#Cat Trees that look like real Trees

[fantasytrees]

Large Cat Trees for Multiple Cats

 Large Cat Trees for Multiple Cats Sturdy Cat Trees Large Fantasy Cat Tree www.aFantasyForest.com Large sturdy cat trees for multiple cats. A Fantasy Forest has been making unique cat trees for 19 years. We were the original cat tree that looks like a tree. All of our trees have leaves but you can order yours without them like this tree, if you would like. Spoil your kitties today!

[airocats]

[organized-chaotic-disaster]

My cat just bullied me to go to bed, she really is helping me take care of myself lol

[otto-wood]

i have a sideblog for a character where i reblog a ton of posts, and a lot of them are of animals. it’s insane how from the time of queueing (a little over a year ago) to now, my ai detection skills have skyrocketed. im deleting my own queued posts as i see them show up on the dash cause im instantly like “that’s ai,” and “there’s absolutely no way that’s a real cat,” but when i queued them i had zero idea 😭

[imfromsixam]

Besties: Me and my Cat (CC Pack for The Sims 4)

Introducing "Besties (Part 2): Me and My Cat" CC Pack!

I'm super excited to bring you the second part of the Besties series, now focusing on our beloved feline friends! In the first part, I shared with you guys a collection all about the beautiful bond between dogs and babies. For this second part, I thought I’d switch things up a bit. Instead of focusing on cats and babies, I wanted to highlight something just as heartwarming—the special relationship between cats and adults. Yes, you guessed it, I’m talking about the delightful world of cat ladies (and gents)!

This pack has loads of goodies for your Sim’s cats. There are two new versions of the cat tree: one with a cozy little house and another that looks like a cool cat gym on the wall. Your cats will love the new bed, scratchers, and another bed shaped like a tiny house. Of course, I’ve got the essentials like a litter box and food, but let’s be real—we all know the ultimate cat item is the cardboard box!

And because I know how much Sims love their kitties, I’ve added some fun items for a cat-obsessed Sim’s bedroom. I was going for an eclectic vibe this time. There’s a new classic bed with cute cat details on the pillows, a cat-shaped lamp for the night table, and an adorable armchair with cat accents. Plus, I’ve got new curtains and, most importantly, picture frames to show off the beauty of your Sim’s cats.

I’ve put a lot of love into this CC pack and can’t wait for you to enjoy it. Don’t forget to tag me in your social media posts—I can’t wait to see your amazing creations with your Sims and their feline besties!

Enjoy the fun and whimsy of The Sims 4 custom content, and as always, happy simming! 😊🐱📦

▶ ABOUT THE CC PACK

Build: 2 Wallpaper, 1 Floor

Comfort: Armchair, Double bed, Bench with blanket, Bench

Decorative: Cat food, Curtians (all sizes), Paitings, Rug

Lighting: Table Lamp

Pets (Requires Cats and Dogs EP): Bed (cardboard box), Food bowl, Cat tree (large), Cat tree (small), Bed with scratcher post, Cat climbing wall, Litter box, Scratch post (carrot)

Storage: Dresser, Dresser (opened)

Surface: Night table

GET EARLY ACCESS HERE

[cumironi]

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GOJO’S D$CK. g.s

feat. gojo satoru

sum. what’s the best sex position ever? loud and clear you said missionary. the result? got called slut by shoko and dared by geto to fuck the stupidest man in the group, gojo satoru. and you, also the stupidest take the bait just to prove a point only to get the best missionary you’ve ever had. which, also got called slut by your friend.

wn. college au, all characters are adults (early 20s), depictions of alcohol and weed consumption, explicit sexual content including graphic foreplay and intercourse, strong language, sexual humor, slut-shaming jokes between friends, emotionally charged intimacy, consensual rough play (e.g. scratching, hickeys), praise-kink, bit dirty talk,

gojo’s basement was a whole ecosystem of indulgence, an architectural fuck-you to minimalism. the moment you stepped off the last step, it was like descending into a pleasure den disguised as a frat boy’s fever dream and a luxury showroom had a threesome with a tokyo nightlife bar and decided to never leave.

soft, dark lighting glowed along the edges of the ceiling, hiding in strips of LED that shifted color every few minutes—right now it was a moody wine red that made everyone look flushed and half-possessed. a speaker system was embedded into the walls, not blasting but thumping low enough to feel in your molars, something beat-heavy and spacey, rhythmic enough to keep your hips rocking even if you were only sitting. the walls were textured concrete, but with art—huge framed prints, some classical, some hentai, because gojo was a pretentious bitch and also a walking disaster.

it was sectioned in loose, chaotic zones. one end had a full bar, real wood counters, glass shelves, and an overhead mirror with LED backlight that made the various alcohol bottles sparkle like gemstones. there were no mixers—just hard liquor and gojo’s “personal stash” of imported shit that tasted like burnt syrup and regret. behind the bar, nanami stood like a reluctant bartender, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, stirring something too elegant for this crowd. he’d lost rock-paper-scissors and now he was stuck mixing drinks with military precision, ignoring everyone yelling that they just wanted a whiskey coke with extra whiskey and no coke.

a few steps away, there was a billiards table, dark green felt, cue sticks leaned against the wall, and haibara trying to make a shot with his head resting on the cue, eyes squinting like a sniper but swaying like a drunk tree. geto and shoko were stretched on the oversized couch that curved around a low table cluttered with empty shot glasses, an open pizza box with one lonely crust, and the remnants of three joints passed back and forth. gojo had dragged over a bean bag chair and was currently lounging in it like royalty, shirt half unbuttoned, pale collarbones peeking out, sunglasses still on indoors, of course, because he said the lighting was “too aggressive.”

you were on the rug, thighs warm from the alcohol, back against the couch, in the exact perfect spot to feel everyone’s presence all at once—geto’s knee brushing yours every time he shifted, shoko’s lazy hand resting in your hair because she liked to play with it when she was high, gojo’s long leg stretched out so his bare foot kept nudging your ankle. the rug smelled like old perfume and weed and a little bit like someone spilled gin and didn’t clean it up, and honestly? it was perfect.

“i think,” gojo announced, gesturing with his drink, something neon blue in a martini glass, “we should all officially drop out.”

“again?” geto asked, one eyebrow raised as he exhaled smoke and passed you the blunt. “you say that every thursday,” you added, grinning as you took it, the burn sweet and sharp on your tongue.

“yeah but this time i mean it,” gojo said, rolling over onto his stomach like a bored cat, chin resting on his arms. “what’s even the point of college? knowledge? community? shared trauma?”

“you only show up to class to cheat off nanami,” shoko pointed out. “he has such neat handwriting,” gojo said with a dreamy sigh. nanami rolled his eyes. “because i don’t get high the night before a midterm and forget how pens work.”

“that was one time,” you mumbled through a cough, handing the joint off to utahime who looked scandalized but still took it.

“you cried,” geto added helpfully.

“it was a stressful exam,” you defended, but the laughter already drowned you out. even nanami cracked a tired smirk. “okay but like—” haibara missed his shot and collapsed dramatically over the pool table, face pressed into the felt “—real talk. if we all dropped out, what would we do? jobs don’t exist. go.”

“porn,” you said immediately.

gojo made a high-pitched noise like a choking dolphin. “you can’t just say that, baby.”

“i said it,” you grinned, shrugging. “onlyfans. but we make it elite. like art-house, black-and-white stuff.”

“you want to direct?” shoko asked, voice slow, eyes heavy-lidded. “or star?”

“both,” you said. “duh.”

“visionary,” geto murmured, passing you a new joint, already lit. you took it without question. “okay okay okay,” haibara said, still face-down, voice muffled into the table. “but if you had to teach one sex position. like, for beginners. what’s lesson one?”

“doggy,” nanami answered without blinking.

“perv,” gojo coughed.

“efficient,” nanami corrected.

“missionary,” geto said, tapping his ash into a tray. “eye contact, full penetration, kiss access. versatile. emotionally devastating.”

“you’re so romantic,” you teased.

he smirked. “always.”

“cowgirl,” shoko added, licking salt off her hand. “control. visuals. core workout.”

“you’re all cowards,” gojo said, sitting up now, eyes glinting. “nobody said reverse cowgirl.”

“that’s because you’re the only one who wants to get kneed in the stomach,” utahime muttered, taking another sip. “worth it,” gojo sighed, pressing his hand over his chest like he’d been touched by god. and then—he turned, sharp and sudden, and pointed directly at you, mouth curling in a smirk that was all teeth and trouble.

“what about you, pretty girl?”

your throat went dry. his voice was soft now, low, sliding under your skin like warm syrup. everyone else fell quiet. not waiting in judgment—just watching. geto leaned back. shoko raised one eyebrow. even nanami tilted his head like your answer might end a war.

“hmm,” you hummed, tilting your head, pretending to think even as your lips curled. “honestly? missionary. but only if you’re trying to ruin my life,” you add, casually, sipping whatever tragic cocktail you’d ended up with—mostly rum, mostly sugar, entirely chaos—and immediately regretted it, because the second the words left your mouth, the basement erupted. broke in a howl of laughter. shoko nearly dropped her drink. geto choked on his exhale. haibara clapped the table.

“LAME!” haibara shrieked like you’d just confessed to listening to elevator music during sex. “liar,” geto said flatly, but the smile tugging at his mouth made it impossible to take seriously.

“no fucking way,” shoko barked, already leaning over the armrest like she needed to look you directly in the soul. “no. you? miss i make eye contact while ordering food like it’s a come-on?”

you groaned, trying to disappear into your shirt. “shut uuuuup.”

“there is no way your favorite position is missionary,” she said, flicking your forehead with sharp precision. “get the fuck out of here. you’re not fooling anyone.”

“maybe i’m romantic,” you offered weakly, already bracing as the room devolved into shrieks again. gojo wheezed, flopping onto his back and kicking a throw pillow off the couch. “romantic she says. oh my god. oh my fucking god.”

“missionary my ass,” utahime added, kicking your shin lightly with her socked foot. “that’s like saying your favorite food is plain rice.”

“with butter!” you shouted defensively.

“shut the fuck up!” everyone howled in unison.

“full nelson,” shoko said immediately, stabbing her finger at you. “you’re into some demon shit. like tied up, folded in half, legs behind your ears—"

“—that’s not even anatomically possible for most people—” nanami muttered in the background, but no one was listening. “you give power bottom with a penchant for suffering,” geto added smoothly, crossing his legs and resting his chin in his hand like he was about to psychoanalyze your soul.

“stop profiling me,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “what if i just want soft sex? with love? with candles and eye contact and maybe a backhand to the cheek, but mostly like… romance.”

utahime gagged so hard it sounded real. “you’re disgusting.”

“i am romantic,” you insisted, chin raised, eyes defiant. “i want to be held. i want love.” shoko tossed a grape at your head. “you want to be held in a chokehold with your face pressed to the mattress.” you caught it in your mouth and chewed, flipping her off with flair. “maybe. but gently.”

gojo rolled back upright like a cartoon character, elbows resting on his knees, eyes gleaming under the dim lights. “i can do gently,” he said, voice low and syrup-sweet.

“no,” utahime said flatly.

“you don’t get to volunteer,” nanami said, not even looking up from whatever he was mixing now. gojo grinned and tilted his head toward you, his hand slowly sliding into the pocket of your hoodie, the one you were wearing. “but i wanna,” he said, and his voice dipped just enough to warm the pit of your stomach.

you elbowed him. “we’re still talking about metaphors.”

he smiled wider. “are we?”

shoko groaned. “i’m gonna throw something at both of you.”

geto passed her a half-empty beer can like a gentleman. “use this.”

“missionary,” shoko repeated again, like she couldn’t let it go, couldn’t accept it, couldn’t believe it even existed in your vocabulary as anything more than a punchline. she said it like a curse, her voice thick with smoke and judgment. “missionary. you absolute fucking liar.”

“i’m not lying!” you whined, but it came out with a stupid grin stretching your mouth because you knew—you knew—they were right to doubt you. “nah, you’re lying,” geto said, not even looking up from his delicate task of ash-flicking with the grace of a noble concubine. “you’re lying and you know it and we all know it. missionary. yeah right.”

gojo, who had been half-lying across your lap like a loyal, slutty dog, perked up at the confirmation. “she is lying,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “i’m hurt. betrayed. flabbergasted.”

utahime barked a laugh from the bean bag she’d stolen from nanami when he went to refill his drink. “missionary only if he’s choking you out and whispering dirty things about your future kids.”

“WHICH IS STILL VERY ROMANTIC,” you argued, throwing your hands up in pathetic defense. “not when it includes the words ‘breed you dumb,’” nanami said calmly from the bar. “YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE,” you screamed across the basement, as if that would help.

haibara was bent over wheezing, red in the face and tears in his eyes. “you—missionary—you’re the same bitch who moaned watching that fight scene in that one show—”

“he had his veins out and a chain around his neck, i was provoked!”

shoko pointed directly at you like she was driving a stake into your coffin. “you want missionary the same way a raccoon wants tap water. not cause it’s good, cause it’s easy access before you crawl into the sewer.”

“i am not a raccoon!”

“you are the racooniest,” geto said. “fucked-up little hands and all.”

gojo, smug and now fully reclined into your lap with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs kicking up a little in rhythm with the music, looked up at you upside down with that shit-eating grin. “no shame in liking missionary,” he said sweetly. “as long as it’s not the only thing you like.”

“oh no no no,” geto said, sitting up straighter now, attention focused, looking deadly and delighted. “you don’t get to backpedal now. no retreat. you committed.”

“i did not commit—”

“you’re committed. one hundred percent. missionary ride or die. all in.”

“you’re making it sound like a cult.”

“IT IS,” shoko yelled, throwing a handful of popcorn at your head that she’d stolen from god knows where. “missionary only when the moon is waxing, the candles are teal, and your playlist is all sad acoustic covers of 2000s bangers.”

“that sounds fucking dreamy actually,” you said, offended but also taking mental notes.

geto leaned over, narrowing his eyes, voice dipping low and daring, that teasing menace blooming in the corners of his mouth like sin: “then do it. with satoru. go full missionary. full eye contact. no jokes. no choking. no freaky shit. vanilla as fuck. and afterward—then tell us if it’s still your favorite.”

the room fell silent.

gojo sat up.

utahime choked on her drink.

shoko slapped her knee and screamed, “YES. YESSSS. YOU WON’T. DO IT. I DARE YOU. PUT YOUR LOVE WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS.”

“THAT IS NOT THE PHRASE,” you cried.

“IT IS NOW,” haibara shouted, fist in the air.

gojo was looking at you like you just became his favorite episode of a fucked-up reality show. slowly, slowly, he leaned in, blinking those pale lashes in mock innocence, like a predator trying to play sweet. “do you want me to hold your hand, princess?” he cooed, voice dragging over each syllable like it was rolling in honey and filth. “whisper how pretty you look while you say missionary is your favorite?”

you flailed, completely red, pressing your palm to his face and pushing him back with a groan. “shut uuuuuup, i hate you—”

“you love me,” he sang.

“you’ll love him more with his dick in you like an afterschool special,” shoko muttered, and you almost died.

“this is not how peer support groups work,” you whined.

“this is how our support group works,” geto corrected, cool as ice, brushing ash off his sleeve. “we support you… into making the worst decisions imaginable.”

“i hate this friend group.”

“you started it!” utahime yelled. “you could’ve said cowgirl and we would’ve moved on!”

“i wanted to be authentic!”

“authentic my ass,” nanami mumbled. “your idea of authentic includes handcuffs and a soundtrack.”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.”

gojo grinned wider, tongue tucked behind his teeth, eyes narrow with mischief. “baby, you say one time, but your eyes are saying again.” you groaned, staring up at the string lights twinkling on the ceiling like they were your last remaining allies. “i hope you all choke on your weed.”

“romantic choking,” geto said.

“god is dead,” you muttered.

“he died in missionary,” shoko declared.

and the room screamed again.

the yelling hadn’t died down. it had evolved—evolved into a full-blown, unholy ritual, like you’d summoned something cursed just by saying “missionary” in this den of godless chaos. the music still thumped in the background—some bass-heavy beat vibrating low enough to shake the pool cues on the wall—but it was drowned beneath the choir of filthy voices rallying around your damnation.

“come onnnn,” haibara practically whined, dragging himself across the floor like a tragic little beast of pressure and peer influence. “just do it once. like, clinical trial shit. for science.”

“for data,” geto added solemnly, passing the joint back to you with all the pomp of a ceremonial dagger. “you know he’s down,” utahime said, gesturing lazily with her drink toward gojo. “he’s always down. satoru would do it with a smile on his face and his dick already out.”

“i’d do it with flowers,” gojo offered sweetly, chin in hand, smiling like the most deranged boy in a dating sim. “i’d put a little post-it on her hip that says you’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“you are a menace,” you groaned, tossing the joint in the ashtray, flopping your head against the back of the couch. “okay, but for real,” shoko cut in, snapping her fingers like a sitcom villain. “we have to settle this. you can’t keep saying that’s your favorite and then not test it with the absolute worst candidate.”

gojo lit up. “i’m honored.”

“he’s dumb as shit,” nanami added, calmly wiping the bar down with a cocktail napkin like he wasn’t verbally assassinating his friend. “there’s no way he can make it romantic. not even ironically.”

“he’d come while trying to say something nice and end up crying,” shoko muttered, lighting a cigarette like the world’s most beautiful disappointment. “he doesn’t even know how to look romantic,” geto chimed in, now entirely leaned back and smoking like he was watching live theater. “that man sends memes after sexting.”

“he once tried to dirty talk me by saying i looked like i had good knees,” utahime added. the room died.

“they were good knees,” gojo whined.

“SEE?” shoko shrieked, pointing wildly. “this is what we’re dealing with! that’s who she wants missionary with! that’s what she calls romance!”

you covered your face, weakly laughing into your hands. “you’re all insane.”

“and yet,” nanami said smoothly, pouring himself another drink, “you’ve fucked most of us.”

your head snapped up. “WHAT—”

“you have,” shoko agreed, nodding casually like she was reading a wine label. “it’s canon now.”

“absolutely,” geto said, exhaling smoke like a sexy devil. “you’ve whored your way through 70% of this friend group. missionary with gojo would be the least slutty thing you’ve done.”

“don’t slut-shame me while calling me a slut,” you groaned, laughing despite yourself. “slut is not derogatory here,” shoko said, patting your thigh. “it’s like saying you’re talented. you’re our slut. community slut. the people’s princess.”

“i’m gonna cry.”

“oh, so now you wanna act innocent?” nanami’s voice was ice in a cocktail glass. “not when you were drunk texting me ‘wanna ruin my future?’ at 2am last weekend.”

“i was having a moment!”

“you were also wearing gojo’s hoodie with no pants and humping a pillow,” geto said, eyes glittering like he kept this memory polished for personal use. you slapped your palms over your face again. “can’t a girl be romantic in peace?”

“not in this house,” utahime deadpanned. “but like,” gojo piped up, head now resting on your thigh again, completely unbothered, probably hard, absolutely thrilled, “they’ve got a point.”

you looked down at him, exhausted. “i swear to god, satoru—”

“no no, hear me out,” he said, holding up both hands like he was offering a legal defense. “i’ve seen you horny for nanami just cause he tied his tie right. i’ve seen you get wet over geto saying the word ‘problematic.’ you let shoko suck a bruise into your thigh because she was bored.”

“and that was her fault,” you pointed to shoko. “i was drunk and passive.”

“uh huh,” she hummed, mouth twitching.

“all i’m saying is,” gojo said, sitting up now, hands on your knees, looking up at you like a dog who just learned to beg, “if you’re gonna be a slut, be an honest slut. missionary with me. prove them wrong. show them you’re a woman of taste and tragedy.”

you stared at him, mouth parted, blinking.

“this is sexual peer pressure,” you mumbled.

“this is justice,” geto corrected.

“this is foreplay,” gojo whispered with a wink.

“i hate you all,” you grumbled, cheeks hot, lips twitching despite yourself.

“but you’ll do it?” haibara asked, eyes wide and dumb and so hopeful.

“maybe.”

“HA!” gojo shouted, launching a throw pillow at shoko. “that’s a yes!”

“that’s not a yes—”

“you heard her!” geto called, standing up to stretch like a smug, half-naked giraffe. “she agreed! and now we shall bear witness to the least romantic, most catastrophic missionary session ever.”

“you’re gonna be pinned to the mattress like a frog in biology class,” shoko said, wheezing. “gojo’s gonna forget to take off his socks,” utahime muttered, disgusted. “you know i have those toe socks,” he said proudly.

you groaned again, but deep down your stomach fluttered with heat and laughter, and your thighs pressed together, and despite the chaos—despite all of it—you were already thinking about how it’d feel to have him above you, stupid, naked, sweet, mean, sloppy, and whispering something that almost sounded like love.

and stupidly, in the end, you look behind you as you walk toward the hallway with gojo—your hand clutched in his like a fucking idiot—with the bedroom door at the end blinking at you like it knew exactly how many sins were about to unfold inside it. he’s practically bouncing beside you, grinning with his arm slung around your waist like he won a prize at a fair and it was you, half-drunk, giggling, humiliated, and undeniably curious about how the stupidest fucking person in your friends group was about to missionary the everloving shit out of you.

you glance back once, just once, and of course—of course—the entire couch crew is watching, each one of them grinning like hyenas on bath salts.

shoko, drink in one hand, tongue out like she’s in a punk band photo shoot, flips you off and mouths, “TAKE THE D.”

nanami lifts his glass, deadpan as ever, and mouths, “condoms are in the drawer.”

haibara is full-on doubled over, clapping like you’re being sent off to war.

geto gives you the filthiest two-thumbs-up you’ve ever seen, followed by a pantomimed gesture that can only be described as “jackhammer pelvic annihilation.”

utahime just shrugs like “you brought this on yourself.”

you don’t know if you want to laugh or scream or combust.

you’re all stupid fucks.

and you’re the stupidest one of all.

gojo drags you through the door with a dramatic flourish, like you’re being ushered into a honeymoon suite, except it’s the spare bedroom in his overdesigned basement—dark walls, plush mattress, fairy lights clinging to the corners, a single massive bed that has held too many sleepovers, too many hangovers, too many half-naked bodies tangled under that navy comforter.

he slams the door shut behind him with an unnecessary thud and then locks it.

locks it with intent.

you look at him, raising an eyebrow.

he grins, all bright eyes and too much teeth, and says, “we don’t want anyone walking in on your emotional awakening.” you shove him in the chest, laughing despite the heat pooling low in your belly, but his arms snake around your waist and he pulls you flush against him, the giddiness gone softer now, warmer.

“you really want this?” he asks, murmuring it against the corner of your mouth, lips ghosting, fingers rubbing slow lazy circles against your spine. “you wanna prove ‘em all wrong?”

you tilt your head back, a little buzzed, a little high, heart thumping in your ears from the absurdity and anticipation and just… him—this dumb beautiful man who you’ve known since freshman year, who once drank a bottle of cooking wine on a dare, who calls you names that make your skin warm, who sends you memes at 2am and confesses his feelings with a smirk like it’s not real.

and now he’s asking like it’s the first time he’s ever taken anything seriously. you hum, smirk lazy, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “go on, missionary me, satoru.”

he laughs—not loud, not sharp, just this sweet, stupid, delighted sound that vibrates into your chest before he grabs your jaw, kisses you once, hard and messy and full of promise, and then gently backs you toward the bed like he’s actually going to try to make this romantic.

“i’m gonna missionary you so hard you’ll cry,” he says, completely deadpan.

“you’re such a fucking idiot,” you murmur.

“yours,” he whispers, pushing you down onto the mattress like prayer, like penance, like romance—but only if romance came with a hickey and a headboard slam.

gojo doesn’t even rush you, which is fucking weird. normally he rushes everything—his speeches, his shots, his half-baked plans that end with haibara covered in glitter and someone’s laptop in the bathtub. but now, now that you’ve willingly walked into this basement bedroom with him like some horny lamb in a thrifted hoodie, he moves slow. suspiciously slow. like he’s savoring it. like the thought of doing missionary—actual missionary, not his usual chaotic acrobatic nonsense—has turned into something sacred.

his hands are on your hips first, thumbs dipping just beneath the waistband of your shorts as he leans over you, not yet pushing you down but crowding you close enough that you feel the press of his grin against your skin.

“you sure you don’t want something more… you?” he murmurs, voice like a low vibration against your neck, smug and teasing, but softer than usual.

you blink up at him, lying back slightly on your elbows atop the bed, the fairy lights in the corners of the ceiling casting soft gold against his white hair, making him look like the dumbest, prettiest boy the devil ever handcrafted in a rush. his shirt is wrinkled, half unbuttoned from earlier when he got dramatic during your defense trial in the living room, and you can see the curve of his collarbones, the start of his chest. he’s flushed, high, and still smiling like he’s on a game show and he’s about to spin the wheel of “ruin your life.”

you smirk back. “you saying i’m not a romantic?”

he kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed and slow. “i’m saying you’re a slut with a dream.”

you groan. “fuck off.”

“i will,” he murmurs, mouthing just below your collarbone, “right after i make you fall in love with me like a virgin on prom night.”

you burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and you don’t push him far. his hands slide up your sides, dragging your shirt with them, slow and deliberate, knuckles brushing bare skin. you can feel him watching your face, that infuriating way he always does, like he’s daring you to show how much you want him, how much you feel him even in these dumb, tender moments.

you let your head fall back on the mattress with a sigh, staring at the ceiling, arms up to let him pull your shirt the rest of the way off. the lights glow amber above you. the room smells like weed and gojo and leftover cologne and heat. you’re suddenly aware of how warm you are, how warm he is—kneeling one knee between your thighs now, eyes slow and greedy as they rake over your torso.

he runs his fingers up your stomach, watching the way your skin jumps under the touch. “see?” he says, voice soft but smug. “missionary’s good already. look how romantic this is. i haven’t even said the dumb shit yet.”

“say it,” you challenge, breath catching when he leans down again, kisses trailing over the swell of your breast, hands still warm and splayed along your ribs.

his mouth brushes your sternum. “you feel so pretty under my hands.”

your thighs twitch. “that’s not even a sentence.”

“shh,” he says, nuzzling the underside of your breast. “i’m practicing.”

his tongue flicks out, barely tasting your skin, not even on your nipple, just everywhere else—stupid, teasing little licks and kisses that feel more intimate than any fast-grab hookup ever did. one hand slides down to your hip, the other dragging along your arm, fingers lacing with yours, like he’s doing this half slow to spite everyone outside the door. look at us, he seems to say with every breath. look how fucking tender missionary can be.

“i swear to god if you light a candle—”

“i’m going to whisper how much i admire your work ethic.”

“satoru.”

he kisses the inside of your elbow.

“i’m gonna say i love your playlists.”

“oh my god.”

he climbs up, mouth ghosting over your jaw now, weight sinking into the mattress as he settles between your legs fully, both your hands pinned above your head with his, gaze locking onto yours with that glint—equal parts mockery and reverence. his breath is warm, lips millimeters from yours, teasing.

“i’m gonna make you come while telling you how smart you are.”

you stare, blinking, lips parting like you’re gonna come up with a good retort—and then moan when he shifts his hips, not even grinding, just pressing, enough friction to spark heat through the fabric.

he smirks.

“told you,” he whispers. “romantic’s just foreplay with better lighting.”

you blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck like it’s trying to reach your brain and set fire to what little reason you have left. he’s too close. he’s too warm, too gojo, too smug, and the worst part is—he’s not even being his usual chaotic self. this is worse. this is soft. this is slow, deliberate, dragged-out torture disguised as affection, and it’s working way too fucking well.

your arms are stretched above you, wrists pinned by one of his big, veiny hands—so unnecessarily hot—while his other trails down your side again, fingers curling like he’s mapping you out by touch, like every new inch of bare skin is a piece of his personal love letter.

“you’re so warm,” he says, voice quiet now. a little surprised. “you always run hot?”

you groan, cheeks hot as hell. “satoru.”

“i like it,” he adds, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist. “feels like you’re already worked up for me.”

you glare. “this is supposed to be romantic.”

“it is,” he grins, leaning down just enough to drag his nose along your jaw. “i’m romancing you right now. you’re being romanced. fully seduced. by my incredible personality and outstanding emotional depth.”

you burst out laughing, face turning toward the pillow to muffle the sound, and he takes the opportunity to mouth along your neck, pressing an open kiss just below your ear. not biting, not sucking, just soft and slow, his lips dragging along your pulse point like he’s trying to memorize your heartbeat.

his hand leaves your wrist, and you instinctively move to touch him, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, over your collarbone, across your shoulder, moving down with maddening patience. he pulls at your waistband gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours like he’s asking without words, and you nod, breath catching in your throat.

he slides your shorts down, dragging the fabric slowly past your thighs, kissing his way along your hipbone as he goes. nothing rushed. no bravado. just him and the stupid heat of his mouth on your skin, the gentle press of his hands as he settles between your thighs.

he exhales against your inner thigh like a sigh, like he’s been waiting his whole dumb life for this exact moment, and you shiver. “still think this isn’t romantic?” he asks, glancing up with a crooked smile, his breath ghosting over where you’re already embarrassingly wet.

you tug at his hair lightly. “you’re an idiot.”

“a romantic idiot,” he corrects, pressing a kiss just above your knee. “the best kind.” he kisses higher now, slow and trailing, hands rubbing soft patterns into your thighs as he settles deeper between them, anchoring you there like he’s making himself a new home.

“i’m gonna take my time with you,” he whispers, dragging his lips up toward the place you’re aching for. “gonna make you feel so fucking good… and the whole time, i’ll be looking at you like we’re married and i just made you breakfast.”

you snort. “is that your fantasy? missionary and eggs benedict?”

he hums against your skin, lips curving. “yeah, but you’re the eggs. i’m gonna ruin you.” you squeak, shoving at his head, but your legs don’t move. they can’t, not when he’s got them opened like this, not when his mouth is that close, not when your whole body’s vibrating from anticipation.

he chuckles again, smug and soft, and presses one more kiss just shy of where you want him, before leaning back up and dragging his body over yours, forearm bracing beside your head.

his mouth finds yours again, slow and coaxing, like he’s drinking from you, like every sound you make is holy. he kisses you like he’s got forever. like tonight’s the only night that matters. and even though it’s still teasing, still laced with filth and humor and all the usual gojo mess—you feel the care in it. the attention. the goddamn sweetness.

his nose brushes yours as he pulls back just enough to speak.

“missionary’s lookin’ pretty good right now, huh?”

you can’t speak. you just nod.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he murmurs, and kisses you again, deeper now, hungrier.

and somehow—stupidly, undeniably—it is romantic.

his kiss deepens and it changes something—slips out of that playful, teasing rhythm and sinks into a weightier kind of heat, slow and intentional. like he’s not just kissing you because he wants to, but because he needs to, like there’s something about your mouth he’s been thinking about every night he lay awake jerking off with his phone on silent and your face stuck in his memory.

gojo presses closer, one arm sliding beneath your back to lift you into him, like even now, he can’t stand a sliver of distance. your thighs fall open around his hips without resistance, your body pliant, high and fuzzy and ready, even as your brain’s still catching up, trying to convince you this is actually happening.

and still—still he doesn’t go for your panties yet. he’s grinding against them through his jeans, slow, careful, more like he’s testing pressure than chasing friction. he doesn’t need to rush, not with you already sighing into his mouth, your nails dragging light patterns over the back of his neck, legs wrapping around him like a question you don’t know how to ask.

he hums against your lips, low and pleased. his voice sounds deeper now, like it’s sitting low in his chest, like lust’s finally dragging it down out of his usual chirpy register and into something that sounds like intent.

“fuck,” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek, “you feel so fuckin’ good already and i’m not even inside you.” his nose nuzzles yours as his hand ghosts down your side again, over your waist, over the soft of your hip, sliding slow between your thighs—warm and steady, pressing the heel of his palm against your center, not touching anything properly yet, just there, enough to make you buck a little without thinking.

he pulls back to watch you, eyes blown out, grin lazy and eyes focused in a way that’s almost too much—like he’s trying to memorize the way your face changes with each drag of his hand. “don’t hide your face,” he whispers, brushing hair from your forehead. “i wanna see everything. this is the romantic part, remember?”

you glare at him weakly, lip caught between your teeth. “you’re such a dick.”

he beams. “a romantic dick.”

his fingers hook into your waistband slowly, dragging your panties down your thighs, and even then he doesn’t move too fast. he stops just to kiss the crease of your thigh, to mouth the soft skin above your knee like he’s got nowhere else to be. he keeps talking under his breath, too—his filthy little monologue of worship and teasing:

“so pretty. so soft. you always smell this good? i shoulda done this years ago. god, the way you’re lookin’ at me right now—fuck. fuck. this is better than porn.”

you groan, hiding your face again. he just laughs and pulls your hands away, pinning them gently beside your head. “you’re not allowed to be shy now, babe,” he murmurs. “not after all that talk.” then, he grinds again—slow, hips rolling forward against your now-bare heat, his cock thick and hot through his jeans before he slowly push it off his legs, dragging perfectly along your slick folds, not in, not yet, just enough to make you whimper, thighs tightening around his hips.

you say his name and it breaks on your tongue, half a moan, half a warning. his mouth finds yours again, and it’s gentler this time, breathier, softer, like the kind of kiss you give someone after an argument, or a goodbye, or a promise. “this,” he whispers, between slow rolls of his hips, “is what they don’t get about missionary. it’s not boring.”

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. your throat.

“it’s close.”

he cups your breast with one hand, thumb brushing over your nipple until your back arches. “it’s eye contact.” he pushes the tip of his cock just barely against your entrance, just a tease, not even enough to press in, just the heat and pressure and promise, and it’s maddening. “it’s feelin’ every twitch you make.” his other hand cradles your face now, thumb brushing over your cheek, his eyes locked on yours.

“and when i finally fuck you—”

you tremble beneath him, fingers gripping his shoulders like you’re drowning.

“—you’re not gonna be able to look away.”

your breath catches. your lips part. your thighs shake.

and he’s still smiling, so slow, so patient, hips rocking against yours in a way that’s somehow sweeter than anything you’ve done with him before. “see?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “romance. just with more lube.”

his cockhead slides slick and hot along your folds—slow, teasing passes up and down the length of your pussy like he’s learning you by feel, like he’s savoring every tremble you can’t suppress. he doesn’t push in yet, just drags the tip lazily, catching your clit on the upstroke, smearing your slick over the flushed head with every patient, maddening grind. it’s warm and messy and obscene, his hips rolling slow, the weight of him heavy between your thighs, arms braced on either side of your head, body coiled but unhurried.

you’re breathing through your mouth now, lips parted, chest rising fast. his forehead’s still resting against yours, breath hot, both of you in this sticky, perfect moment suspended just before the fall. you lift one hand, threading your fingers into his hair—so soft, even now—and the other slips to the buttons of his shirt.

“i need—” you start, but don’t finish. he just nods.

you work the buttons open one by one, trembling fingers moving slow at first, then faster, frantic for skin. every button undone reveals more of him—long lines of lean muscle under smooth skin, flushed now, glowing in the golden halo of the fairy lights. his collarbones, his sternum, the subtle dip down the center of his chest, the way he moves above you with every breath—it’s fucking perfect. stupidly, unreasonably perfect.

your palms flatten against his chest, dragging down over the flex of his abs, feeling him shudder under your touch. he’s warm, a little sticky with sweat, skin like silk over steel. your nails graze his ribs and he gasps into your neck.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

“shut up and fuck me,” you breathe back, and it’s not even desperate—it’s reverent. his cock nudges against your entrance, hips rolling forward, and then he pushes. slow. impossibly slow. inch by inch, your pussy stretching around him, swallowing him, your breath caught in your throat as the fullness builds, thick and unbearable and perfect.

his forehead presses back to yours. his mouth drops open, eyes squeezed shut, groaning soft and hoarse like the pleasure hurts. you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him in deeper, your hands sliding up his back. your nails dig in—deep—carving red lines into the flex of his shoulder blades and down along his spine. he hisses against your lips, a sound that’s more pleasure than pain, hips stuttering.

“shit—baby—fuck—”

he bottoms out with a shaky grind of his hips, buried so deep inside you that you feel like you’ve been marked from the inside out. every twitch of him against your walls sends sparks up your spine. and he just stays there for a moment, not moving, breathing you in.

“you feel—” he tries, but then laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. “—i don’t have the words. you feel like heaven and punishment and fucking home.” your hands curl tighter into his back, your lips brushing his cheek as you whisper back, “i told you i was romantic.”

“you’re a fucking dream,” he whispers.

then his hips start to move.

his hips begin to move with the kind of slow, reverent rhythm that makes your throat tighten. like every inch he draws back is a silent apology, and every inch he pushes back in is a promise he’ll never leave. it’s not just sex—it's the ache of something bigger pressing down on both of you, thick in the air like incense, like heat, like the way his mouth brushes yours with every shallow thrust, not always kissing, just there, sharing breath, the smallest space between you charged and crackling.

you’re wrapped around him fully now—legs looped over his waist, hands tangled in the open cotton of his shirt that’s slipped halfway off his shoulders, your nails still painting invisible trails down his back. you can feel the burn where you scratched him raw, and he’s still groaning every time your nails dig a little deeper, like it feeds him, like he likes the proof of you on his body.

but it’s slow. fucking unbearably slow.

he’s not slamming into you like some desperate teenage fantasy. no—gojo is making love to you with the body of a sinner and the mouth of a man who knows every joke will hit harder with your cunt squeezing around his cock.

“you’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs against your lips, grinning through a groan, forehead still pressed to yours. “like—fuck, like you’re trying to keep me forever.” you whimper softly, one hand sliding into his hair, tugging at the roots just to feel him react. and he does, hips hitching slightly deeper, eyes fluttering shut as he pants against your cheek.

“that what this is?” he breathes. “romance as entrapment? mm—baby, if that’s what you’re after, you’ve got me.” he pulls out almost to the tip, dragging the ridge of his cockhead against your soaked entrance, then sinks back in slowly—too slowly—and you arch into him, breath catching with a soft, gasping moan.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice cracked. “listen to you.”

his hand slips between you now, palm flat against your stomach first, then lower, his fingers finding your clit like second nature, rubbing soft circles that match the slow grind of his hips. the pressure makes your thighs tighten around him, your hips canting upward, breath stuttering.

“so good,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “satoru—fuck—don’t stop.”

“never,” he promises, eyes locked on yours now, wide and bright and open, not cocky this time, not laughing—just full of that stupid, terrifying sincerity he hides under every joke. “fuck, you feel so good. so soft. warm. like your pussy’s in love with me even if your mouth won’t say it yet.”

you let out a broken laugh, hands clutching his shoulders, your body moving with his now, rolling into every thrust, every tender rub of his fingers over your clit. “i hate you,” you whisper, dazed, overwhelmed, completely gone.

he grins, mouth brushing yours again. “no, you don’t.”

“i really do—”

“then why’s your cunt fluttering every time i say something romantic?”

you choke on a laugh that dissolves into a moan, and he kisses it off your lips, his thrusts picking up just barely—still slow, still deep, but with a heat that builds under your skin, spreading outward like a wave you know you won’t survive. “missionary,” he breathes, like he’s blessing you with the word. “best position in the world.”

“fuck you—”

“you are,” he laughs, cock twitching inside you. “you’re so fucking mine right now.”

you grab his face, pull him down into another kiss—sloppy, wet, real, all tongue and teeth and heat. he’s moaning into your mouth now, every roll of his hips drawing a whine out of your throat, every filthy little circle of his fingers making your stomach twist tight. “you’re not allowed to be good at this,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “oh, baby,” he pants, forehead pressed back to yours, cock grinding deeper, his voice dropping low and filthy. “you haven’t even seen me try yet.”

his hips drag deep and slow like he’s sculpting the inside of you with his cock, and you’re shaking beneath him—sweat-damp skin sliding against his, toes curled, fingers sunk into his back so hard you know you’ll leave scratches he’s going to brag about for weeks. gojo’s face is buried against your throat, his breath coming out in broken little groans, every sound pitched high and wrecked like he’s unraveling with you, held together by nothing but the rhythm of his thrusts and the heat blooming in your core.

you’re soaked around him, clenching every time he rolls his hips into you with that slow, relentless grind that drags the thick head of his cock across your sweetest spot just right, again and again. the slick sound of him fucking you fills the room, obscene and wet, echoing off the walls like music behind the ragged whimpering of your breath and his deep, shuddering groans.

your thighs twitch around his waist, your head thrown back against the pillows, mouth open, voice cracking as you moan, “fuck—fuck—satoru—i’m gonna—i can’t—fuck—”

“yes, baby,” he pants, voice completely shot, wrecked and desperate, every word punctuated by a thrust that goes just a little harder, a little deeper. “come on, i feel you—shit, you’re squeezing me so—fuck, come for me, baby, come on me, i wanna feel you break—”

your back arches and you scream—loud, raw, real—hands flying to his hair, tugging hard as your orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, pussy fluttering around him, tight and hot and soaked. your entire body locks up, toes curling, thighs shaking violently as pleasure rips through you in sharp, electric pulses that have you gasping his name again and again—“satoru—satoru—fuckfuckfuck—oh my god—”

he’s losing it above you, losing his fucking mind, his cock twitching hard inside you as your walls milk him with every spasm. his forehead’s pressed to yours, mouth hanging open, breath coming in short, wrecked little moans—“f-fuck—oh fuck, baby, oh my god—your pussy’s choking me—gonna—gonna—i’m gonna—”

he slams into you one last time, hips jerking as he moans so loud right in your ear, deep and guttural and shaking with how hard he comes, cock throbbing as he spills inside you, filling you up, his whole body shuddering as he gasps, "oh fuck, yes—yesyesyes—oh my fucking god—yes."

you’re both panting, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms pulling him down, needing him close even as your bodies tremble against each other. his cock is still twitching inside you, your walls still fluttering with aftershocks, and he’s breathing your name like he’s worshipping it, forehead pressed to yours as he whispers, “that was—fuck—baby—i felt everything. you—you killed me.”

you laugh, hoarse and fucked-out, body buzzing like live wire. “missionary?” he pants, lips brushing yours. “best fucking position,” you gasp, still clenching around him, making him groan all over again.

he smiles. “god, i love being right.”

his body is still trembling against yours, muscles twitching under your hands as he slowly, reluctantly, starts to move again—like he’s not ready to let go of the feeling, like being buried in you with your legs locked around his waist is something he’d live inside if the world would just let him.

he’s panting into your neck, soft little exhales against your damp skin, and you can feel the shape of every breath, the way his chest stutters against yours like he’s still trying to come back to earth. and inside you, he’s still thick, still sensitive, every subtle squeeze of your cunt making him whimper.

you grin, dazed, half-dead, fully fucked out, dragging your nails up his back with gentle pressure now, tracing along the red welts you carved earlier like a painter admiring their masterpiece. “you’re leaking inside me,” you murmur, voice rough and slurred, hips shifting just enough to feel the warm, wet spill of him dripping down your thighs.

he groans, long and low, and lifts his head to look at you. his bangs are plastered to his forehead, eyes glassy and blown wide, lips swollen and parted as he breathes. there’s sweat at his temple, a flush high in his cheeks, and the expression on his face is somewhere between holy shit and i could marry you right now and cry doing it.

“you keep squeezing me like that, baby,” he says, voice shredded, “and i’ll give you another load without even moving.”

you laugh breathlessly, biting your lip, and he kisses you—messy, slow, full of tongue and heat and that unbearable sweetness that he only ever shows you in quiet moments like this. his hips roll forward just a little, and even though you’re both sensitive, you both moan, gasping against each other’s mouths.

“fuck,” you breathe, nails digging gently into his shoulder blades again. “you came so much, satoru.”

“‘course i did,” he pants, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies are still joined. he moves his hips in the slightest circle, still buried inside you, cock twitching, and watches your cunt flutter around him like it’s still begging for more.

“how could i not?” he continues, eyes wide, voice soft with shock. “you—you milked me. i didn’t even get to fuck you hard. you came and just took it from me. you robbed me. you’re a criminal.” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him back down into your chest. “you liked it.”

“i loved it,” he groans, pressing kisses to your collarbone, mouthing against your skin like he can’t stop. “missionary’s never gonna be the same. i’m gonna be useless. this pussy’s got emotional consequences.”

you snort, and he keeps talking like he’s possessed, rambling sweet and filthy things against your skin. “gonna write about this in my journal. not even a sex diary. just regular journal. ‘dear diary, the love of my life fucked me dumb in my own basement. i cried a little.’”

“you didn’t cry,” you say, even as you’re laughing again.

“not yet.”

you’re still full of him, and he’s still twitching inside you like he’s thinking about round two, and honestly—you are too. the room’s still glowing soft with the fairy lights. your bodies are stuck together with sweat and come and the kind of heat that doesn’t cool easy. your thighs are sticky around his hips. his fingers haven’t stopped stroking your side. you can hear your friends still laughing distantly from the living room, and none of it matters.

he presses his forehead to yours again, noses brushing. “you wanna go again?” he asks, voice soft now, full of a wicked little smile. “slow this time. slower than this.”

you blink at him.

“that was slow.”

he grins. “i can go slower.”

your breath catches, your body already aching in the best way.

“what, you gonna put on music and cry while you fuck me?”

“only if you want me to,” he whispers, and then kisses you again, tender and deep.

and god help you—you might.

after a few moments of so-called dramatic silence—it’s not, because gojo’s incapable of shutting up even post-orgasm—you finally sigh, drop your head back with a groan, and sit up on the edge of the bed, still dazed, still soaked, still trying to remember how to be a functioning human being. your thighs stick together when you shift. the air is thick with sex and sweat and that particular smugness that only gojo satoru can radiate like body heat.

meanwhile, he’s half-dressed and strutting around like a peacock that just won a dance battle. his jeans are back on—sloppily buttoned, zipper half-down, belt missing—and his shirt is absolutely not on because it’s somewhere across the room where he tossed it like a used napkin. he’s humming to himself as he pokes through the wreckage of the bed’s surroundings, eyes sparkling like he just found religion.

“where the hell did your bra go?” he mutters, pulling a sock off the lampshade and examining it like it might transform. “jesus, did i eat it?—oh, nope. got it. it was under my back.”

you groan again, arms folded across your chest, hair a tangled halo around your face, watching him with your chin tucked against your knees. “can you just—bring me my shirt before you go on another satoru soliloquy?”

“no can do, miss missionary evangelist,” he says, holding your crumpled shirt in one hand and dramatically placing your bra over his shoulder like a sash. “not until you publicly acknowledge that you were wrong and i, gojo satoru, bringer of orgasmic truth, proved—beyond reasonable doubt—that missionary is the best position known to mankind.”

you throw a pillow at him.

it hits his face, bounces off, and he keeps smiling.

“fine,” you mutter, reaching out as he steps in close. “yes. missionary with you, the stupidest man in our group, was good. amazing. disgustingly good.”

“romantic,” he corrects, kneeling in front of you now, the shirt falling from his hand onto your lap, the bra dangling from two fingers as he smirks up at you. “romantically stupid,” you clarify, grinning despite the embarrassment curling under your skin.

“they’re gonna die when they hear you let me make love to you like a Jane Austen adaptation,” he says, gently nudging your thighs apart so he can help you step into your underwear. “haibara’s gonna combust. shoko’s gonna stage an intervention.”

“shoko’s gonna accuse me of spiritual regression,” you say, lifting your hips so he can slide the fabric back over them. “and i’m gonna prove her wrong. i’m gonna look her in the eyes and tell her: ‘even doing missionary with the dumbest man i know, it was still the best.’ and you know what? i’m gonna mean it.”

gojo grins like the devil with a heart of gold.

“now that’s the kinda testimonial i wanna hear in a courtroom,” he says, fingers dragging slowly up your thighs, hooking your shorts next. “tell the jury, sweetheart. tell ‘em what it felt like.” you swat his shoulder, cheeks flushing again. “just help me put my bra on, casanova.”

he does—surprisingly gently, fingers cool against your back, hooking the clasp with practiced ease before pulling your shirt down over your head, smoothing the fabric over your hips like he’s dressing a doll he won in a fucked-up carnival game. and when he stands up again, you reach for his bicep, eyes catching on the faint red lines blooming just under the curve of his muscle.

your fingers trace one—long, angry, scabbed slightly already. the mark from your nails. from when you came so hard you clawed him like you were drowning in him. your breath catches a little.

“does that hurt?” you ask, voice low, thumb brushing it softer now.

he looks down at your hand. then at you.

and grins.

“hurt? no, baby. it’s proof.”

“proof of what? that i mauled you like a cat in heat?”

“proof that missionary ruins lives.” you choke on a laugh, and he throws his arms out dramatically, flexing the arm with the red lines like a trophy. “i’m gonna show everyone,” he says proudly. “i’m gonna walk out there and tell them: this? this was earned through slow, passionate, eye-contact-heavy fucking.”

you blink. “you’re gonna brag about being scratched during tender sex?”

“hell yes i am. this is a scarlet letter and i’m wearing it with pride.”

you bury your face in your hands.

“i’m gonna have to move cities.”

he leans down, kisses your hair, still giddy.

“no you’re not. you’re gonna go out there, sit on that couch, and smile smugly while they cry about how you got the good shit.”

“what, missionary?”

he winks. “romantic missionary.”

you shake your head, grabbing his hand to stand up with a sigh. your legs still tremble slightly, and he catches you with an arm around your waist. “we tell them,” he whispers in your ear, “but we don’t tell them everything.”

“deal.”

you walk out first, mostly because gojo insisted on dramatically opening the door for you like some fucked-up victorian husband escorting his blushing bride after the most sacred consummation of their union—which is rich, considering there was nothing sacred about what just happened unless you count the part where you saw god for a few seconds while pinned beneath the dumbest man in your life.

the moment the door creaks open, the silence is immediate and vicious. like the eye of a hurricane. the group sprawled across the living room snaps their heads toward the hallway in unison like a pack of wild animals smelling the aftermath of debauchery—and the look on their faces?

oh yeah. they know.

you’re glowing. not figuratively. literally. your skin’s flushed and gleaming with sweat, your shirt slightly off the shoulder, your lips swollen, your hair a disaster that no dry shampoo or dignity could save. a fresh constellation of hickeys blooms across your neck like you had a one-night stand with the concept of poor decision-making. you’ve got that post-sex daze in your eyes—the kind that says your soul left your body for twenty-seven minutes and came back softer.

and gojo?

gojo looks worse. or better, depending on how deranged your standards are.

shirtless. completely unbothered. jeans slung low like gravity’s trying to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and failing. his hair’s a wild mess, fluffed and chaotic, the way it always gets when you’ve pulled it hard—and oh, you did. his face is pink and flushed, lips bitten, pupils blown, and he’s got this grin, this absolutely illegal, felony-level smug grin, like he just won a championship no one else knew they were playing.

his back and arms are fucking wrecked. scratch marks everywhere. some long and shallow, others deep and angry, crisscrossing like tally marks on a prison wall. his biceps? ruined. shoulders? decorated. lower back? absolutely mauled. he’s walking like a man who survived the trenches and wants everyone to know it. he’s not even pretending to be humble.

you both step into the room and immediately—

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—” haibara lets out a guttural scream like he’s witnessing a murder. he drops the pool cue he wasn’t even holding right and clutches his face. “you look—he looks—i didn’t even know backs could bruise like that,” utahime says, pointing, voice somewhere between horrified and hysterical.

shoko slowly sits up straighter, blinking at your neck, her eyes narrowing as she catalogues the damage. “that’s… impressive. Disgusting, but impressive.” geto whistles low, lounging on the couch with his legs crossed like he’s the judge in a porno talent show. “is that a bite on your collarbone? did you actually leave teeth marks?”

gojo throws an arm around your shoulder like a victorious war hero returning home, full of glory and sin and not a shred of guilt. “ladies,” he says, voice hoarse and soaked in self-satisfaction, “gentlemen. sluts of all genders. i am here to confirm that romantic missionary is not dead.”

you smack his chest but don’t move away.

you’re already laughing, breathless, flushed, and shameless. “even with him,” you announce to the room, lifting your chin, “missionary is still the best position. maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

dead silence.

and then the couch erupts.

haibara throws a pillow at you so hard it ricochets and hits nanami in the face. utahime screams. shoko collapses backward, legs kicking, full-body laughing like a woman betrayed. geto claps slow and dramatic, head shaking. “you’ve broken her,” shoko howls, “she’s gone, she’s converted. next she’ll say handholding’s hot!”

“it is,” gojo says, absolutely delighted. “you’re a slut,” utahime says, pointing at you, but her voice is grinning. “every position is the best for you. you could get railed in a dentist chair and you’d moan about how it’s your new favorite.”

“i’m versatile,” you say proudly, flicking your hair like it isn’t a crime scene. “you’re deranged,” nanami mutters, finally lifting his head just to sip something dangerously amber. “no, no, wait,” haibara gasps, pointing at gojo. “he still doesn’t have a shirt on. why doesn’t he have a shirt on? is that blood? IS THAT BLOOD?”

“scratches, sweetheart,” gojo coos, turning around like a model showing off his back to the judges. “proof of passion. her nails did all this. i am but a humble canvas.”

“he moaned when i did it,” you add, deadpan.

shoko screams into a cushion.

“i need bleach for my eyes,” utahime mutters. geto nods solemnly. “i knew missionary would be the one to take you down. i didn’t think it would actually work.”

gojo slumps dramatically into the couch, dragging you with him, arms still around your waist like he can’t let go now that he’s ruined you emotionally and spiritually. he kisses your temple with obnoxious affection, legs spread wide like a man proud of the ruin he left behind.

“this,” he says, motioning to his face, “is the face of a man who made love and won.” you lean back against his chest, sighing like a satisfied villain. “and this is the face of a woman who has no regrets.”

utahime flings her slipper across the room.

“take your slutty love story and get the fuck out.” and all you can do is laugh, tangled with the man who made missionary feel like a religious experience, glowing like a filthy miracle, while your friends spiral in the wake of your post-sex enlightenment.

the scene that follows is nothing short of a cinematic meltdown, a group mental collapse broadcast in full color under the low glow of gojo’s cursed mood lighting. the basement already reeked of weed and spilled cheap whiskey, but now it’s thick with the stench of defeat. your victory. his absolute, unapologetic, shirtless triumph.

gojo leans back into the couch like he owns the fucking place—well, he does, technically, but now it’s like he owns the narrative, the mythos. his arms spread over the back of the cushions, one dangling casually behind your shoulders, the other resting across your thigh like a hand claiming territory. he’s not even pretending to put his shirt back on anymore. it lies somewhere in the corner, forgotten, like decency itself. his chest gleams with sweat and scratches. his hair looks like a bird tried nesting in it during the act. and he smiles.

that dumb, cocky, post-sex smile like he just unlocked a new religion and you’re the first disciple.

you’re still glowing. cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, shirt stretched from being pulled halfway over your head at one point and now just barely covering the constellation of hickeys painted from your neck to your collarbone. you look like you just committed a crime and are so proud of the mugshot.

“it wasn’t just good,” you declare, fingers lazily adjusting your hair with all the grace of a slutty war general. “it was enlightenment. i saw god and she winked at me.”

“was she into missionary too?” geto asks, eyes squinting as he exhales smoke through his nose.

“she invented it,” you say solemnly.

shoko’s lost in the corner of the couch, one sock off, one sock on, a throw blanket over her head as she moans, “i am going to exorcise this entire night from my memory. i am going to bleach my soul.” utahime looks at you, then gojo, then you again, pointing a trembling finger as she says, “the worst part is you’re not even ashamed. you’re not even pretending.”

“what is there to be ashamed of?” gojo grins, tilting his head and stretching his legs out like a lounge chair with a heartbeat. “i made her come with eye contact and emotional intimacy. you’re welcome.”

“you did not make me cry,” you say through your teeth, blushing all over again.

he just hums and presses a kiss to your temple.

“you wanted to cry.”

“you literally told me you’d fall in love with me if i kept clenching.”

“and did you?” he raises an eyebrow.

you flick his nipple. he gasps like a scandalized housewife.

“anyway,” you sigh dramatically, like you didn’t just have your soul rearranged missionary style by a man who can’t name five vegetables, “i stand by it. even with gojo. especially with gojo. missionary is the best position ever.”

haibara’s curled up in the fetal position on the beanbag, face buried in a throw pillow, groaning loud enough to qualify as a siren. “i hate this timeline. i hate this dimension.”

“you’re all just mad it wasn’t you,” gojo chirps.

“no one wants to do missionary with you!” utahime shouts.

“she did,” he says smugly, nudging you with his knee.

“she’s a slut!” shoko yells from beneath the blanket. “every position is the best for her! she’d say reverse piledriver is romantic if you called her ‘sweetheart’ while doing it!”

you shrug unapologetically. “what can i say? i value connection.”

“you value getting railed while someone holds your hand,” nanami deadpans, not even looking up from the book he inexplicably pulled out sometime during this hellish conversation.

“yes, and?”

“honestly?” geto exhales smoke, eyes thoughtful. “it’s kind of poetic.”

“oh don’t you start,” utahime groans.

gojo tucks his chin over your shoulder now, holding you close, his voice a warm hum in your ear. “i’m gonna write a manifesto. ‘missionary for the modern man: an erotic treatise.’ subtitle: with love, and balls-deep penetration.”

you start laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch.

“you’re insane,” you say, wheezing.

“i’m revolutionary,” he murmurs, planting a kiss just behind your ear. “i’m a pioneer. i’m the christopher columbus of tender fucking.”

“he committed genocide,” you say.

“okay,” gojo says, thoughtful, “then i’m the neil armstrong of romantic nut.”

“you didn’t discover the moon, satoru,” nanami says flatly.

“maybe she’s my moon,” gojo murmurs, dramatically clutching his chest, “and i left my footprints all over her surface.”

you grab a throw pillow and smack him in the face.

he catches it, kisses it, throws it back.

your friends are all either screaming, sobbing, or plotting your deaths.

but you?

you’re smiling.

and glowing.

and still a little sore in the best fucking way.

[holeforzenin]

My best friend got me a bunch of silly stickers today and this is all I can think of :3

Toji trudges through the front door, the exhaustion from a 12-hour shift hanging off him like dead weight. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and lets out a deep grunt as he kicks off his boots, broad shoulders stiff and brows furrowed from weariness. His plain tee is clinging to his chest from sweat and heat, and his hands are rough and grease-smudged—he looks every bit of the exhausted, grumpy old man you’re always teasing about him being.

But when you peek around the corner with a grin on your face and a thick sheet of different sparkly stickers in your hand, something softens in his eyes.

“Don’t even start,” he mutters, walking to the couch with a low sigh and plopping down like a felled tree. “I’m dead. Don’t got the energy for your—”

You’re already in his lap, legs draped over his thick thighs as you straddle him, the worn fabric of his jeans warm beneath you. His hands instinctively settle on your hips even as he groans, head leaning back against the soft cushion. “What are you doing, huh?” he grumbles, one eye cracked open as you peel off a star-shaped sticker and press it gently to the sweaty swell one of his beefy bicep.

You giggle, kissing the corner of his mouth where his scar is. “You looked like you needed a little sparkle”.

He exhales through his nose—something between a laugh and a sigh—and lets you do your thing like always. Let’s you press little hearts onto his pecs, cartoon animals on the sharp cut of his collarbone, even a cute cat right in the center of his sternum. His eyes flutter closed while you work, muscles softening under your touch.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, his voice sounding calm and lazy.

“You love it,” you hum, smoothing a glittery cat onto the curve of his shoulder.

“Mm. Love you more,” he mumbles, cracking an eye open again to look at you—it’s genuine, a little dazed, like you’re the only soft thing in his rough world. “You keep me sane, y’know that?”

You lean down and kiss him again—this time slower and more tender, your fingers resting against the sticker-covered expanse of his chest. “And you let me turn a grumpy old man into a human sticker book. We’re even”.

“Oh you’re sooo lucky you’re adorable,” he mutters as he pinches your cheek before dragging a heavy palm up your back, holding you close to his chest like he never wants to let you go. “Real lucky”.

[yintous]

JASON TODD wasn’t supposed to be in this situation.

By this, he meant he was, in no way, supposed to be helping you—his strangely empathetic neighbor—house at least ten kitties you found in an alleyway.

He stood in your living room like a man staring down a firing squad. Only instead of guns, it was wide, unblinking kitten eyes, tiny mews, and the sound of claws scratching against the cardboard box you’d stuffed them into.

“This is a nightmare,” Jason muttered, arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re being dramatic,” you said, kneeling down to scoop up a particularly bold calico that had already escaped. It curled against your chest, purring like a tiny motor. “Look at them. They needed help. What was I supposed to do, just leave them?”

“Yeah,” Jason said flatly. “That’s exactly what normal people do.”

You gave him a sharp look, and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He cursed internally. He was never good at saying no to you. Not when you had that look in your eyes—soft, stubborn, and just a little desperate. The same look that had probably convinced him to help you haul the box of kittens up three flights of stairs in the first place.

“They’re gonna destroy your place,” Jason warned. “Scratch up the couch, knock over your crap, keep you up all night—”

“I’ll manage,” you said quickly, as though determination alone would make it true. “Besides, they’ll only be here until I can find them homes.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, sure. That’s what you said about the fern on your balcony, and now it’s a goddamn jungle out there.”

You tried to hide your smile. “That fern is thriving, thank you very much.”

He rolled his eyes but crouched down anyway, holding out a scarred hand. One of the kittens��black with white paws—batted at his fingers and mewed. Jason froze, then, against all odds, scooped it up. The kitten immediately climbed onto his shoulder, tiny claws catching his jacket.

Jason let out a low groan. “Great. Perfect. Guess I’m a cat tree now.”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “They like you.”

Jason shot you a withering look, but it didn’t last long. The kitten rubbed its head against his jaw, and he went still—like he’d forgotten how to breathe for a second. Something softened in his expression, too quick for you to fully catch.

“Don’t,” Jason said, voice low.

“Don’t what?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Don’t make this a thing,” he muttered, gently stroking the kitten’s back with one finger. “I’m not the ‘cat guy.’ I’m not the—whatever this is.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “You mean kind? Caring? Secretly a softie?”

Jason shot you another glare, but there was no real bite behind it this time. He sighed, shoulders dropping in defeat.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not keeping any of ‘em.”

“Of course not,” you agreed too quickly, already pulling out your phone. “But, hypothetically, if one just… ended up following you home—”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Still, Jason didn’t put the kitten down.

And he smiled for the camera, with the feline giving a meek purr in the comfort of his arms.

© yintous do not copy, repost, plagiarize, or feed any of my work into ai. | masterlist

[elliebell77]

Hey, hi! Im really sorry for sending this, i just hope im not overstepping any boundaries as I’m about to ask help which is very important right now :( our cat, Sleepy needs an urgent vet care. She is pain and I can't afford to pay the vet to help her so I'm reaching out to ask for help, I mean even if you can’t help monetarily, reblogging or sharing it would truly mean a lot. She is my daughter’s best friend and she’s all I have left of my mom who passed away last 2021. In case you’d be insterested to help, I have pinned the post on my blog, please try to also answer the ask privately as some people tend to get weird on this stuff. Please send us prayers, be safe. ♥️🙏

hey so i checked your blog and you only have like 10 posts total and they’re all reblogs from around the same time you posted your gofundme thing. Also, all the ones at the bottom appear to be gofundmes from other scam blogs. So I’m just gonna go ahead and say this is a scam. If you’re not a bot and are reading this i just wanna say i hope you know youre taking legitimacy away from, like, ACTUAL people who need help.

[himasgod]

HEAR ME OUT. Sebek/Malleus/Silver bring the girl home/dormitory. Lilia: *draws out a huge photo album with the most embarrassing pictures* so when he was 3 he accidentally knocked over his potty.... *long paternal recounting of the boy's childhood*.

DIASOMNIA X READER

Where Lilia shows you embarrasing photos of the boys as children

Where Silver, Malleus and Sebek invite you to Lilia's house to formally introduce you as his partner… but Lilia is faster at taking out the photo album

You’re honored (and slightly terrified) to be invited to Malleus’s castle. It’s all cal until a familiar giggle echoes down the corridor.

“Oh~ what’s this? Malleus brought someone special~?”

Malleus doesn’t even flinch. He smiles, polite as ever. “Yes. I hoped you would meet her, Lilia.”

“Excellent!” Lilia spins into the lounge, dragging a wheeled cart stacked with five albums. “Let me share the legend of Briar Valley's Heir: Baby Dragon Malleus.”

Malleus sighs softly. “Do we need to—”

“Oh hush. This is important heritage. Now, look here, lady—this was Malleus when he got curious about human inventions. He once tried to sit in a refrigerator because he thought it was a portal to a cold realm. He was twenty. Just a toddler in fae's age. And his little horns were growing and he was getting stuck in a lot of places, so…”

You stare at the photo. Malleus is curled up inside a fridge like an overgrown cat, the door unable to shut.

“I was… investigating dimensional storage,” he explains calmly.

"He once asked some frogs if they would crown him. Some frogs! He told me "If I am the future king of these lands, all the animals will be under my rule." SOME FROGS!! In the end, we gave him a coronation with toy frogs. He got so angry that the real frogs were struck by lightning-"

You cover your mouth, snorting.

Malleus looks at you, utterly unbothered. “I have always embraced whimsy.”

Lilia beams. “Best boy.”

You barely make it through the front door before you hear it.

“Oh~ Sebek, my boy! You brought someone home~?”

Sebek instantly stiffens beside you. “Master Lilia!”

Lilia floats into view with the speed of someone who’s been waiting for this moment since forever. He claps gleefully, disappearing into a side room and returning with a massive album covered in glittery frog stickers.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” he says sweetly, flipping it open.

“This one’s Sebek when he was five. He was trying to prove how brave he was—stood on the edge of the pond in the backyard and shouted, ‘I fear NOTHING!’ and then fell straight in. Cried for twenty minutes because his favorite boots got soggy.”

Sebek looks like he’s going to combust. “L-lilia, PLEASE!”

“Oh, and here’s one where he’s yelling at a squirrel for ‘mocking the young heir Lord Malleus’!”

You try not to laugh, really, you do.

But Sebek’s bright red face and Lilia’s absolute joy at recounting every high-volume disaster of his childhood?

Impossible.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, smiling at Sebek.

Sebek hides behind his hands. “Please… don’t listen to any more of his lies…”

Lilia smirked searching for another photo “I never lie. I only... embellish lovingly.”

Silver brings you with that serene air of a man who thinks everything will go peacefully.

He is wrong.

The moment the door opens, Lilia peeks around the corner, eyes gleaming.

“Oh my~ you brought a guest, Silver~?”

Silver nods. “I wanted you to meet her.”

“WONDERFUL!” Lilia yells. “SIT DOWN. I HAVE STORIES.”

Silver gives you a look that says, you can still run.

But you sit.

He sighs and accepts his fate.

Lilia slams a pink binder onto the table.

“This boy—this sweet baby—once slept through his own birthday party. We made a lovely picnic in the woods. He woke up the next morning and asked why there were balloons.”

Silver groans quietly. “You said you wouldn’t tell people that…”

“And here’s a photo of him as a toddler hugging a tree because he thought it was a ‘very patient person’.”

You gasp. “That’s… kind of adorable.”

Silver: 🧍🏻‍♂️“…”

“And this one—he was ten, and he fell asleep mid-sentence. He said, ‘Father, I wish to go out and explore the wooorrr—’” Lilia pantomimes a faceplant. “Straight into the soup bowl.”

You’re cackling by this point, while Silver tries not to die of secondhand embarrassment.

“He still does that sometimes,” Lilia says fondly.

Silver mumbles, “I can hear you.”

[fantasytrees]

The Original Cat Tree that looks like a Tree

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[beloveds-embrace]

The queen wanting a grandchild has me remembering one thing about fae: they LOVE babies. If reader ever actually does have a baby with the 141, she is going to be surrounded at all times by fae who wanna see a fae-human baby. Maybe they’ll have the slightly pointed ears and eyes of fae but the rest? Absolutely human. The fae court is in awe and wonder about this chubby little wonder their queen has blessed them with 😭

-fluff enjoyer 🐰

This is technically not “canon” to the story yet :3

fae au masterlist

The baby is born under rainlight.

Not storm, not quite; the clouds that roll in are thick with violet and gold, and the rain that falls carries no chill, only warmth, thick with the scent of honeysuckle and moonfruit. It does not fall hard- it settles, in slow, honey-thick drops across the palace roof, coating the trees in prisms, the moss with sheen, the palace windows with blurred halos of refracted candlelight.

In the birthing room, magic itself bends.

Not violently and not the way it does in fae battles or in the old wars. It curves inward, toward the place where you cry out, exhausted, your forehead pressed to Johnny’s shoulder, your hair soaked through with sweat and starlight. Simon has not moved from his place by the window, blade already out though no danger has approached. Kyle has paced so many circles into the floor you’re convinced he’s walked a ritual unknowingly. And John- silent, grave-eyed- had not stopped whispering the steady rhythm of your name through each wave of pain, grounding you when the room twisted, when the magic curled sharp.

And then… there was a second voice, a cry: High and uncertain and loud, alive.

Your daughter’s first war cry.

She arrives red-faced and outraged, limbs flailing, wrapped in a sheen of magic so old and raw that even the midwives blink in awe. But there is no fanfare of wings, no eruption of runes or glowing signs, no mystic markings, no sudden prophecy written across her brow, and she is not terrifying nor divine.

She is small. Small, and real.

The court had expected something strange, truthfully; something remote, something uncanny. The fae court had spoken in murmurs for months of the child that would be born to the mortal queen and her kings. They expected a changeling, or a wraith or perhaps a child of storm.

But what they got was a girl with a button nose and the beginnings of curls too soft to settle, black as ink and already cowlicked on one side. A child with faintly pointed ears, one ear already folded where she favors sleeping on her side. Her eyes are enormous and golden, her only magic, and when she looks up at John for the first time, she furrows her brow exactly like he does when annoyed.

She sneezes, and a single spark of magic puffs out of her nostril- a firefly briefly summoned into life- before it disappears with a pop.

And then she farts. Loudly- and in Simon’s direction.

There’s a silence, heavy as stone, as the world freezes for just a breath. And then Johnny cracks up so hard he has to sit down before he drops her. “A wee menace, already,” he says, voice hoarse with tears and laughter. “She’s bloody perfect.”

They name her late.

The Queen Mother insists it must be during the next full moon. She also insists upon rosewater blessings, mirror pools, and a lullaby sung in the old dialect that makes most of the younger fae sneeze from the syllables alone. You relent, though you’ve already whispered a name to her in secret- the one you’ve saved for years, the one she now wears like a thread of silk across her tender little soul.

She gurgles when you call her it, blinking slow like a cat. You like to think she’s agreeing.

The naming ceremony itself, though is… overwhelming.

It seems every single creature with magic in their veins has made their way to the court. A pair of sky titans. who rarely descend from the cloudspires, perch on the watchtowers, heads bowed low. Even the moss along the floor curls toward her bassinet like green fingers reaching to touch a new dawn.

Glowy floats just above her, wings dimmed out of reverence, her light pulsing in rhythm to the baby’s slow, slumbering breath. Thrain stands sentinel near her crib, his antlers blooming with late-summer blossoms even though he’d been shedding for weeks. When the baby sneezes again- and this time a tiny bubble forms over her nose- Thrain chuffs, noses it gently, and lets her grab his snout with both chubby hands.

The entire court swoons when they hear of it- even the Queen Mother, though she’d never admit to it.

It becomes clear that the child rules now: not formally , not politically, but the way the moon rules the tides.

The kitchens adjust their entire schedules around her feeding naps so that you would eat and feed her in comfort. The palace bells are muffled with silken wrappings so they do not wake her. Simon orders sound-barriers placed along the war rooms and training fields, and orders no sparring near the nursery, and orders no shouting in the east wing, and no hard shoes near her window, and no courtier may speak of war or suffering within a hundred feet of the Queen’s child.

When she cries, two dozen attendants arrive within seconds. They are still late compared to Kyle and Johnny.

She very rarely does cry, though. She’s often content- so long as she’s being held.

By you, of course. Or by any of the men.

John reads aloud to her every evening, even when she drools and gnaws all over his shoulder. Kyle sings lullabies and places charm-blooms above her cradle, kisses protective spells into her brows. Johnny has fashioned a baby sling and refuses to take it off, even during royal meetings, where the fae court watches in baffled delight as the royal advisor enters with a baby strapped to his chest, her tiny head peeking out just enough to blink at the nobles.

And Simon, who had not held her for three days after she was born, too afraid, too still-

One morning you find him asleep in your rocking chair, her tiny, chubby form pressed against his chest, his hand protective over her back. There’s a small, pink blanket draped over both of them. You can see her fingers curled around one of the starlight pins in his armor.

He does not stir as you watch. But he shifts slightly, so she can breathe better.

She gets her first tooth too early.

It appears one afternoon while she’s gnawing on one of the silk roses in the garden, and the resulting bite releases an arc of raw, harmless magic that knocks a pixie unconscious. The poor creature topples into a teacup and has to be revived with honey-water, but it wakes up in good spirits.

The story spreads like wildfire, because of course it does.

She giggles and floating lights gather in swarms to bounce around her like fireflies, tugging at her feet, tickling her nose, and the pixie comes back to giggle and play with her until her laughter is breathing new light into the spring garden.

The realm adores her, truly, and the court bends for her.

But she always- always- returns to you: to the soft hush of your voice, the rhythm of your heartbeat. To the warmth of your chest and the way your hands curve around her like a spell even magic can’t replicate. She quiets in your arms before anyone else’s, and she smiles most when you kiss her brow. She is as bound to you as breath to body.

Your little girl.

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ NO LOVE IN NEW YORK

… starring oscar piastri x f!reader ... 5.2k words ... in which your good samaritan tendencies, and some loser forgetting to show up on your first date, lead you to the most bizarre yet exhilarating nyc commute of your life. ... featuring fluff, humor, meet cute, some forced proximity. female reader (wears 'feminine' clothing). language, reader gets stood up on a date, suspension of disbelief for manhattan geography and the logistics of the mta (please forgive me new yorkers i went ten years ago). english is not my first language. ... author notes tadaaa oscar piastri debut who cheered!!!! not me because i'm scared to death of getting him wrong lowk. i was bemoaning the absence of oscar pictures at the f1 premiere and thought, "i know he just couldn't be bothered to go, but wouldn't it be funny if he'd just gotten lost?" and thats how this fic happened. ngl this is very much out of my comfort zone, i know oscar less than other drivers + much more romcom than i'm used to and idk how i feel about it so feedback would be VERY appreciated! very much open for a part 2 if you'd like that tho!!! enjoy ヘ(≧▽≦ヘ)♪ MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

There was no valid reason dating in New York City should have been this complicated.

Yet you prided yourself on being quite smart—smart enough to survive in the hostile urban jungle as a twenty-something on her own; definitely smarter than the national average judging by the (frankly depressing) headlines you heard pinging on your phone every morning. Outstanding high school GPA, reading comprehension way above your grade as a kid, and still no damn clue how to score a date in Manhattan.

Well, rather, how to score an agreeable date. Or perhaps just one that turned out to be real.

Monday morning had risen with a yawn from the sun, as though it were remembering only now that June was well underway but the streets remained chilly. Weak light shimmered over the fire escape when you’d drawn your curtains open. Ramen was sitting on the railing, licking his cream paw and staring at you with unimpressed nonchalance, and you’d grinned. Ramen—your downstairs neighbor’s cat, a sandy little imp whose real name you’d never found out but had baptized so after he’d stolen your instant dinner right off your kitchen counter—only showed up on mornings with importance. Like the day you’d aced Introduction to Statistics with nothing but two hours of sleep and five Monsters.

This was a good omen.

So yes, you were enthusiastic by the time you got home from class, scrambled together an omelet, and disemboweled your apartment looking for your favorite earrings. You were optimistic, and that sometimes sounded like the worst thing anyone could be in New York City.

But this first date promised to be nothing like the others, your inner voice hammered home as you tried to cram your feet into shoes half a size too small. He was cute, funny, not a fascist, he waited exactly the right amount of time in between replies—neither psychopathic nor disinterested—, and he’d told you to dress up because it was only fair that real-life art should match the paintings on the wall. After half a dozen insipid dinners at every other pizza place in Little Italy, and as many ghostings, a museum first date sounded more promising than you’d dared to hope.

Even though he dropped off the radar at ten p.m. the prior evening. Even though you shot him a bubbly, “you said 2:30pm right? can’t wait!” at eleven (the appointed time was but a scroll away, but you just needed to say something, diffuse the nerves somehow). Even though you double-texted him at two fifteen, “omw!”. 

But Ramen was there this morning, blinking his slow blinks at you. The date had to go well.

The sun was fully awake, undeniable, blazing above the trees and endless spires piercing the sky beyond Central Park, by the time you sat down on the steps in front of the museum. Alone.

It wasn’t until two fifty-seven that you accepted to face the glaring truth. 

First miss for Ramen.

You collected yourself in a clumsy torpor. Nothing to do with your heels, or the stupidly long dress you’d picked out and whose skirt you now had to lift with every step—this was the inescapable, crushing feeling of disappointment.

Of course New York City would punish the optimistic. The naïve. The superstitious, who put the outcome of their days into the hands of some feline apparition, scan the sky for four-leaf clover clouds. Served you right for still believing in things falling into place.

Your face burned from the sun and the humiliation, eyes prickling from unshed tears as you stuffed your phone into your purse. Pretended not to notice the group of tourists snapping shots of you, perhaps thinking you some roaming Millais muse. Disappeared into the shade of 103rd Street station, green gown flowing behind you like a pennon.

Every step down the long stairway stung more than the last, but you kept your gaze firmly to the ground, careful not to trip—and bury any ounce of dignity left in you for good. Blend in with the jaded city folk, you thought as you swiped your Metrocard; act as if you know exactly where you are going and go there with purpose, even if you could not be more stranded. Where to now? Back to your disordered, sweltering apartment, its haphazard pile of dishes in the sink and Ramen gauging you silently from the windowsill? Or to the campus library, trying to glean whatever productivity lies within heartbreak? And risk bumping into your friends, who’d teased you all day about the giddy bounce to your step, and having to explain you weren’t even worth showing up for?

“Excuse me?”

You looked up and met hazel. A mop of chestnut hair, that he had manifestly tried to arrange before giving up; discreet moles on an otherwise pale face, and brown eyes where danced flecks of gold and the most gripping kind of urgent resignation. The stranger was cute, and for some incomprehensible reason he matched you: he, too, was dressed to the nines like he’d run off from some wedding, and he also distinctly looked like he wished more than anything for the Earth to swallow him.

“Are you going to the F1 movie premiere?”

“What?”

“The, uh, the F1 movie red carpet thing? Are you going there right now?”

You were starting to worry your foreign-accent (British, or perhaps Australian?) comprehension skills had gotten alarmingly bad, or maybe the shrieking of MTA wagon brakes had finally rendered you deaf. 

“No, uh... I…” Oh, what the hell. Like there was any use lying to a beautiful stranger who seemed like he was somehow having a worse afternoon than yours. “I got stood up by my date. F1, you mean like Formula 1?”

What a formidable and ridiculous scene you two must’ve painted—two kids in formalwear, standing in the middle of a New York City subway platform, stuck amidst the pungent smell of piss and nonsensical conversation.

“I’m sorry about your date, they sound like a bit of a dropkick,” the stranger replied, and although you weren’t entirely sure what a dropkick was you were surprised to find him genuine. “But, uh… I think I’m lost, and I hoped you might help me, or else I’m gonna be the one doing the standing up. On about two thousand people.”

You had no time to furrow your brow, or chew on his words. Suddenly everything clicked with an audible bang, right in sync with the train doors closing to your left. The reason you’d felt so familiarly drawn to that cherub face, and why he had mentioned Formula 1… None of the downright lubricious Instagram edits your best friend had ever sent you featured him in a suit, but he was unmistakable.

“Oh my god, you’re Oscar Pia—”

“Please don’t tell all of Manhattan,” Piastri interrupted, grimacing as he glanced around the platform. You suffocated your voice, though found his dread of being heard a little pointless. Two people standing idly in black-tie garments as metros passed them by were eye-catching, for sure, but nowhere near NYC eye-catching standards. “It’s already pretty bad how late I am to my own premiere, I don’t want to have to take selfies in the subway.”

A million questions jostled about inside your head, but all you could do was stare at him, mouth agape in incomprehension. You didn’t keep up with Formula 1, hardly saw any point in cars going in circles, and perhaps a McLaren (was it McLaren or Mercedes?) superfan might have known better than you what the fuck Oscar Piastri was doing there. Not the film premiere gimmick, you were willing to believe that was the kind of fanfare F1 drivers spent their off-days doing—what the fuck he was doing alone at three in the afternoon, asking for your help in some acrid station on Lexington Avenue. 

“Couldn’t you just drive to the damn premiere?”

“Oh, right, so I should just steal a car off the street?” he deadpanned.

“No, I mean… don’t you have a chauffeur? An… an agent or something? A team? How do you even end up…” you trailed off, finding no words that wouldn’t bring you to astonished frustration. Instead, you opened your arms wide, encompassing all of New York’s rickety railways. “Here?”

Piastri parted his lips to retort with one of his impassive quips, but his whole face fractured then with tremendous vulnerability.

“I’ll tell you if you help me find my way. Please?”

He did not look like the type of man who’d ever begged anyone to do anything for him—you expected a high-adrenaline junkie like him to pray for neither forgiveness nor permission—and the contrast made you consider. That, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. And the fact the only other way you could see your afternoon ending was with an onslaught of messages from some guy assuring you life had gotten “sooo hectic” in the last ten to twelve hours.

Piastri was much cuter than him anyway.

“You know what, yeah, sure, what the hell,” you shrugged with a growing smile. “I’ll help you. I could use the good karma. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

This whole plan was utterly ridiculous, and you had no idea how you’d possibly explain that to your friends when they’d ask how your date had gone, but the way Piastri deflated with relief, like his whole body was exhaling, had you convinced you’d made the right call.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He said your name with the slightest of accents, and you caught yourself wishing he could say it again. “Maps said this was the shortest path to Times Square, but I think it’s a little confused—”

“Times Square? Oh, you’re not getting anywhere near that on the 6. We need to get to Central Park North. You coming?”

You tilted your head to the side, to the staircase drenched in hazy summer light, and Piastri seemed to be weighing the pros and cons for a split second—you couldn’t fault him, to be fair; you could’ve been a stalker, or a lunatic, or the lowest echelon to a weird MLM scheme. Still, he must’ve decided whatever you were recruiting him for was less dangerous than missing this premiere, because he took off after you.

When he billowed out of the station and back into the city, Piastri winced, and at first you assumed it due to the piercing sunlight reverberating on glassy panels, or the cacophony of horns and engines. However, you quickly noticed him glancing at the passersby with frantic interest… and looking puzzled at their utter disinterest in him.

“Relax, no one’s looking at us,” you reassured him, striding down the street on autopilot. He jogged two steps to catch up.

“You sure?”

“Certain. There’s so many people in New York City, and so many of those people do weird shit, that practically anyone can go unnoticed. I assure you that this,” you gestured down at your long dress, catching the light like rippling topazes, then at the silver cufflinks on his jacket, “does not even make the top 5 weirdest things any of these people have seen today.”

But the Australian looked unsure still, twisting his thin lips in a crooked zigzag, so you stopped in your tracks and hailed a young lady passing you by on the sidewalk, Airpods firmly bolted inside her ears.

“Excuse me, do you know who this guy is—”

She strode past you with the most furtive glance biologically possible and a mechanical Nothankyouhaveagoodday. You turned back to Piastri.

“See? No one cares.”

He chuckled, face breaking like dawn, and you chuckled too with no real reason. You weren’t too sure what was funny about typical New York callousness, but the way Piastri’s eyes crinkled, still somewhat strained from stress but illuminating all his features, made you all fuzzy inside. Up close and under sunlight, he looked even younger than you’d thought, no more than twenty-five, and the shadows on his face had lifted, rounding the angles and softening the corners. Like he’d been oil-painted on canvas, ochres and whites melting into each other at the edges.

“Okay, I guess you’re the local,” he conceded, and you resumed your brisk walk.

Maybe you really were at the museum, after all.

“So,” you spoke up after a bit. “I was promised a story.”

“Right,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly regretting his bartering skills.

“How do you, Oscar Piastri, end up late to a movie premiere and alone in a subway station?” You stepped across a grate on the sidewalk, careful not to wedge your heel in the holes. “They just left you behind? Did you oversleep or what?”

No reply, but his dry laughter morphing into a cough was a flagrant enough response.

“Oh my God, Piastri,” you gasped merrily. “Did you seriously sleep through your movie premiere?”

“No! … It’s not over yet. I’m just late for the red carpet part. I can still make it to the screening.”

You stared, unconvinced, and he stared back, unconvincing. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched your smile grow wider until he couldn’t take your teasing anymore. For heaven’s sake—you’d known him a grand total of five minutes and were already tormenting him!

“What?”

“How do they let you get away with this?”

“I was racing in Canada yesterday! God forbid a guy wants a nap,” he stressed the last as though it were some capital punishment and rolled his eyes.

Something in his demeanor was fabulously amusing. He was all relaxed tension, calculated coldness akin to what you’d expect from a person who’s constantly scrutinized; yet there was something more, a sort of agitation bubbling within, under the pores of his handsome face. Feeling so deeply and letting a stranger see so much was not in his nature, that much was clear. Every microexpression, in the lift of his brows, the curve of his lips, the arc of his eyes betrayed a kind of imbalance. He was losing his footing, like a glacier abraded from the top by the sun.

New York City had trained you for all sorts of people, including still waters like him. How to ripple their surface.

“Does this happen to you often?”

“No. Never.”

“Never missed a flight?”

“Just once. My mom woke me up screaming one hour before boarding the second ti—watch out.”

Swiftly, he grabbed your elbow and switched your spots on the sidewalk, pushing you closer to the wall. Before you could open your mouth to protest, the ground rattled from a firetruck barreling past you, ruffling Piastri’s hair and the lapels of his jacket.

“But I set three different alarms on my phone and I figured, Lando will probably break my door down if I sleep through them, so I’m safe,” he resumed, entirely unfazed. You looked up at him like he’d just performed actual magic. “But… apparently not. I woke up… twenty minutes ago?” That explained the slim, red pillow mark on his face you’d mistaken for a fading sunburn. “I wanted to call a taxi, but they’ve cut off traffic. It’s a big deal, you know? Brad Pitt’s gonna be there.”

The way he said Brad Pitt, with a tone so level it became thick with meaning and the littlest of jazz hands, made it abundantly clear there were few people on Earth Oscar Piastri would’ve been less excited about than Brad Pitt.

“Are you in it?”

“What?”

“The movie. Are you even in it?”

“Uh, my elbow is. Minute fifty-three.”

“Wow,” you giggled, arching your eyebrows in a playful wave. “So am I talking to Oscar Piastri the pro athlete, or Oscar Piastri the movie star?”

“Eh, just Oscar Piastri’s fine,” he shrugged, non-committal, though the glint of a smile now flickered uninterrupted on the corner of his lips, almost real enough to remark upon.

Your steps had carried you to the subway entrance north of Central Park already—too soon, far too soon, you thought with a faint ache in the chest. Piastri stirred in your body some kind of early-summer warmth, soft and shimmering like a drowsy morning. As soon as he would vanish to the far side of the platform, only the icy wind would remain, howling endlessly through the corridors…

Piastri, however, did not seem set on giving you up. At least judging by the tiny, tentative steps he took as he walked up to the turnstile, as though the machine could eat him the way it did cardboard tickets. You saw him take out a small, green-lettered card from his pocket… and stopped him.

“Wait, that’s not gonna work.”

“Huh?”

“Your ticket, it’s a single ride. You used that back there on Lexington, right?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“You don’t have a Metrocard?”

He turned to you, puzzled, and almost slammed into a hurried businessman in the process. Thankfully for Piastri, even assault was too inconsequential to reroute the average New Yorker, and the man just breezed past the turnstile and into the guts of the Earth with a nasty glare and a taunting beep!

“Why would I have a Metrocard, Y/N, I’m in this city about twelve hours a year.”

You glanced toward the entrance, where a faint trickle of light still seeped in. A flock of little old ladies, perhaps en route to a high-stakes bingo showdown, had laid siege to the terminals. Judging by their furrowed brows and squinting eyes, no one else in the station would be seeing so much as a hint of a ticket anytime soon.

Goodness gracious. Your helpfulness would be your undoing.

“How late are you to this thing?”

Piastri checked his watch. “Very.”

“And how much do you care about being late to this thing?”

“Normal dude Oscar Piastri? Not so much, to be honest. Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri…”

“Say less.”

Veritable horror surfaced on Piastri’s face at your confident strides, as if he imagined you were about to vandalize your way through the gates.

“Come on! Hop over,” you signaled.

“Uh…”

“Or we could wait in line. Your call.” Like trying to get a puppy to jump through a hoop. What was he waiting for, a treat?

Or perhaps the patrol of inspectors coming down the hallway at the exact same second as Piastri gathered momentum and jumped the turnstile. That, too, seemed like a sensible thing to be on the lookout for.

The two men cried out right as his dress shoes hit the ground.

“Oh come on!” you whined. “They’re never here!”

“What do we do?!” he cried.

“What do you mean, what do we do? Just book it!”

You heard a cacophony of footsteps behind your back, promptly echoed by lighter sounds as Piastri ran down the corridor. Without a second glance, you pushed down on your hands, swung your legs forward, and… came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Looked down. Sage green fabric had wrapped around the metal blades of the turnstile, like snakes constricting their branches.

“Oscar!” you yelped.

If you’d had any doubt Oscar Piastri was the real racing deal until now, they were all silenced at once from the way he spun on his heels, ran back to you and, without a split second’s hesitation, not even the span of a breath, picked you up from your perch and took off. Instinctively your arms wrapped around the taut base of his neck as you felt his clammy hands slide down your back: the glossy fabric offered no grip to hold on to, yet his strong arms held you into place as tightly as they could. You gritted your teeth, prayed to God your heels would not fall off, and watched in stunned silence as Oscar raced down the stifling hallways.

It seemed like but an instant had passed when Oscar threw himself into the belly of the train, its imminent departure chime his very own chequered flag, and the old doors rattled shut behind you. For the first time, New Yorkers shot you strange looks. Finally you had crossed their threshold for urban bizarrerie.

And you were still in Oscar’s arms, flushed and panting even though he was the one who’d done all the running. And had barely broken a sweat.

You were about to clear your throat and kindly—begrudgingly, perhaps?—request he put you down… when the announcer’s perky voice began chirping out the next stops through the loudspeakers. You snapped your head at the line map above the doors. No matter what language she said it in, your next stop was always wrong.

“Oscar,” you murmured.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

“We got on the wrong way.”

“There’s no oil in New York City.”

Oscar remained silent for a few seconds, as if in a trance. His jittery leg did not.

“What?” he mumbled when he broke out of his reverie.

You simply pointed at his knee, bouncing up and down since he’d sat.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to drill a hole in the ground with your shoe for. There’s no oil in New York City. If there was, Trump would’ve sucked it dry already.”

Oscar sighed, throwing his head back against the glass panel, but your heart swelled with satisfaction when you caught a glimpse of his smile.

Rippling anyone’s surface had seldom proven as easy as it was fun.

You leaned a little closer to him, and he closed his eyes with a faint grunt. His leg, however, was now still.

“Why are you so nervous about being late? You’re the main attraction, it’s not like they’re going to hold it against you.”

Hearing his reply proved difficult over the train’s thundering racket, glass windows and moist handles vibrating within their sockets like charged electrons. His eyes, mercifully still closed, allowed yours to linger on his mouth—to decipher each word as it formed, and to savor the quiet contemplation.

“Being fashionably late usually draws more attention than I like to get.”

“So why bother going? You don’t look like you enjoy being in the public eye that much anyway.”

Only one eye opened, tentatively so, and met your small, expectant smile, chin resting on your fist and your crossed legs imperceptibly brushing his. Any story he could’ve told you right then would’ve been riveting, it seemed, and for the first time in weeks Oscar found that for you, he did not mind sharing one.

“I told Lando I’d go. We collided yesterday on track and they thought it would maybe look bad if one of us showed up and not the other. Like we’re avoiding each other or something. I don’t know, PR stuff. But I promised Lando, so.” He pursed his lips then, and blew air through his nose, holding back a giggle. “Also, I don’t know, I felt like I had to go. I had a… a premonition.”

“A premonition?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, some kind of hunch. In my cereal.”

You stared at him long, assessing him and the likelihood of a lie, but he was a master of the unreadable smile, the one that could mean anything from I’m one look away from bursting into laughter to I have never dissociated more than I am currently, and even, perhaps, I wish this train ride with you would never end.

“In your cereal?”

“This morning, at the breakfast buffet, I had cereal and there was this kinda cornflake clump that looked like a clapperboard. You know,” he mimed it with his hands and the click of the tongue to match. “So I thought that was some… sign? The universe was telling me to go to this premiere, or something.” His neck tensed abruptly as he suddenly remembered himself. Who he was, and what he believed in. “But uh, that’s a little stupid. Forget it.”

The subway doors opened and closed, chimes rang and accordion tunes from the platforms faded in and out of the background chatter. You had close to lost count of how many stops were left until Times Square. The incessant ballet of New York’s illustrious unknowns would still play out, with or without your attention.

When Oscar looked down at you, almost entirely hunched over his lap and taking him in like he was an August rainshower, he found you beaming.

“No, I totally get you. This date I was supposed to go on before I ran into you… I went because Ramen showed up, even though there were so many red flags that I could’ve seen coming.”

“Who?”

“Ramen.”

“Who’s Ramen?”

“The neighbor’s cat. That’s not his real name, just what I call him.”

Oscar stared at you, expression frozen in one of delightful incomprehension, the one you get when you are not entirely sure a miracle is destined for you just yet. And you stared back, awaiting his next words for as long as it’d take them to come.

“So you went on a date because a cat told you to?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, silly, he’s a cat,” you retorted like it was the most obvious thing in the universe, to which Oscar rolled his eyes and muttered Of course. “He just stared, and every time he does it, I know I’m gonna get lucky that day. He’s never failed me before. Well, until today.”

A beat passed, during which you refused to elaborate further out of fear you’d betray the words lingering at the front of your mouth. Maybe this hadn’t been a miss for Ramen, after all. Maybe his magic had worked in unexpected ways. Oscar, on the other hand, just basked in the whole of you, and his lips slightly parted without a sound, as though they didn’t quite know where to begin.

“What?”

“It’s just… My job, this whole universe I live in, there’s no room for good luck charms or silly little superstitions. They’re just… distractions. All the answers are in the data. Our only faith is in the numbers.” And you sensed him about to say something else, something he had to wring out of the very cloth of his ribcage, but suddenly the deep wells in his pupils were sealed off with his favorite lid of deadpan humor. “Well, except the Italians. But they suck, so I wouldn’t take them as an example.”

“Oh my God, Oscar,” you gasped, “you can’t say that, do you know how many Italians there are in New Y—”

A sudden jolt shook the entire train, knocking the carriage back onto its breathless tracks; the momentum sent a teenage girl flying into a tall gym guy, who in turn crashed into you—your hands were too slow to catch you, not lighting-fast and gloved in greatness—you fell on top of Oscar, your nose buried against the open buttons of his shirt.

You were upright in less than a second, locked in a litany of Oh my God sorry’s to which Oscar replied his own recitation of No worries it’s not your fault’s. The train resumed its journey through the depths of Manhattan as if nothing had happened, and truthfully nothing had—except you were now a little closer to each other than you’d been before, and you hoped with all your might that he wouldn’t notice the way your eyelids fluttered, or how your fingertips had started burning up, or how the air was now thicker, or maybe you hoped he did, so you wouldn’t have to speak it aloud—nothing had happened, and truthfully everything had.

“Why did you think I was going to the F1 premiere back there?” you asked softly, not sure why that was the question you’d elected to go with now.

Oscar’s face was impassible—he’d found his calm, collected control back. But he didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, that you could hear his heartbeat louder than the railroad racket below.

“You looked funny.”

“Okay, you’re literally wearing a bowtie, and it’s crooked, by the way.”

“No, I mean, you looked pretty.” The faintest flick of his tongue showed above his bottom lip, undoubtedly accidental. “You looked really pretty, so I assumed you were a guest or something.”

Maybe what you’d heard and thought was his heart pulsating in sync with the wobbly tracks had not been his, but yours. Somewhere indistinct, the lady’s mechanical voice crackled something about Times Square. 

“Thank you,” you smiled, with no mischief attached, this time.

“I’m… pretty glad that your date didn’t show up in the end, huh,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“Oscar, Times Square,” you sprung to your feet, nearly twisting your ankle. “That’s you!”

The doors almost chewed down on the hem of Oscar’s pants when he jumped out of the train. Without so much as a glance back or a single word of forgiveness, all the carriages vanished into heavy shadows, and the world was back to normal again.

Or almost. If there was anything even remotely normal about Times Square.

Every single light blinded you—no matter how many times you came you could never wrap your head around how the place managed to dazzle you even in broad daylight—as you both exited the metro station. Summer lay heavily on the commotion of cars, police whistles, loud music, and… screaming bloody murder?

“Ah, I think that’s my cue.”

Oscar held his hand over his eyes as he took in the scene, and only then did you notice the race cars parked in the middle of the street, some fifty meters ahead. It was probably a fair assumption, then, that the thousands of people massed near the makeshift stage, underneath gigantic screens, were all waiting for him. A fair assumption, and an incredibly odd one; to think you had spent such a mundane moment with the man they would soon shout themselves hoarse for!

“Yeah, good luck with that, I’m not going any nearer,” you forced between clenched teeth. “I hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

When you spun on your heel, you found Oscar extending his hand out for you to shake, squinting his eyes against the sun. Or maybe it was an excuse not to have to look you in the eye more than absolutely necessary. In the same way you couldn’t tell whether your hand was slightly clammy from the heat or the nerves.

“Thanks for saving the day. Or at least mine,” he said, a little too solemn, a little too final. Like this was a farewell rather than an acknowledgment.

“Thanks for saving mine,” you replied, hoping the little smile you forced on your lips looked appropriately warm, and not inexplicably aching. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

To anyone else Oscar would’ve replied the truth—Probably not—but that was not what his bowl of cereal would have wanted of him, so he said:

“Maybe.”

He gave you a wink half a second too long, and immediately looked horrified at what he’d done, which made you double over in a flurry of giggles. When you opened your eyes, he was a few steps ahead, waving you goodbye, and you returned the salute. You watched him jog the distance to the first cameras until he was but one more black and white dot in a sea of elegant millionaires, your throat hollow save for a funny kind of longing.

Then you walked back the way you came, carrying the end of your skirt down the stairs of the metro station.

Thirty minutes later, as you rummaged through your purse for your keys in front of your apartment complex, you noticed your phone lighting up. Usually, when you went on a date, you’d put it on Do not disturb so as to not be tempted—basic education, you reckoned, and something not many dates of yours had had the courtesy of reciprocating—, but you always sent your best friend your location beforehand and allowed her and only her to go through. She knew better than to text you unless it was life or death.

Clearly, this was of the utmost importance, and the fact there were only three messages instead of the fifty-seven you were expecting did not reassure you one bit.

“bitch” “who tf is that with oscar” “and why tf is it you??????”

A link to a TikTok came up mere seconds later.

The sage green gown was unmistakable. Anything else could’ve been explained otherwise, maybe blamed on some uncanny resemblance, a fortuitous angle—it looked like the video had been shot from very far away, and the protagonists not at all aware of the recording; but you would’ve recognized that lilypad-bright dress anywhere. Just like you knew that the blurry mass of pixels near the man’s face was a pathetic excuse for a wink, and the woman doubling over for no reason was actually laughing. That she’d watched him disappear into the crowd, immobile and longing, to commit to memory the very way his bones moved when he walked.

“Oscar Piastri’s Mystery Date Gets Cold Feet Right Before Red Carpet Debut?? 👀”

You stared at your phone even as it kept going off, its vibrations tickling your palm. A series of interrogation marks, each its individual message, popped up one after the other on your notification bar, and all you could do was clutch the screen as though you could shatter it with your bare hands.

This meant nothing, you calmed yourself down. This would blow over soon, you swore. As soon as they realized Oscar Piastri would never be seen again with this mysterious woman, and that it was never anything serious. Anything at all, even. That the New Yorker in apple green was just a mirage on his path, pertaining only to him and for a split instant.

And even if things didn’t smooth over… you had a feeling Oscar’s team would have no problem tracking you down.

©musicallisto, 2025

⤷ THIS IS PART ONE OF A SERIES — READ PART TWO here ! ⤷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... endless giggles (ln4)!

[si3rren]

Real Men Love Cats

enhypen masterlist wattpad

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

cat dad!yang jungwon x chaotic cat mom!fem!reader | strangers to lovers | chaos-meets-softness tension | pure fluff

a/n: did yall notice im obsessed with mv “brought the heat back”

summary: when your drenched classmate crashes your peaceful night with a rescue kitten and turns out, the coldest guy in class is secretly a cat dad with seven rescues—and he’s been pretending to need your help just to get close to you.

warning: too many cats, soggy hoodie, emotionally repressed soft boys, chaotic domestic fluff, accidental cuddling, light kissing, love confession, mutual pining, cat hair everywhere, and the world’s quietest man pulling the boldest move.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Your Monday night was going exactly as planned.

That is to say: fleece blanket burrito, mug of overpriced peach tea, and your three cats—Miso, Tofu, and Mackerel—forming a fluffy cuddle pile on your lap while you rewatched The Cat Returns for the thirtieth time. Nothing could ruin this sacred ritual.

Until something did.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

You stared at your front door like it had personally offended you.

Another knock. Insistent. Urgent. Slightly chaotic. You flinched, displacing Miso, who gave an offended meow and launched herself off your thigh with all the drama of a Shakespearean heroine.

“Coming!” you shouted, tugging your hoodie over your mismatched pajama set. You opened the door—and froze.

There stood Yang Jungwon.

Yes. That Yang Jungwon. The broody, mysterious, top-of-the-class guy from your ethics seminar. He never spoke unless directly called on. He always wore black. He had perfect notes, a perfectly annoying smirk, and a face that should not legally be allowed on a college campus.

And he was soaked to the bone, hair dripping, hoodie clinging to his lean frame, and—most jarringly—holding a yowling orange kitten wrapped in his jacket like a swaddled baby.

You blinked. He blinked back.

Then, softly, with the desperation of a man who had clearly lost all shame:

“Help.”

You slammed the door in his face.

There was a beat of silence.

Then you opened it again, guilt flooding in. “I panicked.”

“No, yeah, I get it.” He looked down at the kitten. “I also panicked.”

You moved aside and let him in. He tracked water onto your rug. Miso growled. Tofu attempted to climb him like a tree. The kitten escaped his jacket and leapt directly into your cereal bowl. Chaos descended immediately.

“Your cats are… lively,” Jungwon said as he tried to prevent Mackerel from stealing his wet sock.

“You brought home a demon in the shape of a kitten,” you shot back, scooping up the orange menace. “Why are you even here?”

He hesitated. Then said:

“I heard you’re the cat girl.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I asked Yunjin from class where I could take him”—he gestured to the now-purring kitten in your arms—“and she said, quote, ‘Try the cat girl. She’ll probably be thrilled.’ Then she gave me your address. So.”

You stared at him.

He stared back. Then added, very seriously: “I don’t know what to do. He was in a storm drain. He followed me for like three blocks. I couldn’t just leave him there, and now he keeps biting me, and my roommate is allergic, and I’m really good with dogs but this thing is built different—”

You watched as the kitten bit his thumb mid-sentence. He winced but kept talking.

“…See?”

You melted.

Because as much as Jungwon looked like he belonged in a luxury perfume ad, the image of him soaked and distressed with a tiny, furious kitten in tow had broken your brain entirely.

“Okay,” you said, suppressing a smile. “I’ll help. But first, we’re giving him a bath.”

He paled. “A what?”

⸻

Turns out, Jungwon was completely useless with cats.

He held the kitten like it was a nuclear bomb. He jumped every time it meowed. He asked—genuinely, in a small, horrified voice—“Do cats like water?”

You had to physically restrain your laughter.

By the time you’d finished drying the kitten off, Miso had decided Jungwon was acceptable company. She curled around his leg and began purring. He looked down at her, stunned.

“…She’s vibrating.”

“That’s purring,” you explained patiently. “It means she likes you.”

He looked so confused. And then… soft. Like he didn’t know how to handle being liked.

Your chest twinged.

You didn’t know much about Jungwon, but something in the way he touched the kitten—gentle, careful, reverent—told you there was a much gentler boy under all that mystery.

“So…” he began. “How many cats do you have?”

“Three. Not counting this one.”

He gave a small smile, eyes crinkling. “Still think I’m the cold, mysterious guy in the corner?”

Your heart stuttered.

Maybe it was the way the kitten nuzzled into his chest. Or how Mackerel was asleep in his lap. Or how he was so soft beneath all that brooding.

Maybe it was the way you couldn’t stop smiling.

“I think,” you said slowly, “you might be one of us.”

He tilted his head. “One of…?”

“The cat people.” You grinned. “You’re one of us now. There’s no going back.”

He blinked. Then laughed—really laughed—and you decided right then:

You were completely doomed.

_______

Jungwon texted you the next morning.

wonie 🐱🍓 [8:17 AM]:

Kitten is alive. Still evil. May need exorcism.

Also, thank you. Really.

YOU [8:21 AM]:

You’re welcome.

He bit your thumb because he loves you.

That’s how cats say “ride or die.”

wonie 🐱🍓 [8:22 AM]:

So romantic.

Also he just peed in my laundry basket

⸻

That was the beginning.

Over the next two weeks, Jungwon appeared in your life like stray fur: suddenly, stubbornly, and everywhere.

He texted you about the kitten (now affectionately named Mugwort, though you insisted that was cursed energy). He stopped by your apartment “just to ask questions,” which somehow turned into late-night tea and your cats climbing into his lap like they’d claimed him. He sent you pictures of Mugwort curled up on his pillow, clawing through his socks, sleeping in his hoodie.

He even asked if you wanted to visit a new café that had cat-shaped macarons. You said yes, because you were weak. And because you liked the way he smiled when Miso sat in his lap and purred like a Harley Davidson.

You still thought he was clueless about cats. Still called him Newbie Cat Dad. Still thought it was adorable that he panicked every time one of your cats sneezed.

And he let you believe it.

⸻

The cat café was on a quiet street tucked between a boba shop and a stationery store, with fairy lights in the window and little paw prints painted on the glass door.

The moment you stepped inside, you gasped.

“They have a calico hammock.” You pointed like you’d discovered treasure. “And—oh my god. Is that a Bengal in a suit?”

Jungwon followed behind you, hands in his hoodie pocket, watching you whirl around with the wide-eyed joy of a child in a candy store. A lazy gray Ragdoll leapt onto your shoulder. You let it stay there like it was a fashion choice.

“You know,” he said, deadpan, “I think you might like cats.”

You grinned at him. “Bold of you to assume.”

You took a seat by the window, brushing off a few stray cat hairs. Jungwon sat across from you, and for a moment, he looked…nervous. Fingers fidgeting in his lap. Eyes flicking to your mouth when you weren’t looking. You didn’t notice any of it. You were too busy making kissy faces at a Siamese kitten doing flips.

“You’re such a natural now,” you teased, nodding toward the tuxedo cat pawing at Jungwon’s elbow. “Remember when you thought cats liked water?”

His ears turned pink. “I was acting under pressure.”

“Sure. Total crisis mode. Very life-or-death.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when I braved your bath-time hellscape to save Mugwort’s life,” he shot back, but his voice was warm. You were both smiling.

The waitress arrived with two matcha lattes topped with cat-shaped foam. Yours had a paw. His had a heart. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to be staring at you.

“You’ve really gotten attached,” you said softly. “To Mugwort.”

He paused. “I guess I get attached easily.”

Your heart did a weird, inconvenient somersault.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, desperate to fill the silence, “What ever happened to your roommate? The one who’s allergic?”

Jungwon blinked. Then gave a tiny, sly shrug.

“Oh. I… don’t have one.”

You stared. “You what?”

“I live alone.”

“…So you just lied?”

His smile turned secretive. “Technically I omitted.”

You squinted. “But then why did you come to me?”

He met your gaze.

And just like that, everything around you—the cats, the customers, the clinking glasses—blurred into soft background noise.

Jungwon’s voice dropped, low and warm. “Because I wanted to talk to you. And I didn’t know how.”

You blinked. “So… you faked a cat crisis.”

“I didn’t fake it,” he defended, suddenly sheepish. “Mugwort was real. But I might’ve… waited for the right opportunity. Like, maybe I passed your building a few times with him in my hoodie hoping to see you. Not stalkerish, just… statistically persistent.”

You were speechless.

He scratched the back of his neck, now fully pink in the ears. “I figured—worst case, you’d help the kitten. Best case, you’d talk to me. And maybe—maybe you’d let me stay longer.”

“…Jungwon.”

“I know it’s stupid,” he said quickly. “But you were always smiling at cats in class. I liked that. I liked you. I thought if you saw me with one, maybe you’d…”

He trailed off. Voice quiet.

“…see me, too.”

Your heart clenched.

You couldn’t help it—you reached across the table and took his hand. He froze. But he didn’t pull away.

“You idiot,” you said gently. “I already saw you.”

He looked up, eyes wide.

“I saw the guy who stayed up researching wet cat food brands. Who sat through four hours of Ghibli cat movies with me. Who lets Mackerel steal his phone charger and calls Mugwort sir when he bites him.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I liked you before the cats, Jungwon. But the cats helped.”

He smiled—really smiled—and you felt it in your ribs.

“…I have seven,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Seven what?”

“Cats.”

You stared.

He braced for impact.

You gasped. “You LIAR.”

“I was scared you’d think it was too much!”

“You—You have a mini zoo!”

“I know!”

You smacked his arm (gently). “You pretended to be a newbie?”

“Technically I’m a veteran cat whisperer,” he said smugly. “But I didn’t want to scare you off.”

You gawked at him. “Jungwon, I have a three-cat council in my apartment that judges my cereal choices. You think seven is gonna scare me?”

“…So you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” You leaned closer. “I want to meet them.”

His eyes sparkled. “You mean it?”

You nodded. “Under one condition.”

“Anything.”

You reached into your bag, pulled out a bright pink cat hoodie (complete with ears), and slid it across the table.

He blinked. “…You’re joking.”

“Real men love cats,” you said sweetly. “Now put it on.”

And to your utter, breath-stealing delight—he did.

⸻

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, warm, and buzzing with something new. The kind of quiet where you didn’t need to talk. Just the shuffle of feet. The purr of contentment.

He held your hand. You let him. You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he.

Until you stopped by your door. Looked up. Bit your lip.

He stepped closer.

“I’m really glad you brought Mugwort to my door,” you said softly.

“I’m really glad you opened it.”

You smiled.

Then—you kissed him.

Just once. Light. Quick. But full of everything you’d wanted to say since the moment he showed up, soaked and soft and pretending to need help when all he needed was a reason to stay.

He kissed you back. A little longer. A little surer.

And when he pulled away, breathless, he whispered:

“Real men love cats, huh?”

You grinned. “Especially the ones who fake being clueless to impress the cat girl.”

__________

THANK YOU FOR READING PLS REBLOG AND COMMENT

AND AND did yall notice im obsessed with “brought the heat back” by enhypen 😋😋😋

© si3rren 2025. all rights reserved.

[xinganhao]

xinganhao 🌟 shared a moment with you: "wonwoo x reader"

boyfriend!wonwoo texts except you're his chronically online girlfriend, part two. part one here. in filo terms: nonchalant, 'pogi typings' wonwoo x oa!reader. suggestive + 'kms' jokes + headcanons under the cut. for one of my first friends on this site, @wonustars. <3

a day in the life of chronically offline!wonwoo and his girlfriend.

you’re on his lap, mid-rant about a fictional character’s downfall arc, waving your phone. wonwoo isn’t even pretending to understand. he just lets you use his chest as a podium while he hums in response, occasionally muttering, “that does sound tragic,” like a therapist indulging your latest mental illness. you pause, point a dramatic finger in his face. “you’d get it if you watched the edits i send you.” he presses a kiss to your knuckle. “i’d rather just watch you.”

once, you made a meme of him. full-on impact-font-level stupid. it was a blurry screenshot from a video call, wonwoo mid-blink, captioned, when she says she’s gonna sleep but you see her still liking tiktoks at 3am. it went semi-viral in your niche circle. he found out. he sent you a voice note with an unamused “mnnh.” but when you apologized, laughing, he just said, “keep it up, and i'm charging licensing fees.”

he likes words. you like emojis that are vaguely threatening. he sends you a poem; you send him 🔪💕💥🩸. wonwoo asks, “was that a response?” you say, “it's interpretive.” he saves the message anyway.

he doesn’t get why you need to narrate everything you do like a youtube vlog, but he lets you. you’ll be brushing your teeth, half-foam, going “today we’re gonna gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss our way to productivity,” and wonwoo will be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like you’re his favorite anomaly. doesn’t say much. just smiles a little when you nearly choke on your toothpaste from laughing at yourself.

wonwoo reads with glasses on. it does things to you. things that are unspeakable. once you saw him half-sprawled on the couch, legs long and messy, copy of ‘the unbearable lightness of being’ in hand, and you just... climbed him like a tree. no warning. running purely on thirst and impulse. he blinked, said, “do you mind?” but his hands were already steadying your hips.

you told him you had a parasocial crush on him before you got together. it slipped out one night when you were tipsy and emotional, rambling something like, “i used to look at fancams of you and think: no way he’s real.” wonwoo had blinked slow, cheeks red, voice soft. “i thought the same thing. about you. just not with fancams. with... you being you.”

when you sleep over, wonwoo always turns off the wifi for your own good. “i’m saving you from another four-hour deep dive into love island lore,” he says, confiscating your phone. you glare. he grins. you wrestle for it like gremlins. you lose. he throws it across the room and pulls you under the sheets like a jail warden. you sulk into his chest until he rubs your back and calls you his “terminally online menace.”

you gave wonwoo a custom keyboard with purple switches and cat paw keycaps. he gave you a first edition of your favorite manga, annotated with his thoughts in the margins. you cried. he panicked. you said, “they were happy tears!” he said, “that’s worse. now i have expectations.”

wonwoo likes slow mornings. you wake up like a cracked egg, chaotic and leaking everywhere. wonwoo doesn’t mind. he just pulls you into his lap, tucks your head under his chin while you scroll your cursed meme feed aloud. he doesn’t laugh at most of them, but his chest occasionally shakes and he might sometimes even snort. for the most part, he presses kisses to the top of your head as if it’s the most normal way to say i love you.

you sexted him a poorly-drawn ms paint diagram of your thighs with “wonwoo parking only” scribbled across them. wonwoo left you on read. came home early. didn’t say a word. just dropped his bag, walked over, and knelt between your legs with reverence. then, deadpan: “i saw the sign. i’m obeying traffic laws."

sometimes, wonwoo doubts himself. thinks he’s not enough, too quiet, too strange. you shut it down every time. “you’re my favorite human-shaped wikipedia tab,” you say. “you’re my proof that love can be gentle.”

wonwoo has a folder of screenshots titled “stupidly cute.” it includes everything from your cursed selfies to your half-thought texts at 2am (“do you think bugs have dreams”). you find it once and try to tease him. he just shrugs. “you document the world. i document you.”

[nekonaps0]

The worst wingmans

✦Epel x Reader

✦gn!reader

✦awkward crushes / flirting gone wrong / wingman Rook, Vil, Leona / mutual pining

The courtyard was calm that afternoon, with sunlight filtering lazily through the NRC’s garden. Epel leaned against a tree, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his gaze kept drifting over to you.

You were sitting on a stone bench, your hair catching the light in that annoyingly perfect way that made his chest feel tight. You weren’t doing anything particularly flashy just reading but somehow that made it worse. The quiet curve of your smile, the way you occasionally tucked your hair back without even thinking… it was driving him insane.

Epel wasn’t the best with feelings. Sure, he could charm people but this wasn’t trying to get an extra slice of pie from the cafeteria, this was you.

“Monsieur Pommette~”

The sudden, singsong voice made him jump, nearly dropping his phone. He turned to see Rook standing there with that ever present mysterious smile, leaning in far too close.

“Hey! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Epel hissed, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Non, non, I simply followed my instincts. You were staring so intently… like a cat fixated on his prey.” Rook’s eyes twinkled knowingly as he folded his hands behind his back. “So… who is it?”

Epel’s cheeks turned crimson. “Wh—what are ya talkin’ about?”

Rook tilted his head. “I can practically taste the love in the air. Your gaze has been locked on them for the past five minutes.” His smirk widened. “You have fallen under the spell of love~.”

Epel clenched his jaw and muttered, “Maybe I have… so what?”

“Ah, beautiful!” Rook clapped his hands together in delight. “And you wish for them to return your affections, oui?”

“…Maybe,” Epel grumbled again, looking away.

“Then you must seize the moment! A true romantic not wait for destiny, he crafts it himself!”

Epel narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you planning?”

“Something timeless… dramatic… poetic,” Rook purred. “You will serenade them under their window tonight. Music is the arrow that pierces the heart.”

Epel blinked. “…You want me to… sing? Outside their window? Like in one of those cheesy romance movies?”

“Yes yes!”

Epel groaned. He knew this was a terrible idea. But the way Rook’s enthusiasm was infectious, and the faint hope that maybe it would impress you was enough to make him agree.

•

That night, Epel found himself standing under your dorm window with a guitar Rook had shoved into his hands, his palms sweaty.

“Go on,” Rook whispered from the shadows. “Begin with a gentle toss of a stone to draw their gaze, then let the music carry your message of love.”

Epel took a deep breath, picked up a small rock from the ground, and aimed for your window. Light toss, don’t break the glass, he thought.

The rock flew through the air and just as it reached your window, you pushed it open…

“Hmm? What was—OW! WHAT THE HELL?!”

The rock hit you on the forehead. You flinched, hand flying to your head.

Epel froze, every muscle in his body locking up. His mouth dropped open in horror.

“Oh…. shit! I—” he stammered. But panic surged through him. If you saw it was him, you’d never let him live it down. Without thinking, he dropped the guitar and run into the shadows.

You leaned out the window, rubbing your head and frowning. “…What the heck was that?”

From a safe distance, Epel crouched behind a bush, face burning hotter than the sun.

Smooth, Felmier. Real smooth…

•

The Pomefiore dorm lounge was quiet except for the pitiful groan of one very, very humiliated Epel. He lay face down on the couch, arms and legs spread out like a tragic painting, his face buried deep in the cushions. If the couch could have swallowed him whole, he’d have gladly let it.

From across the room, Vil and Rook stood side by side, sipping tea and watching him as though he were some rare species of wildlife.

“Oh my…” Rook murmured, “he has been like this all morning. Ever since the… ah… incident.”

Vil arched an elegant brow. “incident?”

“Oh, it was magnifique!” Rook began dramatically, “Our dear Epel aimed to woo his beloved with song beneath their window, but—”

Vil cut him off with a sharp look. “Get to the point, Rook.”

Rook’s smile widened. “He threw a rock to gain their attention, but the timing was… unfortunate. Instead of the window, the rock met their forehead.”

Vil stared at Rook for a long, heavy second… then slowly turned his gaze to Epel. “You hit them in the head with a rock?!”

Epel groaned louder and pulled a pillow over his head. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to! UGH, just forget it. I’m never talking to them again…”

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re hopeless. If you keep moping like this, you’ll never get anywhere. Clearly, Rook’s brand of ‘romance’ is too… theatrical for you.”

“Excuse me—” Rook began to protest, but Vil silenced him with a raised hand.

“No, this requires a gentler touch. Everyone enjoys a little self care. A gift that says ‘I care about your well being’ without being so in your face.” Vil folded his arms. “Buy them some bath bombs, a nourishing face mask, maybe a nice body lotion. It’s thoughtful, safe, and not prone to concussing anyone.”

Epel peeked out from under the pillow. “…That actually don’t sound too bad.”

•

Later that week, Epel stood nervously in front of you, clutching a small pastel gift bag. He’d spent more than he wanted to admit on this fancy rose scented bath bombs, masks, a bottle of expensive face cream that Vil once mentioned that it’s popular and really affective.

When you looked up Epel thrust the bag toward you. “Uh… here. I, uh, got ya somethin’.”

You blinked in surprise and took the bag, peeking inside. “Oh… bath bombs? Skincare?”

“Y-yeah,” Epel stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “This one’s for moisturizing, this one is for problematic skin, and that one’s for helpin’ with puffy eyes. And, uh… this one helps control oil so your skin don’t—”

You blinked twice, then tilted your head. “…Are you saying I have oily skin and eyebags? And my skin is problematic?”

Epel froze, eyes widening. “What? No! I didn’t mean!”

You smiled… awkward, polite, but distant, and tucked the bag under your arm. “Well… thanks. That’s… thoughtful.” Then you turned and walked away before he could dig himself any deeper.

Epel stood there, shoulders slumped, feeling the crushing weight of defeat again.

From a nearby bench, Rook and Vil watched the exchange.

“Vil…. I do believe your plan was perhaps not suited to his delivery,” Rook mused.

Vil sighed. “No, the plan was fine. The execution… not so much.”

Epel just groaned into his hands. “I’m gonna kill myself…”

•

The clatter of brooms and shouts from the spelldrive field echoed in the distance, but Epel wasn’t hearing any of it. He was slumped on the bench, chin in hand, staring at the grass. His broom lay forgotten at his side.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like spelldrive, he loved it, but right now, his brain was stuck on one loop “I hit them in the head with a rock. I gave them skincare and made it sound like an insult. They probably think I’m the weirdest guy alive… that’s it….”

“Oi, you dyin’ or somethin’?”

Epel looked up to see Ruggie standing over him with a half eaten meat bun, Leona trailing lazily behind.

“What’s your problem?” Ruggie asked, sitting on the bench next to him.

Epel sighed heavily. “Nothing except that I’m cooked. Totally. I messed up twice tryin’ to impress someone, and now they probably think I’m some… weirdo.”

Leona raised an eyebrow. “You mean Y/N?”

Epel’s head snapped up. “H-how do you—?”

Leona smirked. “You’re not exactly subtle, kid. You’ve been starin’ at them during practice for weeks.”

Ruggie grinned. “Yeah, it’s kinda cute. Like watchin’ a baby deer try to walk on ice.”

“Gee, thanks,” Epel muttered.

Leona leaned on the back of the bench, eyeing him lazily. “Ever thought of just… flirting with them? Instead of throwing rocks at their head or giving them face cream?”

Epel frowned. “I ain’t good at that kinda thing.”

Ruggie snorted. “Doesn’t have to be complicated. Just be smooth, y’know? A little compliment, a little grin. Works every time.”

“Or,” Leona added with a smirk, “you could keep moping here and I’ll start taking bets on how long it takes before they start dating someone else.”

That lit a spark in Epel’s chest. He looked up at Leona. the guy was effortlessly cool, and if he said flirting worked, maybe it really would.

“…Alright,” Epel muttered. “I’ll try it!”

Leona just rolled his eyes, smirking as he walked back toward the field. “Good luck, lover boy.”

•

A few days later, Epel spotted you sitting alone under a tree. His pulse jumped. Okay, this is it. Be cool. Be like Leona. You got this.

He walked over, hands in his pockets, and leaned against the tree beside you. “Hey there… fancy seein’ you here all by yourself.”

You glanced up, blinking. “…Hi?”

He smirked… or at least, tried to. “Ya know, someone as cute as you shouldn’t be sittin’ alone. What if someone came along and—”

You tilted your head, confusion clear on your face. “…Are you trying to flirt with me?”

The smirk dropped instantly. His face went bright red. “I—uh—no! I mean—yeah! I mean—aw, forget it!”

Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. “I like you, alright?! I’ve liked you for a while, and every time I try to show it, I screw it up, and you probably think I’m an idiot but—”

He froze mid sentence, realizing what he just blurted. His eyes went wide. You stared at him for a beat… and then laughed.

Epel’s heart sank. That’s it. I blew it. They’re laughin’ at me. I look so—

But before he could spiral further, you stood up and leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His brain short circuited.

“Next time,” you said with a smile, “just try asking me on a date.”

And then you walked away, leaving Epel standing there, stunned.

It took a full five seconds before his brain caught up, and when it did, he grinned so wide it hurt. His hands clenched into fists in pure excitement.

“…I finally win,” he whispered to himself, grinning like a fool. “I FUCKING DID IT!!!”

..............................................................................................................................