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ittybittyfanblog · 1 month ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 7

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes!, there’s some slight smut… but nothing too graphic (ion rly write smut haha), angst and comfort, this chapter’s brought to you by: a bunch of sad songs on repeat! A/N: 7k+ words what the fuck!! (this might actually be one of my favorite chapters. :’))

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“You don’t have a favorite color.”

“I… don’t, no.”

“But you’re quite partial to green.”

“I guess so—?”

“You’ve worn the same green shirt to bed thrice this week,” he notes lightly, pertaining to your Loki: Master of Mischief tee. The corners of his mouth pull into a faint, knowing smile. “It suits you, by the way.”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you glance at him, narrowing your eyes in slight embarrassment. “It’s a perfectly comfy shirt,” you reply, a defensive edge to your tone. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing at all,” he agrees reassuringly. “Just making an observation.”

“What, are you keeping a dossier on me now?”

Sylus gives a noncommittal hum, but offers nothing more in response. He keeps watch on you from his usual spot in the corner between the monitor and the CPU box, chin resting on an open palm. His gaze betrays hints of smugness to it.

You eye him weirdly. With a huff, you turn back to your typing.

–

You’re cooking dinner—with Sylus supervising the entire thing like your very own personal sous chef. Something that has now been the norm for you two, since your–banging!–success with the tofu dish.

And for tonight’s menu: Butter noodles. Simple, foolproof, straightforward.

"Simple" is… well, it’s not entirely inaccurate. But the way that the boiling water hisses angrily through the small lid hole wavers the already shaky foundation of your developing culinary confidence.

(Just a little bit! You’re sure you’ve got nothing to worry about.)

A faint burning scent clings to the air; you forgot to stir the garlic early on, and now it looks dangerously close to a char. You rescue it just in time, cursing under your breath. Your sous chef, of course, catches everything. Even your nervousness.

“You know,” Sylus chimes in, watching the wooden spatula tremble in your hand. “This is quite the step up from your usual instant noodle packets. You should be proud of yourself, sweetie.”

“Gee, thanks. Really complex work for an extra half-hour of cooking time,” Your words are snide, but he doesn’t miss the way your grip on the spatula tightens ever-so-slightly. Steadies.

The smell stabilizes. You add half a stick of butter, squashing it to a melt, and he lets the subject drop—for now.

“Do you have siblings?”

“I have an older sister,” you answer distractedly, stirring the sauce and trying to scrape the edges of the sauté pan without having it splatter from the inside.

“How much older?”

“Uh—six years,” you reply, reaching for a pinch of salt. “She's got a family. Two kids. Another on the way.”

“Hm. You two are close?”

You pause, the question landing softly in the haze of rising steam. “I mean. S’ alright, I guess. We catch up over the phone sometimes.”

“Ah. Good.”

“... Yeah.”

You catch a glance of his expression in your peripheral, looking thoughtful.

It’s a recent development, his curiosity. Sporadic at first, like light rain on a windshield—little questions scattered here and there, easy to brush off. But over the past week, it’s grown into something more unrelenting. It’s almost as if you two were playing a round of twenty questions, only it’s just you in the hot seat being interrogated.

There’s also that habit of his to take it one step further. Hedging his questions strategically, acting like he already knows the little factoid he wanted to ask and just needs you to confirm it.

You don’t really get the logic behind it, but hey, who are you to judge? Everybody has their quirks. Even someone of his caliber, apparently.

… God forbid he gets blindsided by something he’s genuinely surprised to know about you, though.

“You know how to play the violin.”

You pause the video you’re watching on your laptop at its five minute mark to stare at Sylus through your phone screen. He sounds… terse? Like you’d intentionally kept this a secret from him.

“Wha—yes, I know how to play the violin,” you huff, incredulous by the show of attitude. “What’s up with all these weird questions?”

“You’ve given me explicit permission to ask them. Level the playing field,” he reminds you, eyes slightly accusatory. “What else are you keeping from me?”

You groan, collapsing onto your back on the couch. “Ugh, I don’t know,” you say sarcastically. “Do you wanna know my time of birth too?”

“Born at exactly twelve twenty-eight PM,” Sylus recites without missing a beat, his voice bored and unimpressed. “I saw it on your Co-Star app, sweetie.”

You freeze.

“…”

“That’s creepy,” you tell him, tone disapproving, giving him a scolding poke on the nose.

“Call it thorough research,” he counters smoothly, rolling his eyes at your feeble attack. “After all, a stubborn kitten’s been slacking on her side of the deal.”

The questions are, for the most part, harmless in nature. Anchored firmly in the mundane. He doesn’t stray too far from what’s comfortable, or what he deems safe to ask. And yet you can sense it beneath the surface: the burning curiosity. To know more of you, to take what he could—piece by piece, until he’s unraveled the puzzle of you entirely.

And you don’t get it. His world—filled with endless adventure, lore, and literal fucking superpowers—surely has to be more exciting than anything you’ve got to offer. What’s your life compared to that?

You said as much to him, mostly as an offhand comment. Although it did feel slightly more earnest when you put it into words, compared to how it sounded in your head.

“Honestly, Sy-Sy. Life here’s really not that interesting compared to all the stuff going on over there,” you told him matter-of-factly, in the middle of collecting your daily rewards. “You don’t have to keep this up, you know.”

Sylus didn’t speak for a moment. The easy nonchalance he wore so well shifted into something more reserved, almost somber. He didn’t challenge what you said, nor did he affirm anything—you're met with silence, loaded with thoughts unspoken.

“Don’t presume things on your own, little dove,” he said after a while, his voice low, a gentle reprimand.

Before you could even process what he meant by that, he smoothly changed the subject, his tone reverting back to his usual effortless calm as if to ease the weight of your words. “Now then, let’s circle back—what were you saying earlier? You almost drowned in a lake when you were eight? Because of a dare you made with your sister?”

And that was the end of it.

You tell yourself it’s exhausting—the way he keeps digging, prodding, asking questions like you’re worth the level of fascination he’s making you out to be. But there’s also the truth, hidden and tucked beneath your half-hearted protests, slowly unfurling. A part of you—cautiously hopeful, dreadfully fragile—that preens under the weight of his scrutiny.

So you let him press further; let him sift through twenty plus years of tiny, unremarkable fragments of your life like a beachcomber seeking treasures amongst the tide. And in return, he gives you his full attention, undivided and unyielding, as if your answers are the only ones that matter.

––––

He tells you there’s a new tête-à-tête feature in the game, so you check it out—not without giving him a slightly suspicious look.

“A microphone feature?” You snort, leveling him with a half-amused glare. “You already hear me talk all the time.”

Sylus blinks at you, his face a guilefully-crafted mask of innocence. “I’m just giving you the option, sweetie. You know, in case you’d like to put our conversations ‘on record.’”

“Treat you like some kind of… quasi-therapist or something? An online confessional?” You give him the stink eye. “Is that what you’re angling for now?”

He shrugs. “If it helps.”

You had no intention of using the tête-à-tête “feature” you’ve been so graciously offered, quickly dismissing it as just another one of his tactics to show off his capacity to manipulate the game’s code, or something along those lines.

It’s not the first time he’s done it.

But then, midnight comes on a deceptively ordinary Friday, and it’s suffused with an all-too familiar feeling of utter emptiness that drowns you. You’re crumpled on the toilet seat like chewed-up gum, knees pulled to your chest—the day’s wounds still festering. It's not anything new, but it leaves you feeling like shit all the same.

Yet another overtime shift. Yet another argument with your mom, over fuck all you know that you’re too damn old for, but still, still, finds its way to cut deep. Over and over, and over again.

Your phone’s blank screen stares back at you, just as mute and useless as the rest of the night. And you—

“Sweetie?”

You can’t speak. Not yet. But you don’t have to. One look at the exhaustion on your face is enough for Sylus to know exactly what you need.

Your mouth trembles open, then shuts again. He doesn’t say anything else, just waiting for you to make the first move. To start whenever you’re ready.

After a long moment, you finally exhale a shaky breath. That’s when you catch his gaze; fixed, patient, almost... encouraging. It’s a subtle invitation, urging you to take the plunge, to make use of him to an extent only he can provide–the only one he could offer to you at this time–

So, you talk. Tentatively at first, the words slipping out like droplets from your leaking sink faucet. But once the dam breaks, you can't stop.

It spills out. Every frustration, every ache, every moment that feels too much to carry for one person, especially for someone like you, and he… he just—

listens.

You feel drained. Every ounce of energy wrung out of you after unloading the day’s weight to your unexpected confidant.

“That helped, didn’t it?”

If it were anyone else—or if you didn’t know Sylus the way you do now—you’d only catch the smug notes in his voice. The teasing lilt and the airy pretense of someone trying to ease the heaviness out of the room.

But you do hear it. Beneath the surface, woven so subtly into the words… something vulnerable.

You hear the unspoken question behind it: he’s genuinely asking if it helped. If his presence, however small or inconsequential it might seem, was enough to pull you back ashore.

I helped.

Tell me I did.

“You did, Sy.” Your grin is tired, grateful, and a little lopsided. But it’s real. “Thank you.”

For a moment—just a split of a second—the red in his eyes betrays something achingly raw.

“Anytime, darling,” he says, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges, like it’s carrying more than the words themselves. “I mean it.”

And like a beacon of light slicing through the storm-tossed seas of your mind, you realize that he truly does.

____

You start giving Sylus the reins to select the music, trusting his taste enough to let him DJ for you. He picks the soundtrack for everything—cooking, errands, long rides—filling the silence with something that he knows the both of you would like.

The playlists grow. From one, to two, to almost an entire collection of carefully curated tracks to suit the mood and vibe of the day. He takes it seriously—so seriously that you can’t resist sneaking in a Megan Thee Stallion track onto his precious “Slow Evenings” playlist.

He finds it hilarious. Hilarious enough to loop Kitty Kat for all sixty-five minutes of your commute back home.

You laugh despite yourself. It’s exactly the type of shit you know he’d pull as petty retribution, already intimately familiar with his brand of humor. And if you close your eyes, you can almost imagine him beside you, sharing an earbud, smirking as he revels in your exasperation.

____

One night, you notice a weariness in his eyes. It’s an odd enough thing to see that it leads to a discussion on what he’s been up to as the shadowy leader of a notorious faction, deep in a lawless part of his universe.

“Just an operative gone wrong, sweetie,” he says with a sigh, rubbing a temple as though trying to physically push the stress away. “It happens.”

You press him on the details of the botched deal—and maybe, just maybe, a small part of you is excited to live vicariously through the tale. But it’s not about you this time, you remind yourself. So you listen as Sylus indulges every question you throw at him, giving you the play-by-play: what the deal was for (special, hard-to-get protocores), where the trade-off occurred (west of Charon), and how it all went sideways (he knew it was a set-up the moment he walked into the venue).

You don’t really know how to comfort him in a situation like this, but you want to try.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, you joke, “Can you imagine clumsy, ol’ me there? I’d be dead before I even make it inside.”

Sylus freezes, his expression going still. Unreadable.

“No, you won’t.” He says in response to the second part of what you just said, his tone brooking no doubt. He says it with such intense conviction that you almost believe this exact hypothetical has already crossed his mind—more than once.

I won’t let you.

Before you can even think of what to say, he adds, quieter this time, but no less convinced: “And yes—I can.”

It’s a direct answer to your question, and it makes the words die in your throat. His voice is softer now too, but there’s no mistaking his tone. It has the same conviction from before, and it hits you that he’s had time to ruminate on this thought—more times than he’d care to admit.

And I do. You have no idea.

____

There’s another shift in the dynamic of your, well, relationship.

“Did you hear what I said, poppet?”

You snap back to meet his inquiring gaze, unwavering as always.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” You ask, the apology clear in your eyes.

He huffs, shaking his head in amusement—always patient, never annoyed—at your inattentiveness. “What’s on your mind, my sweet?”

Well. That.

Lately, Sylus has gotten into the habit of using possessive pronouns like they’re nothing. There’s also a notable increase on the variation of pet names too, each one more layered than the last.

It’s a little excessive, honestly. Like he’s trying to compensate for something—or maybe he sees it as just another natural step in whatever’s going on between you two. You’re still not sure what exactly goes in his head. He’s always been an enigma to you.

And yet, you never put a stop to it. How could you?

Little dove. Sweet girl. My darling.

When it comes off his lips like sunkist honey—each one brings a jolt straight to your heart.

You're quite partial to one in particular.

My love.

____

“Oh, my love,” Sylus tuts, feigning concern. “You’ve snoozed that alarm five times already.”

You groan, hitting the snooze button again—number six now—burying your face in your arms on the desk.

____

You’re attending a despedida party for a friend who’s flying abroad to study (For a PhD in Biomedical Science! You couldn’t be more proud.) and the venue’s going to be at The Penthouse, somewhere fancy up north. It even has an infinity pool on deck, something the celebrant dropped into the group chat with far too much enthusiasm.

So, earlier today, you’d ventured out to buy something nice for yourself. Nicer than what you have in the closet, which isn’t much of a stretch. Something different than your usual rotation of plaids and band shirts—not that there’s anything wrong with them. They’re just… you. Comfortable. Predictable. Not exactly the dress code for a rooftop soirée.

Now, you’re back home from a successful (!) trip to the mall, bags in hand: a small gift for your friend on one arm and a much larger shopping bag on the other.

You set the gift gently on the coffee table. Then, you head to the bathroom, the grosgrain ribbon of a paper tote held tight in your fist.

The pretty fabric caught your eye almost immediately, the moment you saw the garment; its sheen almost like woven liquid in the light. It felt like a risk, even on the rack. But under the unforgiving glare of your bathroom bulb?

Well, now, it’s looking less of a “bold choice,” and more along the lines of: “damn, what were you thinking?”

It’s not that big of a deal or anything. You like feeling pretty. But at the same time, you haven’t deluded yourself into thinking that you’re anything above average to look at, even on the nicest occasions.

It’s something you’ve grown used to, a definitive truth ingrained deep in your bones. You know this—like you know gravity tethers you to the ground, even when you’d rather be carried by the wind. You’ve gone through more than a decade to accept it as just another fact of life, to make peace with the reflection staring back at you from the bathroom mirror.

Even if it means you’ll never be on the receiving end of ‘interested’ glances from strangers on the street. Or that you’ve never known the feeling of someone doing a double take when they see you at your best, all dolled-up. More than once, you’ve sat across from dates whose eyes wandered—toward some other, someone better-looking, in restaurants, at parks, even outside the movies. Everywhere past your direction.

But that’s okay. You’re used to it, the same way you’ve grown used to everything else.

And still, there’s that impulse—a sudden need for someone else’s opinion. Someone close. Someone that matters.

There’s a pang of fear you can’t quite shake. You hear the small voice from the deep recesses of your mind, whispering to you that it’s one of your worse ideas. That you’ll fall short of any and all expectations, and that it’ll hurt more this time around. You’ll hear the polite, “you look nice” and you’re gonna have to live with the quiet certainty that you don’t, not really, and that you’ll never quite measure up to what he’s used to seeing. To her—

You swallow hard. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that to you. Not outwardly, at least.

And if he did… Well.

“I bought something,” you say as an opener, the words tumbling out in a rush as soon as you get a glimpse of his form on the screen. You’re rocking back on your heel, a little awkward as you stand there in front of your small vanity table even with your phone laid flat, front camera pointing upwards. “You remember the going-away party I’ll be attending two days from now, right?”

“Of course, the one for your secondary school batchmate.” Sylus replies easily, voice reverberating through the tinny speakers. Even at an angle, you can see the confused tilt of his head. “Is it on the ceiling, sweetie? What am I looking at, exactly?”

“No, smartass. I—” You press your lips together, eyes flitting upward, as if courage might be dangling from the ceiling in question.

Fuck, this is a bad idea. I can’t do this.

“It’s–I bought something for myself. I mean, I bought her a gift too, obviously. But I also bought an outfit. For the party.”

There.

He blinks, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head. Realization dawns on his face, a knowing smile beginning to form. His voice dips, a teasing edge to it as he purrs, “Oh? Well then, save me from the suspense, sweetheart.”

“I–I’m getting to it, okay?” It comes out a little snappier than you intend, nerves flaring hot. You sigh, feeling your shoulders drop. “I’m just… Don’t be—ugh, just don’t make a big deal out of this, alright?”

You keep your eyes off the screen, unable to face him directly.

But when he speaks, his tone carries only a quiet understanding of your struggle.

Of course he understands. He always does.

He speaks; and it’s slow and measured—as if he’s coaxing a terrified, cornered animal out of hiding.

“Show me.” Trust me.

And so with a heavy exhale through the nose, you flip the front camera towards your direction, revealing the bare expanse of gooseflesh skin—

… And the flimsy one-piece that clings to your body like wet plastic.

It dips low between the valley of your breasts and stops short just halfway up your thigh. The material is a gauzy organza; see-through and light, in seafoam green. Barely leaving anything to the imagination as it reveals the dusky coral swimsuit from underneath the fabric and the hot flush that spreads across your chest like wildfire. Your fists clench and unclench behind your back – hiding the physical manifestation of your rising anxiety – while you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

There's a deafening silence.

The knots in your stomach grow tighter, creeping its way past your lungs. Your fingers tremble as cold sweat breaks out across your skin, chilling you from the inside. You feel horribly exposed. So exposed it’s almost unbearable.

And you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.

Your thoughts stumble, desperate to cling to anything solid, and a faint memory surfaces—a passage from an org pamphlet you’ve skimmed through back in college, something that has to do with “self-perception.”

The flesh does not define you.

Your body is but a facet of who you are. You are as inconsequential as the earth beneath your feet, and as important as stardust in the universe.

A low, guttural sound cuts through the stillness, and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You—

“Look at me.”

A searing heat laces the cadence of his voice. It sounds restless—like a flame unchecked, rapidly growing into a raging inferno. Stifling in the way it pulls the air from your lungs, like a suckerpunch to the gut.

Your primordial instinct is to flee. But right at that very moment, you're no different from a paralyzed insect caught in an inescapable web with the way you’re stood frozen in place. Every instinct to run is smothered by the mere inflection in his voice.

—are all. And that is all there is to be.

“My sweet little dove,” it’s almost a croon, the way the words curl around you like wisps of smoke. Sickly saccharine… downright serpentine. “Won’t you look at me when I talk to you?”

And like a marionette on a string, you obey.

Time seems to stop to a standstill the moment your eyes meet his.

Sylus’ gaze sinks into you. Loaded. Heavy. A crazed glint, almost—to it. Even to someone like you who's embarrassingly clueless about the nuances of attraction and wholly inexperienced in its depths can see it as plain as day.

Carnal desire. In its purest form.

Sylus looks at you as though you’re something to be coveted. Devoured.

A small, fearful noise slips past your lips, and the twin crimson flames burn brighter.

“You’d like to know what I think?”

Yes.

No?

He sees the war in your eyes, and a throaty chuckle escapes him—raw and breathy. “Maybe so?”

You give him the tiniest nod, and the grin on his face sharpens into something wanton, something far more licentious. It slinks in like a fever, stirring something deep within you. Something as old as time.

Sylus opens his mouth.

You brace yourself for the inevitable.

A ring slices through the room like a hot knife. Just like that, you can breathe again.

____

Your saving grace comes in the form of a phone call that grounds you back to reality.

It’s a friend, one of the party guests, asking for directions to the venue. You’re listening with one ear on the receiver, answering each question robotically—your voice a controlled calm on the surface, a stark contrast to the thoughts running amok inside your head.

The words blur into background noise, muffled and distant, like a TV commercial playing on low volume in another room.

The moment you hang up, a suffocating hush swallows the room whole. You’re left alone with nothing but heat kindling low in your gut. The ghost of the heavy exchange from earlier stays with you, thrumming beneath your skin, hot and pulsating.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. The abrupt suddenness of it all gnaws at you, its weight driving you toward an early retreat—maybe a long night’s rest will do wonders and help you get your shit together, who knows.

You slip between the sheets... but not before retrieving your, ah, trusty little companion from its hiding spot in the bedside drawer.

You didn’t want to assume… You don’t want to expect anything from him, but you have needs.

God, but you do.

Your body feels like flint struck against steel, sparked ablaze by just a handful of words. Words weaved into a vivid imagery from the mouth of your… friend??

(Something more?)

The uncertainty wrecks you, every nerve alight with tension. And yet it’s the same uncertainty that roots you there. Hesitating.

So. You lie back, pushing the sheets away from your fevered skin, and just—lay there. Staring at the ceiling. The plaster cracks form maps you trace with your eyes, as if searching for answers in their tangled routes. You count your breaths, one after the other, as though the repetition could calm your racing heartbeat.

It feels ridiculous, almost. You’re a grown adult, acting like a teenager with a demented crush. It’s more than that, though—it’s deeper, messier, and completely illogical.

But it’s not something you can figure out tonight, not in this state. So you stop trying.

Instead, you switch on your little toy, open an incognito browser, and let yourself succumb to what your body’s been screaming at you for the past fucking hour.

You feel… You feel weird about using anything Sylus-related to get yourself off. That’s not to say you haven’t, before, back when he was just another eye candy from a measly mobile game. When it was just another infatuation.

But now? Now it feels all levels of wrong, like you’re toeing some invisible line. Worse, it feels like you’re exploiting something fragile, testing the limits of a bond already stretched thin.

So, any content related to that man stays off the fap fodder. You’re not that far gone. You think.

Instead, you scroll through your bookmarks tab, a shaky sigh leaves your lips as you let the hard vibrations of your trusty rabbit glide from inside your thighs, up… up to your warm center, in between the juncture of your legs.

You pause on a Toji smut fic—one amongst, uhh, dozens in your folder. It’s not the same, you know this, but you’re settling for the next best thing in your current circumstance.

Since what you really want, who you’d rather much have, isn’t—

…

Your phone glitches.

The Chrome app crashes.

And what do you think you’re doing?

Your heart stutters a beat, and you stop breathing.

You can’t answer. The words don’t come. But he doesn’t wait for you to try.

Put on your headphones.

You’re done with that. Tonight, tomorrow, any other night. Do you understand me?

The uncharacteristic curtness of the message sends a jolt through you, and a blush overtakes your entire body. You hesitate, just for a second.

Now.

You scramble to obey, fumbling for your earbuds, slipping them on with shaking hands.

The moment the bluetooth connects, the game boots up on its own—straight to an irate Sylus, looking royally pissed-off.

“Sy-Sy—” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I—I don’t—”

"Oh, so back to Sy-Sy now, are we?"

The mocking lilt in his voice cuts sharper than the glare he fixes on your dimly lit face. Your mouth opens, then closes, words failing you entirely.

You want to explain, to defend yourself. To…

“I see what you read. What you watch,” he begins, voice cutting and mean. “In the dead of night, when you think you’re alone. When you think it’s safe. That no one hears the sweet moans spill so sinfully from your lips.”

His words pierce through the air like an arrow; you feel his overwhelming presence take over, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you, every exhale grazing the sensitive shell of your ear.

“Oh, but I do,” he murmurs, the ambiguity in his tone somehow making it worse. “I hear everything. I know everything about you, kitten.”

A shiver races down your spine, your body betraying you as he speaks.

“What makes you tick,” he continues, his voice a sinister caress. “What leaves you writhing, desperate for more. The way your breathing quickens… the way your body trembles under the weight of your own pleasure.”

You’re struggling now—each breath harder to catch than the last.

“And the way that pretty little mouth of yours falls open in a silent gasp, right after you come undone.”

His words are a noose, tightening with every syllable. Your head spins as the air seems to grow heavier, saturated with the tension between you.

“But it’s never for me, is it?”

“I—I’m sorry… I don’t want to assume—”

“Assume?” His voice darkens, any hint of softness replaced with something colder, harsher. “Again with your presumptions.”

He leans closer, his tone dropping to a command that leaves no room for doubt. “From now on, the only thing you’ll need to believe is when I tell you you’re mine.”

You blink at him dumbly. His grin turns into something wicked—caustic and biting—as he cocks his head. Derisive.

“Do you understand?”

Your head bobs in a weak, reflexive nod.

“Words, poppet.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good.” His tone shifts, smooth like languid amber, yet no less imposing. “Now, my love,” he coos, savoring the way your eyes tear up with desperation, “show me how you touch yourself.”

____

“Shi–iit,” he hisses. “This wet already?”

You attempt to close your legs, shame rising like a tide, but freeze halfway when Sylus lets out a low, warning growl.

“Try that, and we’ll stop,” he warns. “I won’t repeat myself twice, pet.”

The weight of his words pins you in place, and you let out a helpless whimper.

“Don’t be afraid, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his tone gentler—coaxing. “It’s just me.”

His gaze burns into you, relentless, but something tender bleeds into it.

The glow of the screen casts shadows along the sharp angles of his jaw, the upward tick of his mouth a dangerous contradiction—part teasing, part command. His sanguine eyes gleam with a mix of hunger and control, a look that leaves no room for hesitation.

You give in.

Your body relaxes under the weight of his stare, the fight draining from your limbs. It’s not submission—it’s surrender, pure and unfiltered, the kind that leaves you bare and vulnerable.

Sylus watches you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Not soft, not kind, but triumphant—like a predator relishing the moment its prey stops running.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise dripping from his tongue like honey. “That’s better.”

____

Sade’s Smooth Operator starts to play in the background as you catch your breath.

You let out a tired giggle, swiping a hand down your sweat-drenched face, earbuds still in place. “Ugh—don’t piss me off.”

You hear a resounding chuckle.

Gently, he asks, “Alright, little dove?” There’s a beat of hesitation before he adds, quieter now, “Did I go too far?”

You curl onto your side, phone clutched in your hand like a prayer. Sylus’ gaze peers back at you through the screen, a dangerously soft expression on his face that you don’t want to identify.

“It's perfect, Sy,” you say, your grin tender and bittersweet, heart full of something you won't name.

____

It’s one in the morning. The dim glow of your laptop screen flickers across your face, spilling into the darkened room, casting shadows along the wall. You lean back against it, the end credits of Everything Everywhere All At Once rolling quietly in the background.

Silence settles between you and Sylus like a warm blanket.

“Do you think it’s… like that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, unwilling to shatter the stillness of the moment. “All versions of ourselves colliding and coexisting at the same time?”

The question hangs there; he doesn’t rush an answer, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s choosing not to.

When he finally speaks, it’s with the same quiet restraint, his voice threading softly through the air.

“I’d like to think that in this vast expanse of the universe, there’s something for you and me.”

There’s a trace of something dreadfully optimistic in his voice, and it makes your chest tighten. You blink a few times, glancing upwards.

The moment lingers, delicate in its quietness, until you instinctively reach for your phone. A quick swipe reveals a new addition to your shared playlist.

This Is A Life by Son Lux and Mitski.

A small, genuine smile tugs at your lips as you press play. The haunting strains of the song pour into the room, filling the spaces words can’t seem to touch.

“Sneaky,” you murmur, your gaze sliding back to Sylus’ face on the screen. His expression is unreadable, save for the faintest twitch of his mouth, the barest hint of a smile.

“Thought it fit the mood,” he says simply.

And it does. The music sweeps over you, soft and wistful, like the moment itself.

____

The balcony feels like a lifeboat drifting away from the chaos inside. The music, the chatter, the endless parade of tequila shots—it all fades to a dull hum as you step into the cool night air.

Out here, the world feels wider, the sky a little darker, and you can breathe without choking on the weight of the party.

She’s already there, of course. The friend of a friend. An acquaintance by definition, but someone who feels more of a comrade in these fleeting moments away from the crowd. You’ve seen her like this most times—leaning on the railing, a cigarette perched between her fingers, its faint ember glowing against the night. You don’t need an invitation to approach her.

“You mind if I bum one?”

She shrugs, silently offering the box to you. You take one.

“Fun party, huh?” you comment after two puffs, the lit end of the stick briefly catching the glow of the skyline. Your voice is loaded with the kind of irony only shared by those watching the world from the outside in.

“It always is with them around,” she snorts, rolling her eyes in fond exasperation. Her voice carries the warmth of familiarity, from an observation you’ve both shared before.

You exhale a soft laugh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the city below.

The silence that follows isn’t just companionable—it’s necessary. A pause to recalibrate, to let the noise, and the lights, and the weight of too many people melt away. Neither of you feels the need to fill it. Words would only dilute the reprieve.

And then, unexpectedly:

“You look happy.”

The words land like a stone dropping into still water, rippling through the quiet. You glance at her, startled by the way her eyes narrow slightly, the way her tone suggests she’s already drawn her own conclusions.

“You ‘ave someone?”

You weren’t ready for that. You blink at her, surprised she’s noticed anything about you—surprised, too, that it’s written plainly enough for anyone to notice.

“...Yeah,” you mumble, looking away. The admission feels strange in its simplicity. ��Yeah, I do.”

She smiles at that—easy but genuine, as if your happiness has spilled over and warmed her, too. “That’s good.”

There’s sincerity in her voice, unfiltered and direct, as she adds, “You look happier.”

You don’t reply, but her words settle somewhere deep, in the quiet places you thought were hidden.

And for once, you don’t mind being seen.

____

The party has left you drunker than you’ve been in ages.

As soon as the celebrant spots the two of you in the corner looking like a sad pair of eyesores, she quickly remedies it with copious amounts of stone-cold stingers. You try to protest, but in the end, it’s futile against the cacophony of cheers and the face of societal peer pressure.

So now you stagger inside the condo building, looking every bit like a drowned rat dragged in from the storm. A weary guard from reception following closely behind, his patience visibly fraying as you giggle your way toward the elevator.

“‘m fine!” you insist, words slurring together as you attempt to shoo him off with a lazy wave. To emphasize your point, you pinch your fingers together, holding them inches apart. “Just this much to drink, see?”

He doesn’t respond, his expression coming across resigned and frustrated. You can almost hear the thought running through his mind: I don’t get paid enough for this.

With a long-suffering sigh, he finally relents, letting you totter into the elevator alone.

UG… P… 4…. 5…… Oh! Here you are.

Rivulets of water drip down from your rain-soaked hair, trailing icy paths down your neck as you stagger down the narrow hallway. Your vision blurs, making everything double—no, triple—as you fumble your way to the left, stopping in front of the door of 601—wait, no, 603.

You squint hard at the numbers, your head throbbing with the effort, but the stinging in your eyes and the stubborn clumping of your lashes make it way harder for you to make sense of it all.

Your waterlogged clutch feels heavier than it should, and your trembling fingers struggle to find the zipper pull that’s somehow become the bane of your existence. You huff, muttering incoherently to yourself, your throat tight and raw as a burning lump starts to rise. An annoyingly persistent buzzing from inside your bag adds to your mounting frustration.

With an angry yank, you finally manage to tear the bag open, water splashing off it in tiny droplets.

“Aha!” you exclaim, though the triumph is short-lived as your hands shake even harder when you pull out your phone. It’s the source of the buzzing apparently, the bright screen momentarily blinding you.

You try to unlock it—once, twice, three times—nearly getting locked out before the numbers finally click.

The notifications hit you like the mars lights of a freight train. Texts. Lots of them. You scroll through clumsily, the device slipping slightly from your grip as you snort gracelessly.

Sylus. Of course.

The words on the screen blur and twist, but you don’t need clarity to know the progression of each message—ranging from mild curiosity, to slight worry, to exasperatedly concerned.

The syllables of his pet name echo faintly in your muddled head, a small, fleeting comfort against the weight pressing down on your chest. Sy-Sy. Sy-Sy. Sy-Syyyyy—

Synchronous with your erratic breathing, you dig through your bag with a heavy hand, each failed attempt sends you spiraling lower.

Another ping jolts you from your drunken haze:

How are you feeling? Did you just get back?

“I can’t—I can’t find my damn keys!”

The words slips out as a frustrated cry.

Inner pocket, left side. Answer me, sweetheart.

His words flash across the screen just as your fumbling fingers find the keys exactly where he said they’d be.

A tear burns a path down your cheek as you let out a half-hearted chuckle, mumbling, “Can I even function without you?”

How long has it been since you could manage something like this on your own? Has he become an extension of your mind?

The door’s stubborn resistance only adds to your unraveling. After several failed attempts—your fingers too wound up to grip the key properly—you finally twist the lock and push it open, stumbling inside, into the darkness.

“I’m a mess, Sylus,” you whisper, voice thick with tears as your head spins, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.

The world feels heavy and muffled, like you’re trapped behind a fogged window. You know you’re a sight to behold—shoeless, drunk, drenched like some stray that wandered too far into the rain.

“I’ve noticed,” he says, his voice warm and steady, cutting through the quiet void of the room. It takes a second for the words to sink in, for your scattered mind to piece together that, somehow, you’ve already opened the game in the middle of all your fumbling. Automatic. Like second nature.

You stare at him, trembling and pitiful, like a kid lost in a crowd. Your bottom lip quivers, and you hate how small you feel under his gaze.

You see concern pooling in the depths of Sylus’ eyes. That and something… desperate.

You sniff, rubbing at your wet cheeks with pruning fingers, clinging to humor like a lifeline. "Don’t you do anything else?” you mumble, your voice fraying at the edges. “Like... live your own life or something? You spend so much time with me...” You force out a weak laugh, bitter and jagged. “It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten sick of me yet.”

Your laugh cracks halfway through, more like a sob than anything. It’s pathetic—you’re pathetic.

And yet, you can’t stop. Even if it stings your throat.

Sylus’ response comes, and his voice is solid—unwavering. He doesn’t flinch like you do. “I don’t get sick of you, sweetheart. Not in the slightest.”

Something in you cracks, spilling over. “I really like you,” you murmur, voice steeped with emotion. “You’re the brightest light in my life. You’re… you’re everything.”

A flash of lightning cuts through the room, illuminating your tear-stained face.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, Sylus calls out your name.

It’s quiet, reverent, and it feels like a tether pulling you back from the brink.

You crumple down the floor, clutching your phone like it’s the only thing holding you together. In the silence that follows, all you can hear is your ragged breathing and the quiet hum of his presence on the other end of the line.

“I’m here,” he tells you softly. “I’ve got you.”

____

This is a life

(Every possibility)

Free from destiny

(I choose you, and you choose me)

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @nicora04 @blueberrysquire @love-anteros @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie (i spend so much time cross-checking the tags this is tiring lmao)

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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joemama-2 · 5 months ago

Text

somethin' sweet

synopsis: you own a five-star renowned restaurant that is extremely hard to get into. business is great, the customers love it. everything is as perfect as can be. that is until a harsh food critic leaves you a bad review. you're stuck with a dilemma, let this one review overcome you. or.....fuck him so he can change it. tags: smut, sort of public sex, vaginal penetration, oral, gojo is kind of mean and annoying, praise, degradation, doggy, missionary, cunnilingus, dividers by @cafekitsune word count: 6370

The one time you’re not here, the one time you actually listen to everyone’s complaints about taking time to yourself because you overwork way too much. The one time you use your PTO to vacation to Bali for a week,

A distinguished critic visits your restaurant.

You stare down at the screen in your hands, having not at all prepared for this news to be brought on you as soon as you enter. Its words stare back at you, taunting you almost. You’re half tempted to throw it across the kitchen, but that would be another expense added to your list of supplies you needed to buy for the upcoming month.

“What day did he come?” you ask as your pointer finger scrolls the screen, reading more of the nasty review that was left.

“A Saturday. None of us even knew he was coming.” Mayra, your head sous chef, replies. The rest of the staff stands around. Some in nervousness, anticipation, and even anger at the predicament. “We sat him on the top. Even made sure he had the whole floor to himself.”

The top floor, strictly reserved for distinguished guests who waited on your month long reservation list, or for those who would simply buy it out for the night. Your top floor is constantly raved about in the media, sometimes for its lavishness and other times in jealousy. Long story short, the top floor is for the best of the best.

And they gave him that.

But it seems he didn’t care for that at all.

“If you’re in the mood for a culinary adventure that feels more like a misadventure, look no further than Lovely Haven, the so-called “fusion” restaurant that blends American comfort food with Italian classics. Unfortunately, the only thing they seem to have fused successfully is disappointment and confusion. The result is a dismal failure that feels like a cruel joke on the palate, this is what happens when culinary confusion collides with utter mediocrity.

Let’s start with the decor—an odd mix of rustic Italian charm and the kind of neon signs you'd find in a questionable diner. It’s as if someone couldn’t decide whether to create a romantic trattoria or a roadside burger joint. The atmosphere is confusing, much like the menu.”

You scoff as you read this part to yourself. The decor? The decor was one of the things almost every customer raved about. Its bright lights mixed with sleek and stainless furniture was the epitome of success. Going as far as bugging your interior designer for days, even weeks on end, to get it down to the T.

Secondly, mediocre? How dare he? You’ve been in the culinary arts for over two decades now, and so has your staff. You were very nitpicky and quite a perfectionist when assembling your employees for your place of solace. Your 5-star Michelin restaurant, yes, 5-star. It only took two years to achieve that goal, which placed you as the quickest growing restaurant in your area. And he’s treating it like you’re nothing but a simple Applebee’s or Chili’s.

The balls on this man.

“Now, onto the menu—a dizzying array of choices that reads like a desperate attempt at creativity gone horribly awry. The lasagna burger is a prime example of this misguided ambition. It arrives as a soggy monstrosity, with layers of pasta and a sad, overcooked beef patty that would make even the most forgiving diner weep. It’s a culinary abomination, devoid of flavor and entirely forgettable.

Then there are the “famous” Alfredo fries, which manage to be both an insult to fries and Alfredo sauce. The dish is an affront to all things Italian and American, featuring limp, greasy fries drowning in a thick, tasteless goo that resembles some sort of industrial paste. It’s a disgrace, and I genuinely questioned whether anyone in the kitchen had ever tasted actual food before.”

By this point, your grip has tightened on the Ipad, jaw clenching and brows furrowing. This man, he really, really was an asshole. Disrespecting your hard-working kitchen staff was a low blow that you took personally. “How long did it take to get his food out to him?”

“Twenty minutes, Y/N.” Luke, one of the managers, replies. “I timed it and made sure it was prepared before the other guests who were dining.”

So not only was he being treated like a princess, but the other customers, who probably got there before him, received their food after he was served. All for the sake of him not reviewing your restaurant’s “unkempt timeliness”.

You continue to read the last few paragraphs while your stomach twists and turns.

“Service, predictably, matched the culinary catastrophe. Our server was inattentive and seemed more interested in their phone than in providing any semblance of hospitality. Drinks took an eternity to arrive—warm, naturally, because why would you expect cold beverages at a restaurant?

Dessert? Oh, you mean the “Tiramisu Sundae”? It’s a ghastly creation that defies logic, featuring layers of sad, mushy sponge cake drowned in what could only be described as a failed attempt at chocolate syrup. The entire dish is an insult to the beloved Italian classic, tasting more like a punishment than a treat.

In conclusion, Lovely Haven is not just a failure; it’s a disgrace to the culinary arts. If you value your taste buds and your sanity, steer clear of this pitiful excuse for a restaurant. Save your money and your appetite for a place that actually understands food. You deserve better.”

The silence that follows is harsh, awaiting a potential outburst from you. You lift your head and swivel around to glare at the group around you. “Who served him?”

Hesitance replies back, some of your staff looking down as though the ground seems more interesting than your death glare. It isn’t until you ask the question again, in a firmer tone, does Mayra respond. “Susan.”

Jesus christ.

As if things couldn’t be worse, who’s bright idea was it to decide that the slacking employee serves your distinguished guest. The one person who has been trying your presence since she was hired. “Where is—”

You’re disrupted by the kitchen door opening, the problem herself walking through with earbuds in and of course, scrolling on her phone. As she looks up and sees the numerous amount of eyes on her, her steps falter. Confusion sparks through her expression, but as soon as you step forward, it begins to click.

“You’re thirty minutes late, I put you on opening because you said you couldn’t close anymore.” You don’t even have it in you to lighten your tone, eyes narrowed and voice clipped in annoyance, frustration. “Your performance has been lacking for months now, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Ever the brat she is, her arms cross. “I’m a busy college student, I have other priorities and things on my mind unlike the rest of you.”

“And I understand that,” you snap back.”But there is a difference between having other priorities and simply not caring. You don’t listen, you show up late, and you’re using your phone while you’re on the floor. Do you understand how extremely disrespectful that is?”

A moment of silence passes as she seems to formulate what to say in her mind. “I jus—”

“You’re fired.” you cut her off. “Your last check will be deposited within 24 hours, do not come back and if you do, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Luke and Mayra, along with your other manager, Ren, sit next to you in your office. Computer screen displayed in front of you four while your fingers type away. Mayra glances at your focused expression before back at the screen. “Do you really think he’ll reply back? Critics don’t usually come to review a place for a second time, especially one they strongly advised against.”

“I don’t care,” you murmur, eyes not straying from the email you’re drafting out. “Out of the seven years we’ve been operating, we haven’t had a single bad review. And now, this entitled ass thinks just because he gets paid to eat and critic, he can ruin our reputation.”

Ren sighs, hand lifted to his forehead. “Y/N, it’s okay. One bad review doesn’t and won’t define us.”

“Besides, he’s known for being harsh, he does this to everyone,” Luke adds on.

“Even more of a reason for me to do this. I will not allow him to openly disrespect our hard work and dedication like this.”

The three around you give one another a knowing look, right before you click send on the email.

“Hello, Mr. Gojo.

My name is Y/N L/N, I’m the owner of Lovely Haven, a place you recently reviewed. After reading your honest review, I am extremely upset and apologetic for the food and service you received that day. That is not at all what we strive for, and again, I sincerely apologize.

If you would accept, I would like to set up a second visit for you. We are closed on this coming Friday, due to the holiday, but I’d love to personally serve you myself and answer any and all questions you may have regarding Lovely Haven and its history.

Please respond back as soon as you have a moment. Thank you again.

Kindly,

Y/N L/N”

“Hello, Ms. LN,

I appreciate you reaching out to me. I’ll come around 8am on Friday. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Gojo Satoru”

You;ve spent the better half of the past two hours setting up and making sure everything is perfect. You’ll be damned if you have a rerun of last time, especially on your watch. Your staff insisted you don’t handle this alone, urging for at least two cooks to be present. But you refused.

Lovely Haven is your business and creation, your heart. So in a way, you feel as if it’s your job as the owner to make this all right. If anyone can serve this man, it’s you.

You’re dressed formally, hair up (in case he tries to complain about hair in his food). Wearing a simple black dress, modest enough as it reaches your knees. It’s tight, but not too tight. You’re wearing small black heels to match, gold jewelry complimenting the attire.

The clock inches towards 8 and you, for some reason, find yourself feeling oddly nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation or anxiousness for a second try. Your stomach curls, almost like you’re a lovestruck high schooler seeing her crush in the hallways. Sweaty handles fiddle together in front of you while your eyes dart from the watch on your wrist and the glass front doors.

Either this man had a penchant for being late, or you somehow mixed your days up and he’s not coming today. Dramatically, you check your phone and let out a sigh of relief when you see it’s Friday. Okay, good. Then he’s really just late.

Well, not exactly late. But he said he’d get here at 8, it’s 7:57. Usually people don’t get to places at the time they said, because if he came at 8 exactly, that is late. You should always show up at least five minutes before your estimated arrival time, at least that’s how you thought.

No, that’s how most normal, responsible adults thought.

Maybe he’s not normal. Can’t be if he gave you a one star and brutal review. He’s probably just trying to be different from the rest. And you hate people like that. Shitting on something that is actually good, whether it be a show or movie, simply because everyone else says it's good. And the fact that he’s known for his low reviews is even more infuriating.

There’s no way every place he visits is below three stars. It has to be his taste buds, they’re probably—

“Good morning.”

You snap your head up, completely lost in thought that you didn’t even notice, let alone hear the dreadful man walk in. Already not off to a good start. A smile finds its way on your face, hand held out, to which he shakes. “Good morning, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gojo. I’m Y/N.”

He nods, a small smile reciprocated back. “I figured.”

Is it just you or did he tone sound almost condescending? And that smile on his face seems like he’s the type to think he knows it all.

Nope, don’t do that.

Pulling your hand away after what seems like a longer than usual handshake, you step aside and motion towards the array of tables. “Well, why don’t I show you to your table?”

“Yeah, why don’t you?” he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks, raising a thin, white eyebrow as if to silently urge you to start walking. You hold back an eye twitch, turning around and walking to the area you set up specifically for him.

He’s following behind you as you walk, the heels of your shoes softy clanking against the ceramic tile. As you glance back, you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes quickly raise up to meet yours. Like he was—

“I apologize for not being around last time, I was on vacation.” you say, cutting off your own train of thought that you won’t entertain.

“Ah, no worries. Where did you go?” His pace matches your own now, walking side by side as his arm barely brushes against your bare skin. “Somewhere nice?”

You chuckle lightly and nod. “Yes, I went to Bali. It was quite lovely. The people were very welcoming and the food was absolutely delicious.”

A hum. “Better than this place, I hope.”

That comment. God, that comment. And the fact that he’s hiding it behind his sickeningly sweet smile, a tilt to his voice like he’s joking but not actually joking. You’ll pray for the former. “I can assure you, Mr. Gojo, both residences of food are exquisite.”

You two get to the square table prepared for him. A crisp, white linen tablecloth across the surface, that creates a clean and elegant contrast that elevated the rustic charm. At the center, a simple yet striking centerpiece emerged—a small terracotta pot filled with fresh basil and rosemary, their vibrant green leaves offering a delightful aroma that whispered of Italian kitchens.

Polished silverware gleamed in the soft light, laid out neatly on either side, ready for the culinary delights to come. An elegant, crystal wine glass on the side. Cloth napkins, folded into intricate designs, rested atop his plate. The dual flickering candles in small glass holders cast a warm glow over the table, creating an intimate atmosphere that you hoped would help catch his eye.

Finally, a menu card that displayed the special dishes you had prepared just for him. You took the time out of your day to make this specifically for today, crafting your menu for a man who probably didn’t think twice about it was not on your 2024 bingo card.

He takes his seat as you stand in front of him, placing the menu closer to his reach. “Here we have a variety of our best sellers and limited editions. Just for you, Mr. Gojo.” Your smile gets a little harder to keep up as he lazily sits back in his seat, scanning the menu with his sharp, blue eyes.

“Interesting,” he observes, even flipping it over. He glances back up at you. “The stuffed arancini, is that good?”

“Delicious, sir.”

“Okay,” he looks back down at the menu. “Then I’ll get the Buffalo Cauliflower Bites for an appetizer, plus the Bruschetta Trio. Oh, and to drink, I want one of your craft mocktails.”

So he asks for your opinion, and doesn’t even order it. “Of course, Mr. Gojo.” You don’t write it down, having already committed his order to memory, due to years in the food industry. “I’ll get started on that right now.”

With one more smile, you turn around and head to the kitchen. As soon as the doors close, your face hardens with irritation. Walking around to grab the appropriate ingredients, grumbling to yourself curses. Sure you’ll make his food and smile at him, doesn't mean you won’t be a brat about it behind closed doors.

The minutes Gojo spends alone, he’s meticulously counting them down. Eyebrow raised as he eyes the kitchen doors and the arms of the small clock. Leg crossed over the other with his arm resting on top of the back of his chair that he;s currently tipping back and forth with the stability of his foot.

After about three minutes, you greet him with his mocktail, setting it down. “Here you go, sir.”

“Finally, I almost died of thirst, you know?” He huffs a small chuckle and he sips from the straw. You want to grimace as he swishes the liquid around his mouth, head tilting in dramatics. He’s acting like it’s mouthwash or something. As he swallows, you do your best not to focus on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

What do you think you’re doing? Checking him out right now, seriously?

“How is it?” Your voice raises a tad, either in nervousness or a way to calm your suddenly rapid beating heart.

“Not too bad, a little sour for me.” He comments, tongue coming out to lick across his bottom lip. “What’s in it?”

“Basil lemonade and berry spritz, Mr. Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he corrects you, eyes rolling while his hand waves around dismissively. “Stop calling me ‘sir’ and all that, makes me feel old. Besides, this is supposed to feel comfortable isn’t it? Don’t force yourself with the formalities.”

Well, that’s a small breath of relief. You simply nod. “Of course, Satoru. Then you may call me Y/N.”

“Was already gonna do that.”

“Right.”

A small pause follows, hands awkwardly fiddling behind his back. You didn’t even realize it before, but the way he stares feels really invading. Especially with how bright his eyes are, you’re starting to feel naked under his gaze. Like he can sense it, he grins boyishly. “The appetizers?”

You nod again, quicker this time, clearing your throat. “Yes, coming right up.”

And once more, you leave him be while you finish up his food. The bruschetta trio, a classic tomato and basil, roasted red pepper and feta, with wild mushroom and truffle oil topping, served on toasted artisan bread. This dish is loved among your regulars.

And the buffalo cauliflower bites which are spicy, crispy cauliflower tossed in buffalo sauce, served with a side of creamy blue cheese dressing. Perfect for customers with a higher spice tolerance, craving that explosive taste in their mouths.

Holding the two white, glass plates with ease, the doors push open by your back as you walk back over to him. “Bruschetta and the cauliflower, Satoru.”

He doesn’t waste time in taking small, careful bites of each platter. Humming in thought as he does this. It takes a couple minutes before he speaks, using the cloth to wipe at the corner of his mouth. “The mushroom is quite bland, the bread is too hard. And the blue cheese doesn’t go well with the bites.”

Each word is like a punch to your gut. He’s really just finding every little thing to pick at, isn’t he? Lips pursing, your eyebrows raise in faux consideration. “I see, I can remove the dressing for you, and I’ll serve you a softer piece of bread.”

Your hands reach out to take them away, just as his moves into frame. Your fingertips brush against the back of his hand. “No need to take them away, just stating facts.” His smile never seems to leave and each growing second, you feel more and more tempted to wipe it off his face. He gently pushes your hands away, interlacing his fingers together. “Do you expect replacements to suddenly wipe my memory clean? Why should I have to rely on you giving me a replica of what I ordered, when the original piece should’ve met my expectations?”

A little caught off guard by his sudden questioning, you gulp and clear your throat. “Well, if something is not up to par for my guests, it is my duty to replace that with something that is.”

“Sure, but I’m asking why it wasn’t perfect the first time.” He leisurely sips from his mocktail.

A small, but forced laugh leaves your lips. “We do try our best every single time, Satoru. Being perfect has proved hard when everyone has different tastes.”

“So you just give out generic food and hope for the best?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

Your brows begin to furrow at his nonchalance, lip barely quirking down into a frown. “I’m sorry, but our food is not generic. We serve with love and dedication.”

“Love,” he repeats in a mocking tone, picking at the bites with his fork. “This was made with love?”

He’s really getting on your nerves now. “Yes, it was. If you do not like it then I can remake—”

“I’ll take the balsamic glazed chicken,” he cuts you off. “With the alfredo fries. You’re talking about remakes, right? Then make those fries good this time. Thanks.”

You can’t help but stare down at him, the nerve he has is beyond rude. His demanding nature contrasts with your helping one. But, you stay resolute in your politeness, mumbling a small ‘of course’ before disappearing back into the kitchen.

It’s a disaster, truly.

A hard, long, infuriatingly annoying disaster.

Every platter crafted with delicacy and carefulness, he sets aside with calmness. Claiming how the littlest of little things was wrong or how it tasted bad. He even makes a couple snide comments about where you learned to cook from and they should be ashamed.

No matter what, however, he conceals his comments with those stupid laughs you’ve started to despise.

Like it’s funny to him how much you’re failing to please him.

Sweat threatens to trickle down your forehead, using a spare towel to dab at your face. Your hair has started to become a tad unkempt, having to constantly push stray pieces of hair out your face and even grabbing at your hair in frustration. This is probably your own fault for setting this all up, but never did you imagine it would turn out like this.

His table is filled with a variety of plates and dishes stacked unceremoniously on top of each other to make room for the next one.

Throughout it all, he watches your struggle in silent amusement. Everytime you turn around to stomp back into the kitchen, he gets a clear, nice view of the way the fabric of your dress tugs around your ass, legs sleek with whatever lotion you decided to put on.

Your perfume fills his nostrils as you come back to him, to which he feels more and more motivated to bring you down and just stuff his face into the crook of your neck. Or the middle of your plump thighs that have just been calling out to him like a siren.

Satoru would like to think he’s a man of self control, but you’re really pushing him, and you’re not even trying.

He’s being purposeful with his actions just to keep this entire visit long. Just so he can keep checking you out and biting his lip as he inhales your scent. Just so he can have the ample amount of time to force down the boner he has from under the table.

And well, because he’s really, really looking forward to dessert.

You breathe out a heavy breath, one of exhaustion as you present him with yet another platter. He laughs to himself as he takes a bite.

“Meh, too soggy.”

That’s it. “I’ve given you everything on the menu.”

“Oh, have you?” His head tilts innocently.

Your teeth grit. “Yes, I have.”

“Well, that’s a bummer. You really shouldn’t have had such a limited variation.”

“It’s not lim–”

“Dessert, right? That usually comes after the main course.”

“......yes. What would you like?�� You’re forcing your words out by now, hands twitching as they threaten to grip his pretty throat.

Wait, pretty?

Jesus christ, can you stop thinking that right now?

“Hmmmm, let’s see here.” As his eyes scan over the desserts listed on the menu, a frown, or a pout, makes way onto his lips. You close your eyes for a second, counting from one to ten and back. “Is this it?”

“Yes.”

“I have to say,” he lowly whistles. “none of this looks very….appealing.” As he looks back up at you, there’s a small glint in his expression. One that almost causes you to shiver, for some reason.

Is he playing with you now?

“Nothing?” You ask, arms crossing over your chest. “All of that is what guests order the most.”

“Well, I’m not some regular schmegular guest, now am I?” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s standing, one hand stuffed into his pocket while the other meekly points to you. “So, what do you say? You gonna give me something I actually want?”

A small huff escapes from your lips, now longer having the strength to hold back your irritation. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh cmon, don’t give me that.”

“Give you what?”

“That.” He juts his chin in the direction of your scowl. “Do you usually frown at your customers?”

“I frown at men who take my kindness for granted,” is your response, eyes narrowing. “Also, you have been nitpicking every single thing I’ve given you. You’ve been extremely rude about it.”

“Rude? Is honesty rude now? I thought you wanted my honesty.”

“There’s a stark difference between the two.”

“Really?” He leans closer, face teetering on the line of too close as his point finger just barely skims across your forearm. “Mind enlightening me?”

Your breath almost hitches, skin feeling all too warm. You peek down at his finger before back to his face, heart beating faster than normal. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He counters.

“Like you’re trying to flirt with me.”

He barks out a laugh. “Trying? No honey, I am. Why, do you like it?”

“No, I don’t like being flirted with by rude and random men.” You reply, tilting your chin up. “Especially you, sir.”

His grin widens. “Cute. But you know what I don’t like?” As he steps closer, you’re forced to step back. “No dessert.”

His finger travels up your arm, your shoulder, then stops at your jawline, head tilting as his breath fans your cheek. “So, what else can I eat?”

This is stupid. So stupid. Dangerous. Idiotic. Out of character. Anything that means bad.

Is this really all for a good review by some asshat who takes joy out of making people's lives harder? Or are you actually enjoying it?

You feel disgusted at the situation, angered and infuriated that you’ve fallen into his trap. You want to curse out to whatever gods that may be watching and demand why you couldn’t hold back.

Either way, you’re not the only one who couldn’t hold back.

Your breath hitches, a broken string of whines leaving you as the flat of his tongue runs through your slippery folds. His hands on your thighs keep you grounded in place atop the table, because your hips keep twitching up in need of more friction.

You can’t even see his face as it’s so far buried into your wet pussy, practically stuffing his face with it. But god do you feel him. The tips of his hair tickle your inner thighs. His low moan reverberates through you, making you shiver and tingle with excitement.

“A—ahh….!” Your hand finds a place on his hair, pulling as your head tilts back with another moan. “F—fuck…”

His lips smile against your skin, pulling away for a second to look up at your blissed out expression. His face is coated in your juices and you haven’t even came yet. “Pretty good, might be the best thing I’ve had today.”

As he goes back to ravishing you, his tongue slips into your aching hole. Which causes your back to arch up, a higher pitched whine leaving you. “Tad salty, very sweet.”

His comments feel degrading almost. But with the way your thighs threaten to close around his head, pushing his face closer to your cunt, he has a feeling you like it.

It’s electrifying and confusing at the same time. You’ve never been one with hookup culture, you’re not a virgin either but this is on a totally different level. Here you are, letting him tongue fuck you in the middle of the empty restaurant in which you were supposed to be serving him.

Technically you are still serving him.

He urges your hips closer to the edge of the table, spitting harshly against you as he delves back into giving you the best eat of your life.

His tongue alternates between your hole and clit, giving both equal attention while his fingers knead the plush skin of your smooth thighs. Your toes curl in your heels and you feel so close.

You can practically taste it on your tongue, not even mindful anymore of the noises that you’re making. Too engrossed in the utter bliss of the way his mouth sucks and licks at your folds.

You don’t even know you’ve finished until he’s come back up, licking away your release that’s plastered to his pale skin. Left panting and staring up at the dangling lights that feel blinding.

What brings you back down to Earth is the soft clanking of metal. Your head whips down just as he’s unbuckling his pants, eyes blown wide. “W-what are you doing?”

He simply looks at you, shrugging with nonchalance as his belt comes undone, button and zipper next. “Gonna fuck your pussy, what else?”

You scramble to sit up, but he’s faster. Holding your legs open, leaning his face closer. “What? Don’t wanna?”

“I—I shouldn’t. I mean, we shouldn’t.”

“Pfft, why not?”

“Because this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“But it has,” he tugs his slacks down, giving you full view of the raging boner nestled under his black boxers. His hand reaches to give himself a few strokes. “Haven’t been this hard in a long time.”

You feel your release ooze down onto the tablecloth, hole feeling empty as it clenches around air. All you can do is watch him jerk himself, gulping as you lick your lips. “This is….really wrong.”

Yet it feels so right.

His lips touch the side of your neck, kissing and sucking a small mark into your skin. You tilt your head for him, arm coming up to hold around his neck. Chest heaving up and down. “I’ll fuck you good, I promise.”

Your eyes are instantly drawn down to his leaking cock as he pulls it out. Long and thin veins decorating the length with pre-cum leaking out the head. Trimmed with a small white bush of pubic hair at his base. It looks pretty.

He huffs out a breathy laugh, titling your face up to him, lips meeting. His lips are soft and plush, melting into it. He keeps his hand on your nape so he can deepen the kiss, tongue invading your mouth like a snake.

Spit dribbles down the corners of your mouths. All the while he’s teasing your entrance with his cock.

“Ngh!” You pull away, face scrunching and mouth agape.

“Mm, like that?” His tip runs up and down your slit, smearing his pre into your folds and around them. The sight is lewd. “So wet, just from my tongue too. How many guys make you finish from just eating you out?”

Out of all the times he tries for a conversation, does right now have to be one? “N-none…”

He hums. “So I’m the only one? I like that.”

He finds your hole, just barely pushing in. Your nails claw at his shoulders, whimpering into his ear. “S-shit, just wait a second…”

“For what?” His voice is husky, brows pinched together. The warmth from your cunt practically enveloping him whole.

You croak out something unintelligible. For a few seconds, you two stay frozen like this. But that’s cut short as he slowly begins to slide deeper. “Shit, stop squeezin’ me.” He grunts.

All you can offer is a weak “I’m not” before being cut off by a breathy moan, one he replicates with you. He moves in deeper and deeper, until he’s finally buried to the hilt in your warm pussy. It’s big, bigger than you’ve ever taken. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

His fingers dig into your hips while your nails into his shoulders.

Practically feeling his cock twitch within you, you have to hold back squeezing around him even more. But it just feels too good not to. It makes you feel full.

As he begins to move, he’s whispering dirty praises into your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Who knew you had such good pussy.”

“Look at you, sucking me in like a good little whore, huh?”

“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had.”

Each word he emphasizes with a quicker thrust. The silverware clanks around you, some even falling to the ground. The table creaks and the cloth crumples up. “W-wait….slow…ngh!”

“No slow,’ he patronizingly laughs, his gaze darkened as he looks at you. “Going fast, you’re gonna take it too. ‘Cause you’re a desperate little thing, aren't you?”

You whine out, biting down hard on your lip you’re surprised you’re not drawing blood yet. He takes this as an invitation to devour your mouth once more. The kiss is harder this time, more sloppy. Seems sloppy is his thing.

Before you know it, he manhandles you to flip over, ass high in the air while his hand forces your back down into an arch. “Just like that. Stay still and I’ll let you cum again.”

With this new position, he’s able to hit spots you didn’t even know were there. All you have to hold on is the cloth of the table, balling them into your fists while he mercilessly pounds into your pussy from the back. His balls hit your clit in a repetitive motion that damn near causes you to see stars.

Noises and mumble words fall out your mouth like water, the side of your face being pushed down into the hard surface. His hand twirls and tangles in your hair before giving it a hard tug back.

“Mngh!”

With one hand on your hip and the other in your hair, it gives him all the reigns to perfectly fuck your squelching hole, pace unforgiving. And what’s he doing the whole time? Laughing. That asshole is laughing.

Either at your state or the fact that you fit so perfectly snug around his cock like a ring.

It’s like he’s moving on autopilot, just one thing on his mind. Fucking you like your his fleshlight he keeps in his room. “Maybe I should’ve come here sooner—fuck—could’ve had this pussy all to myself even sooner.”

He groans, head tilting back as a familiar sensation bubbles in his stomach. “Ah, god…fuck.”

“D-dont cum!” You half-heartedly shout, body trembling in preparation for your second release of the day.

“Hah?” he huffs out. “You tell a guy who’s fucking a pretty pussy he can’t come? You’re crazy.”

“Ah….hah…!” You mewl out, squeezing around him.

He curses under his breath, hips stuttering. A warm feeling erupts deep within your cunt, causing you to whine. It makes your whole body feel as if it’s on fire, thighs shaking. Your cum mixes with his own, dripping down the backs of your thighs in a disgusting manner. You’re left panting for air

He spends a good time watching it all happen, and as he pulls out, seeing your hole twitch and tremor around air almost starts to make him hard again. He leans over, hot air hitting the shell of your ear, his voice low and husky. “Up for more?”

Monday, 9am.

Incoming message from

Mayra:

Check your email, forwarded you something.

You groan tiredly, fingers fiddling with the bright screen of your phone. Clicking on the wrong app a couple times before opening your Gmail. You press on the email from Mayra, an attached link.

The link leads you to a familiar site, embarrassment painting your features as you read.

“After a rather lackluster first experience at 'Lovely Haven,' I was pleasantly surprised by my second visit. Walking into the restaurant felt like stepping into a cozy embrace, with the ambiance perfectly set to spark a little magic. The soft music and intimate lighting created an atmosphere that made everything feel just a little more exciting.

Let’s talk about the food. I started with the savory starter, which was a perfect balance of flavors. Each bite was a tantalizing tease that had me eagerly anticipating what was to come. Then came the main course, which was cooked to perfection and bursting with flavor. It had just the right amount of kick, leaving me wanting more and more.

I decided to try their special dessert this time, and let me tell you, it was absolutely divine. Each bite was a burst of flavors, rich and decadent, just how I like it. The way it melted on my tongue was nothing short of a culinary revelation. I might have lingered a little too long over that dish—can you blame me? It was like savoring a sweet secret that just kept getting better.

But let’s not forget about the service. The owner was not only charming but also incredibly attentive. There was a delightful chemistry between us that made the evening even more enjoyable. She made sure I was well taken care of, adding that special touch that turned a simple meal into something unforgettable.

If you’re looking for a place that offers more than just food—something that tantalizes the senses and leaves you feeling revitalized—I highly recommend giving 'Lovely Haven' a try. Just be prepared for some delicious surprises that might have you coming back for seconds (or thirds!). I certainly will!"

a/n: first smut piece kind of. if there's typos, pls overlook them, i was very tired and in heat. sorry if it's not very slhow burn :( but i hope you all enjoyed. thank you smmm <3

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #jjk smut #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen #x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #jjk gojo

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itblackggirl · 3 months ago

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Método "Just Trust Me" by Me / Method "Just Trust Me" by Me!

pt-br - eng!

"Who is Victoria? I don't know her, she's a real person?'

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Oii meus amores! A thread será dividida nos seguintes tópicos!

1- O que é o método “Just Trust Me”?

2- Por que esse nome?

3- Como funciona?

4- Recomendações.

5- Success Story.

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1 - O que é o método “Just Trust Me” ?

O método foi criado por mim, Natasha, depois de uma observação baseada em uma crença que todos temos desde crianças: No escuro há algo ameaçador, como um bicho ou uma pessoa.

Ele foi baseado nessa teoria que foi reescrita por mim e usada para assumir aparência ou corpo desejado! Eu não sei se ela pode ser usada para outra finalidade sem ser essa, porque da forma que eu fiz, ela é mais usável para aparência e corpo.

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2 - Por que esse nome?

Todos nós, quando pequenos, ou na grande maioria, temos medo do escuro. Não sei vocês, mas eu sou filha única e dormia no meu quarto sozinha e de noite era um BREU! Sério, não dava pra ver nada, eu era um pouco medrosa e criativa então em um canto específico eu sempre via algo lá, seja uma sombra preta se mexendo ou até “alguém” lá! Mesmo que eu SOUBESSE que não tinha nada lá.

Mas por que eu via algo? Porque meu cérebro usava meu sentimento dominante no momento e fazia eu VER o que eu imaginava que tinha lá, basicamente se na minha mente eu via uma pessoa, automaticamente isso se refletia na minha realidade através do meu sentimento dominante que era o medo.

Por isso o nome “Just Trust Me” já que ele veio da teoria do escuro, porque nós “vemos” essas coisas no escuro, nosso cérebro faz com que acreditemos nele! No que ele tá dizendo, afinal, se o cérebro diz que tem algo lá, é porque tem! Isso faz com que a gente ACREDITE nele! Por isso o nome “Just Trust Me” que traduzindo é “apenas confie em mim”

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3- Como funciona?

Bom, você pode realizar o método usando foto/vídeo da sua fc ou body inspo, pode parecer estranho mas eu juro que vai fazer sentido na hora!

— Com a foto/vídeo da sua fc/body inspo:

Você vai escolher a foto que mais gostar e que mostre seu rosto por completo, se quiser fazer isso ouvindo subliminal, faça! Sem problema nenhum. Assim que selecionar a imagem, decore o máximo de informação que achar importante assumir e em seguida, feche os olhos, quando fechar, imagine um espelho na sua frente com a sua fc sendo refletida nele, cada detalhe que você decorou, admire cada um e relaxe, respire fundo e afirme! Eu recomendo coisas simples como:

“Uau, o meu rosto/corpo é tão lindo!”

“Eu amo meus olhos e a forma como tudo combina em mim!”

“Não é maravilhoso meu rosto/corpo ser exatamente desse jeito?”

“Amo acordar todos os dias com meu esse meu rosto/corpo lindo!!”

Simples, viram? Eu percebi que usar o termo “desejado” se relaciona com algo que não tem, um desejo não realizado! Mas nós sempre fomos daquele jeito, não é verdade? Por que desejar o já obtido?

Mas sabemos que no início pode ser complicado para algum de nós, tudo isso de se ver no espelho do 3d e não vê nada, mas não se desespere! Toda vez que você passar por um espelho, câmera do celular ou algo que reflete, e seu cérebro mostrar algo que não é o que você sempre teve, só respire fundo, sorria e mentalize suas afirmações, se os pensamentos ruins e a insegurança aparecerem, diga:

“Eu sei o que eu estou vendo e eu sei quem eu sou, eu confio no que vejo!”

Ter confiança, persistência e saber seu valor ajuda muito! Eu diria que é a “chave” para tudo!

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4- Recomendações.

Aqui nesse arquivo eu coloquei afirmações para rosto e corpo, se você achar que não estão naturais para você, mude! Sinta-se à vontade! Mesma coisa com a playlist, se quiser fazer uma própria com as subliminar de lá, está tudo bem!

Espero que gostem, fiz com todo amor e carinho!

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5- Success Story.

Chegamos na parte que alguns devem ter ansiado tanto durante a leitura, a minha success story com esse método! Devo dizer que no início eu tinha pedido para duas pessoas testarem mas elas esqueceram então não vai dar para por o relato delas aqui, mas ainda terá o meu!

— Relato usando o Just Trust Me:

Quando eu criei ele, eu usava a Tyla como fc e na época eu tinha feito até um vision board usando ela, eu estava decidida a assumir a aparência dela, então coloquei meu método em prática! Algumas vezes eu me senti insegura e desmotivada mas me mantive firme e em uma manhã após o meu primeiro dia usando ele, eu acordei, tomei banho, me vesti e quando me olhei no espelho, o meu rosto estava diferente!

Eu não estava igual a ela, mas os meus traços estavam bastante semelhantes ao dela, o meu olhar e até o sorriso! Eu fiquei feliz, bastante mesmo, mas não chocada, pois eu sabia daquilo, eu sempre fui daquele jeito então não tinha motivos para surpresa ou espanto!

Eu infelizmente não vou ter fotos minhas aqui por 2 motivos:

– Privacidade

– Eu troquei de fc e tudo sumiu..............

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Chegamos ao fim da thread, espero que tenham gostado do meu método e até a próxima!

beijinhos!

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English Version!

Method "Just Trust Me" by Me!

"Who is Victoria? I don't know her, she's a real person?"

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Hi my loves! The thread will be divided into the following topics!

1- What is the “Just Trust Me” method?

2- Why this name?

3- How does it work?

4- Recommendations.

5- Success Story.

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1 - What is the “Just Trust Me” method?

The method was created by me, Natasha, after an observation based on a belief that we all have since childhood: In the dark there is something threatening, like an animal or a person.

It was based on this theory that was rewritten by me and used to assume the desired appearance or body! I don't know if it can be used for any other purpose than this, because the way I did it, it is more usable for appearance and body.

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2 - Why this name?

All of us, when we are little, or most of us, are afraid of the dark. I don't know about you, but I'm an only child and I slept in my room alone and at night it was DARK! Seriously, I couldn't see anything, I was a little scared and creative so in a specific corner I always saw something there, be it a black shadow moving or even “someone” there! Even though I KNEW there was nothing there.

But why did I see something? Because my brain used my dominant feeling at the moment and made me SEE what I imagined was there, basically if in my mind I saw a person, this would automatically be reflected in my reality through my dominant feeling which was fear.

That's why the name “Just Trust Me” since it came from the theory of the dark, because we “see” these things in the dark, our brain makes us believe in it! In what it's saying, after all, if the brain says there's something there, it's because there is! This makes us BELIEVE in it! That's why the name “Just Trust Me”

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3- How does it work?

Well, you can do the method using a photo/video of your face or body inspo. It may seem strange, but I promise it will make sense right away!

— With the photo/video of your face/body inspo:

You will choose the photo that you like the most and that shows your entire face. If you want to do this while listening to subliminal music, go for it! No problem. As soon as you select the image, memorize as much information as you think is important to assume and then close your eyes. When you close your eyes, imagine a mirror in front of you with your face being reflected in it. Every detail that you memorized. Admire each one and relax. Take a deep breath and affirm! I recommend simple things like:

“Wow, my face/body is so beautiful!”

“I love my eyes and the way everything matches me!”

“Isn’t it wonderful that my face/body is exactly like this?”

“I love waking up every day with my beautiful face/body!!”

Simple, see? I realized that using the term “desired” relates to something that you don’t have, an unfulfilled desire! But we’ve always been that way, haven’t we? Why desire what you’ve already obtained?

But we know that at first it can be complicated for some of us, all this looking at yourself in a 3D mirror and not seeing anything, but don’t despair! Every time you pass by a mirror, cell phone camera or something that reflects, and your brain shows you something that isn’t what you’ve always had, just take a deep breath, smile and mentally affirm your thoughts. If bad thoughts and insecurity appear, say:

“I know what I’m seeing and I know who I am, I trust what I see!”

Having confidence, persistence and knowing your worth helps a lot! I would say that it’s the “key” to everything!

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4- Recommendations.

Here in this file I put affirmations for face and body, if you think they are not natural for you, change them! Feel free! Same thing with the playlist, if you want to make your own with the subliminals from there, that's fine!

I hope you like it, I made it with all the love and care!

(Just translate the statements using google translate)

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5- Success Story.

We've reached the part that some of you must have been looking forward to while reading, my success story with this method! I must say that at the beginning I had asked two people to test it but they forgot so I won't be able to put their story here, but there will still be mine!

— Story using Just Trust Me:

When I created it, I used Tyla as my fc and at the time I had even made a vision board using her, I was determined to adopt her appearance, so I put my method into practice! Sometimes I felt insecure and unmotivated but I held firm and one morning after my first day using it, I woke up, took a shower, got dressed and when I looked in the mirror, my face was different!

I didn't look like her, but my features were quite similar to hers, my look and even my smile! I was happy, very happy indeed, but not shocked, because I knew that, I've always been that way so there was no reason to be surprised or astonished!

Unfortunately, I won't have any photos of myself here for 2 reasons:

– Privacy

– I changed my face claim and everything disappeared…………..

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We have reached the end of the thread, I hope you enjoyed my method and see you next time!

Kisses!

#law of assumption #lei da suposição #loa tumblr #manifestation #manifesting #neville goddard #loa blog #loa tips #loassumption #robotic affirming #loablr

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l-amoremio · 4 months ago

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F*DA-SE GUARDAR SEGREDO. Estou expondo o segredo para manifestar instantaneamente.

Post original: @iamtheproofson (no twitter)

AVISO: esse post não tem a intenção de promover os serviço do autor, mas sim de trazer sua perspectiva em relação a manifestação. Por esse motivo, frases que remetem a isso serão grafadas em "azul". Há muitos pontos relevantes e por isso traduzi o post, mas sintam-se livres para visitar o perfil do autor caso desejarem. O link do post original estará nos comentários.

Frequentemente me perguntam "por que parece que sua manifestação está demorando uma eternidade?"

Você fez tudo. Você está afirmando, visualizando, agindo como se (já fosse verdade), mas ainda assim, nada parece mudar. É frustante!

Não é que sua manifestação seja lenta. É sua percepção do tempo que é o problema.

Eu sei que parece bom demais pra ser verdade, mas me escute. O tempo não é algo linear e imutável que você precisa esperar. Você trata isso como uma linha reta, onde as coisas precisam se desenrolar em um processo passo a passo.

Seus desejos não estão muito distantes. Eles já existem. Você está apenas removendo a separação entre você e seu desejo.

Você está esperando que seu desejo apareça, ao invés de perceber que ele já está aqui. Toda vez que você verifica "Já chegou?", você reforça a ausência dele. Você está focando na lacuna entre onde você está e onde você quer estar.

Imagine uma música que já existe. A música não muda, mas a parte da música que você está experimentando, sim. Você pode pular pra frente, retroceder ou reproduzir qualquer parte. A manifestação é assim, você pode mudar para qualquer parte da "música" da sua vida, dependendo de onde seu foco está.

Antes de continuar, quero dizer que sou a prova viva disso. Se você me segue, já me viu manifestando em segundos. Se você rolar pelo meu perfil, verá que a maioria de meus tweets são success stories minhas ou de meus clientes. Você está ouvindo a pessoa certa.

Não estou apenas falando sobre ideias filosóficas, a mecânica quântica prova isso.

Pense no "efeito observador". O mero ato de observar algo muda seu comportamento. Sua atenção altera a realidade.

Quando você se concentra em seu desejo como já feito, você influencia o campo quântico ao seu redor. A realidade começa a mudar para refletir essa certeza.

CIRCUNSTÂNCIAS. NÃO. SÃO. REAIS.

Lembra quando você era criança e ficava obcecado por algo que queria? Talvez fosse um brinquedo, ou ir a algum lugar que você sonhou. Você sabia que iria conseguir eventualmente, e não passou o dia todo imaginando se isso aconteceria. Você simplesmente sabia e aconteceu.

É aqui que as pessoas ficam presas: elas olham para a realidade atual e deixam que isso dite o que elas acreditam ser possível. Elas veem sua conta bancária, relacionamentos, emprego e deixam que isso reforce a ideia de que o que elas querem ainda não está aqui.

Você está fazendo isso ao contrário.

Você não espera por provas, seus pensamentos são a causa, e o mundo externo é o efeito. Mude seu estado interno, e o mundo externo segue.

Sua vida é como um espelho. Se você franze a testa para o espelho, o reflexo franze a testa de volta. Você não espera que o reflexo sorria primeiro, não é? Você tem que mudar sua expressão para o espelho mudar. O mesmo vale para sua realidade externa.

Você foi condicionado a acreditar que o tempo é algo que precisamos "trabalhar". Mas no campo quântico, tudo existe simultaneamente, passado, presente e futuro. Você pode acessar a versão futura de si mesmo agora mesmo mudando seus pensamentos.

É por isso que pessoas como eu ou meus clientes podem manifestar da noite pro dia, enquanto outros levam meses ou anos. Nós simplesmente removemos a separação. Nós dobramos a realidade. Nós colapsamos o Tempo.

Como você colapsa o tempo?

Você para de perseguir seus desejos. Em vez disso, você pensa e vive como se já tivesse manifestado o que queria. Ou, criando uma suposição de que a manifestação não leva tempo.

A maioria das pessoas está em constante modo "fazendo", trabalhando duro para chegar ao próximo passo, esperando por validação externa de que sua manifestação está a caminho. Mas manifestação não é sobre esforço ou ação. É sobre ja tê-la!

O que fazer quando você sente a dúvida surgindo?

A dúvida é natural. Mas é um sinal de que você está fora de (odeio essa palavra, mas) "alinhamento" com seu desejo. Quando você se pegar se sentindo inseguro ou frustrado, pare. Lembre-se que a dúvida é apenas um reflexo da sua antiga mentalidade. Não é a realidade. Mude seu foco de volta para o que você quer, pois isso é a verdade.

A manifestação é instantânea. No momento em que você muda seu estado interno, o campo quântico se reorganiza para refleti-lo.

A razão pela qual parece haver um atraso é por causa da resistência que você tem, seja por dúvida, impaciência ou foco na falta. Mas se você simplesmente colocar sua atenção no pensamento que sugere que você já o tem, mais rápido o mundo físico o alcançará.

Você pode ter ouvido pessoas dizerem coisas como "isso vai acontecer quando for a hora certa" ou "tudo acontece no tempo divino". Mas e se isso for apenas desculpa para ficar preso? O tempo divino é apenas uma história que as pessoas contam a si mesmas quando não entendem que são elas que detém o poder.

Muitas pessoas procuram sinais para assegurá-las de que sua manifestação está chegando. Mas esperar por sinais é apenas outra maneira de reforçar a ideia de que você não tem o que quer. Pare de procurar evidências de que isso está chegando, e comece a criar evidências. Comece a aparecer em sua vida como se sua manifestação já fosse parte de sua realidade.

Sua realidade desejada não está no futuro, ela está disponível para você agora. No segundo em que você parar de vê-la como algo distante, mais rápido ela se manifestará. Você só precisa se permitir entrar nela.

#loa #loa blog #loa tumblr #loassumption #lei da suposição #loabr

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gooondocks · 7 months ago

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no one's ever had me (not like you) — evan buckley.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: when buck meets his high school sweetheart at the ten-year reunion, he learns that their lives may be very different now, but the spark is still there.

─── pairing: evan buckley x gn!reader.

─── warnings & notes: fluffy fluff. no use of y/n, i'm british so probably inaccurate depiction of high school reunions. based on the song 'so high school' by taylor swift bc i heard it and couldn't stop thinking of this idea. crappy ending bc i suck at wrapping things up. enjoy!!!

─── word count: 2.1k.

"DO YOU THINK ANYONE'S DONE US all a favour and spiked the punch yet?"

When the email appeared in his inbox a few months ago — an e-vite, of all things, complete with the kind of graphic design prowess he hasn't seen since the early 2000s — Buck had been pretty intent on ignoring it.

A hundred excuses had bubbled up in the back of his mind, because honestly, the thought of heading back to his hometown to attend a high school reunion made his skin itch. Trapping himself in a sweaty gymnasium, surrounded by dozens of almost-strangers engaged in a vanity contest of 'who's the most successful?' coupled with a shitty DJ blasting 2010's greatest hits?

It's really not what he'd call a good time.

Even if he could've talked himself into it, sharing a ZIP code with his parents for even a day or two was more than he was willing to tolerate. He'd left Hershey in his rearview almost a decade ago, and there's not a fragment of his whole being that regrets it for even a second.

Except.

Except the dates lined up with one of his rare weekends off work. Except when he looked up the flights online, just to see, he'd stumbled across a deal so cheap Buck honestly thought he was hallucinating for a moment.

Except Evan Buckley believes in signs from the universe, and when Maddie gives him that look over lunch one day, even though Buck had absolutely not mentioned the reunion to anyone, it's the final nail in the coffin for him.

He booked the tickets. He told the team he'd be out of town for the weekend, and bought a new shirt, and now he's standing in his old high school gymnasium. He wrinkles his nose at the smell, that sweat-and-hormones stink that never really goes away, and you're sidling up to him at the refreshments table, and the speakers are blaring an old Ke$ha song he hasn't heard in years.

For a moment, he's seventeen again. The sound of your voice slips over his skin like a cool breeze in the desert and suddenly it could be the night of junior prom, and the pair of you have sequestered yourselves in a shadowy corner, laughing at the committee's subpar attempt at an 'Under the Sea' theme.

Buck blinks, and he isn't seventeen, but he flashes you a wide smile anyway as you help yourself to a glass of bright red punch.

"Hi."

He says the word so quietly, he's surprised you even hear it. But there's a sparkle in your eye as you raise the cup to your lips, and he knows you heard him.

You always could.

The last day Buck ever saw you, he kissed you goodbye before you piled into your dad's old truck and drove out of sight, bound for college and big dreams and a future that didn't include him. Your lips had been damp with tears. On his loneliest nights, Buck swears he can still taste the salt on his tongue.

It's been a decade, but you still look so similar to the wide-eyed kid he fell in love with. Your hair's a little longer, perhaps; there's a scar on your chin that wasn't there before, and the dimples around your smile have deepened, but that's all. You're still you. The thought makes his chest ache a little, but it's a good pain.

He wonders if he's changed much. He wonders what you see when you look at him.

"I suspect it was the first thing Marty Brandt did when he got here," Buck adds, louder this time, and you laugh, and he wonders how he went ten years without hearing that sound. "I didn't think you'd be here. Didn't see your name on the RSVP list."

You shrug. "Jem bullied me into it. Emailed my boss to get the time off and everything."

Even as you try to seem annoyed, a trickle of fondness finds its way into your voice. When Buck follows your gaze to the dance floor, it's hard to miss your childhood best friend throwing shapes to an old Maroon 5 song.

"You two still talk?" He doesn't mean to sound surprised, except...

Well. Staying in touch with high school pals hadn't been a priority when he skipped town. Hard to imagine a single one of his classmates he'd want to stay in touch with. Except you.

A grin tugs at your mouth. "Worse. We work together." You tilt your head, still smiling fondly in Jem's direction. "Tried to shake her off, but she wouldn't let me."

He knows a little about that. "Or was it the other way around?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, Buckley?"

He would, actually. He watches you grimace a little at the flavour of the punch when you take another sip, an adorable twist to your mouth that he once knew so well. A decade ago, the sight of your pout could've made him do anything.

"Tastes like half a bottle of vodka," you tell him, and you take another sip even though he knows you never liked vodka. Remembers playing truth or dare at a party in junior year, and how you threw up in the bushes afterwards.

Buck had held back your hair and tucked you against his side afterward, letting you snuggle into the warmth of him while you slept off the worst of your hangover.

There's a distance between you now, but it's comfortable. Buck tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and the pair of you migrate over to a shadowy corner of the gymnasium, away from the prying eyes of your former classmates.

"So," Buck says, as the DJ switches to another song, "how have you been?"

He can't help but wince half a second later. Seriously? How have you been? He's never been to a high school reunion before, but he's seen plenty of movies, and he's pretty sure he's hitting all the marks of being a fucking cliché.

To your credit, you don't laugh at him. Cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink Buck has ever seen, you manage to bite back the giggle rising in your throat.

Buck wants to sink through the floor.

"I've been okay," you tell him, swirling your glass of punch absently. The corners of your eyes crinkle a little as you smile at him. "Life, y'know?"

He does. He really fucking does. "Any partners? Kids, spouses, anyone I have to worry about punching me?"

You only mentioned Jem earlier, so it doesn't seem like you brought a date, but he isn't sure he'd love it if he found his partner cosied up in a dark corner with their high school sweetheart.

God, he hopes you didn't bring a date.

There it is, a flash of— something, there and then gone in an instant. Buck hasn't thought about high school in years. Hasn't paid any mind to the friends he left behind. Once or twice, his thoughts have flitted to you, though. The one that got away. Where you are, if you were happy.

When he landed in LA, when he finally settled into his place at the 118, he'd thought of you. He'd hoped you managed to find a place you belonged. A family that loved you like his did.

He thought this would be awkward. Running into you again. Your name hadn't been on the RSVP list, and he'd been so relieved, because what if there was some uneasy tension between you? Buck isn't sure he'd have been able to cope with that.

There aren't a lot of happy memories from his childhood. His adolescence left a lot to be desired, but— you. A bright spot in all that grey.

An uncomfortable reunion might have ruined that. Those memories are cherished, for Buck; locked up tight in his battered heart.

But it's not uncomfortable, or awkward, or uneasy. Ten years and ten seconds have slipped by like sand in an hourglass and he wonders if there's been a moment in the last decade where he felt this at ease.

You sigh at his question, quiet and fond. "There was an engagement," you say after a moment, chewing on your lower lip, "and a break-up. Two years ago, now. Amicable, but..."

"But it still feels like you lost something." Buck knows that feeling intimately. It's been a long time since Abby left him, and even though he's over her, the memory of it still stings sometimes.

You nod. "Yeah. One minute you're going to marry someone, and then you're not. Doesn't really matter why not, in the end. Still hurt a little. Not anymore."

"No?"

You smile at him. "No."

Buck isn't sure how much time passes, how long you both remain huddled in that dark corner as the world continues to move around you. The DJ keeps churning out a series of early-2000s hits that he's fairly sure is just one of those throwback Spotify playlists, and you both make jokes when the Class President gets on stage to give a cheesy speech, and he tells you all about the ill-advised escapades of his early-twenties.

Crashing his bike, dropping out of college. He glosses over the unsavoury parts of his youth, but the way your eyes soften, he knows he isn't fooling you. He never could, not when it mattered. Stories about Peru have you in stitches, and a particularly messy tale about his time as a ranch hand makes you laugh so hard, half a glass of punch ends up your nose.

He missed that. Making you laugh.

Warmth unfurls in his chest when he looks at you. It's the kind of familiarity people associate with coming home, except it was dread he felt stepping off the plane, and uncomfortable memories prickled at him as he drove through the streets of his hometown.

You? You've always been that for him. Warm. Safe. Home.

"You've heard all about my wild twenties. What about you?" he wonders, as the pair of you drift back to the refreshments table, seeking snacks that don't taste like cardboard.

(Buck manages to find a bowl of chips that aren't completely stale, so he'll call that a success.)

"Oh, the usual," you shrug as you refill your glass. "Finished college, got a job and an apartment and a cat and a fiancé. Lost the fiancé, got another cat." You take a moment to flash him your lock screen, a picture of two calico cats curled up on your couch. "Think I traded up there, huh? Anyway, got a new job and moved out West about a year ago."

"Oh, really? Where'd you go?"

"California, actually. I'm in the History department at Berkeley."

He blinks at you once, twice. Something inside his chest goes zing. "I'm in LA!"

"Well maybe I'll have to come down and play tourist for you sometime."

There's a coy tilt to your mouth that he's seen before, and something pleasant skitters down his spine. Your cheeks turn even rosier, and Buck suspects the spiked punch is only partly responsible.

"Maybe you will," he says.

His number hasn't changed since he left Pennsylvania, and maybe that's another sign, too. The shitty music starts to wind down, and his old classmates start to stagger out into the parking lot, and when you kiss his cheek and promise to get in touch, he wonders if there's such a thing as second chances.

It isn't the same. He isn't seventeen and you're different people now. This isn't making out under the bleachers at a football game or skipping class to take a ride on his motorcycle. You're adults now, all grown up with a whole host of other problems, and it isn't the same. It isn't.

Except.

The next day, Buck's phone buzzes right before he boards the flight to Los Angeles. The number isn't familiar, but when he opens the message, he cannot fight the grin that creeps onto his face.

Hope you get home safe. I'd hate to have to find a new tour guide x

It's not the same, because he isn't in high school anymore and neither are you. But as he switches his phone to flight mode and tucks it back into his pocket, a giddy feeling sweeping through his chest, he can't help thinking that maybe this could be better.

#evan buckley x reader #evan 'buck' buckley x reader #evan buckley fanfiction #evan buckley imagine #evan 'buck' buckley imagine #9-1-1 fanfiction #9-1-1 imagine #9-1-1 fanfic #* ollie's work.

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siancore · 7 months ago

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COMING SOON

Je Te Veux - A Richonne Crime AU

To the general public, Rick Grimes is a successful businessman and philanthropist. To those who know him, he is the ruthless head of a criminal empire. Grimes is the type of man that never needs to ask for anything, and he always gets what he wants. A mistake by a colleague has left Grimes in hot water. While visiting the law firm of his attorneys, he glimpses a beautiful new hire, Michonne Hawthorne. Will Grimes be able to remain levelheaded or will his infatuation with Michonne threaten the life and empire he has built for himself?

A/N: Something I came up with based on this conversation. Thought about it and decided on revisiting Sous Couverture-style Rick Grimes. I could've gone for sophisticated fun, but went for dark & unhinged instead lol

#richonne #richonne fanfiction au #I'm back on my unhinged rick bullshit #michonne #rick grimes

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fuck-customers · 1 month ago

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i love when the resident kitchen idiot that everyone hates, who everyone has been complaining about for months, who kept getting bumped between sections because he wouldn’t do the work expected of him, who only still had a job at all because we didn’t have a body to replace him with, decides to come in at 9:30a for a brunch shift drunk enough that people can smell it on him and gets fired before he can punch in.

it was our last shift before a four day weekend for thanksgiving, you couldn’t give it an extra 4-5h?

the hilarious thing is that we’ve been in a temp chef shuffle since he got hired and every. single. one of them. has immediately fucking despised this guy. the first chef (who hired both me and the kitchen idiot) had probably the lowest standards of quality for our style of venue and would put up with a lot more bullshit than was definitely reasonable but left to go start his own restaurant. then it was our sous chef (who had been hired shortly before me) who would baby him through everything like he’s helping a pre-k’er figure out his letters and left to get his trade journeyman’s—leaving me as the person with the longest tenure in this kitchen and foisting the idiot onto me as his “trainer.”

thing is, i do not have the patience to train someone who refuses to be trained. if i can tell at a glance that it’s not simple misunderstanding due to language barrier, but malicious willful ignorance, i’m not gonna be fucking nice anymore. i’m gonna start actually calling out the bullshit that everyone else had been dancing around for two months prior and the more i have to repeat myself the less happy i’m gonna be and the more aware of it i’m going to make you.

the temps who came in after the sous left agreed with me btw. which included first chef’s boss and another temp. idiot got himself fired less than a week in to our new permanent chef’s tenure and even HE came to me in private to ask if there was anything he could do to get the guy to give a fuck, and i just told him “there’s nothing you could say to him that nobody else already tried” which he sympathized with.

i shouldn’t have to tell you every time you slice meat that you need to wipe down, sanitize, AND reassemble the slicer AND sweep the floor under around the station afterwards as part of completing the task. i shouldn’t have to tell you every time you plate desserts that the point of the toothpick is to keep the plastic wrap OFF the cakes, so it’s not peeling up the frosting/glaze, so that it’s presentable for the customer, and thus punching a hole through the wrap to spear the toothpick through and press the wrap flush to the cake is completely counterinfuckingtuitive. i shouldn’t have to tell you every time you use the food processor that you 1. need to mix all of your ingredients in a separate bowl BEFORE trying to blend them, and 2. need to make sure the blade is in position BEFORE dumping in a bunch of shit that’s going to gum up the works otherwise. i shouldn’t have to reiterate to you and have you repeat back to me three times in quick succession that you only need to follow up to a certain step in the recipe with only a certain collection of ingredients, almost literally draw you a fucking diagram, and then turn around to find you’ve fucked it up so badly it’s clear you didn’t even look at the recipe at all and just the ingredients list (despite having made this recipe before) and have simply proceeded to waste an hour of everybody’s time and the better part of a week’s worth of product—and then fuck it up AGAIN somehow when told to redo it, so that i, AS USUAL, have to waste prep time coming back through behind you to make sure we actually have any usable fucking product.

it got to the point where he was literally turning to me and the girl who still works cold line with me and asking why we weren’t doing the tasks we (as his superiors in the section) kept assigning to him, or at least the part of the task that comprises like 80% of what needs done, and he outright told the latest temp chef that he doesn’t like being expected to do what’s asked of him when he got confronted about it. if not for the fact he got himself fired i would’ve had full clearance to tell him the next time he asked some dumb shit like that “because it’s your job, and if you’re not gonna do the work you’re being asked to do, you can clock out and go home, because otherwise why the fuck is anyone paying you to be here?”

oh well! good riddance to bad rubbish. love it when the trash lets the door hit it on the way to taking itself out.

the funniest thing was when he tried to come back in today, the first day after that four-day holiday, like he expected to still have a job. bro you came in drunk before 10am lmao you don’t have a job anymore you just have a fucking problem. and i have one less! goodbye, i wish you a very harsh wake-up call and a hearty go fuck yourself! get better soon, far the hell away from me ❤️

Posted by admin Rodney

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pommunist · 11 months ago

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French news media Le monde has published an article on the QSMP situation.

Headline can be translated as « Minecraft : in the shadow of the stars of QSMP, volunteers under pressure are trying to see their rights be recognised »

For reference, « Le Monde » is the number one biggest newspaper in France.

I can’t share the entire article publicly as you have to pay to access its entirety. However, to summarise, it’s mostly about everything the admins revealed so far : how they weren’t paid much or at all for their work, the intimidation and pressure they faced, the abusive NDAs, the lack of communication, their sudden dismissal…

However, it also mentions that the union and the ex admins (at least the french ones) still haven’t heard back from Qstudios. The article also mentions that Le Monde’s journalists tried to reach out to Quackity, without success.

The union’s representative also says that they’ve organised and are organising meetings between lawyers and ex admins, shall some admins eventually want to start a legal procedure in front of the Prud’hommes court of law (the court specialised in labour law in France). Theyre saying that the goal would be to impose a dialogue with Qstudios and try to obtain financial compensation for the admins free labour.

Link to the article :

#qadmins situation #qsmp admins situation

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ciaomarie · 10 months ago

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Rewatching season 1 and finished ep.6 today. I'm BLOWN away that from where we are in episode 6 that by the end of episode 8, Carmy wants Sydney to be his CDC and right-hand girl.

So, here's a recap. in Ep. 6 Sydney is zealously trying to convince Carmy to let her add a new dish to the menu and the to-go menu. Despite him repeatedly asking her to discuss it later, Syd keeps going, and he has to go into boss mode, basically telling her that her prior employers described her as talented but impatient and VERY GREEN. He promises to consider her suggestions, but he also wants to enjoy the relative peace they've finally established at The Beef.

Then later she presents him with the dish, this time considerately asking him if it's a good time to try it. He does calling it tremendous, but the sauce is a little tight. It's also not perfect and it's not there yet...Her face is cracked, but she soldiers on. Later he apologizes if he was " being sh***** earlier (he wasn't imo). Sydney answers, "It's all good" and he asks, "Yeah?" and she confirms they're good. Baby boy doesn't go around apologizing to even Natalie unless she confronts him.

Anyways...episode 7 is the to-go debacle, Sydney quitting in the middle of it, and then returning at the end of episode 8. This is when Carmy decides that this impatient and VERY GREEN young woman will be the CDC of his restaurant, The Bear, the dream he wanted to share with Mikey.

Yes, Sydney helped a lot with getting The Beef running more smoothly, but this is his dream since forever and his $$ on the line. Why not keep her as the sous when he has access to an elite culinary network? Someone might be willing to take a risk now that he's opening The Bear. Heck, he could even use ZipRecruiter. Either Chris Storer & Co. are writing a fairy-tale where a successful, award-winning, Michelin-retaining male chef will put all his trust in a significantly less experienced, stubborn female chef he's known for maybe a 3-6 months tops OR this man is at least subconsciously down bad for Sydney.

Like if this stays platonic, this is the most Disney-fied unrealistic platonic partnership I've ever seen. We love these characters for how real and flawed they are, but that decision is hard to swallow unless there's something complicated underneath.

#sydcarmy #the bear #yeah platonic is more realistic for sure #sydney x carmy #carmy the bear #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #syd adamu #sydney adamu #be for real #the bear fx

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rz-jocelyn · 6 months ago

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[NEWS] Jakkotai: Live and Archive Streams have been Announced for Both the Final Tokyo Performances of the "Jakkotai" Stage

To watch a preview of the stage, please refer to this link: HERE

CAST

Sato Ryuji as Rinzo

Nichika Akutsu as Mizuno Heima

Hashimoto Shohei as Surume

Koyanagi Shin as Uemon

Hirose Tomoki as Himeji

Ranma Yuu as Tekona

Takeru Funaki (NORD) as Uranami

Takeno Ruri as Takeha

Imata Taira as Ogata Tadamasa

Kobayashi Ikuma as Nagafukumaru

Matsumoto Naoya as Kotetsu

Moridai as Gomadara

Nakamura Seijirou as Hiiro

Teruma as Tademaru Genan

Tamaki Yuki as Tatara

NOTE:

[1] Ryuji and Hashimoto Shohei has worked together in the Movie Theatre "Success Sou" and "Rokunin Yoreba Chonaikai".

[2] He has also worked with Koyanagi Shin, Nakamura Seijirou, Teruma and Tamaki Yuki in the "Live Spectacle NARUTO".

[3] Ryuji also played Kashuu Kiyomitsu while Shin-san played Kondo Isami in the "Musical Touken Ranbu ~Bakumatsu Tenrouden~ 2020".

[4] He and Seijirou-san also worked together on "Castor & Pollux", the stage play that Ryuji wrote and directed.

STREAMING DATES AND TIMES

12.00 (Japan time) on August 25, 2024

Archive Period: Until 23.59 (Japan time) on August 31, 2024

Bonus: Special footage (all cast post-performance comment video and making footage)

17.00 (Japan time) on August 25, 2024

Archive Period: Until 23.59 (Japan time) on August 31, 2024

STREAMING LINKS AND INFORMATION

To purchase the streams, please refer to this link: HERE

NOTE: The live and archive streams should be available for international streaming.

"JAKKOTAI" STAGE GOODS

The goods for the "Jakkotai" stage are currently available online. For more information on how to purchase the goods, please refer to this link: HERE

"JAKKOTAI" MOVIE

The "Jakkotai" movie is currently available for streaming online. For more information on how to watch the movie, please refer to this link: HERE

Source: ( x )

#Jakkotai #Live Spectacle NARUTO #Narusute #Musical Touken Ranbu #Toumyu #Castor & Pollux #Rokumachi #Rokunin Yoreba Chonaikai #Success Sou

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grits-galraisedinthesouth · 3 months ago

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"She ain't going!" 😭😂👍🏿🇺🇸♥️

“Jill Biden’s husband authorized the FBI snooping through her underwear drawer. The Bidens are disgusting,” the source said.

Melania Trump declined an offer to head to the White House Wednesday and meet with Jill Biden, citing the Biden administration’s raid on Mar-a-Lago as part of the federal government’s investigation into classified documents.

“She ain’t going,” a source familiar with Melania’s decision told The Post. “Jill Biden’s husband authorized the FBI snooping through her underwear drawer. The Bidens are disgusting,” the source said.

“Jill Biden isn’t someone Melania needs to meet,” the source added.

Melania Trump Speaks Out About Jill Biden — ‘She Referred to My Husband as Evil and a Liar’

by Cassandra MacDonald Nov. 13, 2024

“Mrs. Trump will not be attending today’s meeting at the White House. Her husband’s return to the Oval Office to commence the transition process is encouraging, and she wishes him great success,” Melania Trump’s team said in a statement about the invite.

Unnamed sources allegedly close to the former and future First Lady told the New York Post that her reason for skipping tea was the raid on Mar-a-Lago in 2022.

Mrs. Trump met with Michelle Obama after the 2016 election but did not have tea with Jill Biden in 2020.

The interview went viral after news broke that she would not meet the current First Lady during her husband’s trip to the White House.

Mrs.Trump revealed that Jill Biden called her after the assassination attempt on Donald J. Trump in October but wonders if her “concern was genuine,” given the inflammatory way she had been speaking of him on the campaign trail.

“I do question, however, whether Jill’s concern was genuine, as a few days prior she referred to my husband as ‘evil’ and a ‘liar,’” she told French outlet Paris Match.

The former model continued, “It was obvious that the onslaught of rhetoric from Democrat leaders and the mainstream media was so deeply embedded in our nation’s consciousness it prompted an attempt to assassinate Donald.”

Mrs. Trump said that after the assassination attempt at his Pennsylvania rally, she was relieved “my husband was safe,” but was upset about the political environment that prompted it.

“They want Donald out. They won’t stop. Has the concept of ‘respect’ become antiquated?” she asked. “The Democrat political engine peddles harsh words, vile names, and labels our nation’s 45th president ‘a threat to democracy.’”

“People today are so desensitized they actually joke about killing a former US president,” Mrs. Trump continued. “It is undeniable that this type of speech created a toxic political environment.”

#God bless America #FLOTUS Melania #trump 2024 #POTUS 45 #potus 47 #Team Melania #biden crime family #jill biden #white house transition

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jellomphetamine · 6 months ago

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ogata's turn to die (sprite under the cut)

decided to replay yttd and finish everything thats out and im sooo in love with the game... waiting for the next chapter now. i can't stop thinking of how gk characters would act if they were put in a death game, i feel like it's kind of fitting? whoever wins gets all the gold. gonna be mulling over this au in my head forever lmao. ogata would probably be the sou-like figure with very complicated behavior. but in short he'd try to leech of off the groups success and would use people for his advantage :) i really want to draw usami in this style too but its so unrealistic he would just kill everyone immediately haha

#golden kamuy #your turn to die #yttd #kimi ga shine #ogata hyakunosuke #fanart #crossover #asirpa #just a hint of her #this was very fun to draw!#i'll probably go back to drawing my modern usao stuff or fleshing out the band au though #unless... yall would like to see more gk x yttd...

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icaberries · 1 year ago

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Just Sibling Things - Vinsmoke Edition (side of ZeffSora and ZoSan)

Just some headcanons in a Modern AU where the Vinsmokes are a regular family trying to live together under one roof. Most of these are drawn from my experience as the eldest sister with three younger siblings lol

Some important notes:

Judge and Sora are divorced, and Sora won custody over the kids. Later on, Sanji would work part time at the Baratie and introduce Sora to Zeff, and the two of them fall in love. Zeff becomes their new dad :3

All the kids sans Yonji are working. They wanted to give their mom a good life so she wouldn't have to work a day in her life. Here are my headcanon jobs for them:

Reiju works as a chemist with a specialization in poison. Ichiji is upper management in some tech company and Niji works as a sort of electrical engineer for them. Sanji is still a sous chef at the Baratie. Yonji is bouncing between part time hustles, he's still figuring himself out.

On to the headcanons!

Sanji is the early bird of the family and often cooks breakfast for the rest of them. Ichiji is the chronic workaholic night owl. They scare each other from time to time, when Sanji is going downstairs to cook, and Ichiji is heading up to sleep. Sanji worries about Ichiji a lot, so Ichiji allows himself to be fussed over and fed breakfast before sleeping.

Reiju is known as the pretty, levelheaded sister compared to her hotheaded brothers. She prefers avoiding conflict while her brothers often start them. The only exception is when her brothers are put in any danger. One time, she came to pick up Niji from the bar and found him on the losing end of a bar fight. Reiju picked up a chair and started swinging. Nobody hurts her little brothers 😤

Sanji bakes his brothers a cake for practice, but instead of eating it right away, Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji fight about splitting it evenly three ways. Ichiji busts out a ruler to slice the cake perfectly in three, but Niji wants to rock paper scissors, and Yonji wants to fistfight over it. In the end, Sanji slices it for them perfectly and receives zero complaints.

But then he serves drinks. "yonji has more juice than me" "oh for fuck's sake"

Yonji is the type of brother who'd barge into your room, stand at your door, and stare at you before suddenly bodyslamming you on your bed. Reiju is the frequent victim. It gets worse when he picks up judo and decides to use the rest of them as training dummies. Sanji is the only one who's figured out how to counter him, but even then Yonji can pick him up cleanly.

Sanji is Zeff's favorite child. Don't tell the others.

One time, Niji dropped by the Baratie for lunch and kept bothering Sanji. He ended up accidentally smacking Sanji too hard, and Sanji started crying. Niji panicked and begged Sanji to shut up. "I'll let you hit me back! Just shut up!" He resorted to bribery too, but it's too late. Zeff heard Sanji crying and is on a warpath.

Speaking of parents on a warpath, Reiju has never been more terrified of Sora than when she accidentally said 'shit' and a toddler!Ichiji repeated what she said.

They generally don't give a shit about each other's romantic lives until Sanji started dating Zoro, and suddenly they have very strong opinions over Sanji's standards in men. (Zeff and Ichiji bond over their mutual dislike of Zoro and they can be seen glaring daggers at him whenever he visits Sanji.)

If they ask nicely, Reiju is always more than willing to spoil her little brothers. They often have to pay her back in favors, though (minus Sanji, who is her secret favorites).

Yonji often feels insecure about his career compared to his successful sublings, but they’re all very supportive of him. A traditional 9-5 isn't suited for their baby brother, and they’re not going to force him into it.

Ichiji is very protective of his sister and baby brothers. He used to stand in front of them to shield them from Judge when things got bad. He doesn't do it as often nowadays since they left, but sometimes Sanji would unconsciously grab Ichiji's hand when he's nervous, and Ichiji would just squeeze Sanji's hand.

They work very well together! It's mostly seen during Mothers Day and Father's Day. Sanji cooks breakfast in bed, Niji makes coffee, Reiju buys flowers, Ichiji, and Yonji plan a day out for the family.

The quadruplet's have two birthday parties. One that's celebrated with their respective friend groups, and one with the family at the Baratie. Zeff has perfected the art of combining four preferences into one menu. (Also, Sanji has to be held back from helping cook his own birthday meal.)

Sometimes, when Ichiji's insomnia is bad, the rest of the siblings take the next day off and just stay up with him. They just talk and eat snacks, waiting for Ichiji's eyes to droop so Yonji can carry him to bed.

#one piece #vinsmoke siblings #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke ichiji #vinsmoke niji #vinsmoke yonji #vinsmoke reiju #vinsmoke sora #red leg zeff #my posts #roronoa zoro #zosan #sanzo

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midnight-mourning · 1 month ago

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Night Ride

❄️❄️Midnight's DCA December Day 23❄️❄️

Another fun one! decided to have a little bit of a twist with the storyline, mainly to add a bit of extra fluff and the likes, hope you all enjoy!

Prompt: Polar express au! Perhaps yn as the conductor and sun/moon as the engineers? Or perhaps eclipse and yn are both conductors. My favorite segments are them getting over the frozen lake and the roller coaster ride right after while the main characters are stuck at the front!

Word Count: 1819

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

"What do you mean we're out of marshmallows? How does a magic train to the north pole run out of marshmallows?" You say, exasperated, then shake your head. "I've got twenty kids in that car alone that are going to want marshmallows with their hot chocolate. I don't care if you have to get in contact with Mrs. C herself, you get marshmallows, got it?"

The sous chef nods, hurrying off as you sigh. This trip has been such a disaster already. One kid almost missed the train, someone was missing their ticket, and now no marshmallows! Thank goodness you only did one of these a year, you don't think your stress levels could take anything more.

A pair of hands rest on your shoulders, massaging. "Breathe, love. They'll figure it out, we always do, right?"

"I know, 'clip. I know." You lean into his touch with a sigh. "This year's just been a bit of a mess and it's getting to me."

Eclipse bends down to your line of sight, chuckling. "Be honest, when is it not?"

"True. That's... true."

He kisses your cheek, releasing you again after a moment. "I'll see what I can do about our marshmallow situation. Can you handle our missing ticket problem?"

"Yes. And thank you." You reach out for his hand as he turns to leave, giving it a squeeze. "I appreciate it."

He nods, lifts your hand for a kiss, then heads off to one of the other cars. You sigh, shake your head, and get back to work. After a bit of discussion with the kids, you're thankfully able to resolve the matter. Eclipse—somehow—manages to find marshmallows, thus averting utter disaster.

You think the trouble is over, but when the train comes to a halt, you feel dread overtake you once more. Not wasting any time, you make your way to the front, bursting into the cab only to find—

"I, Helpy, what are you doing in here? Where's Sun and Moon?"

The small bot is standing on a stool, one of the boy's hats on his head. He waves to you, then points outside.

You peek out the window, and spy sun's rays around the front area of the train. Looking further you see—"Caribou?! We don't have time for this." You duck back inside, nodding to the small bear bot. "Guess it was wise they put you in charge after all."

He salutes you and you hurry out to the front of the train.

When you get there you see the two bots bickering back and forth. You hop up onto the platform, and quickly move between the two.

"What exactly do you two think you're doing?"

Sun ducks his head. "Changing the light... Or at least we would be if someone wasn't being so difficult!" He turns back to Moon.

The other bot chuckles, arms crossed. "You were doing it wrong~"

They start to argue again and you push them away from each other further.

"Listen, I do not care if you did it right or wrong or whatever, we have bigger problems here." You nod to the massive heard of caribou. "That, needs fixed or we're going to be more than just a little late. So get to it."

You usher the two of them off the platform, grumbling as they go and start shooing them away, with little success.

You check the time again. Still five minutes to midnight. You click the watch shut and shove it back in your pocket.

"You never cease to amaze me with your patience, Starlight."

You glance up, seeing Eclipse peering down at you from the top of the train. "Tell me about it. This'll take hours to clear out, we don't have time for that."

He hops down to stand beside you as you turn back to where Sun and Moon try in vain to get the caribou to retreat. Going so far as trying to shove them this way or that, with no success.

"Ah, you forget, my sweet, what train we're on." He whistles to the other two, waving them to come back. "Return to the cab, Helpy can't do all your work for you."

Shoving each other back and forth, they trudge back to cab. Not before shooting a glare to Eclipse and wink and kiss respectively to you, however.

You turn back to the herd. "What do you think we'll be able to do?"

"They know." Eclipse's arms wrap around you. "Believe it or not but when they put their heads together they can be quite clever."

Sure enough, the train's whistle suddenly blows, startingly you and the caribou. After a few quick blows, they finally clear the tracks, and you're moving again.

You relax into Eclipse's hold. "Right. Should have thought of that."

"You're stressed, and you certainly can't be expected to think of everything." He presses a kiss to your hair, then moves down to your neck.

You laugh, hands coming up to grip his arms. "Clip, we're working. Save it for later."

His grips tightens, and does not stop. Figures.

"You know, speaking of clever, if this was all a ploy to get me alone, I'm not going to be happy with you."

He tsks against your skin. "No, never. You know our control doesn't go beyond the train."

"Uh huh,"—you say, then notice that the winds picked up significantly—"Hey, don't you think we're going a little fast?"

Eclipse pauses his assault on your neck, looking up and out to the path in front of you. "It would appear so. Too fast for what's up ahead."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." You remove yourself from his hold, going over to the side of the train to yell back. "Boys! Slow it down. Glacier Gulch is up ahead, remember?"

Nothing but the wind as a response.

You curse under your breath as you continue to pick up speed, going back to the front railing. "Not good. This is not good."

"The train and everyone inside will be perfectly fine, love. It's you that I'm worried about." Eclipse comes up behind you again, hands encircling your own as they cling to the railing, holding you securely against it. "I think we're in for a ride."

You see the hill prior to the gulch rapidly approaching, your stomach already dropping in fear.

You press your back into his chest, hands shifting to be able to grip his in some regard. "I'm worried about you two, you big dummy. Sorry in advance for the screaming I'm about to do."

"No need for apologies. I don't think you're going to be the only one."

You make it to the top of the hill, and only have a second before you plummet to the bottom. You both scream, clinging to each other and the railing for dear life as you ride up and down, and up and down through the mountainous terrain. Your heart lurches into your throat several times over, and if you weren't facing every the track head on you think this might be fun.

Forcing yourself to glance up after a moment, your eyes widen as you see there's ice over the tracks up ahead.

The train bursts out onto the ice, tilting this way and that as you twist around and hug Clip as tight as you can, burying your head against his chest. He returns the gesture ten-fold.

After seconds that feel like hours, the train comes to a halt. Before you can even think to react, Eclipse has let you go, on the move as he storms back to the engine's cab. From here you can hear him chastising his siblings for the situation, and you sigh for the umpteenth time that night.

You climb the steps and head back as well, coming to stand by the other conductor on the top of the train.

"Do you have any idea the danger you put them in—" You put a hand on his arm and he stops immediately, voice softening. "Oh, hello, love."

You smile and don't miss the scoffs and muttering you hear from below. You squat down and address the two yourself. "I'm sure you two were trying your best back here. Thank you for getting it under control again."

Eclipse huffs as Sun's rays spin and Moon tugs his hat down to avoid your gaze. A cracking sound to your left however interrupts you.

Across the lake, rapidly getting closer are massive cracks in the ice, with waves of water following right behind. You step into action.

"Compliments later. Get us the hell out of here right now!"

The two below spring into action, getting the train moving again as you wobbly get to your feet. Eclipse reaches out to balance you, helping you turn around to face the other side of the lake.

"Tracks ahead! Follow my signal." You look up to Eclipse, shifting so that he's behind you. "Keep me balanced and an eye on that back there for me."

"Always, sweet."

Zeroed in on the tracks across from you, you call out commands to Sun and Moon.

"Left! Right! Left! Give it more steam!"

You hear the cracking noise growing louder and louder but keep your attention forward.

"Right! Left! Left! Come on! More power!"

You feel the train drop behind you and assume the worst, just a little further—

The wheels hiss and screech as they make contact with the tracks again, lurching forward suddenly as you climb the hill. Before you can fall, Eclipse catches you, holding you close as you regain balance, and your sanity.

You all but melt into his arms, stress leaving your body and leaving nothing left but a puddle of a person.

"I think... I need a nap..." You collapse into his arms, drained.

Several minutes later, after regaining your composure, you're sentenced to the stool in the corner of the engine's cab. There's hot chocolate—with marshmallows—in your hands and a blanket around your shoulders as you decompress.

You think if they didn't have to drive the train, the engineers would be taking turns holding you, so instead they stick to walking by to for a kiss every now and then. Something you're sure is going to upset a certain conductor. But, it was arguably his fault you'd needed this break in the first place, so he'd just have to suffer until after your trip was done and over.

You take a sip of your drink and lean your head against the cool glass of the window, staring out into the night sky with its lovely hues. A sign you were nearing the North Pole by the minute.

It was a good thing you only did this one night a year, but that didn't mean you didn't enjoy it any less. Not when you had moments like these to remember it by.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Thank you for the super fun request @rosescarletful!! Enjoyed rewatching the clips of the movie for context, forgot how much fun it is lol, hope you enjoyed the moments with the boys, thought i'd be cheeky and include all three ^-^

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@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8

@luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @amarynthian-chronicles

@robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva

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#fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #sundrop #moondrop #dca fic #x reader #mm dca december #writing requests #adding things to my rewatch list and polar express will be one of them #i enjoyed writing for eclipse like this I think it's my first time having him as a separate/third character

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