#and songs for bill as chaotic as he is

[f-imaginings]

Since billford is becoming popular again I figured I might as well post my trusty Billford playlist for folks to enjoy.

This playlist helped keep me inspired while writing Knowing Me Knowing You and has some great songs for both Ford, Bill and the changing nature of their relationship at different points.

(Also I love when ppl put song lyrics beneath fanart and there are some bangers in here, go nuts!)

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch7. if u wanna get groceries

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 7/x

ᰔ words. 10.3k

a/n. hiii my ihm darlings!! i don't have much to say in this beginning author's note haha but i have some author's notes at the end if you want to read them. but anywho hope you enjoy this chapterrr :)

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Ovulation is a very scary thing.

You can imagine many great women have had their lives greatly affected by this phenomenon. 

This biological release of an egg into the fallopian tubes, simply desiring to be fertilized.

Women who have had their hearts set on their dreams, aspirations, full speed ahead towards the finish line on the other end,

Only to be dragged back by–

You shudder to even mention.

Attraction to a man. 

So horrible.

So insane.

So humiliating.

And yet so–...

So natural.

Unfortunately.

You’re pretty sure Sabrina Carpenter has a song about it.

This is what you think of as you lean over the kitchen island, perched up on your elbows as you eat a peach, staring straight ahead at a certain fake husband who is seated on the couch. 

He’s looking at the TV, watching some SNL skit he didn’t get to finish last weekend, tilting his head side to side with his grey sweatpant clad legs stretched out onto the coffee table in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’s got a can of Celsius he’s swirling around with a loose grip, his elbow up on the cushion for a more lax resting state (which unfortunately also flexes his bicep very sexily from the positioning), and he doesn’t really seem particularly amused by what he was watching. And for some reason, it was hot.

You tilt your head to the right, watching him like a predator from across the hall, chewing down on a particularly juicy piece of peach that bursts its juice in your mouth, and you curse the fact that all you can think about right now is sex.

Sex.

When was the last time you had sex?

You postulated a little over a month ago when you and Choso were still together.

Granted, you’ve been too busy and overwhelmed and overstimulated with all the recent happenings of late to provide your own self with any sort of relief.

And God, it was showing.

Showing in the way that, no matter what, you can’t seem to shake the idea of wanting to sit in Gojo’s lap and be the second reason he never gets to finish watching that SNL skit. 

Maybe it will help.

Maybe sitting in a man’s lap right now would heal you.

You set the now naked seed of peach down on the counter before straightening yourself up and walking around the kitchen island towards the living room. Gojo’s eyes don’t flicker to you until you’re well in his periphery, and when he looks up at you, he straightens himself up on the couch with curious wide eyes and drags his feet off the coffee table to plant his feet on the rug.

You pull your grandma nightgown up to your knees so that you can sit in his lap, surprise evident on his face as he watches your every movement before you’re comfortably seated on him with your hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck me,” you tell him.

“Wh–” he stutters, “I’m sorry, I could’ve sworn you just told me to fuck you.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” The heels of your hands press into his chest further to the point where it has to hurt. 

“Is this a prank,” he asks as his hands fall to hold your hips on reflex.

You sigh, shifting around on his thighs. “Can you just do it already before I change my mind?”

“Wow. That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright. I’ve changed my mind.”

You push off of his shoulders and stand up on one leg, ready to get up and away from him to find some other way to satisfy your desperate desire for a penis, but he reaches out to grab your wrist.

“Heyyy wait wait wait,” he says, pulling you back into a seat on his lap. “Why do you want to have sex all of a sudden?”

You exhale slowly, twiddling with your thumbs as you look at him. “You said it yourself the other day,” you say, “good way to relieve stress.”

“And you’re not gonna kill me afterwards?”

“Umm no promises?”

“Look, as much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, a part of me thinks you’re making a…rash decision here.”

“Oh my fucking god who cares if I am?? Maybe I just wanna fuck for the sake of fucking?? What’s the big fucking deal??”

“The big deal is that, knowing you, you’re not going to speak to me or look me in the eye for three weeks if I let you go through with something you’re not a hundred percent on.”

Your shoulders sulk a little. You thought this would be an easy yes, where he tears your nightgown off and then ravishes you whole on this couch with every primal caveman instinct that’s encoded in his XY chromosome DNA. This was supposed to be spontaneous and sexy…not a candid conversation.

The thought flashes through your head that maybe he thinks that you’re just trying to use him.

“I want to have sex with you,” you clarify. And then a pause. “I think.” You pause for a moment again. “I’m, like, pretty sure.”

He slides you back to where you’re sitting closer to his knees than to his groin, and then fully leans back onto the couch before tucking his hands behind his head like he was physically putting himself in cuffs to prevent himself from touching you any further. “Tell you what. Let’s circle back in an hour, and if you still want to, then sure.”

“I cannot believe how diplomatic you’re being about this.”

“Well isn’t this whole thing between us a diplomatic agreement? That’s what you said to me when we got fake engaged.”

“That–” you blink at him, not expecting those words to eventually be used against you, “...whatever.”

“Also, what happened to the no sex rule?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He grins and leans forward, both of his elbows settling onto the top of the cushion behind him, and you’re proud of yourself for only staring at his biceps for 0.000034 seconds before meeting his line of sight again. 

“Are those rules just suggestions?” he asks with a stupidly teasing look on his face. 

You purse your lips together, skin feeling warm suddenly as you try to push him away by a palm to his sternum. But then you realized something. A fundamental rule of biology. The woman never chases. 

You smile at him, cheeky in a deceptive way that’s meant to scare him, and it does seem to alarm him when you push him back onto the couch rather forcefully. His hands fall to hold your hips again as he looks at you with round eyes, and you scoot forward on his lap, to where you’re almost sitting right above his groin. 

“Hey–” he says, like a warning. 

Like some awful romantic comedy, you’re drawing the tip of your nail down the front of his chest seductively, leaning forward so he catches the faint scent of the perfume you spritzed onto your skin in the morning, and you can tell it’s working from the way he tips his chin up in interest. You innocently “shift” in his lap to get comfortable, and see his throat bob when he swallows hard from the feeling. The finger that’s been running down the soft linen of his shirt trails up until it runs through the hair at the back of his neck, and he’s pulling you closer to him now by a rough grip on your hips. His breathing picks up, eyes somehow wild yet calm as he looks at you with a set jaw, and you try your best to maintain a sultry expression as you tilt your head down at him while strongly fisting at the longer strands of his hair that fall short at the nape of his neck. He shifts underneath you, sinking further into the couch, his breathing fast enough to where you can see the rise and fall of his chest, his gaze finally dropping to your lips as he parts his own, and he briefly runs his tongue over his bottom lip before–

Before the doorbell rings. 

You both blink at each other.

You don’t even realize how close you two were to making out until you realize you can’t even see the tip of his nose anymore. 

“My, uh,” he starts, voice sounding gruff so he has to clear his throat, “my wood just came.”

“Y–” you glance down at his lap, “your wood just what?!”

He leans away from you, sinking his back into the cushion and pointing over his shoulder with a thumb towards the door. “The cedar planks I ordered to finish my woodworking project. Pretty sure they just got dropped off.”

You blink at him, releasing the grip you still had on the hair at the back of his head, your arms moving to weakly rest on his shoulders instead. “Oh.”

“I’ve gotta go sign the delivery.

“Okay.”

“Sometime today, preferably.”

“Alright.”

“Can…can I head to the door? Is that allowed?”

“...I suppose.”

His fingers that were still resting under your butt in a strong grip push up gently on the flesh to prod you off of him, and you (reluctantly) swing your legs off of his lap then slump down onto the couch indignantly beside him, twiddling with your thumbs as you watch him get up off the cushions with a small grunt from the push of his palms on his knees. And then he heads to the door.

Continuing to assess your cuticles with the tuck of your chin towards your collarbone, you hear Gojo talk to whoever was at the door. Another masculine voice. Sounds younger, probably younger than you. Delivery boy. Gojo makes easy conversation with him, some buddy-buddy diction that’s entirely lost on you, and you hear the other man laugh. And the fact that you feel equally as possessed to want to fuck the delivery man makes you realize you need to put yourself in a cage the next time you feel like this.

You hear the door close along with the metallic click of the lock, and you peak your head up over the top of the couch to look at Gojo, who is leaning a giant cardboard box that looks really heavy against the wall. He then exhales, dusting his hands off and he’s stretching his neck from side to side again.

He glances over his shoulder to find you still looking at him.

“You woodwork?” you ask him.

“Yes.”

“Wait. Is that the noisy thing you do at six in the morning while I’m trying to sleep after a night shift?!?!”

“It’s not that noisy,” he says, leaning back onto the wall and crossing his arms. Then he grins. “Want to see what I’m working on?”

“No.”

“Oh come on.” He jerks his head towards the kitchen leading out to the screen door of the backyard. And then he’s shuffling his feet off into that direction. “Humor me for once.”

You slide off the couch onto the floor, grumbling something to yourself before you stand up onto your feet and shuffle your feet across the hardwood floor to follow him, the hem of your nightgown sliding across the surface.

Gojo pulls the screen door back and you step out into the pleasant afternoon. It’s sunny, with crisp air that settles on your senses, the casted shadows of clouds that slowly pass over the grass reminding you of your childhood, or perhaps of simpler times.

You step into the flip flops you see near the shoe mat, and they are nearly twice the size of your feet. Gojo opts for the dustier pair located behind the grill and then he walks across the grass of his backyard towards the shed tucked away near the side of the house. You’ve always been able to briefly see this shed from one of the windows in your house, but you could never see what went on inside. 

He unclasps the metal lock on the wooden door of the shed and pulls it open with a creak. You peer inside, the smell of wood shavings and some other rather comforting chemicals hitting you almost instantly. You also sneeze. And then sneeze again.

“Bless you,” he says, and when you glance at him, he’s smiling at you before he takes a step inside. You cross your arms and rub your elbows, feeling feeble in your ditsy nightgown as you step into a space that looks far too industrial for you. 

“See?” Gojo says once you’re fully inside the shed with him, drawing your gaze from the dusty ceilings towards the covered structure in the center of the workspace. He pulls the blue tarp back, revealing something square-looking. “It’s a coffee table.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you tilt your head to assess it. “Oh. It’s–...it’s actually quite nice.”

“Yeah.” He knocks on the surface with his knuckles. “It’s pretty sturdy. I’ve been looking to replace what I’ve got in the house for a while now. And–” he straightens himself up again, pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “That wood I just got delivered is black walnut. Stunning stuff. I’m going to use it to finish the corners and the cabinets.”

“Ahhh,” you say, expressing interest. I mean, you were intrigued by his many strange hobbies. How can you explain this…you suppose after many years of working, sleeping, eating, and taking care of your mom, it's somewhat pleasantly disorienting to find yourself in the middle of a normal person’s life. Someone who has time to woodwork in his free time. Endearing. It was kind of endearing. 

“I’ve gotta flip it over though,” he says with a sigh, “I fucked up and forgot to build the base first.”

You lean back on one of the cabinets behind you that was level with your hip, and you watch Gojo for a moment as he bends down to assess all angles of the table before he grips the underside of it with his hands, the strength of his grip evident in the strain of the veins running up his arms and disappearing into the short sleeve cotton of his shirt. 

But he glances up at you before moving it. “Can you stand over there?”

“Huh?” You blink at him.

“Don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Oh,” you say, and realize you were standing in quite literally the exact zone of potential danger. You make a mental note to work on your survival instincts. 

You lean off of the cabinet and step off to the side. 

You watch as he begins to lift up on the table, his biceps flexing with the movement, oh and that grunt that leaves his lips once he’s got it at the angle he wants hits you somewhere you wish it didn’t. The sight of him leaning over, letting out a slow exhale as he slowly sets the table down on its side over the cushioning mat had you in a trance. 

Once he’s satisfied with wherever it’s at, he steps away from it and dusts his hands off. “Alright.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Got an hour to work on this.”

You nod at him.

He glances over at you. 

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

“Did–...did you wanna watch?”

“Nope,” you say, shuffling your slippers to the other side of the door. Because you fear that catching the sight of him all sweaty and disheveled from woodworking would get you into serious trouble today. At least you know when to call it quits.

In the hour that Gojo spends doing god knows what sort of manly sorcery in that shed, you get dressed into something that wasn’t a cozy nightgown much to your dismay, and head over to your house next door. You figure you could use this time to clean up the place a little so that you can take pictures for the house on Zillow. 

When you step inside the house, the nauseating smell of medication hits you. It’s a smell that you can only know if you’ve lived with it for years. Something artificial, something that smells–...well, sick. It’s a scent you associate with sickness. It hits you randomly sometimes with the patients that you treat at the hospital. Patients that smell just like your mom does. Something akin to a pill closet. You’ve always cursed the human tendency to assort semantics to certain senses, because then it only takes away all the healing you thought you had gotten through.

You walk down the hall towards your mother’s bedroom. You figured you’d start here first, since it would be the most difficult to clean for you. Her bed is set up neatly, exactly as you left it before she left for hospice three weeks ago. 

Her well-worn rocking chair sits near the window with the old knit blanket she made over twenty years ago draped over it. It faces the window instead of the inside of the house, which was a habit she always had throughout her life. Maybe as an art teacher, she always felt that whatever was outside was more intriguing than within. 

You run a hand by the sturdy wooden dresser covered in dust and scattered medications, along with all of your mother’s draped headscarves. She liked to change them every day, the pattern of each of them aggressively absurd and somewhat hypnotizing, but it fits for her age–that sort of clothing. Your mother used to have beautiful hair. It was something all her friends had always been jealous of. She made the decision to shave it all off rather than watch as it slowly detangled from her hair from chemo, and she claims to have stashed it away somewhere, but you know that she likely donated it instead.

When you make it to her desk, you see paint splattered over it with a rusted easel holding up a blank canvas. But there were swipes of paint across the palette, as though she were trying to find the perfect blend of colors, but failed before she could put brush to canvas. Beside her little art setup, you see a little sticky note with scribblings on it.

Morning tea

Medications- Gabapentin 600 300

Today is Thursday. Oct 16th

800 432 5555 call Dr Johnson 

Turn off the stove

At the very bottom:

- daughter. Nurse. She loves you

You suck a deep breath in, releasing it slowly.

This was an impossible task.

To stuff all of this away into boxes. 

All of this life.

You slowly peel the sticky note off the desk, folding it neatly before placing it into your pocket. Then you start with the canvas, the easel, the paint. Exactly as is, without cleaning anything at all, you stache them away into boxes. You wanted to preserve what you could, even if it was all for show.

By the time you finish cleaning out her desk, you feel winded from emotions. You decide to take a break and try to clean whatever was upstairs instead. Before you leave the room, you see another sticky note written behind the door.

remember ! wear your sweater, it’s cold today

And that’s when you start crying. 

.

.

.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

”Hey,” you say as you walk back into Gojo’s house in the early afternoon, holding up a digital camera that you found in the attic in your hand. “The upstairs of my house is cleaned out now, and I’m almost done with the downstairs part…just waiting on finishing one room. Can we start taking photos to put the listing up online?”

Gojo glances up at you from where he’s stood in the kitchen, tugging at his sleeves, and you just now notice he’s dressed up in a dark navy suit with a white shirt underneath. No tie. “Uhh yeah I can help you with it, I’ve just gotta go run a few errands and then we can do it when I get back?” He ruffles his hair a bit and you see that it’s slightly damp like he just took a shower.

“What errands?”

“Gas, amazon return, Costco. Maybe get a donut if I’m feeling like being a bad boy.”

“Ew. Also, why don’t you get gas at Costco?”

“It’s a little cheaper at Sam’s Club.”

You gasp. “You have a Sam’s Club membership??”

“Yes.”

“You’re a traitor.”

He rolls his eyes as he pushes his shoulders back to get better settled into his suit jacket. “I have a Costco membership too.” 

“Can I come?”

“What? For–...for the errands?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at you from the other side of the island, brow furrowing slightly. “Uh. Sure?”

You know it sounds silly to say, but not having to take care of someone twenty-four-seven has left you with little to no sense of purpose, and an even more intense feeling of loneliness. And as much as Gojo gets on your nerves from time to time, you’ve noticed that you’ve been…craving his presence lately. Or maybe a presence might be more accurate than any one specific person, but you can comfortably admit it to yourself that you’re a somewhat codependent person that enjoys being largely implemented into someone’s life. You’ve even started borderline nesting in his home. You bought two new fluffy throw blankets for his couch, set up a bowl of fruits at the center of the kitchen island, and stocked up on laundry detergent, even though he already had two backup boxes. It was driving you crazy. This feeling of having too much free time and personal space than what you knew what to do with.

And it had been a while since you went to Costco. The holy land for all adults. 

“Can I get this? Ohhhh what about this? Can we get this too? Wait. Wait. Brown sugar boba mochi?!” You hold the packet up into the air as if it were baby Simba in the Lion King, and then you turn to Gojo, clutching the bag to your chest. “Please?”

He exhales, leaning over the handle of the shopping cart and levels his gaze with you. “...no.”

You sulk your shoulders and sigh as you put it back.

He begins to push the cart down the aisle again. “You do realize that you have disposable income too, right?”

You trail after him. “No. I don’t. I’m in six figures of debt.”

He nods. “Fair.” And then he grabs a stray bag of brown sugar boba abandoned on top of the instant rice boxes then places it into the cart. 

You watch as Gojo makes his rounds around Costco, very diligently aligning all the items in his shopping cart and assessing the quality of each thing he crosses off his list before deeming it worthy of purchase. Much different than your usual Costco run, which involves a lot of chaos and sweat. And he feels very husband material like this. Breaking no sweat to put the garden fertilizer in the cart shelf meanwhile you would’ve pulled your back out trying to do the same if you were on your own.

As you two make your way through the store, you get stopped by the post-office man, and then the local judge, and then the elderly couple that runs the church's weekly Bingo nights. All greeting you politely with a quick exchange of words and usually a sweet regard for your mother’s health before passing on by. You keep having to introduce Gojo as your husband, and many of them already know who he is, despite the fact that he’s only lived here for a year, which royally pisses you off to great extents, but he’s a social whore so it makes sense. And then all of them coo sweet things like wow, what a beautiful couple and you’re so lucky to have each other and my oh my he’s very handsome and at this point you would pay someone twenty bucks to say something like well she’s a looker! good for you! to Gojo because you’re sick of him always getting the ego boosts. When asked where you guys went for your honeymoon, you both say “Greece–” “Maldives–” at the same time in typical unrehearsed fashion. One of the town locals even asks when the two of you are going to have a baby, and you almost snort your free sample of San Pellegrino out your nose.

Perhaps the only thing that keeps a little pep in your step is the fact that everyone greets you first before they catch the familiar sight of Gojo too. It’s a small thing to celebrate, but when you’ve lived in the same town your whole life, it becomes somewhat of a prideful and wholesome thing when the town librarian, local mechanic, and farmer’s market lady all stop you in your lovely little Costco stroll. It was all in a day’s work.

“Jeez, you’re hella famous, y/n,” Gojo says as he continues to push the cart down the aisle after you just got done catching up with the volunteer Fire Chief.

You toss your hair over your shoulder at him. “Yes. I am somewhat of a princess in this town.”

“Does that make me your prince?”

“No. You’re my filthy peasant.”

“Alright…I like where this is going…”

“Get your nasty degradation kink away from me, you perv. This is Costco. It’s the holy house of God.”

Once you two make it to the wine section, you stare at bottles of dessert wines and hear Gojo talking on the phone off to the side.

“Hey, Sana. I’m at Costco right now. Do you guys need anything? I already got Juno’s muffins,” he says into his phone as he places two containers of blueberry muffins into the cart. You eye the raspberry cream cheese strudels. “Huh? Cornstarch?....If I tried to look for cornstarch at Costco, I’d be here for three hours.”

“Satoru,” you say to him once he gets off the call, tugging at his sleeve, “could we get those Haagen Daz ice cream bars? They’re so good.”

“No,” he says, pushing the cart down the chip aisle before he grabs a bag of tortilla chips. “We can’t get anything that needs to be frozen or refrigerated. I’ve gotta go prep a house that’s in the area since we’re out this far. I’ve got an evening showing.”

“What?!” you exasperate, “I thought we were just going home after this!”

“I never said that.”

“I can’t believe this. I had been dreaming of grabbing those ice cream bars since you mentioned the word Costco back at home. You could’ve brought your little cooler thing that you keep in the garage.”

“Well, I didn’t know that you wanted to come with me,” he says. “My original grocery list had seven non-perishable items on it.” You both glance at the cart, which was almost entirely full of things that you put in there. Things that nobody ever needs. Like a bladeless desk fan and an electric wine opener.

“Ah,” you say.

He smiles, leaning over the cart handle again and pushing it forward again away from the chilly air of the cooler section. “Retail therapy?”

You pout a little. “I haven’t had the chance in years.” You glance at the cart as he pushes it. “I should probably take it all out now.”

“It’s fine,” he says, “I’ll get you your bladeless fan. And whatever the fuck those other things are.”

You stop walking, blinking blankly at his back as he continues to wordlessly push the cart forward. There’s about a five second delay before you finally start trailing after him.

By the time Gojo finishes loading everything into the trunk of his car as you merely stand by for emotional support, and then he comes back from the long trek of returning the cart, you’re absolutely winded. You’re not sure why, because again, you haven’t really done much all day. But God damn, you forgot how exhausting it is to be a regular functioning member of society that contributes to the economy on the weekends (you didn’t pay for anything).

Gojo wordlessly takes off from the Costco parking lot and just when you think he’s going to get back onto the freeway to get to this house of his that he needs to prep, he jumps into the parking lot of a small shopping area before he parks his car in front of a smaller grocery store. 

You give him a puzzled look.

“Hold on,” he says before clicking his seatbelt off, “gotta go get that cornstarch.”

“Wait—” you say, reaching out to grab him by the sleeve of his suit jacket as the most intense sensation of FOMO you’ve ever felt in your life overtakes all of your senses. “I’ll come with.”

He quirks a brow at you. You’re not surprised at his confusion. After all, you’ve been acting like some drug addict in withdrawal of social proximity to him all day long. But you’re at least glad he doesn’t express any further bewilderment and allows you to follow him inside the store like a duckling.

As Gojo veers off in the direction of likely corn starchiness, in a confident manner that would suggest he’s been to this store many times before, you meander about the aisles at your leisure. You get lost in the bustling colors of produce stacked neatly on top of one another, such that they could rival the great pyramids of Egypt. Not to mention, processed foods lining the wall right next to it. This was what suburban life is all about. Matter of fact, this is what dreams are made of. 

“y/n?”

Oh, fuck. That voice is definitely not what dreams are made of.

The opposite, actually.

Nightmares.

You hear that voice in your nightmares.

You turn on your heel to find none other than your ex boyfriend, he who shall not be named (Choso Kamo), standing right behind you as he holds a grapefruit in his hand, blinking at you dumbly with surprise apparent on his face. 

“Wh—” you briefly stutter before the automatic scowl settles onto your face. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m buying fruit.”

“For what?”

“What do you mean, for what? To eat, obviously.”

“I don’t know. I’m not convinced you wouldn’t try to fuck that grapefruit. Given you have low standards for what you stick your dick inside of.”

“Uh?…I’ve stuck my dick inside of you plenty of t—”

“Shut it!!!” you yell at him, then turn away with a wince on your face. “I didn’t think it through before I said it.”

“As usual?”

“You’re being a jerk. You know who I meant when I said that.”

“Okay. So, you don’t think things through before you say them. And I continue to deflect said things. Let me know when anything’s changed between us, y/n.”

You cross your arms at him menacingly and unwaveringly glare at him as a meek mother pushes her young son by the shoulders away from the two simmering adults having their savory conversation within the produce aisle. You’re about the snark out another comment but then the automatic water sprayers interrupt your flow. And also a scrawny employee drops a giant box of eggplant onto the ground before placing them onto the produce shelf.

“What are you doing on this side of town? You’re never out here,” Choso says as he sets the grapefruit back onto the stack.

“I don’t know. What are you doing here?”

“This is my new go-to grocery store.”

“Why not go to the Trader Joe’s that we always used to go to? It’s way closer to you.”

His shoulders sulk slightly at that.

Oh.

Oh.

So, he’s been driving an extra thirty minutes each weekend to go grocery shopping on the other end of town,

Just so he doesn’t have to run into you anymore.

“Look…y/n,” he starts, “it’s not that I don’t want to see you—”

“Choso—”

“It’s just that you accuse me of fucking inanimate objects everytime I do see you.”

“I literally do not care if you do or don’t want to see me.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his gaze flitting downwards to your crossed arms, something catching his eye.

You glance down at yourself, and you catch the glimmer of diamond underneath bright fluorescent light.

“Oh come on,” Choso grumbles, “don’t tell me you actually wear that thing twenty-four-seven.”

“I’m a married woman, Choso. It’s what married women do.”

He clenches his jaw at that, tense enough to cause a vein strain in his neck, his brows narrowing into contempt, but just before he can say anything else, an arm wraps around your waist and you’re being pulled back into a broad chest.

“She’s pretty, huh?” you hear Gojo say and you blink up at him with your chin tilted towards the ceiling, and you yelp as he possessively pulls you in closer to him as he establishes jarring eye contact with Choso with that same old easy grin on his face. “Thank god I’m the one married to her.”

Choso almost blows a fuse at that. “I know she’s pretty,” he says through gritted teeth, “for six years, I was the one that got to f—”

“Ahh!!! Sale on tomatoes!!!” you interrupt the crass and ridiculously toxic masculine energy in the air as you wiggle out of Gojo’s grip then run over to the pristinely stacked romano tomatoes, picking some of them up and holding them like precious commodities. “Maybe we can make some tomato soup with grilled cheese tonight, honey???” you say with a forced smile towards Gojo as you now hold fifteen tomatoes in your arms, a couple of them falling to the floor with a bounce as they roll away.

“HEY!! LADY!!” the scrawny eggplant stacking employee from earlier yells out at you. Some late teens kid with acne speckled across his face and shaggy brown hair scattered over his forehead, somewhat slick with either gel or grease. “I just set those up!!! YOU SQUASH ‘EM, YOU BUY ‘EM.”

“Sorry,” you squeak out, putting the tomatoes back onto the display somewhat haphazardly before grabbing Gojo’s arm and tugging him towards the exit. “Let’s get out of here, please.”

“Huh? I’ve still gotta pay for the cornstarch though,” Gojo says, hardly budging despite your best efforts to womanhandle him.

“No time for that, we leave now. They don’t have cameras here, anyway. I already checked.” You continue to tug on his arm, your body leaning at an almost forty-five degree angle towards the exit as you struggle to get some drag to his feet, but again, he doesn’t budge.

You don’t know exactly why you so adamantly want to restrict Gojo from interacting with Choso, but maybe a part of it was embarrassment. You didn’t want Gojo to find out what Choso did to you and what an absolute fool he had made out of you. It would hurt your pride.

“Isn’t this guy a cop?” Gojo asks as he points his thumb towards Choso. “And you’re telling me to shoplift in front of him?”

“Can you just be on my fucking side for one second?” you grit at him, yanking on his sleeve so hard you almost tear the cuffs out of the holes, and he finally sighs before relenting into a gait towards your general direction.

As you hug Gojo’s arm tightly to keep his momentum towards you, you walk backwards and send Choso a nasty glare. His eyes are wide, studying you and Gojo together as you get further and further away from him. And for a brief, brief, brief, ever-so-slight fleeting moment of love and familiarity and the sight of his dark hair curling at the nape of his neck and the memory of warmth when he used to hold you in his arms in bed on cold winter mornings, you find that you miss him a little. But only a little. You swear that it’s only a little.

Gojo still makes a pit stop at the register much to your pleading dismay, but as always he has zero regard or interest for your melodramatic outbursts, but at least he shoves the extra change from the purchase into his pocket in a somewhat timely fashion so that you two can head out the door in your artificial haste.

In the car, you quickly click your seatbelt on and then have to watch Gojo as he takes his time clicking his back into place and enter some address into his car. You see the ETA on the GPS, and how it shows that this address is roughly thirty-four minutes away.

Once he gets onto the freeway, your mind begins to wander back to seeing Choso at the grocery store and how the sight of him rattled you. You twiddle with your thumbs in your lap nervously, shift around in your seat, chew at the edge of your nail, and Gojo seems to notice this.

“You know, having lived in this town your whole life, I would think you’d be used to the discomfort of running into people you don’t want to see,” he says.

You sigh. “Yes. In theory. But with Choso, it’s–…it’s different.” You hesitate.  “It’s just that—” you try again before worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, “it’s just that, sometimes I don’t get him.”

Gojo is silent for a few seconds as he stares straight towards the road before he responds with, “What do you mean?”

“Like, he avoids me like the plague, and then begs me to go back to him, and then he pretends like I’m just a nuisance to him, and then when he sees me with you, he acts all—…I don’t know…all—”

“Jealous?”

You sink into your seat. “Something like that.”

“Hm. Yeah, to be honest, I don’t know. But you’re not wrong to find it strange.”

Feeling strangely validated in your feelings, you sit there twiddling with your thumbs and then glance out the window. There’s a silence that lasts maybe ten seconds before you say,

“Thanks for interrupting back there. Although, you don’t have to try to deliberately make him jealous anymore. Even though I know I literally asked you to do that. Which makes me a woman of severe psychiatric ailment. Of which I am slightly embarrassed about at the moment.”

“Nah,” he says as he turns the right onto the freeway entrance. When you look over at him, he has a smile on his face. “I like it. It’s never boring with you.”

Unsure if that’s a compliment or some shade of insult, you say, “and that’s a good thing?”

He shrugs, releasing one hand from the wheel and curling the other in a tight knuckled grip at the top of it as the car drives steady down the freeway. He rests his right elbow on the storage console. “Well, it’s different from what I’m used to.”

What are you used to? You so badly want to ask him.

But a flashback to his childhood bedroom at his parent’s house comes back to you.

Yearbook signatures, trophies, and photos abandoned underneath a bed.

You almost don’t even want to acknowledge that he has lived a life before you.

Was that self centered? Or perhaps childish? Or perhaps all in human nature?

You decide not to respond, instead directing your attention to the world outside the car window. The blades of grass dance across the shoulder of the road, all greenery following suit in the same swift motion. You watch as the land slowly turns from developed to more and more remote, yet still cozy and charming. Fields of green, vineyard arrangements, a wooden sign for a winery, a picturesque red barn house, a small cattle farm, an old town church with a bronze bell, hills of empty acres that are just begging to be touched by some great idea or civilization.

You’re privy to change in texture underneath the wheels as Gojo makes a turn onto gravel road about two miles after getting off the freeway. He drives up a hill, maybe a forty-five degree angle, with the crunch of rocks rubbing against the tread of the tires and you see a more distinct, purposeful arrangement of short decorative trees that line the properties of this narrow gravel road. They were large houses, sitting on slightly slanted hills that were all a part of a bumpy landscape that extends for miles. Some had formal fences, some had chain links, but all had expansive yards with no clear distinction of boundary, where the backyard could be the front yard too if only you had the imagination for it.

One house in particular catches your eye. It’s a pretty two story house with a detached garage or perhaps shed, painted in a dusky auburn with dark wooden paneling and structure. It sat near the top of this hill, the front yard being a steep upwards slope of grassy terrain that stretched for the full length of the property, about a hundred yards. The backyard dips behind the back of the hill, downwards into some territory you cannot set eyes on. But it’s stunning. It was gorgeous. Serene. With views of lush green surrounding its every corner. Intimately located, yet open enough to fresh air in which you almost feel one with the world. And in the early evening light, it looked like heaven.

You let out a slow exhale as you take in the sight that looks like a painting to you. There was something so romantic about a home. For as long as time, humans have enjoyed personifying objects, such as boats or planes or cars or  trains. But what could feel more of a living thing than a home?

You hear Gojo click his seatbelt off beside you and you glance over at him. You click off your own seat belt and open your door, stepping out onto the gravel road.

Gojo comes around the car and approaches you, holding a folder in his hand with papers you can only assume have information on the property listing. You also hear the jingle of keys in his pocket as he pushes his hand into it. 

“Got about,” he glances at his watch, “twenty minutes to prep. Oh, and if my clients ask, I’ll just introduce you as my assistant. And we’ll pretend that we have some sort of inappropriate workplace relationship. Just to intrigue them. It’ll make the house more memorable. Sound like a plan?”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever gets food on your table.”

You watch as he pushes a copper key into the rusted lock that was clipped onto the chains holding the fence together, guarding the property. He yanks it down once he’s unlocked it and then pulls the fence apart, opening the way to head up the house. It borders on a feeling of trespassing, but you trail closely behind Gojo as he makes his way up the grassy hill, reminding yourself that he has the clearance as a realtor.

You glance around the property a bit more. There’s a small pond in the dip of one of the smaller hills, fuzzy with moss and some small fish you can see snapping at the surface of the water. Off to the right of it, there are similarly moss covered stone benches, small and antique. Perfect to sit there and watch the sun set behind the house. And towards the left, a small gondola with arranged stained glass stepping stones. 

“Charming, huh?” Gojo says over his shoulder at you, and you realize he’s caught you staring at everything in awe.

Gojo makes it to the veranda after lengthy strides across the broad concrete steps that lead to the most stunning hardwood door you’ve ever seen in your life. He turns around to glance at you when he realizes you’re still stuck at the bottom of the steps, digging your heels into the ground underneath you.

“It’s–” you start, looking across the landscape while melancholy washes over you, “...I just can’t believe that someone gets to live here someday.”

He pushes his hands inside of his pant pockets, silent for a few moments. “Is everything alright?”

You look up at him, the question threatening to make the rawness in your throat burn even more. “Yes, I just–” you scoff at yourself a little before turning back to face the little pond, now further in the distance, “I just realized that I’ll probably never be able to afford a house in my life, so I’ll never really know what it’s like to have a realtor show me around a home I could potentially one day call my own. It’s something that sounds so surreal to me.”

There’s a silence that lasts for three seconds, and when you look up at him, his gaze is soft.

“Alright,” he says, jerking his head towards the direction of the door with his hands still lax in his pockets, “let’s take you on a tour of this one, then.”

You blink up at him, heart beating a little faster. “O-...Okay.” And you hop up the stairs to meet him at the top. The fragrance of wild roses and lavender brush past your senses as the leaves sway with the breeze. 

The moment you enter inside, you’re greeted by a faint trace of vanilla lingering in the air. The foyer is warm, inviting, with soft oak floors that creak ever so slightly with each step you two take forward into it, proving the life that it’s lived. To your left, there’s a spacious living room that glows with the golden light of the early evening sun that has started to gently make its descent from high up in the sky. Filtering through sheer curtains, touching your skin from afar, you glance down at your arm and the glow of heaven that’s been imprinted on it. 

Gojo walks further into the living room, pulling the curtains back a bit and then opens one of the windows by pushing up on it. A small draft reaches you as you walk towards him. Off to the right in a corner is a fireplace, the mantle adorned with wilting candles and creased old books.

“Is it wood-burning?” you ask Gojo.

He nods his head. “Can easily convert it to gas if that’s something you’d like better.”

There’s a sense of joy in your chest at the way he continues to play along, pretending as if your opinion truly matters–as if, just for now, you were a serious contender to make this place your home. 

“No,” you say, tracing a finger over the dark wood of the mantle, collecting withered dust. “I like it better like this.”

As he leads you into the kitchen, set your eyes on the marble countertops that meet soft sage cabinetry, the window behind the sink overlooking the rolling landscape of the backyard. You stand on your tiptoes to get a better view of what’s down the hill, and you see a small trickling creek that flows down the valley. Your gaze diverts towards the countertops and you see an elegant collection of mismatched china.

Spinning on your heel, you find Gojo leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you inspect every inch. “When were these appliances last updated?” you ask, running your hand across the oven handle.

“About fourteen years ago.”

“Ah, they’re a little old.”

He smiles at you. “So the tolerance for vintage charm ends with kitchen appliances?”

“Charm is cute,” you say, a little cheekily as you move on without him towards the staircase, “but not when the house burns down because of an oven gas leak.”

He hums from behind you as he follows you, and you can hear the smile on his face through the sound alone. “You’re looking out for the right things.”

The staircase, with its dark wood railing and white balusters, curves gently upwards into the second floor. Just like your own home, the third and first steps creak beneath your feet. You always loved the sound, although you know most people attempt to fix such things in a house. For you, it felt like each step had a story, and some were very vocal about never being forgotten. 

The upstairs hallway is lined with more windows, filling the space with the same golden glow that now dances across the soft, tapering wallpaper that has begun to peel around the edges slightly. Your feet wander on their own with a sense of grace that seems to have taken hold of you. 

The first bedroom you stumble across is small, but still enchanting. The bay window has a small reading nook with cushions piled up on the surface, inviting the image of lazy afternoons spent lost in books as the world beyond the glass panes flutters in the wind. The queen-sized bed in the center of the room is minimally dressed and faces an oak dresser that was leaning slightly away from the wall in a crooked fashion. 

The room across from the first bedroom appears to be a study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are bolted to the walls and a vintage writing desk sits by another window where the changing light of day turns the room into a living painting. Your mother crosses your mind. And how much she would’ve loved this window. You could picture her setting up her easel and canvas here, painting away with strokes that could threaten even the beauty of the view outside the window. You think about how much joy that would’ve brought to her. 

In that same trance, you walk down the hall to the end with Gojo following behind you. You push through the set of double doors that lead into the master bedroom. It was spacious, yet intimate, with vaulted ceilings and a four-poster bed draped in airy linen curtains. Sitting across from it is another fireplace surrounded by two picturesque little chairs. One with a square backrest colored a dark burgundy, and the other with an oval backrest colored a pinkish opal. Between the two was a small table that had a stack of a few books. 

The attached en-suite bathroom appears timeless, with a clawfoot tub resting beneath a wide, arched window that offers the view of the rolling hills in their entire glory. The marble vanity has vintage brass fixtures that reflect the soft glow of the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, one that takes the shape of the roof of the house. 

You hear tapping on the window to your right, and when you glance over there, you see a tree branch bothering the surface due to the wind. 

Your eyes also catch the faint bordering corner of wood beyond the frame of the window.

With wide eyes, you turn to Gojo and point in that general direction. “Is that…?”

“The balcony,” he says, then nods, “it’s connected to this room.”

He leads you out onto the wooden platform, the floorboards warm under your feet from the early evening sun. It stretches out about ten feet and wraps around the entire back end of the house, with easily the most breathtaking vantage point you’ve seen thus far. An entire view of the creek that disappears into the valley, the image of dancing wildflowers on distant rolling hills, the sun that continues to glow in the distance, and a gentle breeze with the faintest hint of salt, as though from a distant ocean. It felt like its own quiet little world. A place where time slows, and you can just be as you are. It was difficult to put into words, but you had never felt more at peace in your entire life.

Gojo leans over the sturdy yet worn railing as he glances down at the grass near the foundation of the house. You come up beside him, loosely curling your hands into a grip around the rusted metal.

You see him turn his face to you in your periphery, but you continue to stay staring ahead.

“So…what do you think? Can you picture yourself living here?” he asks you as a soft brush of breeze passes by. 

“Well–” you start, but then a sobering thought flashes through you, “wait, Satoru, what happened to your clients?”

“Oh, yeah,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket to glance at it, “they texted me about ten minutes ago that they weren’t going to make it.”

“You should’ve told me. We could’ve left.”

“Well, you seemed like you were in some sort of trance while you were looking around. I was scared to interrupt it.”

You breathe in deep and then let out a slow sigh, your shoulders dropping slightly. “Mhm. The house is beautiful. And, yes, I could picture myself living here.” 

More than just that. It was like a dream house. The one that a person would see in fleeting memories right before they pass, as it holds all of their most beloved ones. That ethereal, it was. 

He hums softly. You look over at him and find him blinking slowly. The wind brushes through his hair, ruffling it up gently, to where you could see the blueness in his eyes a little more clearly. That, too, was ethereal. 

“Satoru,” you say.

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

He continues to stare at the horizon. “Sure.”

“Where did you live before you moved here?”

“New york city,” he easily tells you.

But the answer surprises you. “R-Really?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Really long.”

“Mm. You don’t seem like it.”

“Like what? An asshole from the city?”

“Mhm. Just a regular asshole.”

He laughs. You feel the rumble of it from the way your shoulder was pressed up against his arm. 

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask him. But the question was not one that you had thought to say. Rather, it felt as though it was placed on your tongue by someone else.

You feel his shoulders rise slightly with the deep breath he draws in as he leans over the railing a bit more. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. I still own a place there in downtown Manhattan,” he says, “but I don’t really plan on moving back there ever. So I was thinking of selling it and getting something out here instead.”

“Oh?” you say, “like what? Where?”

“This,” he says, pointing to the wooden panels you two were standing on, “this house.”

You blink, caught between surprise and something deeper. “This house?” you echo, your voice quiet. 

He nods, his fingers tapping lightly against the railing. “Yeah. Although, I still show it to people if they’re interested. It’s been on the market for over three years though.”

You let your gaze drift over the balcony, the way the light softens against the weathered wood, and suddenly, the house doesn’t feel the same. Like it carries more weight somehow. Like it feels more real, more alive. And maybe that’s what makes a house a home–the intent to belong in it. 

"You see that greenery over there?" he asks, his arm stretching out as he highlights an area in the distance with his hand, "aaaaall the way down there?" Now pointing at the creak.

"Mm," you squint, "uh-huh!"

"Believe it or not, those are all avocado trees."

Your eyes widen and then you look at him. "No way."

He smiles. "Yeahhh. Three-point-four acres of 'em. And they're all a part of this lot."

Your smile matches his equally as nerdy one. "Wow I bet you loooove that.”

"I do," he grins, and then gratuitously sighs, "all I can eat guacamole 'til the day I die."

You snort.

"Yeah, anyways, that's why no one wants to buy this house," he says, "guess how much it costs to water them per month.”

"Mm, per month?" you look up to the golden sky, "a few thousand?"

"Try a hundred-and-fifty thousand."

"What–...I beg your finest fucking PARDON?!?!"

He laughs. "Yeah that's usually the reaction I get when I end a tour of this house on that note."

“That’s so insane…what’s the point of buying the house, then?”

"Avocados are hard to grow, they can be finicky, but all the land on this lot is extremely fertile," he says, "and if you can import the produce, it actually ends up being pretty lucrative." He points across to the dip in the hill behind the creak. "You could turn that place over there into some kind of ranch, too. Or a wedding venue, and rent it out. I don't know. The property has a lot of investment value. But the house itself is a bit dated. Would need some work."

"Like a fixer-upper on HGTV,” you offer for the conversation.

"Yeahhh. Something like that."

"Mm," you hum.

"Y’know, I was on HGTV once."

"What?! There's no way."

"Yup. House hunters."

"Bullshit. I would've known. I have seen every single episode since I graduated college."

"Oh, well, this was back when they still had Design Star on. I was like twenty-four or something. Fresh new realtor."

"Oh right. I was still in college then. I forgot that you're ancient."

He gives you an irritated side eye.

"So...will you be fixing up this house?" you ask him. His hobby of woodworking starts to make a little bit more sense.

"Maybe. I don't know if I'm too young to be thinking about retirement yet...but that's kind of what I was thinking of turning it into. A dream retirement home."

"You're definitely not young. Don't worry about that."

He gives you another irritated side eye.

"What happens to your other house, then?" you say. "The one next door."

“Hmm," he muses, "I'll probably stay there another year or so and then rent it out eventually."

"You don't want to settle down there? Raise your kids there?" you blurt out. You immediately wince a little at the forward question, but wasn't that something people thought about when thinking of a house? Do they not imagine filling it with their own hopes and dreams? Do they not picture their spouse sitting on the porch outside, swinging with the wind? Do they not picture their children's laughter down the hallway? 

A shiver runs down your spine. You glance over at Gojo, who continues to stare forward towards the horizon, His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he's deep in thought staring out into the landscape as the golden sun begins to turn purple in the sky, casting a dimming glow on his face.

And you wonder. You briefly wonder what a home must mean to him, after having to witness his parents perish in the flames of the one that housed his childhood. 

"It's a nice house," he finally responds to you, "but a part of me wants to live faaaaar away from everyone and everything someday." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he can already tell how contradictory you find that sentiment to be. Mr Grew Up In New York City wants to live in a quaint little cape-cod-esque agriculture farmland property miles away from major civilization? what was it about the city that changed him so much? “Just be at peace, you know. Plant a million more avocado trees out here in the middle of nowhere, and not have to worry about their devilish spawns dropping all over my cute neighbor's herb garden.”

You flutter your eyelids, the comment catching you off guard, before your entire posture softens. "Satoru...it's ok. I'll move my herb garden."

"Oh, you thought I meant you? I was talking about seventy-four year old Barbara to my right."

You sulk your shoulders and roll your eyes, turning away from him to face forward towards the landscape again.

He laughs. "I'm just teasing."

You glance over at him again, and there's that same distant stare he casts over the greenery in the distance. 

"I can't believe your dream in life is to become a farmer," you say.

"Ehhh. It's honest work." he exhales slowly. The sun is now sitting on the hilltop. "It's just a dream, anyways. Just a dream. I'm still allowed to have those, right?" It was asked with genuine curiosity. 

"Why are you asking me for permission?"

His eyes hood ever so slightly, a dip in his expression you can't quite discern. but it's evident in the way his gaze off across the horizon dampens. "Hm. I don't know."

You shiver a little as the evening wind brushes past, and Gojo catches sight of the movement. you mentally curse yourself, because you know that you've just cut this moment short.

"It's cold," he says, "let's get inside."

You try to think of ways to stay here. Ways to lengthen this moment. Ask him for his jacket and make some teasing comment about how he's not a gentleman. Or lie and say that you're not cold at all, that you run warm when you know all your life you've always had cold hands and feet. Or just tell him that you don't want this moment to end. Tell him you want to see the sun through its sunset. Tell him how you never want to step foot off of this house ever again.

"Okay," you whisper. 

And he leads you back inside, down the stairs, and as you stand out on the veranda, at the grassy hills towards his car, you implant this memory in your head, this feeling of standing on this home and dreaming as if it were yours. Before all it becomes is exactly that, 

Only a dream. 

.

.

.

.

.

[end of ch.7, ‘if u wanna get groceries’]

songs of the chapter:  groceries by mallrat  margaret by lana del rey

a/n. thanks so much for reading! this was a fun chapter to write, especially the house sequence. i think it’s mentioned in the chapter somewhere, but yeah…i just think there’s something so romantic and melancholic about a home :’’) i guess that’s a recurring theme in ihm, with reader’s childhood home holding the memories that her mother has lost of her, and then ihm gojo losing his parents to a destructive house fire, and also him being a realtor, and also reader planning to sell her house, and then the dream house in this chapter. it’s been fun breathing a bit of life into these different settings themselves. ah i also decided i want to include little “song(s) of the chapter” to the end of these! just as something kinda fun to do. i’d say these are songs that inspired me to write certain scenes within the chapter, or songs that i listened to a lot while writing the chapter, or songs i could picture playing during the ending credits if this were a tv show xd. but yeahhh!! also just a way to share music bc i love music lol. 

i was asked by an anon to provide some reference photos for the dream house at the end and i shared some here big thank you to my beta readers mirl, leni, and ayelin for helping me out w parts of this chapter n giving me motivation to write it <33 i appreciate you guys sososo much!! i really attribute a lot of my writing motivation towards them, as i’ve been really busy but been able to write these lengthy chapters bc of their support.  i did kinda rush parts of this chapter just because i wanted to get it out on the weekend, so i apologize if there are errors or mistakes of if anything’s a little confusing or sudden. tbh i did want to spend a tiny bit more time on it but, that’s ok. fuck it we ball also! i just wanted to say a quick thank you to all of my readers and those that have stuck around for so long with me or maybe newer readers who have interacted or become invested w my works recently… i know that i am so slow w updates and sometimes inconsistent w it as well, life just gets so crazy for me and it’s a struggle to find proper time to sit down and write, and i wish soooo badly to put out chapters faster, but yea easier said than done haha. but all of my readers who continue to engage with lil ol’ me even despite all of that really means a lot to me, more than i can say :”) i still face self doubts so often w my writing, i’m halfway convinced i’ll never be satisfied w my craft, but the little interactions i have w everyone really make my day and push me forward to write even when it’s hard and i realized i haven’t really said a proper thank u to u guys for that as of late. plus i know jjk manga has ended and also i took a hiatus n also tumblr has lowkey been fuckin me over on the algorithm too lol etc etc i definitely have noticed i’ve lost some readers n engagement along the way, which i understand is natural n just a part of being a long fic author however daunting that may be, but i just really wanted to say a thank you to those who continue to be here irrespective of all of that. i appreciate everyone who sees value in my works enough to read them, follow up w them, interact w them, share them, like them etc. especially w ihm bc sometimes i feel so bad for the slow burn and the yap haha i’m sure some of you may be privy to the fact by now that this story will be very long and also so much more than just the romance. but…i find confidence from you all to follow my vision and i’m really grateful for that.  very likely that the next chapter is in ihm gojo’s pov :0 very exciting and makes me a lil nervous. for some reason i find his pov somewhat intimidating to write for loool. but hopefully i’ll pull it off.

much love!! there will be a delay in getting this chapter up on ao3 and also adding it to the masterlist etc bc i'll be away from keyboard when this posts from my queue, but everything should be updated by the time i'm back home tonight :) see you all in the next one <3 -ellie

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Older

This is for the @6esiree contest that they are holding! I hope you enjoy it, and even if it doesn't perform well, I am glad to have made something long! Word Count 3.5k Alastor x Gen Z Reader Based on Song Older by Isabel LaRosa TW: Sexual content, stubbornness, gen gap, age gap, tentacles, begging

Dying wasn’t the first thing on your list of exciting things to do. I mean, yes, you were a 23-year-old living in 2024, so of course, your will to live was low, but that didn’t mean you were ready for it when it happened. No, instead, death came hard and fast, all because you had some serious FOMO and a quite pitiful YOLO moment. 

One minute, you were having a great night out with friends, you had a handsome silver fox wrapped around your finger, and then the next thing, you woke to a red landscape of what you only assumed was hell. With your life, it made sense why ‘Hell’ was where you ended up. You died partying and sleeping with the older man, so it only made sense that this was where you would consequently end up. 

A deep sigh left you as you looked at the chaos around you. The only good thing you saw so far out of this event was that you didn’t have bills to pay anymore. It looked like as long as you played your cards right, you could get anything here without needing money. As that thought crossed your mind, an ad for redeeming sinners played on a nearby radio. 

The voice on the radio was alluring as all hell and had you questioning your life and undead choices. Not even five minutes into being dead, and you are already fawning over an older man's voice. It's good to know that living habits don’t die with you in the afterlife. 

Your resolve not shaken, you make your way to where the voice spoke of the Hazbin Hotel and find yourself at the base of a hill, looking up at a grand building with flashing lights. A shiver runs up your spine as you realize how powerful whoever runs this place must be. Maybe pretending to want to be saved would be well worth your time, then. 

Let’s get one thing straight here: you are no damsel; you may like your men older, but that doesn’t mean you need one. No, you are an independent queen who can do what she pleases. She just also realizes when to fold and when to hold her hand. Right now, seeking refuge from the fires and sex work was worth it; however, that didn’t mean you wouldn’t earn your keep all the same. 

While you thought about these prospects and made your way up to the door, you noticed it was open without you even having to knock. Pushing your head through more of the door, it was clear to see what type of establishment this was…a chaotic one. 

Just standing in the entryway, the sights before you were hilarious and intriguing. A cat at the bar grumbled as he watched a spider dance on the bar. A young lady resembling a lamb hurriedly tried to stop the provocative dancing while a gray woman yelled at the spider. A cyclops laughed hysterically while tossing what you could only imagine was a bomb. A small woman rushed around laughing and stabbing the air while a man who looked a little like the lamb girl walked through the room. 

The deer caught your eye the most, though, and it seemed you caught his, too, as he was the only one looking at you and your entrance. You two held eye contact, a shiver running up your spine. Oh, you definitely could get used to staying here. 

Nodding more to yourself than the deer man, you walked in further and cleared your throat, everyone stopping to look at you. With a slight wave, you smiled brightly and introduced yourself.  “Heya, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet ya,”

The room was silent, causing you to laugh awkwardly. As you slowly backed away, thinking maybe this wasn’t a great idea, the lamb girl came over and jumped on you. Holding your arms and bouncing, she spoke excitedly. 

“Oh my goodness, a new arrival! Hi, my name is Charlie. I am the hotel's owner,” She beamed proudly at the statement and motioned to the others all in the lobby area of the room, “And this is the Hazbin Hotel residents and staff! The cat is Husk, then Angel Dust, Vaggie, Cherri, Nifty, my father,” She leaned in and whispered, “Also known as Lucifer,” 

Laughing at your surprised face, she pointed to the deer man last. “This is Alastor. He is the hotelier; he helps me run the hotel! Was it his broadcast that brought you in?”

You shook your head at the information overload and laughed softly. Nodding to the question, you looked at everyone around. “Yes, I actually passed not too long ago, and as I was weighing my options on where to go, I heard the message on the radio.” 

Charlie beamed proudly at Alastor, who just smiled at you precisely as he had been this entire time. You couldn’t lie. He was drop-dead gorgeous. He was tall and fit, and if his voice sounded anything like how it did on the radio, you would be a goner for sure. He was an enigma and one you knew you had to be careful of if you wanted to make it out of this hotel with your head screwed on straight. 

“My my, I am quite honored my radio show was able to bring in a petal quite like yourself, dear,” He spoke so smoothly, and you knew right then how right you were; you were a goner. “I do hope you are staying here with us to be redeemed as Miss Charlotte wishes; I am eager to learn…more about you, miss Y/N.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. Looking at the others, you laughed and began some small talk while they decided where would be the best place to put you. The conversations ranged from how everyone died to how people got here, and you learned more about how hell worked. Learning that Alastor owned many souls only made him more appealing and dangerous. 

As Charlie led you to your room, she made sure to inform you of the dangers of getting mixed up with Alastor. Being mindful of her warnings and the blaring alarms in your head that did not match the alarms between your legs, you made it a goal to avoid falling for Alastor at all costs. Oh, how wrong you were for that. 

Alastor had his eyes on you the minute he felt your presence near the hotel. You were unlike any other woman he had seen. You looked young and still full of life, so how could someone like you have died so carelessly? Not to mention, he did find you oddly attractive, and your calm demeanor was refreshing. He wanted you and in more ways than just your soul.

He knew the best way to any woman's heart was to court her and get her to fall for him slowly till she needed him and him alone. However, you were a tricky one to get under the skin of. You were so damn stubborn and stuck in your ways of being the lead in your own life that allowing him any control seemed futile. However, the challenge you possessed was all the more thrilling to him. 

It started off simple: He escorted you around the hotel. He wanted to lead you around like a gentleman, but you had your own plans. As he talked and explained a specific part of the hotel, your attention was elsewhere in your explorations. 

“Y/N, dearest, are you even paying attention?” he asked you sharply as you looked at the paintings for the millionth time since your arrival. You really wanted to listen to him, but this was kind of boring. After becoming close with the others, you were eager to hear more about their lives than be trapped with the man you swore not to sleep within this proximity to you. 

“Sorry, Alastor. Yes, I am listening. I was just wondering about some of the paintings; they are quite pretty.” You were honest, at least in the fact that you enjoyed the paintings. Someone had a knack for art, and you were not shy to admit it. However, when you soon learned it was he who chose all the art minus a handful, you quickly shut down your praise. 

The next time Alastor tried to win you over and claim your soul was when he began opening doors for you. He never thought the day would come when he saw someone challenge him so brazenly. However, that was probably the day he fell in love with you, as he allowed it to happen.

“Uh…Alastor, what are you doing?” You looked at the opened door with your arms crossed, your body still midstep from when he raced ahead to open the door. 

“I am being a gentleman, Miss Y/N, that is all.” He looked so innocent, but you had heard more stories and learned so much about him from the shadows. He was no innocent man but a cold-blooded killer. You wouldn’t lie, though, that his past and present only made you that more attracted to the idea of him. You wanted him biblically, and it only made you hate his advances more, as you didn’t want to lose your soul. 

“No, thank you, Alastor. I can open my own doors.” You quickly took the door from him, closing it and reopening it before walking through. The look on Alastor's face was akin to pain and frustration. He was not a fan of your independent attitude and was willing to bet he could break you before the year ended. 

Alastor resorted to making sure you always walked on the right side of the road, that your chairs were pulled out for you, and that your food was pre-cut; he even went out of his way to acquire a simple ruby necklace for you to wear so others knew you were accounted for. However, you were stubborn and not taking on his advances. All you would give him was that Cheshire grin and stubbornly push his buttons by mimicking his chivalry with your version. 

When it came to Alastors courting skills and all his advances, you managed to turn them down in the same stubborn way. However, it didn’t go amiss by Alastor that each turn down went from cold and distant worry to more playful and light-hearted jests on your part. Was it possible you were falling for him, too? 

He admitted to himself a while ago, just as you had that the immediate attraction you two felt despite the age and generational gap was mutual. He didn’t know how to break you while you were too worried about becoming his next meal, even though the way he wanted to eat you was not how you were thinking. 

That was until one fateful day when the hotel was barren except you two. You had sat perched in the library reading some trashy romance novel, hoping to get yourself off while Alastor was busy with his work. Busy working till his shadow happened to inform him of what you were reading. 

The book you had chosen was interesting in that the main female lead was a time traveler who managed to end up in the olden times as a helpless damsel needing a strong man to care for her—the complete opposite of what you were as a person. However, you wouldn’t lie that the thought of letting Alastor take care of you wasn’t electrifying; it just went against everything you stood for. 

However, reading the book and getting to the more intense sex scenes where the woman is restrained and taken care of sexually only caused you to feel more of a heated desire for the man who had plagued your thoughts since you made eye contact with him all those months ago. Sighing deeply, you flipped to the next page and moaned softly at the words, wishing it to be you. You wondered how long your and Alastor’s game of cat and mouse would play out until one caved.

Alastor entered the room and looked over your shoulder. He was enamored with you rutting into your leg as you read the heated pages. He smirked as a tentacle wrapped around your throat and pulled your attention up from the book to his eyeline. “My dear, what do we seem to have here?” He practically purred, and you whimpered softly. 

You were already so close to release on your heel that you didn’t realize the pleas coming from your lips. You needed an older man badly; you needed Alastor—someone who would worship your body. As the pleas left your lips, it didn’t take long for Alastor to pounce on you, his pent-up desire for the independent brat growing. 

Alastor wasted no time and already had your sleep shorts pooled at your ankles,  ratty nightshirt hiked up your back and drooping off one shoulder. Your inner thighs were slick and glistening with arousal from your earlier menstruations while reading.

 Alastor hummed in amusement, bending you over the couch, his cold tentacles holding you in place as he moved down your back. His soft breaths tickled you as much as they excited you. He hummed as he saw your pussy in full view, a smile growing on his face. He touched it softly, slick coating his hand as he spoke, “My dear, you are already soaking; you were thinking about me, weren’t you? Thinking about me taking you just like that man does in that book.” He smiled wider, lining his face with your slick. “All you had to do was ask, beautiful.”

A tender hand pushes down on your back, further squishing your chest into the soft plush of the couch arm, his other hand grasping firmly at the fat of your backside where Alastor’s face is lapping at your dripping cunt. Soft mewls cry from your lips, hands reaching back to grasp his head, fingers tangling through the soft red and black locks, being mindful of his ears. He only grunts in response as he continues his onslaught on your most sensitive area.

What felt like minutes and hours at the same time passed; your legs were trembling, knees threatening to buckle under you with three orgasms already coaxed out of you on his tongue alone, milking you of your sweet, slick nectar. Your quiet, strained cries did nothing but aid the tightness in Alastor’s dress pants, his cock oozing arousal in his boxers, dampening the fabric beyond. Every involuntary shift of his hips causes more friction and tension with the fabric, sending a groan throughout your pussy.

Alastors noises vibrate against your cunt, shocking your overstimulated and oversensitive clit. All you can do is cry out as he pushes himself deeper, closer. his tongue is merciless and selfish as he threatens to swallow you whole. At this point, you're begging for him to relent, repeated pleas of his name falling from your lips as the familiar heat builds in your core, and you writhe under his hands. The cold slick of his tentacles digs into your skin as he takes hold of your ankles and wrists now to keep you open. 

Everything becomes overstimulating as the world begins to spin. Your jaw goes slack, and saliva pools in your mouth as it threatens to spill over your swollen lips. Tears are streaming down your flushed face, your hair is frizzy, and your eyes are practically rolling to the back of your head as yet another release washes over you, sending a shudder through your body.

Alastor finally pulls his face away from the space he has claimed as his between your thighs, not without flattening his tongue over your cunt for a last taste gathering all of you he could. The tentacles held you tighter as he smirked and sat upright, admiring the mess he had made of you. A slick shimmer on his face as he licked his lips, “Delicious, better than any venison I have ever had, dove.”

As he stands up, his hand on your back pushes you back onto the couch arm. He kneaded the flesh of your backside, groaning at the sight in front of him. His hands meet your hips, pulling you back on his clothed erection. A small yelp escapes your lips at the friction against your sensitive area. Your frayed nerves against the soft material that soaks up your arousal and previous releases. 

You whine as he rocks his hips slowly, grunting as he watches the material dampen quickly before he pulls away from your hips. His movements are hasty, and he does not waste any more time as he uses more tentacles to help not only hold your wiggling form but also get his clothes off him. He liked this sight of your half-dressed attire as he held purchase over you, dominance you refused till now to give up.

Once he was undressed, he bleated softly at the warmth of your puffy, swollen folds as he rubbed his cockhead up and down your pussy before catching your willing slit. He groans at the tightness that welcomes him; the slick, clamping, spongy walls that pulse around his dick almost milks him of every last drop of cum. 

Your voice is hoarse, almost gone by the time his cock is sheathed in you, his cockhead brushing your sweet spot as you feel him abuse your need for him. You can feel every prominent vein of his cock against your spongy walls; they're practically ingrained in you as your pussy is molded to take his dick.

A creamy, white circle forms at the base of his cock as he pushes his length inside, his girthy dick stretching your weeping pussy with loud, lewd squelches. He doesn't give you time to compose yourself. He's selfish tonight, unapologetically so, because you had been toying with him for too long. After almost a year of cat and mouse, this is finally how he takes you. You drove him mad.

It isn't long until your backside is red, his hips pistoning into your sopping cunt, the sight of your slick pussy swallowing his red, angry cock so needily, sucking him in so desperately and clamping around him was addicting, and the feel even more so. His pace isn't lovely; he's mean, relentless, and bruising.

"Fuck sweetheart, so needy for me; you could have just told me how much you wanted this from the get-go. Saved us both precious time," he whined in your ear, his cock drilling into your tight hole as he nipped at your earlobe. Claws out, he uses his hands, kneading the fat of your ass, a sharp slap to your skin causing it to turn even more flushed and red as he fucked himself stupid using your cunt.

He was growing more and more pussy-drunk, drool forming in his mouth and pooling in his permanent smile, leaning over to place his lips onto the expanse of your shoulder. He pressed lewd, wet kisses against your supple skin, adding to the marks and bruises from his teeth as his demonic form began to take precedence.

With how hard he was holding on to you with his hands and tentacles, you were covered in bruises. He was marking you as his not only with chivalry and jewels but pretty marks that will mar your skin for weeks. He tightened his hold around your throat, pulling you up to a sitting position. He pumped into you harder, watching your stomach grow with his length in you. He groaned heatedly as he transformed more; his hand was pulling you up while his other hand began pushing down on the spot on your belly where he was poking through. 

As you both whined and felt relief, he growled in your ear, “I will make you all mine, my Doe. Not a single person can have you now.” He pushed harder for a few more pumps before you two were spilling over one another. He filled you to the brim, his seed spilling out before he could even pull out of you. With a satisfied hum, he let his body slowly return to normal as he slid out. 

You were fucked out beyond belief. He smiled, gently picking you up and placing your clothes back on you. He held you in his arms and sighed, acting as if he didn’t just release eons of pent-up sexual tension on you. He snapped his fingers, redressing, and walked with you in his arms to his chambers. There, he would repeatedly remind you who you now truly belong to. Soul or not, he was the one to dominate the disobedient brat you were.

[mint-fixates]

There's so many new ppl in the fandom right now I felt the need to remind everyone of The Before Times (the Early-to-Mid 2010s Gravity Falls Fandom Experience™:)

• Mystery Kids and that sickass fanmade animation/storyboard of it. By extension, Parapines (Dipper x Norman from Paranorman) being a super popular ship

• Depravity Falls

• Reverse Falls

• Ask blogs for all of the above things

• When we all thought Stanley was Stanford and Stanford was Stanley (or thought the Stan Twin Theory was too far-fetched/wasn't real)

• The fandom-wide debate of whether Stan said "*I* have them all" or "*WE* have them all"

• People genuinely thinking Stan was secretly evil

• People genuinely thinking McGucket was the Author

• People thinking Bill was just a mischievous, chaotic neutral trickster with no evil intent

• People thinking Dipper was possessed by Bill during Not What He Seems

• People somehow predicting that Pacifica was the llama on the zodiac wheel as early as 2012 even though it made no sense until Weirdmageddon????

• Billdip & Mabill.

• PINECEST. EVERYWHERE. YOU COULD NOT ESCAPE IT.

• Mystery Trio (Stanford, Stanley, and Fiddleford)

• the "please draw Pacifica with a grocery cart full of Wonderbread" creep bothering EVERY. SINGLE. ARTIST. IN. THE. FANDOM.

• The fandom-wide meme of everyone making ironic Billford AMVs set to early 2000s-2010s breakup songs out of the same like. Four clips after The Last Mabelcorn released

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Thinking about…

Alastor and Bill Cipher after the same s/o (headcannons)

Hazbin Masterlist // Disney Masterlist // Navigation

Warnings: Obsessive behavior! Alastor being sadistic, Bill being a bit weird because duh, wrote this with Human form Bill Cipher in mind, mentions of death

A/N: I really like this dynamic, even though it’s kind of crazy and a lose lose situation for the reader, but it’s still interesting to write about. I hope you all enjoy!!

Alastor

• Alastor isn’t just charming; he’s obsessed with making you see him as the ultimate catch. He meticulously plans every interaction, ensuring that you are always impressed and feel valued. Every compliment and gesture is calculated to win your heart.

“Why there’s that smile I love to see my dear! Ever the beauty!”

Alastor can’t stand the thought of you being attracted to anyone else, especially Bill. He tries to mask his jealousy with his usual grace and horribly timed jokes, but it’s evident in the subtle digs he takes at Bill whenever you mention him.

When Alastor is alone with you he’s not above grand, romantic gestures. Picture him serenading you with an old-fashioned love song or setting up a beautiful, intimate dinner where he pours out his feelings and tries to convince you that he’s the best choice for a partner and way better than bill in all aspects of the word.

Alastor’s affection for you is deeply strategic. He genuinely cares, but he’s also careful in how he shows it. He’ll often try to subtly make you see how a relationship with him would be beneficial, not just for personal pleasure but for gaining power and influence. He’s a very strong man and his image is important, what’s not to want about him?

“Don’t you love this view dear? We could be here all the time, if you wished.”

Alastor envisions a future where you are by his side, helping him dominate Hell. His feelings are not just about the present but about creating a powerful, enduring relationship. He dreams of ruling Hell together, and he’s willing to go to great lengths to make that vision a reality.

But not all things with Alastor are good, you know how much he HATESSSS modern technology and well, it’s how the world runs now. this is something Bill definitely used against him

“Don’t get intimated by a big screen deer man!”

Though he hates how Bills joke makes you laugh, his smile tightens nonetheless

Alastor will often put doubts into your mind about Bill. He is partially right, so it does make you wonder…

“What if he were to suddenly get tired of you? My dear, he’s traveled galaxies and destroyed universes. You wouldn’t want to be subject to that would you?”

or maybe something like,

“That little shape is no better than a toddler. He can’t even take proper care of his toys, breaking them when he gets bored. How pitiful.”

Bill Cipher

Bill is intensely infatuated with you. His feelings might come across as chaotic and erratic, per usual, but underneath, he’s deeply drawn to your spirit and individuality. He finds your uniqueness thrilling and wants to be the one to make your life as unpredictable and exciting as possible.

“ Wanna see this guy dance with his eyes hanging out of his sockets? Gotta tell ya’ you’ll never see anything like it ever!”

Bill’s way of showing affection is through wild and flirtatious chaos. He might sweep you into a whirlwind of bizarre, fantastical experiences, always with an underlying flirtation that makes it clear he’s very interested in you.

Bill knows how to push Alastor’s buttons. He often uses his chaotic antics to draw your attention away from Alastor, playfully teasing him and making a show of his own appeal. For Bill, it’s not just about romance; it’s about proving he’s the more exciting option, you’ll never be bored of him!

Despite his chaotic nature, Bill genuinely wants a deep connection with you, even if he does have a weird way of being about it. He’s drawn to your complexity and wants to show you that his brand of chaos can be both thrilling and deeply meaningful. He might surprise you with moments of surprising sincerity.

Bill is not afraid to take big risks to win you over. He’s willing to gamble with the very fabric of reality just to create memorable moments. His love is unpredictable and intense, and he hopes you will find that thrilling rather than overwhelming.

Bill is the type of guy to take you to a different reality for a date, wanna go watch marshans fight? no problem! upset about something? let’s go to this dimension where you can blow anything up!

He’s definitely got jokes though, and he’s good at them too

“Hey furry, why don’t you cut that loose part of your hair? OH wait, it’s your EARS!”

Bill is no fool though, he sees EVERYTHING, so it’s really difficult to hide things from him, which means being with him also means you losing your privacy.

“He’s a sociopath dove, you can’t really believe that radio freak actually likes you right?”

He isn’t wrong, Alastor has proven multiple times he keeps people around because he needs them for something, and Bill loves this

“What if you don’t satisfy him? What if he decides you’re not worth being with?”

or maybe he’ll say

“ You never know dove, what if he’s just after your soul? Maybe he likes the fact you put up a good fight, eh?”

Both demons have their crazies to them. Picking Alastor means Bill might destroy your dimension and maybe rearrange his molecules. But picking Bill means watching Alastor rip hell to shreds at your expense, hurting anyone and everyone to get you, maybe even threatening whoever you love.

Dating Alastor means you can kind of live a normal-ish life

Dating Bill means you keep your dimension

[bullet-prooflove]

Fishtail: Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagged: @kmc1989 @dizzybee03 @noxytopy @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

It takes Jack three hours to resolve your jail predicament with the security footage of Myrna destroying Richard’s Mercades. In that time he accomplishes two things. Getting the vandalism charges dropped and implicating your ex-husband in a crime because that asshole, he filed a false report by saying he saw you trash his car and the cops they don’t take that shit lightly.

You’re exhausted by the time he gets you back home, quiet, despondent. You head straight into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind you and the shower turns on almost immediately. Jack understands the need for space after the day you’ve had, you’ve spent the best part of 16 hours in loud chaotic environments, you’re about due for a little peace.

He asks Alexa to play Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’ album on low as he takes out his Bob Dylan t-shirt and a pair of boxers for you to relax in. He lays them on your side of the bed before changing into sweatpants and settling himself against the headboard to read the med journal he hadn’t finished last night.

It’s an half an hour later you come out, wrapped in his robe, your damp hair falling across your features. You look so small in that moment, almost timid. This is what your ex-husband does to you, he off foots you, makes you unsure of yourself, of your value.

“Will you braid my hair for me?” You ask softly and he sets the journal back down on the nightstand.

“Of course.” He responds before he raises to his feet and the hair brush and hair ties off the dresser.

You’re already dressed in his clothes when he turns around, sitting in the middle of the bed, waiting patiently. He assumes the position behind you, using the brush to gently comb the tangles from your hair as you close your eyes and listen to the music.

“What are we thinking here?” He asks you, focusing on his task. “French, Fishtail, Dutch?”

“You choose.” You tell him because you’re too mentally fatigued to make any decision right now. Jack considers the pros and cons of each one before be begins sectioning off your hair for a fishtail braid because his niece Ella tells him it’s the most comfortable to sleep in.

The braiding started seven years ago before you were ever on the scene. He’d come home from his last tour to discover his brother wasn’t coping with life as a single parent. His wife had died whilst Jack was away and everything had fallen apart in the months after, he started drinking, kept drinking.

At the age of eleven Ella was trying to keep the house running and get herself to school while the bills stacked up on the kitchen table because her dad was too depressed to get himself out of bed.

Instead of renewing his contract with the military, Jack had retired to take care of his family because they were in crisis. He had picked up the job at The Pitt so he could be available for Ella during the day time, doing the school run, helping with dinner and her homework until his shift started at seven.  

He’d picked up being  a girl dad quickly, throwing himself into it the same way he did everything else. He attended her swim meets, cheering her on from the sidelines, watched countless Youtube videos to perfect his braiding skills and learned the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song because that’s what Ella liked to listen to. It’s him who ended up shopping for sanitary products, explaining each one to her so she knew her options when she got her first period.

It stays that way for a year before his brother Callum got himself squared away and started to stand on his own two feet again. Jack had spent hours showing him how to braid so he continue his handiwork when he was well enough.

Braiding time is when she tells you her secrets, he had told his brother, anything that’s bothering her, it all comes out then.

It’s the same with you, he’s learned over the years. Braiding, it’s an act of love, a way of showing he cares without words, that he’s here when you’re ready to talk.

“I’m going to report him.” You say quietly as he weaves the strands together. “If he did it to me, if he did it to Abby…”

You trail off but he understands the implication. There’s probably more out there, others that have been too cowed by Richard’s influence to come forward. That’s how men like him work, they fuck with your head, twist you up inside until you break.

“That’s not on you Faye.” He tells you as he ties off the end of your braid. “He married you, why wouldn’t you think it was love?”

He hates that man for what he did to you, for manipulating you into a relationship, for coercing you into a marriage. He and your mother forged an empire on your hard work, his with his celebrity rehab clinic, her with the reputation management of said celebrities. It was never about you, it was about what they could get from you, how they could use you up to further their agenda.

“Jack I need you to love me tonight.” You whisper. “I need you to show me…”

You need to know that his love is unconditional, that it doesn’t come with caveats.

“Food first.” He pressing a kiss to the back of your head, his hands lightly squeezing your shoulders. “Then I’ll spend the whole day showing you how loved you really are.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Tokio Hotel Masterlist

This is my new masterlist for my new obsession!

Tom Kaulitz

Dating Tom Kaulitz Headcannons

Number One Girl

Not That Bad

Give Them a Headline

Tom Kaulitz x Thick Reader

Tom Kaulitz x Celeb Crush Reader

Tom Kaulitz Kissing Headcannons

Tom Kaulitz x Blunt Reader

Tom's Pet Rivalry

Reader Who Bites to Show Affection

Lazy Morning With Tom Kaulitz

Tom's Bestfriend

Tom Kaulitz x Sick Reader

Tom Kaulitz Argument Headcannons

Teen Parent Headcannons

Let The Lord Hold Your Tits

Enemies to Lovers HC's with Tom Kaulitz

Caught On The Bus

Tom Kaulitz x Goth!Reader

Tom's Best Friend Having a Crush On Bill

Tom Kaulitz x Insecure Reader

How He Talks About You in Interviews

Love at First Sight

Platonic Affection

Another Kaulitz Kid

Room for Two

Media Sucks

Tour Shenanigans

Co-Parenting with Tom Kaulitz

Pull Up Your Goddamn Pants, You Loser

Reader with a Russian Accent

Big Chested Reader

Ass Cheek Grabber

Reader With A Big Ass

Telling Tom Kaulitz You're Pregnant

Tom Kaulitz Seeing Your New Movie

Chaotic and Shameless Reader

Bill Kaulitz

Hair Dye Extravaganza

Designer Reader

Dating Bill Kaulitz Headcannons

It's Complicated

Bill Kaulitz x Thick Reader

Bill Kissing Headcannons

A Song For Bill

Bill Kaulitz Comfort Headcannons

Reader Getting Angry At Paparazzi

Bill Kaulitz x Embarrassed Reader

Bill Kaulitz x Motherly Reader

Hey Emo Boy

Bill Kaulitz x Mom Reader

Bill Kaulitz x Fem!Masc!Reader

Bill Kaulitz x Reader Who Is Proud To Date Him

Soon-To-Be Uncle Bill

Reader Who Bites to Show Affection

Snowed In

Approved By Your Sister

Bill Kaulitz Argument Headcannons

Bill Kaulitz as a Girl Dad

Matching With Bill Kaulitz

Bill and Reader as God-Parents

An Apology Wont Cut It

Bill Kaulitz Engagement Headcannons

Four Years Waited For

Sharing With Bill Kaulitz

Bill Kaulitz x Short!Reader

Bill Kaulitz x In-Love Reader

Bill Kaulitz x Reader With a Heart-Conditon

Bill Kaulitz x Celeb-Crush Reader

How He Talks About You in Interviews

Childhood Friends to Lovers

Bill Kaulitz x ADHD!Reader

Platonic Affection

Another Kaulitz Kid

Bill Kaulitz x SuperModel!Reader

Room for Two

Media Sucks

Bill Kaulitz x Exhausted!Reader

Tour Shenanigans

Meeting Your Brother's

Bill Kaulitz x Opposite!Reader

Bill Kaulitz x Jealous!Reader

Reader with Lorelai Gilmore's Personality

Reader with a Russian Accent

Reader With Commitment Issues

Ass Cheek Grabber

What The Fuck Are We?

Bill Kaulitz x BigChested!Reader

Reader With A Big Ass

Kisses In The Makeup Chair

Chaotic and Shameless Reader

Georg Listing

Platonic Affection

Room for Two

Media Sucks

Tour Shenanigans

Chaotic and Shameless Reader

Gustav Schäfer

Platonic Affection

Room for two

Media Sucks

Gustav Schäfer Fluff Headcannons

Tour Shenanigans

[literaila]

still here 

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: there’s an ache in me, put there by the ache in you

(for @elysian-chaos)

warnings: angst, fluff, feeling unworthy, feeling useless, you know, seperation 

a/n: ‘tis the damn season is the best song ever. dont argue 

*

there's this little thing called stress baking. 

typically, stress baking is referred to as coping by making something delicious to scavenge on, instead of dwelling on the feelings scavenging you. and typically, it's done with a certain type of elegance--one that is made up of chaos. completely insane, yet completely in control. it's a messy dance, but perfectly choreographed. 

stress baking is a very reviving task. filling up the house with muffins and pies is not only good for distracting yourself, but also for making friends when you run out of room. or smiling at the cashier every time you have to go to the store for ingredients. 

it's something you've practiced for years. something you've become somewhat addicted to. 

but then there's baking while stressed. which, you swear, hadn't been your intention. 

brownies from a box were supposed to be easy. they were notoriously easy. a couple of eggs, some oil, and some water. the hardest part of your job was mixing, but you'd done it so many times that you zoned out while doing all of it. 

box brownies were supposed to be non-stress and quick. but when you burn the brownies and batter rises over the top of your glass pan, and the oven is dirty, and the apartment smells like burnt batter and oven cleaner--well, you have to reread the directions. 

you're a good baker. you've been making cookies and cakes for parties for years. you pride yourself on not needing measuring cups because you can eye a recipe by the gram. 

not that these brownies would agree. 

and it's already five-forty-five. peter is going to be home in the next fifteen minutes and this was supposed to be a treat. something good. 

"surprise! i ruined our oven, and now we're going to have to spend the next few nights at your aunt's house in your twin-sized bed until the smell of death goes away!" doesn't typically bring out any smiles.

and peter's been stressed lately, and you've been stressed about him. 

and now you're making brownies from scratch without butter--because you used it all on the last batch, oops--and the number of candles you've lit is a sure fire hazard. 

but if peter would just smile at you, pull you in by your waist and laugh while he kissed you with a chocolate mouth, it would all be fine. 

if there wasn't so much riding on this one (two) pan(s) of brownies. like being able to sleep comfortably tonight. 

you turned the oven down, found a new pan--threw the other one out because it was nothing but a source of disappointment--and cleaned the oven just enough to not draw any suspicions. but you could still feel the failure lurking. 

peter was going to come home to a chaotic house, and it was your fault. 

so you scrubbed at the counters. fixed the stack of bills on the table so that you couldn't see any of the stamps, folded the blankets, and even swept the kitchen floor. 

still, you knew peter would know. because he always knows. and maybe that was why he was acting so weird lately--maybe that's why you were acting so weird. 

the door opened when the timer on the oven went off. 

you'd wanted to watch peter walk through the door--so you could gauge how tired he was, how miserable--but maybe it was better not to know. to let him put on a mask while your back was still turned. 

"hey, baby," he said, as you were pulling the brownies out of the oven, setting his house keys on the counter and sighing. "i'm home." 

you peeked over your shoulder, giving him a hint of a smile--the same type he was giving you. "hey, honey," you said back, "you're home." 

peter walked around the island to stand right behind you, kissing the back of your head and stealing a look over to the stovetop. he clears his throat. "brownies?" 

you shrug. "thought you might like something sweet when you got home." 

you take off the oven mitt, not really wanting to look at him--maybe because you're scared of what you'll see, or maybe just because you can already feel his eyes tearing down your skin. 

but you can feel his breath on your neck as he chuckles. his exhaustion as he leans into your back. 

"i've already got you, though," he whispers one peck at the edge of your jaw, another by your ear. 

you snort and pull away, turning so you can look at him. and then you pretend to throw up. 

he laughs and pokes your forehead.

you're not looking at him and he's not looking at you. 

you turn back to the brownies. 

"did you drop something in the oven?" peter asks, leaning his chin on your shoulder. 

"no," you answer, a bit too defensive. 

"sure?" 

"am i sure that i didn't burn something in the oven, peter? yes." 

there's a beat. "...cause it smells like it." 

you headbutt him. "you smell like it. go shower. you can't eat these yet." 

"yes, ma'am," peter takes a step back, and you look at him again.  you can see the question in his eyes, and see your own reflecting the same question. 

what are you hiding? 

"we have some ice cream, too." 

peter moans, his head back. you roll your eyes at him. 

and you start cutting the brownies, worries, and chocolate chips sticking to the knife, listening to peter's footsteps, feeling his presence sticking to you like sugar, sticky and rich, his eyes keeping you on edge. 

you know you shouldn't feel stupid--peter doesn't actually know what happened, or care--but you do. because he knows, and because even from the split second you looked at him, you could see the strain on his skin, the pressure weighing him down, dragging his feet across the floor. 

you feel stupid just because you don't know what to do. so before he can close the door, you turn around. choosing reaction instead of pretending. 

"peter?" 

he pauses, his head whipping towards you. his eyes are as soft and loving as they always are--his attention remains the same, even when his energy doesn't. like he's wasting himself away just to take care of you. 

he swallows. "yeah?" 

"are you--" you blink, look away, try not to taste burnt brownies. "are you okay? you seem tired. was work… alright? 

peter smiles, shaking his head. "just the usual, bub. work and... work. i think i'll go to bed early tonight?" 

you raise a brow. 

peter clears his throat. "i mean, i think i'll take a nap tonight before i go out." 

you nod. "okay." 

you both stare at each other for a moment. he's far enough away that it's easier. you don't have to feel his emotions as he processes them. don't have to see them from up close. 

you hate yourself for being afraid of him. for being afraid for him. 

“d’ya want to join me?” peter asks, whisper slipping from his mouth, smile taunting from his lips. “we can cuddle and eat brownies.” 

you lick your lips, shaky smile enough. “you sure? i’ve heard i can be a bit distracting…”

peter’s laugh makes his shoulders shake. “you heard correctly,” he says eyes crinkled, “but i don’t mind.” 

you nod. you’re grateful for his ease. the careful reveal of his true face, the peeling of a mask. the admittance that not everything is perfect, no matter how small. 

“go shower. i’ll get the sugar.” 

peter kisses you on the cheek before he goes.

and at least you got a couple of smiles out of him. at least you can feel his kiss lingering on your skin. 

* 

it's not that serious. honestly. 

you hardly even think about it. you're not thinking about it. 

you're not dwelling on the smell of soft skin and the feeling of calloused hands running up and down your back, the tickle of a breath against your neck. 

you're not thinking about it at all. 

and if it's been a week--or a week and a half, or two, or three--since you last spoke, or shared the same space with peter, then it's fine. 

this is something you've grown used to. something you're supposed to be used to. 

peter has obligations. 

he has things he needs to fulfill--not just for himself, but for others, for the guilt that you can see rocking his bones all of the time, the shame in his eyes when he comes home a bit too early. he has places that he needs to be, if only because he won't be able to live with himself if he's not there. 

but then again, you're not sure how to live when he's not here. especially when the sink breaks. 

still, as long as you can feel him pull you into his chest every night, imagine him kissing your forehead before falling asleep, then it's fine. 

you're not thinking about any of it because it's fine. 

but you miss him. if only momentarily. 

he'll come back--you repeat this like a promise, like it's his voice whispering it to you--because he always does. 

space is good for the heart, some part of you swears. though you don't think you could think of peter any fonder than you already do. 

he comes in too late at night and is already gone when you wake up. he texts you updates--because you've talked about communication before--and tells you that he loves you through sweet little notes he sends during the day. 

if the thing he wishes to share about his life is the worm he found in his apple, then you're perfectly happy to listen (read). 

it's normal to miss the person you love most in the world. 

and it's normal for your boyfriend to disappear for fourteen hours each day, just barely cuddling with you for three hours before he's gone again. 

it's normal for you, at least

he’ll come back. 

and so, instead of thinking about peter, and wondering when he might notice the frayed edges of your relationship, you make sure that he doesn't have to worry about anything. 

you clean up after the two of you, running the dishwasher and cleaning the bathroom, and packing him lunch on days you know he'll be gone for the office. making sure there's always something he can eat in the fridge when he gets home late at night, and texting him to know what he wants from the store. 

you make the bed and wash his clothes and hope that maybe it'll keep him from burning out. 

you hope that maybe it will keep you distracted enough to not ask him for anything. like love or support or a five-minute conversation. 

if taking care of him is the only way to keep him going--the only way to keep yourself going--then you'll do it. peter takes care of you enough. 

but even if you're not thinking about it, it's there. 

because you've just fallen asleep--which is extremely rare recently, mostly because you like to wait until you hear the window and then slow your breathing until you feel peter crawl into bed with you--and just woke up. 

woke up with sweaty skin and a headache. it's night ten and you're getting nightmares again. 

it's ridiculous that you can't even last two weeks without peter there. without him kissing you to sleep. 

and when you burst out of bed, you almost fall into him--almost scream because you're sharing the bed with someone else. 

tears are running down your face. your heart feels split open--like your dreams have revealed something inside it. 

but you look over to peter and he's there; he's still here. 

so you take a deep breath--chest caving in, body following--and you rest your head in your hands. 

if there's anything you want right now, it's for peter to wake up. 

it's for him to know all of this. 

you want him to appear next to you, leaning over your back like he's going to shelter from the world if that's what you need. rubbing your back and whispering in your ear. you want him in your house and laughing when you break the shower rod again. 

you want him to cuddle with you before he leaves, and cross his heart when you scold him while he crawls out the window. 

you want him in more than just your memory. 

but peter is snoring next to you, and so you sit there in silence until the tears begin to ease.

*

peter's not supposed to be home. 

he works until five, and then takes the subway home--and you're not expecting to see him anyway. he's been shoving his suit into the bottom of his backpack right as you pull it out of the hamper.

so it's not that unusual for you to be laying in bed, shoes and socks kicked across the floor, hands gripping for some stability, and eyes puffy and red. 

and it's not that unusual for you to squeak when the window opens, and spider-man's head peeks into your room. 

you can feel peter's wide eyes behind the mask. 

you're quick to wipe your face, throw on a clumsy smile. "peter," you say, exhaling. "what're you doing here?"  

a body crawls into the window, dirt and grime on clothes finger-tips reaching out to you. "what's wrong?" he asks, voice only slightly muffled. 

but you take a step back, moving away from him when he lands on the floor, leaving spots for you to vacuum up later. 

"what're you doing here?" you repeat, voice a bit harsher, a bit faded. 

"i need--" he reaches his hand out toward you again, retreating when you do. "i needed some more web fluid. i don't--" he shakes his head. "what happened?" 

"i, um," you wipe traitorous tears away again. "i think there's some more in the closet. i keep moving it when i'm cleaning, sorry." 

"you're crying," peter scolds. like you're being ridiculous. like you're not trying to save him the effort it's going to take to fix this irrational piece of you, these lonely broken bits. 

you bite your lip and look away. 

because although you can't even see his eyes--they are still scolding. they are quick and cruel reminders that you haven't talked to peter in two weeks. 

you turn towards your bedside table, pretending to organize the contents on top. 

you can hear peter moving. 

"what's going on, bub?" he says, soft enough for the words to crawl under your skin. he's taken the mask off. his voice is clear. 

"oh, nothing, you know," you pause, shrugging. "just the usual sad movie type of cry..." peter's hand reaches your back and you flip around, almost knocking over your lamp. 

"c'mon," he whispers to you, far closer than you'd been expecting. 

you try and take a step back, only meeting a dead-end. he's cornered you. "you should go, peter. you were just--" 

"this is more important."

you laugh. "some silly tears are more important than a collapsing building?" 

"you're more important," peter swears, his eyes so focused on yours, "to me." 

you blink and shake your head. gesture back towards the window. "go and save some people. you don't have to help me too." 

peter swallows, brows furrowed. "will you tell me what's wrong?"

"i can take care of myself, peter. you don't need to worry about it." 

"well, i'm going to." 

you roll your eyes. and then you break free of his hold, moving away from the table, from the cage he's built around you. "move along, spider-man." 

peter doesn't move any closer, but his limbs are tense. his face is concerned and hurt--you try and shield that out.

"i'm not leaving you when you're crying."

"i'm not crying anymore." 

peter scowls. "stop deflecting." 

you take a deep breath, throat dry and aching. "i'm not--" you clear your throat, shaking your head and looking away from him. "i'm fine, peter. but some people actually need you. go and save the day," you tell him. "i'll still be here when you come back." 

*

and you are. 

you're sitting on the couch, staring at photos peter took on the wall, wondering how to explain any of it. 

how to explain yourself without digging the two of you any further in this hole. 

you've been trying to prove just how little you need peter--just how useful you could be--and by doing so, you've put yourself in this situation. 

because you do need him. you just hadn't wanted peter to know that. 

so you're sitting on the couch, trying not to flinch every time the air conditioning comes on, or there's a footstep from the apartment above you. you're waiting for peter to climb in through the window, waiting to see how exhausted he is before he has to deal with you. 

and you've bitten your lip raw. completely eliminated any evidence of fingernails you once had. 

your heart stutters with every minute that comes by. 

and when you finally hear peter hop in from the fire escape, your heart stops completely. 

you wonder if he's going to change before he comes and finds you. before the inevitable happens, and you give him another reason to work so late. 

your restlessness must be audible because it only takes peter forty seconds before walking into the living room. he's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

he's wearing a frown like a well-tailored suit. known and made for him. 

you're trying not to frown back. 

"hey," you say, putting on a smile, voice flighty and an octave too high. "everything okay?" 

"no one got hurt," peter says, the antonym to your tone. 

"good." 

apparently, your tight-lipped smile isn't enough to ease the tension in the room. 

"are you ready to talk?" peter asks, slowly stepping toward you, just barely meeting your eyes. 

you'd scrubbed your face after he left. sobbed in the shower as you washed away any of the shame you hadn't meant for him to see. you'd made sure that your eyes weren't puffy, and your eyelashes were dry before he'd got home. 

so when peter scans your face--as he's doing now--he shouldn't notice anything unusual. 

besides the facade you're putting on. 

you clear your throat, eyebrows lifted like you're unconcerned. "there's not much to talk about." 

peter's sullen face doesn't move an inch. "why were you crying?" 

"i already told you. i watched a sad movie," you wave a hand, "you just came in at the wrong time." 

peter sighs. he sits down on the couch next to you, keeping his distance. "don't lie." 

you frown. "i'm not lying." 

"you've got some pretty obvious tells, you know," peter whispers, giving you a hint of a bittersweet smile. "you don't have to talk to me. but i'd like it if you did. i just want to make sure that you're... okay." 

"i'm fine, peter." 

he looks away. "and if you're not then we'll figure it out. i just want to know." 

"well, you do." 

peter opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. 

he's sitting three feet away from you, but his hands are clasped together, his legs are opposite of yours, and he can't even look at you. 

you can feel it, as you push him away. as you try so desperately to hold him close without touching him. 

"okay," peter says, eyes meeting yours again. "i don't want to push you." 

no, but he should pull you off of this ledge. should keep you from falling any further than you already have. 

you shake your head, laughing. it's not funny. 

"what?" 

you close your eyes. count to ten. forget how to breathe, or how to speak to the person you love most in this world. 

"what?" peter repeats, but softer. 

you open your eyes. 

and then it all crumbles. 

you scoff. "can you stop looking at me like that?" you plead, breaking away, physically distancing yourself from him. 

"like what?" 

it's his fault, really, for coming home so early in the day. 

"like you can't deal with this. like this is exhausting." 

the tears sneak up on you, knocking you out before you even notice that they're there. 

peter's eyes are wide as he stares at you. "you're not--" he swallows, frantically reaching towards you. "this isn't exhausting--i'm not--" a moment, tears beginning to fall. "what do you--" 

you sigh, shaking your head. "you're always gone, and you come home exhausted every night after you think i've fallen asleep, and you only talk to me through text, and even now you just--" you stop, voice breaking. "if you can't do this," you say, softly, "then you should just tell me." 

peter is closer than he was a moment ago. "what?" 

"i know this is a lot of work, okay? and i know that you're already pushing yourself, so it's fine if i'm too much. if--if loving me is too much." 

there's a moment of silence, and you're almost sure that peter has already left. 

but then there's a thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. you can't open your eyes, can't face the reality you've been desperately holding off. 

"you're not too much." 

peter moves closer to you, his leg touching yours, his hands moving so that he can hold you closer. 

you couldn't push him away if you tried. 

"you're not too much," he repeats, the words sinking into your skin, his breath meeting yours. "i can't believe you would think that." 

you half laugh, half sob. peter wipes away those tears too. 

"you're the only thing keeping me going," he tells you, kissing your forehead. "i'm sorry i haven't been there. i didn't realize..." he shakes his head. 

"you shouldn't have to take care of me as much as you do," you whisper. 

peter nudges his head against yours. "hey. you take care of me way more than i take care of you. you clean up after me and stay up with me when i can't sleep. you help fix my suits, and do all of the laundry. and you never complain. you're practically my guardian angel." 

"that's all easy." 

"not for me," peter says, voice lighter than before. 

you shrug. 

"but you do all of that cause you love me," he adds, kissing your forehead again. "or, i hope that's why." 

"it's the sex." 

peter laughs, nuzzling his head into you. "well, at least you're honest. but, it's the same reason that i take care of you. you shouldn't feel... guilty because of that. you're no burden on me." 

"no?" 

"absolutely not." 

you bite your lip. try and believe peter. but honestly, you're most lovesick from how close he's holding you. how you can feel his skin and listen to him speak somewhere that isn't your bed. you're not quite sure that this isn't a dream. 

"hey," peter moves his head so you're looking at him. "we suck." 

you laugh, leaning your forehead against his. 

"i'm sorry it's been so long since we've... anything. it's been a rough couple of weeks." 

"for me too. it's not your fault." 

"you have to tell me if it's not enough, okay? i don't want you to suffer through it by yourself. if you need to talk to me--even for ten minutes--then you have to let me know." 

"okay." 

"do you promise?" 

you nod against him, nose brushing his cheek. "i promise, peter." 

peter smiles, satisfied. he groans, pulling you even closer to him. "i love you, bug. so much." 

you can barely hear him because of how tight he's hugging you. it sort of hurts, but mostly heals. 

"i know," you say back. but peter probably can't hear you, because you say it right into his shirt. 

*

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf  @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon  @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl    invisibletrolleyson-jeremy  @sharkswaters  @rowniebow @anaislfbv @take-my-hand-time-boy @mileyc111 @starsval @ratsys

[multi-fandomdisaster]

Happy new year, everyone! As a gift to start up 2025, I give you all something I promised you all a good while ago!!!

✨BEHOLD✨, my favorite (alive) Ted details from TGWDLM (acquired during a soundless/no-audio rewatch I did of the musical to study his body language) (except as I go on, it gets more and more uncoordinated and chaotic):

(Heads up: this is gonna be really long, and as such, I'm gonna put the list under a cut as to not take up as much space. We're covering EVERY scene he's in [alive] within an ENTIRE musical. Buckle up, fellas!)

His shoulder shimmies during and after he says the "cute little barista" line

Honestly during that whole segment, the stark difference between Paul's near-complete lack of motion while Ted never STOPS moving

Actually, I don't think there's a moment in the whole musical where he's completely still and I love that

Also Ted seems so happy to be there talking to Paul lol

His little tippy taps on his mug while Bill speaks

He looks over to see the pot of coffee in Charlotte's hands when Bill makes the "coffee in the sugar joke"

His little lip twitch after the "I heard, I wasn't there" line

His facial expressions in the back while Charlotte's talking about Sam singing that morning

How fluffy his hair is during the alley scene in comparison to how it was slicked back the last time we saw him

"Paul," *tap tap* "get in a trash can!"

His apologetic grin to Emma after Paul says "Latte Hottay" and the way it IMMEDIATELY falls as soon as he looks back at Paul

BONUS: the way Paul flinches when Ted touches his shoulder

"My ID's in my back pocket-"

His incredibly confused expression when the cop grabs his arm and starts fake-driving with it

The "look at this guy" point at the dancing cop during the bridge of Show Me Your Hands

The way he starts vibing to the song during the bridge of Show Me Your Hands (this will return)

The way he plugs his ears as soon as the one cop starts imitating a siren (Bill and Emma also do this)

The double take he does when Sam pulls a gun on Charlotte

He uses the trash can lid as a shield

His visual "you're going great" as Emma's talking about Hidgens

The confidence and the smile as he says "A king"

He puts a hand through his hair as he looks down at Sam

He's very touchy with all of his friends. First the shoulder pats with Paul (which Paul seemed very uncomfortable with), and now the shoulder hold and back pats with Charlotte

He slightly extends his pinky when pointing

He often stands with his hands in his pockets and gently sways, shifting his weight thoughtlessly back and forth from one foot to the other. Bro literally CANNOT stand still

Okay, scratch the slightly extending his pinky. Bro just full-on points like this ->🤘sometimes (except with his left hand. Is Joey Richter a lefty? I ask because Ted primarily gestures with his left hand)

The little flourish (and/or fumble) with the handcuff keys as he puts them in his pocket

He rubs his hands together and cracks his knuckles as Hidgens is talking about the blue shit

His crossed arms and general bored body language as Alexa dims the lights

As soon as everyone else leaves, his body language immediately opens a little bit as he (and this is truly the only way I can describe this) swaggers over to Charlotte and IMMEDIATELY touches her shoulders, rubbing them soothingly before full-on holding her to him. Touch is this man's love language, platonic or otherwise, and nobody can convince me otherwise

I love the way he looks at Charlotte. You can tell he genuinely cares about what she me saying, and he looks confused and maybe a little hurt when she pushes him away. You can also see the exact moment the confusion weans as he determines the next words he's going to say.

HE DOES STOP MOVING AT ONE POINT! TO LISTEN TO CHARLOTTE!!! HE STOPS ALL MOTION TO FOCUS ON WHAT SHE'S SAYING!

His smirk on "always will be"

Okay, but like- Charlotte moves so much in this scene in comparison to Ted. Her shoulders, her face, her head; my girl's practically squirming the whole time. And I know it's mostly to drive in the joke with dramatized...flirting? I think? General horniness? Is that what's happening here? (I'm aroace; I don't pick up on/understand this kind of stuff lmao), but it's still a bit jarring to see a character deliberately moving their body so much that it makes Ted look practically still in comparison lmao

He doesn't look genuinely mad during the "I'm not your therapist!" line. He looks mildly annoyed if anything. Maybe a bit frustrated?

I genuinely feel like Ted doesn't like Sam. The two have technically never been seen interacting before, and yet the way Ted points at and states his opinions of Sam is done with so much...idk, "rigid matter-of-fact"-ness. He just...flat out does not like the guy

I have SO MANY EMOTIONS about the "This guy is a scumbag. You could upgrade to a sleazeball" line-

There's a lot of emotion in his arm gestures when he says that Sam's a scumbag. To me, it again looks like he genuinely doesn't like Sam, and he's trying to convince Charlotte that he's bad.

Then he calls himself a sleazeball, and he states it like it's a fact. It hurts even more to me how there's a slight smirk on his face when he says "you could upgrade" and then his face goes completely serious when he finishes the sentence with "to a sleazeball" and points to himself.

He doesn't look proud. He looks resigned to the title

And then he HOLDS THAT POSE, his hands/arms bouncing a little to drive in the point

I feel from that through the "but you refuse to be happy" line, we see a little bit of the caring inner side of Ted before he re-defaults back to his usual more asshole persona

UGHHH I LOVE THIS SCENE SO MUCH-

"I'm gonna go hit on that crabby barista" ✌️

Off topic, but we need a left hand emoji equivalent for every hand gesture emoji in my opinion lol

Ted is MANSPLITTING in that chair. His posture is so bad (and looks so comfy lol)

And also he's fidgeting with the bottle, looking relatively spaced out until he looks at Bill speak

Ted is 100% at his most asshole when he's drunk

Why does bro look like he has a headache at the beginning of this scene?

This goes for the whole show, but my man SERIOUSLY talks with his hands

Is that a bottle of Jack Daniel's? I feel like I should have noticed this earlier, but I never bothered to look lmao

He taps on the bottle every once in a while

"Oh" *nods with unimpressed frown* "My head" *nods with unimpressed frown*

He also stops moving between reactions. Like he's processing the stupidity of the threat in real time lmao

And then he stands up and sets the bottle down so he can go right back to his usual dramatic full-body movements as he makes fun of Bill

Okay, but it looks like he's genuinely having a lot of fun as he's making fun of Bill, and then gets pissed off again once he remembers he's supposed to be pissed off lol

I feel like there's not many details I can go into with this scene that people haven't already picked up on just by watching because Ted's a focal point in the scene

"That's what sense Bill taught me" *bows with the bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hands*

Wait, when did he pick the bottle back up? Is this a case of the "they put multiple shows together for the YouTube video?" Probably. Alternatively, Ted can canonically summon bottles of booze whenever he wants /silly

Bro is SO ANIMATED. He will NOT let this joke die on his watch lmao

I'm sorry, but his reaction to the light smack on the back of his hand gets me every time. Why don't we talk about this more often???

He looks SO OFFENDED (and a bit confused) when Paul takes the bottle away from him

The force in that "WHATEVER!" I stg I could feel that through the screen lol

Apparently he could feel the force of that "WHATEVER!" too because it lowkey looks like he's catching his breath after he says it

Man, I wish we could see Ted during the whole conversation between Paul and Emma. I wanna know what he's doing. I wanna know if he's listening along, or if he's spaced out and doesn't give a shit

UGHHHH I WISH THIS WAS AN AUDIO WATCH BC THE WAY TED SAYS CHARLOTTE'S NAME WHEN HE SEES HER BEFORE JOIN US (AND DIE) HURTS ME IN THE BEST WAY POSSIBLEEEEE

*sigh* I'm gonna need to do another watch through at some point that's just me listening for his dialogue during songs, aren't I?

Also I wanna listen to Jamie sing because GIRL CAN SINGGGG

Bro's just standing there watching Charlotte and Sam approach like🧍‍♂️, except slightly crouched, like he's ready to run, but he has no idea what the hell is going on

From a different angle, it looks like he moves to the dino pose™️

HE RUNS A HAND THROUGH HIS HAIR AGAIN!!! I am FULLY convinced he does that when he's nervous now lol

He readjusts his shirt and fidgets with his hands as he tries to think of what to do, and then he goes to approach Charlotte. Then they hit the chorus and he stops. Or rather, it looks like Bill held him back

He does a double take of Charlotte at the chorus

WHEN DID HE PICK UP THE BOTTLE AGAIN??? (Ted's booze summoning powers strike AGAIN!)

Bro is so frazzled by Charlotte walking toward him with her arms extended that he does ANOTHER double take

TED STOP PICKING UP THE BOTTLE OF ALCOHOL, IT'S NOT GOING TO HELP YOU-

HIM SETTING THE BOTTLE DOWN AGAIN AND PICKING UP THE CHAIR-

Did...did Ted try to use Bill as a human shield? You had a chair! Why did you put the chair down???

Legit though, he is cowering behind Bill lol

Sam and Charlotte are NOT letting Ted have a good day lmao

The way he looks around confusedly during "ride it" like "what the hell are these guys doing to me???"

DID HE CRAWL TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STAGE AFTER HIDGENS SHOT SAM???

At this point in the show, Ted's the only one in the main group who isn't wearing primarily white. I just thought that was interesting

Ted is STILL on his hands and knees with his jaw hanging open right up until the "musical doppelgänger" line

I love how he looks at Paul for help when Hidgens makes them sing Moana, like Paul of all people would know the words. I love even more that Paul is the ONLY ONE who knows the words

Ted's just trying to follow Paul's lead lol

Also BONUS: Paul tells TED that he didn't like that movie lol

The look of pure annoyance he gives to Bill as he sings a completely different song

The way he meanders around the back of the stage, looking down at (presumably) Charlotte

THIS IS THE FOURTH TIME HE'S GRABBED THAT BOTTLE OF JACK DANIEL'S (including him starting the scene with it)

He looks so done with everything when he's talking to Bill about him getting his daughter. He looks so exhausted. So...emotionally drained and angry and, dare I say, grieving

I think the bottle switches hands between shots

YES! WE FINALLY SEE HIM DRINKING FROM IT! I don't know why I'm excited about that lol

He momentarily stops moving to process before "Oh, I'm a fucking creep?"

The way his eyes widen during "...people who are FUCKING DEAD!"

He also stops moving while waiting for & listening to Paul's response

There's so much emotion from him during this scene, but I can't think of the words to describe it

He's just so...frustrated and sad :(

He keeps sitting back down in the same chair whenever nobody's speaking to him

AND HE TAKES ANOTHER DRINK!

YES!!! SHOW STOPPIN' NUMBER!!! I LOVE HIS VIBES IN THIS SCENE!!!

I love how he's effectively asleep on top of Emma

HIS DOUBLE-CHIN I CAN'T-

"What? Wha...? What...? The fuck...?"

The way he's facing the complete opposite direction from Hidgens and has no idea what's going on lmao

His slow tired processing about how the heck he can turn/lean around to see

He like- looks around, then tries to look over his right shoulder, then looks around again, rinse and repeat

'What's going on over there?' *scoot scoot*

His expressions range from "what tf is this guy on about?" to "this guys a fucking dumbass"

He's taking in everything occasionally nodding along

Man, I wish I had the dialogue in this scene memorized like to do for basically the rest of the show. It would make analysis of the scene a bit easier lol

The way it looks like it takes Hidgens chucking his Alexa across the room for Ted to realize he's in danger

*GASP* The first time we see Ted visibly uncomfortable with someone touching him!!! Like- a full on flinch and cringe reaction! Now, the real question is if it's because he didn't know Hidgens was gonna put his hand on his shoulder, because Hidgens is actively insane, or because he doesn't overall know Hidgens? Maybe a mixture?

He's breathing SO HEAVILY after Hidgens lets go and walks away. He was NOT okay with that touch

His slack-jawed expression when Hidgens reveals the keyboard. He's so shocked he stops moving again beyond blinking lol

"Don't you fucking do it!" *scoot scoot* "DON'T YOU FUCKING DO IT!"

He looks almost jittery at the beginning of Show Stoppin' Number. He's full-on looking around for an exit

He also leans away when Hidgens walks toward them

HOLD ON, DOES HE LOOK HIDGENS UP AND DOWN WHEN HE TAKES OFF THE JACKET??? I THINK HE DOES A DOUBLE TAKE, BUT I'M PRETTY SURE HE ALSO QUICKLY DOES A FULL-BODY SCAN OF HIDGENS AND THAT'S SO FUNNY TO ME-

He's OFFICIALLY VIBING TO THE SONG!!! And all Hidgens had to do was take off his jacket lmao

*scoot scoot* "Fuckin' go for it!" *bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce*

He is FULLY invested

AND NOW HE'S COMFORTABLE WITH HIDGENS TOUCHING HIS SHOULDER!

He is SO EXCITED about Workin' Boys! The Ted vibes are unmatched in this scene

And his investment during the phone call??? Hello???

"...and Chad..."

And then he's RIGHT back to the vibes lmao

As soon as the Workin' Boys come in, the vibes cease IMMEDIATELY and he's back to being terrified for his life

His very fast head shake

The gag where he starts praying to be saved and then Paul shows up will never not be funny to me

"I'LL GET THE PIANO!"

And mark another one down for him touching Paul's shoulder

And now he's also grabbing Emma's shoulder. And Paul's again.

Both of them are SO uncomfortable with him holding their hands. Emma gets OUT of that SO FAST when he lets go and both her and Paul's body languages are so tense. He notably DOESN'T try to slip out of his grip like Emma does though. He's just so used to it at this point lol

Another Paul shoulder touch. I should have made a counter for this.

I NEVER NOTICED TED FLAT OUT SNATCHES THE GUN FROM PAUL WHEN JEFF'S WORKIN BOY APPEARS THAT IS SO FUNNY-

AND THEN HE JUST DIPS

I LOVE TED

And another nervous hand through the hair!

Teddy...no...those soldiers aren't gonna help you...

Ted please stop waving that firearm around so recklessly, you're gonna hurt someone

He's so excited to see the military that he literally jumps for joy

The way his motion stops so suddenly when he gets shot. And the confusion in his eyes

Orgh the way he tries to resist-

His little head shake no, the way he tries to hold MacNamara's hand back with his free hand, and then when that doesn't work, with the gun hand, the way his eyes are wide with fear...until they're not

The shift from regular Ted to infected Ted is so jarring, especially after hyper-analyzing his body language and all of his small little character motions for so long. He's so blank. His gaze is suddenly so serious and empty. He's dead. In a singular swift motion, they've taken this lively, constantly in motion, utter mess of a man and turned him into another mindless slave. You can pinpoint the exact moment Ted is gone and the Hive has replaced him. It's terrifying. It's heartbreaking. I love it.

And LUCKILY FOR ME THAT MEANS MY OBSERVATION LIST OF ALIVE TED IS OVER!!! FINALLY!!! I'M FREE!!! /silly

I hope you've all enjoyed my insane ramblings about one Theodore Spankoffski! If y'all would like me to turn this into an actually coherent rant (or perhaps would want me to do this with another character, although note that would likely take me a good while just like this one did lol), let me know! The time it took aside, this was actually SUPER fun to do, and it's given me a new perspective and appreciation for the character! Hope y'all have a wonderful day/night/year!!!

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ the patient in 206 ♡

♡ Pairing: patient!mingi x curvy!fem!reader

♡ Summary: You always keep it professional at work but, when an attractive new patient begins to push the boundaries, you find it difficult to resist his charm.

♡ Genre: fluff/suggestive

♡ Word Count: 1.8k

♡ Warnings: reader’s short so there’s references to how tiny she is, mingi puts his face in your boobs nonsexually. they're just comfy for him, mention of blood/anesthesia

♡ A/N: This is based on an idea @urlacuna threw into my asks. I hope I did a good job interpreting what you wanted into a fic!

Red licorice, if you eat enough of it, does a hell of a job mimicking internal bleeding. That’s why the patient in 202 is here today for a colonoscopy. Just to make sure. You know this because the husband of a patient is draped over the nurse’s station while you’re doing charts, huffing and puffing because he has to be here instead of presumably lounging on a couch wiping flaky orange Cheeto dust on the arm of his recliner. This is about as sexy as a job in nursing gets but it’s what pays the bills so you listen, partially anyway, fighting off the urge to throw what’s left of your watered down iced coffee onto his face. 

“Sir,” your coworker interrupts, her lack of patience for his bullshit obvious from the start, “Your wife’s asking for you. If you’ll go in and see her…” Before she can finish her sentence he’s stomping off, mumbling something to himself. She’s your favorite coworker for a reason. She takes a seat on your desk like you’re not in the middle of something. “I’d rather get two colonoscopies with no anesthesia than be married to that asshole,” she says louder than she should. You bury your face in your hands, muffled laughter escaping the spaces between your fingers, “You can’t say that!” 

She crosses her legs, thumbing through a patient’s file, “Like you weren’t thinking it. Anyway, I need you to take a patient for me.” “I’m already assigned room 205,” “Now you’re not” she declares, opening the folder to face you, the face sheet glowing like an ancient text in an adventure film. You see the name Song Min Gi. The picture, oh, the picture. “Remember him?” she asks. Remember? How couldn’t you? You’d been thinking of him ever since he came in last week. Not that you’d tell her that. Not that you need to. It’s painted all over your face the same way it was when you first saw him. 

Mingi came in with his best friend, Yunho you’re pretty sure his name was, to drop off some paperwork for his endoscopy. The other nurses swarmed the desk like moths to a flame, a sea of fluttering eyelashes and girlish laughter. It wasn’t often…or ever…that two tall handsome men sauntered into your job. And they weren’t just gorgeous. They were complete gentlemen, taking time to ask each of you about your day and making cute little jokes that eased some of the tension of such a high stress job.

As attractive as they both were, it was Mingi who had you wrapped around his finger from the moment he walked in. “We could climb him…” your mind whispered. The smile on his face whispered back that he might let you if you asked. “The little one” Mingi had called you, a suitable nickname with you being the shortest nurse on staff. 

“I like you, little one.” 

“Thank you, little one.” 

“See you soon, little one.”

The timbre of his voice echoed through your chest, the aftershock still felt when you returned home that night. You’d thought of him often since then, hoping that you’d see him again. You’d even peeked at when his endoscopy was scheduled for, excited to find out that you’d be on that day. Today. But you’d forgotten. Yesterday had been so chaotic that you rushed in this morning barely knowing which planet you were on, let alone the day.

Hair a mess. Makeup nowhere to be found. Mismatched socks on. At least your sneakers were on the right feet. You slam the folder closed, “I can’t. Look at me!” “Oh, stop it” your coworker shushes, brushing your hair back, “You look beautiful. Now go! 205 needs me and Mr. Song Min Gi needs you. Go, go, go!” She has you up from your chair, rushing you off with his file in your arms, quicker than you can register what’s happening. “Have fun!” she teases, shoving you into room 206 where Mingi lounges in the bed, his long legs stretched out.

He’s already loopy, you can tell by his low eyes and the blissful smile on his face. Yunho stands beside him, deep in conversation about something that becomes irrelevant when they see you. Mingi sits up, recklessly shifting his arms as if he doesn’t have an IV jabbed into one of them, “Little one!” “Oh my god, be careful” you gasp, scurrying to his side before he accidentally rips the IV from his arm. “So, are you my nurse now or did you just come to see me?” Both. The answer is ‘both’.

You dodge the question, “It looks like she got you all set up for me so let me just go check with the doctor and see if they’re ready to take you back. In the meantime, don’t injure yourself please.” Mingi winks at you, “Anything for you.” “You’re disgusting you know that?” Yunho groans, rolling his eyes, “Sorry about him. It’s the anesthesia kicking in.” You assure Yunho that it’s fine, slipping back out of the room under the watchful eye of Mingi who waves at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. When you return a few minutes later he’s already out cold.

“Be careful with him” Yunho warns, “He might try to, uh, force himself to wake up.” You aren’t worried. You’ve dealt with it before. Patients try to fight it off all the time. Eventually, they all succumb to it though. Even on the off chance that they do wake up the anesthesiologist has them drifting back off to dreamland in a millisecond. It’s almost annoying how cute Mingi manages to be, worthy of a full page spread in a magazine even in those dreadful blue tissue paper clothes they make patients wear.

Rolling him to a room not too far down the hall, you hand him over to the doctor and get back to your other duties. Checking on other patients, making sure they have their discharge papers, and shoveling some lunch into your mouth in between. You’re hiding in the office kitchen, cheeks packed with food and another fork full coming your way, when another nurse rushes in to grab you. “Y/N, room 206! He’s out of his mind!” You check your watch. Mingi? He should be out but he shouldn’t be awake yet.

No questions asked you race behind her to find his room full of nurses. Mingi’s up bouncing on the balls of his bare feet and…rapping? Your closest friend there, the matchmaker herself, scurries over to you, ushering you closer to Mingi. “We’ve been trying to get him to lay down but he won’t do it because he wants, uh, well…” “My wife!” Mingi shouts gleefully, long arms embracing you. His chin rests on the top of your head as the two of you sway back and forth. “Isn’t she cute?” he coos, petting your hair, “Mmm and she smells nice.” You pat him on the back, a mother soothing her agitated baby,

“You guys can head out. I’ve got him.” The room empties out except for Yunho who helps you seat Mingi safely on the edge of the bed, his arms still around you. Mingi sighs, resting his head on your chest, “Soft. Mmm. So soft.” He nuzzles his cheeks against your breasts and Yunho nearly chokes on air. “I’m so sorry. Mingi, stop it!” Mingi groans, shooing his best friend away, “We’re married. I can do what I want. Right, baby?” He looks up at you, his brown eyes are angelic under the fluorescent light, and you can’t bring yourself to disrupt his delusion.

“Right, you can do what you want but can you do something for me?” “Anything” he sighs, his nose buried in your cleavage as his hands traverse your curves. “Let’s lay down, okay? I’m a little tired.” You fake a yawn and he nods, easing you onto the bed with him. His face still in your chest, Mingi goes on telling you how much he loves you. He smiles at memories of how nice your honeymoon was. “It was nice, wasn’t it?” “The best.” This was far from what you expected coming in to work today but, in the back of your mind, you’re enjoying the affection, even if it is medically induced.

After a few minutes, Mingi drifts back off to sleep, giving you the chance to sneak away. The rest of the day goes on as normally as it can after something like that has happened. It’s not like you can tell anyone. You should just forget it. Maybe Mingi will. Yunho better let him. When you get the news that Mingi’s awake for a second time you beg another nurse to take him. You don’t even want to think about what might happen if he does remember and you’d rather not find out. 

Thankfully she takes over, allowing you to finish out your shift uneventfully. “See you tomorrow!” you shout over your shoulder, waving to your coworkers as they filter out behind you. You turn to check that the coast is clear before crossing the parking lot only to slam face first into a brick wall. You stumble backward, and strong hands grip your arms keeping you on your feet. A brick wall? Not a brick wall. Mingi’s chest. It’s your turn to look up at him now, his cheeks are tinted a strawberry red. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry…” 

“No, I’m sorry…for a lot of things apparently.” 

You glance behind him and see Yunho leaning against a car nearby. You wave to each other, the context of Mingi’s apology clear. “Look, I…” “Don’t worry about it. It happens.” Mingi narrows his eyes at you, skeptical of how often this actually happens. “Okay, it doesn’t happen” you relent, “But it’s really okay. I swear.” “I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m such an idiot. Clearly, that date I was gonna ask you on is out of the window.” “Date?” you shriek, clearing your throat to regain your composure, “I mean, date? You were gonna ask me on a date?” Mingi hangs his head, hands in his pockets, unable to meet your gaze. “I was but it’d be kinda weird now, wouldn’t it?” You stand up straight, arms folded across your chest, “Well you’ve gotta ask to know, don’t you?” “Oh, uh, does that mean that you’d…would you…date…with me?” “When?” “Now?” “Now?” “No?” “Fine. Let’s go. My car” you demand, strutting to your car with some newfound boldness overtaking you.

You aren’t sure if he’s even following you until you spot him out of the corner of your eye. Clutching your purse close to your chest you try to suppress how giddy you are then the panic sets in. A date? Looking like this? Unlocking the door, you throw your purse into the backseat, “I should probably go home and change into something cuter.” “Cuter?” Mingi asks, holding the door open for you, “You’re cute enough. Plus, you don’t have to impress me anymore. We’re married, remember?”

[deconstructthesoup]

It's Black Friday, which means I'm, of course, thinking about Starkid... and I have a theory that the specific order that the LiB are always listed in (Pokotho, Bliklotep, T'noy Karaxis, Nibblephem, Wiggoth Y'Wrath) are, in fact, the order of how powerful they are, from least to greatest.

Let's start with Pokey. Now, on the surface, yeah, being able to completely take over people and turn them into hollow shells that speak your voice may be pretty damn powerful, but I think this actually works to the LiB's detriment. Think back to what Hidgens said, way back in TGWDLM---the existence of the hivemind would result in world peace, because if they're all under one mind, one "Singular Voice," there's nothing to fight about... but the LiB are all about sowing chaos, driving people to ruin. And if Pokey takes over everyone, there's nobody left to mess with. Even Webby outright compares Pokey to the rest of his brothers, which speaks a lot to how they see him---short-sighted, close-minded, and probably a little selfish. (I could also bring up the fact that unlike the others, he seems a lot more serious and even somber in his infliction, tying into his stone-face mask, but that's a whole other thing.) He's also, interestingly enough, one of two LiB who weren't introduced by way of Sniggles---even Nibbly got a little song from two of them after he did his Honey Queen munching---so maybe that means something? Idk.

Blinky definitely seems to have a good deal of power, if the horrors going on in Watcher World are anything to go by, but it also seems kinda... limited. From what we can see (heh), Blinky just operates out of this theme park, and unlike the others? He actually got defeated. Alice and Bill broke out of the effects, flooded Watcher World, and made it out with their bond strengthened rather than broken. Compare this with Pokey succeeding in taking over the world in TGWDLM---even if he failed later in Yellow Jacket---Tinky easily pulling the rug out from Ted's feet in Time Bastard, Nibbly snacking on Linda without so much as a second thought in Honey Queen, and Wiggly fucking starting a nuclear war in Black Friday despite his cult getting defeated and him not actually manifesting, you gotta wonder... what's up with Blinky failing? But I think his human look in NPMD speaks to that---it's a very laid-back look, and I saw someone suggest that he (or she, here, I guess) is trying to emulate the type of teen who's just there to chill, sit back, and watch TV. Maybe Blinky's whole deal is that he's fairly passive, and just wants to watch the chaos happen while he nudges some folks in the right direction. I could be completely wrong, of course.

Now, Tinky as the brother who's smack-dab in the middle actually makes a lot of sense. His domain is time itself---that's nothing to sneeze at! He's incredibly devious, and he always seems to get what he wants! His specialty is driving people insane! But when you look at the fact that he seems a little too chaotic, even for his brothers, and the fact that his eldritch form is, uh... kinda tame, since it's literally just a yellow goat, you have to wonder if Tinky suffers from middle-child syndrome. He's powerful, sure, but he's weird. Either he gets overlooked or he's just there to be along for the ride---I'm just guessing this based on the fact that he had, like two lines in The Summoning, even though he's probably the reason the messed-up timeline in Hatchetfield exists. He's just the crazy middle child, and honestly? That works. Good for him.

Nibbly, I think, is the only LiB (aside from our tentacle boi) who is explicitly stated to be considered "unique," with a power set that automatically puts him on a different level than a lot of his brothers. He's the only one who can regularly manifest in our reality, which makes him the only one who can physically affect the real world---and sure, that means eating pagent winners, but it could also mean a shitton of other things. It's kind of amazing that with his constant hunger and the power to manifest on Earth once a year, he only limits himself to one sacrifice... and maybe that's the point. Maybe the sacrifice only exists because Nibbly used to use that night to cause as much devastation as possible, and he's calmed down since then. Which, uh... yeah, scary thought.

And, yeah, Wiggly is obvious. He's in charge, he makes the decisions, he's always revered over the others---it's pretty clear that he's the most powerful brother, and though everything he does in Black Friday speaks to that, I have a feeling that we don't actually know the extent of Wiggly's true power... and maybe, that's the point. The other LiB get clear-cut domains---control, surveillance, time, and hunger, with not a lot of room for wiggle room, if you'll forgive the pun---but for Wiggly, it's not so obvious. We know that his line in The Summoning is "Wiggly wants his wrath," but it's not just wrath that he preys on. In Black Friday, he uses what people want to become strong, quite literally marketing himself as the solution to all of their problems. In NPMD, he asks Steph, Pete, and Grace for the thing they cherish. He's not just wrath, but greed and desire, and that adds a punch. Also, that extra bit of complexity makes him line up perfectly as a devil figure.

And considering all of this, you have to wonder---where does Webby fall in all of this? Is she stronger than her brothers, and it's just that they outnumber her, or is she weaker? Is she older or younger (this might've been answered, I'm not as caught up on livestream lore as some may be)? Is it just her in the White, or does she have sisters? She's described as "A Queen in White," not "The Queen in White," which points to there maybe being more, but why haven't we seen more? Why is it just Webby fighting against her brothers, and why can't she do more?

*pauses*

Wow. Okay. Jesus, that got away from me.

Anyways, the Hatchetfield saga has super cool horror worldbuilding

[yjw1a1]

ANGOSTURA (TEASER) | PJS

PAIRING. Park Jongseong x female reader. GENRE. contemporary romance, drama and angst, University romance WORD COUNT. pendingg WARNINGS. brief mentions of overdose and heavy substance abuse, it's not graphic, I just thought I would mention it. cursing, and alcohol consumption. DISCLAIMER. This was inspired by keshi's song Angostura. I take credit for this story because it I wrote it with my imagination. characters used are just for the story and may not be how they are in irl. SUMMARY. Y/N never expected her junior year of college to be anything but routine—long nights in the research lab, endless pre-med coursework, and keeping her social circle small. But after an unplanned encounter with Jay, a reserved yet enigmatic student stuck in General Chemistry to fulfill a lab requirement, her carefully structured world starts to shift.

DATE RELEASED. ...PENDING...

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campus courtyard, where different student organizations had set up their fundraising tables, calling out to passing students in an attempt to secure donations.

Faaiya adjusted the sign at her table for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Build-A-Bouquet – $8”

Underneath, in smaller text: All proceeds go toward funding STEM outreach programs for local elementary schools.

She exhaled, rubbing her hands together to warm them. It had been a long day, and she barely had the energy to keep up her usual fundraising pitch.

Still, she forced a polite smile as a pair of students approached, quickly helping them pick out a bouquet of white daisies and sunflowers.

Then she heard them.

A familiar trio.

“Why are flowers so expensive?”

Jake’s voice—loud, confused, and clearly not meant for discretion.

Faaiya closed her eyes briefly before forcing herself to look up.

Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay stood a few feet away, unmistakable in their presence. They weren’t the type to blend into a crowd, whether they wanted to or not. Dressed in varying degrees of casual disarray—Jake in a hoodie and joggers, Sunghoon looking effortlessly put together despite wearing the same black jacket he always did, and Jay, hands in his pockets, posture loose but observant.

Faaiya sighed. “Are you actually here to buy something, or are you just here to stand around and question the economy?”

Sunghoon smirked. “Little bit of both.”

Jake, ever the instigator, grinned. “We were just walking by, and Jay was so interested in your fundraiser that we had to stop.”

Jay didn’t react to the comment, but his gaze flickered briefly to Faaiya, as she crossed her arms. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Jake drummed his fingers against the table. “So, how does this work? We pick, or do you?”

“You pick,” Faaiya said flatly.

Jake immediately turned to Sunghoon. “Dude, we should build one for you.”

Sunghoon scoffed, stepping back. “Absolutely not.”

Faaiya exhaled. “It’s for charity, not matchmaking.”

“Charity?” Sunghoon repeated, raising a brow. “Sure.”

Jake ignored him, turning back to the table with exaggerated interest. “So, what flowers would Sunghoon like?”

Sunghoon sighed. “I don’t want flowers.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say until they receive some, and suddenly, they have feelings.”

Faaiya rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Jay, who had yet to say anything.

“Are you just here for the show?” she asked.

Jay’s lips quirked slightly. “Maybe.”

Jake finally made his selection—a chaotic mix of marigolds, baby’s breath, and a single red rose. Sunghoon looked like he was physically restraining himself from making a comment.

Jay, meanwhile, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. He placed it on the table without hesitation.

A twenty.

Faaiya frowned. “I don’t have change.”

Jay tilted his head slightly, like he was amused by her response. “That’s fine.”

Jake let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. “He’s donating?” Sunghoon shook his head in mock disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

Jay ignored them, instead gesturing lazily toward the flowers. “Pick for me.”

“Okay, demanding,” Faaiya mumbled. She hesitated before pulling together a bouquet—deep orange chrysanthemums, sprigs of rosemary, and white carnations. She wrapped them quickly, tying them off with a thin ribbon.

Jay accepted it without question, turning it over in his hands. Sunghoon eyed the arrangement. “You pick those on purpose?”

Faaiya shrugged. “It’s fall. Seemed fitting.”

Jake leaned in, still grinning. “And what do they mean?”

Faaiya adjusted the remaining flowers in her bin. “This is a fundraiser, Jake. not a show and tell of the meaning of flowers–.”

Jake groaned, cutting her off. “C’mon, Yunjin talks all the time about you geeking out on flower meanings so—”

Jay interrupted. “Chrysanthemums for resilience, rosemary for remembrance, and carnations…” He glanced at Faaiya, as if waiting for her to fill in the rest.

She crossed her arms looking away. “Purity.”

Sunghoon let out a low whistle. “Damn. Thought you weren’t thinking too hard about it?”

“I wasn’t,” Faaiya said evenly. “It just makes sense.”

Jay hummed, still turning the bouquet between his fingers, his expression unreadable, then tucked the bouquet under his arm, stepping back.

Jake pouted. “That’s it? No sentimental speech? No grand gesture?”

Jay ignored him. “You done?”

Sunghoon sighed, already walking away. “Yes. Please.”

Jake huffed but followed, tossing Faaiya a quick wink as he did. “See you around, flower girl.”

Faaiya rolled her eyes, watching as they disappeared into the crowd.

[amethystarachnid]

Hi! Could I please request part 2 of CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL? First of all, thank you so much for the first part—I absolutely loved it! I adore pure fluff Tony, and I’d love to see how he and the reader prepare for the wedding. The ceremony is full of love and warmth😍 And maybe a honeymoon too? 👀 Totally up to you!

Also, I’m obsessed with your HAPPY TEARS with Steve, so I’m super curious to see how Tony spends his wedding day! 😘 Thank you!

CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL - part II

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Word count: 7k

ᯓ★ Part I | Part III

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): fluff fluff fluff

ᯓ★Uhm guys??? 422 followers??? I can't even explain how happy I am, and it's all thanks to you guys <3 so I wanted to do something special (like the holiday special kind of stuff) but I have absolutely no idea lmao, so if you have any suggestion feel free to comment or send an ask <3

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

It starts with a cozy night in, the two of you curled up on the couch again, laptops open, surrounded by a chaotic array of wedding magazines, fabric swatches, and a notepad filled with Tony’s increasingly absurd ideas.

“Alright,” you say, balancing your laptop on your knees as you scroll through potential wedding venues. “If we’re doing this Stark-style, it’s gotta be epic. But not so over-the-top that people think we’re filming a movie instead of getting married.”

Tony doesn’t even look up from his own screen. “Epic but not over-the-top? That’s literally my whole brand. Relax, I’ve got this.”

You glance at him over the rim of your glasses, one brow arched. “Do you? Because the last time you ‘got this,’ you suggested the moon as a venue.”

He looks up, feigning offense. “And what’s wrong with the moon? It’s exclusive, it’s got amazing views, and we wouldn’t have to worry about gate crashers.”

“We’d also have to worry about oxygen,” you counter, biting back a smile. “I love you, but I’m not wearing a spacesuit to my own wedding.”

“Fair point,” he concedes, leaning back against the couch and smirking. “Alright, no moon. But hear me out—what about Lake Como? Gorgeous scenery, plenty of luxury villas, and no space helmets required.”

You pause, considering it. “Lake Como… that’s actually not a bad idea.”

Tony snaps his fingers, looking smug. “Of course it’s not. I’m a genius.”

The planning spirals from there. Within hours, you’ve gone from casually browsing venues to booking a private villa overlooking the lake, complete with sprawling gardens, a dock for sunset photos, and enough rooms to house your closest friends and family.

The next day, you find yourself sitting at the kitchen counter, poring over catering options while Tony insists on researching cake flavors. By “researching,” of course, he means ordering samples from every bakery within a hundred-mile radius.

“You realize we could just taste the cakes when we fly to Lake Como,” you point out as he sets yet another box of cupcakes in front of you.

“And you realize this is me we’re talking about, right?” he replies, already peeling the wrapper off a red velvet cupcake. “I’m not leaving anything to chance. Besides, I need to know what’s out there before we start narrowing down the options.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as you take a bite of the cupcake he hands you. “Okay, fine. But if I gain ten pounds before the wedding, you’re footing the bill for my dress alterations.”

“Deal,” he says with a grin, licking frosting off his finger.

Things escalate quickly after that. Tony throws himself into wedding planning with the same enthusiasm he brings to building a new suit, and while his ideas often verge on ridiculous, you can’t deny that he’s genuinely trying to make this day as perfect as possible. By the end of the week, you’ve picked out invitations (“Minimalist and classy,” you insist, vetoing Tony’s idea of holographic ones), narrowed down a guest list, and even debated the merits of having an ice sculpture at the reception.

The moment that really seals it, though, is when Tony insists on flying to Lake Como to finalize everything in person. “I’m not trusting some random event planner with this,” he declares, scrolling through flights on his tablet. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Which is how you end up on a private jet a few days later, sipping champagne at 30,000 feet while Tony leans over a stack of cake photos, ranking them on a scale from “delicious” to “life-changing.”

“I still think we should’ve gone with the tiramisu-inspired one,” you say, nibbling on a chocolate-covered strawberry from the platter on the table.

Tony looks up, his expression mock-serious. “Tiramisu is great, but have you considered the social impact of a six-tier chocolate hazelnut masterpiece? It’ll change lives.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he counters, grinning as he reaches over to steal your strawberry.

When you finally land in Italy, the villa takes your breath away. The lake stretches out before you, its surface shimmering in the sunlight, and the gardens are bursting with flowers in every color imaginable. Tony looks around, nodding approvingly. “Not bad,” he says, slipping his sunglasses on. “It’ll do.”

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, spinning slowly to take it all in. “Tony, this is… wow.”

He smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “Told you. Epic but not over-the-top.”

The next few days are a whirlwind of meetings with caterers, florists, and decorators. You try on dresses at a boutique in the charming village nearby while Tony spends an alarming amount of time debating the merits of different napkin folds with the wedding planner. (“They’ll notice,” he insists when you tease him about it. “Trust me.”)

The cake tasting is an event in itself. You’re seated at a long table overlooking the lake, a parade of beautifully decorated cakes laid out before you. Tony, of course, takes this as seriously as he does everything else, meticulously tasting each one and jotting down notes like a food critic.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a slice of lemon raspberry. “It’s light, it’s fresh, it’s got that ‘wow’ factor.”

You nod, trying it yourself. “I like it. But what about the hazelnut one?”

Tony sighs, clearly torn. “They’re both amazing. Maybe we do two cakes?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Of course you’d suggest two cakes.”

“Hey, it’s our wedding,” he says, grinning. “Why not go all out?”

By the time you’ve settled on a menu, chosen floral arrangements, and finalized the seating chart, you’re both exhausted but exhilarated. One night, after a particularly long day of planning, you collapse onto the couch in the villa’s living room, your feet propped up on Tony’s lap.

“This is a lot of work,” you say, letting out a dramatic sigh. “How do people do this without a billionaire fiancé?”

Tony chuckles, massaging your feet as he leans back. “They probably don’t argue over napkin folds for three hours.”

“You started it,” you remind him, grinning.

“And I stand by it,” he replies, smirking. “But seriously, we’re killing it. This is going to be the wedding of the century.”

You smile, reaching out to take his hand. “As long as I’m marrying you, it’ll be perfect.”

He squeezes your hand, his expression softening. “Ditto.”

The days fly by, and before you know it, you’re boarding the jet back to New York, your heads buzzing with ideas and plans. The wedding is shaping up to be everything you dreamed of and more, and as you settle into your seat, Tony leans over to kiss your temple.

“Ready to make this official?” he murmurs.

You turn to him, your heart swelling with love and excitement. “I’ve been ready since the day you asked me.”

The announcement of your engagement predictably sets off a media firestorm. After all, Tony Stark isn’t just any billionaire—he’s the billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist who swore he’d never settle down. And now he’s planning a wedding? It’s enough to send every tabloid, gossip site, and high-end magazine into overdrive.

Your phones are bombarded with calls from reporters, PR teams, and acquaintances who haven’t spoken to either of you in years. Headlines splash across screens with phrases like “Iron Man Off the Market!” and “Tony Stark’s Bride-to-Be: Who Is She, and What Will She Wear?”

Tony, of course, thrives in the chaos. He’s always loved being the center of attention, and the fact that everyone’s buzzing about the wedding seems to amuse him endlessly.

“Look at this,” he says one morning, lounging on the couch with a tablet in hand. He’s still in his pajama pants, his hair sticking out in every direction, but his grin is pure Tony Stark. “Page Six thinks we’re hosting the wedding on a private island. They’re speculating if we’ll helicopter the guests in or just use a fleet of yachts.”

You glance over your coffee cup at him, unimpressed. “And they’re wrong. Again. Are you keeping track of how many ridiculous rumors they’ve printed so far?”

“Seventeen,” he says cheerfully. “And counting.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “I still can’t believe people care this much. It’s just a wedding.”

“Our wedding,” Tony corrects, setting the tablet aside. “The Stark name alone guarantees headlines, but throw in the mystery of you and the fact that we’re not doing some flashy billionaire extravaganza? It’s like catnip for the press.”

He’s not wrong. The media frenzy reaches new heights when it leaks that you’re not wearing a designer wedding gown. For days, every major fashion house seems to issue statements claiming they would have been honored to dress you. Some are downright offended, their outrage thinly veiled in press releases about how they “support individuality in brides” while clearly implying they can’t believe you’d snub them.

You, however, couldn’t care less. Months ago, during one of your trips to Lake Como to finalize wedding plans, you stumbled upon a small boutique in a quiet village just off the beaten path. The seamstress, an older woman with a warm smile and a sharp eye, had insisted on making your dress after hearing you talk about your love for simple elegance. She’d shown you sketches, swatches of delicate fabrics, and handmade lace, and by the end of the meeting, you’d been sold.

“It’s perfect,” you’d told her, running your fingers over the soft fabric she’d shown you. “Exactly what I want.”

And now, even as the world speculates about your decision, you stand by it. You can’t imagine wearing anything else.

Tony, though, is another story. He’s been obsessively trying to sneak a peek at the dress ever since you mentioned it, and he’s not exactly subtle about it.

“Come on,” he says one afternoon, sidling up to you in the kitchen where you’re scrolling through your email. He leans against the counter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Just show me a picture. One tiny little photo. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

You don’t even look up. “Nope.”

He groans dramatically, flopping down onto a barstool like you’ve just broken his heart. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

“You’ll survive,” you reply, smirking.

“Will I, though?” he counters, leaning forward. “I’m a very visual person. How am I supposed to mentally prepare for this wedding if I don’t know what you’ll look like walking down the aisle?”

“Use your imagination,” you suggest, scrolling past an ad for floral arrangements.

“I am,” he says, grinning. “But it would be way easier if you’d just give me a hint. Is it white? Off-white? Does it have lace? Beading? A cape?”

You laugh, finally glancing up at him. “A cape? Seriously?”

“Hey, I’ve seen stranger things,” he says, holding up his hands defensively. “You never know.”

“Nice try,” you say, patting his cheek before turning back to your laptop. “But you’re not seeing it until the wedding.”

Tony doesn’t give up easily, of course. Over the next few days, he tries everything from bribing you with your favorite snacks to kissing you senseless in an attempt to distract you long enough to sneak a glance at your phone.

One evening, you’re curled up on the couch when he tries a new tactic. “What if I guess?” he asks, turning to face you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “If I get it right, you have to show me.”

“Good luck with that,” you say, smirking.

He narrows his eyes, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve. “Okay. Is it strapless?”

“Not telling.”

“Long train?”

“Still not telling.”

“Some kind of vintage vibe?” he asks, leaning closer like he’s about to crack the code.

You just smile innocently, refusing to give anything away.

Tony groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” you reply, grinning as you lean in to kiss him.

Meanwhile, the media isn’t taking the news about the no-press rule any better than Tony’s taking your refusal to show him the dress. The announcement is met with everything from outrage to confusion, with some outlets even speculating that the wedding isn’t happening at all.

“It’s hilarious,” Tony says one morning, reading a headline aloud. “‘Stark Wedding Cloaked in Secrecy: Is This All Just a Publicity Stunt?’ They’re acting like we’re planning a covert operation.”

“Well, you are Iron Man,” you point out, sipping your coffee. “Maybe they think we’re staging the wedding in a bunker.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Tony says, grinning. “Really throw them off the scent.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No bunkers. And no reporters. This is our day, Tony. Not theirs.”

He reaches across the table, taking your hand. “I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The days leading up to the wedding are chaotic but exhilarating. Between finalizing last-minute details and fielding questions from your friends and family, you barely have time to breathe. But through it all, Tony keeps things light, his humor and unwavering support reminding you why you fell in love with him in the first place.

And even though he’s still dying to see the dress, he respects your decision to keep it a secret. Mostly.

One night, as you’re lying in bed, he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “I could just hack your email and find the picture myself.”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “Don’t you dare.”

He grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Fine. I’ll wait. But just so you know, the suspense is killing me.”

“It’ll be worth it,” you promise, snuggling into his side. “I promise.”

As you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but smile, knowing that no matter what the media says or how many absurd rumors they print, the only thing that really matters is that you’re marrying the man you love. And on your wedding day, when Tony finally sees you in that dress, you know it’ll all be worth it.

When the countdown to the wedding day dwindles to single digits, the two of you make your way back to Lake Como. The villa looks even more beautiful than you remembered, draped in flowers and golden sunlight as preparations kick into full swing. You can hardly believe it’s all happening so soon.

The day before the wedding, your dress finally arrives. It’s carefully packaged and transported from the little boutique in the village, the seamstress herself bringing it to the villa. She fusses over you like a proud grandmother as she helps you slip into it for the very first time.

In the mirror, you catch your breath.

The dress is everything you dreamed it would be. Soft, elegant lace hugs your body in all the right places, cascading into a flowing skirt that feels like it was made from clouds. Delicate beading glimmers subtly in the light, and the handcrafted details are so intricate, they could bring you to tears. You touch the fabric reverently, as if you can’t quite believe it’s real.

“You look stunning,” the seamstress says, her voice warm and pleased. She adjusts a pin here, a hem there, her skilled hands making sure everything is perfect. “Tony will not know what to do with himself.”

At the mention of Tony, you smile, imagining the way his jaw will drop when he sees you in this. But then your smile turns mischievous because you can also picture how frustrated he’d be if he knew you were trying the dress on without him.

True to your “no peeking” rule, Tony is relegated to the other end of the villa. You’d been firm about it—he wasn’t allowed anywhere near you or the dress until the ceremony.

That doesn’t stop him from trying.

A little while later, as you’re standing in the room where you’ve been hiding the dress, you hear a soft knock on the door. You frown, glancing at the seamstress, who gives you a knowing look before slipping out the side door to give you some privacy.

You crack the door open cautiously, already suspecting who it is.

“Tony,” you say, narrowing your eyes when you find him leaning casually against the doorframe. He’s dressed in a fitted suit—dark slacks and a crisp button-down shirt—but there’s nothing formal about the way he’s smirking at you.

“Just checking in,” he says, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I wanted to make sure you haven’t run off.”

You snort, crossing your arms. “I’m not going anywhere. But you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m not in the room,” he points out, tilting his head. “I’m just near it. Totally different.”

“Not different enough.” You start to close the door, but he stops you with a hand on the edge, his grin widening.

“Come on,” he says, his voice dropping into that smooth, coaxing tone he knows you have a hard time resisting. “Just a little peek. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Absolutely not.” You try to sound firm, but you can’t help laughing at how persistent he is. “You’ll see the dress tomorrow. Until then, you’re staying out of this room.”

“Alright, fine,” he relents, stepping back with a sigh. But then he winks. “Just know that the suspense is killing me.”

As he walks away, you shake your head, still smiling. You’ve known Tony long enough to expect this kind of behavior, but it only makes you love him more.

The next morning, the villa is alive with activity. The air buzzes with excitement as everyone prepares for the big day. Florists scurry around, perfecting the arrangements, while the catering team sets up tables under the canopy of twinkling lights. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear the faint strains of music as the band rehearses.

In the bridal suite, you’re surrounded by your closest friends and family as you get ready. The room is a flurry of makeup brushes, champagne glasses, and heartfelt laughter. Your dress hangs nearby, carefully draped on a mannequin, waiting for the final moment when you’ll put it on.

You glance at your phone, where a series of texts from Tony light up the screen:

Tony: How’s it going over there? Tony: Are you wearing the dress yet? Tony: I’m starving. Can I come steal some snacks? Tony: Okay, fine. I miss you. This no-seeing-you thing is stupid.

You laugh, typing out a quick response:

You: No, you can’t come over. It’s tradition. Suck it up.

A reply comes almost instantly:

Tony: Traditions are overrated. I’m breaking in and stealing you.

Shaking your head, you put your phone down and focus on getting ready. A stylist adjusts the loose waves in your hair, pinning them back just enough to keep them off your face while leaving the rest to cascade over your shoulders. Your makeup is soft and natural, just enough to highlight your features without overpowering them.

When the moment finally comes to put on the dress, everyone falls silent. Your heart races as the seamstress—who’s been invited to attend the wedding as a guest—helps you into it, her hands steady and confident. The fabric feels as weightless as a dream, and when you turn to look in the mirror, your breath catches all over again.

The room erupts in gasps and whispers of awe. Your best friend wipes away a tear, and your mother clasps her hands to her mouth, her eyes shining with emotion.

“You look incredible,” someone says, but their voice is distant, almost drowned out by the pounding of your heart.

It’s real. This is happening. You’re getting married.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the villa, Tony is pacing in his own suite, clearly struggling with the whole “no seeing each other before the ceremony” rule. Happy sits in the corner, shaking his head as Tony mutters under his breath.

“This is ridiculous,” Tony says, tugging at the collar of his suit jacket. “Why can’t I just go see her? It’s not like we’re superstitious.”

“It’s tradition,” Happy reminds him for what feels like the hundredth time. “And you agreed to it, remember?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would be this hard,” Tony grumbles. “What if she’s freaking out? What if she needs me?”

Happy raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think she’s freaking out? She’s probably fine. You, on the other hand…”

Tony stops pacing, running a hand through his hair. “I just— I don’t know. I hate not knowing what’s going on. And I hate waiting.”

Happy chuckles. “Welcome to marriage.”

The ceremony takes place under a golden sunset that casts the shores of Lake Como in warm, radiant hues. The guests are seated in an intimate garden surrounded by flowers and soft candlelight. A gentle breeze carries the scent of jasmine and roses through the air, mingling with the faint strains of the string quartet playing softly in the background.

Tony stands at the end of the aisle, uncharacteristically still. For a man who thrives on control and confidence, he looks both out of place and exactly where he’s meant to be. His suit fits him perfectly—because, of course, it’s custom-made—but it’s his expression that stands out. His usual cocky smirk is nowhere to be found, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. His eyes are locked on the end of the aisle, where he knows you’ll appear any second now.

When the music shifts, signaling your arrival, everyone turns. You step into view, your dress catching the light in a way that seems almost otherworldly. Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear it, but the second you meet Tony’s gaze, the world narrows to just the two of you. His mouth falls open slightly, and he visibly swallows, blinking as though he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.

The aisle feels impossibly long and yet too short at the same time. Your steps are measured, your arm looped through your father’s, but all you can focus on is Tony. When you finally reach him, your father gently squeezes your hand before stepping back, leaving the two of you standing together.

“You look…” Tony starts, but he trails off, shaking his head as though words fail him. His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s barely restraining himself from pulling you into his arms right then and there. Finally, he settles for whispering, “You’re breathtaking.”

“Back at you, Stark,” you reply, grinning as you squeeze his hands.

The officiant begins the ceremony, but it’s hard to focus on anything except Tony’s gaze, which never leaves yours. There are laughs when the officiant makes a joke about how unexpected it is to see Tony Stark—the man who swore off commitment—standing here, and a few sniffles when he talks about the journey that brought the two of you together.

When it’s time for the vows, Tony goes first. He clears his throat, looking unusually nervous, which only makes you smile.

“Okay,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck before taking both of your hands in his. “So, I’m not exactly the best at this whole heartfelt speech thing. I usually rely on charm and wit to get me through emotional situations. But… I guess that won’t work here, huh?”

The guests laugh softly, and Tony takes a deep breath before continuing. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and that’s coming from a guy who’s built flying suits and saved the world a few times. You make everything better—me, my life, the world. And I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I do know I’m not letting you go. Ever. You’re my everything, and I promise to keep proving that to you every single day.”

There’s a collective “aww” from the crowd, and you have to blink back tears as you smile at him.

When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your voice. “Tony, you are the most infuriating, brilliant, and wonderful person I’ve ever met. You challenge me, you support me, and you love me in ways I never thought possible. You’ve shown me that love isn’t about perfection—it’s about choosing each other, every single day, even when things get messy. I choose you, Tony. I’ll always choose you.”

Tony’s eyes shine with unshed tears as you finish, and you hear a few sniffles from the audience. The officiant smiles, asking for the rings, which Pepper hands over with a wink.

When the vows are complete, the officiant pronounces you husband and wife. Tony doesn’t wait for permission; he pulls you into a kiss that’s so tender, so full of love, that it feels like time stops. The guests cheer, but all you can hear is the pounding of your heart and the soft, warm press of his lips against yours.

At the reception, the energy is electric. The villa’s gardens have been transformed into a magical setting, with fairy lights strung through the trees and tables adorned with elegant floral arrangements. The food is exquisite, as expected, and the champagne flows freely.

Tony is in his element, mingling with guests, cracking jokes, and stealing kisses from you whenever he gets the chance. You’ve just finished an amazing meal—one that includes truffle pasta and a heavenly risotto—when the band announces a special performance.

Tony stands, dramatically clinking his glass to get everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, smirking as he loosens his tie, “it’s time for a little entertainment. And no, I don’t mean another Stark tech demonstration. This one’s just for my wife.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously, but you can’t hide your grin. “What are you up to, Stark?”

“You’ll see,” he says, winking before heading to the center of the dance floor.

The music shifts to something sultry yet playful, and Tony begins to dance. At first, it’s surprisingly smooth—he’s clearly put some effort into this—but then it starts getting ridiculous. He throws in dramatic spins, over-the-top gestures, and even a few hip thrusts that make you laugh so hard you have to wipe tears from your eyes.

By the time he finishes with a ridiculous flourish, the guests are on their feet, clapping and cheering. Tony returns to your side, grinning like a kid who’s just pulled off the prank of the century.

“That was… something,” you say, still laughing as you pull him into a hug.

“Only the best for you, Mrs. Stark,” he replies, pressing a kiss to your temple.

After the dance, it’s time for the cake. It’s a towering masterpiece of chocolate, caramel, and gold leaf, and when you and Tony cut into it together, the crowd erupts in cheers. Tony, of course, can’t resist smearing a little frosting on your nose, and you retaliate by smearing some on his cheek. The photos are sure to be priceless.

As the night winds down, the guests begin to trickle away, leaving just the two of you. You stand on the edge of the garden, looking out over the lake, the lights reflecting off the water like a scene from a dream.

“Well, Mrs. Stark,” Tony says, wrapping his arms around you from behind, “how does it feel to be officially stuck with me?”

You laugh, leaning back against him. “It feels perfect.”

“Good,” he says, nuzzling your neck. “Because this is just the beginning.”

When you finally retreat to the villa for the night, the excitement of the day lingers in the air. The room is dimly lit with candles, and the soft scent of roses fills the space. Tony takes your hand, pulling you close as he whispers, “Ready to start forever?”

You nod, smiling up at him. “Ready.”

Preparing for your honeymoon with Tony is an adventure in itself. The idea of spending weeks together on a luxury cruise, hopping between breathtaking destinations, sounds like a dream. But with Tony Stark involved, even the most straightforward plans take on a chaotic, hilarious, and deeply charming twist.

It starts with the packing. Tony has promised—on his honor, no less—that he won’t talk about work or tinker with his suits during the entire honeymoon. You’re skeptical, of course, but he insists he’s serious.

“You think I can’t relax?” he asks, dramatically throwing a shirt into his suitcase. “I’ll show you relaxing. I’m going to be so relaxed, people will worry about me.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning against the doorway to his closet. “Uh-huh. And how many suits have you snuck onto the ship already?”

“None!” he exclaims, looking genuinely offended. “Zero suits. Nada. Zilch. Just me, my charming personality, and an array of tasteful resort wear.”

You can’t help laughing at that. “You? Tasteful resort wear? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Tony smirks, crossing the room to pull you into his arms. “Keep doubting me, sweetheart. It just makes it more fun to prove you wrong.”

When it comes time to pack your own bags, Tony is—predictably—less than helpful. He hovers as you fold clothes, offering unhelpful suggestions like, “Do you really need that many shoes? You only have two feet,” and, “If we’re on a ship, do you think swimwear counts as acceptable dinner attire?”

Finally, you shoo him out of the room, promising to meet him downstairs once you’re finished. True to form, he makes an exit that involves exaggerated sighs and complaints about being “a misunderstood husband.”

The morning of your departure arrives, and the energy is palpable. The cruise Tony booked isn’t just any cruise—it’s a floating paradise with every imaginable luxury. There’s a private suite, gourmet dining, world-class spa treatments, and an itinerary that includes stops at some of the most beautiful places in the world.

“Did you see the pictures of the suite?” Tony asks as the two of you board the ship. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, which is both adorable and mildly concerning. “It’s got a hot tub on the balcony. A hot tub, Y/N! On a boat! It’s like science and luxury had a baby.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “I saw the pictures. It looks amazing.”

“And wait until you see the restaurant menus,” he continues. “They’ve got a chef who does molecular gastronomy. I mean, it’s a cruise, but they’re serving food that looks like it came out of a lab. That’s my kind of vacation.”

Despite his excitement, you catch him sneaking a glance at his phone more than once during check-in. It’s clear he’s tempted to check his emails or fiddle with something Stark-related, but you don’t call him out on it. Yet.

The first day on the ship is nothing short of magical. The suite is even more impressive in person, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer sweeping views of the ocean. True to Tony’s word, there’s a hot tub on the balcony, as well as a plush lounge area where the two of you immediately collapse after unpacking.

“Alright,” Tony says, lying back with his hands behind his head. “First order of business: relaxation. What’s next?”

“Relaxation doesn’t have orders,” you tease, sitting beside him. “You just… relax.”

He makes a skeptical face. “Seems inefficient. But okay.”

To your surprise, Tony takes to cruise life remarkably well. The first couple of days are spent indulging in everything the ship has to offer—long, lazy breakfasts on your private balcony, couples’ massages at the spa, and afternoon naps in the sun. He keeps his promise about work, too, although there are a few close calls.

One evening, as the two of you are sitting in a lounge enjoying cocktails, he starts rambling about some new tech idea.

“So, I was thinking,” he says, gesturing with his drink. “What if we—”

You cut him off with a raised eyebrow. “What was the promise, Tony?”

He pauses mid-sentence, then groans dramatically. “Fine. No work talk. But just so you know, I’m going to forget this genius idea by the time we get home.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you reply, grinning.

As the ship makes its way to its first port of call, you fall into an easy rhythm. Days are spent exploring the destinations—wandering through charming coastal towns, lounging on pristine beaches, and taking in breathtaking views. Tony insists on treating you to the best of everything, whether it’s a private wine tasting at a hillside vineyard or a helicopter tour of the islands.

“Only the best for Mrs. Stark,” he says with a wink, handing you a glass of champagne at one point.

“You do realize I’d be happy with just a quiet walk on the beach, right?” you tease, but he shakes his head.

“Nope. Not on my watch. You’re getting the full Stark experience.”

Despite his penchant for extravagance, Tony seems genuinely happy just being with you. He holds your hand as you stroll through markets, points out landmarks with boyish enthusiasm, and makes you laugh until your sides hurt.

At night, the two of you return to the ship, where you share intimate dinners, dance under the stars, and curl up on the balcony to watch the waves.

One of the highlights of the trip is a stop at a secluded island, where Tony has arranged for a private day just for the two of you. There’s a cabana set up on the beach, complete with comfortable lounge chairs, a table for two, and a chilled bottle of champagne waiting.

“This is ridiculous,” you say, laughing as Tony leads you to the cabana. “In the best way.”

“Ridiculously romantic,” he corrects, pulling you into a hug. “Admit it—you love it.”

You do, of course, but you pretend to think about it for a moment before replying. “It’s alright, I guess.”

Tony scoffs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. I marry you, whisk you away to paradise, and this is the thanks I get?”

You laugh, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. It’s perfect.”

The day is spent swimming in the crystal-clear water, lounging in the cabana, and sharing a delicious meal prepared by a private chef. By the time the sun sets, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you feel completely at peace.

Tony wraps an arm around you as you sit on the beach together, watching the waves lap at the shore. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I could get used to this.”

“Used to what?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Not thinking about work. Just… being here. With you.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “But don’t tell anyone I said that. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” you reply, smiling.

As the cruise continues, the two of you grow even closer, sharing moments that range from hilariously ridiculous (like Tony attempting to teach you how to play poker in the ship’s casino) to deeply romantic (like dancing barefoot on your balcony under a blanket of stars). By the time the honeymoon comes to an end, it feels like the two of you have created a lifetime’s worth of memories.

“You know,” Tony says as the ship pulls into its final port, “I think I could actually do this whole ‘relaxation’ thing more often.”

“Really?” you tease. “No suits? No gadgets? Just us?”

He grins, pulling you into a kiss. “Just us.”

Returning to the hustle and bustle of life after the honeymoon feels surreal. The warm glow of relaxation clings to you both, and even Tony seems slower to dive back into work. You’ve settled into the penthouse, unpacking and sifting through souvenirs from the cruise—a little sunburnt but completely content.

The first morning back, Tony’s sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, eating leftover pizza with a sort of smug satisfaction. He looks at you from over the crust of his slice as you sort through a pile of mail on the coffee table. “So, Mrs. Stark,” he says, voice full of mischief. “Back to reality or another vacation?”

You smirk at him, tying your hair into a messy bun. “You’ve been spoiled enough for one honeymoon. Time to work, billionaire.”

“Cruel,” he murmurs dramatically, though his eyes are warm as he watches you. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to focus on work now? Every time I look at my desk, I’ll remember that sunset in Santorini and think, ‘Why am I not with her instead?’”

You toss a throw pillow at him, laughing. “Well, if you need extra motivation to stay home, there’s plenty of laundry that needs folding.”

“Tempting,” he deadpans. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Later that afternoon, Pepper stops by with a stack of folders and updates from Stark Industries. She and Tony disappear into his office for what’s supposed to be a quick briefing, leaving you to scroll through your phone on the couch. You’re mid-yawn when a ping from a group chat grabs your attention.

Your best friend: OMG Y/N LOOK AT THIS. A second later, there’s a link attached to the message. Frowning, you click it—and your stomach drops.

It’s an article from a celebrity gossip site. The headline screams: “Tony Stark and New Bride’s Honeymoon Pics Will Make You Believe in Love Again!” Below it is a slideshow of photos from your honeymoon, clearly taken by a very determined paparazzo. The images range from shots of you and Tony laughing during a candlelit dinner to more intimate moments: Tony resting his head on your shoulder during a sunset cruise, your hand resting lightly on his chest while you both lounge by the pool.

But the most infuriating ones are the beach pictures. There you are in your swimsuit—smiling, carefree, and utterly oblivious to the fact that someone was pointing a camera at you. The comments beneath the article are already flooded with reactions, mostly admiring your figure and gushing over how “down-to-earth and gorgeous” you look.

You’re still scrolling when Tony emerges from his office, arms full of files. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the expression on your face. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

Wordlessly, you hold up your phone, and Tony squints at the screen. His jaw tightens as he processes the headline and the pictures.

“Son of a—” He cuts himself off, his free hand curling into a fist. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Paparazzi on a cruise? What, did they sneak onboard as stowaways?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, setting the phone down. “But it’s… weird, right? I didn’t even see anyone with cameras.”

Tony drops the files on the coffee table, sitting down beside you with a frown. “They’re like cockroaches,” he says darkly. “Show up where you least expect them, and then they won’t leave you alone.”

You glance at him, chewing your lip. “I don’t mind people seeing us happy, but… the beach photos? It’s invasive.”

Tony’s arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this crap. I’m calling legal.”

You stop him before he can grab his phone. “No, Tony. Let’s not make this bigger than it already is. It’ll blow over.”

He looks at you skeptically. “Blow over? Do you know the internet? This isn’t going away until people have analyzed every grain of sand in those pictures.”

You laugh despite yourself, leaning into him. “I’m serious. Let’s just ignore it. It’s not like they caught us doing anything embarrassing.”

Tony snorts. “Says you. I look like a smug beach towel in half of these pictures.”

“Smug beach towel?” you repeat, grinning.

“Don’t laugh. It’s a serious concern.” He tilts his head to give you a mock-serious look, but the teasing glint in his eyes betrays him. “Also, for the record, I don’t love the way half the internet is swooning over my wife.”

You blink at him, surprised. “Are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” He huffs, though the faint pink tint on his cheeks gives him away. “Of course not. I’m just… territorial. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh.” You grin, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry, Stark. I only have eyes for you.”

Tony pulls you closer, kissing the side of your head. “Damn right, you do.”

The next few days are a whirlwind of media buzz, but you stick to your plan to ignore it. That doesn’t stop the headlines from escalating, though. Every outlet has something to say, from praising your swimsuit to speculating about how you and Tony stay so “down-to-earth” despite his wealth.

“‘Down-to-earth,’” Tony mutters one evening, scrolling through an article with a raised eyebrow. “Do they know I own a jet with gold seatbelts?”

You laugh from where you’re sprawled across the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap. “Maybe they mean me. I’m the relatable one in this relationship.”

Tony looks over at you, pretending to be offended. “You? Relatable? What about me? I’m incredibly relatable.”

“You spent an entire morning arguing with JARVIS about the ideal temperature for orange juice,” you remind him.

“That’s called having standards,” he retorts, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Besides, you married me. That makes you complicit in my ridiculousness.”

“Fair point,” you admit, smirking.

Despite the initial annoyance of the leaked photos, you both manage to laugh about it. Tony even uses the situation as an excuse to post a cheeky comment on one of the gossip sites: “Whoever took these pictures owes me royalties. Also, my wife looks stunning—don’t argue.”

Eventually, the buzz dies down, replaced by the next celebrity scandal. Life begins to return to normal—or as normal as it can be when you’re married to Tony Stark. He dives back into work, though he still makes an effort to carve out time for the two of you. Whether it’s impromptu date nights, lazy mornings in bed, or just sitting together on the couch watching movies, he’s determined to keep the honeymoon phase alive.

One evening, as the two of you are curled up in the penthouse living room, you catch him staring at you with a soft smile.

“What?” you ask, setting down your glass of wine.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just… thinking about how lucky I am.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks flush with warmth. “You’re such a sap.”

“For you? Always,” he says, pulling you closer.

The world outside may always have an opinion, but within the walls of your home, it’s just the two of you—and that’s all that matters.

a part 3 with baby Starks?

[puppercupboard]

the song actively says that father defroque doesn't practice what he preaches and that he's a 'do as i say not as i do' type hypocrite

the music video shows a priest actively being a hypocrite and spending the money that the church gives to him as a result of his preaching prosperity gospel on sex and drugs that he preaches against in the jesus talk video

and somehow what YALL came out of this experience with is 'omg chaotic bisexual priest, terzo would have loved him ♥"

terzo?? the papa that in the He Is music video lays hands on the man who sticks a few bills from the offering plate in his pocket? The papa who in universe made a point of wrestling power from the hands of the rich and greedy? the man who brought us mummy dust warning us of the greedy and how greed rots from within while killing those around you? the man who brought us square hammer which is so clearly about practicing what you preach and showing devotion because not even satan wants a hypocrite as a devotee?

terzo would have called him jimmy in the most derogatory manner before feeding him to the ghouls body and soul

[milgram-tournament]

MILGRAM Best Song Tournament, Round 2, Match 2 BRING IT ON vs. THIS IS HOW TO BE IN LOVE WITH YOU

Propaganda for both options under the cut!

Propaganda for BRING IT ON:

"Reasons why Bring it On should win:

- Just by starting the song, the instrumentals are BANGER. Like his more rock style is very cool, even better than After Pain’s more mellow style - Arthur’s voice (Futa’s va) had bills due because have you HEARD his singing?? His raspier voice fits Futa so well - It feels so explosive and like a call to action in a sense, which very much matches Futa’s mentality during trial 1. He also wasn’t playing victim like a CERTAIN girl… (jk, love you mu!) - SAA HAJIMEYOU USOTSUKI KARIDA - UNDEAD HEROOOI YES SLAY KING HIS HIGH NOTE HERE IS HEAVENLY - His scream at the end. Oh my god. HE LITERALLY ATE THIS NOTE. AFTER PAIN COULD NEVER. BRING IT ON FTW 🔥🔥🔥" - His range goes WAAAAAY higher than Mu. She would end up like PHG if she even tried hitting any of his high notes in the last chorus /j

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- The vocals are amazing, those growls are so well done - You’re able to get Fuuta’s crime and motive pretty succinctly, only based on the visuals - But it still leaves a lot up to interpretation, like how he only attacked once in the final fight scene. It lead to some cool theories. - On that note, the game aspects are so cool!! Especially when paired with him going after people online, just good synergy with awesome style! - Fuuta’s scared face after he realizes what he did. The great contrast of other foes simply being knocked out then being met with blood splatter. - The tempo of the song changing with his mood is a really good touch as well. Make the song more chaotic which highlights his character traits well

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"propaganda for bring it on: the music FUCKS it genuinely slaps so hard listening to it. song style is incredible its perfect for fuutas personality and gamer vibes. also the way the mv frames everything as a game? the only time real blood and real gore happens being when killcheroy dies? the little details of all the usernames, the different monster designs, the generally distorted feel of everything being too lighthearted?

okay i could go on about the mv for hours but lets not. aside from that: the FEEL of the song!!! the vocals!!!! it really feels like fuuta putting his whole heart into it, into this point of view that both blows problems out of proportion and minimises them, and DEEPLY fucking up. my darling little hypocrite gamer boy twitter user. he makes his witch hunt genuinely sound like something that could sweep people up into it. also the instruments goddddd. the guitar and synth the bass and the drums the DRUMS. im relistening to it to write this propaganda and it keeps making me headbang when i should be writing. if you arent headbanging to bring it on you are LYING.

the way the lyrics are written is wonderful too!!!! they feel so brash and brave and powerful and like. cocky about it. and it fits PERFECTLY. its gets someone swept up into it and it FUCKS. vote bring it on im serious. lets go!! a victory march!! dan da dan!!"

Propaganda for TIHTBILWY:

okay so like the thing im most in love with: the VOCALS!!!! this song has an absolutely AMAZING singer and AMAZING vocals!!!! the way the conversational talk-singing lines still feel so musical!!!! the cute cute cuteeeee mahiru voice!!!! it brings you so much energy!!!! its a song sung with so much love!!!! mahirus va brings such an amazing feel to the song with such amazing talk-singing!!!! its very skillfully done and it happens in i love you too!! mahiru songs r the QUEENS of musical talk singing

the silly phone call bit. kurururu~!

the little vocal flourish and the way her voice raises up like an excited exclamation in the final prechorus!! daijoubu nante kirai DA!

its such a fast song but everything flows so well!!!! it makes it feel so bright and cheery and peppy!!

the instrumental is so underrated just LISTEN to that catchy bass line thats so pretty in the verses!!!! no for real even if u dont vote this is how to be in love with you go listen to the bass line in the verses it works to move both the song and the listener forward at mahirus sweeping breakneck pace. and the cute keyboard sounding and synth instruments!!!! its SUCH a danceable song!!!! i cant listen to it without bopping along in my seat

the way the ominous bits are subtly hidden? it all sounds so cute but there are just these Things that she sings that are really kind of concerning and unhealthy when she sings them!! and the veiled desperation to be in her relationship- listening to that and the cheery tone and breakneck, quick song pace, it really does represent mahiru SO well. she throws in all these little bits that just go noooo teehee the relationships just fine!! when it REALLY isnt

i would listen to mahiru talk for hours

the MV!!!!!! HER FASHION SENSE THE MAGAZINE STYLE!!!! the magazine style especially works so well with her character!!!! its so cute and stunning and just looking at it you have a blast. also her birdcage!!!! her birdcage and the bright orange and the pink bars!!!! the way everything desaturates and becomes more sickly looking when she wakes up at the end!!!! its such a happy carefully curated and designed dream and then it drains away!!!! also god all her outfits are stunning. mahiru call me

the way she sings "overheat de~!" cutest thing in the WORLD.

the little faces she makes!!!! godddd shes so expressive

actually the whole songs so expressive!!!! shes putting her all into it!!!! her words have so much expression in them!!!! once more praising mahirus va the way her voice can soften and become bright or subtly desperate so quickly is MASTERFUL control of expression when singing and its so underrated. join me in being insane over miho okasaki delivers her lines. shes such a perfect mahiru.

funniest es cover. hands down. funniest es cover.

this is how to be in love with you is FREE serotonin!!!! free energy right there!!!! this is how to be in love with you sweep!!!!!

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-The song is so cheerful!! I always feel like dancing and singing when this one comes up in my playlists!! Absolute banger, mood definer, kicking sadness in the shin with those high-heels and then hitting its face with a cute purse -THE HIGH-HEELS STEPPING TO THE BEAT OF THE MUSIC IN THAT ONE SCENE (0:50). SIMPLY ICONIC. NO ONE DID IT LIKE HER. -👠💅👝👗 -She is slaying. Look at her outfits. She put so much effort there. She gave it her all. Absolutely serving. -SUKITTE KIMOCHI WAKATTA TSUMORI? NARA KONO MAMA FUTARI O-VA-HI-TO- DE -The storyline of the mv MAKES SENSE and you can form a COHESIVE TIMELINE OF EVENTS (unlike other unspecified contestants' mvs you know 🙄) -look at herr 🥺 she beby 🥺 all she did was love too much 🥺 we all love mappi don't we 🥺 she deserved more let her win this pleease 🥺 -No medical malpractice happened in the making of this mv 👍

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I care so much about This is How To Be In Love With You- it's visuals are brilliant in the ways it conveys its themes and narrative. I'm never normal Ever about the "Love as marketing" symbolism that is brought in by the use of magazines. It's a lovely upbeat song but the Horrors are Always Lurking under it, the breakup Ritual line is my Favorite Line cause its so horrifying but its said so casually and its so good oh its so good-

[whatmitskisongarethey]

In honor of the book of bill, my first post will be bill cipher!

I’ve assigned him “Should’ve Been Me”. The song’s upbeat sound, the drums and bass paired with the… I think it’s a piano on some sort of synth setting? It all sounds very 80’s and reminds me a lot of Bill. It’s kind of chaotic if you really listen - sometimes the sounds meld together. Now, let’s get on to the lyrics! Mind you, I haven’t fully watched Gravity Falls in years. I was like 12 when it came out. So I’m still trying to remember everything about Bill’s character lol…

Bill is a very lonely triangle. Even though he had friends and family at one point, there’s nobody he can reeeally talk to (‘and I found I had no one to tell’). What is the strange serenity / overwhelming clean feeling that he can’t tell? I interpreted it as the power he gets especially during Weirdmageddon. The freedom? The chaos? Not sure.

These verses remind me so much of Bill and Stanford’s relationship in the book.

“You wanted me but couldn’t reach me” Ford referring to bill as his muse, once getting along with him (maybe a bit too much. what the hell happened on karaoke night?!) but now not being able to reach him. He is too far gone.

“So I went into your memory, relived all the ways you still want me” There’s a point in the book where Bill literally possesses Ford’s mind (‘went into your memory’) and makes him do crazy shit. Bill also speaks directly into his mind, making him think that he has nobody except him, (‘relived all the ways you still want me’ needed me!!) threatening him, typical crazy ex stuff.

I interpreted the girl as being Mabel. He directly says in the book that he relates to Mabel as she’s an agent of chaos. (‘When I saw the girl looked just like me’)

He however feels pity for Mabel and Dipper. Well, maybe not pity. I don’t know if he has the capacity for that. He at the very least acknowledges them being kids going through all these traumatic things. (‘trying to find their way out of a maze.’ the maze being the struggle to survive, as shown by all the timelines where they don’t live.)

These lyrics were harder. Who has power over Bill??

The axolotl! I interpreted the hand as being the axolotl placing Bill in therapy. (‘a labyrinth, where I’d be stuck a while’.)

Repetition is big in Mitski songs. We see that Bill kind of goes crazy, repeating “I’m fine”, (‘it should’ve been me’) almost as if to convince himself.

I interpreted these final lines as being his cry of jealously, in a way. It should’ve been me, my plan for the world. Me! ME!

Here are my second and third choices for Bill:

Thank you all for reading. Do you agree with my choice? Do you disagree? Let me know!