.”

A sly smirk is poised on Donghyun’s face as he peers down his nose at you, strong arm continuing to cage you against the wall. You could escape if you really wanted to, a clear opening for you to slip by and go about your night. But you don’t really want to, a fact that both of you know.

This is how it’s always gone between you, a perpetual game of cat and mouse. The two of you have spent your entire lives circling each other, just waiting for someone to fall into the other’s trap. And right now, backed against a wall, you realize that this time, you’re the prey. Instead of fear, however, a stinging warmth floods your veins.

“Admit it,” Donghyun whispers, words clearly just meant for the two of you. “I know you just want to say it.”

“Admit what?”

Your voice only comes out as a mere whisper, the wild thumping of your heart making it impossible to focus on your words. Donghyun knows the effect that he has on you, knows that just one smirk sent your way is enough to have you fuming for the rest of the day. He knows how much you think about him, how much you crave him, but he needs to hear you say it.

“Admit that you want me.”

The short command has your breath stuttering in your chest, eyes growing wide. You always enjoyed the push and pull around Donghyun, the game of never quite knowing where the both of you stood. It seems like he does too, always quick to playfully flirt and jokingly fight. But to admit it out loud, that’s something new.

To admit it out loud would be admitting defeat.

“And what do I get if I admit it?”

Donghyun just scoffs, cocky smirk deepening. “Then maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

“And what is it that I want?”

The man leans closer, the scent of his cherry chapstick ever so enticing. You can’t help the way your gaze shoots down to Donghyun’s lips for a brief moment, imagining what it would be like to feel them on your own. It wouldn’t be hard to close the distance, but you know that would mean you lost.

“You want to kiss me so bad.”

The stinging warmth floods your face. Fuck. Knowing that he knows how you feel and hearing him say it are two different things. And the worst part is that he’s right. All you’ve ever wanted to do since the minute you’ve encountered Kim Donghyun is kiss the smirk off his face. And there’s something in the twinkle in his eyes that tells you, for the very first time, he just might let you.

“And if I do?” Your own confidence shocks you.

“Well,” Donghyun murmurs, letting his free hand place itself on the curve of your hip. “Like I said, I just might give it to you.”

Your breath catches on an inhale, the low timbre of the man’s voice shooting electricity through your veins. Everything about Kim Donghyun is so invigorating, so thrilling, that you feel like you could get drunk on his presence. He’s simply addictive.

“I think you’re all talk, Kim,” you bite out, trying your best not to stutter through your sentence. “I think that you’re projecting to hide how much you want me.”

It’s impossible to miss the way Donghyun stares at your mouth as you talk, pupils dilating to expose something deep and raw. His thumb has halted where it was previously drawing mindless shapes into the fabric of your waistband, as if stunned by your words. His pause only lasts for a few seconds before leaning impossibly closer.

“There’s no denying that, sweetheart. Fuck, I want you so bad.”

Hmm, maybe you are the predator after all.

“Then do something about it.”

Donghyun shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I need you to say it first.”

A rush of heat flashes through your core, making your knees grow weak. Your want for him has never been this bad before, but you’re finding it harder and harder to contain.

“C’mon,” Donghyun coos. “Tell me how bad you want me.”

Your lips remain parted, stuck, as you try to figure out what to say next. You can’t give in to him, but god do you want to. It’s in moments like these when you want to fold, with the warm fan of Donghyun’s breath on your face, his eyes hooded and pupils slightly dilated, and perfectly pink lips trapped between his teeth. You could lose the game, willingly walk into his trap and put an end to all of the years of teasing. With just a few words, you could get everything you have ever wanted.

Luckily, your internal dilemma is cut short as someone emerges from a door down the hall, stumbling their way out. The girl is giggling as she drags her feet along the sleek wooden floors. Despite her sluggish steps, she seems confident in her path towards you and Donghyun, only stopping to place a perfectly manicured hand on Donghyun’s shoulder.

“Donghyun,” she practically whines. “I think Dani drank too much. She’s throwing up!”

At the slur of words, Donghyun sighs, fully straightening up and putting some distance between the two of you. You hate the way that your body instinctively leans towards him, as if magnetized. The man just shoots you an apologetic look before turning to the drunken woman hanging off his shoulder.

“Do you know where she is, Hanni?”

The girl just nods, pointing a finger back in the direction from which she came. Donghyun lets out another sigh before motioning for Hanni to take the lead. He’s quick to follow her, not before sending you a small wink.

Once the two disappear into the room that you assume is the bathroom, you text Hanbin, immediately asking him to pick you up. Suddenly, the night has turned bitter again. Only a honeyed voice could make it return to being sweet.

. . .

If you had a nickel for every time you thought about Kim Donghyun in the following days, you would be swimming in more money than your already wealthy family would ever need.

He haunts your dreams as much as he clouds your waking thoughts. The image of his normally wide, sparkling eyes hooded as they peered down into you is seared into your brain. The flex of his arm feels like it’s been tattooed behind your eyelids as it kept the distance between the two of you, a distance that you had so desperately wished to close.

You can’t help but imagine what would’ve happened if you did, if you were able to admit just how desperately you wanted him. You wonder if the desperation would bleed into the kiss you shared, or if it would be passionate and fiery like the constant bickering between the two of you. Would he continue to cage you against the wall, pressing further into your space until you were pressed flush against his body? Would you be able to feel the hard ridges of his stomach? Would his hips connect with yours as you got lost in the kiss, bodies meeting in a filthy gri—.

“It’s out!” Hanbin all but yells, interrupting your train of thought. “They’re about to air your interview with Kim Donghyun.”

You barely register Hanbin’s words before the television screen in front of you is flickering to life, bathing your face in a warm blue light. The title screen then cuts to the smiling face of the interviewer. The clip is angled so that it looks like she is smiling at both of her guests, but you remember exactly how her gaze was trained on one person only. The memory makes your blood boil.

Hanbin gushes with commentary and compliments as the highlights of the interview are aired on the news. It’s only when they move on to tales of some new humanitarian crisis in Western Europe that the man pulls out his phone, instantly scouring the internet for any mention of you.

“Oh, Y/N,” he mumbles after a moment. “I don’t know if you’re going to love this or hate this.”

“What?”

Hanbin just sighs, handing over his phone. No matter how far you scroll, similar posts keep popping up, all focused on how good you and Donghyun would look as a couple. A queasy warmth overtakes your stomach as you continue to parse through the endless support of the fictional romance between the two of you. A reaction like this would only mean that tabloids will pick up on it soon, which would lead to nothing but more rumors.

You all but shove the phone back into Hanbin’s waiting hands, groaning loudly.

“The press is going to have a field day.”

“It was a simple interview,” Hanbin soothes. “There’s nothing for the press to pick up on. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You and Donghyun just have…chemistry.”

You can’t help but scoff in disbelief. “Chemistry? I fucking hate the guy.”

“No you don’t. Everyone can tell that you don’t.”

Before you can protest, a single buzz of your phone calls your attention. You reach for it with baited breath, just knowing that it’s a family member waiting to chew you out for ruining their global image. Instead, a familiar name flashes on your screen, their text notification inspiring a fresh wave of nausea to overtake you.

The whole world can see it, sweetheart. Why can’t you?

. . .

“Remember to be nice, Y/N,” Hanbin beams, snapping you out of your daydream. “Your parents want you to mingle as much as possible.”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself the same way you do for every public appearance. This is no different, the annual United Nations Gala having been the same every time you attended. You arrive separately from your parents, who must walk the red carpet of the gala before settling in. You, on the other hand, are lucky enough to go through the back, settling into the venue with the other family members of global leaders.

You already know who will be there, and plan to keep to yourself despite Hanbin’s advice to mingle. Well, you’ll keep to yourself unless a certain someone has other plans; he always seems to.

No matter how much you had prepared yourself to see Donghyun, his beauty still takes you by surprise. He looks dashing in his all black suit, perfectly tailored to showcase the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his legs. It’s not too different from his interview outfit earlier in the week, but it stuns you all the same.

What is different, though, is the small smile he shoots you when he catches your gaze. It’s far from the annoyingly cocky smirk that you’re used to, or his diplomatic grin that is constantly plastered over every news outlet. His smile almost seems sheepish, as if he is revealing an embarrassing secret simply by letting the corners of his lips turn up. His rosy cheeks add to his shy and childish demeanor, which you instantly blame on the abundance of alcohol at the event.

You shake your head slightly, as if to physically shake the sight of him out of your head. The only thing you are able to do is turn the opposite way, scrambling towards the nearest table. You shove any thoughts of Kim Donghyun to the back of your mind as you prepare yourself for an excruciatingly long night.

It ends up feeling even longer than you expected. Every so often, you found your thoughts drifting back to Donghyun, back to the deep drawl of his voice or the plush pink of his bottom lip. You banished those thoughts to the back of your mind and forced yourself to pay attention as some foreign diplomat would go on and on about the humanitarian efforts in their country. Then you’d find yourself drifting, Donghyun seeping into your mind and clouding it with a thick fog.

It was a cycle, on and on until eventually the closing remarks were made. You sigh in relief as the program finally comes to a close, thankful for the opportunity to go home and get out of your stuffy attire. Just as you search the crowd for Hanbin, ready to begin your journey home, someone grabs your wrist, pulling you back ever so slightly.

“Not so fast,” a familiar voice calls, their hand spinning you so that you stand nose to nose. “I can’t just let you disappear on me.”

“I’m trying to go home, Donghyun.”

The man lets out a chuckle, as if endeared by your efforts. “No you’re not. You’re coming with me to Keita’s after party.”

“And why would I do that?”

The man finally releases your wrist, choosing to take a step further into your space. You’re suddenly cognizant of all the potential eyes on you. Not only are the press here, putting you in jeopardy of being plastered on the front page of every tabloid, but you’re surrounded by the world’s elite. People talk and rumors travel. The last thing you would want is to bring any sort of bad attention to your family.

“Because you want to,” Donghyun whispers, uncaring about the hundreds of people around you. “Because I want you to.”

“That’s all you want?”

Donghyun chuckles darkly. “Oh sweetheart, that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I want. So, you coming? My driver is out front.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Hanbin lingering by the door. It should be so easy to say no and go home with your aid. It should be easy to brush Donghyun off and go about your night. But something swims in your stomach at your thought. In the end, you sigh, rolling your eyes before leveling Donghyun with a look.

“Fine. Lead the way.”

It ends up being much harder to feign disinterest in the confines of Donghyun’s car. There’s a partition up, separating you and Donghyun from the driver, providing you an unexpected amount of intimacy. You would think it’s a little presumptuous, if not for the way that Donghyun remains perfectly polite throughout the ride.

You’re expecting some fiery banter or obnoxious teasing, but Donghyun makes simple small talk as you ride through the hustle and bustle of the city. It’s almost as if the boy is being nice. You two have never even begun to venture into nice territory, leaving you at a loss for how to respond. You find yourself craving your normal dynamic of push and pull for the entire time, up until you reach your destination.

Keita’s after party looks like every after party you’ve ever attended, not quite anything special, from the people, to the drugs, to the music. It’s all so cookie cutter. The only thing that is new, however, is how Donghyun keeps you close to his side the entire night.

His hand remains firmly wrapped around your waist as you navigate the party, only releasing you to pour the occasional drink. It’s impossible to ignore the way people look at you, eyes trained on your permanent point of contact as they shoot you knowing smiles. It leaves heat flooding your cheeks the entire night, face stained with a permanent flush that only gets worse as you knock back drinks.

The worst part is that you don’t even hate it. You find it all too easy to melt into Donghyun’s embrace as you chat idly with a few acquaintances. Exchanging soft smiles when he whispers a snarky comment into your ear feels like second nature. As right as it feels, you can’t fight the swirl of conflict bubbling in your core. Whether it’s from the alcohol, or the man by your side, it reminds you just how wrong this should be.

Just hours ago, you were worried about the optics of even speaking to Donghyun. Now, however, you can’t seem to care about the fact that you look like a proper couple, which is all but forbidden in your world. It isn’t until later in the night, when the party is dying down, that you begin to wonder where this all started.

“Donghyun,” you whisper, “what are we doing?”

His soft hum rumbles through his body into yours. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what is all of this?” You motion to where his hand is poised firmly on your hip, unmoving as you both lean onto an adjacent wall. “You haven’t stopped touching me since we got here.”

“Do you not want me to? I can back off…” he trails off, slowly removing any point of contact.

Before he can get far, though, you find yourself reaching out, catching his wrist in a firm grip. It feels like second nature as you guide him back to the curve of your waist, shivering when you feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of your dress.

“No, that’s not—,” you take a deep breath. “Just, why?”

Donghyun seems conflicted for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as he sighs. When he opens them, his grip on your waist tightens. With a swift tug, you stumble forward, only to stabilize yourself with your palms on his chest. The movement brings you nose to nose, the newfound closeness forcing you to go a little cross-eyed to maintain eye contact.

“Because, fuck, if you won’t admit it,” Donghyun swallows, his throat bobbing enticingly, “I will.”

“What?”

Donghyun’s voice comes out strained, borderline painful as he speaks. “I want you so bad. I haven’t ever wanted anyone as bad as I want you. Fuck, sweetheart, I have for years. And I know you think this is the alcohol talking, but I promise it’s not. Every time I see you and get to mess with you and you flirt back it’s like god. Everything about you is just so amazing and sexy and—,”

Donghyun’s lips remain frozen for a second as you blanket them with yours. It takes a beat, two, three, before his brain resets enough to realize that you’re kissing him. Because you’re kissing him. Kim Donghyun, the man that you hate. You’re kissing him.

You only part a few centimeters, leaving only enough space between your bodies for your mingling breaths.

“I want you, too,” you whisper, voice thick with nerves. “There. I admitted it.”

. . .

The second ride in Donghyun’s car is much less polite than the first. Instead of side by side, you sit straddling the man’s lap, dress hiked up dangerously high. The only seat belt you have is Donghyun’s hands, one firmly grasping at your ass while the other tilts your jaw downwards. Never had you been more grateful for a partition.

Kissing Donghyun is nothing like what you imagined it would be. Instead of the calm, gentle side that he likes to display to the public, this Donghyun is demanding. He licks into your mouth filthily, using his overwhelming strength to keep you exactly where he wants you. He parts every so often to bite into your plush bottom lip, smirking at the soft moans that leave your mouth every time. His kisses are demanding, taking everything he wants from you while giving you everything in return.

It’s only when his kisses trail down to the side of your jaw and neck that they grow more gentle, his plush lips teasing as they ghost over unmarked skin. You’re almost tempted to beg for a mark, to beg for longer lasting proof that this is real.

Donghyun wants you. Donghyun has you.

It’s his hands that dig into the meat of your thighs, grip strong and possessive. It’s his hips that roll up to meet yours in a stunted grind, the rhythm thrown off by the car hitting an occasional pothole. It’s his lips on yours. It’s his blonde strands that remain carded through your fingers.

You have him. You want him.

And for once, you have no problem admitting it.

.FIN.

#leehan #leehan imagines #boynextdoor imagines #boynextdoor #boynextdoor fluff #boynextdoor smut #written in the stars #bnd #bnd imagines

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werezmastarbucks · 24 days ago

Text

3. pomegranates

flowers over boys masterlist

in which you make friends

word count: 2977

the guards frown so that the drops of sweat do not get into their eyes. autumn is very hot this year, trees go a little dry outside the palace, where there's nobody to water them all the time.

inside the palace territory, of course, the greenery is lush, alive, bustling with color, fountains singing its uninvasive, ringing song. one member of the garden crew is missing at work, and your absence is clear. you have made an impression already: maids look around their shoulders to take a look at the lazy, grumbling foreigner humming silly melodies, only to find you are not there, haven't been for the last two days. they shrug and move on, and Jiyoung is worried about you. whatever you may feel in that solitary cage, alone, on the stone floor, with no company? in fact, she is worried enough to send her brother, a meat vender from the market, to see you and bring you some fruit to keep up your spirits.

the spirits do not need to be kept. at least, not yours.

as he approaches the dungeon, keeping under the shade of the slanted roofs, he can already hear that you are alive and well, save for the slightly coarse voice. this is the only stone building in the vicinity, everything else belonging to the king is made of wood, and dungeons are usually quiet places. prisoners normally scream for the first day, then their spirits break down, and they eventually fall deathly quiet, eyes upturned to the narrow windows letting in little light.

here, the guards are wincing, staring in front of them, and he wonders why they need to stay near the royal prisons at all.

"visiting", he says, showing one of them the basket with fruit. but the guards don't seem to be particularly suspicious. tired, maybe.

"singing, huh?" he grins.

"singing", one of them echoes, "sometimes in Korean, sometimes in other, rough-sounding language. we cannot decipher any words".

"perhaps curses".

"hey, you know this one?" you scream from behind the door. you have woken up, rejuvenated by the long, uninterrupted sleep. you have no idea how long you've been out, but when you fell asleep, the sun was up, the rays falling through the narrow bar-like window angularly. and now it's the same. so, at least 24 hours. the stomach is empty, rotten taste in your mouth, but your body is so grateful for not having to bow for twelve hours straight. even on the shit quality mattress, it's probably been the best sleep you've had in a long time.

it's funny that it only occurred to you now, because the song goes really well with being incarcerated:

"i got a good time, yeah, time to get mine", you walk around the small compartment, stone floor under your feet, swinging your arms. it's an exercise just like singing. helps with the morning stiffness and insanity.

"i wandered into a maze, hennessy at night, i never stop, i never stop, again, repe-e-eat", you sing, knowing that the guards hear you. you hope you entertain them just a little.

"i never stop, fuck all your opps, finally free-e-e".

you can see someone blocking out the sun, peeping into your window.

"this song is called 'set me free'", you clarify, stepping to the window. without the sun, there's no way to tell who is looking inside your prison.

"how much longer here? i am running out of the discography".

the voice responding to you tingles with bubbly fun.

"i don't know. i just brough fruit".

you jump up, trying to see.

"Jinnie?!"

he hesitates.

"uh, ah, Jiyoung told you about me?"

"Jiyoung?"

"i am confused", he complains, then steps away from the window, and you can see a part of his face, lit by the sun, as he looks at the guards. well, yes, this is Seokjin, his big round eyes immediately demanding and strict. you press your face against the slit to see him better. there's a flare of capriciousness in his demeanor, all the while he is dressed like the people at the market. there's a blue dress, stained with dark-red spots; probably from blood. he is nothing but a simple vendor, you guess. Jiyoung's husband or relative? they do have similar eyes, and you couldn't get your mind around why you liked her so much. now it makes more sense.

"open the door", he says in the tone of voice that suits more for a member or royal family.

"she is there for three more days", the voice replies.

"i brought fruit".

"give it to us".

he swings the basket, lifting his chin.

"watch your hands! i'll smack you so hard you will forget your own name!"

you smirk. you're not the only one talking back to the arrogant part of the court. someone puffs, exhausted, powerless.

"at least give us the tangerines".

"y/n, do you want the tangerines?" he asks, peeking again.

"no, they can keep them. do you have any substantial food though?" you ask, your hand on your belly. hunger grumbles in your stomach.

"peaches are pretty nutritious, don't worry", he winks.

as the door to the dungeon opens, you squint in the sun. it's too bright; you haven't seen it in a while and now the world is vivid again. you rub your face. you've had a good sleep for god knows how many days; - couldn't be more than three or four, honestly, because you aren't starving and not feeling like you've been there forever. just enough for your body to completely rest after a week's work and even grow a little tired of little movement. what the illustrious king Min didn't anticipate, probably, was that you'd take it as a small holiday.

you stretch, straighten your back, your face wincing with the right light. you smell like three days without a bath, and the first thing you want to do is not walk, but RUN to the bath chambers and scrub yourself clean. would be amazing to simply take a high pressure shower, of course. would be amazing to use the passion fruit vegan body scrub on yourself and shave your legs, and then do the face care routine, brush your teeth with your electric toothbrush, of course. but, you remind yourself, you're a time traveller that doesn't complain. staring at the unaffected guards and the sweat smears on the bases of their necks, from the day, you grit your teeth. it's the nineteenth century. no electric toothbrushes. no vegan body lotions. no hair dryers.

the plus side is that somewhere in the Royal quarters back at the red palace, Little Meow Meow is measuring his throne room with big strides, probably swaying his pearl-white horsetail from side to side. excitement of life returns to you a little. free, you tread back to the maids quarters which have become your home for now. no dying, no dying for now. you haven't collected all of the boys yet, far from it.

soaking in the bath, as Jiyoung's hands massage your head, you make a spreadsheet in your mind and recite it out loud:

"So, Seokjin is your older brother, the butcher".

"yes", Jiyoung responds unassumingly, doesn't add anything. she is shy about her friendly gesture, probably not sure you would accept it they way she wants you to. even a week in, the maids are still wary of the foreigner who seems to have a knack for creating problems, and strange vocabulary.

"Yoongi is the king..."

Jiyoung gasps.

"y/n we do not utter his name", she hisses, splashing a little water onto your face. you drop the pumice stone you've been scrubbing your feet with, in the tub.

"the name of the Emp-, the king is sacred. only his own family can say it out loud".

you puff, as if feeling that you should have paid more attention to the inner sides of the cage you've been kept in. you will probably see those walls again.

"i mean... no, i can't. seriously? name so sacred that peasants and commoners cannot even utter it?"

she frowns, gritting her teeth, like your defiance actually pains her. time travelling surprisingly taught you very little about adapting. you simply don't.

"Yoongi. Yoongi. Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi-Yoongi-Yoongi", you spout, looking her straight in the face. the last day in the dungeon made you cranky. you have no patience for their high-brow hierarchical way of living today. Jiyoung looks scared at first, then angry. she drops your hair and gets up, offended, like you have cursed her mother personally. you will never understand the worship of an individual, no matter who. her eyes turn into slits as she sighs like she is deeply disappointed, but you fall silent, no desire to explain yourself.

"you can finish on your own, i think".

"i need to ask..."

"no", she hammers and leaves, sliding the door closed behind her.

you soak deeper into the tub with a sigh. you've been released in the evening so no work for today. tomorrow, of course, everything will be the same. Min-ssi oma will wake you up with a stick and send to a bow-down under the royal balcony at the sunrise. General Hoseok and his bitchy attitude will be on the king's right, staring the staff down like he does every morning. Taehyung will be yawning in the corridors, guarding the inner quarters.

where are the other boys?

you clean yourself until the water gets cold, and finally the day is over, even though it hasn't started. it's hard to fall asleep now; maybe the morning won't be as merciful as the night.

your arms tremble under the weight of the basket. wet hanboks of ten maids in your arms, the load incredibly heavy. you know they are punishing you. you know they will keep punishing you, by giving you the tasks that they don't want to do themselves, because they have learnt about the tear of disobedience in you, and are afraid, and will try to break you down so that you do not bring troubles into the maid quarters.

there must be someone more free-thinking around this place, you hope, huffing, but before you can finish your thought, your arms cramp, and the basket collapses onto the ground.

"oh fuck", you curse out loud, falling on your knees, trying to prevent the dresses from touching the grass. five seconds rule. do Joseon people know about the tardigrades? you're ready to bet they don't. but your arms hurt so much: it's about a five minute walk from the river to the quarters, and it turns into a good twenty when you have something you can't carry.

you sit yourself on the ground for a minute, rubbing your shoulders to stop them from cramping. a muscle is positively sprained in the weaker left arm. you raise your head, and the luck you're having is astonishing but, also, understandable?

"Taehyung! Taehyungie!" you wave your better hand to him.

Taehyung, the version of him, looks like he regrets being visible just about now. he keeps winning with this long hair tied away on top of his head; he is wearing the day dress, as you learnt: the guards of the inner rooms wear black, the guards of the doors of the palace wear celebratory red, and the casual guardians who move around the territory wear light blue. the light blue of his armour suits the color of his tanned face. Taehyung gives it a second, then reluctantly walks over to you up the slope of the hill. the palace stands beautiful, picturesque just before you. the huge door of the stables he just left is still open.

he keeps a distance before you, his eyes darting to the basket on the ground.

"how was the dungeon?" he asks, instead of scolding.

you dismiss him with a wave of the hand.

"just slept all through it. kind of a non-punishment after Jiyoung and Min-ssi made me bend over backwards for seven days straight without a day off or coffee breaks. you catch my drift?"

Taehyung's lips twitch painfully. it brings you immense pleasure and puts you in a better mood.

"i barely understand what you say. your words are so..." he begins, pensively.

"advanced?"

"barbaric. just like the place you came from, probably, so i can't really blame your simplistic habits".

you flare your nostrils, then decide to let it slide. his calm, gentle voice is like the wind above the water.

"right. i forget that in this century you Koreans believe yourselves to be the last haven of the Confucian ideals, or whatever".

his eyebrows crawl up.

"Joseon is the last pure place in the world, the rest of it is plagued by barbarism and uncleanness".

his dark eyes slow down on your upper body like he thinks you are dirty right at the moment, which isn't true. since you're out of the dungeon, you smell just like the rest of the maids: citrus, green tea and morning freshness.

"whatever you say, pretty. help me with the basket", you ask. Taehyung is irritated, he licks his lower lip quickly, then looks behind his shoulder.

"you know we can't be seen together", his voice is hesitant.

"i know, i don't want to get you in trouble, but my shoulders gave in".

he sighs, then pulls on his belt and bows down to get the basket. it doesn't strain him at all.

you walk close to each other down the slope, the river running along, going away, away.

"could use the electric dryer here, of course", you muse, realizing you will have to hang all the hanboks in the garden.

that makes him sniff through the nose.

"electricity only comes from above. how do you want to dry the clothes on a lightning?"

you smirk.

"i just hope in the future people will invent a... machine that will dry wet clothes immediately, you know?"

suddenly, Taehyung is interested.

"you like inventions?"

it comes out more enthusiastic than he planned, probably. you look at him curiously, his birth moles on the face cute, nose crunched towards the sun.

"dunno, you?"

"i have a..." he looks at you with doubt and hope, as if evaluating you as a crime partner. "i like making things in my spare time".

another dozen of steps and he gives up as you start walking by the stables.

"do you want to see?"

a sly, happy smile disfigures your face.

"of course".

you both take a sharp turn towards the stables, like criminals. you, Taehyung and the basket in his arms. it's so heavy you were barely able to lift it, but now it looks like it doesn't take any strength out of him to lift it onto his shoulder as he lets you inside first.

he puts the basket on a bench propped against the wall. the smell of hay and horses will surely soak into the wet hanboks of the maids, and you take perverse pleasure out of it. yours is not there: it's clean, you're wearing it. the smile crooks a corner of your mouth as you watch nimble Taehyungie walk in between calm stallions nodding half-asleep.

"it's a simple... music... uh..."

he is shy all of a sudden. there's a rough, oval box in his hands, with the semblance of the carving on the sides of it, but the real treasure is hiding inside.

as he opens it, a needle is pulled up and starts scrapping against a tiny bar that he is pushing with his finger. it's a very simplistic but working music box. medieval style, really, but it has its elegance.

"you made it yourself?" you gape, craning your neck to see better. Taehyung nods.

"i like music. the palace boxes are much better, they were made by the finest Chinese craftsmen, but..."

"but yours is the best", you whisper, listening to the tiny, croaking dingle coming out of the box. the most amusing thing is that you recognize the melody. some couple of hundred years later, this melody will acquire a name and will be performed by him.

"Singularity", you whisper, mesmerized. you want to touch his lean, white hand, but don't, your eyes fixated on the little music box. a miracle, in your opinion. simple, beautiful, personal thing. also. continuity? design? destiny?

"what is that?"

you look up at him.

"a point in space where everything strives for infinity".

he looks like he could understand it if you told him everything. everything about the first plane, and how a microphone works, and how to turn his dark hair bright-green, and why people need to strive for the cosmos instead of staying on this tiny stone planet. his eyes bore into yours for a moment, and then he blinks.

did you just

fluster the bear?

you chuckle.

"your device is amazing. i like the melody, V".

"hmm?"

"Tae. you have anything else?"

he looks happier.

"i will show you a little later".

he picks up the basket again with a smile. your eyes are still resting on the music box on the bench, clicking its simple melody to the horses.

so, how exactly is this dimension built? you think, as you return to the maids quarters together. they are - relatively - them. boys, that is. not that you know them too well for now. and they go in loops committing things they were supposed to commit. like writing the songs you know and ruling the country. what's remarkable is that they look - exactly - like themselves. you keep thinking about Yoongi and his cat-like, adorable snarl in the corner of the mouth.

Taehyung places the basket on the ground under the pomegranate tree where you point.

"oh", he says, slapping himself on the head.

"i almost completely forgot, actually, y/n".

you raise your eyes to him, roll up your sleeves and start hanging the hanboks on the lines in between the strong, thick tree branches. Taehyung nods at the clothes:

"drop them. king wants to see you".

taglist: @cerulean1riz , @kiki-zb , @mar-lo-pap

#bts x reader imagine #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #bts imagine #bts au #daechwita

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turkey-sandwich · 5 months ago

Text

Assorted Fairy Tail headcanons

Put under read more because it got surprisingly longer than I thought...

Criss, don't look, this has spoilers...(ᵕ—ᴗ—). Also unrelated, this is my favorite Loke gif. Look at his dumb face scrunching up.

Apparently, Loke can purr. Gray was the first person who found out about it and then he told Lucy. They both think it's cute and funny and they never fail to bring it up whenever Loke is around.

To continue upon the purring thing, Loke just acts like a cat sometimes. You know how cats fluff up and hiss when something spooks them? Loke does that too, his hair; which is already spiky, just spikes up even more. He also does that slow blinking thing.

During winter, Happy curls up around Natsu's neck more often, squeezing himself into his scarf. It was cute when he was a hatchling, but now that he's gotten a bit bigger, it's a bit of a hassle. Natsu doesn't mind though.

Jellal is the unwilling president and founder of "People who have a crush on Erza Club", members include Lucy, Mirajane, Minerva and Kagura.

Levy enjoys braiding Gajeel's hair. It's kind of a stress reliever for her.

Whenever Gray's hair is slicked back, he avoids any and all reflective surfaces. He looks way too much like Silver with his hair done like that and losing his father for the second time still hurts for him.

This probably doesn't even count as a headcanon, but Kyoka and Seliah were a thing and they were definitely getting freaky on there.

Lucy just knows a bunch of random things and has a bunch of random skills. Yes, she knows that the space between the eyebrows is called the glabella and yes, she's apparently good at fencing.

Laxus absolutely hates the cold. His coat is for both for fashion and to keep him warm.

If there's a "People who have a crush on Erza Club", there's one for Lucy too. Members include, Natsu, Loke, Gray, Juvia, Lisanna and Yukino.

Gajeel cannot handle summer. He hates summer with a passion. "It makes me feel like I'm melting," he claims.

Gray kissed Loke once, just to see what it's like and what the fuss is about. One accidental make out session later, Gray finally understood why. He wouldn't mind doing it again, but he's not saying that out loud.

Bickslow just moans for no reason at all. At the most random times. Freed hates it so much.

Sometimes, people find Wendy perched atop the weirdest places. As long as it's high up, there's a chance that Wendy is there or has been there. It's just her thing and Charle had given up trying to stop her.

Gray and Lyon are each other's bisexual awakings. Gray when they were kids and Lyon when he got his ass beat by Gray in Galuna Island (after much thought, of course).

Mirajane and Freed have a gossip night sometimes where they just break out the fancy wine and share the wildest things they've heard around in the guild. Mira hears a lot of it and Freed is way too observant that he notices too many things.

Mest has been at Lahar's grave more than he's been at the guild. (The tragic yaoi between them was surprising, but not unwelcome. I need more of that.)

Levy curses at people in foreign languages, Freed is horrified whenever he hears her. He's secretly sworn to never get on her bad side.

Since Lyon can do Ice Make with one hand, I'd assume that Molding Magic users can use their magic with other parts of their bodies like their legs, etc. While not as stable as the standard of using both hands, it's more efficient and are sometimes used for quick escapes. Well, anyways, Lyon can use Ice Make with his tongue. He can't create anything bigger than his own hand and certainly not anything as grand or powerful as his Snow Dragon, but it's useful enough. This totally not because I want to kiss Lyon on the mouth with tongue and then he makes ice while doing so and it'll feel cold, but it'll also feel really good. Definitely not even though it would be really sexy, ahahaha, I don't know what you're talking about.

Minerva takes cooking very, very seriously. No one is allowed in Sabertooth's kitchen when she's cooking and absolutely no one should disturb her while doing so. Anyone foolish enough is going to walk out of that kitchen horrified.

Yuka tries emulating Jura's "wise and serene wizard" look with his eyebrows since he can't grow a beard. It's not working, he just looks goofy, as said by Chelia and then Lyon.

#Okay it's confirmed I'm insane about ft now #fairy tail #loke fairy tail #happy fairy tail #jellal fernandez #levy mcgarden #gray fullbuster #lucy heartfilia #laxus dreyar #gajeel redfox #wendy marvell #lyon vastia #mirajane strauss #freed justine #mest gryder #minerva orland #yuka suzuki

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orangez3st · 2 months ago

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Welcome to Vau's! - Chapter 1

Fries & Rings

Delta Squad × OC | Modern AU | Fast Food Worker AU

Next Chapter ↦

✧ Chapter Summary: Raye's first time at Vau's—a local fast food place that everybody else at hometown seems to go to.

✧ Warnings: maybe US military thingy inaccuracies bcs I'm not from there and curse words, other than that; none :)

✧ Word Count: 2.7k

COLLAB WITH @carbon-corrie | Credits: OC Paisley Jettster and the amazing header image belongs to Carbon, as well as some prompts and/or dialogue lines!

“Seven months of Oki deployment and first thing you do when you got home is driving out for greasy food.”

“Yup,” Eli says, popping the ‘p’.

Raye scoffs from the passenger seat. “And not a fucking nap.”

“Ay. Language, Raye.” Even with his focus on the neighborhood road ahead, Eli points a scolding finger at her—a sign that the traffic is not his sole focus at all. “I'm still your older brother.”

“It's literally nothing more than whatever you've said during service.”

“We don't curse as much in the Marines, trust me.”

Raye glares at him. At his stupid military regulations high-and-tight haircut and the smug smile lines because he's a goof of a brother. No idea how he's managed to maintain his sense of humor from being a goddamn Marine. From all she knows, it’s all horrors. Especially when one gets Okinawa. But at least Eli's come home alive and totally not spooked by those well-known urban legends. Or maybe he's immune to it already. He's a goof. A fearless goof. He makes a damn good Marine, and has been, for the last 6 years.

She tries to remind herself of that. Nothing beats one of those moments when he popped up at her uni like those emotional homecoming videos. At least in one of them she cried like a baby.

“How good is this place anyway?” Raye then asks.

Eli smirks, glancing her way. “Local pride. They do fried stuff and wraps. Run by a few guys I know. You remember Fixer, that guy from the cyber club in high school? My guy’s the line cook. That guy can cook.” Somehow he can feel he's about to ramble off though, and it's gonna be less helpful than the last thing said. He's just fanboying. “They’re good. Really good. No approval from Abuela, but Vau’s is my favorite.”

“And you're telling me just now,” Raye deadpans, betrayed as ever that Eli’s been keeping this from her for a while. But as any other person who gets to guiltlessly think about greasy fast food, she’s down for it. “Right-o. Let's see if this could top Panda Express.”

“Different category, but yeah, okay. I think you'll find it great.”

Raye finds Eli's optimism uplifting. And out of place—considering he's a Marine. Uni may not be as harsh as his unit deployment program—UDP—and the occasional local paranormal shit they go through, but she's happy that he's happy. Mainly because they get to spend summer break together. Family time, casual catching up, the banter and the bullying. So; sometimes it's enough.

And no, Raye has never heard of Vau’s. She's been living away in Austin with Riyo, the distant family on Dad's side, before she moved back home for college. So a local chain where every neighborhood is crowded with McDonald's and Taco Bell and a few other variations is a foreign concept. But she admires the entrepreneurship spirit. Definitely a family business. A touch near what's defined as gas station food.

Eli drives the car into the lot. The exterior looks nearly hauntingly similar to the other black and red franchise, but more black and more yellow. Neon signs. It's actually cute. And it's got a hecking drive-thru. What kind of family-run food chain invested in a drive-thru? It's clever. It's really up competing against other drive-thrus.

“Oh, looks packed,” Eli muses, scanning around the lot and clocking cars and bikes alike. He punches through the empty lane and gets his side of the window open as they reach the speaker, excitedly grinning all the way through like a child in a way that creeps Raye out and makes her want to smack it off his face.

“Welcome to Vau's, can I take your order?”

Raye is keeping herself from jumping out of her seat because okay, look, a man's voice that deep was something she would never expect coming out from a drive thru speaker. Fair, because everything's been light and polite. This one's fucking robust and probably ready to grab you through the damn thing.

Eli snorts into his hand. “One extra large of your sass for the day, Sev.”

A pause. Then; a hard, exaggerated sigh. It seems like the guy on the other end makes sure the sigh gets through.

“You again, Estrada?”

“Bro, what do you mean you again Estrada, huh? Gone seven months and that's quite a cheerful greeting you got there for me, bro.”

“And you're still alive?”

Eli rolls his eyes dramatically—rolling his neck and all—and peers Raye’s way, jabbing a thumb toward the speaker. “Get a load of this guy,” he chuckles, “That's Sev. One of the guys. Fixer's brother.”

Raye is still comprehending it all.

“Need you to squawk your order now ‘cause you're holding the line, Estrada.”

Almost as if they're twins, both siblings turn their backs. Empty lane.

“Ain't nobody behind us, man, chill out,” Eli says, still with the same shit eating grin.

“Yeah, but I wanna be done with you. Preferably face to face.” Sev’s already gruff tone is almost scolding, but given Eli's sugar-high expression not dissolving any time soon, Raye can tell they obviously go way back. It's a wonder she hadn't met them before. “Got ghost stories to show the class, Staff Sergeant?”

“Hell yeah. It's Camp Schwab. ‘Course I've got some, man.”

“Neat,” Sev says, not missing a beat. “You not coming in?”

Eli sighs sadly—loudly. “Nah I’m getting my usual wrap and fries and go to nap till next week.”

“Makes two of us. One double chili chicken wrap and fries. Coke?”

“Yeah, please. Large fries. Actually—do half and half with the onion rings. Large, that. And Coke. Hold on for a sec.” Eli nudges her with his elbow gently. “Ay, Raye. Whatchu getting?”

She leans across the console plus Eli himself to get a good look at the menu panels, chocolate-toned hair already threatening to escape the hair clip atop her head. And Eli's right. Those wraps and fried sides are actually looking solid. And they've got cream soup, too. Package cream soup, most likely, but still; her favorite. Extra coleslaw, extra cheese dip, extra everything sauce on paid request. Her jaw aches, and her stomach suddenly feels empty.

“Uh,” Raye says loudly, “Number four with Dr Pepper please. Half and half of fries and rings, too. And extra coleslaw, ple—wait a sec.” She turns to Eli. “Is their coleslaw shitty?”

Her brother shakes his head. “Nope. All good. You'll love it.”

“Okay,” she says, leaning over again. “And extra coleslaw, please.”

“One number four; double fish nuggets wrap, medium fries and rings, Dr Pepper. Extra coleslaw. Did I get you right?”

“Yep.”

A moment of pause. “And this is the female Estrada offspring?”

Raye’s mouth falls agape. “That's an uncommon way of saying ‘sister’, man.”

“And you speak like him. Now there's two of you,” Sev complains.

She actually takes that personally, but she laughs it off—it’ll maybe turn into somewhat a medal of honor in the future. “Y’know,” she remarks, “Strange we haven't met before.”

“Elio stored dirty secrets. And I don't do introductions through a goddamn drive-thru speaker.” Because it's rude, right? Should involve a handshake or a fist bump or something. “Can I get you anything else, Estradas?”

Eli gives her a look like he's giving her a final out. “You sure about double wraps? It's bigger than the ones at McDonald's.”

“I'm starving, Eli.”

“Just as I hoped,” he grins maniacally before turning back to the speaker. “Nah man, that's it. Have a good day, bro!” And with that, he drives off to the payment post at a relatively slow speed. Raye slams back down in her seat, not bothering to put the seat belt back on, sighing.

“God, he's rude.”

“He's crude,” Eli corrects, finger jabbing toward the ceiling. “Among his brothers. But overall he's nice.”

Raye frowns hard. “Nice—?”

“He was a scout sniper. Same company that I'm in,” Eli explains. The air around them suddenly changes. A bit of northern hemisphere summer heat since he keeps his window open, and a bit of bleakness element of a military story that they know how it ends. “Honorably discharged. Fell on a deployment and permanently injured his leg. In the same year they decided to shut the school down and graduate the last Marine snipers, back in 2023.” He huffs, almost mourning. “Sucks. But he's living through it.”

Raye glances downward, her toes wiggling absently in her sliders. “And the leg?”

“Military-grade leg brace. Top shelf shit. Or at least, by Marine standards. Daddy’s a high-ranking officer, so he's got favors.”

“The dad?” Raye exclaims, “The guy who owns this place?”

They've reached the payment post, and Eli makes a quick swipe of his card to have it done. “The one and only,” he says, neatly placing the card back into his wallet and tossing it onto the console. “Walon’s a no nonsense guy, but he loves his kids. Met him a couple of times in Lejeune. MARSOC officer.”

“Wow,” Raye awes. Having a Marine brother got her into military structures along with its abbreviations and lingo. Big brain picks up easily. MARSOC is the specops command. That makes that these guys are raised with utter discipline. And maybe with dark humor and occasional shenanigans as a way to cope, as well.

Raye is expecting no more surprises when pulling up to the pickup window—at least not someone that Eli knows, like the guy at the payment post that's clearly someone he doesn't know.

Yeah. No.

This one guy looks like that one who would blow air horns and pop at least three confettis upon entry and play Xenogenesis outro when he's gonna bail.

He claps loudly. “Well well, look who it is.” Guy rocks this shit eating grin that eerily reminds her of her own brother when he's pulling the most horrendous prank in his teens and wide mohawk with fades that haven't been clipped for two weeks. “Made it back from Schwab in one piece with no single spooked bone in his body. I think you owe us one of those new stories, Eli!”

“Scorch.” They shake each other's forearms with a dull clap, Eli's grin matching the other guy's. “Stories next time, baby. Cross my heart.”

“Holding onto your word,” he nods triumphantly. It takes him another second to notice Raye's presence hovering over the console with a curious eyebrow-raise. His amber brown eyes are shining. “Hey, there. I'm Scorch.” He extends out a hand, leaning past the window and far down to reach her. “Sev mentioned that Staff Sergeant Goofball here brought the sister along. Nice to finally meet ya.”

She snorts at the nickname. “Yeah, same. I'm Raye.” She shakes his hand, pulling a tight smile. “Finally, right? Weird he hadn't introduced you lot yet back then. Honestly it feels sucky.”

“Ay, I'm right here,” Eli complains, “You were in Austin back then.”

“Sshhh…” Scorch, still leaning over the window, presses a finger against Eli's lips. “You have the right to remain silent,” he whispers dramatically.

Raye shakes her head, her laughter muffled poorly. “Yo your bromance is grossing me out already.”

“Ay, Raye. Mouth filters, por favor,” Eli chastises, slapping Scorch away from the car interior. Then he seems to be stunned, Raye is unable to see the way both his eyebrows scrunched as he scrutinizes the printed sheet of paper taped on the window. “Scorch.”

“Hm?”

Eli nods in its direction. “That new?”

“Oh, this?” Scorch leans over to make sure that the active Marine is talking about the vacancy notice that he printed at 4 AM yesterday—he was so immersed in Galactic Contention that he forgot. “Yeah. We need a new guy. Last one quit because she couldn't handle Sev's asshole attitude, can you believe that?”

“Sev? Asshole?” Eli snorts. “Sounds like something that came out of fucking Oxford dictionary.” Raye rolls her eyes. So much for not cursing too much. “Word and definition, side by side. Can't blame her.”

“Unable to maintain the workplace harmony and stuff. Couldn't get along. Beef every day with either Fixer or Sev. Boss wanted to fire right away, but Addy had us wait. And she waltzed out on her own! Never mind those. She never made it to the employee of the month board anyway.”

And then there's silence. Raye finds it odd since she has just discovered that Scorch is the guy who Eli gets along the most with—both being chatterboxes—and she can almost hear the gears inside her brother's head turn.

“Raye,” Eli then says, jabbing a thumb not at Scorch but in the general direction of the fast food place. “You… wanna?”

Raye blinks. “Me? Working at Vau’s?”

“Yeah, I mean you're on summer break, you need something to do.” Eli seems to be past critical decision-making already. A generally good brother. Enough bullying, enough fighting, enough thinking about her, watching her back as needed. He's always thoughtful when it comes about her. But this time it's around his friends—friends he trusts. “That's easy and open opportunity for you to get out of the house.”

Scorch hums in agreement. “I can talk to Boss, if you want. And hey.” He subtly points at her, a kind smile lifting his lips. “Relative to a fellow Marine—that’s standard. Honor and stuff. Our dad's a Marine. And the Estradas have always been good friends with us—family friends. We need someone we can trust that won't beef with any of us, and we can make it all smooth for ya.”

Smooth path, indeed. “I'll see about that beef,” Raye smirks, plopping back down to her seat to find something for her back. It's getting sore.

“Oh you'll love us,” Scorch winks. “Just don't touch Sev. He's got his own lady friend already.”

“Damn. Your brother still gettin’ it goin’ with Paisley Jettster?”

“Yep. In their own world.”

“Holy shit. The balls. The competition’s heiress.”

Scorch shrugs one shoulder. “Eh, he's crazy like that. Not new. And because of that; she's just as crazy.” He then slaps his palms loudly onto the counter, once again his smile morphs into a massive grin. “So? Raye? Whatcha think? I'll see you sooner than I thought in our fast food pride and joy?”

She's starving. The answer to that question has to be placed in the back burner. But honestly… it's tempting. “Yeah okay, I'll think about it.”

“Oh come on, you already did,” Eli teases.

“Just drop by when you're actually done thinking. I'll tell Boss so he'd know,” Scorch says. Suddenly he scrambles around, reaching off to the side for two paper bags. “Also here's your food. Damn. Almost forgot with the catch-up. Now piss off Elio, you're holding the line! Enjoy your wraps!”

They're holding the line alright because there are two cars behind them. After a stressful round of see you later alligator and its many sequels, Eli skids out of the lane and into the main street, releasing the biggest sigh of relief from the deepest caverns of his empty stomach. Raye reaches into the bag for the modest-sized packet for the fried sides, and totally not disappointed at the dominant peppery notes that stick to both fries and rings after she pops each into her mouth, one after the other.

“So what do you think?” Eli asks after a while, eyes on the road, keeping his hands respectfully to himself and not snagging her fries.

Now enjoying one of her fish nugget wraps—the apparently homemade coleslaw dressing tastes like heaven by the way—Raye watches the lines of houses in the neighborhood blurring by. “Yeah you're right,” she decides, “I think I'm in.”

At least Scorch is nice, so she'd try to bond with that one first. Sev is kinda spicy. She doesn't remember anything about Fixer aside that he stopped by in their house at least once for group homework with Eli, and she had zip idea about Boss. The other employees would either care or don't.

Eli glances at her twice in a quick succession. “Good! Good for you. They're nice and I trust them, y'know? You'll like them.”

He offers a fist bump, which she accepts. Eli smiles every damn day, but Raye knows which one is the you're gonna regret freeing me of my enclosure smile and a very, very proud smile.

“Also,” he clears his throat, “Also actually I'm asking your opinion about the fries. Good, yeah?”

Raye, laughing, swats his arm playfully. “Yeah.” She'd definitely see the Vau brothers again pretty soon. “Yeah, this is all nice.”

As usual I'm starting a taglist for every chapter update. O potentially interested ones, please let me know to join! @hellfiresky @gh0st-c0mpany @pichiflu-draws @leiopython-rat @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika @leafdupe

Next Chapter ↦

A/N: BAM SURPRISE DELTA LONGFIC WITH NEW OCS. This idea has been running around my head for a while. I'd like to thank Carbon for hyping me up to keep writing, and for accepting the collab invitation too, really (I'M SO HAPPY 😆💛). If you haven't checked her amazing art yet (how could you?!), she's @carbon-corrie! 💛

#delta squad #star wars fanfiction #modern au #welcome to vau's #star wars #republic commando #the clone wars #tcw #clone commando scorch #clone commando fixer #clone commando sev #clone commando boss #delta squad x oc #star wars x oc #x oc #z3st oc fics

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thepersonperson · 3 months ago

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Little Details in JJK

I've decided to put a couple of minor details I noticed and thought were neat in one place to keep track of them. They're all basically like this:

They never patched that hole up but they removed all the talismans lmao. Planning how to kill Sukuna in the room Yuji was almost executed with the finger that made that hole goes hard though.

Notes before we start.

1) This features Miguel Oduol, Yorozu, and Sukuna.

2) I will be mainly using the TCB scans for the manga because of their accessibility.

3) Raws are from mangareader(.)to.

(Click images for captions/citations.)

Miguel Oduol

We all know Miguel Oduol is from Kenya, however what you might not know is that he appears to be from the Maasai tribe specifically! I'm going to link a lot of resources about this, so keep in mind that sometimes they can be incidentally racist. (Aka a minority is tribe is discussed like an alien species.)

Cursed Technique Origins

I know a lot of people criticized Miguel's Cursed Technique (CT) for being a dance, however, it is directly related to him being Maasai. Adumu is the Maasai jumping dance practiced by warriors to show off their strength and agility. This is the dance Miguel appears to be doing when he first activates his CT against Sukuna.

(Read more on the Maasai Jumping Dance here!)

If you noticed, Miguel's baldness also appears to be based it being a common hairstyle for the Maasai regardless of gender. It should also be noted that his CT, Hakuna Laana, is Swahili for No Curses. Swahili is an official language of Kenya and is spoken by the Maasai even though they have their own language (also called Maasai or Maa).

Other Details

Since the Maasai are nomadic and move around based on the weather, their dwellings reflect that lifestyle. This appears to be why Miguel is drawn outside of a hut in that one flashback—it's just how Maasai homes look.

Another thing done right was the local flora. It's super easy for creators to mistakenly apply foreign flora to the wrong region. (Take for instance, the iconic Saguaro cactus being included in settings based on Chihuahuan Desert in Texas, when this cactus exclusively grows in the Sonoran Desert, which is basically just Arizona and Baja California.)

The trees in the background are called Baobab trees and they do in fact grow in Kenya.

Why Maasai?

I think Gege picked the Maasai tribe in particular for Miguel because of their belief in curses. See from the following sources:

"While generational curses are normal within the Maasai worldview..."

"For the Maasai people, death does not traditionally hold any secrets of the afterlife. Once an individual has passed, their journey has ended. All of their possessions and any of their sins are transferred to the loved ones who survive them."

"Social control among the Maasai rests ultimately on the general belief in the power of elders to bless and to curse..."

(Please note that the word they use for curse (engooki) appears to be sometimes translated as sin.)

So when Miguel threatens to curse Geto in JJK0 if he dies?

He really fudging means it. (Could also explain why he's so particular about not dying. He doesn't believe he'll be reincarnated later, that's just it for him!)

The only thing about Miguel that didn't seem to fit with Maasai practices is the black rope. This is a stretch, but it might be based on their well-known bead work:

"Black– Symbolizes unity and solidarity. It also denotes the struggles the Maasai endure, which bring them together as a people."

Miguel certainly struggled when using that on Gojo.

Yorozu

This is mostly me complaining about what got lost in translation. Yorozu is basically a bug and I cannot wait for her weird insect shtick to get animated.

Best Bug

The first instance of her speech being bug-coded I noticed is when Yorozu yells 斬って (Kitte) 7 times total (7.5 if you count the modified 斬 (ki) at the end.

The Japanese is objectively funnier because Yorozu is screaming "CUT ME!!" over and over like cicada. The English translation gave her a poetic flair she doesn't have.

This also happens with her Domain Expansion 三重疾苦 (Shikkushikku Shikku) where 三重 (Shikkushikku) means triple and 疾苦 (Shikku) means suffering.

Additional context shamelessly stolen from the JJK wiki:

"The kanji shikku (疾苦 (しっく) ) refers to the suffering brought on by illness, affliction, or simply hardship in life. Akutami uses the pronunciation shikku as a pun of the borrowed English word "sick" (シック shikku).

Given Yorozu's excessive love for Sukuna, it is likely that the domain's name references "lovesickness", and specifically a song by Japanese VOCALOID producer PinocchioP (sung by Hatsune Miku) called "Sick Sick Sick" (シックシックシック), which is about how love can be a sickness."

(Btw シックis read as Shikku.)

My best attempt to carry forward the puns and repetition for this domain would be Triply Tristful Tribulations. (Someone please come up with something better.)

Yorozu's death is also bug-coded. Mahoraga literally swats her like a roach.

There's also something to be said about Sukuna refusing to touch her in battle and using anything but his actual body to kill her. That's kind of how most people are when it comes to killing bugs.

Not Bug Related

The thing Yorozu is lounging on in the Heian flashback is a "pillow" called a takamakura. It's a special headrest that was slept on to keep fancy hairstyles intact since they would take hours to prepare.

Since Yorozu's hair is down and she just kind of runs around pussy out while ignoring all the social rules, it speaks to her non-noble heritage. (Remember she was recruited by the Fujiwaras and is from Aizu.) She also has a bad habit of biting her fingernails when she's concentrating.

Another fun detail is that when she declares that she's going to be the one at Sukuna's side. Yorozu directly points at Uraume who is already standing there. This of course, is called back to in the epilogue where Uraume remains at Sukuna's side.

What I really like about this is that Yorozu seems to believe that only a romantic relationship will ease Sukuna's loneliness, and she's proven wrong. The platonic/familial bond with Uraume winds up being the one Sukuna chooses and it's good enough for him. I may be biased, but I appreciate when non-romantic relationships are considered just as satisfying as romantic ones.

I also have to shout out Yorozu for not seeing Uraume as competition. She still wants them around even if she marries Sukuna. It's so easy to have an obsessive character like her be irrationally jealous, but she's basically willing to adopt Uraume which is adorable. (This also goes for Hana, who in a worse manga, would see Tsumiki as competition for Megumi.)

Sukuna

This is just a compilation of my favorite Sukuna girlfailure moments.

Self-Depreciation

"The bough that bear most hang lowest." comes from a proverb that means "those who have the most to offer are often the least boastful, much like tree branches that bend under the weight of their fruit."

When Sukuna tells Jogo that his "head doesn't bear much" he's warning him about his lack of humility (aka not bowing enough) and calling him worthless at the same time. Pretty clever, right?

What makes this a girlfailure moment is that by this logic, Sukuna is inadvertently declaring that he's worth less than the ones he's looking down on and that his arrogance is a sign of posturing. If you pointed this out to him, he'd probably kill you, but it's kind of funny he overlooked the implication.

Manji Kick

When Yuji tries to throw hands with Sukuna after being killed, he tries to kick his gruncle in the face and misses.

This doesn't stop Yuji! Eventually he pulls off a successful Manji Kick against Mahito.

This means that even though Sukuna has dodged this move before, even though he has witnessed Yuji landing this move...

...he somehow managed to get with it in his "strongest" original form.

He Might Be Autistic

I promise I'll elaborate more on Sukuna's autism in a different post, but he's on par with Yuji in taking things at face value sometimes. Here is my favorite example.

He really took his nephew at his word and got punched in the face for it...

The Knives

When Sukuna's technique is first properly introduced, 2 knives represent it. The one on the left is a sujihiki (associated with Dismantle) while the one on the right is a burja (associated with Cleave). Uraume winds up using a burja when cutting the curses for a bath.

The thing about the sujihiki is that it's primarily used for scaling and filleting fish. You know, like for Gojo Satoru, the fish he scaled then bisected with Dismantle. The burja is used for percision cutting which is probably why Uraume uses it for the special preparation of curses. (Burjas also aren't that big, so I'd like to believe that's Sukuna's knife they're using.)

Anyways, I leave you with a panel comparison of Gojo punching Uraume like he did Hakari and Yuta. (Sukuna dodging their flying body will never not be funny.)

Gojo and Sukuna have really questionable ideas about guardianship.

#Gege puts so much effort into the smallest of details. Love that level of perverse dedication to one's craft.#This is how I sneak in my sleeper Miguel agenda. You Will appreciate him.#Yorozu they could never make me hate you. I think Sukuna was right about her and Gojo getting along. They'd be so awful together.#I think JJK becomes peak when you acknowledge that every character is some level of goofball loser. Sukuna is just really good at hiding it #It also becomes funnier if you choose to read Uraume's glazing of Sukuna as a ''my dad can beat up your dad'' kind of thing.#I'm also choosing to read the Shinjuku fight as an evil adoption arc.#cactus yaps #miguel oduol #yorozu #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #jjk spoilers

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dollypopup · 1 month ago

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thinking about how book!Colin was more than just a traveler. more than just a wanderer. he was an explorer. like sure, the first few times, it's basically just a study abroad. he's on a grand tour like lots of people did back in the 1800s to educate themselves on art and culture of the western world, but after the typical places- Greece, Italy, France, Colin keeps traveling. He travels for an entire decade.

at a certain point, he's not just traveling to eat Parisian food and look at paintings. he's trying to discover himself, his purpose, his place in the world, to find a drive, so why wouldn't he explore remote places? he's basically backpacking his way in the wilderness multiple times. he would almost CERTAINLY have a semi-strong grasp on the languages of places he visited, and would be able to converse in Italian or French or Spanish for the sake of his travels. he would have to know how to read a map and a compass. how to navigate. how to ration food or hunt or forage or maintain a fire. he'd have to know how to read the stars and what danger sounds and looks like, how to set up camp, how to deescalate tough situations with large groups for the sake of working together for survival. he most certainly climbed mountains, waded through rivers, lost friends.

someone doesn't travel for a solid decade and get lucky every single time. he'd HAVE to have some very tangible survival skills that he picked up after a while. he's not just some dandy fop who cocks his hat and sleeps on a feather mattress every night in a bed and breakfast after looking at a shoreline. the man is gone for YEARS. where is Colin the amateur map maker? the ruins explorer? the mountain climber? who curses like a sailor because he's certainly on boats long enough? who comes home and has to code switch immediately? scruffy colin who has snapped chicken's necks so he could eat and dug pits for water with his bare hands and learned how tree bark can aid wounds and which plants made him so sick he thought he would die in some foreign corner of the world with none the wiser? it's like he gets glossed over the shiny pretty boy who gets to be a prince on a horse and live happily ever after.

that's why book!Colin who marries Penelope and never travels again is so weird to me. like of course he's happy and in love, but he's seen the world. why wouldn't he show her? show his children? he knows a world beyond England. a wide, wonderful, sometimes terrifying and thrilling world that he's had the privilege to experience. with a heart as big as his, of course he'd want to experience it with people he loves.

and show!Colin, too. sure, he went on a grand tour and didn't do the exploration that his book counterpart did, but the hunger for curiosity and discovery wouldn't just fade away because he's in a relationship. if anything, now he has someone he can share it with even more! he sent her so many letters, I can't imagine she wouldn't be curious, too. hunger for that freedom, that education, the knowledge. they can discover together! y'all think Penelope wouldn't love riding horseback and wearing breeches and eating squirrels roasted over an open fire and skinny dipping with the love of her life in a clean, beautiful lake? you think she wouldn't enjoy seeing all the art that has been out of her reach and eating foods she can't get in London and getting dirty and messy and knowing the entire time, she gets to do it with the love of her life and her favorite person to talk to?

i know a lot of the time the fandom sees Colin's travels as something where he's running away or avoiding his life, but it would be nice to explore an opposing perspective. that this is a very fulfilling hobby and life he has. he meets people, gains skills, grows as a person on every trip. he learns to depend on himself, to do more than just what any aristocrat can, doesn't lean on servants for every whim and beck and call. Anthony and Daphne didn't even know how to light a stove to heat up some milk. You think Colin has that problem? Nope.

Colin's travels make him a richer character and a better person. It gives him a bigger appreciation of nature and himself and other communities. I think sometimes we don't give him the depth he deserves. Traveling is an incredibly fulfilling and impressive thing to commit oneself to and Colin IS a distinguished person for doing so.

idk. explorer colin just means so much to me. i love him

#colin bridgerton #polin #bridgerton #listen absolutely no shade to the peeps who are like 'and now he can settle down and be with penelope and raise kids together!'#that's A version of Happily Ever After #but i feel like it erases a lot of Colin as a character for Colin as a Husband/Father #but he can be a good husband and father and still keep his hobbies and interests #if anything doing so makes him a BETTER husband and father #not to be all 'i can show you the world' on main about Polin but i will forever mourn that they don't get to travel together #all those letters and all that longing and they don't even get a honeymoon out of the country #it feels like some fans and some fandom spaces see colin's traveling as something frivolous or uninteresting #but it is SO interesting???? i do NOT understand how people can't cling on to his every word about where he's been #especially if it's later into his exploration and he's not just visiting the conventional places #colin traveling through caves and mountain passes and looking at rare landscapes and pictoglyphs #and coming to a deep unyielding appreciation of the world around him is so rich and such an amazing way to characterize him #idk why we don't uphold it more as colin being a genuinely interesting and thoughtful person #yes i get it penelope is home to him #and colin is home to HER #they can BOTH travel together and still be each other's Home

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writertothemaximum · 1 year ago

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Yuuji with a tall (pushing it at 198cm) scary transfer student from America who's kind of a punk but he's sweet sometimes (mainly only to yuuji) perchance?🧐(N/sfw)

ヤンキー・Yankee: Pt. I

Yuuji x tall delinquent male reader

content // Reader comes from a strict American family, canon-typical violence, reader is a juju tech transfer student, reader is a bit depressed, Reader is smitten™️, (yuuji is too), very wholesome, pre-relationship

note // read part two here! (nsfw)

-When your family moved to Tokyo for “business” related reasons, nothing could have prepared you for the culture shock. The language was one thing, but there were all these social customs that were just implied. No one said anything bluntly to your face, even if they did speak comprehensible English, which a lot of people did. Was it because you were an outsider? Was it because you were American?

-Maybe because of this, you found the life of delinquency easy. Maybe it was because you were 6’6” and no one was going to fuck with a dude twice their height, because nothing meant a quick trip to the hospital like getting into a fight with you.

-But people did. And you busted their faces in. It’s what they deserved. One time you broke your fist on someone’s nose. It was worth it. You got suspended and grounded by your parents, but so what? You never provoked people, they just came at you, and it was within your right to defend yourself. Isolation wasn’t caused by ostracization, it was caused by defense, and in your opinion, there was a lot to be defended.

-One day, your parents told you that you were getting transferred to a select school a little bit outside the city. A strange man (who was surprisingly close to your height) came by the house, offered to fist-fight you, and for the first time in your life, you got your ass whipped.

-It was a this point that you realized that the “imaginary friends” you had been seeing since childhood were called “curses,” and that maybe there was a place in the world for your violence. It had just been an outlet, maybe now you had a purpose.

-Very quickly, you realized that Jujutsu Tech also wasn’t home. A part of you wondered if anywhere in Japan could be. Before you were even given your own dorm room, you were sent with another student for a “trial run.” He didn’t talk to you much, and it took two hours into the thing before you even learned his name. It was like your parents had sent you to military school, and in a sense, they did.

-That was until you met Yuuji.

-Yuuji wasn’t like the other students. In many ways, he was like you. To no surprise, many of the students at Jujutsu Tech were also former delinquents, Megumi included—But Yuuji was different. He had blood on his hands, but there was no way you could tell. From the moment you met, he actively talked to you, tried to get to know you, treated you with respect, that’s just how he treated everyone, that was Itadori Yuuji.

-It’s not like no one had ever given you the kindness of humanity before, but Yuuji was different. Why wasn’t he afraid of you? Why wasn’t he intimidated? Maybe he was and he just never let it on, maybe it was because he’d beaten up kids just like you when he was in middle school, you didn’t really know. But it wasn’t just that. He was sweet he was funny he was kind. You were a friend, just like anyone else.

-Yuuji liked watching foreign films, and would invite you to go watch them in the city if any theaters had showings (and since it was Tokyo, they almost always did). After the movie, the two of you’d walk around and discuss what you liked, what you didn’t. One time, Yuuji asked about your home. He asked if you missed it, and a part of you did. A lot of you did. You didn’t talk to your friends anymore since everything had changed. Would they even believe you, anyways? Fighting monsters, living in what felt like another world?

-Yuuji understood you, he always did. That’s what’s so charming about him, is that he can feel what you’re feeling. At that time, he gave you a hug, and told you that he can’t send you home, but he can do his best to make Tokyo your new one. Maybe there’d be a piece of home here, maybe you could find a quiet spot, surrounded by the greenery of your youth, and the two of you could sit and chat while the memories flooded in.

-That was the first time you had cried since you moved abroad, and you vowed to make it your last. Somehow, Itadori Yuuji had weaved into your heart, and you weren’t about to give him up anytime soon.

If you liked this story, please give the post a reblog, or send me another request :)

Thanks for reading!

// read part two here! (nsfw)

#yuuji x you #yuuji x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #itadori x reader #male reader #w2tmhcs

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clumsydolly · 27 days ago

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Can you do obey me x Riddle rosehearts!reader? because I sometimes see crossover fanart between two series

Obey me x Riddle Risehearts!Reader

I love Riddle and his little anger and mommy issues! If anyone has any Twisted Wonderland asks I would love to get some!

Warnings!⚠️ Mommy issues, anger issues, neglect, and trauma! Didn't read through! Still have sucky banners!

Lucifer

Lucifer didn’t know whether to thank Diavolo for sending someone with such rigid propriety or to curse him for the same reason.

From the moment you arrived at the House of Lamentation, back straight, shoes perfectly polished, hair immaculately groomed, Lucifer could sense a kindred spirit. You walked as if the weight of generations pressed on your shoulders, and you wielded authority like a blade: sharply, precisely, and with zero tolerance for disorder.

He admired that. Truly, he did. Most days, he found himself cleaning up after his brothers’ chaos, so to meet someone who not only followed rules but quoted them verbatim was a strange sort of blessing. Your grasp of etiquette, your punctuality, your high academic standards, it all spoke to a discipline he knew well.

But then came the temper.

Lucifer had seen many outbursts in the Devildom. Beel’s hunger fits, Mammon’s panicked excuses, even Satan’s wrath. But nothing quite prepared him for your fury when someone dared sit at the tea table before the tea was poured, or wore the wrong color on a Tuesday.

“Off with your head!” you'd roar, magical energy flaring around you like a stormcloud laced with red lightning.

Lucifer had to intervene more than once, not to stop you, he secretly enjoyed watching the others squirm under your judgment, but to ensure you didn’t actually decapitate someone over a napkin placement.

“You and I both know the importance of order,” he once told you as you paced the drawing room in agitation. “But even we must acknowledge that not all battles are worth fighting. Not every crooked fork is an act of war.”

You’d glared, cheeks pink with frustration, but you listened. You always did when it came from him.

Perhaps it was because Lucifer saw what others didn’t. Beneath the proud posture and strict rules, he noticed the tension in your hands when you handed out critique. The way you stayed behind after group lessons to double-check your notes. The way you flinched at the mention of overbearing mothers or past mentors.

He recognized that kind of pressure. That relentless drive to be flawless, as if one slip might cost you everything.

So he surprised you.

Not with scolding or demands, but with quiet praise.

Your tea parties became something of a ritual between the two of you. No brothers allowed, just Lucifer and you, seated across fine china, surrounded by the scent of fresh tarts and spiced leaves. In those rare moments, you allowed yourself to relax. You spoke without quoting rules. You laughed, quietly, but genuinely, when Lucifer offered dry commentary on his brothers’ chaos.

“You hold yourself to impossible standards,” he said one afternoon as he poured your tea. “But you don’t have to earn your place here. You already belong.”

You looked at him like he’d spoken a foreign language. Perhaps, to you, he had.

Lucifer never pushed your boundaries, but he slowly, carefully, became a source of calm amidst your internal storm. He offered correction when necessary, but more often he offered understanding. Because for all your differences, he saw too much of his own reflection in you perfectionist, loyal, powerful, but deeply afraid of disappointing those who once held their hearts in iron fists.

And perhaps, over time, you saw in him not just a fellow authority figure but a quiet ally.

One who didn’t ask you to be perfect.

Only present.

Mammon

The first time Mammon saw you, he nearly tripped over himself.

Not because he was smitten not yet, anyway but because the aura you carried screamed authority.

It screamed Lucifer.

Commanding presence, aristocratic posture, crimson hair like a warning sign, and eyes that could slice through excuses before he even opened his mouth.

You'd barely stepped into the House of Lamentation before Mammon was muttering apologies for things he hadn’t even done yet.

“Oi, oi! I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong! I swear I didn’t touch your weird teacups!”

You didn’t even blink.

You just quoted some regulation about respecting others’ belongings and glared until Mammon practically folded in on himself. After that, he took to tiptoeing around you like a guilty puppy, flinching any time your voice got that clipped, commanding edge. Which was often. You had zero tolerance for mess, lateness, or Mammon’s "entrepreneurial ventures," as he called them.

But here’s the thing about Mammon under all the bluster, he pays attention.

He started noticing things. Like how you always sat alone during tea, despite arranging everything so perfectly. Or how your hands trembled just a little after an angry outburst, as if you regretted how far your temper went. Or how you stayed up late, redoing your homework even when it was already flawless.

Mammon wasn’t the brightest when it came to grades, but he knew what it was like to feel like you were never enough.

One day, after you'd snapped at him in front of everyone for skipping class, he caught up to you alone in the garden. You were seated on a marble bench, scowling into a half-eaten strawberry tart, the fork in your hand clenched so tightly it might snap.

“You okay?” he asked.

You stared at him, clearly expecting mockery.

Instead, he held up a bag with a little sticker that read “Strawberry Delight—Extra Sweet.”

“Thought ya might need somethin’. Ya know. Since you always look like you’re ‘bout two seconds from blastin’ someone into a wall.”

You blinked. Then blinked again.

It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t grand. But it was real.

Over time, Mammon stopped flinching when you got strict. He even started arguing back, though it was more playful than defensive.

“You’re not my boss—wait, no, don’t say it—I know, ‘Rule Number Forty-Seven: Defiance warrants discipline.’ Sheesh.”

But behind the teasing, there was care. He reminded you to eat when you got too focused on perfection. He shielded you when your magic flared uncontrollably. He even started helping with your tea parties, pretending it was just for the snacks when everyone knew he liked how your eyes softened during those moments.

You, in turn, grew to tolerate his schemes, some of them. You didn’t always understand his constant hustling, but you understood the fear behind it. The fear of being left behind, of never being good enough. You carried the same fear in your perfectly measured steps and your desperate drive to meet impossible standards.

Mammon never said it outright, but his actions spoke louder. He started looking out for you. Not just because he was scared of your temper, but because he saw someone who, like him, just wanted to be seen for more than their mistakes or their title.

“I think yer pretty amazing, ya know,” he muttered once, cheeks flushed as he stared at the floor. “Even if ya do threaten to decapitate me every Tuesday.”

You didn’t threaten him that time.

Instead, you invited him to sit beside you for tea.

And he did.

Awkwardly. Loudly. Grumbling about lace doilies and teacup handles.

But he stayed.

And for you, that meant more than perfection ever could.

Leviathan

Leviathan didn’t know whether to fear you or admire you.

The first time he heard your voice thunder through the halls with a sharp "Off with your head!" directed at a poor demon who dared forget proper tea etiquette, he nearly dropped his D.D.D.

You were terrifying.

But also... kind of amazing.

You moved with exactness, like a character from one of his favorite anime the strict student council president archetype who commanded a room with a single word. Except you weren’t fictional. You were real. And you actually lived with him.

Levi spent the first few weeks avoiding direct interaction with you unless necessary. You were too intense, too formal, and honestly too close to the kind of person who reminded him of authority figures he'd never impressed. But then he noticed something familiar in the way you froze after an outburst. How you stared a little too long at your grades, even when they were perfect. How you adjusted your uniform over and over before stepping into a room.

That self-doubt—Levi knew it intimately.

One day, while hiding in his room during a particularly dramatic lecture you gave in the living room, he muttered to himself, “They’re just like Hoshino from My Strict Student Council President Can’t Be This Magical! Except... way more terrifying.”

You knocked on his door ten minutes later, holding a strawberry tart and a question.

“What is My Strict Student Council President Can’t Be This Magically Cute!?”

Levi turned beet red. But he let you in.

That was the start.

He introduced you to his anime collection the ones with rule-following protagonists who secretly craved acceptance. You saw yourself in them more than you wanted to admit. And you introduced him to tea ceremonies, gently guiding his awkward hands as he tried not to knock over the porcelain.

He liked that about you. The way you took rules seriously, not to control others, but to give structure to the chaos you felt inside. You liked that he understood that perfectionism didn’t always come from pride it came from fear. Of failing. Of not being enough.

So when you both got closer imagine his shock when you didn't know how to play video games, like, at all. In games, rules had purpose. Expectations were clear. You didn’t have to guess what people wanted from you just followed the mechanics. And Levi was patient. He didn’t laugh when you got competitive or flustered when you lost. He just offered you another round and explained the rules again, slower this time.

Over time, Levi became your safe place.

When your magic flared too high and you were afraid of hurting someone, he would gently hand you a controller and say, “Wanna do a no-death speedrun? Just you and me.”

You’d nod, and the world would quiet.

He never mocked your "Off with your head" moments. In fact, he secretly found them endearing.

"Honestly," he admitted one evening, cheeks pink as he offered you a plushie from his collection, "I think it's kinda cool how powerful you are. Like... scary powerful. But also kinda cute. Don’t tell anyone I said that."

You didn’t.

But you smiled.

And for Levi, that was better than any S-Rank victory.

Satan

Satan noticed you the moment you entered the room—not just because of your striking red hair or commanding posture, but because of the way your voice rang out like a gavel in a courtroom.

Precise. Unyielding. Final.

"That is a clear violation of Rule Thirty-Seven. Apologize and correct your posture immediately."

You didn’t just follow rules. You became them. And to Satan, a being born from pure wrath and built on a lifelong rebellion against authority, that was endlessly fascinating.

At first, he thought you were simply rigid. Someone so bound by structure that they feared disorder. But the more he observed you, the more he sensed something else under the surface.

Every time your voice rose in fury over a broken rule, your eyes carried a flicker of something deeper. Frustration, yes. But also fear. The kind of fear that comes from failure. The kind that whispered you had to be perfect, or else everything might fall apart.

He recognized that fear.

You reminded him of himself, just mirrored in a different form. Where he lashed out to break free, you held tighter to structure as if it could shield you from unraveling.

"Interesting," he mused one afternoon in the library, watching you correct the placement of every book on a misaligned shelf. "How someone so devoted to order can carry so much chaos inside. Tell me, what exactly happens in your mind when someone breaks a rule?"

You glanced at him sharply. Ready to argue. But you paused.

No one had ever asked that before.

That was how it began.

Tea turned into debates. Lectures turned into questions. You'd sit across from him for hours, your teacup untouched as you unraveled the philosophy of justice, the origins of etiquette, the necessity of structure in a world that constantly threatened to fall apart. He challenged you. Gently at first, then with more boldness.

"Do you believe all rules are worth following? Even the ones you were forced to learn?"

That question stayed with you long after the conversation ended.

Satan never mocked your outbursts. If anything, he saw in them a kind of honesty he respected. And when your magic flared during one particularly overwhelming day your voice rising, the air pulsing with heat he didn't flinch. He stood beside you, calm and steady, and simply said:

"You don't have to be perfect for me to respect you."

You never forgot that.

He admired your intellect. Your control. But what intrigued him most was your vulnerability. The way you tried so hard to be what others expected, while secretly wondering if anyone would love you if you stopped performing.

With Satan, you didn’t have to perform.

You could argue. You could question. You could unravel.

And in the quiet moments between your battles of logic and law, you began to let him in.

He never told you to stop quoting rules.

But he did offer new ones. The kind you could make for yourself.

Together.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus was instantly enchanted. You walked into the room like a royal decree, every movement precise, your voice sharp yet refined, and your posture so perfect it could cut glass. He had never met anyone so properly poised and yet so intimidating.

"Darling, you are fabulous. That glare? That tone? The way you just corrected Diavolo's napkin placement? I’m in love."

At first, he thought you might be his kind of diva—commanding, stylish, and dramatic in the best ways. But it didn’t take long before he noticed the tension behind your eyes. The way your fingers clenched ever so slightly when someone interrupted your schedule. The way you overcorrected yourself even when no one was watching. The way you seemed to believe that if even one thing went out of place, it would all fall apart.

You were composed, yes. But barely holding together.

He’d sigh dramatically, drape himself over a velvet armchair, and say with that lilting voice of his, “Darling, you’re absolutely adorable when you're bossing people around, but when was the last time you actually let yourself breathe?”

You’d bristle at first, citing responsibilities, rules, and your meticulously color-coded planner.

So he adapted.

He invited you to spa days and framed them as part of a proper self-care regimen. He followed your skincare instructions to the letter and asked detailed questions about your favorite products, just to show he was paying attention. He suggested tea parties not just as frivolous social events, but as structured time to indulge in beauty and grace. And when you hosted them, Asmo would show off his perfect etiquette, making you smile despite yourself.

He respected your standards, but refused to let you drown in them.

When you spiraled, quietly and privately, Asmo didn’t smother you with attention. He sat beside you, let you rant, and gently reminded you of your worth without sugarcoating things. “You’re allowed to make mistakes, love. You don’t have to be flawless to be loved. Look at me—chaotic, emotional, impulsive—and still absolutely irresistible.”

He meant it. Every word.

He saw the way you held yourself together with a thousand little rules because the moment you let go, it might all come crashing down. So he offered you something rare space to fall apart safely.

You became his favorite contrast.

You, with your rules and rituals.

Him, with his spontaneity and sparkles.

Together, you found a balance.

He admired your beauty routines and you respected his intuitive understanding of people. He never teased you for quoting regulations, but sometimes whispered his own:

Rule Number One, darling. You deserve to be happy, even when everything isn’t perfect.

And under the candlelight of your tea parties, in the quiet moments between etiquette and affection, you finally started to believe it.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub wasn’t quite sure what to make of you at first.

You were intense. You spoke like every word was part of a royal decree, and your eyes practically sparked when someone dared to break a rule. When you shouted “Off with your head” at Mammon for sneaking snacks during your afternoon tea, Beel nearly dropped his entire sandwich.

He blinked slowly. “That seems a little extreme… but maybe you’re just really serious about tea.”

Still, even though the rules confused him and your temper startled him more than once, Beel tried. He genuinely didn’t want to upset you. So when you explained table etiquette, he nodded and practiced holding his fork the way you taught him. When you handed him a list of rules for attending your tea parties, he read it three times and kept it folded in his pocket.

And when you baked strawberry tarts, something shifted.

Beel’s eyes lit up. His usual quiet hunger turned into something else entirely pure joy. He took a bite and sat there for a long moment, expression soft.

“These are amazing,” he said. “Can you teach me how to make them?”

You blinked, expecting him to demand more or devour the whole plate without comment. Instead, he looked at you with such genuine appreciation that you felt your usual tension ease just a little.

Beel never mocked you for your rigid standards or scolded you for being too intense. When you lost your temper, he didn’t flinch. He waited until you calmed down, then quietly offered you a plate of food or your favorite tea. He didn’t try to fix you. He just sat beside you, solid and steady, a quiet presence that made the pressure of perfection feel a little lighter.

Sometimes you found him studying your etiquette books when he thought you weren’t looking. Other times, he asked thoughtful questions about why certain customs mattered to you. He never pretended to understand everything, but he always listened.

“Is it okay if I don’t get it right all the time?” he asked once, licking jam off his fingers.

You wanted to snap at him for the mess, but all that came out was a quiet, “As long as you try.”

Beel smiled.

He became your most loyal tea guest, your strawberry tart apprentice, and the only one who could gently pull you out of an anxiety spiral with just a warm snack and a soft look. You never had to explain your worth to him. He accepted you, rules and all, without needing a single regulation to tell him how.

And when he said, “I like being around you. Even when you're yelling,” you believed him.

Maybe perfection didn’t mean following every rule.

Maybe sometimes, it meant sitting across from someone who saw past the storm and stayed anyway.

Belphegor

Belphegor thought you were ridiculous at first.

All those rules, all that posture. Your obsession with order made his skin itch. You corrected people’s grammar mid-sentence. You lectured him once for yawning during a formal tea. The way you barked, “Rules exist for a reason!” made him roll his eyes so hard it gave him a headache.

He made a game out of breaking your rules. Leaving his shoes in the middle of the hallway. Skipping morning meetings just to hear you snap. Saying things like “Who died and made you queen?” because he knew it would set you off.

You’d shout. Your magic would spark. Your face would flush red with rage. And for a while, that was fun.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened one afternoon, when he caught you alone in the House of Lamentation’s garden. You were sitting stiffly under a rose arch, hands folded in your lap like a porcelain doll, but your shoulders were shaking. When you heard his footsteps, you sat up straighter and wiped your eyes so quickly it almost looked practiced.

"Don't start," you snapped. "I'm well aware this isn't the proper location for solitary crying."

That line should’ve made him smirk. It didn’t.

Belphie stood there for a moment, arms crossed.

“You know, you don't have to pretend like you're not falling apart.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him.

“I used to think you were just some control freak,” he continued, his voice quieter. “But... now I think someone taught you that the only way to be loved is to be perfect. Let me guess. Strict mom? No tolerance for failure?”

The silence between you stretched.

Then: “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t need to,” he said. “I recognize the look.”

He didn't press the issue. He just sat beside you, not touching, not saying anything else. You didn’t speak either, but you didn’t leave. That was new.

After that, things didn’t magically change.

He still broke your rules. You still scolded him. You still flinched every time you messed up even slightly, like the sky was going to fall.

But he stopped doing it just to push your buttons.

And you stopped reacting like his teasing was an attack. Sometimes.

He’d nap in your study now and then, curled up on your pristine couch with no regard for your no-food-near-the-books rule. You’d scold him. He’d grin. Then he’d pat the couch like, “Sit down. Five minutes won’t kill you.”

You never sat. Not at first.

But one day, after a particularly rough encounter with Lucifer and a shaky voice note from your mother, you sat beside him and didn’t say a word.

You didn’t sleep. But you stayed.

And for Belphie, that was more than enough for now.

Diavolo

Diavolo was immediately enchanted by you. Your posture, your diction, your flawless etiquette it was like meeting someone out of a storybook. Finally, someone new have tea with at formal gathering.

"You’re a delight," he said cheerfully after your first meeting. "Truly, I haven’t seen anyone carry themselves so impeccably in centuries."

At first, you appreciated his respect for your decorum. He even followed your rules during castle visits, which impressed you more than you’d admit. But Diavolo was not a man easily boxed in. He laughed too loud, broke into spontaneous dancing during formal balls, and often declared the start of events without waiting for ceremony.

When you exploded at him the first time for ignoring a seating chart you'd spent hours arranging, he didn’t get angry. He laughed. Genuinely.

"You're serious about these rules, aren't you?" he said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "It's admirable. But tell me, are the rules something you love… or just something you've been taught to fear breaking?"

The question cut deeper than you expected.

You’d grown up with structure imposed on you like iron bars a mother who demanded obedience and excellence at every turn. Love came conditionally, through grades, behavior, and posture. You clung to rules because without them, you never knew who you were supposed to be. Or if you were allowed to be anything at all.

Diavolo saw that. Not immediately, but over time. He began inviting you to events not only for your impeccable manners but to gently challenge your sense of rigidity. He’d seat you beside demons who used the wrong forks on purpose. He’d serve strawberry tarts out of order, just to see if you’d protest and when you didn’t, he'd beam like a proud teacher.

“Look at that,” he’d tease. “Progress!”

You’d glare, but it was softer now. Less fire, more reluctant fondness.

He never mocked your standards. In fact, he admired how deeply you cared about doing things right. But he also wanted you to experience joy unmeasured by perfection. He’d take your hand during a stiff reception and say, “Let’s dance. No steps. Just movement.” You’d resist then, eventually, give in.

Your strawberry tarts became a staple at royal gatherings, to the point that Barbatos once asked if you were planning to dethrone the palace chef. Diavolo only grinned and asked for seconds.

You still quoted rules. You still arranged flowers with maddening symmetry. But slowly, Diavolo helped you see that breaking rules didn’t mean breaking yourself. Sometimes, it meant making room for something softer like friendship. Or even fun.

Barbatos

Barbatos noticed you long before you spoke.

The way you carried yourself perfectly measured footsteps, precise posture, the delicate but firm control in your voice reminded him of himself. Not many could match his devotion to order, but you didn’t just match it. You lived it, breathed it, held it like armor.

When you finally introduced yourself with flawless etiquette, Barbatos offered a rare, sincere smile.

"I see I am in the presence of someone who understands the sanctity of precision," he said, bowing in return.

Where others found your perfectionism exhausting or intimidating, Barbatos found it familiar almost comforting. You reminded him of long hours spent perfecting silver service and protocol, of the quiet satisfaction that came from making something exact. In you, he saw a kindred soul shaped by expectation and trained into excellence, not always by choice.

Your temper, however, was another matter.

He saw it early on the way you clenched your fists when someone arrived late, how your voice quivered with tightly held fury when rules were ignored. But unlike others, Barbatos didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh like Diavolo or backpedal like Mammon. He simply watched and understood.

“You are not angry because the rule was broken,” he said once, after you snapped during a castle dinner. “You are angry because when rules are broken, the world feels uncertain. Unsafe.”

You stared at him in silence, your throat tight. Because he was right. Again.

Barbatos became your calm center. He invited you for private tea lessons, where he introduced you to Devildom variations of brewing rituals letting you correct him just once before revealing that, actually, there was no single ‘proper’ method. At first, you hated that. Then… you didn’t.

He never forced you to change. He never teased when you quoted rulebooks or rearranged doilies six times in a row. But he would gently suggest, “This blend is more delicate if steeped a touch less. Would you like to try?” And you would. Because when Barbatos spoke, it never felt like judgment. Only care.

He understood the expectations carved into you by a distant, demanding mother. He never told you to stop striving for perfection he simply showed you that compassion was not failure, and structure could be paired with softness. That mastery didn’t mean martyrdom.

Over time, you began to invite him to your tea parties not because it was proper, but because you wanted him there. Because in his presence, you didn’t need to be flawless to be respected. You could just be learning. Healing. Becoming.

And when you sat beside him, porcelain cups between you, and he adjusted your hand just slightly to guide a smoother pour, you didn’t flinch. You smiled.

"Thank you, Barbatos. I’ll remember that."

And you did.

Simeon

Simeon noticed the cracks in your perfection the way a poet notices the silence between lines.

To most, you were all precision your words measured, your manners exquisite, your gaze sharp as cut glass. But to Simeon, those things weren’t just habits. They were shields. And behind them, he saw it: the trembling hands that never dared to reach out, the stiff smile that concealed the fear of not being good enough.

"You remind me of a rose bush grown with too much wire,” he said once, softly, as you bristled over a classmate failing to observe proper posture at the tea table. “Controlled, shaped... but never allowed to grow wild. And yet still, undeniably beautiful.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

Your temper swift and biting usually earned you space, if not fear. But Simeon never reacted with fear. He listened. When your anger surged, he didn’t scold or step back. Instead, he offered quiet questions: “What did that rule mean to you?” or “Were you protecting yourself just now… or something else?”

Those questions made your chest ache.

Simeon saw the ache in your perfectionism the ghost of a mother whose love came only when you were flawless, the years of chasing approval like it was air. And he never told you to abandon the rules. He just reminded you, gently, that love didn’t have to be earned like a grade.

“You don’t need to be the best to be worthy,” he told you during one of your spirals, as you paced and muttered citations from memory like a charm to ward off failure. “Even the Celestial Realm has fallen stars. And they’re still part of the sky.”

Over time, your tea parties became quieter. Not less elegant you’d never allow that but more... human. You stopped obsessing over the symmetry of sugar cubes. You began to laugh, softly, when things went slightly off-script. Once, you even let Simeon host and when he misplaced a serving spoon, you didn’t yell.

You simply smiled, a little crooked. “I’ll let it go this time. But only because you used the proper teacups.”

He grinned, warm and proud.

And when he offered you his arm during a walk through the garden, you took it not because it was the polite thing to do, but because it felt safe.

With Simeon, perfection was no longer your only language. With him, you started learning fluency in peace.

Solomon

Solomon was intrigued by you from the start not just by your command of etiquette or your strict devotion to rules, but by the crackling, barely-contained magic simmering beneath your composure.

You were a storm in a teacup. Polished, poised... until someone stepped out of line.

And naturally, Solomon couldn’t resist shaking the teacup.

“Oops. I think I just placed the dessert fork on the left,” he’d say with mock innocence, watching your eye twitch as your aura flared dangerously. “Fascinating. Your mana spikes almost exactly at the moment your patience ends.”

You threatened him with magical decapitation more than once. He took it as a compliment.

But under the teasing was real curiosity not just in your power, but in you. Solomon understood what it meant to carry the weight of expectation, the ache of not being “enough” no matter how precisely you performed. He just expressed it through rebellion instead of rigor.

And that’s what made him dangerous and healing.

“You keep enforcing the rules like they’ll protect you,” he said one evening after you snapped at a demon for breaking Devildom library protocol. “But who protected you when the rules were the thing that hurt you most?”

You didn’t answer.

Not that time.

But he noticed your hand tremble slightly when you served tea later, and he said nothing just poured it for you instead.

Solomon never asked you to abandon your standards. He just asked questions. Uncomfortable ones. “What happens if you break a rule?” “Who taught you this one?” “What would you be without all of them?”

With him, you began to examine not just rules, but the reasons behind them and which ones were really yours.

He guided you through experimental spells, always pushing the boundaries of your magic in ways that felt reckless at first... but liberating over time. You realized your power wasn’t just tied to order. It surged strongest when you were protecting, caring, daring to feel rather than control.

Solomon never flinched at your rage. He called it beautiful. He called you powerful. Not because you were flawless, but because you were real.

And slowly, his chaos became a kind of freedom.

Where others feared your temper, Solomon smiled through it and in his unpredictable, exasperating way, taught you that magic, like people, is most alive when it breathes beyond the page.

Thank you so much for reading I hope you enjoyed it! 🩷 As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated! Please send more asks!

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