#I could not keep any of them nor could I even keep a pretender for them.

[riooooooooo]

INFO ABOUT MY BVZ OC MARIE

BvZ oc info 1/3

(any art that isn't mine will be credited, if there is no tag or mention, then the art was made by me!)

- Official character sheet!

(Important note: Jessie and Ann are my other 2 BvZ oc's that will be getting character sheets/pages soon)

Story below

- Marie: Humanoid robot. Not much is known about his origin, only that Jessie and Ann found him in an alleyway, and secretly snuck him to their "base" which was basically a junkyard. Similar to what Jessie did for Ann, she fixed up Marie. Only, he still has his memories, but he chooses to pretend he doesn't.

- The only thing Marie doesn't remember is his name, so, his programming took the name of Jessie's dead sister when she was talking about her. So, despite his masculine voice, this quiet bot now goes by Marie, and is a registered bounty hunter. Of course, he goes in disguise, so that he's not found out to be a humanoid robot (since last I check in this world those are illegal or smth.)

- He now stays with Jessie and Ann, as friends, colleagues and all.

Story end

Fun facts!

- Since his voice is slightly robotic (like Hipswitch), he chooses not to speak very often when he's out and about

- Even so he isn't very talkative

- To substitute so nobody hears the robotic hint in his voice, he's well versed in fengral sign language

- He's claustrophobic

- A lot of his values and opinions are based off Jessie

- He sometimes let Jessie do his hair

- Marie is very loyal to Jessie, sometimes it gets a bit scary. It's to the point where he doesn't question the mortality of anything she asks if him- of course she'd never ask him to do anything too bad, but if she did, he'd do it without question

- Sometimes, he can't tell what's old programming or what's his own personal self telling him what to do

- He hunches slightly when walking and just standing- sometimes leading to Jessie telling him to straighten his posture.

- On missions, sometimes Ann will follow him under Jessie's request, and while he's always aware of it's presence, he never says anything.

- He only took up bounty hunting because it was quick money, and that meant he could keep helping his friends

- If you ask what his favorite mission was, he'll tend to mention the ones where Jessie and Ann accompany him

- He's weirdly good at stealing

- He's pretty tall, probably 6'5

- He tends to intimidate people without meaning to, though he couldn't care less if they're frightened by him

- Making friends isn't his top priority, nor is getting close to people, but if he does, he'll take them to meet Jessie and Ann

- As a robot, he isn't very warm despite the baggy layers he wears

- If he's wearing thin layers, you might not get the most comfy hug

- He's not against touch, he just doesn't feel the need to initiate it

BvZ Canon characters + OC interaction

(Important note: anything I say about these canon characters is not official, it's simply my interpretation)

- (Both my second and og) Karmor would be a bit intimidated by him, most likely trying to get away from him

- Due to Ann scouting, Jessie would learn about Karmor. If her interest was peaked, she'd put out a bounty as bait. I imagine Karmor (my og) would get separated from the gang (Albus, Hipswitch, Mahatma) at some point during the mission, and caught off guard, he'd be knocked out by Marie, where he'd take Karmor back to Jessie.

- Jessie would probably question Karmor (not in an intimating way but as in a kid jumping up and down asking about their birthday), but seeing that Karmor can't speak, Marie would translate

- If the gang found them, Jessie would happily explain her totally super normal reason for having a set up, all to kidnap Karmor just to learn more about him. This would end in an uneasy truce.

- Considering Marie knocked Karmor out, I'm not sure how good of a relationship they'd have. Karmor would be a bit uneasy around him, but Marie would have simply seen it as part of the job, and wouldn't feel awkward of uncomfortable around him

- Same reason for Hipswitch on why things might be a bit uneasy at first, but I'd think their relationship would be simple, not to shabby

- Anything that came out of Albus's mouth would just confuse Marie, which would lead to him asking very odd questions to Jessie, who would probably tell him to stop talking to Albus

- I could imagine his relationship with Mahatma being sweet, maybe a bit awkward, but still. Of course Atilla (that fucking hater) wouldn't like him, but Marie wouldn't care much. Jessie doesn't like Atilla all that much, so whenever he starts talking, Marie tends to ignore him until Mahatma comes back.

Hi!! So here I'm going to reblog this with info about my Karmor's, BvZ oc's, and all that. So if anyone is curious they can find it here (once I actually add stuff)

I'll be trying to update this whenever I can so the info you see is accurate!

(Below are the links to each post so you don't have to search through the reblogs)

Og Karmor -

Second Karmor -

[wreckitredglare]

I wanted to ask him about children. If he'd ever have them. It's much too soon to consider them, very seriously, but I just. I want to know. I want to know what our future might look like. I saw myself reflected in a bright young mother, expecting so very soon, and I wondered if I might ever have that opportunity again.

I think that is a dream that should be put to rest, but I will hold it for just a little longer.

[bootleg-nessie]

Rating band names based on their accuracy:

(I keep updating this list so check back later)

The Beatles: 3/10. None of these people are beetles, they’re just a bunch of fruity guys from Liverpool with matching haircuts

(Edit: changed from 0/10 to 3/10 because John Lennon beat his wife)

Pink Floyd: 4/10. There is not a single person named Floyd in the band, but some of the members do arguably look kinda pink

Nirvana: 10/10. Getting high and listening to Nirvana is roughly what I imagine actual nirvana to be like

Foo Fighters: either 0/10 or 10/10. I have never seen foo in real life so either they’re pretending to fight a problem that doesn’t exist or they’re doing an absolutely fantastic job of fighting it

The Eagles: 0/10. Same as the Beatles, there is not a single eagle in this band. The name is misleading and we have all been lied to

Queen: 6/10. Partial points for Freddie Mercury

Led Zeppelin: 0/10. I don’t think any of these guys have ever even seen a zeppelin, let alone one made of lead. A lead balloon would crash faster than my hopes and dreams

The Rolling Stones: 3/10. There is not a single stone in this band. Some points added because I’m pretty sure they rolled quite a few

U2: 0/10. Despite what the name says, I am not a member of this band

Metallica: 9/10. Naming a metal band “Metallica” is like naming your dog “doggy”

Red Hot Chili Peppers: 2/10. These guys are not chili peppers. They’re not even that hot, let alone red hot

Guns N’ Roses: 0/10. How the fuck could a gun or a flower play music

Backstreet Boys: ?/10. Depends entirely on their current given location

Simon and Garfunkel: 10/10. No notes

The Doors: 1/10. Jim Morrison is kinda shaped like a door tho

Chicago: 4/10. The number of people in this band does not come even remotely close to the population of Chicago. Points added because it originated in Chicago

Earth, wind, and fire: 2/10. This is even more innacurate than Chicago. Points added because wind instruments were often used

Def Leppard: 3/10. There is not a single leopard in this band. Some of the members are probably kinda deaf by now tho

The Beach Boys: ?/10. Accuracy depends entirely on location

The Black Eyed Peas: 6/10. Not sure what the hell an ‘eyed pea’ is but the black part is pretty accurate

Imagine Dragons: ?/10. Depends entirely on whether or not they’re thinking about dragons.

Cage the Elephant: 1/10. Why would you do that. Let the elephant go

Green Day: 0/10. They’re not even green

The Police: 0/10. There is not a single cop in this band

KISS: 5/10. I’m sure they probably kissed sometimes

The Monkees: 0/10. Are you fucking kidding me

We Butter the Bread with Butter: 8/10. I can’t verify this but I have no reason to suspect that they’d lie. Butter seems like the most logical thing to butter bread with

King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard: 0/10. I got really excited about the concept of a lizard wizard only to be let down. My disappointment is immeasurable

They Might Be Giants: 5/10. I googled everyone in this band’s height, the tallest guy’s only 6’1 so I wouldn’t exactly consider him a giant. Then again, I can’t really argue because the claim was only that they MIGHT be giants

The Presidents of the United States of America: 2/10. None of these people are Joe Biden nor are any of them former presidents. This is incredibly misleading. I’m pretty sure “Lump” was written about my first girlfriend tho so I’ll give them a point or two

Gorillaz: 2/10 Not quite but we’re kinda close genetically so I’ll give them partial credit

The Killers: ?/10. I have no way of verifying if they’ve actually killed before but the fact that they’re not in prison tells me probably not

The Offspring: 10/10. These guys are definitely somebody’s offspring

Arctic Monkeys: 1/10. They are neither monkeys nor are they from the arctic

Thirty Seconds to Mars: 1/10. It takes WAY longer to get to mars than that

Beastie Boys: 8/10. They’re pretty beast on the guitar

Jimmy Eat World: 1/10. Slow the fuck down Jimmy, you’re biting off way more than you can chew

Hole: 9/10. One point deducted because I’m pretty sure they had more than one hole

Rage Against the Machine: 10/10. They did exactly that

Alice In Chains: 0/10. This is illegal. Let Alice go

The Band: 10/10. This could not possibly be more accurate

Nine Inch Nails: 1/10. I can’t find any good pictures of their feet but from what I can tell their fingernails definitely aren’t nine inches long

Bush: ?/10. Not quite sure about this one, felt uncomfortable asking

The Who: 2/10. I’m not dealing with this “Who’s On First” bullshit

Radiohead: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a radio for a head

Queens of the Stone Age: 0/10. This band should be called “five random dudes from the modern era” but FRDFTMA is a bit of a mouthful

Soundgarden: 2/10. Sound does not grow in the garden

Sonic Youth: 5/10. They’re not exactly youth anymore but the sonic part checks out

Talking heads: 8/10. There’s more to the band than just a bunch of disembodied heads but the heads do tend to talk

The Cranberries: 0/10. Decent music but I only added them so that the Beatles and Freddie Mercury weren’t the only fruits on this list

The Wiggles: 8/10. They do tend to wiggle a lot

Blue Man Group: 10/10. Yep!

Weezer: 5/10. They all look like they definitely have asthma

Limp Bizkit: 3/10. While the visual image of baked goods playing the guitar is hilarious, Fred durst is not a biscuit. Points added because he probably has erectile dysfunction

Stone Temple Pilots: 0/10. None of these people are accredited as being licensed to pilot anything, much less an entire stone temple. Stone temples don’t need pilots anyways

Wasted Youth: 8/10. I guess it really kinda depends on how you frame it but yeah, they probably wasted a lot of it

Them Crooked Vultures: 3/10. These are people and not birds but Dave Grohl’s posture is kinda bad and John Paul Jones is so old that his neck kinda looks like a vulture’s so I added some points

Audioslave: 0/10. Slavery is illegal

Traveling Wilburys: 4/10. Sure, they traveled a lot but not a single one of those lying bastards was named Wilbury

D12: 6/12. There were only 6 people in this band

NWA: 10/10. I’m a little too white to safely comment on this one but I’d say they nailed it

Jet: 1/10. A real jet would be way too loud

Goldfinger: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a finger made out of gold

No Doubt: ?/10. I can’t really be too sure how Gwen Stefani felt but I think it’s probably a safe assumption that she had some doubts

The White Stripes: 3/10. I bet if you stripped them down naked and made them stand shoulder to shoulder and squinted really hard they’d probably look more like white stripes

Screaming trees: 3/10. They scream occasionally

Garbage: 2/10. I think they’re being a little harsh on themselves, their music isn’t THAT bad

Butthole Surfers: 5/10. Not even gonna touch this one

Megadeth: 3/10. To be fair, some of the former members are dead but only a little amount of death, not mega death

Dead Kennedys: 2/10. Last I checked Kennedy was still dead but neither he nor his clones are members of this band

Cake: 0/10. The cake is a lie

Cracker: 8/10. Most of them are

Tool: 7/10. I don’t know much about their music but they sure look like tools

Counting Crows: ?/10. Is this what emo kids do instead of counting sheep? Accuracy depends on whatever bird they happen to be counting at the moment

Dave Matthews Band: 10/10. It certainly is

Oasis: 1/10. Their music is the opposite of an oasis

Blur: 2/10. They are not that fast

Barenaked Ladies: 0/10. If I wanted to be this disappointed I’d reestablish a connection with my biological father instead

Meat Puppets: 10/10. Technically, aren’t we all?

Live: 8/10. Apparently they still do live shows but I deducted some points because I’ve only ever heard their music on Spotify

ABBA: 9/10. I’m still not giving any points to Guns N’ Roses but that’s mostly out of spite

5 Finger Death Punch: 8/10 I guess it probably depends on how hard you hit them but this seems to be the usual amount of fingers to punch somebody with

All American Rejects: 9/10. They’re all rejects from America so I don’t really see any issue with this

T. Rex: 0/10. Even if any of these people WAS a T. Rex I don’t think their arms would be long enough to play their instruments

Free: 0/10. Unless you steal their music, in which case it becomes a 10/10

The Strokes: 3/10. To my knowledge, none of them have had a stroke but I still added a few points because the name was probably accurate for other reasons

The Smashing Pumpkins ?/10. Another thing I have no way of verifying but this seems like a waste of perfectly good pumpkins

Therapy?: ?/10. The hell are they asking me for? I don’t know their medical history

Twenty One Pilots. 0/10. There’s only two of them and neither is a licensed pilot

Finger Eleven: 0/10. Leave the poor Stranger Things girl out of this

Fall Out Boy: 9/10. I conferred with an expert on this one who confirmed that they are in fact boys who had a falling out

Cream: 8/10. Considering this was the OG supergroup I’m sure a lot of people did in fact cream when their music came out

Edit: humans aren’t fucking monkeys. Stop saying we are

[sailoryuns]

COMPANIONSHIP ─── JJH [ TEASER ]

summary: after being released from prison for a crime he never committed, jaehyun sets out to conjure up the perfect plan in order to keep up the façade that he’s happily married and is out living his best life— by kidnapping a complete stranger and forcing them to pose as his wife to gain his inheritance.

genre. ex convict!jaehyun x tap dancer!f!reader | 90’s au, strangers to lovers

warnings. angst, (some) fluff, smut, age gap (jaehyun is late 30’s/reader’s in her early 20’s), smoking (cigs), kidnapping, manipulation, gaslighting, stockholm syndrome, physical violence, knifeplay, dubcon, fingering, unprotected s*x, loss of virginity, breeding, more warnings to be added once the full fic is up! teaser wc -> 1.7k

inspired by the film ‘buffalo 66’

disclaimer: everything i write is purely fictional, none of it is meant to portray real interpretations of these people nor am i claiming it to be!

for three years, he was certain he knew how to play this. three whole years, he’d made phone calls from prison and pretended he lived a life he could scarcely imagine. it started with shame and grew from there. he didn’t care about disappointing his parents, but his grandmother wouldn’t have recovered if she’d known where he was— behind bars fabricating these outlandish tales all for her sake.

his grandmother wanted nothing more than for him to meet a nice girl to settle down with. someone who’d love him right; a girl who’d look beyond all the baggage he carried and devote herself to him; a girl who’d keep him out of trouble and one he could put down roots with.

and jaehyun did, but in his other life.

in that life, he’d transitioned from a blue-collar existence working as a mechanic to the lavish lifestyle of a wealthy executive. he’d mastered the art of schmoozing with the owner of the auto repair shop to secure his slot with the big corporate elites. from there, he climbed the ladder that steered him out of trouble and jet-setted around the world.

in that life, he had his own office and a secretary. he had a pretty little wife who loved him and thought the sun rose and fell with him. in that life, he was too busy to spend time with his grandmother and when she passed away, he internalized the guilt of not only lying to her but breaking her heart too.

now only one thing mattered.

his fictitious life that’d cost him so much could now earn his inheritance of cash. that was the stipulation written in the will— that he live on the straight and narrow and marry a nice girl.

but as he’s forced to come face to face with all the endless lies he never wanted to tell, after three years, he’d have to keep lying because jaehyun had to materialize a pretty, sweet wife who loved him, the nice girl he’d chose to settle down with. but truth be told, he didn’t know any nice girls.

he knew stone-cold bitches who ripped his heart out for sport. he knew many aloof upper east side princesses that made damn sure he knew his place— in their thousand thread count sheets for a good time only. it turned out those trust fund nepo babies in three-piece suits were just good for making money, not fucking.

those men put their girls up in lavish digs and jaehyun did his part. he left them crying and coming and begging for him to stay as he shucked back into his clothes before their wall street fiancé returned home. those were mutually parasitic set-ups. he often never saw them again and never really cared that he didn’t.

and so it was; no nice girls who’d come up behind him and kiss his cheek while he sat in a recliner and watched the football game on sundays; no nice girls who’d make him his favorite dinner after a long day of work; no nice girls who’d offer themselves up as dessert with their legs spread and heart open and whisper words of love before falling asleep in his arms.

he’d once wanted that but didn’t have time for that shit anymore. it was all fairy tale garbage. even with nice girls, things often went south. marriages turned loveless and people got their kicks elsewhere. his grandmother lived in a different time. she meant well for his sake, but whatever her dream was for him with love, it just wasn’t going to pan out.

jaehyun stared at the quarter and shook his head with a sigh. he’d have to wing it. he slotted the coin again and punched in his parents’ number before doubt sunk it’s claws into him.

after a few rings, a disgruntled greeting rips through the other end of the line along with a cacophony of background noise— the TV blaring at full volume and the erratic shuffling of papers. he honestly wasn’t sure if it was his two-pack-a-day mother or father who answered. at some point, they both started sounding alike, one unit of congruent misery and loathing for the life they shared.

“hey it’s me,” jaehyun spoke, awaiting a response on the other end.

“who?” the demand was his mother’s. his father rarely answered the phone for this precise reason—it could be his son calling. jaehyun wasn’t moved enough to care. in fact, being disenfranchised from the family was a badge of honor. he’d wear it proudly, but first he wanted his money.

“jaehyun,” he snipped, cutting off the unraveling ends of his patience.

“sorry, who?” her gravel tone became more agitated and with more schlepping of shit in the background, as if fabricating an excuse to hang up; too goddamn busy clipping coupons to talk.

“jaehyun, your son!” he shouted in irritation, “turn the damn TV down, ma!”

“you two made it in town okay? your flight was good?” she asked to check the box of common decency, only to say that she did and not because she cared.

jaehyun cleared his throat and tried to sound jet lagged. he hadn’t been on a plane in more than a decade. what the fuck did he know about it? not shit.

“yeah, it was fine. we’re at the hotel now. i’m calling from the lobby. it’s packed here.” he lied through his teeth so effortlessly, it was second nature for him. every hiccup had an explanation, every background noise an excuse.

“we’re at the fancy hotel, with room service, champagne, the whole nine yards.” jaehyun rested his elbow on top of the pay phone case and cradled his forehead in his palm. “yes the one downtown on madison ave. it’s a big room, it’s beautiful here you’ll love it. it’s the most expensive hotel in the area.”

“no, don’t come here ma,” he quickly interjects, “i said we’ll go to you, okay?”

“come for dinner. we wanna finally get to meet our daughter-in-law. you’ve been talking about her for so long!”

jaehyun stiffened, fiddling with the phone cord. “she’s not coming. she’s sick.”

the excuse was too defensive. his mother didn’t suffer fools or bullshitters, to which jaehyun found himself guilty of both.

“what do you mean she’s not coming?” she demanded. the intermittent drags of her cigarette came quicker; so too did the forceful exhales. “she’s coming.”

“no, she’s sick. she’s not coming, alright? i’m her husband, the man of the house. i vowed to protect her, in sickness and in health, all that shit. i’m not making her go.”

“why is she sick?”

jaehyun gritted his teeth. the question infuriated him on behalf of his imaginary wife. what gave his mother the right to pry?

“i don’t fucking know! woman problems. she’s in bed sleeping. i’m not waking her up. she needs to rest.”

“well she can lie on the couch here with a heating pad,” his mother insisted with more artificial sugar, as if she cared. she didn’t; not for him or his wife. “just bring her over. we want to meet her.”

jaehyun was fuming at this point. if it weren’t for the metal cord tethering him to the spot, he’d pace. instead, he punctuated each word with a sharp jab of his finger, though there was no one here to see. his voice crowded the hall and echoed around him.

“so you want me to ride my ass all the way up the elevator, drag my sick wife out of bed, and bring her over? is that really what you want?”

the honey vacated his mother’s voice and left behind all that was rotten beneath.

“i know why you’re coming, and you know the agreement,” she hissed. “show up with your ‘nice girl’ or you’ll leave here empty-handed.”

“fine!” he raged with no recourse to refuse, cornered now unless he wanted to come clean but he doubled down instead. “she’s fucking sick, but i’ll pull my beautiful wife out of our fancy hotel bed, drag her into the cold, and bring her over for your shitty cooking. wait ’til you see how sweet she is. how are you gonna feel when she’s at your place feeling like shit? huh? you gonna feel good about that?”

with a cutting laugh, his mother revealed the vivid hues of her true colors. try as she might to paint over them, they always ended up mottled and drab.

“i can assure you i’ll lose no sleep over it. not a wink. so, you’re coming?”

“i said we’re fucking coming!” jaehyun slammed the receiver back to it’s cradle hard enough that the pay phone bell responded with a crying ring. he ran his fingers through the loose length of his hair and released a heavy sigh but felt no better for it.

he had well and truly dug his own grave with this one. the worst part? he’d already gone and made plans for his inheritance. he’d get his job back at the auto shop and get a few years under his belt, enough to get his “working hands” back.

he’d leave new york city for good and head out west where money would last, and he could relish simple dreams. he’d leave behind a muted existence and live in the desert painted in coral and gold and drink in the purple dusk. he’d buy a little house and live out his days in simple peace. it was a lot of money he was coming into, but not much he was asking for.

he sunk further into defeat now. he’d wallow there, but as you emerged from the bathroom delicately enough and with enough misplaced compassion written on your face, it was obvious you had overheard.

and what did you overhear? a man trying to get his poor, sick wife out of dinner plans. not just that, but apparently, a gallant albeit foul-mouthed knight in shining armor defending his beloved from forced family bonding.

you hovered at the end of the hall and stared at him inquisitively. big, doe-like eyes peering at him as if you had gotten him all wrong, the corners of your mouth lifted with a youthful smile. jaehyun stared back at you. neither of you making any sudden movement, but for far different reasons.

maybe you thought he was a good man after all, a tender man beneath the rough and uncouth exterior. but soon enough you would learn to your detriment just how wrong you’ve been…

there will be a taglist for this if anyone’s interested, so lmk if you wish to be tagged once it’s posted! <3 (i plan to get this finished by next month or so but we’ll see)

[miumiaoomyzi]

: how i think svt would be like when they're sick and you're the only one to take care of them

warnings: none.

genre: pure fluff.

notes: this is genuinely just a hunch of my thoughts on what svt would be like if they were vulnerable, please don't take it seriously. :)

seungcheol — honestly, he pretends to be so cool about it. 'oh a fever lol anyways' and a few seconds later he's suddenly on the sofa groaning and whining about how terrible his life is. and everytime you'd feed him porridge, you'd always do the airplane thingy. "here comes the airplane woooo!" "i am NOT a child." then proceeds to consume the whole spoon. he's such a cutie ugh.

jeonghan — enjoys your company so much. he ended up pretending to be sick for a whole ass week just to get off work and bathe in your glorious presence and hospitality even though his fever has already gone away a day after. "babeeee could you please fetch me the remote?" with big eyes and a slight pout. you always fall for it and he's genuinely so happy everytime you do.

joshua — could barely function normally cuz his fever is almost sucking the life out of him. voice, hoarse. mind, dizzy. body, sore. and he keeps repeating "love if you ever get sick i'll treat you ten times better." you just hum and nod, smiling at the stuff he keeps blurting out so randomly. he's literally fusing with the bed he can't get out cuz his body is sooo sore and weak. you feel so bad for him you end up staying at his side until his fever dissipates.

jun — pretends to be fine. like literally. "babe do you wanna get these slippers?" "omg look at this super cute reel about cats!!" he tries to hide the fact that he is NOT feeling well and is actually almost close to passing out. he even tries to eat spicy shit to relieve the feeling but it fails everytime. you end up finding out about his condition and basically grounding him to his room. and suddenly he constantly whines about his condition as if just earlier he wasn't wheezing over ig reels.

hoshi — absolutely ADORES it whenever you take care of him. blurts out random shit about his eternal love for you everytime you're near. "baby i wuv yu 🥺" out of NOWHERE. and he's giggling for no reason too. constantly asks for kisses despite his condition almost like his only motive is to get you sick w him so you two would be matching. and everytime you leave the room he starts whining SOOO LOUD. he even starts huffing, pouting, like the "hmph!!" typa shit LMAOO i love him sm

wonwoo — tries everything he could to make you not find out about his little fever. he keeps saying to himself "i can take care of myself" and the moment you show up to his door he suddenly crumbles and collapses into your arms. and ngl he had the LONGEST fever you've ever encountered. it lasted for almost a week which meant you had call off work for 5 days. you sometimes pull up those fruit sensory videos on your phone and he actually watches them. he sometimes even giggles. and he constantly frog blinks too omg hes so cute wtf.

woozi — stays in his studio claiming he's busy. and when the members found out about his fever they'd immediately tell you about it. "no i don't need help." even though his face is clearly red, snot almost running down his nose, limbs shaking and his eyes are genuinely pleading for care. he has his whole body covered in a blanket and only his eyes are visible. he looked so cute you ended up taking a picture and moving it to one of your folders dedicated to 'uji stolen pics'.

dk — genuinely he's just on low battery the whole time he's sick. he's not laughing nor cracking up any dumb jokes. just smiling fondly at you whenever you do something to relieve/lift the effect the fever has on him. and he can't stop staring at you too. just a weak, frail "thank you :)" whenever you feed him warm soup or replace his ice packs. and he's always ALWAYS asleep whenever he has a fever. like he was asleep until afternoon you actually almost panicked thinking he was dead. almost like he's recharging.

mingyu — immediately messages you "babe i'm sick :(((" and now you're running to his place like your life depended on it and it did. when you arrived he was genuinely a MESS. his hair is tousled, eyes are half-lidded and his lips are always in a pout. AND HE KEEP WHINING. even if you feed him soup, massage his legs, give him comforting words he is STILL whining. although deep down he really appreciates your care for him :( it's just he can't handle the fever and has to resort to letting out his suffering through random noises.

minghao — another one of the hiders, doesn't want you to find out thinking he can take care of himself. he keeps hiding his immense migraines and the sore feeling in his body. ends up making it obvious which leads to you to the rescue. and for no ABSOLUTE reason, he keeps trying to kiss you. claiming that kissing you would make him feel better and they do! just not on his fever though. he's also very sensitive and tends to resort to being glued into his bed. didn't care when you found out he was sick he NEEDED your help.

seungkwan — "this stupid fever." he genuinely needs a shoulder to lay on. he keeps grumbling about the problems his fever is causing and he DID rant about the problems. just with alot of pauses and stuttering. ngl you were surprised when he was quiet. he tends to be quiet during his vulnerable times even though he wants to let out the loudest whine ever, he thinks you might be annoyed (you wouldn't). during these times he could freely rant about his problems. and half of them included soonyoung LMAO

vernon — tries to isolate himself but no he's not going anywhere cuz you refuse. watches cat epic fail videos while he's sick cuz it's his only escapism. when you finally arrived, his screentime was cut extremely short. just wants to be by your side and he really enjoys your company :) although he is STILL trying to be nonchalant about it. "no i'll feed myself." then proceeds to do anything but feed himself. he keeps squirming too and bonus, HE CAN'T SLEEP. so you have to pull up asmr videos.

dino — honestly it's super normal to him on how you're taking care of him as if your life depended on it. you even have 3 checklists dedicated to relieving his condition. he also almost cried cuz the pain in both his head and body was too much for him to handle :( poor chan. despite his fever, he clings onto you alot like a koala. 'fever? dgaf next.' typa shit 😭

[jinxificada]

reserved affection

jinx x fem!reader

summary: while jinx deemed to be careless and independent, your devotion breaks down the walls.

notes: nsfw, mdni, wc 1,4k. SO apparently alot of u are pathetic needy losers like me since u liked that blurb sm i thought of writing it a bit more extensive heh. enjoy.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

her heavy steps echoed through the dark hallway, leading you to her hideout. you carry a big box of mechanical tools and pieces for her work as she grunts and complains under her breath.

she just left a meeting with silco and sevika, you weren’t allowed to be present but you still could hear the commotion from the outside. apparently, jinx made the tiny mistake of leaving a door unlocked in one of the shimmer factories, permitting a couple of addicts to get in there and steal very few rations. it could’ve been worse, that’s why she was scolded.

jinx was reckless, impulsive and a bit messy. but it wasn’t usual for her to make big mistakes, and if she did, she can take care of them just fine. you prefer not making a big deal out of them, specially because she got very sensitive after these situations.

she almost slammed the door closed on your face, well, she did, but your own feet stopped it. struggling, you followed her inside and rushed to leave her stuff. jinx was talking to herself, to the voices. you sighed and carefully approached her.

“jinx…” you called, your voice soft as well as your touch, though she still flinched when your hands reached for her shoulders from behind. “don’t worry about it, nothing major happened.”

“still—“ she huffed, not pulling away but neither reciprocating your affection as her own hands were busy gripping her own hair. “it was a mistake, the door— i forgot the lock and— shut it! he talked to me with that tone, sevika was there!”

“she dealt with it, forget it, it’s in the past now.” you tried again, walking to stand in front of her and gently take her hands, making her frown at you.

“you don’t get it, you never will.” she harshly said, “if i keep making mistakes he won’t let me go anywhere, i want to participate! i’m useful!”

“of course you are!”

she huffed again, skeptical. “you’re just saying that.”

that made you pout, even after years of devotion, she still doubted your words?

if someone knew jinx, it was you. having met her in the peak of y’all teenage years gave you the perfect panorama of her person. at first she was just a cool looking girl for you, someone who could bring a thrill to your depressing, boring life.

it was hard getting close to her, to convince her that you weren’t a threat and to break down her walls to know her story and see some vulnerability. in jinx’s defense it was an accident, you caught her guard down. and then, when you didn’t leave nor use any information against her or her father’s business, she kept you around.

in the end you were just a puppy following her around, you were just happy to be there for her. even though she treated you, well, like shit. but sometimes, you noticed she grew fond of you. she started to need you, your reassurance and your desinterested affection.

you showed a loyalty rare to find in zaun, and she appreciated it deeply.

“i’m serious,” you whined, fixing her disheveled hair and rubbing her cheeks. “you’re super smart, the cause will be lost if you don’t participate. silco needs you.”

your words combined with the soft caresses only fluttered her heart. warmth creeped up her chest and she pushed you away before you could notice her blush, walking to her work table to pretend being busy with something.

you don’t hesitate to follow, sticking to her back to hug her by the waist. “you’re perfect~” you hum, moving her braid to hide your face on her neck.

“you’re annoying…” she muttered back. jinx found it hard to push you away, she got scared the first time she felt comforted in your arms, breaking any chance of intimacy with sudden attitude towards you. but that was long ago, now she couldn’t help herself. she turned around with another murmur, “don’t leave a mark.” she warned, tangling her fingers in your hair to keep you close and try to guide your kisses. you were successful to distract her today.

“i won’t, i promise.” you shamelessly lie as you keep savoring her neck.

you wanted it to last forever. forcing your weight against her as soon as she lets you touch her. you gripped her waist, eagerly kissing and biting her pale skin.

“mhm, you taste so good…” you groan in delight, listening to her breath quickening and the quiet gasps.

“s-shut up.” she let you push her against her work table behind her, leaning her head back to give me even more space. “you’re smitten, hm—“

“f’course i am.”

there’s no shame in your voice, just pure devotion. you wanted her, you needed her. like air to breathe, you wanted to consume her.

her little puffs of breath only encouraged you to keep going. your lips smooched her neck and clavicle, urgently pulling at her top in an attempt to take it off.

“fuck—!” she huffed, obviously feigning annoyance again as she eagerly maneuvered to pull it off, exposing her chest for you. you moaned in unison when you took her nipple between your lips, you don’t lose a second to dig into her small breasts and worship every inch.

“lemme taste you, please,” you begged, “please please let me.”

“d’you deserve it, though?” she smirked, trying to control her quiet pants. you could only whine, rubbing your nose on her neck again as you hug her tightly, maybe this way she’ll soften up. “please, please, please.” you muffled pathetically.

you gasp when she pulled your head back from your hair, taking your lips in a deep, wet kiss. her tongue took control and you felt like melting.

you’ve kissed her many times, always needy and softly. she usually kisses back lazily, letting you have your way with her as if in obligation when in reality she craved the contact. but this was different, from the second she initiated it, she moved her lips fervently against your, forcing her tongue into your mouth.

and you easily submit, humming softly while you squeeze her bare waist in your hands. jinx surprised you again when she takes you to the old couch, pushing the couple of plushies and pillows to the floor to lead your back on the surface.

“oh— jinx?” you sighed, both eager and expectant to see what was she doing. you were about to look away when she stripped of her bottoms, but you found yourself hypnotized by her naked body.

“you wanted to taste me, baby?”

you sighed again, gazing at her with wide eyes as she accommodated herself on top of your stomach, “yeah.” you nodded, biting your lower lip in anticipation when she moved again to straddle your head, promptly about to sit on your face.

she doesn’t have to say anything else because you’re already sticking your tongue out, even raising your neck a little to finally reach her pussy. she was already wet, her silk folds opened easily as you mouth started to work for her pleasure. what a treat, you thought.

it wasn’t long before jinx squirmed on top of you, trembling and breathless moans echoed in the room as she rode your face with a neediness you’ve never seen from her. your hands tried to grip on her thighs to try and maintain a pace, but she was impatient and controlling. she looked down at you with a scrunched face, ready to complain, but the sight of your mesmerized eyes and the feeling of you tongue lapping and circling on her clit greedily…

her thighs trembled against your head, squeezing you tightly but you didn’t mind, doing your best to hold her to keep her from falling off, you kept working on her pussy as she lazily grinds down on you until it felt too much.

you almost whine when she pulled away, making space for her to drop on the couch next to you. you reached for her own underwear to clean the mess in between her legs, wishing she let you do it with your mouth again.

“feeling okay?” you softly murmured, seeing her twitch every once in a while in aftershock, jinx was extremely sensitive after the intensity of her orgasm.

“m’fine.” she whispered, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed. she leaned her body to your chest and you don’t hesitate to cuddle her, moving her body to half sit on you for comfort. lovingly, you pepper her face with kisses, “dumbass,” she tried to keep up the cold façade, but it was useless. her soft smile gave her away, she enjoyed your affection and she craved it.

good thing you had tones to offer her.

[millieisawriter]

Oh, baby

arthur morgan x reader

summary: arthur being a sweet baby daddy, even if you aren't as optimistic

wc: 2k

tw: accidental/unwanted pregnancy

all pics taken from pinterest

based on this request

a/n: yeeeehaw finally back from my break

Getting pregnant wasn’t ever something you planned nor wanted to happen. Hooking up with Arthur, you were aware of the possible consequences. Both of you were, but the consequences aren’t something you thought about during the heat of the moment. And now you were living with them. Suffering through them.

Meanwhile Arthur didn’t seem so upset.You supposed you were somewhat lucky he was the one that got you pregnant, he wasn’t running off or pretending it wasn’t happening. But his optimism was starting to piss you off. From the day you had told him, he’s been attentive, caring, and a little happier. He wasn’t that grumpy guy the gang had known anymore. Now, he had a reason to be happy, perhaps even to live.

“Brought you somethin’.”

Arthur’s voice cut through the spiraling thoughts in your head as you sat alone by the fire. No bottle nor a cigarette in your hand, as it would’ve usually been. Now you had to be careful.

You looked at Arthur as he sat down beside you on the log. “What’s that?” You muttered as he handed you a small brown paper package.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Open it and see.”

You frowned, but curiosity got the best of you and your fingers ripped the paper. Inside, there was a blanket. A new one, not stolen. It was neatly folded, soft, and warm. For the baby.

Your stomach twisted. The moment your fingers brushed over the fabric, it all felt even more real. As if it hadn’t already been real enough. And this wasn’t even the first thing Arthur had bought. If things were different, maybe you’d be happy. If you were different. But you weren’t. You didn’t want any of this.

“You keep buying all these things,” you said.

Arthur replied as if that was the most obvious thing. “Somebody has to think ahead.”

“And that somebody is you?”

“Well, I’m the father.”

You scoffed and shoved the blanket back at him. “Yeah, well, I don’t want it.”

“Ain’t for you,” he shot back, his tone softening when he realized he shouldn’t have snapped back so harshly, “it’s for the baby.”

You stood up. It’s been baby this and baby that for the past few months. No wonder it was starting to get on your nerves. “I can’t wait until this,” you gestured at your stomach, “is finally over so I can go get shitfaced.”

Arthur didn’t smirk, knowing it wasn’t a joke. He didn’t even reply, not having the words. He tried, he really tried to help you warm up to the idea. There wasn’t much he could do. He had searched for solutions to make your problem disappear. Doctors had the skills and tools to help you out, but the problem was it wasn’t legal. Doctors were scared of helping ordinary people in that matter, let alone outlaws wanted in many states with bounties bigger than the money you’ve ever made.

“I just… I hate this, Arthur,” you admitted finally, “I hate feeling slow. Weak. I hate the way y’all look at me like I ain’t me no more.”

Arthur stood up as well. Looking down at your face, he saw how glassy your eyes were. You didn’t want to cry, you were fighting it. “Ain’t nobody thinks you’re weak,” Arthur tried to assure you.

You scoffed. “Oh, please, don’t tell me you don’t see it. The way the gang treats me like I’m fragile. Like I ain’t spent the last few years robbing and shooting and killing right beside y’all.”

“Difference is, now you don’t live just for yourself.”

Arthur paused, and so did you. An uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you. The kind of silence that made the night around you feel overwhelming. You wished you could run, run away from all your problems.

Arthur continued, “I know this ain’t what you wanted. I know you’re scared—”

“I ain’t scared.”

But you knew he was right. You were scared, you had no idea how to be a mother. This had never been in the cards for you. You were an outlaw first, a woman second. And now, you were going to be a mother first.

Arthur let out a breath slowly. “Ain’t a crime to be scared,” he said, “hell, I’m scared too. But we can deal with this, you have me. Me and everyone else in this gang.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Arthur,” you muttered, your voice low.“I don’t wanna do this. I ain’t no mother material, and you ain’t exactly cut out to be a father either.”

Well, that hurt, but you had no idea about his past, about Isaac. The day Isaac and Eliza died, Arthur promised to himself that if he gets another chance, he’ll do better. And maybe you were his another chance.

“I tried,” Arthur sat back down on the log, his elbows on his knees as he stared into the dying fire, “tried to find someone, a doc, a midwife, someone who could help you. Ain’t no one who’d do it, not for us. Not for you. They’re scared to do it for normal folk, we can’t even dream of it.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but then closed it without a word. You swallowed, despite your mouth being suddenly dry. There really was no way out.

You sat down next to Arthur, closer than ever, so close your legs touched. The thing that really got to you was that he had tried. That he had gone looking, knowing well that helping you meant getting rid of something he clearly wanted to keep. Something that was important to him.

“Why?” You asked suddenly.

Arthur turned to look at you. “Why what?”

“Why did you try to help me?”

“Cause I care about you.”

Your throat tightened, and you hated it. You weren’t supposed to cry. Not over this. Not over him.

He continued. “I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t want this kid. I do. But I ain’t the one who’s gotta carry the burden, and I sure as hell ain’t the one who’s gotta go through all this. You are.”

You sniffed and looked away. “Well, ain’t no fixing it now, I guess.”

“No,” the man nodded slowly.

There was silence again, but now just a bit more comfortable. You could hear the soft hum of the night, a distant owl, the fire crackling in front of you, the wind dancing with the leaves. Maybe this wasn’t going to be that bad.

“Now,” Arthur gave your knee a light squeeze as he pushed himself to his feet, “you eaten yet?”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course I have. That thing makes me eat everything in sight.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at you, his gaze telling you he didn’t exactly believe your words.

You huffed. “Okay. I haven’t.”

“That’s what I thought. Sit here for a moment.”

He turned around to bring you something to eat. Something he got in town, something that wasn’t Pearson’s stew.

And you weren’t going anywhere. You hadn’t moved from your place at the fire for the past few hours. That was how most of your days looked lately. From time to time, someone else would join you, but the more pregnant you were, the more snappy you were. At some point it became easier to leave you alone.

“Eat,” Arthur ordered as he gave you some bread, cheese, and an apple. Then, he reached into his satchel to take out a chocolate bar.

It was a lovely gesture. The food wasn’t some fancy dinner, but not like you expected anything fancy. Fancy isn’t a thing when it comes to any aspect of the outlaw life. The food was simple, but better than whatever was floating in Pearson’s stew.

“Thank you.”

You bit into the bread first, interchangeably taking bites of the cheese. Then, not having fully swallowed the cheese yet, you opened the chocolate and took a few bites. And later on you finished it off with the apple.

You didn’t deserve that kind of understanding. Arthur had wanted this baby. He was probably excited, dreaming about a future you couldn’t bring yourself to imagine. Even if he himself would deny it, you knew he deserved better.

Out of a sudden, you asked, “Why ain’t you mad at me?”

Arthur frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

“Because I don’t want this, and you do. I’ve been a pain in the ass to everyone, you included.”

“You have every right to be like this. Your body isn’t yours anymore. I’d be mad as hell if I were in your shoes.”

Arthur was so understanding it made you nauseous. You wanted to hit him and cuddle into him at the same time.

Then, you felt something. As you threw the apple core into the fire, you felt a weird sensation in your belly. Some shifting, pressing from the inside. Then, a sharp kick.

“What the hell?” You hissed, looking down at the curve of your belly.

Arthur straightened immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“It just kicked me,” your hands went to your stomach, fingers pressing against the spot, feeling the kick again. “You want me to throw you a real punch, little bastard?”

You heard Arthur laugh. His laughter was genuine, probably for the first time ever.

“You wouldn’t be laughing if a baby was trying to kick its way out of your guts, Arthur.” You groaned, rubbing a hand over your belly. Another kick made you jolt slightly. It wasn’t something you were used to, the baby didn’t kick before. “Keep that up and I’ll— ouch!”

Arthur’s laughter died down, and now he was just smiling as he leaned in. He hesitated before saying, “Lemme feel.”

You looked at him with disbelief. “What?”

“The baby. Lemme feel the kicks.”

You sighed, eyeing him for a moment before grabbing his wrist and placing his hand on your belly. His touch was warm, but soft. When you let go of his wrist, his hand practically hovered millimeters above your skin as if he were scared of pressing too hard.

For a second, there was nothing. You were about to tell him to forget it when another kick landed right against his hand. Arthur stilled completely. You could see his face firstly flash with a surprise, which soon switched into a smile. He looked damn near mesmerized.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, eyes focused on where his hand rested.

You could see it in his face, how much this meant to him. It was strange, seeing Arthur Morgan like that. He looked younger somehow, hopeful in a way you hadn’t seen the whole time you knew him.

You scoffed, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat. “Told you. Little shit’s got an attitude already.”

Arthur grinned. “Must take after you.”

You looked at the man as he kept his attention on your stomach. Nobody was arguing, nobody was scheming, nobody was running from the law. Just the two of you sitting there, Arthur’s palm resting against your stomach, feeling the proof of the thing that had turned your whole damn world upside down.

After a while, he finally broke the silence. “You ever think maybe this don’t gotta be as bad as you think?”

You didn’t answer right away, because, yeah, you had thought about it. Not in a hopeful way, not in the way Arthur had, but in a tired, resigned sort of way. You weren’t getting rid of it. You weren’t running from it. Whether you liked it or not, this was happening.

Then, suddenly, all you said was, “We can’t let the baby become like us.” And your voice finally carried a softness that wasn’t there for the past few months.

Arthur smiled, finally pulling his hand away. “We won’t.”

[ichorai]

wool ; coriolanus snow.

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; when you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his.

words ; 1.5k

themes ; mild fluff/angst, slightly suggestive

warnings / includes ; set before events of tbosas so no actual spoilers, making out, clemensia appearance, mentions of other characters, coryo's paranoia, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could, let's pretend the academy also serves dinner

a/n ; this man has consumed me body and soul. this fic was inspired by the song wool by flatland cavalry on the movie soundtrack! let me know if you guys would like a second part :)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Coriolanus Snow was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He bore an aristocratic last name—yet you noticed that his dress shirt’s buttons seemed to be various different shades of black and slightly misshapen. His voice, so sweetly saccharine, charming, seductive—would whisper falsities like it was second nature. He would often claim that he wasn’t hungry, but you’d catch the longing glint in his pale irises as he eyed the steaming bread rolls Sejanus slathered with generous helpings of butter. 

Control. That was all he needed. 

It crumbled, ever so slightly, when you nudged your slice of apple pie in his direction. His eye twitched, and you pursed your lips, pulling your plate back to you. You ate quietly, and Coryo stared at you all the while, as if he were mentally dissecting your mind—studying you. 

You knew. It was all too clear, even if he wouldn’t tell you. And if he wouldn’t tell his closest friend—or, the closest thing he had to a friend, the two of you certainly did things that friends wouldn’t do—he most definitely wouldn’t let it slip that he was financially strapped to anyone else.

That same day, he met you in the back of the library. The two of you were supposed to be studying history—Professor Demigloss was one of the nicer teachers at the academy, but that didn’t mean he was any less strict with grades. And neither you nor Coryo could afford slipping now. Not if you both wanted to get into university. Being on top meant that there was only greater distance to fall.

But there were… distractions.

Mainly, his foot knocking against yours under the table. Your hand over his jostling knee. His teeth digging into his bottom lip. When you shifted so that your thighs brushed against his, the books spread out over the table were entirely forgotten.

He pushed you against the bookshelves a mere second later, the wood digging into your back uncomfortably, and kissed you until you grew dizzy. You were a welcome distraction—he could taste the apples on your tongue. The way you snaked your arms around his neck, toying with his pale blonde curls, pulling him closer until his body slotted against yours just perfectly—clicking into place like a pair of magnets facing opposite directions. It was desperate and heavy and he could only barely pull away to inhale sharply before cradling the base of your head to tilt your jaw back and kiss you even harder. Coryo swallowed any muffled whimpers that slipped from you when his free hand traveled lower.

Lower, lower, dangerously low—

When Clemensia’s voice echoed through the library in search of her lab partner, the two of you sprang apart, gasping for air.

She rounded the bend, and her dark eyes landed on the two of you. Keen, observant, narrowed. Coriolanus was flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling erratically. You were looking anywhere but the two of them, smoothing out your clothes and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Oh! I guess I’ll just have to find another time to bother you, Coriolanus,” she tittered, sickly sweet. She tilted her head with a tempered smile. “What’re you guys studying?”

Snow rolled his eyes in exasperation. “History,” he said. Curt, simple.

“Right.” She eyed you curiously. When she spoke again, it was directed more to you than him, sounding uncharacteristically void of frigid scorn. “I’d be careful if I were you. You sure he’s not just sleeping with you because you’re the top of the class?”

You stiffened, and Coryo bristled. 

“I’ll be fine, Clem. See you tomorrow.” 

There was another beat of terse silence. Her eyes darted warily between the two of you, and she whisked away in a flutter of red and black.

You blew out a breath. Your mouth tingled with the phantom memory of his lips planted over yours, and your cheeks flushed with heat. The two of you sat back down, both quiet. You worked in fluid tandem with each other, as you always did. His hands kept to himself this time. 

“I’m not using you,” he whispered, eventually. “It’s not like that.”

“I know,” you replied hesitantly, testing the waters. “It’s not like you’d need to. Your grades are just fine as is.”

The two of you kept working until your fingers cramped with overuse and his head pulsed with the beginnings of a migraine. 

“Dinner?” you asked once the clock struck six, nudging him. “I think they’ll be serving mashed potatoes today.”

His stomach clenched at the thought of warm food. Control.

“Sure,” he replied coolly, flicking his books closed and gathering up all the papers to stuff into his bag. “I’m sick of mashed potatoes, though.”

You shot him an incredulous smile, brows quirking up. He was lying, but you didn’t know. “Not even when it’s seasoned with roasted garlic? A dash of the freshest of herbs?”

The blue of his eyes gleamed when they bore into yours. “Not even then.”

“You’re a strange man, Coriolanus Snow.” Your lips twisted downward, but it was more of a smile than a frown. When your eyes darted below to glance at his school uniform, you couldn’t help but notice the unironed creases in the carmine fabric. One of the buttons—the very top one—was oddly shaped and a different color from all the rest. It reminded you of his dress shirt. You quite liked that dress shirt. He looked handsome in it, but you chalked it up to his uncanny ability to look handsome in just about anything.

Your head tilted to the side, molten eyes fixed on the button. You knew. He knew that you knew. Panic seized in his chest, an irrational clawing sensation searing within his lungs. Would you tell the rest of the class? What would you say to them? That he was living as filthily as a District boy? That he skipped meals because he couldn’t afford them? That his cousin mended his clothes for him?

But your frown-smile deepened. Fondness stained your expression, clear as day. Coriolanus found himself surprised, as he often did around you. 

“I love your buttons, by the way,” you mumbled, reaching out to trace it with a finger. He held his breath on instinct. “Is it a stylistic choice? Having them all irregular like this?”

Stylistic. Coriolanus almost laughed.

“Mhm. It’ll be in fashion one day. I’m just ahead of the trends,” he murmured charmingly. A bluff.

When you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, Coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his. 

“Maybe I’ll start wearing mismatched buttons now, too. Rebel against uniformity.” You stood up from your chair as you spoke, not catching the way Coriolanus’ expression faltered momentarily with your last three words. It was a joke, he had to remind himself. Just a joke. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner. I’m starving.”

He jerkily stood up. Grabbed your hand just because he could, fingers folding over your wrist. He could feel your pulse, thumping quicker and quicker. You regarded him curiously. Snow’s remaining spindly hand cradled your face and he stepped closer, intuitive eyes roaming over your face, wondering just how much of you was real. How much of you was lying, just as he was?

His lips fell over yours again. This time, the kiss was sweeter. Slower, more languid. His nose brushed over your cheekbone, warm to the touch. You hummed pleasantly against him, before placing a hand flat over his chest—over the crooked button—and pulled away with a dazed smile. It felt dangerously good that you hadn’t tugged your hand out of his grasp yet. His grip tightened in a near possessive manner.

As the two of you began walking out of the library, Coriolanus couldn’t help but think back to your hyperbole—about how far from starving you truly were. You wouldn’t ever know, not when your family was the very epitome of Capitol wealth. But he was glad he wasn’t the only one lying, for once, even if your lie was merely an inflation of the truth. 

After dinner, Coryo worked off the top button of his uniform with repeated tugs to the threads, pulling apart Tigris’ handiwork. He slid it over the table to you, watching the way your countenance softened in endearment. He kissed you again in the dark hallways outside the cafeteria, finding it difficult to get your lips to melt away from your tightly-stretched grin.

He walked home with a mirroring smile and a missing button that night. One less piece of the wolf’s sheeply clothes.

[johanna-517]

"Special and unique"

(CHAPTER 9)

You giggle happily as you run around the house, Erick and Abel chasing you, exclaiming about how ridiculously fast you are.

Erick is four years older than you, while Abel is only two. You know perfectly well that they could easily catch up to a little girl like you, but they don't. They prefer to pretend you're faster than them just to make you happy.

They always have, doing everything to make you happy.

After a bit more running around the house, Erick finally decides to catch up to you, hugging you from behind and stopping you from running.

"Cielos... Esta princesa es demasiado rápida, por poco realmente no te alcanzó". ("Good heavens... This princess is too fast. I almost didn't catch up to you") Erick stated, smiling broadly as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you. You were definitely always amazed by the way Erick carried you whenever he could, no matter how heavy you were, he always used to carry you as if you were as light as a feather.

"Así es, nuestra pequeña (y/n) es realmente asombrosa! ". ("That's right, our little (y/n) is truly amazing!") Abel exclaimed between laughs, approaching you to give you a small pat on the head.

You couldn't erase the genuine smile that spread across your lips as you enjoyed playing with your precious older cousins.

At one point, without realizing it, you tripped over something and fell, unable to stop yourself from crying as you felt a slight pain as you fell. Your crying instantly worried Erick and Abel, who rushed over to you. Erick gently picked you up from the ground, his warm, protective arms wrapped around you while Abel's worried gaze scanned you, trying to determine if you had any serious injuries.

Abel sighed softly in relief when he realized you weren't hurt. He comforted you, telling you everything was okay as he reached out to gently brush the tears away from your small face, while Erick continued to hold you in his arms, keeping you safe.

Shortly after, your mother and aunt finish preparing the food, so everyone goes to the table and eats together, enjoying the delicious food while Erick and Abel each sit next to you.

Gosh... You really don't need anything else, you just need them. Those who were like older brothers to you, them... Who were always there to comfort you, to dry your tears and tell you that everything would be okay. You adored the kind and sincere words Abel always had for you, you adored the way Erick always protected you from everything, hugging you, his warm embrace seeming to keep you away from everything that could hurt you. You loved them... They are your true family.

You sigh lightly after remembering that moment from your childhood, it's just one of the many memories you have of when Abel and Erick took care of you.

As you stand near the desk in your room, you can't help but sigh slightly, looking out the small window with nostalgia.

"Abel, Erick... I miss you, so much," you murmured softly to yourself, unable to help but sigh again.

You're still worried because neither your aunt nor they have called you, constantly wondering why this is happening.

You try to push away the feeling of worry, concentrating instead on your notebook on the desk.

Math homework... You hate it, it's just annoying. You definitely couldn't tell if you hated math or Damian more.

You look at your homework in your notebook with complete disgust and contempt, mentally wondering whether it's worth the effort or not.

Anyway, you know that even if you do it, the math teacher will still scold you for everything, and Damian will still tell you that you're so stupid you don't understand math. So, whether you do it or not doesn't change anything, so why bother?

You close the notebook and put it back in your backpack, instantly... You feel a slight sense of guilt.

"Mamá decía que hacer las tareas de la escuela es importante... " ("Mom said doing homework is important...") You said softly, frowning in resignation as you took out your notebook again and put it on your desk, finally starting to do your homework.

You didn't want to do your homework, you were planning on not doing it, but... Remembering what your mother used to tell you made you reflect and finally do it.

After all, no matter how much time passes, you'll always remember everything your mother used to tell you perfectly well, you'll always heed her words. And if that means having to do the math homework you hate so much... Well, it doesn't matter, you'll do it, just because you know that's what your mother would have wanted.

You remember perfectly how, back in your school in Mexico, you loved every single subject; you were good at everything and found them all fairly easy to understand. But since you started studying here in Gotham, that changed... Every single subject in class became too complicated for you; you struggled to understand them; you simply could never concentrate enough to fully grasp them.

Maybe it was because your school in Mexico was very small and a public school, and maybe that's why things weren't as difficult there and you found it easy, while here in Gotham, you attend a popular private school filled with a myriad of different subjects and different teachers. Maybe that's why you're not doing well at Gotham High School now, or maybe it's simply because you hate Gotham, and your school, too.

After nearly an hour of struggling to finish your math homework, you finally finish, smiling broadly and proudly at yourself for finally finishing it. You look up, glancing out the small window in your room, noticing that it's raining outside.

Gosh, it really rains quite often here. But that's okay, you've always liked the rain.

As you idly watched the rain fall outside, another small memory appeared in your mind:

You were about six years old, your mother and aunt were gone, you were left in the care of your cousins.

As you looked out the window, you saw it was raining outside. You loved watching it rain outside, feeling calm as you watched it, so you sat down and stared at the window. Abel and Erick sat quietly beside you, staring at the window as well.

You still remember when you innocently asked them both if they also liked watching it rain outside. They laughed and said no, that it was boring watching it rain outside, but they only did it for you. That if that's what you wanted to do, they'd do the same and stay by your side.

You laughed too, the three of you laughed together as you looked out the window again, together.

You let out a small sigh after remembering them once more. You know, you know you'd give anything to be able to look out the window while it rains outside with them by your side once more.

Nostalgia floods your chest once again, and without being able to help it, you open one of the drawers and take out some blank sheets of paper, take a pencil and start drawing.

Do you remember... Erick's black hair, it was short and regularly tidy, he is tall, do you remember the dark color of his eyes, do you remember... The gentle and soft smile that always adorned his face every time he saw you.

When you finish drawing Erick based on what you remember of him, you smile slightly to yourself. Then, you take another blank sheet of paper, and now you begin to draw Abel.

Remember... Abel's brown hair, his hair almost always looked pretty messy, his hair was only a little longer than Erick's. His eyes were light brown, and... You also remember the wide, cheerful smile he always had on his face whenever you saw him.

When you finish drawing them, you can't help but feel proud and happy with the result.

Of course, you weren't the best artist in the world, but you loved all your drawings, simply because you drew them yourself. And these two drawings in particular will definitely be your favorites from now on, because they're drawings of two of the people you value most in your life.

You lean your head against the desk, letting out a small snort as you continue to hear the small drops of rain hitting the window.

You can't help but wonder... Do you really have to stay here forever? Your life at Wayne Manor isn't a life at all; it's simply your attempt to outlive your siblings. Here, you're ignored and ostracized by what's supposed to be your family, even your father.

Alfred is the only one who cares about you, always. He's looked out for you, even trying several times to include you in family activities, like watching movies together or having meals together. But now you've always rejected that, because you know you're not welcome to them, they don't need you around. They're perfectly fine living together with you away.

And that's okay, you don't care anymore. But what you really want is... Not to stay here forever. It's become clear to you that you don't belong in this mansion, you don't belong in this family. But it wasn't always like this, you haven't always been out of place... Before you came here, you had a home, one where you fit in perfectly, where you were loved and appreciated, where no one ever ignored you.

Every week, every month, every year passes... You can't help but miss your old life, your home in Mexico, more and more. You want to go back, to where you truly belong. You want to be with your aunt, with your cousins, you want to laugh happily while playing with Erick and Abel, you want to taste again the delicious food your aunt used to make.

You want to be in a quiet place, a place where you truly belong. You want to return to your old life, a life that circumstances forced you to leave behind.

You want to go back to the house you used to live in with your mother. Years have passed, and you don't want to forget what your precious old home was like. You want to touch the walls, sit on the living room couch where you always used to sit and watch cartoons, see your old little room with your favorite colored walls and your old toys, go into your mother's room so you can remember her better.

And yes, you're sure that if you set foot back in that house you'll definitely cry a lot, for the memories, for having had to leave that place even though deep down you didn't want to, for having spent so much time away from your true home.

But it's okay, you promise yourself; you will definitely return, return to your country, to the house you grew up in, where you truly belong. You probably won't be able to go anytime soon, but you'll make sure you go at some point.

After all... Anyone is always destined to return to their true roots.

Today, as usual, you went to the kitchen to have breakfast, when you arrived, you saw Alfred, who was already preparing breakfast for the others.

You sit down and eat your own food alone, since obviously, it's been a long time since you've had breakfast with the rest of the family, you prefer to eat breakfast in the kitchen, alone and with only Alfred around.

"Miss (y/n)... I would like to inform you that a new member will soon be joining the family," Alfred said, his tone as calm as ever as he continued to carefully prepare food for the others.

You froze almost instantly. A new member in the family? Bruce really dares to adopt someone new even though he can't even handle the children he already has? You let out a small sigh as you continue eating breakfast, thinking that Bruce definitely seems to enjoy adopting children more than you initially thought.

Alfred continued to tell you a little more about the newest member of the family. He's Duke Thomas, he's older than you, and now that he's been adopted by Bruce, he'll be arriving at the mansion soon to begin his new life here.

You can't help but mentally wonder about him. What's his personality like? Duke... Does he ignore you the same way your other siblings do? You don't know the answer. You want to feel hopeful, want to think he's different, that he might be the first person in this family who treats you well. A good older brother.

But you quickly push that thought away, not wanting to get your hopes up, not anymore. Whatever he is, it doesn't matter to you. He's just another of Bruce's children, someone new to this family, and you don't belong in this family, so it's none of your business.

Today you were tidying and cleaning your room. You preferred to do it yourself. Alfred already did too much for you; you didn't want him to have to take care of your room too. Besides, you told him you'd like to do it yourself because you find it entertaining, and cleaning and tidying really keeps you calm.

So, you took advantage of today to do it, because today you didn't have classes and you don't have any pending assignments, it's an excellent day to tidy up.

While you were doing it, you were quietly singing a Spanish song that you liked.

You liked to sing to yourself at times like these, mainly because when you were younger, you used to do the same with your mother. She always used to sing songs while she cooked or cleaned the house.

You loved listening to her sing, and as soon as you learned to talk, you tried to sing along with your mother too. The two of you sang together; Mom always said you had 'the voice of an angel.'

You smile slightly at the memory, as you continue singing to yourself. The habit of singing like this never left you, not even when your mother left. Or rather... You continue doing it precisely for that reason; because it reminds you of the sweet moments you spent with your mother. You don't want to ever lose a habit you learned from your mother.

Also... It was because of things like this that you liked the fact that your room was quite far away from the other family members' rooms. So, you could sing peacefully without worrying about someone hearing you. They could only hear you singing if they were literally right next to your door. And well... Obviously, no one would ever do that, so they'd never catch you singing, you thought.

Although... Fate would soon prove you wrong.

Duke walked through the mansion's long hallways. Great... He got lost again. He still finds it incredible how huge this mansion seems. Since he's only been here a short time, he still hasn't learned much about this place, so he can't help but get lost from time to time while walking through the mansion's hallways.

However, this time it seems worse. He no longer recognizes the hallways he's in now. It's probably because he hadn't been to this side of the mansion yet. At that moment, something pulls him out of his thoughts... He manages to hear a voice coming from one of the rooms. As he approaches the door, he hears it...

A girl's soft, sweet voice sounds like she's singing in Spanish. Duke is a little surprised at first, but he can't help but feel drawn to listening to her sing. It was the first time he'd heard a girl sing with such a soft, sweet voice.

Being too distracted while listening to you sing, Duke accidentally approached and leaned too much on the door, but since the door was ajar, it opened instantly and he fell to the floor.

Your eyes widen in surprise at the sight. But you calm down a little when you know it's Duke; you recognize him since Alfred had also shown you a picture of him. Still, you can't help but wonder why he's here, and what exactly he's doing at your door.

Duke's face turns red, completely nervous about being caught listening to you through the door. Really... He doesn't know if he should get up, or maybe it's better to stay there lying on the floor so he doesn't have to face you. He's too nervous to find the right words to justify why he was at your door. And he's afraid you'll think he's weird or something.

As you watched him remain on the ground, you noticed he was also a little nervous. Unable to help it, a small laugh escaped your lips, slightly amused to see him like that.

"Come on, get up... Calm down" you approach, and help him up.

Once Duke finally stands up, he wants to look away and hide how embarrassed he is right now, but he can't... Not when he notices the incredible color of your eyes. He keeps his eyes fixed on yours for a moment, amazed by the special color of your gaze; he's definitely never met someone with eyes like that.

When you notice him staring at your eyes, you look away, a little uncomfortably, wondering if he also thinks your eyes are strange. You decide to push the thought away and instead ask what he's doing here.

"You... How did you get here? Why were you at my door?" As soon as you asked, Duke quickly looked away, flustered again, trying to think of how to respond.

"I... W-well, what happened is that I was walking but since I've only been in the mansion for a short time I got lost and ended up here, so as I heard you from outside I decided to come over and ask for your help" Duke responded quickly, trying to sound convincing.

Yes, he just came to your room to ask for your help, not that he was really completely attracted by hearing you sing and came over just to listen to you a little longer, that's what he tells himself.

Hearing him, you doubt him a little but you believe him, after all, you knew that Duke has really only been in the mansion for a short time, and you better than anyone knew that during the first few days this enormous mansion seemed like a labyrinth, so it wouldn't be impossible that he really had gotten lost and that's why he came here.

So, you decide to help him. You both leave your room, and you guide him through the hallways, giving him a few quick directions to make it easier for Duke to find his way around the mansion.

Finally, they reach the main part of the mansion. As soon as they do, you say your goodbyes and quickly return to your own room. Duke watches you leave, sighing softly as he returns to his own room.

Being in his room, Duke sits on the bed, his thoughts lost on you.

So... You were (y/n) Wayne? Alfred talked about you before. Though it definitely felt a little weird to him that the others in the family never mentioned you, and Duke never saw you around the others. And when he arrived everyone welcomed him, except for you, and he worried because he thought maybe it was because you didn't like him. But now... He's finally met you. And you were nice to him, so he's convinced you don't have any ill feelings towards him, which relieves him a lot.

Anyway... You were definitely much more impressive than he thought. Duke can't help but replay over and over again in his mind the beautiful and special color of your eyes, oh, and your singing voice was almost magical, he definitely loved it. You were singing in Spanish at the time. Alfred mentioned that you were originally from Mexico, so you obviously know Spanish. That sounds pretty cool to him... He almost wants to ask you to teach him Spanish later too.

You were so adorable... Gosh, Duke always wanted a little sister, and of course, he never got one before, but now he has you! He'll make sure he's the perfect big brother to a little girl like you.

Maybe... He might pretend to get lost in the mansion's halls again just to ask you for help again. After all, he definitely made a point of memorizing the location of your room and then returning on purpose.

❦: (Note to emphasize that the reader used to be very smart in school, and would continue to be so at Gotham School too if it weren't for the circumstances. Losing her mother and being ignored by her father and brothers was a hard blow for a little girl like her, it wasn't right, that's why her academic commitment was greatly affected.// Oh and also, this time I wanted to make more mention of the reader's cousins, since at the end of the day, they are also very important in the reader's story. And welcome Duke to the story! Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter ♡).

✯/Tag list: @hopingtoclearmedschool @simpingpandas @ryuushou @ninihrtss @soulsire @artistwithcreativeburnout @the-dumber-scaramouche @khalinda-ev @sillysealsies @moon0goddess @bunniotomia @twismare @arwenyukiamoto @wizzerreblogs @ironsaladwitch @luckyangelballoon @burningkittenprince @wisefuncherryblossom @kksmush @icefox8155

[luveline]

oh my, oh my. I adored your fics where reader is smitten over reid with his glasses and then where reid is smitten with reader in her glasses! can I request something similar with hotch, where he's the one flustered - or, at least, his reaction lol - by reader wearing her glasses for the first time? <3

thank you for your request <3 fem

“Hotch, can I ask you something?” 

He hadn’t heard you knock, lost in thought behind his desk, and he knows you won’t begrudge him for failing to look up. “Of course,” he says. 

“I went to the eye doctor a few days ago and everything was fine, but she said my contacts are gonna keep degrading my eye health, apparently, if I keep wearing them. Do you think I could wear my glasses in the field?” 

Hotch takes a moment for your asking to catch up with him, desperately printing the last of his thoughts into a consult note. He makes a spelling mistake in his rush. Frowning, he crosses it out and corrects it neatly. “Uh, you want to start wearing glasses in the field?” 

“Yeah. Do you think that would work?” 

“I don’t see why not.” He stops himself firmly, before he can call you honey. Hotch doesn’t want to patronise or condescend you even in his thoughts, but he has to remark to himself that you sound adorably over-concerned. “Reid picks and chooses when he wears his own glasses, and he’s never…” 

He’d finally managed to tear his gaze from his desk and found you standing further away than he’d thought, in a black pencil skirt that flares out gently at the end like a flower bulb, a neat shirt with a triangular collar showcasing just a slip of your chest and the small silver necklace you wear. None of this is unusual, Hotch is used to finding you charming and lovely by now, it’s the glasses that shock him. He hadn’t realised you’d actually be wearing them. 

They’re not thick nor too thin, simple black frames made of a translucent plastic. They’re glasses like any other, and Hotch can’t diagnose his own reaction to it. Perhaps it’s how they sit on your nose, or the cutesying effect they give your expression. They make your eyes look a little darker than usual. They’re everything. 

“Hotch?” you ask. 

“He’s never had any problems,” Hotch finishes, ever so slightly breathless, his hands falling to his thighs. 

“They look stupid.” 

“What?” 

You raise the back of your hand to your cheek and press it there with fingers curled loosely inward, “I know they look silly, I haven’t worn them in a while, but my eyes hurt everyday with those contacts, no matter how much saline I use–”

“No,” he says. He stands, and he swallows against nothing. It’s embarrassing for his age. “They don’t look silly. You should wear whatever makes you most comfortable.”  

“I knew they looked silly,” you say again, turning toward the door. “Sir, you just stared at me. I never should’ve let Spencer tell me they looked cute.” 

“They do look cute,” Hotch says, rounding his desk. He stands in front of it rather than crowd you at the door. 

He isn’t unaware of his own influence. His moving has stopped you from leaving. His compliment, especially one far from his usual professionalism, sticks you like a flytrap. 

“You look just as nice with them as you do without them,” he furthers. “I’ve never seen you wear them before.”

“Well, I was always underwhelming, growing up. I didn’t think glasses helped.” 

“Underwhelming?” he asks. 

You smile like you’ve caught him. He doesn’t like to be caught, and he turns away to pretend to look for something, but he’s saved by another presence on the landing. 

“Oh my god,” Morgan says, looking you up and down with an affirmative, sweet appreciation. Morgan might make a show of it sometimes, but he’s genuine as he continues, “Sweetheart, what am I gonna do with you?” 

“They’re not strange?” you ask.

“Is that what the boss man said?” 

You look back at Hotch bashfully, and that look alone catches him all over again. Morgan watches through the doorway and he knows he’s doomed —Hotch’s feelings are, for that split-second, plain as day. 

“He didn’t say they were strange, no,” you say gently. 

Hotch wonders if he should insist on contacts after all. “They’re suitable for every day.” 

“Suitable,” Morgan says. 

Hotch gives him a you’re-pushing-it squint and everyone decides they have things to be doing, leaving him alone to panic. (He doesn’t panic, he’s not the type, he just remembers your new look and feels his heart give irregular pangs a few times an hour for the rest of the afternoon.) 

[thesecondhandwoman]

BOTTOM OF THE BOTTLE

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: Another night, another time that Sevika returns home drunken off of cheap booze from The Last Drop. But this time, it was the last night that you could take it any longer.

A/N: I had to start this year off with a Sevika fanfic. I just had to.

The creak of the apartment door tore through the quiet night like a blade. You’d been waiting, pacing, and stewing in the dim glow of a single lantern. Sevika was late tonight, again. But you didn’t expect the heavy thud of her boots to hit the floor this late, nor the unmistakable tang of Last Drop whiskey that followed her like a storm cloud.

“Sevika,” you said, stepping into view. “God, you’re drunk, aren’t you?”

She didn’t bother taking off her coat. Instead, she slumped against the doorframe, the flickering lamplight casting shadows across her sharp, exhausted features. Her metal arm whirred faintly as she ran a hand through her disheveled hair.

“Nice observation,” she drawled, her voice thick with liquor and something darker—Anger? Frustration? She kicked the door shut with her heel, the sound reverberating in your chest.

You crossed your arms. “Where were you? I waited, again.”

“Don’t start, you already know damn well where I was” she muttered, brushing past you. “Plus, I’m not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood?” You followed her into the small kitchen as she reached for the half-empty bottle she’d left on the counter earlier that week. “Sevika, we were supposed to talk tonight, about us, about this.”

“This?” She turned, bottle in hand, and gestured between the two of you with a bitter laugh. “What is this, huh? Me coming back to you nagging? You waiting around like some—some Undercity housewife? Is that what you want?”

Her words stung like a slap. “What I want is for you to actually care about this relationship. About me! But you’re too busy drinking and fighting Jinx’s battles to even—”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” Sevika snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, the air between you felt suffocating. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it takes to survive out there.”

“I don’t get it?” Your voice rose, trembling with the weight of held-back tears. “You think I don’t know what survival looks like? I’ve been surviving my whole damn life! But surviving isn’t enough anymore, Sevika. I need more. I need you—sober, present, not drowning yourself at the Last Drop every night!”

She scoffed, turning away from you to take a swig from the bottle. The sight was infuriating, her indifference like salt in a wound.

“Don’t walk away from me!” you yelled, your voice cracking. “For once, just face this and have an actual conversation!”

“Why?” she barked, spinning back to you with a fire in her eyes that you hadn’t seen in weeks. “So you can tell me how I’m failing you? How I’m not enough? Guess what? I’ve never been enough—for Silco, for Zaun, for anyone. Why the hell would you be any different?”

The raw vulnerability in her words made your breath hitch, but the alcohol twisted them into something cruel. You stepped back, crossing your arms defensively.

“You know what?,” you muttered quietly, voice trembling but firm. “You’re right. You’re not enough—not like this. And I can’t keep pretending it’s okay.”

Her expression faltered, the weight of your words landing like a punch. She staggered back a step, bottle still in hand, before the anger flared again. “So what? You’re just gonna leave, huh? Walk away like everyone else?”

“Maybe I should,” you shot back, hating the way your voice shook. “You’re the one pushing me away, Sevika. Not the other way around.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of her breathing—heavy, uneven. She looked at you like you’d just struck her, but the tension between you was unbearable.

Finally, she set the bottle down on the counter with a loud clink. “Fine,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. “Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”

You blinked, your chest tightening as the tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “Is that all you have to say?”

She didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the floor as if looking at you would shatter her completely.

“Sevika, are you serious?” Your voice cracked, softer now, pleading. But she didn’t move, didn’t respond.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you turned and headed for the bedroom, leaving her standing there in the room, alone with only the soft flicker of the light. The weight of her words, and your own, pressed heavily against your chest.

You wanted to believe this wasn’t the end, that the Sevika you loved was still somewhere beneath the alcohol and anger. But as you closed the door behind you, the sound of her lighting another cigarette echoed in your ears, and you weren’t sure if she’d ever let you reach her again.

The first thing Sevika noticed when she woke was the ache in her head—a dull, relentless pounding that made her groan and press her flesh hand against her temple. Her mouth was dry, and her tongue felt like sandpaper. The faint stench of whiskey clung to her clothes, and the stale taste of regret lingered on her lips.

Her eyes cracked open, adjusting slowly to the dim light filtering through the curtains. She was still on the couch where she had lit her cigarette, her body slumped awkwardly across the cushions. Memories of the night before hit her like a freight train—stumbling through the door, the sharp edge of your voice, the argument that escalated too quickly.

“Shit,” she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her metal arm whirred faintly as she stretched, her muscles stiff from a night spent in an uncomfortable position. She rubbed her face, trying to shake off the fog in her head, but the memory of your last words cut through the haze like a blade.

“You’re the one pushing me away, Sevika. Not the other way around.”

She groaned again, this time not from the hangover but from the guilt gnawing at her chest. She’d passed out before she could even think about apologizing. Her pride, fueled by whiskey and frustration, had kept her from chasing after you when you’d stormed off.

Now, she needed to find you, to fix this—if it wasn’t too late.

Sevika pushed herself off the couch, her heavy boots thudding against the floor as she made her way toward the bedroom. Her heart sank as she approached the partially open door. She hesitated for a moment, gripping the doorframe for support.

She called out softly, “Hey, babe, are you awake?”

No response.

She stepped into the room, her gaze immediately sweeping across the bed where she’d last seen you. It was empty. The sheets were rumpled, as if you’d sat there for a while before leaving, but there was no sign of you now.

“Y/N?” she called again, louder this time, her voice cracking slightly.

The silence was deafening.

Her heart began to pound in her chest as her eyes darted around the room. Your jacket was missing from the hook near the door. The pair of boots you always wore to work was gone from their usual spot by the dresser. She opened the closet, her stomach twisting when she noticed the gap where some of your clothes had been.

“No,” she whispered, stepping back, her head shaking in disbelief. “No, no, no…”

Her eyes landed on the nightstand. A folded piece of paper sat there, your handwriting scrawled across the front: Sevika.

She froze, her chest tightening. It took her a moment to move, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the note. Her fingers hesitated at the edge of the fold, almost as if opening it would confirm the reality she was desperate to deny.

Finally, she unfolded the paper and began to read:

Sevika,

I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with “I’m sorry.” Sorry for yelling, for making this harder than it already is. But I think the truth is, we’ve both been making it hard.

I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you, even when you make it so damn difficult. I love the woman you are when the walls come down, when it’s just the two of us and the world doesn’t matter. But lately, it feels like I’m the only one fighting for that version of you.

I know you’re hurting. I know life hasn’t been kind to you, and you think drowning yourself in alcohol and shutting everyone out is the only way to cope. But Sevika, it’s killing us.

I need you to understand something: I can’t keep breaking myself to pull you out of the dark. I want to be here for you, but I can’t if you won’t meet me halfway.

I’m leaving. Not because I don’t love you, but because I do. If you ever decide you’re ready to let me in—to let yourself heal—you know where to find me.

~I’m sorry, Y/N.

Her grip on the letter tightened as she read, the words blurring slightly as her eyes burned with tears she refused to let fall. The raw honesty in your words cut deeper than any blade ever could. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the letter trembling in her hand.

She’d always thought she was protecting you by keeping her pain to herself, by drowning it in whiskey and fights. But all she’d done was push you away, the one person who had ever truly cared for her.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw clenching. She wanted to scream, to punch something, to make this crushing guilt and regret go away, but none of that would bring you back.

Sevika folded the letter carefully, setting it back on the nightstand. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the empty space where you should’ve been.

Finally, she stood, her resolve hardening. She wouldn’t let this be the end. If you’d left her a chance, any chance, she would take it. She didn’t know where you’d gone, but she’d find you, especially since she had the smallest idea of where.

And when she did, she would prove that she could be better, that she could be the woman you deserved.

Grabbing her coat, she slipped the letter into her pocket and headed for the door, determination etched into her every step.

The streets of the Undercity were as unforgiving as ever, the air thick with smoke and desperation. Sevika walked with purpose, her boots crunching against the damp cobblestones. Her mind was a storm of emotions—fear, guilt, and determination blending into a volatile mix.

Her destination loomed ahead: Babette’s brothel. The flickering neon sign bathed the surrounding alley in a crimson glow, casting shadows that seemed to taunt her as she approached. She hated this place—not because of what it was, but because it was where you always ran when things got too heavy between the two of you. It was a place you’d told her once made you feel safe, even if Sevika could never understand why.

Sevika pushed open the heavy wooden door, the warm scent of perfume and alcohol hitting her immediately. Inside, the brothel was alive with laughter, soft music, and low murmurs. Velvet drapes hung from the walls, and the dim lighting painted the room in hues of red and gold.

A few of the women lounging near the entrance glanced her way, their smiles faltering when they recognized her. Sevika had a reputation, and it wasn’t one that made people feel comfortable.

She ignored their stares, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on Babette. The Madame of the house was seated at her usual spot near the bar, her dark pinkish hair and sharp smile as disarming as ever.

Babette’s gaze flicked to Sevika, and her smile widened, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, well, if it isn’t Zaun’s favorite enforcer. What brings you here, Sevika? Looking for company tonight?”

Sevika didn’t bother with pleasantries. She crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, stopping just short of Babette’s table. “Where is she?”

Babette raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “You’ll have to be more specific. I have a lot of girls here, darling.”

“You know who I’m talking about,” Sevika growled, her voice low and dangerous. “Where’s Y/N?”

Babette’s playful demeanor faltered for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied Sevika. “You’ve always got some nerve, barging in here like this after what she’s been through.”

Sevika’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have time for this. Just tell me where she is.”

Babette leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs elegantly. “And why should I? Do you have any idea what you’ve put her through? She came here last night, Sevika, crying, shaking, looking for somewhere to feel like she wasn’t drowning. Do you really think I’m just going to send you after her so you can make things worse?”

The words hit Sevika like a punch to the gut, but she refused to let it show. She clenched her metal fist at her side, the faint whirring noise barely audible over the music. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt her. But I need to make this right.”

Babette studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed, leaning forward. “You’re lucky she still cares about you, or I wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Sevika’s heart skipped a beat. “So, where is she?”

“She’s upstairs,” Babette said, her voice softer now, though still tinged with warning. “Room six. But Sevika…”

Sevika paused, looking back at her.

“If you go up there and hurt her again, I won’t let you walk out of here in one piece. Do you understand me?” Babette’s eyes were cold and sharp, her voice like steel.

Sevika nodded, her throat tight. “I understand.”

Without another word, she turned and headed for the staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Room six.

She stopped in front of the door, her hand hovering over the handle. For a moment, she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. She couldn’t afford to let her fear control her now. Finally, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your head resting in your hands. The soft glow of a single lamp bathed the room in golden light, highlighting the tear stains on your cheeks. At the sound of the door opening, you looked up, your eyes widening slightly when you saw her.

“Sevika?” Your voice was a mixture of surprise and exhaustion.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice rough but sincere. “We need to talk.”

You stared at Sevika, your body tense, unsure whether to let her stay or tell her to leave. The raw vulnerability in her expression—the regret etched into the lines of her face—wasn’t something you saw often. It caught you off guard, softening the sharp edges of your anger.

“What are you doing here, Sevika?” you asked, your voice quiet but strained. “You said everything you needed to say last night.”

She stepped closer, hesitant, her boots barely making a sound on the worn carpet. Her metal hand flexed at her side, the faint whirring a reflection of her nerves. “I was drunk,” she admitted, her tone rough. “But that doesn’t excuse it. None of it does.”

You blinked, unsure if you were hearing her correctly. Sevika wasn’t one to apologize easily, or at all.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “I… I messed up. I’ve been messing up for a while now, and I know I’ve hurt you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” you said, your voice trembling as the tears you thought you’d run out of threatened to return. “I didn’t.”

Her gaze dropped, shame washing over her features. “You’re right. I’ve been pushing you away. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own shit—my anger, my pride, my damn drinking—that I didn’t see what it was doing to you. To us.”

You swallowed hard, your hands curling into fists in your lap. “Do you even understand how much that hurt? Watching you destroy yourself while I sat there, trying to hold us together? Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t let you in?”

“I do,” she said quietly, her voice cracking just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because I’ve been watching you do the same. You’ve been trying to save me, and I’ve been too damn scared to let you.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling between you like a fragile thread. She stepped closer, kneeling in front of you, her metal hand resting on her thigh while her flesh one reached out hesitantly.

“I don’t deserve you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “But I want to try. I want to be better, for you, for us. I can’t promise it’ll be easy, but I don’t want to lose you. Please, Y/N.”

Your heart ached at the sight of her, this powerful, stubborn woman kneeling before you, baring her soul in a way she’d never done before. The anger and hurt inside you hadn’t disappeared, but they softened under the weight of her sincerity.

“You hurt me, Sevika,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “And I don’t know if I can keep doing this if you won’t fight for us.”

She nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I will. I swear I will. Just give me one more chance. Let me prove it to you.”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. But then you saw it—the fear in her eyes, the desperation. Sevika, who rarely showed weakness, was letting herself be vulnerable for you.

Slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing against hers. Her breath hitched at the contact, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“I need you to mean it,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the tears. “I need to know you’ll try, Sevika. Not just for me, but for yourself.”

She nodded again, her grip tightening around your hand. “I will. I promise.”

The sincerity in her voice broke something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around her neck. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her arms encircling your waist as she held you tightly.

The tears came for both of you, quiet sobs that filled the room as the tension and pain of the last few weeks spilled out. She buried her face in your shoulder, her body trembling slightly as she clung to you like you were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against your skin, her voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry.”

“I know,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in her hair. “I know.”

For a long time, neither of you moved, content to stay wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, Sevika pulled back just enough to look at you, her face inches from yours. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing away the lingering tears.

“I love you,” she said softly, the words raw and honest.

Your breath hitched, and you leaned into her touch. “I love you too.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching yours for permission. When you nodded, she leaned in, pressing her lips to yours in a gentle, lingering kiss. It wasn’t like the desperate, heated kisses you’d shared in the past. This one was different—softer, filled with unspoken promises and a tentative hope for something better.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “I’ll do better,” she murmured. “I swear.”

“I know, I believe you.” You whispered, and for once, you truly did believe it.

A/N: And now I go back to all the requests I’ve got (a lot of them are on domestic Caitvi)

[anantaru]

⊹ ‧₊˚ ᰔ sugar never tasted so good

synopsis. ⊹ ‧₊˚ ᰔ you know that xiao has a soft spot for you, even when you show up to the wangshu inn uninvited // ꒰ᐢ⸝⸝⸝⸝ᐢ꒱ ♡

cw. oral (fem! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, xiao is a tease <3 fem! reader ♡

it was supposed to be a quick stop to the wangshu inn, to see if xiao was doing alright, no more and no less— after all, you haven't seen nor heard of him for a couple of weeks and had began to worry to the point where you had to consciously tell yourself to stop overthinking that something terrible happened.

not unexpectedly, the yaksha didn't necessarily harbor a strong liking towards your (secretly precious) habit of showing up uninvited to his place, and in any other case he would debate wether or not to show himself whenever you do come to visit him.

you do not know of it, but xiao tends to hope you show up, yet he pretends to dislike it in order to sewer any form of attachment towards your person.

although tonight, well, such was a different story because the mere sight of you had xiao weak in the knees— he could never admit it to you, but you've got him utterly captivated, not to mention, it has been a while since you both were able to get close to one another.

so to say he was frustrated was undermining the severity of his current emotions.

"oh, fuck, xiao..." your head drops into the silky pillows as his hands return safe and soundly to your writhing skin, he instantly places his palms under your knees in order to lift them just enough to slide your panties down, leaving them to lazily dangle around your ankle.

xiao rasps at the look of your damp pussy as he grunts your name under his ragged breathing, his solid erection twitching quicker as he settles between your legs. his eyes curiously glance along your glistening folds as he laps at his lips to turn them all soused and soft for you.

your muscles tense with liquid lust, your teeth clenched and fists balled into the disheveled sheets as xiao experimentally kisses over the little hood of your clit— one kiss, then a second, before parting his mouth to wrap himself around your precious pearl, shamelessly sucking and slurping the sensitive bundles inside his warmth.

like a magnet, you keep your gaze on his own and moan feverishly as you involuntarily buck your hips into his mouth.

"relax—" xiao mumbles into your cunt as his tongue trails over the plush of your folds, "is this why you came here? you wanted me to do this again?" the yaksha hums wetly against your aching core, his demeanor overly confident, "didn't know you were so filthy, hmm, so impatient too," he tilts his head to the side and flips one finger across your sloppy folds, smirking when your body twitches away.

to coax out one syllable after the other, the yaksha continues to use his hand and prances one digit over your folds before inserting one into you slowly, expertly pressing it through your tightness as you gasp at a fullness embracing your walls.

you fuse into him instantly, your pussy quivering around one digit as his eyes wander up to your chest, watching how you squeeze and play with your soft breasts.

you whimper when he slides in knuckles deep but alas, helplessly sob at the lack of tempo entangled in his thrusts, as to signalize you his urgent need of taking his time with you.

why hurry up your pleasure when xiao can tease you all night until you're begging for it? begging for him?

"enjoying yourself?" xiao watches your ever-changing faces, "i can tell you know, you're so wet here," he shamelessly slurps at your clit, a dark shadow casted over his eyes as he focuses on how your lips purse together when he flicks his tip between your folds and back to your clit, right with your clenching hole being stuffed by now, two slender fingers.

"n-need more, you feel so good xiao," you praise him on purpose— knowing it turns him on while having a desperate whine in your voice, your mouth falling open when he brazenly smirks into your cunt.

xiao breathes, hisses and holds your hips still by roughly pressing them into the mattress, "don't you stop showing me how you feel, don't you fucking dare,"

your tits jiggle as you abruptly arch your back the second he nudges the tip of his tongue against your clit and flicks it up and down, your hips swaying as he lets you use his wet muscle as you please.

in secret, xiao liked, no, loved when you were rough with him, almost territorial, it makes him feel like he's doing a good job in stimulating his darling.

with your lips bitten raw and eyes criss crossed, you hold his head and weave your fingers into his hair as you filthily grind your pussy across his mouth, up and down, up and down, smearing your slick over his cheeks and chin as your mind coasts to the feeling of his tongue stimulating you.

every warm lap of tongue makes your body feel like it's breaking beneath xiao's strong hold, his digits scissoring your hole as the other holds you close to his face before you move your hips to draw circles against his mouth, secretly admitting to yourself that;

yes, you got caught, you might've really visited him for this specific reason.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[grimm909]

Dial 17 for blackmail - Part 1

Hello, everyone. I don’t have much to say here, so I apologize for any English mistakes you might come across—english is not my first language.

WARNINGS: Blackmail, sexual abuse, emotional manipulation.

All characters are written as 18+. Please, do not proceed if you are under eighteen.

Enjoy your reading!

You stare at your haggard reflection in the mirror, the edges of which are marked by cracks — though not as broken as your spirit.

The body you examine from top to bottom is no longer yours, nor does it seem like a part of who you really are. You want to rip off that skin marked by love bites, as they call it, turn it inside out, peel it like a tangerine.

Disgusting.

Your soul screams, trapped inside that contaminated piece of flesh, disgusted by being there. You grit your teeth as your eyes, intensely red, meet your own reflection. They are like that not only because of the incessant tears that fall, but because of the pure and suffocating rage that pulses through every fiber of your being. A fury so overwhelming that you feel capable of reducing NRC to dust with the force of a single scream.

But the cruel reality is that you can’t.

At most, you would scare Grim and the ghosts of Ramshackle. And drawing attention to yourself is the last thing you want, or they might discover the situation you're trapped in. As entangled as a butterfly caught in a spider’s web, slowly being devoured alive. And your tormentors fit this dark metaphor perfectly.

You swallow the sob that rips down your throat like a thorn. It’s unbearable to stare at your own image for more than a minute without being dragged into the memories of the horrible things they’ve done to you. And it doesn’t matter how many baths you take; their smell seems embedded in your skin, like an invisible scar.

"Henchman, how long are you going to stay in there!?"

On the other side of the door, Grim’s dismayed voice echoes through the bathroom walls. It’s so unexpected that, for a moment, you’re startled, imagining that he might come in and discover the marks you’ve been trying to hide at all costs. However, the door remains locked; you make sure of that meticulously, checking the lock repeatedly before getting into the shower just so your nosy little friend won’t suddenly come in.

You clear your throat, doing your best to keep your voice from sounding choked with tears.

"I’m coming out now, oh great Grim-sama." 

You answer, a little more hoarsely than he would like, but with a clear hint of mockery.

However, considering your roommate’s modest intelligence, it’s quite likely that he takes your mockery seriously, believing your words are genuine.

"That’s right! The great Grim-sama should be in there and you out here."

A breath escapes your lips, in disbelief at his naivety. Sooner or later, you’ll have to teach him not to take everything others say so literally. At least, your furry little friend is a source of encouragement for you, even in the midst of misfortune.

You turn on the sink tap, letting the water run as you wash your face, marked by seemingly endless tears. When you finish, you look up at the mirror, staring at your reflection for the last time. The features once contorted by anger and bitterness slowly dissolve as your lips form a discreet smile, carrying an unexpected softness and a long-lost innocence.

You’re good at pretending. Good at lying. Too good at covering up. Maybe too good for your own good.

But your silence comes at a high cost: the weight of unexpressed emotions accumulated day after day, and you could drown in them at any moment. It’s a miserable existence of constant vigilance, of keeping yourself in check so the truth won’t come out — because deep down, you know no one can really help you.

Telling what’s bothering you, who is bothering you, would have dire consequences for your friends. The Leech brothers have always been too good at getting rid of anything — or anyone — that threatens them.

"You can come in." You announce to your feline friend after opening the bathroom door and giving him space to jump inside, then closing it again, since Grim can’t reach the handle on his own.

You grab your cellphone from the small dresser next to the bed, sitting on it and logging into Magicam to see what’s new — more specifically, to check if there’s anything compromising about you spreading through social networks.

Going through each profile, especially the ones belonging to the Leech brothers, you let out a sigh of relief when you realize everything is fine.

At least, for now.

The cell phone vibrates in your hands with a message notification. Just above the screen, before the preview disappears, you catch Jade’s name flashing across it.

Your lower lip is clenched hard between your teeth in nervous tension, already knowing that absolutely nothing good could come from this. With no choice, you open the message.

Jade: Meet me in the greenhouse, after class.

You: I can’t. I’ve made plans to study with my friends.

Jade: Oh, really? Interesting. But I doubt you’ll be able to focus on studying if that video ends up on all their phones.

You: Please, leave me alone.

Jade: You know I hate cheap blackmail, but sometimes you have to be persuasive, right? Go to the greenhouse, after class. Alone. Or maybe the rest of the school will get to see a much more… intimate side of you.

You: You don’t have to do this. I’m going.

Your fingers curl around the device with such force it looked like you were about to snap it in half. Rage boils inside you. That bastard! How could he be so deceitful?

Before you actually broke the only means of communication you had — since Crowley wouldn’t give you another one anytime soon, and buying a new one was out of the question — you made the sensible decision to throw the phone onto the bed.

Grabbing a nearby pillow, you buried your face in it to muffle the shrill scream that escaped your lips, dragging on for several seconds.

[...]

After classes, it was easy to lie and convince your friends that you were meeting with Jade just to discuss a few tasks that needed to be done at the Mostro Lounge — since you worked nights at the restaurant to have a little extra money at the end of the month, even if that meant constantly facing the two people you hated most in Twisted Wonderland.

And, as expected, none of them wanted to join you. Grim, in particular, scrunched up his nose at the mention of the name “Leech,” preferring to steer clear of the topic like it was a plague. In the end, they all agreed to wait for another opportunity to study together, confident in the belief that you could take care of yourself.

And how could you not?

You face four overblots, one after another in a short span of five months, without ever letting the situation shake you. You always maintain a cold and impassive attitude while assisting in the fights. Seriously, you even headbutt Riddle during his overblot. If that isn't excessive courage — especially for someone without magic — then what is?

In a way, you’re almost like a source of inspiration for these boys; kind, confident, clever, and funny. Yes, that’s everything you are… or everything you wish you were.

“Oh, look who decided to show up.”

Your eyes meet Jade’s heterochromatic gaze the moment you open the glass door of the greenhouse and step inside. The air inside is humid, heavy with the scent of damp soil and fungi in various stages of growth. Jade is alone, seated at the long wooden table, surrounded by pots holding an alarming variety of mushrooms.

“You came so quickly, pet.” The nickname slides off his tongue like a thin, sharp blade, slicing through your mood the instant it’s spoken. Jade always knows just what to say to make you shudder — in disgust, in frustration, or maybe both. “Sometimes I wonder just how far you’re willing to go over a single video.” He smiles, that same devilish, toothy grin you’ve come to despise over the past few weeks.

In your mind, you rewrite his words: Sometimes I wonder how close I can push you to the edge… just for my own pleasure.

“Maybe that’s why no one wants to join your stupid club,” you snap, provoking him even though you know it’s a terrible idea. You still do it.

“Feeling bold today, aren’t you?” Unfortunately for your ego, his smile doesn’t waver, but his two-toned eyes narrow in a veiled threat.

“What do you want?” you ask sharply, not wanting to drag this pointless conversation on.

“Fufu, in a hurry, are we?”

He mocks before standing, and your body reacts before your brain can even process it. Your muscles tense at the thought of him coming closer to do what that bastard does best: be a damn leech.

But instead of approaching you, Jade calmly turns and walks to a nearby table, where a small pot holds a peculiar mushroom. With the care of an expert, he plucks it from the soil.

Only then does he face you again. Looming in front of you, presence heavy and suffocating — like a predator eyeing his prey.

“I’m not going to be your damn guinea pig.” Your voice is tight, your words dripping with contempt. You want to lunge at his throat.

“No?” Jade raises a brow, feigning surprise.

Then, in a slow and deliberate motion, his free hand slides into the inner pocket of his white lab coat. His lips curl into a wicked little smile.

Your stomach sinks. You know exactly what he’s about to do.

The phone.

“I’ll do whatever you want.” The words escape before you can stop them. The bitter taste of surrender clings to your tongue — such a contrast to the defiance you had just moments ago.

It takes everything in you to swallow your pride and protect the little dignity you have left.

Jade looks more than pleased with your sudden and ‘voluntary’ change in behavior. His hand abandons the phone, but you know it isn’t a retreat — just a reminder that the threat still exists.

“Just give it to me,” you mutter, holding out your hand, annoyed.

“Thank you for your cooperation.” He smiles and tosses the tiny fungus into your hand. His next words are accompanied by his signature move: hand over heart in mock gratitude. “It’s so good to have you as an unofficial member of the Lovers Mountain Club.” A guinea pig — that’s what he means. You’ve learned to read the double meanings behind Jade’s flowery language.

“What does it do?” you ask, examining the pink mushroom with white spots, barely the size of your pinky finger.

“You’ll find out once it takes effect.”

“I hate surprises that come from you.” Your voice is sharp, full of resentment.

“From me? Oh, don’t be so cruel.” Jade frowns and feigns sadness, though the playful gleam in his eyes betrays the act. “Now… the mushroom you’re holding? Ah, that’s a different story. I’m sure it holds a rather peculiar surprise.”

You hate those last words — the clear disdain in them. It’s like he’s mocking your ignorance. Jade definitely knows what that damn mushroom is capable of. He just doesn’t want to tell you.

Your eyes fix on him, your fingers curling tightly around the fungus as if you could crush the answers out of it. But Jade just offers another wide smile, baring the sharp teeth that always make him look more predator than man — which, in truth, he is.

“You know exactly what this thing does, don’t you?” you ask through gritted teeth.

“Oh, how perceptive.” He chuckles, his voice smooth like a seaside tale. “But where’s the fun in just telling you?”

“You have a nasty habit of playing dumb,” you growl.

“I’d say it’s a personal charm,” he replies, unbothered. “But if it makes you feel better, I only withhold the details that would make everything… boring.”

The cunning glint in his eyes only fuels your irritation.

“Jade, if this thing is poisonous, I swear—”

“Poisonous?” He tilts his head, tone dripping with false innocence. “Now, now, do you really think I’d let you hold something like that without warning you?”

“Yes.” The reply is instant, dry.

Jade laughs, a low, rippling sound, like an echo from the ocean depths. He steps closer — just enough for you to smell that ever-present marine scent clinging to him — subtle but deceiving, like the merman before you.

“How cruel.” He sighs, placing a hand to his chin as if deep in thought. “But I understand. Trust is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? Like glass… or a tiny mistake when ingesting a mysterious mushroom.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Jade.”

“Yes, yes, I know. No jokes.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, but the smile stays — mocking. “Let’s just say this mushroom has… interesting properties. You might find the effect a bit inconvenient, but I personally find it fascinating.”

The way he emphasizes “inconvenient” makes your skin crawl.

“What effect?”

Jade doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he observes you for a long moment, like a predator studying its prey. Then, with the ease of someone who has all the time in the world, he leans in slightly, voice nearly a whisper.

“Why spoil the surprise? You know I’m being honest when I say this will be… interesting.”

Your stomach twists. Something tells you that, with Jade Leech involved, “interesting” is just a euphemism for “trouble.”

Either way, you have no choice.

Anger bubbles beneath your skin, but there’s nothing you can do except follow his orders like an obedient little pet, lowering your head and offering your paw as instructed. The bitter taste of submission is worse than any poison that mushroom could carry.

A sigh slips from your lips, heavy with frustration, before you finally bring that damn mushroom to your mouth. No chewing, no hesitation — you swallow it whole, as if you could erase the disgust along with it.

For a moment, nothing happens.

“That’s it?” you ask, brow furrowed.

“Oya, were you expecting more?” His voice drips like poisoned honey, full of amusement. Jade’s eyes gleam with something strange — laced with danger.

He takes a step forward, collapsing the space between you. His presence has always been too overwhelming, suffocating like the deep sea where no light reaches. But this time, something is different — something predatory in the way his gloved hands rise, about to reach for your skin.

“If that’s all, then maybe we can—”

“No, no.” You react before his touch lands, instinct screaming at you to back away.

With a quick leap, you dodge, feeling the heat of your skin narrowly escape Jade’s sticky hands — even if they’re covered by the pristine gloves he always wears.

The merman’s grin stretches, sharp teeth bared as if he just had fun toying with easy prey.

“I’m leaving!” you shout, louder than intended.

And then, without waiting for a response, you turn on your heels and run, refusing to look back.

Because deep down, you know if you do, you’ll find Jade still there, smiling. Watching.

And, worst of all, waiting.

[...]

Hours later, while still working at the Mostro Lounge, you can no longer hide from yourself what you feel. The heat beneath your skin is scorching, pulsing, almost unbearable. The knot in your abdomen tightens, radiating a warmth that runs down your legs, and your head spins in a slow spiral, as if trapped in a lukewarm, thick dream.

You can barely register the customers' faces, and the simple task of writing down an order feels like it demands absurd concentration. Each step feels as if gravity has lost part of its weight over you.

A fleeting train of thought is enough for you to understand: all of this strange, unfamiliar sensation is the fault of the mushroom you were coerced into eating earlier.

So that’s what Jade means with that nonsense about “interesting effects.” Well, interesting it is — especially the throbbing sensation between your legs — although none of it is welcome. And even with your mind foggy, it’s easy to connect the dots: all of this is nothing but a crude trap, made to leave you... vulnerable.

You hate realizing that. You hate that disgusting conclusion and everything it implies. Suddenly, the urgency to leave becomes stronger than any effect that damn fungus causes. You need to get away from the crowd, away from prying eyes — and, most of all, away from the Leech brothers.

Your gaze sweeps the room, searching for them. You find only one — which isn’t exactly a relief. The other could be lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And there is he. Floyd Leech. The lazy smile, the sharp eyes, the unpredictable gestures — as dangerous as they are hypnotizing. You don’t dare look directly into his eyes, but you feel it. You feel when he turns toward you. When Floyd’s gaze burns into the back of your neck like direct sunlight.

In a moment when he seems distracted — maybe arguing with some unfortunate customer — you take the chance. You slip quickly through the door that leads to the kitchen, praying to go unnoticed.

There, among the boiling pots and the scent of spices, no one questions your presence. You walk straight to the side door of the pantry and push it, relieved to find it, as always, unlocked.

You enter, closing it behind you. There’s no lock — Azul is the only one with the key — but simply keeping the outside light out already creates the illusion of safety.

You’d never choose this place, its interior lined with shelves of ingredients and stacked boxes. You know very well that if the Leech brothers enter, there’s nowhere to run. It’s the worst place to be alone. But right now, anything is better than staying under Floyd’s gaze or anyone else’s.

You close your eyes and press your trembling arms against the wall, determined to wait until the effects of the fungus wear off — even if that takes hours. Going back to Ramshackle alone isn’t an option; your body feels ready to collapse at any moment.

In here, wrapped in silence, your heart hammers so loudly it seems to vibrate inside your skull. Everything is muffled, as if the world outside is underwater.

You hear a click — the distinct sound of a door being opened. Your eyes snap open, but your dazed mind and even more sluggish body aren’t fast enough to react.

That’s when you feel it: sudden heat pressing against your back. Before you can move, a dull thud echoes through the tight space.

Someone… or rather, Floyd, slams both hands against the wall beside you, trapping you between him and the concrete. His hips press against yours in a slow, playful motion, and you sense the wide grin spreading across his face, even without seeing it. A shiver runs up your spine as Floyd’s drawn-out voice cuts through the pantry’s muffled silence.

"Heeeh~ Koebi-chan is trembling..." he hums, leaning in to sniff your neck with a satisfied sigh. “You also smell sweeter than usual…” His tone wavers between playful and something dangerously hungry, like a predator savoring its prey before the bite. He seems to feel just how much your body is already reacting to him… how soaked your panties must be by now.

The heat rolls over your skin in waves, blending with the peculiar dizziness that’s been dancing in your mind since you ate that damned mushroom. The effect is intoxicating, clouding your thoughts and making everything around you blur — except for Floyd’s overwhelming presence.

"Now’s not a good time for this..." you manage to murmur, afraid that any louder sound might draw unwanted attention. But every word seems to melt in your mouth, soft and weak.

Floyd doesn’t seem interested in your excuse. On the contrary, the mischievous glint in his eyes and the way his fingers drum against the wall suggest he’s enjoying your unease. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He moves his hips against yours again, forcing your body even harder against the cold wall — your breasts now fully pressed against the freezing concrete, contrasting with the almost suffocating heat he pours over you.

"Hmmm~... but Koebi-chan is being so sweet today." The laugh that slips from Floyd’s lips sends a shiver down your spine. "If I squeeze a little more, do you think you’ll break?"

Your fingers curl against the wall as you struggle to stay clear-headed, but the effect of the mushroom makes every touch, every whisper, every closeness unbearably intense. The rising heat inside you mixes with the nervousness of being cornered by a Floyd especially intent on teasing.

"Neh, neh, Koebi-chan..." He chuckles softly, his teeth grazing your skin. "Should I take this chance? Or are you going to try to run?"

The way he whispers those words sounds more like a challenge than a real question. But with the mushroom’s effects and the way Floyd toys with his overwhelming presence, you’re not even sure you can take a single step away from him.

You try to move away, but your knees falter, and a wave of dizziness washes over your body. A shaky breath escapes your lips as your legs give out completely. Before you can collapse, Floyd catches your waist with ease, lifting you into his arms like you weigh nothing. He laughs, spinning you slightly before casting an amused glance toward the pantry door.

“I think we should take her somewhere more comfortable, right, Jade~?"

"Indeed." Jade’s voice fills the space, smooth as silk. He’s leaning against the doorframe, watching everything with the same smile someone would have while observing an exotic dish. How long has he been there, silent?

“Ahhh~ Jade! Look, Koebi-chan’s all limp like seaweed." Floyd laughs, keeping one arm around your waist as your feet finally touch the floor. But it’s him who’s holding up your entire weight.

Jade raises an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from you to his brother. "Hmmm... I suppose it’s because of that peculiar mushroom she ate earlier. The symptoms include dizziness, heightened sensitivity, and... well, a certain degree of vulnerability."

The way he smiles as he says that makes your stomach turn. You try to pull away, but Floyd only presses you harder against him, his grin wide, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Heehee~ that means I get extra fun taking care of her!"

Jade lets out a dramatic sigh before walking to your other side, also wrapping an arm around your waist to help support you.

"Very well, I think I should come along. After all, we wouldn’t want you getting too carried away, Floyd."

The teasing in Jade’s voice is unmistakable, and you wish you could respond, but your mind is a whirlwind of uncontrollable sensations. Floyd, on the other hand, just grins wider, clearly pleased with the situation.

"Neh, Koebi-chan~ Looks like you’ll have some extra company.” Floyd whispers close to your ear, his voice dragging like a wave ready to swallow you. “Get ready, ‘cause it’s gonna be a veeeery fun night~"

[randomshyperson]

Heart Drawing - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

Summary: Dinner with Mr. Heart takes a different turn. Or, what anyone who wasn't a synthezoid would have done at the sight of Wanda in that dress.

Warnings: (+18), purely smut, bottom!Wanda (bratty), rough smut, creampie, strap-on, fingering and oral (w rec),  Westview setting, established relationship, kinda semi-public (?), almost getting caught but Wanda keeps doing magic tricks | Words: 1.169k

A/N-> I can't believe I finally wrote this, it's a fixing of the scene from WandaVision because I always thought it was unbelievable. If Wanda prepared a romantic dinner for me, especially wearing that, there would be no dinner at all. A good Wandavision anniversary for all of us btw <3

General Masterlist | Wattpad | AO3

-&-

Although it was one of the skills she developed first, mental control could be very difficult. Especially if Wanda was experiencing some other strong emotion, such as stress, anger, or sadness. 

Or physical exertion, like a fight with an alien or lifting machines or the like. 

Or just being so close to cumming in the middle of the kitchen.

And you, well, you weren't making it any easier for her. Your hips never faltered in their brutal rhythm against her and every time the fake cock attached to your waist slid between her tight walls, Wanda had the impression that even the magic around the house was failing. 

Her eyes were still red, though - Wanda is still surprised that she has any control when you slide your fingers down to tug at her neglected clit and she's forced to muffle her whimper with a bite on your shoulder.

She's sure she won't be able to keep the two guests static in the kitchen if you keep this up. But the soft protest is little more than a choke; "S-slow down, detka" she gasps directly into your ear.

You adjust the angle, and your hips slow down, but god, you thrust hard enough for the kitchen counter to crack. The dress she called a surprise barely hanging on her body is pushed down even further with the rough motions and Wanda won't be surprised if the the magic fails her once and for all with the reach of her orgasm.

She wasn't complaining, after all, this was the whole point of the night. A misunderstanding about a heart drawn on the calendar had led her to believe that tonight would be an anniversary (of which, she and Agnes came to no conclusion, and Wanda preferred to pretend it was supposed to be a wedding one). She got chocolate fruit and a dress that made you ignore your boss in the other room and force her against the counter as soon as you caught the first glimpse of her cleavage.

Wanda tried to be the voice of reason, even if her voice was hoarse and not very determined. She asked you; "What about them?" but all you did was give her a dirty little smile as you unbuttoned your pants.

"Play your tricks, my lovely little witch." That's what you whispered before sliding into her in probably the only gentle thrust of the night, and well, we're back to the beginning.

Wanda being fucked roughly on the counter in the kitchen while trying to keep the two guests in the living room.

She doesn't know, or think she doesn't know, at least not consciously about how that toy ended up inside your pants. She doesn't think about it, nor about when your hips start to buck and how when you come first, she can feel something hot squirting inside her. She can only mew in arousal, feeling your weight fall on her as you return your movements, faster than before making it impossible for her to hold back any longer. Your mouth finds hers again, and you swallow every dirty moan she lets out as she finally reaches her climax a moment later.

The kitchen, perhaps the whole city, shakes with the force of this orgasm. Wanda doesn't notice, but you're kind of mesmerized by the whole thing. She doesn't even realize she has lost control, still panting and soft under your body but you hear footsteps approaching.

It's your powers that keep the kitchen door tightly shut, and Wanda blinks exhaustedly at the knocks.

"I'll tell them dinner's canceled." You murmur, kissing her cheek before pulling out, the act drawing a gasp from the other. Wanda forces her body to react when you make mention of moving away, her legs hooking behind your knees while she gestures in the air with her fingers glowing red.

"They'll find their way on their own." That's what she says before pressing her mouth to yours again. You smiled into the kiss, saving a mental note to comment that you'd probably lose your job for this. But those were problems for later; right now, you were focused on your darling wife moaning on your tongue.

Your kisses descended to her collarbone, marking the skin gently as Wanda struggled to breathe. Your body soon followed the lead, and you ended up on your knees on the kitchen floor with your face between her legs, taking a moment just to admire the image of Wanda's pussy leaking your mixed cum. 

Your breathing against her was driving her crazy, she moved her hips forward, one of her hands grabbing a handful of your hair and trying to pull you in, but you fought back. Wanda meowed in protest.

"Please." It didn't sound much like begging, and you raised your eyes to her. Wanda blushed heavily at the image but tried to bait you by moving her free fingers to her own pussy, spreading the wetness before sinking a finger in. She whimpered before teasing; "Come on baby, I know you want a taste."

You bite your tongue, but you can't contain the shuddering of your body and Wanda smiles at you, a finger teasing its way in. You try not to fall for it but she mewls as she pushes her finger further inside and you curse quietly before you take action. Your hand pushes hers away, and you sink your face into her pussy before Wanda can complain; she chokes on a moan, her back arching on the counter as you eat her out in hungry determination. Your hands grip her thighs wide open and Wanda struggles to control the sounds, trying to find some ground as she clutches your hair, but all it serves for is to keep your head in place as she grinds harshly against your face.

She is almost robbed of her orgasm the next moment when there is a knock at the back door. It's she who is startled, failing in her movements towards your face, but you groan in frustration at the interruption and instead of stopping the whole thing, the vibration takes Wanda over the edge, and she has to cover her mouth with her hand to avoid the sound that escapes her as the climax washes over her.

She's still trembling on the counter when you stand up, a mess of cum running down your chin that you wipe off with the back of your hand, which Wanda watches with exhausted eyes as you lick it clean a moment later.

"I'll send her away." You mutter, evidently against your will to get off her. When Wanda mentions protesting, you offer her a wink, your hands busy hiding the toy back in your pants. " We'll carry on upstairs."

She tries to stand up on shaky legs while you answer the back door to the nosy neighbor. By now, Wanda's mind is so dizzy from a good fuck that she doesn't even care if Agnes was able to hear anything.

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH05 – scientific method: be vanilla, observe gojo, spiral

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and makes it your move.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step five in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: do not spend 50 million yen on an elaborate disguise. do not let him see through your every move like it’s a mildly entertaining game. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, let him call you cute.

the moment you step inside your walk-in wardrobe, a cold wave of realization crashes over you. racks upon racks of luxury pieces gleam under the warm downlights, their fabrics whispering wealth, seduction, and power. bold reds, deep blacks, striking whites—everything tailored to make a statement, to command attention the second you enter a room. there isn't a single piece that says sweet, nothing that murmurs innocent, not even an outfit that pretends to be soft. your fingers skim over the silk, the lace, the fur-lined coats, searching for something—anything—that fits the brief. but the deeper you dig, the more suffocating it becomes, a graveyard of high fashion swallowing any hope of blending into the aesthetic of a delicate, vanilla girl.

your manicured nails grip the nearest hanger like it’s personally offended you. a fitted black dress, sharp at the waist, plunging at the neckline, dangerously slit along the thigh. it is undeniably stunning—you are undeniably stunning in it—but it doesn’t fit the image you need to craft tonight. with a sharp exhale, you shove it aside and move onto the next. the next is no better. nor is the one after that. everything screams influence, confidence, the kind of beauty that does not ask for attention but demands it outright.

your stomach knots as you retreat a step, surveying the battlefield of failed options. you could just go as yourself, abandon the plan, let satoru deal with whatever version of you he gets tonight. but no—no. that would mean letting him win, and after everything, you refuse to let him have the satisfaction. he wants vanilla? he’ll get vanilla. even if it kills you.

frustration bubbles up as you snatch your phone off the nearby vanity, nails tapping aggressively against the screen. soft girl outfits aesthetic. vanilla girl fashion cute but hot but innocent but classy???? HELP. pinterest floods your feed instantly—beige, florals, delicate bows, ruffles so sickeningly sweet they make your eyes burn. you grimace, thumb hovering over the screen, hesitation sinking its claws into your resolve.

“no,” you whisper, horrified. “no, no, no—”

your grip tightens around your phone as you glare at the pastel-infested pinterest board before you. bows. lace. ruffles. it’s an assault on everything you’ve carefully curated, an aesthetic so far removed from your own that it feels like a personal attack. but you refuse to falter. if satoru wants vanilla, then vanilla he will get.

steeling yourself, you toss your phone onto the vanity and square your shoulders, turning back to the daunting expanse of your wardrobe. you’ve built your image on power, on allure, on the kind of beauty that dominates a room without effort. but tonight isn’t about you—it’s about strategy. a game. and you? you always play to win.

with newfound resolve, you reach for the nearest dress that even remotely fits the brief. it’s a disaster. but so is the next one. and the next. until you stand in front of the mirror, fists clenched at your sides, glaring at your reflection like it personally betrayed you.

the first dress you actually try on is a catastrophe. the fabric clings to your curves like it was made for sin, the neckline dipping just a little too low, the fit sculpted to perfection. standing in front of the mirror, you turn slightly, assessing the damage, and instantly shake your head. no. absolutely not. this isn’t vanilla, this is devour them whole and leave no trace, and while that might be your natural state, it isn’t the disguise you need tonight. with a sharp exhale, you yank the zipper down, stepping out of the dress and tossing it onto the bed without a second glance.

the second dress has potential—soft florals, delicate lace, a silhouette that skims rather than suffocates. you almost let yourself feel relief until you catch the mirror at a different angle, and the truth smacks you across the face. an open back, a perfectly placed cutout, a subtle yet undeniable whisper of rich girl on vacation, sipping champagne on a yacht. you groan, dragging a hand down your face, cursing the day you ever trusted your fashion instincts. this should be easier. it should not be this hard to find one outfit that doesn’t scream wealth and power.

by the third attempt, you’re starting to lose hope. the dress looks innocent enough at first—modest neckline, soft fabric, pastel tones—but the second you move, the betrayal reveals itself. the slit—the unforgivable, thigh-high slit. you freeze mid-step, eyes locked onto your own reflection as a slow, pained realization creeps in. there is no winning here. no matter how much you try, your closet is not built for innocence, and you are not built for restraint.

you start pacing, fingers twitching at your sides, the mountain of discarded outfits growing higher with every failed attempt. your reflection watches, unimpressed, as you mutter under your breath, frustration curling into every syllable. “why do i own nothing vanilla??” despite the ridiculous amount of money spent in your room, it offers no answer, only the overwhelming silence of luxury failing you for the first time. "this is a hate crime against my entire closet." another glance at the pile of rejection confirms it—this is beyond repair. “utahime is dead to me for making me do this.”

the thought slithers in then, quiet at first, almost reasonable. you could cancel. send satoru a last-minute excuse, claim a migraine, a scheduling conflict, a sudden and overwhelming disgust for social interaction. you could just go as yourself—let him deal with the sharp edges, the undeniable presence, the you that refuses to be anything less than commanding. but then you remember the way he smirked earlier, the way he always expects you to push back instead of play along, and something in your chest tightens. no. no, no, no. he will not win.

if shoko was right—if satoru really has a weakness for vanilla girls—you are going to drag him through hell with it. and for that, you need a whole new wardrobe.

the moment you step inside the luxury mall a wave of unease settles in your chest. the mall is luxurious, yes—polished marble floors, glimmering chandeliers, soft classical music humming from hidden speakers—but it lacks the exclusivity you’re used to. there are no private shopping lounges, no pre-arranged selections waiting for you upon arrival, no personal stylists greeting you by name with curated ensembles. instead, the boutiques here are open to the public, their doors wide for anyone who can afford them, but still restrained, catering to the wealthy enough. rich, but not your kind of rich. your fingers tighten around the handle of your bag, nails pressing into leather as you force yourself forward.

your usual boutiques stand proudly among the others—chanel, prada, dior—familiar, gleaming, calling to you like old friends. their displays are immaculate, their garments pristine, the kind of luxury that fits you like a second skin. you slow, just slightly, gaze flickering toward prada’s newest collection, the temptation curling around your resolve. one step. one moment. that’s all it would take to slip inside, to sink into the comfort of what you know, to let the attendants fawn over you instead of navigating this battlefield alone. but no. no, you can’t.

“don’t look at chanel. don’t look at prada—”

you look.

you suffer.

your exhale is sharp, controlled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you turn your focus back to the task at hand. the boutiques surrounding you are still luxury, still refined, but their purpose is different—designed for the kind of rich that still checks price tags, that considers budgeting, that hasn’t reached the level where money is merely a concept. a part of you recoils at the thought, but you push forward, determined. if you’re going to do this, you have to commit.

step one: find something vanilla.

step two: survive.

you hate this. everything is too soft, too delicate, too boring. the fabrics lack weight, the silhouettes lack edge, and the colors—god, the colors—are an endless sea of beige, pastels, and florals that make your skin itch. you aren’t just choosing an outfit; you are standing at the edge of an identity crisis, staring into the abyss of vanilla and feeling it claw at your very existence. your wardrobe is built on dominance, on presence, on the kind of beauty that leaves no room for interpretation. but here, in this carefully curated battlefield of innocence and sweetness, you are drowning.

your fingers twitch as you flip through the racks, skimming over soft-knit cardigans, frilly blouses, and dresses that look like they belong to women who giggle instead of smirk. the fabrics are light, breathable, wholesome—everything you are not. you pick up a cream-colored sweater, feeling the softness under your fingertips, and immediately recoil. this isn’t you. this isn’t anything like you. your stomach twists as you push deeper into the store, searching for something, anything, that won’t make you feel like you’re shedding your skin.

a store associate approaches, all bright eyes and perfect customer-service warmth, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “are you looking for something specific, miss?” her voice is polite, professional, but something about the genuine friendliness in it makes your eye twitch. you want to say yes. yes, you are looking for a personality reset, for a lobotomy, for an alternative reality where you don’t have to do this. instead, you force a pleasant smile, voice smooth as glass. “just browsing.” which, in this case, translates to actively losing your mind.

you pull a white, flowy sundress from the rack, holding it up with a deep sense of unease. the fabric is airy, the design innocent, the silhouette made for a girl who probably spends her weekends baking cookies and sighing dreamily into the wind. you stare at it. it stares back. a long, drawn-out silence stretches between you and the offending garment before, with a quiet shudder, you drop it like it personally insulted you.

you leave the store, your steps brisk, your patience fraying at the edges. the next boutique offers no salvation—just more pastels, more lace, more delicate little bows tied onto sleeves and collars like some kind of personal attack. your hands flex at your sides, the sheer injustice of this entire situation making your jaw clench. this is not just a shopping trip. this is psychological warfare. and you are losing.

eventually, you manage.

except, ‘manage’ is a generous word for what actually happens. because what happens is a complete and utter annihilation of your dignity, your self-respect, and—most critically—your bank account. at some point, you stop thinking, stop hesitating, stop fighting the growing pit of despair in your chest. you just buy. every pastel dress, every soft cardigan, every demure, heartbreakingly vanilla piece of clothing in sight.

you don’t even check the price tags.

but the sales associate does. and she sees an opportunity. her eyes flicker with the kind of predatory excitement usually reserved for jackpot lottery winners, her polite smile stretching just a bit too wide. “oh! this dress would look perfect with these ballet flats. should i add them to your pile?” her voice is honeyed, but her eyes gleam dangerously, like a shark that just scented blood. you nod. dead inside.

her grin widens. “and maybe this sweater? it’s giving cozy first date vibes.” her tone is casual, but there’s a sharpness in the way she tilts her head, already holding the sweater against you as if daring you to refuse.

nod.

“ooh, you’ll need accessories, right? how about a delicate pearl bracelet?” this time, her voice takes on an innocent lilt, like she’s merely making a friendly suggestion—not executing a masterclass in high-speed commission farming. her fingers are quick as she plucks the bracelet from the case, the glint in her eyes now unmistakably ravenous.

nod.

“what about this makeup set to complete the look?” her expression is impossibly pleasant, but the sheer giddiness hiding beneath it is almost terrifying. she’s barely restraining herself now, hands moving with the precision of a seasoned con artist, slipping the set onto the counter before you even process what’s happening.

nod.

at this point, she is practically vibrating, her sales instincts on overdrive, eyes darting wildly around the store for one last kill. and then, like a divine blessing, she spots it. “you know what? let’s throw in a scented candle. vanilla sugar. really gets the vibe across.” her smile is so radiant, so victorious, that you almost admire her dedication to the craft.

you nod again.

you have completely disassociated.

the mountain of bags in front of you is obscene, an overwhelming pile of soft fabrics and delicate accessories suffocating you under a weight of beige betrayal. and then your total flashes across the screen—a number so outrageous it would make most people gasp.

fifty. million. yen.

the sales associate visibly struggles to maintain her composure, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her eyes—her eyes—are practically shimmering with triumph. she looks like she just paid off her student loans, put a down payment on a luxury condo, and secured early retirement all in one transaction.

you don’t flinch. you swipe your black card without blinking, your soul already halfway to the afterlife.

the sales associate beams, voice dangerously sweet. “thank you for shopping with us! should i send these to your car?”

you blink. then, slowly, your head tilts, expression smooth, controlled. “no need.”

she falters, confusion flickering behind her perfectly trained smile. “…no need?”

you sigh, feigning mild impatience. “no car.”

a beat of silence. her brows lift just slightly, eyes flickering to the absurd number of shopping bags now surrounding you. her expression wavers between impressed and mildly horrified as she hesitates. “do… do you need a ride, then?”

your lips part—before you remember that you did have a driver. briefly. except he was a boy toy, not an actual chauffeur, and he had served his purpose the moment he dropped you off. you had shooed him away with a lazy wave of your hand, not even sparing him a second glance.

which means you are now stranded in a luxury mall, drowning in fifty million yen worth of pastel suffering, with no actual way to get home.

your fingers tighten around the receipt.

and then.

voices—loud, familiar, male—drift from the hallway just outside the boutique. you glance up, and there they are—the university basketball team, a cluster of tall, broad-shouldered figures making their way down the mall, their conversation casual, easy. they must have just come from the food court or some sporting store, half of them holding protein shakes, one of them lazily spinning a basketball on his fingertips.

your gaze drifts, scanning their faces, noting the way conversation slows as they pass by the boutique and see you—framed by designer bags, dressed like a walking privilege complex, standing in the aftermath of what must look like an absurd shopping spree.

perfect.

you move with purpose, slow and deliberate, every step a silent command that draws their attention like a gravitational pull. the shift in the air is immediate—conversation dulls, movements slow, postures straighten, as if some unspoken instinct demands their focus solely on you. their eyes flick to the mountain of shopping bags framing you, then back to your unreadable expression, and you can already see the gears turning in their heads. this is their moment. this is their chance. the first one reacts without hesitation, shoulders squaring, voice eager. “hey, you need help with those?”

another one steps forward before you can answer, his arm shoving the first guy aside with casual force. “don’t be stupid, of course she does. here, let me—” his fingers are already reaching for the bags, confident, assured, like touching your things is some divine privilege. but before he can claim his victory, another one cuts in, scoffing under his breath. “no, i got it—” he’s taller, broader, flexing just enough to make a statement, fingers twitching like he’s prepared to fight for the honor of being useful to you.

“you guys are pathetic,” a fourth voice sneers, stepping in like he’s already won. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate—just lifts three of the heaviest bags in one smooth motion, barely acknowledging the weight, gaze flicking toward you for approval. “i can carry more than all of you.” it’s a challenge, a declaration of superiority, but no one backs down. within seconds, hands reach, arms extend, and before you can even feign reluctance, your burden is gone. divided amongst eager, competing hands, shuffled and redistributed like a prize to be won.

you exhale, slow, calculated, your amusement hidden beneath a well-practiced air of indifference. of course they’re fighting over your things. of course they’re tripping over themselves, desperate to be of use to you, eager to carve a space into your world—even if only for a moment. the weightless relief in your arms is almost laughable, but the true victory lies in the way they look at you. like you are untouchable. like you are something to be pleased.

one of them hesitates, shifting slightly, an ounce of regret creeping into his expression. “uh, we were supposed to go to a movie, but—” the sentence barely escapes before another cuts in, smooth, immediate, certain.

“cancel it,” he says, adjusting the weight of your bags in his arms, as if the decision had already been made long before this moment. “we’ll drive her home instead.”

a chorus of agreements follows—unquestioning, effortless, their priorities shifting in real-time, restructured entirely around you.

you hate the clothes. you hate the concept. you hate satoru gojo.

but you love winning. you have to.

you stare at the ridiculous amount of shopping bags scattered across your bedroom floor, arms crossed, expression murderous. you spent fifty million yen on this—this farce—and now you have to wear it. the thought alone makes your skin itch, but you’ve come too far to back out now. with a sharp inhale, you kneel down and begin your suffering, sifting through the carefully folded garments, grimacing at every delicate fabric that passes through your fingers. soft pastels. fragile lace. silhouettes designed to whisper rather than command. disgusting.

after what feels like an eternity of self-loathing, you pull out the final choice: a pastel midi dress, flowy, feminine, with just a hint of lace trimming along the hem. you hold it up, inspecting it under the light, hoping—praying—that it will suddenly become unbearable so you’ll have an excuse to throw it across the room. but it doesn’t. it remains innocent, demure, sweet, and that realization alone makes you scowl. still, this is the most tolerable option among a sea of floral oppression, so with a defeated sigh, you peel off your robe and step into it. the fabric is light against your skin, the fit annoyingly comfortable. it’s a nightmare.

and then come the shoes. flats. the ultimate betrayal. no heels, no satisfying click against the floor, no added height to tilt your chin even higher. you slip them on, and the absence of power in your stride makes your body physically reject the experience. your lip curls in disgust, arms outstretched as if the shoes might somehow infect you. “this is a crime.” your voice is flat, resigned, but the only judge and jury in the room is your reflection, and she is already condemning you for every choice that led to this moment.

you grab the matching shoulder bag next, small and pastel, still designer, because you refuse to let yourself completely suffer. you sling it over your shoulder, feeling its weight—or lack thereof—and your fingers tighten against the strap. even your accessories have been stripped of their usual sharpness, reduced to something delicate, something sweet. the thought alone makes your jaw clench, but the real final blow comes when you sit in front of your vanity and pin your hair back with a dainty little clip. this is where the urge to scream truly sets in.

the last step is the perfume, the final nail in the coffin of your identity. you reach for your usual scent—bold, sultry, commanding—only to stop yourself at the last second. no. if you’re going to do this, you have to commit. with slow, begrudging movements, you swap it out for something lighter, something delicate—floral with hints of vanilla and white musk. the scent settles around you like a cage, gentle, inoffensive, wrong.

you step back, taking in the reflection staring back at you.

innocent. sweet. soft.

you inhale slowly, forcing your expression to remain impassive. it's almost funny. almost.

your head tilts, gaze narrowing. you look right, in the way that little girls in perfect families should. in the way your mother used to dress you—delicate, lovely, a porcelain doll for the world to admire. back then, pastels weren't a costume; they were second skin. love was pink ribbons in your hair and kisses on your forehead, and you thought—naïve, blind, stupid—that it would always be like that. that the smiles at the dinner table were real, that your parents’ murmured conversations were nothing but soft reassurances in the dark. that love was something true, something lasting, something that didn't unravel the second no one was watching.

but then you grew up. and you learned.

your father came home with lipstick stains that weren’t your mother’s. your mother left in the middle of the night with perfume that wasn’t for your father. the walls of your pristine, picture-perfect home echoed with silence, with forced laughter, with empty pleasantries exchanged over candlelit dinners. they were still together, still playing house, still pretending like the whole damn thing wasn’t a farce. you were the only one suffocating in the lie, watching the threads fray while they smiled through it, unbothered. and so, you adapted. you shed the pastels, traded lace for silk, ribbons for diamonds. if love was nothing but performance, you would outperform them all.

so why, then—why—do you look at yourself now and feel something twist in your chest?

your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, nails digging into the soft leather.

no. you were that girl once. but that girl is dead. she died the moment she realized her family’s love was nothing but a well-rehearsed act.

you exhale sharply, forcing the thought out of your head.

this is just a role. a disguise. nothing more.

therefore, if you’re going to do this, you might as well commit to the bit.

but let’s get one thing straight—you are not baking. absolutely not. the last time you poured your heart into something for satoru, you were five years old, gripping a box of carefully wrapped chocolates with all the hope in the world, only for him to crush it beneath the weight of dental hygiene. you learned your lesson. never again. instead, on your way to the café, you swing by a small, homey cake shop—the kind with handwritten labels, tiny ribbons on the boxes, and an old lady behind the counter who probably invented love itself.

you stride up to the counter, nails tapping against the glass display as you scan the selection of delicate pastries. after a moment, you exhale sharply, tilting your head toward the woman. “i need something that says ‘i made this with love’ but also ‘not too much love’ because he doesn’t deserve that much effort.”

the old lady blinks at you. then, very gently, she asks, “ah, young love?”

you recoil. violently. “no.”

but it’s too late. the grandma’s eyes twinkle, her hands clasping together with the kind of delight only an elderly woman with a lifetime of wisdom and absolutely no fear of being corrected can possess. “you remind me of my husband when we were younger,” she sighs dreamily, already lost in nostalgia. “he was the most frustrating man alive. always unpredictable, always unreadable—but i adored him.”

your face twists. “that’s tragic. i’m so sorry.”

the old lady just waves you off, smiling like she didn’t just say something horrifying. “oh, no, dear, that’s how you know it’s real. the best love stories are the ones that keep you on your toes. why, when we first met, he used to steal my hair ribbons just to hear me scold him. it was his way of flirting.”

you almost bite your tongue. because wow. wow. stealing? that sounds way too familiar.

you shift, arms crossing, eyes narrowing. “uh-huh. did he manage to be infuriating for years? pop up wherever you went like a bad omen? make you want to throw a shoe at his face every time he opened his mouth?”

“oh, constantly!” the grandma laughs, as if this is the most romantic thing in the world. “he used to read me poetry but only the worst ones he could find, just to make me suffer. and when i finally fell for him, he acted shocked—like it wasn’t part of his master plan all along!” she shakes her head, still fond despite the betrayal.

you nod slowly, eyes dark. “right. master plan. men are actually the worst.”

“they are.” the grandma hums in agreement, then pats your hand, voice softening. “but if he makes you feel like the world is brighter when he’s near, like you could push him away a thousand times and he’d still be there, smiling at you like you hung the stars—then maybe, just maybe, he’s worth keeping around.”

you stare at her.

then you think about satoru. about the way he always finds you, always pulls you back in. about the way he looks at you sometimes, like he knows something you don’t.

your stomach twists. your eye twitches. you clear your throat.

“yeah, no. i think i’ll just take the cupcakes.”

the grandma chuckles but doesn’t argue, already packing up a box with delicate care. “of course, dear.”

before leaving, you toss the receipt and the bag, making sure to completely erase the part where you trauma-bonded with a sweet old woman over the single most annoying man in existence.

…except you forget to check the bottom of the box. (critical mistake.)

of course, satoru's already secured a private room.

you step inside, carefully, deliberately, every movement rehearsed down to the placement of your fingers against the strap of your bag. and there he is—leaned back in his seat, effortlessly put together, the picture of practiced ease. his button-down is slightly loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to be infuriatingly intentional, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like he’s been waiting for you all day. his gaze flickers up the moment you enter. slow. deliberate. like he’s taking his time—like he’s assessing, analyzing, already trying to get ahead of you before you’ve even had the chance to open your mouth.

and then—

“…huh.”

your entire brain short-circuits.

for a split second, your carefully crafted persona wobbles, the saccharine sweetness cracking at the edges as your body tenses instinctively. what does huh mean? huh is too vague, too unspecific, too—too much. your heart kicks up a beat faster, pulse drumming against your ribs as you force yourself to stay calm, to stay in character. focus. science. this is for science.

your lashes flutter, expression smoothing over as you lower yourself primly into your seat. “excuse me?”

satoru leans in slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in something that is definitely a smirk. “nothing. just… not your usual look.”

his voice is smooth. unreadable. too unreadable.

your fingers twitch against the table. the back of your neck prickles. for someone who never shuts up, he’s saying far too little. his expression is amused but otherwise unbothered, gaze dragging over you like he’s filing away every detail for later use.

you force a smile, light, easy, as if you aren’t hyper-analyzing his every microexpression. “i thought i’d try something new.”

satoru hums, tilting his head, gaze still lingering, still watching. slow, lazy, measured, like he’s picking apart every piece of this transformation and cataloging it for later. but there’s nothing—no narrowed eyes, no suspicion, no telltale flicker of what the hell are you up to this time? it’s infuriating, the way he doesn’t react, the way he gives you nothing to work with. satoru is always smirking, always pushing, always ready to pry into your motives with a teasing lilt and a knowing look—but right now? nothing. it’s as if this version of you doesn’t surprise him at all.

your grip tightens around the edge of your dress, nails pressing into soft pastel fabric as something unsettles in your chest. but then his gaze dips lower, trailing down, assessing, and for a split second, anticipation coils in your stomach. and then—his lips twitch, the barest upward curl at the edges. slow. deliberate. smug.

“flats?”

your eye twitches. oh, so now he’s paying attention to details? now he decides to notice? as if the fact that you’re drowning in frills and softness wasn’t already an earth-shattering revelation? heat simmers under your skin, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, but you refuse to crack. not here. not now. not when the game has barely begun.

you inhale sharply through your nose, a carefully measured breath, voice smooth as glass. “yes, satoru. flats.”

he leans back, all ease, all enjoyment, watching you like you’re the single most entertaining thing to happen to him all day. “never thought i’d see the day.”

you are going to kill him.

but you do not break. you will not break. instead, you smile—sweet, vanilla, effortlessly composed. legs crossed, hands neatly folded, posture the perfect imitation of someone soft, someone sweet, someone who does not spend every waking moment plotting this man’s demise.

satoru blinks. once.

that’s right.

you tilt your head, expression just shy of concerned, like you’re the one who should be questioning him. “is something wrong?”

he exhales, slow, measured, tipping his head back slightly, gaze flickering over you one last time before settling, unreadable. “nope.”

your stomach sinks.

nothing. no smirk twitch. no furrow of his brows. no flicker of confusion or oh god, is this woman scamming me?

no. no, no, no.

he’s… unfazed?

not even a little bit weirded out? not even mildly confused about why you’re suddenly dressed like someone who makes her own jams and says oopsie daisy unironically?

your fingers tighten against your lap, nails pressing into the soft fabric of your dress as you steady yourself. okay. fine. phase two. you can do this.

you exhale slowly, just enough to smooth out any lingering tension, and soften your expression. widen your eyes—just a little. tilt your head at just the right angle, the way you’ve seen other girls do when they bat their lashes at satoru like he personally put the moon in the sky. everything is calculated, precise, carefully controlled. your voice, when it comes out, is feather-light, saccharine-sweet, soft in a way that makes your stomach churn.

“it’s nice to sit down with you like this, gojo.”

you want to die.

it’s painful. nauseating. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to stop, to drop the act, to throw a drink in his face just to purge the sickly sweetness from your system. but no. you have to do this. if his eyes twitch, if his lips quirk, if he reacts at all, you’ll know. you’ll have proof.

satoru pauses for a fraction of a second.

his glasses slide down his nose ever so slightly, catching the dim glow of the café lights, the reflection obscuring his gaze for a beat too long. and then he only grins. “it is, huh?”

your soul leaves your body.

this is wrong. this is very wrong. there should be something—a moment of hesitation, a flicker of what the hell is going on, a single sign that he’s thrown off his axis. but instead, he looks amused, pleased even, like this is exactly where he expected this conversation to go. he shifts, adjusting his glasses with his index finger, the motion slow, precise, and way too composed for your liking.

your stomach sinks further.

this was supposed to be a test, and yet somehow, you’re the one being tested.

but alas, this operation requires no room for hesitation. you cannot hesitate.

onto phase three.

you slide the box across the table with both hands, placing it directly in front of him with a shy, almost bashful smile. it’s careful, intentional—your fingers linger on the lid just long enough to suggest hesitation, as if you’re nervous about his reaction, as if this moment matters. your head tilts ever so slightly, lashes fluttering just once, voice feather-soft when you murmur, “i made these for you, satoru.”

soft voice. delicate hands. wide, innocent eyes. vanilla.

satoru, ever skeptical, lifts an eyebrow. “you baked?”

your stomach tenses, but you do not falter. you have trained for this. “mm-hmm.” you nod, smooth, effortless, exuding nothing but the confidence of a woman who definitely spent hours in a kitchen, flour-dusted and glowing with domestic bliss.

his head tilts, amusement flickering across his face, sharp—too sharp. his gaze drags over you, slow, assessing, like he’s already figured you out but is entertained enough to watch you squirm. you hate that. satoru likes his conclusions quick, his reactions effortless—but this? this isn’t hesitation. this is confidence, the kind that comes from knowing he’s already won.

and then, to your absolute horror, his lips curve.

“aw,” he croons, resting his chin on his palm, “you made these? just for me?”

your stomach twists.

oh, you hate that tone. that slow, syrupy, indulging tone. the one he uses when he knows you’re full of shit but finds it infinitely entertaining to let you dig your own grave.

your fingers tighten around the menu, nails pressing into the laminated surface, but you do not break. instead, you nod, lashes fluttering just slightly, letting your lips curve into something warm, sweet. “of course,” you murmur. “i wanted to do something special for you.”

satoru hums, dragging his finger along the edge of the box. his smirk is lazy, his eyes sharp, watching you too closely, gaze too knowing. it makes something in your chest clench.

“that’s so sweet,” he sighs, flipping open the lid. “so thoughtful.”

he looks down at the cupcakes—perfect, pastel, borderline obnoxious in their homemade aesthetic. then, too casually, his fingers curl around the box, and with an obnoxious amount of patience, he lifts it over his head to check the bottom.

your stomach plummets.

no.

because right there, on the bottom was a price sticker.

no, no, no.

you feel the blood drain from your face, fingers twitching slightly against the menu as you fight the urge to launch yourself across the table and rip the box from his hands.

satoru tilts his head. “huh.” a pause. then, insufferably casual, “2,800 yen. expensive for homemade.”

your jaw locks.

but you do not falter. oh, no. you have committed too much to this bit to go down now.

so instead—you gasp. softly. delicately. the perfect picture of distress. “oh, no.” your eyes widen just the right amount, a hand fluttering up to your lips. “i must have grabbed the wrong box! i always reuse packaging—sustainability is such an important initiative in our family’s conglomerate, you know?”

you sigh, shaking your head, exuding just the right amount of gentle disappointment. “it’s so easy to overlook these little details when you’re focused on making something with love.” your lashes lower, voice dropping into something almost melancholic. “but of course, you’d never doubt me, right, satoru?”

your eyes are wide, shimmering. your voice, just the tiniest bit wobbly. a damsel in distress, tragically wronged by the evil forces of capitalism.

satoru leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his movements slow, intentional, like he’s settling in for a show. his smirk is lazy, almost languid, the kind of expression he wears when he’s far too amused but hasn’t decided if he’s going to let you know just how much fun he’s having yet. the dim glow of the café lights catches on his reading glasses, a flicker of reflection obscuring his gaze for half a second before he tips his chin, looking at you with something dangerously close to delight. the way he’s watching you is unbearable—too sharp, too knowing, like he’s waiting to see just how deep you’ll dig yourself into this hole. then, with a voice so smooth it makes your stomach tighten, he hums, “…of course.”

your pulse stutters.

he picks up a cupcake, turning it between his fingers with deliberate ease, thumb brushing idly over the edge of the wrapper. he doesn’t look away from you—not even for a second. “so, just to be clear—” his head tilts, reading glasses sliding down just slightly, revealing the glint of sharp blue beneath. “you mixed the batter? sifted the flour? cracked the eggs all by yourself?” his voice is light, too casual, but there’s something just beneath it, something waiting, pressing, like he’s toying with a puzzle he’s already solved.

you nod, ignoring the way your palms start to sweat, ignoring the way your heartbeat has kicked up just a little too fast.

he peels back the wrapper, slow, deliberate, movements unrushed like he has all the time in the world. “and you piped this frosting by hand? swirled it into these perfect little peaks?” his fingers are precise as he traces the frosting, a slow, idle movement, gaze flicking between the cupcake and you, as if he’s comparing, measuring.

“obviously,” you say, batting your lashes, voice steady, perfect, practiced.

satoru chuckles, low and quiet, the sound curling around the space between you like smoke—thick, insidious, cloying. “huh.” just one syllable, but it lands heavy, weighted, knowing. the kind of sound people make when they’ve figured something out but want to let you stew in the tension of not knowing how much they know. he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t press—not yet. he just watches, gaze lazy, comfortable, dragging over you like he’s measuring every tiny shift in your expression.

your stomach twists.

why did he say it like that?

your fingers curl against your lap, pressing into the soft fabric of your dress as you force yourself to remain still, to breathe, to not react. but before you can decide if you’re spiraling or if he’s actually drawing this out on purpose, he moves. finally, he moves—brings the cupcake up to his lips, takes a slow, deliberate bite, the motion so unhurried it feels intentional.

the moment stretches as you watch him chews.

his jaw shifts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he swallows, throat bobbing in one smooth motion. his fingers tap against the wrapper, slow, rhythmic, like he’s thinking, like he’s considering. his expression doesn’t change, not even slightly, and it makes something tighten in your chest. it’s the silence that gets you, the unbearable, crawling silence where you should have won something—should have seen a flicker of hesitation, of confusion, of anything.

“delicious,” he declares, licking a stray bit of frosting from his thumb, voice smooth, unbothered, infuriatingly indulgent. “i had high expectations, princess, and somehow, you still managed to exceed them.”

your eye twitches as you watch him reach for the menu, mimicking his action.

because he knows.

he knows, and he’s indulging you anyway, letting you keep up this ridiculous charade just to see how far you’ll take it, how long you’ll dig yourself deeper.

and what’s worse? he’s enjoying it. so instead on glorifying him with an answer, you double down.

your posture shifts—prim, delicate, legs crossed just so, hands resting lightly against the table, every movement slow, controlled, the picture of soft, demure femininity. it is an art, a careful craft, and if he won’t fall for it, then you’ll force him to. you soften your gaze, let your lashes lower, let the corners of your lips curve just slightly. then, with the sweetest, most gentle tone you can manage, you sigh, “gojo, isn’t this such a lovely place?”

satoru doesn’t even look up from the menu.

his lips twitch. “hmm. very romantic.”

your lashes flutter. perfect. “isn’t it?”

“mm. makes me want to settle down. buy a house in the suburbs. maybe get a golden retriever.”

your grip tightens around the menu.

this is fine.

this is fine.

you inhale, re-center, refuse to let him win. the act is still in play, the performance still running, and if there’s one thing you refuse to do, it’s let gojo satoru make you break character first. when the waiter arrives, you smoothly hand over your menu, voice pleasant, poised, as you say, “i’ll have a croissant and a vanilla latte—”

“she’ll have a chamomile tea,” satoru interrupts, handing the menu back without even looking up.

your entire body stills.

“excuse me?”

“no caffeine after two pm,” he says, too casual, still not bothering to meet your gaze. “your circadian rhythm is already ruined.”

your what?

“my what?”

he finally glances up, tipping his head, glasses catching the soft café lighting in a way that makes it impossible to read his expression. “your sleep cycle,” he clarifies smoothly. then, with an air of pure, faux innocence, he adds, “unless you like looking exhausted? in which case, carry on.”

your fingers tighten around the tablecloth, the fabric crumpling under your grip as you fight every single urge in your body not to break character.

soft. you have to be soft. sweet. agreeable. not the kind of girl who flips a table over utter audacity.

“satoru.”

he doesn’t even flinch.

“also, swap her croissant for the yogurt parfait.” he tells the waiter, still maddeningly at ease, as if this is just another natural law of the universe—gravity, time, and gojo satoru dictating her breakfast order.

your jaw locks. your nails dig into your palm under the table. “i wanted a croissant.”

he barely even looks at you. “and i ignored you,” he replies, flashing an infuriatingly easy smile before turning back to the poor, unfortunate soul standing beside the table. “we’re good, right?”

you stare at him, fingers twitching against the tablecloth, the effort of maintaining your soft, vanilla-girl persona weighing heavier by the second. the room around them is warm, filled with the gentle hum of low conversation beyond the wooden partition. the soft glow of string lights casts a golden hue over the space, making the whole setting feel too cozy, too comfortable—completely at odds with the absolute rage simmering beneath your carefully crafted exterior.

somewhere in the café, plates clink, a faint laugh carries from another private room, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh pastries and brewed coffee. the atmosphere is deceptively peaceful, a stark contrast to the silent battle waging at your table.

and then, mercifully—the drinks arrive first.

the waiter sets them down carefully—his glass of milk, your infuriatingly caffeine-free chamomile tea—and vanishes before you can contemplate dragging him back and demanding your croissant by force. across the table, satoru lifts his glass with a smug, slow ease, fingers tapping idly against the smooth surface. he doesn’t say anything at first, just takes a long sip, obnoxiously casual, like he knows exactly how much he’s getting under your skin and is savoring the moment. you inhale, steadying yourself, refusing to engage, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pick up your own cup. the steam curls up softly, floral and warm, but the taste is bland, utterly unremarkable, a reminder that you are suffering, and it is his fault.

and then—out of nowhere—he hums, setting his glass down with a quiet clink, and says, “as i've mentioned, i met with our professor earlier.”

your fingers twitch against the delicate porcelain of your cup. of course he did. of course he used consultation hours. of course he went out of his way to have a chat with your professor like some insufferable academic try-hard. you barely refrain from rolling your eyes, instead lifting your tea to your lips, taking a slow, measured sip.

“he said our intro was weak,” satoru continues, swirling his glass like he’s leading a business meeting. “something about needing stronger market segmentation.”

your grip tightens around your cup.

this is it. this is another test. if he even hesitates, if his expression shifts—even slightly—you’ll know. you keep your face carefully neutral, letting your eyes soften just a touch, keeping the performance intact. and then, just as planned, you tilt your head ever so slightly and murmur, "you always know best, satoru."

his gaze sharpens.

not noticeably, not in any way someone else would catch, but you see it—the microsecond of stillness, the almost-imperceptible flicker of amusement in his eyes.

he knows.

he knows you know exactly what market segmentation is.

and now he’s testing you.

because here’s the thing—he might beat you on numbers, but when it comes to people, to reading them, to handling them, to winning them? that’s your domain. and yet, right now, he’s flipping the board, turning the strategy against you, waiting for you to break character, waiting for you to get frustrated and snap back with something too sharp, too you.

he raises an eyebrow. “do you want to know what that means?”

your stomach tightens.

he’s baiting you, dangling it in front of you like he wants you to fold, like he’s waiting for you to slip. because satoru knows you. not just this version of you—the carefully constructed softness, the vanilla girl performance—but the one underneath it. he knows you’re smarter than the version of you that laughs at dumb jokes and pretends to be charmed by men who don’t deserve your time. he knows you dumb yourself down even outside of this act, that you play a different kind of game—one where you let people underestimate you before tearing them apart.

he knows you can tear through people as easily as you can tear through him when it comes to social maneuvering. but if you call him out, if you drop the act now, you’ll lose.

he leans in slightly, smirking. “want me to dumb it down for you?”

you almost tense. almost.

instead, you exhale slowly, control seamless, and match him.

your lips curve.

you lean in too, slow, deliberate, eyes half-lidded, gaze locking onto his like you’re sizing him up, like you already know how this is going to end.

“sure,” you whisper, voice light, lilting. “use small words, professor.”

his smirk twitches, just the slightest tell, barely there—so small that anyone else would have missed it. but you see it. you catch the way his fingers tap once against his glass, the way his jaw shifts, the way his amusement flares, barely restrained. he recovers fast, too fast, and it sends something sharp curling in your stomach. you almost got him.

almost.

before you can push further, the soft clatter of plates interrupts the moment. the pasties arrives next.

you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and pick up the small glass cup placed in front of you. layers of yogurt, granola, and an insulting amount of fruit stare back at you, mocking you with their nutritional value. your jaw tightens as you exhale through your nose, setting it down with controlled precision. “…this really isn’t what i wanted.”

satoru, completely unbothered, picks up his strawberry shortcake, fork twirling idly between his fingers. “i know.”

you slowly, painstakingly force your expression into something soft, something sweet, something that won’t immediately give away the absolute rage simmering beneath the surface. your lashes lower, your smile curves just so, your voice dangerously pleasant as you murmur, “satoru, you didn’t have to do this.”

“of course i did,” he replies, utterly smug. “someone has to look out for your nutrient deficiencies.”

your eye twitches.

briefly, violently, you envision flipping the table, sending his milk flying, watching his stupid glasses slide down his nose in sheer shock. instead, you inhale again, slow and measured, hands folding neatly in your lap, the picture of composed gratitude. “you’re so thoughtful.”

satoru hums, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth twitching—like he knows exactly how much this is killing you. “aren’t i?”

your jaw tightens, but you do not break. instead, you exhale softly, lashes lowering just slightly, and murmur, “so, so thoughtful.” sickeningly sweet. perfect.

he lifts his glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip of milk, watching you over the rim. “well, eat up, princess.”

your grip on your spoon is deadly

satoru hums, eyes flicking down to his plate, fork sinking into the soft layers of sponge and cream. you seize the opportunity, lips curving into something saccharine, something sharp. “cute choice,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “very pink. very you.”

he doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t so much as blink. just meets your stare with that same effortless confidence, utterly unshaken. “you’re just mad because mine’s better.” his tone is obnoxiously certain, like he’s already won, like this isn’t even up for debate. the sheer audacity of it makes something in you tighten, irritation curling at the edges of your already-frayed patience. because the worst part? he’s not just saying it to mess with you—he genuinely believes it.

your eyes narrow. “that’s a big assumption.”

his gaze flickers to your stupid yogurt parfait, utterly unimpressed, a silent judgment passing over his face as he gestures toward it, utterly smug. “yours is healthy.”

“and?”

his expression remains steady, voice smooth, patient, like he’s stating the obvious to someone who should already know better. “and you hate healthy food.”

you stare. for a moment, you actually can’t argue, because—fine. fine. he’s not wrong. but you’ll be damned if you let him have this, if you let him sit there looking so pleased with himself, as if he’s cracked some grand mystery instead of just pointing out something extremely rude and inconvenient. you exhale sharply, blinking slowly, the weight of your suffering pressing against your ribcage. “wow,” you deadpan, voice utterly flat. “so romantic of you to insult my entire diet.”

his grin widens, like your misery is his favorite entertainment, his blue eyes practically glowing with amusement as he lifts his fork, a perfect bite of cake balanced on the edge. “try mine.”

you stare at it. at the impossibly soft layers of sponge, at the thick, fluffy cream, at the single perfectly placed strawberry sitting atop it like an insult. he holds the fork aloft, patient, expectant, as if there is any universe in which you would accept such an obvious trap. your jaw tightens, fingers curling slightly against your lap as you inhale, slow, composed. then—deliberate, measured—you lean back, tilting your head just slightly.

“no.”

his brows lift. “no?”

you keep your expression smooth, unbothered. “i don’t want it.”

his lips twitch. “you sure?” he shifts slightly, letting the fork hover just a little closer, like he’s offering some grand, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

your eyes narrow. “positive.”

he shrugs, like it’s no loss to him, like he hadn’t expected anything different. then, still infuriatingly casual, he takes a slow, exaggerated bite, eyes fluttering dramatically as he hums, dragging out every second of the experience like he’s performing it just for you. the fork lingers at his lips a second too long, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray bit of frosting before he sighs, deeply, like this is a spiritual revelation. “mm. wow. so soft. so moist.”

your glare sharpens. your fingers tighten around your spoon.

and then—aggressively, defiantly—you take a bite of your stupid parfait, stabbing the spoon into the granola like you’re personally avenging your dignity.

you won't lose again. 

you refuse. refuse to crack, refuse to let him get the upper hand, refuse to let this ridiculous battle of pastry dominance end with gojo satoru walking away victorious. so you hold your ground, meet his obnoxiously pleased gaze head-on, and take another slow, pointed bite of your parfait. the granola crunches aggressively between your teeth, the texture dry, unimpressive, but you swallow it down without so much as a twitch. your grip on the spoon is steady. controlled. unyielding.

the tension lingers, but the conversation begins to drift.

the banter slows. the teasing quiets. for a moment—just a moment—the game pauses, and the space between you both settles into something almost easy. you stir your tea absently, watching the way the steam curls up from the cup, dissipating into nothing. it’s comfortable, in a way that feels wrong—too still, too quiet, like the moment before a storm.

“you sure do this a lot.” satoru muses, voice lazy, but not quite teasing.

you blink, glancing up. “do what?”

his gaze flickers, studying you, something unreadable behind his glasses. “act like you don’t care when you do.”

your fingers still around the spoon.

absolutely not.

you let a slow breath slip past your lips, steadying yourself before tilting your head ever so slightly, feigning mild amusement. then, voice smooth, light, just a touch condescending, you murmur, “or maybe you overestimate my humility.”

his lips twitch.

so you take a slow sip of your drink, gaze leveling with his over the rim. “not everything is that deep, satoru.”

satoru, unbothered, tips his head back against his seat, sighing like this is all so easy for him. “not really,” he muses, one hand idly tapping against his glass. “just calling it like i see it.”

you exhale slowly, resisting the urge to glare. “congrats, satoru. you can observe things. your kindergarten teacher must be so proud.”

his grin widens, slow, lazy, pleased, like a cat watching a cornered mouse finally realize there’s nowhere left to run. he tilts his head, glasses slipping down just enough to let sharp blue peek through, gaze steady, unrelenting. “aww, you don’t like being read, princess?” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else underneath it—something certain, something that says he’s not just guessing, not just throwing words out to get a reaction. no, he’s sure.

your pulse jumps—and not for any of the reasons you’d like.

so you do what you do best. you pivot.

your lashes flutter as you lean in, slow, deliberate, tilting your head just so, letting your lips curve in a way that has always worked before. your voice drops, smooth, lilting, sweet as honey. “so attentive. such a keen eye for detail. you must be amazing with girls, satoru.”

he doesn’t even blink.

“oh, i am.”

your smile twitches, just barely, just enough for him to catch it.

he lifts his glass, takes a slow, measured sip of milk, like he has all the time in the world, like this is easy for him. the smugness radiating off him is unbearable, thick enough to choke on, but worse than that—worse than the way he leans back so casually, worse than the way his fingers tap idly against the rim of his glass—is the way his lips curve, knowing. “but that’s not going to work on me, princess.”

he knows.

you hate that he knows.

so you lean back, exhaling dramatically, waving a dismissive hand like this entire conversation has bored you. “then stop psychoanalyzing me and focus on being my eye candy instead.”

satoru snorts, shaking his head, but there’s something lighter in his expression now, something amused, “that, i can do.”

the conversation between you shift afted that, the tension dissolving before it can linger, before it can settle into something you’re not ready to touch.

yet the damage is already done.

the check arrives.

immediately, you move.

two sleek black cards hit the table at the exact same time, a perfect synchronization that might have been impressive if it weren’t the opening move of what was about to become an unnecessarily competitive battle.

the waiter pauses. blinks. glances between the two of you with the cautious hesitation of someone who definitely doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“i’ve got it.” you say, tone light, casual, like this isn’t a battle to the death, like you aren’t already bracing for the inevitable argument.

satoru hums, entirely unbothered, nudging his card just a fraction forward, an unmistakable power move. “honorable,” he muses, tone amused. “but unnecessary.”

your fingers tighten slightly around your card as you push yours forward too, refusing to back down. “i can pay myself,” you counter, smooth, confident, meeting his gaze head-on. “im the one who asked for this date.”

“nope.”

“yes.”

the waiter, visibly uncomfortable, starts sweating.

your jaw tightens. fine. if he wants to be difficult, then you’ll just play a different game. “then we’ll just split it,” you declare, tone sharp with finality, ready to snatch the bill and end this entire ordeal.

satoru immediately looks offended. “that’s inefficient.”

your brow furrows. “what?”

he gestures lazily toward the waiter, who is standing there, smiling awkwardly, clearly regretting every decision that led him to this moment. “why are you giving minimum-wage workers more workload?”

your lips press into a thin line. “it’s not inefficient,” you argue, fingers drumming once against the table. “it’s fair.”

“oh?” satoru leans forward, slow and deliberate, resting his chin on his palm, his smirk widening just slightly. the light catches the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a fraction of a second before they sharpen back into focus—sharp, knowing, infuriating. “so is it fair if i tell you that, given our current financial standings, letting you pay at all is mathematically unreasonable?”

your stomach drops.

“gojo—”

he doesn’t let you finish. “fact one,” he announces, casual, unbothered, as if he isn’t about to make you violently ill. “my net worth is higher than yours.”

your fingers twitch against the tablecloth. “shut up.”

“fact two,” he continues, way too smug now, swirling his glass lazily. “my liquid assets alone could cover this bill a thousand times over without making a dent in my quarterly earnings.”

“oh my god.”

his smirk deepens, practically glowing in self-satisfaction. “fact three—”

you know what’s coming. you feel it, deep in your bones, in the unbearable smugness radiating off of him, and yet you still aren’t prepared for what leaves his mouth next.

“by splitting the bill, you’d be covering 50% of the cost when, proportionally, you should only be covering—”

“take his card,” you snap, cutting him off violently, gripping your empty teacup like you desperately want to throw it. your voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained suffering. “just take it before i kill him.”

the waiter, visibly relieved, snatches satoru’s card and flees.

satoru leans back, all smug satisfaction, swirling the last bit of milk in his glass before taking a slow, obnoxious sip. then, setting it down with an infuriating clink, he tilts his head at you, grin widening.

“good choice, princess.”

you cross your arms, seething, your entire body wound tight with irritation. your jaw is locked, your shoulders tense, and the absolute smugness radiating off of gojo satoru is making your blood pressure skyrocket. he’s leaning back, comfortable, entirely too pleased with himself, and it only makes you want to flip the table that much more.

he hums, eyes flicking over you, taking in every small tell—the way your fingers curl slightly against your sleeves, the way your brows twitch, the way your lips press together in frustration. then, with the kind of lazy amusement that makes you want to commit a crime, he muses, “you look like an angry rabbit. very on-brand for the vanilla look.”

your jaw tightens. “you are actually the worst person alive.”

“and yet,” he hums, tipping his glass of milk toward you, “here you are, having a date with me.”

your glare sharpens, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “because you weren’t even supposed to agree!”

silence.

a beat.

satoru's smirk widens, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to watch you unravel. there’s a flicker of something sharp behind his glasses, something too knowing, and it makes your stomach twist before he even speaks.

“oh?” he drawls, tapping a finger lazily against his glass, the sound light, rhythmic, calculated. his voice drips with amusement, low and teasing, like he’s already won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing. “so you admit it?”

your stomach drops.

your back straightens, a little too stiff, a little too reactive. “admit what?” you say, too quickly, too defensive, the words snapping out before you can stop them.

his grin stretches, slow and pleased, and you know—you know—you’ve already lost. “that you keep trying to trap me,” he says smoothly, tilting his head, mock thoughtful. “but i never fall for it.”

your face heats, warmth creeping up your neck, pooling under your skin in a way that only fuels your irritation. “shut up.”

satoru laughs, stretching his arms above his head, every movement obnoxiously slow, infuriatingly at ease, like this is all so easy for him. “maybe one day you’ll learn your lesson, princess,” he muses, dropping his arms with a sigh, voice almost fond. “but knowing you? probably not.”

your arms tighten against your chest, frustration bubbling under your skin, simmering. “why do you even indulge me, then?”

he shrugs, expression unchanged, voice effortlessly light. “because it’s fun.” his smirk curves, lazy, amused, and it makes something in you itch. “and as long as you’re not running off to party instead of contributing to our project, i don’t mind.”

then, offhandedly—like it means nothing, like it isn’t about to send your entire nervous system into shock, he adds with an appreciative hum, “plus, you’re cute.”

you freeze.

your brain stalls, like a system overload, like an error message flashing behind your eyes.

your grip on your sleeve tightens, fingers curling instinctively around the fabric, like anchoring yourself to something physical will keep you from completely short-circuiting. “don’t call me that.” the words snap out, sharp, too fast, too reactive.

satoru tilts his head, blinking at you, slow and deliberate, as if studying you, as if memorizing every microexpression. “what? cute?”

your jaw clenches. your fingers curl tighter. “i am not cute.”

his smirk returns, smooth, easy, like he knows something you don’t. “sure you are,” he says, completely unfazed. “all wide-eyed and pouty, like a little rabbit. it’s adorable.”

you nearly choke.

because—no.

no one calls you that. no one has called you that since childhood. not in years, not in this version of your life, not in the world you’ve carefully built around yourself.

hot? of course. gorgeous? obviously. stunning, breathtaking, irresistible? those are the words you’re used to—the ones murmured into your ear at exclusive parties, whispered against your skin by men who don’t even know you, by people who see you as nothing more than something to be admired, desired, owned.

but cute?

absolutely not.

your eyes narrow, irritation sparking, a knee-jerk reaction you can’t suppress, sharp and immediate, fueled by something you don’t want to name. “you’re deranged,” you snap, voice edged with far too much indignation, because this isn’t just about the word—it’s about him, about the way he says it, like it’s some obvious, undeniable truth. “i am literally the furthest thing from cute.”

satoru simply shrugs, still impossibly unbothered, like he didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the conversation and walk away from the explosion. “if you say so.”

your glare sharpens, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver.

why is he so unbothered? why does he look so entertained?

the ride back to your condominium is quiet. well—almost. satoru has the radio on, some soft jazz station playing low in the background, the kind of music that belongs in an overpriced cocktail lounge, not the interior of his sleek, sports car. your head rests against the window, the cool glass grounding you as your mind races, dissecting every moment from dinner like an unsolved mystery. he indulged me, you think, fingers curling slightly against your arm. that much is clear—he let you bat your lashes, let you tilt your head, let you serve up the most sickeningly sweet performance you could muster. but then again, he always indulges you.

so the question remains: was it the act? or was it you? your reflection stares back at you through the darkened glass, expression unreadable, a mirrored version of yourself picking apart every interaction with a precision that should concern you. every move you made—every calculated glance, every softened word, every ridiculous, vanilla-infused attempt—he saw it. but he didn’t fall for it. he smirked, teased, let his eyes linger just long enough to make you second-guess yourself, but that’s just him, isn’t it? gojo satoru, the most insufferable, unreadable man alive, amused at your suffering but untouched by your tactics.

the cupcake stunt should have been the turning point, but instead, it was just another game. he knew. he knew, and he let you flounder, let you scramble, let you weave your desperate little lie just to see how far you’d take it. and even when you leaned in, voice soft, eyes lidded, practically purring his name—nothing. not a slip, not a falter, not a single moment of hesitation that proved you had gotten to him. your jaw tightens, fingers drumming against your thigh as frustration settles heavy in your chest. what the hell does he even like?

before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “satoru.”

he hums, lazily, like he hasn’t just been given a pop quiz, like he’s completely at ease behind the wheel of his ridiculously expensive car, the city lights reflecting off the windshield in a soft, rhythmic glow. one hand is loose on the steering wheel, the other resting comfortably against the console, fingers tapping idly to the slow, steady beat of the jazz station he still hasn’t bothered to change.

you turn to him, dead serious. “are you gay?”

the car stays perfectly steady, but his hands flex over the wheel, the only sign of reaction he gives you.

he blinks. once. “what.”

“it makes perfect sense!” you insist, sitting up abruptly, ignoring the way the seatbelt strains against you. the pieces are clicking into place now, and you can’t stop. “you never flirt back. you always evade. you are completely unfazed by me.”

satoru exhales through his nose, long and suffering, like he’s trying to breathe through a migraine. “so your first conclusion isn't that i'm picky. or that i'm immune to your charms.”

“obviously not.”

his fingers tighten around the wheel, grip flexing. “it's that i'm gay.”

“obviously.”

he nods slowly, the kind of nod that comes with a long, deep internal sigh, like he’s calculating exactly how much patience he has left. he keeps his eyes on the road, gaze steady, but you can feel the exasperation radiating off of him. “okay.”

your eyes narrow. “so?”

he doesn’t look at you. “so what?”

“are you?”

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in pure disbelief. “you are, without a doubt, the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”

you cross your arms, unimpressed. “that’s not a no.”

his chest rises and falls in a sharp, deeply irritated sigh. “no, i’m not gay.”

your suspicion lingers. “bi? pan?”

“still no.”

you squint at him, narrowing your gaze like you can force the truth out of him. “satoru, look, i know things have been awkward between us after i rejected your carrot apology but this is a safe space—”

he physically flinches, muttering, “oh my god.” his head tips back for half a second, and his free hand drags down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like he’s warding off an oncoming stroke.

you watch him carefully, hyper-analyzing, waiting for any crack, any tell, anything to suggest he’s hiding something—because if he’s not gay, if he’s not bi, if he’s not pan, then that means—

nope.

absolutely not.

your thoughts halt so violently you feel it in your spine, like hitting an invisible wall at full speed, the impact rattling through you before you can stop it. because this isn’t that. this isn’t you sitting in a car, overthinking a man’s every move, picking apart his reactions like they mean something, like he means something. that is not what you do. you don’t play those games, don’t ask those questions, don’t give yourself room to consider possibilities that lead nowhere.

you do not do this.

so you won’t think about it. you won’t think about what it means that satoru never crosses the line, that he teases but never pushes, that he indulges but never wants. you won’t think about how, despite all his smirks and smug comments and exhausting, infuriating presence, he has never treated you like anything other than someone worth understanding.

because that would mean—

no.

your jaw tightens. the seatbelt strains against your chest as you shift, staring hard out the window, shutting it down before it can breathe, before it can exist. “never mind.”

he glances at you, slow, assessing, something too knowing in his expression, like he’s already figured you out. “what?”

“drop it.”

he glances at you, slow, assessing—not with any grand realization, not with any deeper meaning, just acceptance. because, honestly? he doesn’t care what ridiculous conclusions you come to, as long as you’re not calling him gay.

so he doesn’t press. doesn’t push. just shrugs, loose and easy, like this has been nothing more than a mildly entertaining detour in his day.

“whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”

your jaw tightens.

you turn your gaze back to the window, arms crossing, shutting the conversation down entirely. the neon lights of the city blur past, casting streaks of color across the glass, but you don’t really see them. your mind is still racing, looping through the night, picking apart every moment, every interaction, every single time he indulged you without actually giving anything away.

because that’s just it, isn’t it?

satoru lets you play your games, lets you push and prod and bait him—but he never falls for it.

so what does that mean?

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[secriden]

One of my favourite things about the way Fadel's plan (to "make them [Style] fall in love with us [me]") plays out is that when he dials up his affection and goes all out on the sweet flirtation and tenderness, Style immediately finds it weird and strange and suspicious and off-putting. Fadel pretending to be #whipped actually makes Style pull away like none of Fadel's aggression and violence and outright rejection did -- because it wasn't sincere, and Style could sense that.

When Fadel first drags Style out and starts peppering kisses on his face, Style turns away from his kisses and pulls back/pushes Fadel away from him to start questioning why Fadel is acting so strange. This is the same person who later propositions Fadel in a public bathroom whilst knowing one of the stalls is currently occupied by a stranger, so whilst I fully acknowledge Style probably genuinely did not want his dad to see them necking in his place of work, I'm also convinced it wasn't the only reason.

Because when Fadel allows some honesty to slip out, when he says "Don't you ever think that I'm only like this because of you?", Style actually softens and turns into Fadel's kiss for the first time in the scene. His hands go from pushing upwards at Fadel's neck to clenching softly against his shoulder and upper arm, like he's finally able to relax and hold Fadel closer (you can actually see the difference in these screenshots compared to the ones above). Style stops resisting and sinks into the kiss, lets his eyes almost slip close because something in him recognises that Fadel spoke true.

The same thing happens in Style's bedroom when Fadel continues his charade: Style is smiling, but there's a distinctly uncomfortable and awkward air about it, and he actually pulls away when Fadel continues to sniff-kiss him while going on and on about loving the way Style smells like gasoline. Fadel tries to be clingy again and Style outright calls him out on how weird he's being, so Fadel is forced to backtrack into sincerity:

Suddenly, Style's wariness turns to excitement and interest; he happily agrees to come along and asks what he should get Bison as a gift. Fadel is literally torturing himself to keep up this excessive affection and tenderness (the away Fadel's softness and sweetness just drops once Style goes to take that shower. Ugh. T_T) and gets nothing from Style until he offers something genuine -- a request for time to celebrate someone Fadel truly loves.

In fact, it's the pieces of honesty (or at least I'm assuming that this is also true since he was honest about Bison's birthday), and only those, that Style responds positively to. We have seen Style flirting constantly in previous episodes but he literally has not said anything scandalous or suggestive so far, nor has he initiated any affection even once until this moment.

And the reason why I love all this SO MUCH is because it really shows the evidence of Style's words before he even says them. In the midst of all the secrets and lies between them, ever since he found out about Fadel's secret and decided he was going to keep pursing him anyway, Style has been chasing and chasing Fadel's sincerity. And each precious revelation that Fadel gave him -- his parents' murder, his inability to trust, his desire for something genuine from Style -- has been carefully stored away in Style's heart like nuggets of gold. Which is why Fadel's performance was doomed from the start; because Style was moved by the true things and not the lies, and Fadel's pretensions can have no effect when Style's heart now has the ability to recognise that which he has already grown to love.