#Female Traveller

[rose24207]

My dad is a dumbass

Summary: Lucas is sent back in time to ensure his teenage father falls for his outcast mother instead of the wrong girl.

Genre: fluff, popular!Lando x bullied!reader, time travel

TW: bullying

A/N: I watched twinkling watermelon. SOMEONE SEDATE ME- anyways… *cough cough* English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist pt. 2

The moment Lucas felt the world spin beneath his feet, he knew something was very wrong. One second, he had been in his dad’s garage, tinkering with some old F1 tech Lando had insisted was too dangerous to touch, and the next?

He was here—standing in the middle of a high school hallway that smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and regret.

Lucas stumbled, heart racing. The world had shifted—subtly, but undeniably. Everything around him was different. The posters on the walls advertised school dances from years ago. The fashion was outdated. The phones in students' hands were clunky.

His breath hitched.

This wasn’t just any high school.

This was your high school.

His parents had met here.

And from the way the students around him carried on, oblivious to the fact that a future-born kid had just dropped into their reality, it hit him.

He had traveled back in time.

And then he heard it.

A voice so familiar it made his stomach twist.

“Oi, Carlos, did you see that goal? Absolute beauty, mate!”

Lucas turned his head so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

There, leaning against the lockers, laughing with a group of friends, was Lando Norris.

Not Dad, the grown-up who nagged him about cleaning his room and told embarrassing stories to his friends. No, this was seventeen-year-old Lando—loud, confident, grinning like he owned the world.

Lucas nearly choked.

Holy shit. My dad is a dumbass teenager.

You always knew how to make yourself invisible. It was a skill you had mastered long ago—sitting in the farthest corner of the library, keeping your head down, never speaking unless necessary. It was safer that way.

High school had been unkind to you. The whispers, the taunts, the stolen lunch money—they had worn you down over time, molding you into someone small and quiet.

You thought you were alone.

Until a chair scraped across from you, and a boy you didn’t recognize sat down.

You stiffened, gripping your book tighter.

“Uh… do I know you?” you asked hesitantly.

The boy—Lucas, as he introduced himself—smiled, easy and relaxed. “Not yet.”

There was something strange about him. He didn’t feel like a normal teenager. His gaze was too sharp, too knowing. And yet… when he glanced at your book and casually remarked, “Pride and Prejudice? Classic,” you felt your heart stutter.

Nobody had ever paid attention to what you read.

“You’ve read it?” you asked, voice skeptical.

Lucas smirked. “More times than I can count.”

A flicker of warmth spread through your chest.

You hadn’t had a real conversation with someone in months.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

Lucas had a problem.

His dad was an idiot.

A lovesick idiot.

And not for the right girl.

Her name was Jessica. And she was, in Lucas’ professional opinion, the worst person on the planet.

She was the kind of girl who faked sweetness when people were watching but turned venomous the second they weren’t.

And seventeen-year-old Lando was eating right out of her perfectly manicured hand.

Lucas watched in horror as his father practically tripped over himself trying to impress her.

“She’s so obviously playing you,” Lucas muttered under his breath.

Carlos, standing nearby, gave him a weird look. “Do you know Lando?”

Lucas coughed. “Uh, no.”

Carlos shrugged. “Then why do you care?”

Lucas clenched his jaw. Because if my dad doesn’t stop being a dumbass, I might never be born.

He had to fix this.

The first time Lucas tried to break them up, it was simple.

He “accidentally” spilled his entire drink on Jessica’s very expensive designer bag.

“Oh my God!” she screeched, jumping back like she had been set on fire.

Lucas put on his best innocent face. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

Lando, ever the gentleman, immediately started panicking. “Jess, I’ll fix it, I swear—”

But Jessica was too busy throwing a tantrum about her ruined bag.

She stormed off.

Lucas grinned, satisfied. Problem solved.

Until the next day, when Lando was still mooning over her.

Lucas groaned. This is going to be harder than I thought.

Lucas wasn’t just here to make sure his parents fell in love.

He was here to protect you.

And it didn’t take long for him to see how much you needed it.

You never told him what was happening, but he saw it.

The girls whispering behind your back. The stolen lunch. The tripping in the hallways.

Lucas’ hands clenched into fists.

One day, he caught a group of girls sneering as you walked past.

“She’s so weird.”

“I heard she eats lunch alone every day.”

Lucas saw red.

“Funny,” he said loudly, making them freeze. “I was just thinking how weird you guys are.”

The leader, a blonde girl with too much makeup, scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You spend all your time talking about someone who doesn’t even know you exist,” Lucas said, crossing his arms. “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

Their faces burned red before they stormed off.

Lucas smirked. That’s what I thought.

Later that day, you hesitated before looking at him. “Why did you do that?”

Lucas shrugged. “Because you don’t deserve it.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly. “…Thank you.”

Lucas softened. “Anytime, Mum.”

You didn’t hear that last part.

Lucas had to be tactical.

He orchestrated run-ins between you and Lando.

He got you both paired as lab partners.

He even tripped Lando once just so he’d fall into your arms (which earned him a very suspicious glare from his dad).

And finally, finally, Lando started to notice you.

Lucas saw it—the way his dad’s eyes lingered too long, how he smiled softer around you.

It was working.

Until Jessica struck again.

She cornered Lando after school, batting her lashes. “Landooo, come to the party with me?”

Lucas froze.

If Lando went, he’d fall right back into her clutches.

Thinking fast, he jumped in. “Oh, he can’t.”

Lando blinked. “I can’t?”

Lucas clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Nope! He already has plans. With her.”

He pointed to you.

You turned scarlet. “W-what?”

Jessica scoffed. “Since when?”

Lucas grinned. “Since now.”

Lando looked at you, hesitant but intrigued.

“…I guess we have plans?”

You bit your lip. Then—shyly, hesitantly—you nodded.

“I guess we do.”

Jessica huffed and stormed off.

Lucas smirked. Checkmate bitch.

Days later, Lucas watched as Lando walked you home, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Lucas grinned.

His work here was done.

Now…

He just had to figure out how to get back home.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris

[parallaxaview]

[cogumellow]

less light // northern ontario, canada // 2007-2014 // ©

[agirlwholovesrockstars]

˜”*°•. 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 | by 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊 .•°*”˜

☢ 𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢 : it's 2024, you wanted to escape, escape from all of the agony from your family and leave the town that you're certainly not proud of, disheartened from all of your personal matters, you entered a peculiar record store and played one of their tapes that leads you to far away back, it's 1986

☢ 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : 18+ MDNI‼️ Eddie Munson x FEM!reader, cursing, reader and Eddie are both (20), time travel, sci-fi, fantasy, all of the characters in Stranger Things are still the same in this but I wrote them as if they were "real people" they exist and some kind of a "historical heroes in Hawkins", comedy, eventual smut, vi0lence, bl00d (but not gore), changing fate, family problems, reader is a moody young adult, discrimination, falsely accused, upside down

(each chapter will have more in-depth warnings)

☢ 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 : FLUFF, ANGST AND SMUT‼️I've been wanting to do this for such a long time! I have this idea that I badly want to write it immediately

☢ 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚃𝚘 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 : of course, as always, the first chapters will have a lot more fluff and angst, but don't you worry about that, I'll make it there to the good stuff ;))

☢ 𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎 : right after, I posted the last chapter of "you make me feel brand new" I wanted to make another series! hehe and I hope you'll enjoy and love reading this one! 🥺🫶🏻✨

☆ EDDIE MUNSON'S MASTERLIST ☆

❣ AGATHA'S MAIN PAGE ❣

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 : "𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 21 1986"

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 : "𝘐'𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦"

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 : "𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵"

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 : "𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵?"

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 : "𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?"

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱 : "𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘢 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘊𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭?" *JUST RELEASED*

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 : "If he wanted to, he would and he did" (✎ writing in progress)

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡���� :

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 :

★ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 :

[blackwomenrule]

[k-nayee]

Worship Challengers

wc: 3.9k a/n: just a sucker for men who stare at you like this😩

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You never really cared for tennis.

It was just one of those sports that passed you by—background noise.

If your cousin hadn’t begged you to chaperone her at the Junior Opening, you wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

She had her heart set on going and your parents were quick to agree for you with a look that made it impossible to say no.

So there you were: at a game you barely understood.

It was loud. The crowd, the energy, people cheering for players you never heard of before.

Your cousin, of course, was already vibrating with excitement. She didn’t even bother hiding her obsession—flipping through photos of Patrick Zweig on her phone and going on about his so-called legendary backhand.

“Look at him!” she said, shoving her phone in your face.

“Mhm,” you replied flatly, leaning away. “That’s nice. Real nice.”

You only half-listened as you mentally prepared to dissociate for the next couple of hours.

This was just a favor—a way to kill time. Nothing more.

Or so you thought.

That all changed when he stepped onto the court.

Art Donaldson.

At first you didn't know his name. Your cousin hadn't mentioned him once in her nonstop chatter.

She was too busy fawning over the crowd’s golden boy to notice the other player warming up on the opposite side of the net.

You noticed him though.

There was a quiet focus about him, an intensity that made everything else around him blur into the background.

While Patrick was already basking in the crowd’s cheers, this guy—tall, lean, with sharp focus—didn’t even look at the stands.

His eyes stayed locked across the net like nothing else in the world mattered.

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

After all you were stuck here for the next couple of hours—you might as well watch the match.

It wasn't until the game commenced did you realize it was more than that.

He had this steely gaze locked on the other side of the net. Even when his opponent scored, Art didn't falter.

He gripped his racket tighter, lips pressed in a firm line as if nothing else mattered but the game.

You leaned forward in your seat.

For someone who wasn't supposed to care, you found yourself caring—a lot.

Patrick was clearly the favorite; he was loud and brimming with confidence, waving and grinning after every point with an almost infectious energy.

But it was Art who held your attention.

His movements were sharp and precise like every moment was planned.

He didn't need the crowd's approval. He wasn't there to entertain anyone. He was there to play.

At one point Patrick sent a blistering serve across the court, a shot that would've thrown most off their game.

Art moved like it was nothing.

He returned the shot with a perfect backhand, sending the ball whipping past Patrick before he could even attempt to reach it.

The crowd fell silent for a beat and then the cheers erupted. Art didn't celebrate.

He simply reset, ready for the next point as if winning meant nothing.

And for the first time that day you actually cared about tennis (well at least his tennis).

Patrick might've been the crowd's favorite, but in your eyes there was no competition.

Art Donaldson had completely captured your attention and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were watching someone special.

The match went on point after point, but all you could think about was him.

As the final point approached you felt your heart racing. You knew how this would end—knew Patrick was going to win.

That didn’t stop you from silently rooting for Art, hoping against hope that he’d pull through.

When Patrick finally clinched the match cheers erupted with your cousin nearly jumping out of her seat in excitement.

All you could do was watch as Art stood there, breathing heavily, his racket still clenched in his hand.

He didn’t react—didn’t lash out in frustration or hang his head in defeat.

Instead he wiped the sweat from his brow with an unreadable expression and walked off the court with his head held high.

You felt your breath hitch, your chest tightening as you watch him disappear from the court.

And that’s when it hit you.

You had a crush.

A ridiculous, undeniable crush on Art Donaldson.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

You hadn’t thought about Art Donaldson in a long time.

Well...not really. Not since high school when he first captured your attention at the Junior Opening.

It had been years since that day and your crush on him had dulled over time. But not completely.

Fast-forward to now: Stanford University. You’d gotten in on an full ride academic scholarship—Business major, a time consuming program till the point tennis felt like a world away.

You weren’t involved in that type of scene, hell the only reason you thought about the sport from time to time was because of him.

Art was still there lingering on the edge of your thoughts even when you try not to think about it too much.

Then again, how could you when you saw him every now and then on campus?

You’d spot him walking across the quad or passing by in the dining hall with a distant gaze, lost in his own world.

He was hard to miss—still just as intense and focused as before but quieter now.

You tried not to let it affect you. It was silly to still have feelings for someone you didn’t even know.

Besides, you’d overheard the gossip—everyone had.

The whole campus seemed to know about the love triangle between him, his best friend Patrick Zweig, and Tashi Duncan.

Some said they were fighting over her; that their friendship had started to crack under the weight of it.

Others said it was only a matter of time before Art finally won her over after being in love with her for years.

And each time you heard it, you felt that old familiar pang in your chest.

It was a sharp reminder that no matter how much your crush had dulled it wasn’t entirely gone.

Meanwhile Tashi was a rising tennis star herself. Beautiful and talented, she was the kind of girl people wrote stories about, who turned heads wherever she went.

You? You didn’t stand a chance. She was everything you weren’t.

How could you ever compete with her?

Hell you’d never spoken to Art—not in high school and not now.

To him you were just another face on campus, another student passing by.

Despite it all, you couldn’t stop the flustered flare-ups every time you saw him.

Especially when you found out he was in your Statistics class.

You remember the first day he walked in—your heart had skipped a beat just like it used to.

Art Donaldson—your Art Donaldson—was sitting just a few seats away. You hadn’t expected it.

Stanford was a big campus and you figured you’d only ever see him in passing.

But there he was, sitting two rows away in the lecture hall.

It was ridiculous really.

You were a grown woman at one of the best universities in the country, and yet here you were acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Of course you didn’t talk to him. You barely even managed to glance his way without feeling like a complete idiot.

Every now and then, though, you’d steal a quick peek in his direction.

You couldn’t help it though. There was something about him—something that had stuck with you ever since that first match.

Sometimes at night you'd lay there and wonder what it would have been like if things had been different.

If he’d noticed you instead of Tashi. If you had been the one to catch his eye, that maybe things would have turned out differently.

But that was just wishful thinking.

So you kept your distance; sneaking shy glances in class, trying not to get caught while doing your best to focus on your coursework.

After all, what were the chances that someone like Art would ever notice someone like you?

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Art had always been good at keeping his emotions in check.

After losing to Patrick at the Junior Opening he’d done his best to shove his feelings for Tashi aside.

It wasn’t easy—she and Patrick were always around, the three of them inseparable.

Patrick had won her over after all. And Art? Well he knew better than to dwell on it.

It was better this way. It had to.

So Art threw himself into his tennis at Stanford. The one thing that had always grounded him.

There were days where it worked, where the rush of practice or the sound of the ball smacking against his racket was enough to quiet his mind.

But then there were days where it didn't.

It was during a practice break, he was standing on the sidelines with Tashi who was texting Patrick.

Art stared off at the court as his thoughts wandered. He’d been trying—really trying—to move on and keep his mind clear.

Tashi was still with Patrick. He had no claim over her.

There was no reason to feel the way he did. She was happy.

 ̶H̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶t̶̶r̶̶y̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶b̶̶e̶

He sighed, taking a swig from his water bottle when he noticed something—or rather someone.

You were scampering across the far side of the courts to a couple of the other players, your yellow floral dress catching the light.

The way you moved, the way your dress flowed around you...it felt like everything around you blurred out.

He didn’t even register what you were holding—some kind of water bottles or equipment—too focused on the way you smile as you talked.

Art blinked. Hard.

He knew most of the regulars around the tennis practices (especially those involved with the team), but you didn’t fit into any of those familiar faces.

His gaze followed your every step, lingering on your retreating figure as his mind spined with questions.

Who were you?

“Art.”

He snapped back a little too quickly, blinking at Tashi as she looked at him with a raised brow, clearly unimpressed with his daydreaming. “Stop zoning out. We’ve got a lot to do before the next match.”

“Yeah sorry,” he muttered, forcing himself to focus as he jogged back onto the court.

But as they continued practice, Art found himself glancing back at the spot where you had been.

His mind drifted back to you. He found himself scanning the stands wondering where you’d gone. 

He didn’t even know your name and you already caused a shift inside him.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

It wasn’t long before he started noticing you everywhere.

At first it was just in passing—seeing you on campus, weaving through the bodies of students in the quad or grabbing a coffee at the campus café.

Then it became more than that.

You were always around the tennis courts dropping off water bottles or extra gear (as he later found out, you were doing it for your roommate who was on a tennis scholarship).

Every time he saw you his pulse quickened.

There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way you always seemed to be in your own world.

He’d find excuses to look for you, telling himself it was nothing.

After all what were the chances you even noticed him?

You didn’t attend the big matches or the main events—he’d never seen you in the stands.

Maybe you weren’t even interested in tennis. Plus, why would you be interested in him?

He was Art Donaldson: the guy who’d lost the Junior Opening and spent most of his time in the shadow of Patrick Zweig.

You were just a passing face, someone he’d never get to know. Right?

Wrong.

Overslept from another night of late practice, Art rushes into Statistics class late—and there you were.

The tennis player nearly tripped over his own feet when he spotted you.

You were in his class? How hadn’t he noticed you before?!

Brain scrambling the college athlete finds his seat, luckily it was a perfect distance away for him watch you without being obvious about it

Every time you did something small—lips pouting when you didn't understand a part of the lecture or tilting your head in concentration—he couldn’t help but notice.

His eyes kept wandering back to you, sitting so close just a few seats away.

Art knew it was a risk of getting caught staring. Especially when he noticed something else—you were looking at him too.

At first he thought it was his imagination.

It wasn't. Glancing up from his notes, he'd meet the sight of you quickly looking away.

Art felt like he couldn’t breathe. His heart stuttered in his chest and he quickly pretend to focus on his notes.

Heat creep up the back of his neck, his skin tingling with the realization that you’d seen him.

After that, each time you glanced his way, he'd felt a spark—something electric.

He’d try to play it cool, but inwardly he was thrilled.

This wasn’t someone rooting for him from the sidelines or asking for an autograph.

This was you.

The girl who had somehow slipped under his radar and then completely overtaken his thoughts.

You knew he existed. You saw him even if it was just for a second.

It wasn’t much, but for Art it was everything.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

You weren’t much for parties. In fact you actively avoided them whenever you could.

So when your roommate begged you to come with her to some party—because she didn’t want to go alone—you found yourself reluctantly agreeing.

You figured you’d make a quick appearance and leave early without making a fuss.

The moment you stepped into the house you knew this wasn’t your vibe.

Nursing the same plastic cup of watered-down beer, you hung out by the edges of the room trying to stay as invisible as possible.

Time seemed to pass slowly. You check your phone; two hours passed.

You perk up at that revelation, finally deciding it's time to head back to your dorm.

Just as you could make an exit your roommate finds you.

“There you are!” she shouted over the music. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

You force a smile. “Yeah I was just about to head out actual—”

“Whaaaat? No way!” she cuts you off, grabbing your wrist. “You have to come with me!”

You barely had time to protest as she dragged you toward a smaller dimly lit room in the back of the house.

The sight of about twenty people sitting in a circle makes you hesitate.

It wasn't until you spotted the empty glass beer bottle in the center did you realize what was happening making your heart sink—Spin the Bottle.

“I’m not playing,” you start backing away but your roommate was already pushing you into the group.

“There’s way too many people for it to land on you,” she assured you with a wink, her voice light with mischief. “Besides it’s the last round. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You reluctantly joined the circle, sitting awkwardly on the floor. 'She's right...what's the worse that could happen?'

As soon as you sat down someone immediately offers you the bottle.

“Here newbie! Your turn!” someone shouted and the room burst into cheers, all eyes suddenly on you.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you glared at your friend who was now avoiding your gaze, clearly sheepish about getting you into this situation.

You could’ve left. You should’ve left. But here you are.

Sighing you accept the bottle to avoid making a scene.

The glass felt cold against your sweaty palms. Your heart race as you avoid looking directly at anyone.

You were embarrassed, self-conscious. This wasn’t your thing. You hated the attention.

And the pressure. It felt like your entire body was vibrating with anxiety as you mentally prepared for the worst.

You gave the bottle a spin; your nerves turned into outright panic as the world seeming to slow down around you.

Your mind raced with a thousand insecurities: What if they thought you were ugly? What if the person you kiss someone hate it? Or worse—what if they wanted more than just a kiss?

Your chest tightened at the thought, stomach twisting in knots. 'What if my breath smelled weird? What...what if their breath smelled weird?!'

The bottle slowed, spinning less and less until it teetered to a stop.

Time stretched unbearably slow and you clenched your fists, hoping, praying it would land on someone random—someone who wouldn’t care.

Then it stopped.

And you looked up.

It was Art.

Art Donaldson.

'What...the...fuck?' the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You blinked thinking maybe you’d somehow imagined it.

He was here? You hadn’t even noticed him in the crowd, let alone expected the bottle to land on him!

There was no way right? 

Art stared back at you eyes just as wide as yours.

He looked as shocked as you felt, frozen in place as the room erupted around you in whoops and cheers.

Someone shouted something you didn’t catch and you saw a couple of guys nudge Art, grinning like idiots as they clapped him on the back. 

Your body went numb. A weird tingly sensation spread through your chest as you try to process what was happening.

'This can’t be real. I must be dreaming.'

You barely heard the teasing shouts or the laughs that followed.

All you could do was stare at him, your mind spinning faster than the bottle had.

Art still looked a little shell-shocked as his friends shoved him toward the closet.

You barely registered the few people nudging you as well, urging you forward.

Next thing you knew you're shoved into a small cramped closet with Art right behind you.

The door shut with a soft click sealing you both inside the dim space.

It was silent. Awkward.

You could feel the tension between you two thickening as though the walls were closing in.

The reality of the situation crashed down on you all at once: you were in a closet. Alone. With Art Donaldson.

The Art Donaldson who you’d been low-key crushing on since forever.

Your heart continued to race and your mouth felt dry.

You weren’t sure what to do. From the way Art fidgeted you could tell he was just as nervous.

His eyes flicked between the floor and you, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

He was...cute. Not just cute, handsome even.

His tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and the nervous look in his eyes gave him an almost boyish charm—and you found yourself growing more flustered the longer the silence dragged on.

“Hi,” you finally managed to say in a soft voice. “M-my...my name is—”

“I know,” he interrupted making your brows furrow in confusion.

Art's face paled realizing what he’d said and started backtracking. “I-I mean I know because we’re in the same class. Statistics! I-I see you in there sometimes. Not like watching you or anything! I just...noticed. Not in a weird way! I’m not a creep I promise.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his nervous rambling, some of the tension breaking.

He lets out a breath he must have been holding visibly relaxing at your response.

“Yeah,” the faintest laugh escape your lips. “I’ve noticed you too.”

Before either of you could say more, there was a sudden knock at the door making you jump.

“Ten more minutes guys!” A muffled voice calls from the other side, “Make 'em count!”

The reminder of what you were supposed to be doing—what everyone out there expected you to be doing—made the tension snap back into place.

Art shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the floor before slowly lifting to meet yours.

But this time when he looked at you his expression was different.

His half-lidded dark eyes lingered on you in a way that made your heart stutter.

He wasn’t just looking at you—he was studying every inch of your face as if memorizing each detail, not wanting to miss anything.

You felt heat crawl up your neck and spread across your chest from the weight of it.

His stare wasn’t overbearing but it was enough to send your nerves into overdrive.

Unable to handle the intensity of it anymore, you take a shaky breath “So...s-should we start kissing...?”

As soon as the words left your mouth Art doesn't hesitate.

His hand shot out, grabbing your waist and pulling you close in one swift motion.

His other cupped the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was filled with a pent-up almost desperate energy.

You could feel the way his breath hitched, his body trembling slightly as he leaned into you.

It was like he couldn’t believe this was happening. As if you'd disappear if he let go.

And just as quick the kiss began, it ended.

His chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths, but his eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

Reverence.

He looked at you like you were something delicate...something sacred.

You weren’t just a girl in a closet—he made you feel like the only person in the world.

You were taken aback, your mind scrambling to catch up with what had just happened.

The heat from the kiss lingered on your lips and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, stunned.

But then without thinking you reach up and pull him back to you.

Your fingers tangle in his blond locks as you crash into him; kissing him harder, like you need him as much as he seems to need you.

Art groaned against your mouth, the sound sending a thrill through your body.

His fingers brush against your cheek then down to your neck like he was memorizing the shape of you.

His hands then found your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer to deepen the kiss.

The tension had finally snapped and suddenly you were both lost in it; grasping at each other like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

Body pressed against his, Art’s hand slid down your hip before tugging at your thigh to wrap your leg around his waist.

The movement pulled you even closer.

You could feel the heat of him, his heart racing in time with yours, his breath hot and ragged as his lips moved down to your neck.

His kisses trailed slowly from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, then lower until his lips brush against the soft skin of your neck.

Each one was deliberate—almost worshipful, like he was savoring every inch of you.

Feeling his mouth against your pulse made you shiver causing your body to respond instinctively as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He lingered there for a moment as if savoring the way you trembled beneath him before continuing on.

“Art” you breathed out, barely able to find your voice as the sensation of his lips on your skin overwhelmed you.

He made an almost needy sound in response, his hands gripping you tighter like he couldn’t get close enough.

All that existed in that moment was him—his touch, his kiss, the way his body felt against yours.

His mouth moved back up to yours and when his lips found yours again, the kiss was different—deeper, more intense.

Just as the passion between you began to swell there was a loud knock on the door, jolting you both out of your haze.

“Time’s up!” someone shouted from the other side followed by teasing laughter.

Art breaks away from the kiss with a heavy breath before leaning his forehead against yours as he blinked, trying to regain some composure.

Your bodies were still pressed together in the cramped space, neither wanting to move.

“I...I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admit quietly almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud.

You smile, your cheeks warm and heart still pounding in your chest. “Me too.”

The closet door swings open but neither of you pays attention.

You’re still wrapped up in each other, lost in your own little world.

[juletheghoul]

Hi, thanks for continuously expanding the story of The General. I like reading it. :) I'm just wondering if you might feel like writing kind of like sci/fi time travel troupe where a woman (willfull and stubborn) from the present gets transported back to ancient Rome and meets Marcus Acacius. How would their dynamics be?

Obsessed with this, genuinely—I started a little something 👀

Not sure if I’ll continue it or make it into something big but I loved the idea of them not even understanding one another.

Hope you enjoy! 💕

(Not beta’d, barely proofread)

—

Warnings; threat of violence, language, shifting POV, plenty of historical inaccuracies I’m sure lol

Pairing; Marcus Acacius x Modern F!reader (time travel shenanigans)

Word count; 1.4k

-

The sigh doesn’t fix anything, but it helps with the frustration. So you let out another one, deeper than the original while you gather your wits. This was Rome, a massive city with millions of tourists trekking through it just like you, surely if they could do it without getting hopelessly lost, you could too.

The ruins were a maze, incredibly easy to get mixed up and turned around in. It was just a matter of retracing your steps and rejoining your group. Easy peasy.

With renewed optimism, you follow the sounds of people ringing through the remnants of the temple, or bathhouse, or gladiatorial training rooms… where the fuck even am I again?

You backtrack through the doorway, turning left into what must have been an antichamber, or dormitory? The mosaic under your feet isn’t familiar and a sense of dread creeps along your spine, should you have turned right? There’s a giant arch in the distance, one you distinctly don’t remember walking through. It doesn’t look as aged as the rest of the structure, most likely preserved when the site was excavated.

Walking through the arch fills you with a foreboding dread, like being dunked in ice water. It leaves you dazed, stumbling into the light of the sun almost drunk. An open door all but manifests and it’s with a relief so great it almost pulls tears from your eyes that you finally exit the building and step into the open air. You cannot help but laugh at yourself, embarrassed by your reaction, by the silly fear of getting lost.

The sun is hotter than you remembered it being when you left the hotel that morning and all at once the desire to explore and take in the culture all but evaporated. Resigned to abandon the tour, you decide to make your way back to the hotel. The new goal, the new prize for the day is a shower and an ungodly amount of pasta.

The road is nowhere to be found. The tourists have disappeared, and have been replaced with what looked to be actors. A fresh horror spreads through your veins, the exit you came out of must have led somewhere you were definitely not supposed to be.

-

He’d been called forth to deal with a strange situation. A woman had somehow infiltrated his camp. He frowned at the news, scoffing at the sentinel who’d brought it to him.

“A woman? Solitary? One woman snuck passed you and made her way into my camp?” He all but sneered at the soldier, anger pulsing in his head to learn that his guards were not as observant as he would have thought, as he trained them to be.

“General, by the Gods, we did not see her. One moment there was no one and then the next she was there, like some apparition.” He seems rattled, Acacius didn’t blame him. A lapse in protection meant death and dishonour. It meant his army was not in the shape it should be. Rome was not safe, not protected.

“Well, what has she to say for herself? What explanation did she provide for her miraculous presence here?”

“We do not know, we cannot understand her.”

He sighs. Anger bleeds into his tone when he orders her brought to him, dismissing the useless soldier in the process.

When they bring her to him, he frowns. Her robes confuse him, the fabric almost painted in the strangest shades, some he’s never even seen. She clutches at a bag, at a strange jar and although her voice is clearly agitated and angry, he cannot understand the words she speaks. Her face is painted, eyes darkened with some sort of kohl, lips shiny with oil and for a moment he thinks she might be one of the women who sold herself.

“Peace, woman.” He puts his hands up and speaks slowly, “I need to know where you come from, and why you are here. What is it you seek?” She twists her face in confusion, anger colouring her voice more still. She screams at him in more words he doesn’t understand until the soldiers that had brought her approach to no doubt silence her. At the sound of their footsteps her eyes widen with what he knows is genuine fear.

“Don’t.” He commands them, and they stop in their tracks. “Leave her with me. Go about your business, and tighten up the borders of this camp.” He sends them away with daggers in his voice.

“But General-what if she attacks?” They hesitate for a moment.

“I can handle her. Go.” They leave, her eyes follow them before turning back to him. She speaks again but he shakes his head.

“What am I to do with you then, hm?”

-

If you had known that you’d land in some insane fucking ancient Roman reenactment, you would have stayed in the hotel.

The older man is really into his role, some high and mighty soldier or general on a power trip or God fucking knows what, holds you in his tent. You try to explain to him calmly and then not so calmly that this is a mistake, that you didn’t mean to crash their party and that you just want to make it back to the hotel. He frowns, and shakes his head with confusion. He responds in his own language, what you imagine is Latin and the frustration floods you once more.

“If you cannot help me, I will leave. I’ll just go back through the stupid building and see if I can catch up with my tour group. If they haven’t already left, God if I missed my shuttle I will lose my fucking mind.” With a sigh you clutch at your bag and turn towards the entrance. You don’t make it three steps before he grabs at your arm, holding you in place with what sounds like a stern warning.

“Listen, I appreciate the realism and everything here, but let go, I need to leave.” You try to shake out of his grip but it’s iron, his big hand tightens enough to hurt.

“You’re hurting me, let me go!” With a growing fear, you try harder until he pulls a knife from a hidden pocket and presses it to your throat. He points to the entrance, to you, and then presses the tip to your neck once more.

You cannot understand his words, but the warning is crystal clear. If you leave, he will kill you.

“Intellego?” You can infer what he must mean, and so you nod. He returns the gesture and puts the knife away. He moves about the tent while you stand there, arms aching from clutching at your things, body trembling with fear and adrenaline at his threat of violence. He continues speaking, his deep, clear voice filling the space while he moves things around and gestures to a giant scroll.

Stuck like a fly in honey, you watch him pointing and talking, half listening while you try to formulate an escape route.

He comes close with a huff, pulling you gently towards his table.

It looks like a map, but it’s not like any map you’ve ever seen.

“What the fuck am I meant to be looking at here?”

He continues speaking, pointing at the map, and then gesturing outside. He points again, at a different spot and then to himself.

“Oh.. okay you’re from here?” He nods, then he takes your hand and puts it on the map, repeating his words and you can assume he’s asking you to point out where you come from.

“Dude I don’t know, this map is wild as hell and about a thousand years out of date from the looks of it.” You move your hand away but he persists, a bulldog with a bone. He takes your hand and puts it on the map, then taps your chest, asking his question once more.

“I’m not on this map!” You tap your chest, and then to the edge of the map, “I’m not here, we’re not on the map yet. Understand?” You gesture again, pointing to an empty edge, and point to yourself.

The look on his face is almost funny, he’s either really committed to his role, or this is the weirdest fucking dream you’ve ever had.

He’s quiet after that, ruminating, studying you with a critical eye and after the day you’ve had you don’t have the patience. You sit in one of the chairs, resigned to endure the ride until you find an opportunity to get off, and away as quickly as you can.

-

Tag list; @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @maxwell--lord @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name

[rienafoutre]

[parallaxaview]

[magicaldestinyharmony]

In Life and in Death Pt. 2

male!knight x female!count's daughter!reader part 2

CW: mentions of death, blood and self-harm

WC: 1.6k words

A/N: part 2 is here! I'm planning to make this a short series though I'm not sure how long it will be. Anyways, enjoy!

[Part 1] [Part 3] [Part 4]

You sit up suddenly and gasp. You blink at the sudden brightness. It appears to be morning. 

Taking a look around you, you realize that you’re in your room. At first, you were confused. How did you get on your bed? Didn't you die? Then it hits you. The Returner's Stone must have worked! 

Immediately, you turn to your bedside table and pick up the blue calendar you got as a gift. It's true! The Returner's Stone wasn't a legend after all. 

You take note of the day. It's 10 years in the past. You sigh in relief. Crisis avoided successfully. You smile and decide to reward yourself with 10 minutes of extra sleep before getting up for breakfast.

“Miss! My lady!” Violent knocking at your door rouses you from sleep. “My lady, are you still sleeping? You have to get up! Count Balcom will be arriving shortly!”

The door creaks open and you sit up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. Your maid, Aida, enters. “Oh good, you're up. Come let's get you ready to receive the count.”

“Wait, what about breakfast?” you drowsily ask, still a little sleepy.

“You overslept, miss! There's no time for that!” says your ever-helpful maid as she drags you to take a bath.

You suck up more protests and let Aida continue the familiar yet tedious steps to making you look presentable. 

3 dresses, 2 hairstyles and 6 accessories later, Aida deems the chosen dress, hairstyle and accessories passable. “Ta-da! What do you think, my lady?”

You glance in the mirror only to find a girl dressed in blue staring back at you. Your hair was styled immaculately with beautiful accessories decorating it. You smile. “Thanks, Aida. I can always count on you.”

Your only faithful maid grins, looking very proud of herself. She starts going on and on about how naturally beautiful you look and that she only enhanced your natural beauty, but you stop listening to her. 

You are truly thankful for Aida’s presence. As the fifth daughter, you had little to no influence. Not many maids wanted to side with you as that job came with little benefits. Only Aida remained, ever faithful.

“Oh my, miss! We must hurry! Count Balcom should be arriving soon!” Aida pushes you out the door and you let her, albeit reluctantly. 

You never really liked your father. Not only did he give off the aura of a ravenous beast, but his disregard for the law and basic human rights weren't exactly the best combination for a great father. 

As soon as you make it off the threshold of the stairs, the butler announces your father's arrival, “Count Balcom has arrived!”

You curtsy in greeting of the man who sired you and stand up. What you don't expect is to find grey eyes instead of black ones staring back at you. You frown in confusion.

Once you look up, you receive your answer. You find your father standing a little behind the boy, talking to the butler. This must be the day Lucca arrived at this gloomy mansion.

Your father nods, then loudly proclaims, “Hey, you!” He points to one of the maids. “Take the boy to the dungeons.”

The maid nods and immediately does as she's told, lest she incurs the wrath of the count. She drags Lucca away in the direction of the dungeons. 

And you? Well, you stand there, dazed, and watch as things happen exactly as you remember them.

◇◇◇

The sun has long set, but you remain awake staring at the dark ceiling of your bedroom. Lucca's unexpected appearance rattled you. Although, now that you think about it, this is the day Lucca entered this house and sealed your death warrant by association. 

You sigh. The relief you felt this morning didn't last long. How will you get out of this predicament? Maybe, if you appeal to his emotions long enough, he'll spare you? Doing something is better than doing nothing. 

You get up, resolved to your fate. You gather up some ointment and some bandages, to treat Lucca if needed. After you get your hand on some food, you sneak to the dungeons. You reach the cell where Lucca is held, successfully completing your stealth mission.

“My lady? What are you doing here?” You jump at the sudden question.

Turning around, you see the stern face of the prison guard. How did you forget about the guards?! 

The guard stands there waiting for your response, “Um, I wanted to see the boy?” You try your luck with the truth.

“You cannot, my lady. Please head back to your room. If Count Balcom catches you here, you might not escape punishment.”

How do you get this guard to cooperate? Taking off your sapphire bracelet, you hope bribery will work its magic. “Here, sir, have this. You should be rewarded for having to work the night shift,” you say and hand the guard your bracelet.

“Oh my, my lady! You are so generous!” The guard takes the bracelet, touched.

“You never saw me here, though, right?” you say, placing your finger on your lips.

“Yes, my lady! Of course, my lady!” The guard bows and you fear that his head might touch the floor.

“Just unlock the door,” you remark, not used to the sudden sincerity. 

“Right away, my lady!” The guard unlocks the door, gesturing for you to head in.

You sigh and enter the cell. Your face contorts at the smell of mould and blood. Once your gaze lands on Lucca you gasp. He's splayed on the floor, seemingly unconscious, with wounds and bruises littered all over his body.

“Oh, no,” you whisper. 

The sight makes you shudder. You brush your fingertips over a big purplish bruise forming on his shoulder. He must be in a lot of pain. Opening the ointment, you immediately get to work, treating his wounds.

There are so many. Bruise after bruise, cut after cut and lots of blood. You treat as much of Lucca's wounds as you can. 

After applying some ointment on an especially deep gash, Lucca hisses. He must've come to.

Subconsciously, you retract your hands and glance at his face. He blinks and stares up at you.

“Are you okay?” you ask. “I tried to be as gentle as possible. I'm sorry if it hurts.”

The boy eyes you in silence. “Here, I got you some food.” You rummage in your bag for the bread you were able to take from the kitchen.

There was no reaction from Lucca—only more silence. Awkwardness creeps in, so you place the bread under a handkerchief in front of him. 

He blinks. Once, twice, three times.

What's wrong with him? Does he think there's something wrong with the bread? “Don't worry! I didn't do anything to the bread. It's not poisoned or anything,” you try to reassure him, though you're not sure if it's working.

You sigh. There's no getting through to him right now. “Alright. I'll leave you alone.” You get up and dust yourself off. “I'll come back tomorrow to heal your wounds and get you some food!”

You leave the cell hoping that if you keep coming back every day until he leaves, he'll spare you when he comes back 10 years later.

You were wrong. So wrong. Lucca came back and killed you anyway. You woke up surprised to find yourself in the past again. This time you'll leave as soon as possible!

You still go down every night into the depths of the cold dungeons to check on Lucca and he still acts indifferent towards you.

This time, however, instead of sitting on your hands in that dreadful estate, you leave the empire as soon as you turn 18. 

Sad to say, Lucca still managed to find you and end your short life.

Imagine your surprise when you're met with the ceiling of your bedroom when you open your eyes in the past for the fourth time.

You sigh. This time, you resolve to abandon the Balcom name.

Helping Lucca at night became a habit. Before you go to sleep, you stop by the basement to take care of him.

Once you had your debutante ball, you busy yourself with finding a suitable marriage partner. You end up getting married to a countryside baron, hoping the distance from the capital will keep Lucca off your back.

Yet, your plan fails. Again. Apparently, Lucca doesn't consider your marriage an abandonment of the Balcom family.

Once your eyes drift open to your sunlit ceiling again, you've had enough. It's like all reason left your mind. 

As soon as your father arrives, you're in his office asking to find a way to drain your blood safely. 

No. You didn't ask him. You demanded to know. Your father frowns at you in displeasure while you stand there mumbling to yourself that this has to end.

Your father shakes his head, clearly thinking that you've lost your mind. He orders you to be moved to the Southern Balcom Villa under the guise of recuperating. But you know the truth. You've been deemed unuseful and tossed aside.

Not that you really care. You pore over thousands of books trying to get the Balcom blood out of you. Your body ends up covered in scars, still-healing wounds and unhealed cuts.

Yet you don't stop. Crazily obsessed and focused on the condition Lucca stated to spare you. You were found multiple times on the floor in a pool of the red liquid.

In the end, the maids reporting back to your father, chain you to your bed, successfully keeping you from inflicting more harm on yourself.

Once Lucca's dreaded arrival comes, you barely even register his presence. You're sick and tired of this vicious cycle. Death, life, death, life, death, life, on and on and on. 

When Lucca's sword eventually cuts you down, you hope with all your might that you won't be met with the mocking sight of your ceiling again.

[salembehindbars]

She might have been annoying but her face always gave.

[aw777]

At least I'm already in Italy

[arsonlookers]

Hi! I had just finished the penacony story quest and umm came out with random ideas….. PLUS after listening to White Night I-

I was wondering what you would think about an AU where time slip is possible and that Yan! Aventurine lost reader (idk how in what situation😭😭😭)

but like yea….

N then like he just literally time slips back to the past before he lost them and like gets super protective???

Idk like I'm-

Omg help idk but like yehhhh

Oh My God your a GENIUS!!! Imagine an au like that!! But let's give it a twist shall we 😉

IN ANOTHER LIFE YOU ARE MINE

YAN! AVENTURINE X READER

Yan! Aventurine in his first and original timeline falls in love with you but keeps it a secret relationship because there are plenty of enemies he made in the way who wanted to hurt you just to hurt him. So he keeps his distance from you in public and in private he is just so clingy and SO loving but in recent times he has just become more distant from you after meeting the trailblazer not only he is a million times busy and with dealing with his past he also started to become more interested with this "FRIEND" of his the trailblazer.

So he spends less and less time as it goes on and you are just so lonely whenever he is not even planning to go home. Or he just kind of ended up ignoring you when he comes home because he is exhausted from all the drama. [he just needs time poor baby]

But then one day an accident happens to you, an accident he never expected, and will forever regret. Of all the people in that accident you his very beloved partner were the only one who perished the most and died alone.

"aventurin-" were your very last words you only wanted to see the love of your life one last time and at least be able to say goodbye to the person who saved you and made your life worthwhile...

BREAKING NEWS!!

the news states the attack was from a man who lost in a gamble storming out from the casino with pent-up anger and ended up venting his anger to a poor woman a passerby who was the first person he spotted to look so weak so he attacked her and stabbed her 10 times to vent his anger because of the lost.

After hearing the news Aventurine can't believe what he is hearing and dashes immediately towards your location. just outside of the casino he was in right now.

in front of the lobby there he saw a group of people gathered in front of the entrance cameras and all.

he never is the type to jump in the scene but this time he jumps in the crowd to look for you to believe that it is not you and you are safe, to hope and in his luck that YOU are safe.

In his mind he is already panicking, sweat going down from his forehead and hands shaking non-stop he can't even control it. Inside of his mind were all prayers and all begging to keep you safe from every harm that past these people you are safe and sound.

But past the one last person he pushes aside instead of your sweet smile and a hug of comfort.. all he sees is blood.. blood everywhere his eyes tremble his bones are about to give up as he looks at the body in front of him there lies you wearing your favorite dress that he gifts you in your anniversary... a sunflower dress being splattered and filled with red blood still running down from your dead body.

and with that is the very last straw of his sanity.

He comes close to your body, and his eyes behind his glasses start to water, overwhelming emotions bearing him and tying in his throat restricting him from breathing and making his heart beat as if being chased by a killer or worse death wanting him dead. and maybe it is better to die right now he thought.

just the sight of your back and your dress being soaked in your own blood was horrendous and worst sight he had laid his eyes upon.

everything was so slow yet so fast at the same time. You were taken away from his grasp and then the next you are being sent away to be mourned by your family. But you don't have a family. he is your family. the one and only family. but because the two of you are still not married and just dating/ engaged he cant have you ... he cant mourn you... And the worst part is he has all the money and power but mourning you, He cant even DO THAT?! He have all this for you for HIM but why? why? WHY?!WWHYWHHYWHYWHWYWHY?????? WHY?!WWHYWHHYWHYWHWYWHY???WHY?!WWHYWHHYWHYWHWYWHY??? WHY?!WWHYWHHYWHYWHWYWHY??? WHY?!WWHYWHHYWHYWHWYWHY???

everything in his mind is starting to crumble as he starts to drink and gamble his life everything is on the line yet he just can't die. HE IS JUST TO LUCKY TO DIE. THEN WHY??? WHY DO YOU NEED TO DIE??? WHY YOU??? was all he can asked day in day out in his life. when he comes home all he can remember is YOU every memory every furniture everything reminds him of you and he just cant he might loses his mind more if he stays more than a hour a minute in once your shared house.

After everything he just cant take it anymore and goes to your house drunk and just starts calling your name waiting for you to respond.

"Yn~ baby~ ! Im home! " He calls drunk inside the house falling flat in the entrance and everything. He closes his eyes and All he can think and hear about is how warm he feels the house is clean and how you will be coming out of the kitchen and calling his name so lovingly.

"aven! Aven! AVEN!" how you will call his nickname how sweet your voice sounds like at first it sounds so far away and now he feels so nostalgic how you shake him the same from all those months ago when he comes home drunk.

He wants to stay like this ... if he can he wants to stay like this forever hearing your voice calling his nickname ...

"more. more call me like that moreMORE MOREMORE "

"KAKAVASHA!!" was when he opened his eyes and bolted his eyes from the voice that called him

and here presents you... in your glory and in your lovely apron. that says 'HAPPY WIFEY HAPPY LIFEY~" It was cheesy but it looked so perfect for you.

"vasha!! are you ok!? " you grabbed his face and all he could feel was how warm you were not cold and wet as he last remembered.

before he knew it tears drops one after the other in his eyes.

"aventurine!! hey come on are you gonna leave me hanging and worried?? did someone beat you? Are you ok?" You grabbed him for a hugged and rubbed your hands in his back

and all he can think is how warm you are how nice it was to feel your warm body against his and how you smell so good. and then he just thinks that he wants this to last forever, he doesn't want this to end, he doesn't want to go back to that dark place. he doesn't want to go back in that nightmare ever again.

Feeling all these emotions he hugged you and started to bawl his eyes out and hugged you tight as if you would be gone in a matter of seconds now.

you can't really know what is going on with him but it truly is rare to see him like this and this time he needs your comfort and love so instead of breaking the hug because of it being too tight You instead hugged him tight and comfort him with your words and back rubs

"its ok, aven, its just a nightmare . shhh its fine , its fine Im here now, Im here" As you keeps your gesture and kinda calm him down his gripped unto you was still on and tight but not that tight.

That is until he falls asleep.

"cute aven" you say as you pinches his cheeks before moving him to your shared bedroom.

Aventurine woke up and just in a panic he searched the room he cant see you there so he rushed down the stares and searched for you outside he was screaming your name and on the verge of crying again. that is until you called for him from the kitchen.

"morning darling!" You say as flipping the pancakes and smiling at him from the kitchen wall.

and there aventurine was feeling relieved that you weren't just a dream.. and even if this is a dream of a hallucination he don't care all he cares about is you and him in this time together eating your pancake and you in front of him smiling happily.

AND AFTER SPENDING MORE AND MORE TIME as he starts to notice that he was in the past a year before your tragedy he promises that he will. HE WILL. PROTECT YOU.

may it caused of his death he dont care he will never ever EVER going to see you in that state again.

WITH out you knowing he actually in this timeline he did kill your killer after he tracked him down so that he wont be able to do the murder again. Aventurine puts more in security and becomes more and more clingy since then.

But one thing he will put first. HE ASKED YOU TO BE HIS WIFE This time he will never ever gonna regret pausing to make you his wife. This time YOU ARE HIS WIFE.

He wont ever EVER FACE ALL THOSE HAPPENING AGAIN. He wont ever make you feel sad and distant and he wont make you regret saying YES to his proposal now that you are going to be his WIFE.

He will plan the wedding immediately.

HE WON'T WASTE ANY TIME ANYMORE HE ALREADY WASTED A LOT OF TIME IN THE PAST HE won't MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE TWICE.

Suggested warning!!

and fckng his wife should be the first priority right~ so he does~

Every night and every possible day he has been so horny to the point of fcking you in every possible place in the house on your dates in your backyard, and even in his office. EVERYWHERE

IN THIS LIFE YOU ARE HIS AND NO ONE CAN HAVE YOU AND TAKE YOU AWAY FROM HIS GRASP AND IN THIS LIFE.

[this is the birth of the most possessive and overprotective yandere aventurine who loves love LOVES you very much ]

ARS: Donee!! damn anon thank you for the idea! but really I was not gonna make it since been busy but I guess my writer brain just turns on immediately thinking about the plot and how i would write the story I wish it was to your liking anon! I wish this is how my brain would work in my exam wow that finished within one hour hahaha anyways have a great Day!!

©2024arsonlookers: do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[an-established-butt-dent]

One of my many Solavellan head cannons.

They traveled together for months, years even. Don't tell me these lovesick fools didn't regularly disappear into the woods together, to have a quiet romantic moment away from the prying eyes of the other companions.

Mixed media on paper.

[k-nayee]

Live For Me Chainsaw Man

wc: 4.4k

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

It's the kind of silence that creeps under your skin, reminding you of what’s missing.

The walls still carry the warmth of your parents' presence, their voices echoing in your mind even after all these years.

Sometimes you swear you can hear them—soft murmurs, whispers telling you that not all demons are evil. That they can be good, kind even.

But you know better now.

Your parents had been wrong and they paid the price for it. They died because of that naïve belief. No—because of you.

That demon chose to hunt you that day. And yet your parents had thrown themselves in its path without hesitation, shielding you from the blow.

Your mother’s hand reaching for you, your father’s eyes full of fear and love as he shielded you with his body, the look on the devil's face as it tore through them without a second thought...

It's a sight that’s burned into your memory, a nightmare that replays itself whenever you close your eyes.

Days blur together now—one after the other, all the same. The same silence, the same emptiness, the same weight pressing down on your chest.

An exhausting feeling that never goes away. You can’t run from it, can’t escape it. So you stopped trying.

The only thing that keeps you going is the anger. The hatred that burns under your skin, keeping you alive when you’d rather be numb.

Your parents might have believed in peace but you don’t. Not anymore. Not after what you saw.

They were killed without mercy, and so in return, you’ve never show any mercy either.

Every time you hire a hunter to take down a devil you tell yourself it’s revenge. You do it in their name.

It doesn’t matter if the devil is dangerous or harmless. It doesn’t matter if it hasn’t even attacked anyone. They’re all the same to you.

Monsters.

Monsters that deserve to die—every last one of them.

There’s a small flicker of satisfaction every time you hear of another one taken down, but it’s fleeting. It’s not enough.

The anger never really goes away; it sits in your chest, gnawing at you.

Your parents wouldn’t approve. They’d be horrified if they knew. But they’re not here to stop you, nor were they the ones left behind to drown in this darkness.

The house you live in—their house, the monthly allowances, a future trust fund...all of it seems meaningless now.

The yen you’ll inherit can’t bring them back. It can't fill the hollow ache in your chest. No amount of money can replace the hole their deaths carved into your life.

Every day blends into the next, the routine of your life mechanical—wake up, eat, hire another hunter, wait. 

You don’t know what keeps you going. Maybe it’s the promise of revenge or maybe it’s just habit.

Either way, you live in this quiet bitter limbo, waiting for something—anything—to make you feel alive again.

But nothing ever comes.

Until today.

It had started like any other—another walk home through the familiar streets, your mind numb and disconnected from the world around you.

You weren’t paying attention, not really. And then out of nowhere it happened:

A devil emerged from the shadows like some terrible nightmare come to life, its bloodlust fueled gaze on you.

It released a snarl that chilled your blood before lunging toward you. And as its grotesque form neared, claws outstretched—you weren’t afraid.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You just stood there.

Maybe it was fear or maybe a twisted part of you thought This is it. That the universe had finally decided to let you follow your parents.

After all, what was left for you here?

But then you heard it—the unmistakable roar of a chainsaw reviving to life cuts through the air.

Before you can even process what’s happening, a blur of movement flashes in front of you.

The devil screeches in pain, its body split open as blood sprays across the alley walls.

You blink, your heart skipping for the first time in what feels like years as you take in the sight before you.

A boy no older than you. He was scrappy-looking and wild with a wide sharp grin plastered across his face.

In his hands he held what looks to be a chainsaw—no not just a chainsaw, a creature. A devil. One that looks like a dog with a chainsaw blade sticking out of its head.

They move together in a seamless brutal dance as the boy tears through the devil with reckless abandon. It's messy, chaotic, but somehow it works.

You watch in awe as he makes quick work of the creature, the devil's body collapsing in a heap at your feet.

Blood splatters the ground and pool around your shoes, but you barely notice. Your eyes are on him.

The boy with the chainsaw-dog. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, panting heavily but still grinning like it’s just another day.

For a moment all you can do is stare. There’s something about him—about the way he fights, the way he carries himself.

It’s different. He’s different. And the creature at his side...a devil, fighting alongside him. Not against him, but with him.

The sight stirs something deep inside you, something you thought had been buried long ago. This...this is what your parents used to talk about, isn’t it?

Harmony between humans and devils. A partnership.

The boy looks at you still breathing hard, eyes bright with a kind of excitement that feels foreign to you.

"You alright?" his voice is rough like he hasn’t spoken much that day.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too busy staring at him and the devil at his side.

He doesn’t seem to wait for your response. Without a second thought he bends down and grab something from the devil's corpse before turning away, muttering something about needing to collect his payment.

Then just like that, he disappears down the street, the strange dog-devil whirring quietly as it trots along beside him.

You’re left standing there alone in the alley, heartbeat racing as your mind raced with questions.

Who was he? What kind of person teams up with a devil? How can they fight together like that?

And why—why did seeing them, even for just a moment, make you feel...alive again?

It’s the first time in so long that your chest feels lighter, that your heart has awoken from its slumber.

The image of the boy and his devil replayed in your mind over and over.

They remind you of what your parents believed in, what they’d always talked about that you had never been able to see.

But now you have.

And suddenly you want to know more.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The days after that faithful encounter passed in a haze. You can’t stop thinking about him—the boy with the chainsaw-dog.

You don’t even know his name, but the image of him cutting through that devil has burned itself into your mind. 

It’s like a puzzle you need to solve or a mystery that refuses to let you go. So you follow him.

It’s not hard to track him down. He’s not exactly subtle. You'd catch glimpses of him in the streets and alleys where devils lurk, always fighting, always surviving.

You'd trail him from the shadows, keeping your distance as you follow his path, watching from a distance as he hunts with that same reckless energy with his devil by his side.

He’s a enigma—this boy with the chainsaw devil. You wonder how someone like him can fight without fear, without the hatred that burns inside you.

There’s an almost carefree way he moves, like he’s fighting for something other than revenge or anger. It confuses you but at the same time draws you in.

After enough trailing and asking around, you figured out where he lived—a rundown shack on the edge of town.

It's barely standing, the roof is caving in at the corners while the door barely hangs on by a thread.

You stand there for a while, staring at the crumbling structure. Part of you wonders if you should just leave.

He doesn’t even know you. Why are you so obsessed with this boy?

But then there’s a stronger part of you that part refuses to let go, the part that hasn’t felt this kind of pull in years.

The next morning you find yourself packing a basket. You don’t know why you’re doing this.

Maybe it’s because he saved your life, or maybe it’s because he’s the first person in a long time who’s made you feel something.

Maybe it’s both.

With the basket in hand you make your way to the shack. This time you’re not hiding.

You walk up to the door with a racing heart and knock. It’s a soft, uncertain as though you’re not sure if the door will even hold up under your hand.

For a moment there’s no answer. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe you should turn around and—

The door creaks open and there he is: standing in the doorway staring at you with wide eyes, a confused expression etched on his face.

He looks just as scrappy as he did the night he saved you—even more so—as his mouth dropped slightly as if unsure what to say.

“Uh... can I help you?” he asks cautiously.

You give him a small nervous smile.

“I uh...my name is ____. I don't know if you recall, but you saved my life the other day,” you lift the basket. “Just wanted to give my thanks if you don't mind...”

His eyes flicker from your face to the basket and back again.

"....My name's Denji..." You can see the confusion deepening in his expression. “Excuse me, I'm sorry. But why are you doing this? I mean you don’t even know me.”

“Well...it’s not every day a cute boy saves me,” you say, watching as his eyes widen and face flush red almost instantly.

Denji stares at you, his mouth hanging open completely caught off guard. It’s like the words short-circuited his brain.

“W-what? Cute? Me?” He sounded like he can hardly believe it.

"Yeah with you, " you say with a teasing smile. You’d heard passing rumors about how girl-crazy he was, and it seems they weren’t wrong. He’s practically melting under your words.

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still burning. "But...w-why? Why are you doing this?"

You shrug, still smiling. "Why not?"

He hesitates. You can see the gears turning in his head, but eventually he steps aside and lets you in.

The inside of the shack is even more run-down than you imagined.

The walls are cracked, the roof looks like it’s barely holding on, and the floor is littered with old newspapers and empty cans.

Denji watches you nervously, clearly embarrassed by the state of things.

"It’s uh... not much but..." he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to explain away the mess.

"It’s fine," you set the basket down on the floor. You can feel Pochita’s wary gaze from the corner, his little chainsaw head twitching slightly as he watches your every move.

Denji notices too and he gives the devil a gentle nudge with his foot. "Relax, Pochita. She’s cool."

You kneel down, ignoring the dust and dirt as you begin unpacking the basket. It’s nothing fancy—just some sandwiches, meats, fruit, and a couple of blankets to sit on.

The blonde shuffles over and sits down across from you.

“I mean... thanks,” he mumbles, glancing at the food. “But you really didn’t have to. I’m...I don’t got much to offer y’know?”

You wave off his concerns with a smile. “It’s fine. I just wanted to say thank you.”

You fill in the silence as you continue to unpack, talking about whatever comes to mind—how the weather’s been weird lately, the news about devils in the city, little things to keep the conversation going.

Denji responds here and there, mostly with short answers, his eyes flicking between you and the food in front of him.

And then he starts to eat.

He tears into the food with a hunger that makes you realize just how little he must be getting by on.

You watch him without touching the food yourself, simply letting him eat as much as he needs.

You wonder how long he’s been living like this—surviving off scraps, fighting devils just to make it through another day.

The two of you talk a little more as the afternoon sun starts to fade into evening. The conversation is light—nothing deep, just small talk to fill the space. 

Realizing how late it was getting, you begin to start packing up the empty containers.

Denji watches you, his mouth still full of food, looking content for once. Just as you reach the door, he suddenly speaks up.

“Wait...You didn’t eat anything.” He frowns, looking between you and the now-empty basket. “You brought all that and didn’t eat?”

You turn back to him with a casual shrug. “I wasn’t hungry.”

Denji stares at you, his expression unreadable for a moment.

His eyes flick to the pile of folded blankets and leftover food you’ve intentionally left behind. You’d brought far more than one person could eat in a single sitting.

Before he can ask any more questions you wave goodbye and walk out the door.

He watches you go, dumbfounded, the blush still lingering on his cheeks.

Two days later, you find yourself standing outside the shack again with a basket in hand just like before.

And just like before, Denji answers the door with that same surprised expression. You don’t even need to ask this time—he steps aside without a word to let you in.

It becomes a routine after that—bringing him food, sitting together in the dim light of his shack, making small talk while he devours everything you bring.

Each visit is the same but somehow different. The awkwardness starts to fade, replaced by a quiet comfort.

Sometimes you don’t even talk—you just sit there, watching the sunset through the cracks in the walls while Denji eats beside you in contented silence.

And each time you visit you take something back with you—a pile of dirty clothes or a blanket—and return it the next time, freshly cleaned and mended, smelling faintly of the detergent your mother used to use.

Denji never asks why you keep coming back. Maybe he doesn’t want to know or maybe he’s just grateful for the company. 

Pochita, however, is still slow to warm up to you. He keeps his distance, his distrustful gaze following you whenever you’re near.

But you don’t mind. You smile at him anyway, offering him bits of food now and then in hopes that one day he’ll stop seeing you as a threat.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

It’s a bright, sunny afternoon when you and Denji find yourselves sitting in the quiet meadow where he often brings Pochita.

This place is different from the shabby shack—more open and peaceful, like a brief escape from the world you’ve both grown so used to.

You sit with your legs crossed, hands resting lightly in your lap as you gaze out over the field while Denji’s lying back on the grass basking in the sunlight.

Pochita sits nearby, eyes closed as if he too is enjoying the day.

For a long time there’s nothing but quiet. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind that feels natural after so many weeks of your growing routine together.

But something in you has been building, words you’ve been holding back, unsure of how to say them.

Today feels like the day to finally let them out.

“...I’ve never really told you about my parents...have I?” When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.

Denji opens one eye lazily, looking at you. “Not really. I mean, it’s not like we talk about stuff like that.”

You nod as your gaze drop to Pochita. The sight of him reminds you so much of what your parents used to believe in—the harmony they talked about humans and devils.

You’ve never had the chance to tell anyone this part of you. Until now.

“My parents,” you swallow the lump in your throat, “they believed in peace between humans and devils. They always talked about how there could be a world where we coexisted, how not all devils were evil and that some were good—harmless, even. I didn’t really believe them. And after they died... I hated them even more.”

Denji is sitting up now, his eyes widen a little as he listens.

“They died protecting me,” your voice trembled. “That devil was coming for me and they...they just stepped in without a second thought. After that, I couldn’t see devils as anything but monsters.”

Your fists clench in your lap as you stared hard at the ground.

Looking back up, you meet Pochita’s gaze. “I thought killing every devil I could was the only way to make it right. Avenging them by making every last one suffer.”

Pochita tilts his head slightly. The wariness is still there, but something in his gaze softens.

"But then I saw you two. You and Denji," you continue. "And for the first time I didn’t feel that hatred. I saw something different. I saw what my parents believed in—the kind of bond between human and devil they always talked about."

Your hands tremble slightly as you bow your head deeply toward the chainsaw devil, eyes focused on the grass at your feet. "I hated you. All of you. I wanted to destroy everything you were. But I was wrong. I’m sorry."

The meadow falls into a thick silence, your words hanging heavy in the air. For a long moment nothing happens.

You keep your head bowed, waiting, not sure what kind of response—if any—you’ll get.

Then something brushes against your cheek, warm and gentle. You look up to see Pochita standing right in front of you.

His big round eyes meet yours, and with a soft nudge he presses his little body against your face, his chainsaw blade awkwardly resting on your shoulder.

Then, before you can react, he gives you a quick wet lick on your cheek like a dog offering a kiss.

 It’s the first time Pochita’s shown you any affection.

A shaky breath escapes you as you reach out tentatively, your hand hovering over Pochita’s head for a moment before you gently rest it on him.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead he leans into your touch.  

Denji, who’s been watching the whole exchange, looks completely baffled.

He’s blushing, his face tinged pink as he scratches the back of his head. “Whoa...Pochita's never done that before. He usually hates everyone but me.”

You manage a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I guess he forgives me.”

He chuckles at that, a strange tenderness in his eyes as he watches the interaction

Meeting his gaze, the lightness of the moment fades, and the weight of what you need to say next settles over you.

"Denji..." Your voice shakes causing his expression to immediately change, his eyes narrowing slightly with concern. "I need to tell you why I’ve been coming to you."

Full attention gathered, you swallow hard, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. "I want you to kill me."

Denji’s reaction is instant. His eyes widen in shock, whole body going rigid as he stares at you.

"What?!" His voice cracks with disbelief. "No way! What the hell are you talking about?!"

Even Pochita seemed confused by your words, his little body pressing close to your side in concern.

You don’t look at them. You can’t. The knot in your throat tightens and you feel your hands start to tremble, but you push forward.  “The day I saw you two—when you saved me—it was the first time I felt anything in a long time. I watched you fight, saw the way you and Pochita worked together...and I decided then that if I was going to die it had to be by your hands. You two represent the peace my parents always believed in.”

Denji looks like he’s been slapped, his face pale as he tries to make sense of your words. "I...no. No way. I’m not doing that! Why would you even—"

"Please." You feel the tears welling up in your eyes. "I have nothing left. But you...you’re different. You have something good inside you. If anyone should end my life it should be you."

Your hands tremble as you reach into your backpack and pull out the documents that you’ve carried with you—the deed to your house, your bank information, anything of value you could think of.

Your tears blur your vision as you lay it all out in front of him, desperation clawing at your throat. “It’s all yours. The money, the house, everything. Just...just use Pochita and end it for me.”

Denji stares at the papers in disbelief, his gaze flick back to you as if he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of sick joke.

But when he sees the tears streaming down your face, the way you’re practically begging him, he realizes that you’re serious.

"You’re not dying," he says firmly, his voice almost angry now. "I’m not killing you and neither is Pochita."

You lower yourself, your body shaking as sobs wrack your chest. Head bowed, your hands are clasped together in a silent plea. "Please Denji..."

You feel completely vulnerable, broken as if your entire being is unraveling in front of them.

Before you can beg any more you feel a hand on your head.

You freeze, looking up through tear-blurred vision to see Denji standing over you. His face was soft, gentle in a way you’ve never seen before.

His hand is warm against your scalp and his expression is filled with something that makes your chest tighten.

“No amount of money will make up for your life,” he says quietly. “Your parents wouldn’t want this. They’d want you to live. I mean...that’s what parents want isn’t it?”

You feel his hand shift slightly, his thumb brushing lightly against your hair.

He hesitates, his face reddening. And then, in a voice so unsure it barely makes it past a whisper, he adds. “And if you can’t live for them then...”

You watch him closely as he struggles to get the words out, the flush in his cheeks deepening.

“...then live for me.”

His words hang in the air between you and for a second neither of you move.

He's furiously blushing as if realizing just how intense that sounds, looking anywhere but at you. “I mean...you’ve kinda already been livin’ for me haven’t you?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“What?” is all you could manage. But Denji doesn’t stop, his words comes out in a ramble.

“You’ve been cooking for me, doing my laundry, fixing my clothes...” His voice is rushed like he’s trying to make sense of it all as he goes. “You even took care of me that time I got sick. And— and Pochita,” he adds quickly. “You’ve been lookin’ after him too even when he used to growl at you all the time. It’s like...you’ve been doing all this stuff for me without even realizing it.”

You shake your head in denial, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “No that’s not...” You trail off, your mind scrambling for something—anything—to explain away his point.

But every example he gave was true. You had been doing all those things for him.

Your face flushes with warmth and the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I-if anything I was just doing what my mom did for my dad...like a wife to her...”

The moment those words leave your lips both of you freeze.

Your heart stops and you feel the weight of what you’ve just said slam into you like a train.

Wife?

The silence stretches out heavy as the realization of what you’ve just said crashes over both of you.

Your breath catches in your throat and you can’t bring yourself to look at Denji.

“W-Wife?!” He exclaims, eyes growing wide in disbelief and something that looks suspiciously like pure joy. He clutches his chest dramatically like he’s just been struck by lightning.

“N-no I didn't mean it lik—!” you start to protest, but the words die on your tongue as you realize what you’ve just admitted.

The domestic routine you’ve fallen into—the cooking, the cleaning, the way you’ve tended to him—it all fits, and you can’t deny it.

You have been acting like his wife.

Your face feels like it’s on fire now as the embarrassment overwhelms you. You shake your head again, trying desperately to explain yourself. 

But Denji is oblivious to your inner turmoil. He’s too busy reveling in the idea with a giddy sort of excitement.

 “I’ve got a wife,” he mutters to himself as if testing the words out loud. Then he glances back at you, his smile growing even wider. “I’ve got a wife!”

You groan, burying your face in your hands as the full weight of the situation sinks in. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. You hadn’t meant to imply—Oh, God.

Peeking out from behind your hands you can’t help but let out a shaky laugh.

The sheer ridiculousness of the situation starts to break through your embarrassment, and the sight of Denji nearly floating off the ground in joy is so over-the-top it’s almost funny.

Denji looks at you, his grin widening as he hears your laughter. “Well I’m not complainin’.”

You roll your eyes, the awkward tension between you beginning to fade to instead be replaced by something lighter.

The sun is starting to set, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you can breathe easily.

You glance over at Denji who’s still smiling like he’s won the lottery. It’s not the future you ever imagined for yourself, but somehow it feels...right.

Maybe this is what living really means. Maybe this is what your parents would have wanted for you after all—a reason to keep going, a reason to live.

Maybe Denji and Pochita can be that reason.

Denji catches your eye and grins, his face still flushed but full of hope. “Guess we’re stuck with each other huh?”

“Yeah,” you say with a soft laugh. “I guess we are...husband.”

Denji collapsed in happiness this time.

[wttcsms]

im gonna cry, why is rin giving cold, stoic rich ceo male lead and isagi is serving second male lead who’s the childhood best friend and always stands in the background and watches as rin sweeps the girl off her feet 😭😭😭