#become kinda all encompassing

[meliake]

recent doodles

[kacievvbbbb]

But like hypothetically if I decided to make a series of YouTube video breaking down and rambling about how I think the first year trio encompass the full gradient scale of what it means to be “morally good” and how by the end of the series they have grown exponentially but their moral inner workings are so entrenched in who they are they never needed to change they just became more of who they already were.

Because initially Yuuji wants to save the world in that abstract way all heroes do, Megumi is only interested in saving those he can save and Nobara is only interested in those she wants to save. And all these are treated as morally valid by the narrative and not really flaws in need of changing but instead philosophies in need of refining and understanding.

Because Jujutsu Society as a whole encourages and thrives off a moral apathy or superiority, they are in the business of killing curses not saving lives and that ultimately raises the question of if you’re going out there everyday killing curses and inadvertently saving lives does it really matter the reason why? Or the morality behind it? Maybe not to you but to the society, maybe.

So anyway, hypothetically ….would you be hypothetically interested👀

[rubberduckyrye]

You guys ever think about the tragedy that is Junko Enoshima? That she wasn't a sadistic girl seeking out to hurt others for sadistic glee?

Because everything Junko did was her trying to emotionally abuse herself? That she wanting to feel something so badly that she hurt the people she loved most, and even brought about ruin to the world, simply to destroy herself with it?

[ashwii]

just popped in to my head. Donnie gets a magical anime girl transformation each moon phase. Glitter, dance moves, music, all of it. The music also matches the vibes of the phase. Heavy metal for blood moon, folk for harvest moon etc.

PFFFT I absolutely love this, it made me laugh XD

[spootsaline]

i dont have many hs2 thoughts because i willingly choose to ignore it, but the fully realized dirk essentially being a caliborn proxy is kind of sad

[skylersprompts]

DC x DP Prompt *32*

This was the ninth- no.... tenths loop. He is eating his breakfast and he is dizzy again. Because Mom drugged his oatmeal, because Mom and Dad knew! Danny stood up from his chair and tried to leave the kitchen. (He knew it wouldn't work, it never worked) His eyes grew heavy and a few steps later he hit the ground.

He wakes up to the same gruesome picture as in the last nine loops. But Danny doesn't beg anymore. Or says anything. It hurts, but it's nothing he hasn't had felt before. It would only take them a week before they would destroy his core again and then everything would start anew. Maybe he could think of something better for next time.

.

.

.

The last feeling he remembered was an all encompassing pain, as his Dad crushed his core. But he was at the breakfast table again, already feeling groggy. But maybe this time he could get help? He knew that he could fight the drugs for around ten minutes, as long as he didn't stand up.

So instead he got his phone out of his pocket. He knew that neither his sisters, nor his friends would be fast enough, he already tried them, but maybe someone else could be fast enough.

He opened Twitter and started to write a new post, ignoring his atrocious spelling in favor of getting as many information out as possible.

@theoneandonlyflash I'm kinda stuck in a time looop and my parents will koll me in about a werk they druged me so I'll be in they lab in a fee minotes. Pleaase helpp and fins me iin Amyt Park, Illnois. My name iss Dannyy Fentin

He was able to press send, before his vision would become to spotty. Now he just needed to hope that the fastest man alive would be able to help him. Danny's head fell on the table.

.

.

.

It was the eleventh time he woke up to the same scene and this time he couldn't do anything against his tears. He would die again... and again and again...

Danny's spiraling thought were interrupted by the basement door, that had hit the wall. This was new!

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOODDDD THE NEW TGS PAGE IS MAKING MY BRAIN GO SO FAST I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!

First off, I love how violent it is. Obviously it's tonally appropriate, but it also seems like a logical escalation from the other instances of the transformation we've seen. I'm gonna rant about it for a minute so body horror warning I guess? I don't know what other category a guy vomiting green science goop would fall into.

Exhibit A:

From the very first change, it's always been very intense.

He describes it as deeply unpleasant and painful, because his bones are literally changing, and by the end of it he's fallen to the floor.

Pretty expected for your first time through an extremely physically traumatic event. But he never seems to get used to it.

Exhibit B:

This transformation takes place two years after the first one. I'm sure a lot of this is the way it is because this moment is very dramatic and it needs to land that way, but the in-world logic is far more interesting to me. His dropping the flask and collapsing implies that even after this whole thing has become routine, his body still isn't used to it. Obviously your bones changing on a dime is never gonna be easy to go through, but even after two years there seems to be almost no acclimation. He probably can't even accurately predict when the pain will start, otherwise he would've set the flask down earlier.

But both of these transformations seem somewhat predictable. It starts inside of his mouth and eyes and spills out, working from the inside outward. My guess is that that is the stabilizing effect of the portion. Because once he starts to transform without it as a catalyst...

Exhibits C, D, and E:

The process starts to break down. It starts the same way it always did, but by the third or fourth switch he starts producing a lot more science goop (Goop? Slime? Bile? Some kinda.... Green shit. What the fuck is this shit), but with less physical change. It starts getting onto his clothes, and it seems a lot more all- encompassing than it did before. Early on the goop seems incidental. The goop and the pain are both byproducts of the potion. But at this point he's practically choking on the stuff, it's not just an ambient effect, it's something being violently purged from his system. Until we get to this point- the first self-inflicted shift without the use of the potion.

Exhibit F:

It's completely out of control. Not only is it full-force Exorcist style exploding from his mouth, it looks like it's coming out of his skin. These two panels, to me, imply that the stuff is sweating out of his skin in quantities that are heavy enough to soak through his hair. His expression can be interpreted a few different ways- general agony, screaming, ect. - but when I imagine what this scene would sound like I think there's too much blockage for him to be screaming. The way he folds over, his wide eyes, the amount of goop, I'm willing to bet that his expression is him desperately trying to breathe.

Anyways. I genuinely love this stuff. This is exactly my type of horror. The kind that doesn't seem like straight up horror until you give it a bit of thought. Chef's kiss. Delicious. Finally some good fucking food

[mossygirl333]

Could I request Simon to be relaxing with his female s/o please?

AN: ofc you can!!! We love gentle relaxed Simon <3 (it's kinda short but hopefully it's what you wanted!)

Simon Riley x F!chubby!reader

Tw/Cw: some minor mentions of war and depression, mentions of parenting, slight reference to sex but nothing graphic <3

Simon has always been a stressed man. A pressured man. His childhood. His job. It was one thing after the other, shitty situations with barely any good to catch his breath.

A sinking black pit of oil that was always on the cusp of drowning him. Swallowing up his cries for help, it wasn't like anyone was there to help him.

Until...you?

He never thought he deserved someone like you. Oh perfect and delicate you. The complete opposite of everything he's known in his 34 years old life.

If he had to describe you with one word, it'd be soft. Soft. It's the word to encompass all of you, every single part of you. To your thick hips and squeezable fat, round eyes and plump lips. Dulcet voice and steady hands.

And oh how he begged to go home.

-

His weary feet finally crossed the threshold of your shared home. The smell of food filled his nose, thick and warm, saliva filling his mouth.

"Baby?" You squeak, rushing out of the kitchen and lighting up like a light bulb. Your hands squeezed into fists, fighting the urge to touch him. You knew how difficult it was to become Simon after being Ghost for so long. "Si? Baby?"

His board shoulders drop, stepping heavily through the hallway. He was trailing dirt into the carpet but he could vacuum it up later, he just needed his sweetheart.

You tug him down to your level, burying your face into his neck as his shaky hands come up to grasp at your thick waist. Melting into you, surrounded by your warmth.

"It's me...It's Simon. Your Simon." He could feel your sigh of relief, kissing his temple. Your lip gloss sticky against his skin. "Dinner smells good."

"I made some Yorkshire pudding-" He cuts you off with a long slow kiss, breathing heavily against you. Eyes heavy and closed, palms kneading into you.

"such a good cook." he mumbles against your lips. "Soaps been dying to try your food, I swear it gets on my nerves sometimes." He deepens it, cradling your plump rosy cheeks in his hands, feeling you smile.

"M'glad...You should probably take a shower. Change."

He grumbles when you pull away. A slight smirk tugging at his lips when you peck a kiss against his nose. "Shower with me?"

"Pervert."

"That I am."

-

He sighs, leading back into your hands. Working out the muscles in his back. "Feels s'good."

"God You're tight back here." You look up at his smirk and groan. "Shut your mouth Riley. Don't even say it."

"Wasn't gonna say anything." He murmurs, snickering under his breath. "Just a lot of things are tight when it comes to both our bodies."

You huff, smacking the back of his head. Earning a hardy belly laugh, a full toothy smile slathered on his face. Eyes shining and mischievous, he looks younger when he's laughing. More at peace. Less of that brooding vicious soldier that has more blood on his hands than the average man.

But he would never show you that. Never. You didn't deserve to know that side of him. He turns to you, feeling your fingers scrub into his blonde messy hair. Sudsing up his scalp. "I cant stand you." Your voice is playful, feeling his hands cup your ass.

"Then sit." He smiles again, a groan leaving your mouth as you press it against his again.

"Save the dad jokes for when you're a dad please." You murmur, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck.

"You'd be a good mama." He mumbles, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead.

"I know, I'm just so amazing."

"You are."

[polarisjisung]

03:21 AM — zhong chenle × fem! reader

wc: 0.6k

warnings: mentions of alcohol, reader wears makeup, one handed driving

notes: dug this out from my unfinished/unedited works as an apology for my inconsistent lotc posting + I think chenle is just such an acts of service kinda bf

There's a soft rnb tune playing in the background, one chenle hums along to with one hand on the steering wheel.

Since he's driving, he can't quite turn his head to look at you, but the fact that you're not rambling nearly as much as you were five minutes ago— something about how rainbows should have the colour pink in them, and a pot of gold at the end, forces chenle to sneak a glance at you

"Not sleepy huh?" he laughs to himself, considering the absolute fight you'd put up with him swearing you wouldn't fall asleep, precisely 10 minutes ago.

"Cute," he whispers, holding a hand out to shield you from the bright red of the traffic light in front of you when you stir in your sleep

The reflection of the gloss shining on your lips forces him to sigh in realisation— you hated sleeping with makeup on

And chenle doesn't remember when, but at some point in the last few years, his glovebox had become home to a small basket of micellar water, cleansing balm, and some cotton pads

They'd replaced the jumbo pack of mints he liked to keep on hand, and even taken up some of the space designated to his car manual, which now found its place somewhere on the back leather seats, flying back and forth if he ever needed to turn sharply or emergency stop.

For all the times he had complained about things not being in their designated space,  somehow chenle didn't mind all too much about this, not when you'd thank him for being an absolute lifesaver each time you flung open his glove box after a long night; something you can't  do now, considering the way you'd fallen asleep on the passenger seat beside him

In the past, he'd have tried to wake you up, by either calling your name or tapping your arm gently until you woke up. he doesn't know what urges him not to follow through with the same routine you've established today, maybe it's the way your soft snores fill the car— I don't snore chenle— your words linger in his mind and a smile casts itself across his face.

Or maybe, chenle just wants to take a moment to have you all to himself.

As he reaches over to grab the cotton pads, he wonders how the copper shade of shimmer pressed against your eyelid lasted throughout the entire night or how that coral shade of matte lip butter hasn't budged, a pretty pinkish hue still painting your slightly parted lips.

Chenle had seen your hurriedly pack on makeup enough times to know that the redness to your cheeks didn't come from the blush you'd put on earlier— that was a matching coral shade to your lips

As he presses the cotton pad against the spout of the bottle, he chuckles "how much did she drink"

Chenle can only pray you don't wake up as he pats the soaked cotton pads against your skin, starting with your eyes, the same way he remembered you doing it

For a moment he thinks he could live like this forever, even if it meant taking 10 minutes to remove all the makeup from just one eye, he wouldn't mind as long as you were by his side— his pretty pretty girl.

It hits him, burns through him like wildfire. The warmth of the moment suddenly feels all-encompassing, and it takes everything within him not to gasp at the thought, scared of waking you. A truth that shines brighter than any eyeshadow or lip gloss ever could, he loved you. Chenle, in that moment, decides that he'd love you now and in every lifetime to come.

[kroosluvr]

yay!!!!!!!

typo that im too lazy to fix: on the last page, "kasumi was one of the best gymnasts [in japan]"

edit: BRO I IDDNT REALIZE AKIRA ND SUMIRE WERE SHARING A SPOON TO EAT THE CURRY AM I INSANEEEEE <- She literally drew this image

1st 2 pics are genderbent akira+goro as well as sumire, 3rd pic is canon akira and sumire

in my head m!sumire is dedicated to rhythmic gymnastics, but the fact that it's not a popular sport somehow causes a mental block for him: kasumi was a trailblazer in men's rhythmic gymnastics. he was setting the course, but now he's gone. so does sumire live up to that? does he have to fill his brother's shoes? or can he just strive to be the best rhythmic gymnast he himself can be?

he was always solemn and driven growing up, but after the accident, he drove himself further into his practices and routines in an attempt to "recapture the spark" that kasumi had. of course, this is mostly in vain... chasing his shadow doesn't get him anywhere

he slowly develops the cognition of "sumire" being "kasumi's replacement." the younger brother that stepped up to the plate. to attend to his anxiety/depression he goes to dr. maruki (i'd say this takes longer than in canon, because he was always so busy with practice that he didn't really. comprehend 'oh perhaps i need counseling after my brother died' LMAO. and even then it's more "ok im gonna start competing internationally, so i need to make sure my mental is in tiptop shape"

he starts to reveal his insecurities to dr. maruki who. yknow. does all that. i don't think this sumire would specifically say "i wish i was kasumi" but more "i want to continue his legacy the way only he could have done it" which dr. maruki himself takes as "ok so u want to literally be kasumi"

i'd also say his "transformation" into "kasumi" is more jarring than in canon? canon "kasumi" is polite, eager, cheerful and sunny, but i imagine m!"kasumi" to be more boisterous, more outwardly outgoing/extroverted/outspoken, a little bit of a daredevil

on top of that, i think (perhaps) since men's rhythmic gymnastics isn't super popular, maybe not many ppl have heard of "kasumi yoshizawa" to begin with? so maybe ppl accept him as "kasumi" a little easier, which is. um. bad LOL

not sure if this helps his gymnastics at all. i thinkkk it does give him the confidence to execute more complicated routines that sumire himself didn't have the self-confidence to try before. but, of course, this doesn't affect anything in the rhythmic gymnastics world since. erm. everyone knows kasumi died. awkward!!!!

i think the shame would be all-encompassing when he breaks out of the delusion. he never wanted this.... all he wants is to keep competing with his brother, to keep supporting him into the limelight, and he'll never have that again. so i think, like canon, his arc is learning how to support and uplift Himself -- but more like, become more self-sufficient in terms of his own gymnastics instead of always seeing himself as second place to kasumi (and being okay with that)

it's different than canon as kasumi always told sumire they'd take the world stage... TOGETHER! ->

while i think for m!kasumi and m!sumire they worked in tandem, it was never really a dream. kasumi simply decided "i want to do this" and so did sumire. the thing is, kasumi's skills just far outweighed sumire's, and that much was painfully clear to him. kasumi was one who could bring men's rhythmic gymnastics into the international lens, and sumire has no idea if he could ever be strong enough to do that.

there's an interesting sort of dissonance here....... like. big fish small pond (genderbend au) or small fish big pond (canonverse.) i think its interesting.. okay enough rambles from me its 4am sdjsdjfh

edit: last thing i think. in canon it’s heavily implied that kasumi took the reins and pushed sumire to do stuff / pick out clothes for them both / kinda set the stage for both of them but i think in gb au sumire just follows kasumi as a result of kasumi being such a bright light. sumire has ambitions the same way kasumi does but he lacks the self-esteem to back it up…. it’s similar in canon but not 1:1 if that makes sense? i think in canon sumire is still questioning if it’s even her dream to compete in gymnastics so that’s the main diff

[saiintvalentiine]

Summary: In the aftermath of the 100 days in the End Barrens, Wato can't help but want Wifies's company. It's a double edged sword.

Notes: spoilers for wato's 100 days in the hardest minecraft biome!!!!!!! anyway. huh. wuh. i feel like i wrote this possessed. this is a rough and quick fic, using my partial voidwalker clonefies headcanon bc uhhhhh teehee it'd be funny???? definitely not a perfect work and i didnt explore everything id have liked to but i think it's fun. enjoy! divider

Wordcount: 3,165

Wato doesn’t usually spend all their time with others. Not that they’re antisocial, just that escape room planning and building can become an all encompassing set of tasks that pull them away from talking to people. It's involving, fulfilling, and sometimes a quiet, singular endeavor.

But Wifies is here.

He's been here all day, even, filling up Wato’s space, though he does so quietly. He sits across from them on the other side of their desk, writing notes over the plan for one of the rooms Wato is working on. He breathes evenly, though his breath hitches with frustration when things don't add up on paper, and he writes with an easy rhythm that Wato can just about tune out when they focus. He's wearing a black and white sweater, and his headband glints silver in the light, and he's real, and he's here, and he's been here all day because Wato asked, and he's never said no to them.

Wifies glances up. His eyes are a deep, dark violet that makes Wato's skin crawl. Their ears pin back before flicking back into place. He looks back down to his blueprints without comment.

He's so good to them. Wato knows that they've been staring a lot. Wifies takes it in stride, had laughed awkwardly at first before accepting that this was just how Wato was today.

“Is it turning out well?” Wato asks. The silence is getting to them.

“It is, just a couple things that I wish would work better,” he says with a sigh, tapping his pencil on the page. “Like here. I know that it's impossible, but I wish there was a way to guarantee a player left their wool behind, because carpets would be basically an ace for the next room. They'd barely have to puzzle solve if they have carpet.”

Wifies's voice has a kind of consistency that unnerved Wato once upon a time. It reminded them too much of the factory for a while. Now, it's the most comforting thing in the world, the perceived consistency actually crackling with emotion and variance, always soothing and never raised. Wifies is talking and Wato is listening. It's good.

“— and that's all I can think of doing right now, but adding a skulk sensor is kinda a whole different can of worms isn't it?”

Wifies rests his head on his fist, looking at his blueprints like they personally offended him.

“Maybe it's time for a break then. Tea?”

Wifies perks up and Wato laughs. Wato likes tea fine, though they really drink more coffee than anything, but they keep some of the good stuff around just for Wifies. They make their way out of Wato's office and Wifies is behind and his footsteps are muffled, despite Wato’s exceptional hearing. Wato keeps looking over their shoulder at him. He's there, of course, slightly shorter than Wato and not nearly as sleep deprived.

“Hi,” Wifies says as he catches Wato's eye, a little awkward, mostly sincere.

“Hi,” Wato says back. “I have a new tin of rosehip tea.”

Wifies makes a pleased sound, happy and high, though high for him is still pretty low. He loves his teas. Wato doesn't get rosehip, the flavor a bit bland and unlikable to them, but Wifies likes it well enough.

“Rosehip with jasmine is good, they give each other extra flavor and body,” Wifies says, reading Wato's mind as usual.

The kitchen is a small, tight, highly decorated space. Wifies navigates it effortlessly, just as easily as Wato can navigate his kitchen. They're intertwined like that. Easily, effortlessly. Wato measures out coffee grounds, sets his coffee machine up, loses track of Wifies in the noise of the kitchen.

“Wato, can you—”

Darkness, violet, the staticky scent of void and its magicks— Wato jumps, knocking over the sugar container in one fell swoop.

“Fuck,” they say eloquently.

“Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, let me help.”

Wifies cleans up the sugar on the counter, rights the container, and refills it, all while Wato breathes through their initial panic. It was just— they know, they know they're home, they know the End Barrens are long gone, server deleted off the face of the universe, but for a moment, Wifies was just—

“Sorry,” Wifies says again quietly. “I noticed you were jumpy, I should've been more careful not to scare you.”

“No, it's— you're fine. It's fine.”

Wato shakes it off, or at least tries to. Wifies is looking at them the way he always does when he isn't sure what he's done wrong but knows for a fact something’s gone awry. He's surprisingly expressive when he wants to be, eyes round and warm and violet. God. Wato suppresses a flinch, tail lowering.

“Sorry,” Wifies says again.

Wato feels bad. They pat the top of Wifies's head (touch is like an ache, in a way, it's been so long since they've really been skin to skin with anyone, but Wifies's hand touched theirs as they exchanged blueprints and it almost hurt, so deprived of it that it's presence becomes painful) and revel in the springiness of his curls.

“I didn't mean to react so harshly, sorry.”

They finish making their tea and coffee in a spiderweb of thin silence. Wifies stays in their line of sight, leading on the trip back to the office and holding the door open. Wato appreciates it. They work until the sun sets and the daylight sensors activate the redstone lamps in Wato's ceiling.

“I should get going,” Wifies says, which Wato hates to hear. “I need to edit some footage, see if I can get some work done. But, uh, I'll be back tomorrow?”

The way his voice lilts is soft, hesitant. Wato would prefer to not be away from him at all. How could they even explain it? Hey, I was so lonely I imagined you, and now I can't stop myself from wanting your presence to know that you're real and I'm free. And also I missed you. Also your voidwalker traits set me off. Wato hasn't even told him anything about the challenge! Wifies didn't ask. Wato had messaged him, please help me with blueprints?, and Wifies had come with a single minded determination to do so.

Wato thinks maybe that's why it was Wifies and not anyone else. Wifies is kind, thoughtful, always holding his hand out for someone to take. He helps. Even back in the factory, the little Wato remembers of it, the clones were meek things that always wanted to know what Wato was doing, if they could help. Wato could never respond, the mask uninterested in such mindless puppets, but they remember the feeling of it.

It always felt good. Felt like being seen.

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Wato drums their fingers on the desk. “Yeah, bright and early. Or whenever you can I guess. I would— I'd really appreciate it.”

“Of course. Bright and early.”

Wifies smiles. He still leaves, and it still sets Wato’s stomach rolling, but Wato spent most of a hundred days alone, and one more day won't kill them. It won't. The isolation had tried and failed.

At least they can sleep here. Their petal pink bed has never been so enticing a sight. They keep the lights on in their room these days, daylight sensors connected to every room through newly opened redstone channels in the roof and walls. The dark is— it's not good, uncomfortable, they don't want to say the word that comes to mind at first.

Wato pops blocks into a jukebox. It's the longest disc they have and it fills the room with whimsy as they lay in bed and try to sleep. It's kind of hard, sleeping with noise and light, but it's more comforting than it is difficult.

They don't dream.

Wato couldn't be any more grateful for that as dawn cracks the sky open and the redstone lamps shut off. They’re sure that the morning will pass like a blur until Wifies arrives, routine deeper than bone taking over, but there’s a knock at the door as they’re eating. When Wato opens it, it’s Wifies. The morning light makes him golden, but only just; he’s so pale and dark that gold doesn’t work right on him.

“Bright and early,” Wifies says after a beat of silence.

“You took that so literally,” Wato says, opening the door wider and waving Wifies in.

Wifies walks in and he jingles. It’s the strangest thing. Wato looks down and sees a glint of silver on his boots. Wifies notices of course, and he kicks up a heel. Hanging off the loop at the back of his boot is a silver hoop decorated with a colorful feather charm that rattles against the hoop every time he moves.

“Parrot got them for me,” Wifies says, lifting up his pant leg so it’s more visible. “They come in pairs, but I took the other one off and put a different charm on it.”

He shows off the other boot, and Wato sees that the hoop has a black and white yin-yang charm instead.

“You’re so predictable,” Wato says with a snort, closing the door behind them.

“I like having a brand.”

“Yeah yeah, c’mon.”

The irregular weight of each charm makes them reasonably noisy as Wifies walks, makes it easy for Wato to keep track of him with a flicked ear, and they don’t want to ask why he’s suddenly started wearing them.

Their day goes the same as yesterday— time spent at Wato’s desk, scratching through blueprints and discussing different solutions. Soon it’d reach the point where they’d have to start building to fully work out any kinks and get it running.

“You think Ken is gonna break it?” Wifies asks at one point. He’s chewing on the end of his pen— his pen, because Wato banned him from using their pens after he popped one with his teeth a few months ago— and he’s not looking at Wato.

He knows he’s done something wrong. Or, he thinks he knows he’s done something wrong. He’s dodgy the way a dog might be, still committing the crime but looking preemptively apologetic about it.

“Ken. . . I’m not sure if I’m gonna ask Ken to do anything for a while,” Wato says carefully. It’s not like they want to string Wifies between them like a knot. “The 100 days. . . Ken left me alone before the first quarter was even done. So I’m not really in the mood to share with them right now.”

Wifies stops chewing on his pen long enough to say, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Wifies doesn't continue to chew on his pen.

“So you finished 100 days by yourself?”

“I did.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

He means it too. He's not placating or trying to push the conversation, he means it, he knows what the End Barrens are like and he means it.

“It was.”

“Was there— like, what even spawned?”

“No structures or anything. Just. . . a lot of Endermen. Lots and lots of Endermen. Wandering traders, pillager patrols, that kind of thing. Um, underground there was some copper and iron too actually. They generated with blobs of granite and such.”

Wifies nods along, hums at the right times, but he's looking at the blueprints again and not at Wato.

“Must've been really, really hard. How'd you get to the Nether then?”

“Y'know how like— how wandering traders will turn invisible at night? And then in the morning they drink milk? I killed one just as they drank the milk and it dropped the bucket, and I used that to create a Nether portal. I had to haul lava over and over again to spawn, it was so tedious. And then the pillager patrols, the ominous banner they drop? I used that and some lava to light the portal.”

“And from there it was probably easier.”

Probably. The Nether had so many more resources to use. But the lava had been too lustrous and the days too long and Wato had stepped right off that cliff and ended it all.

“Yeah,” they say with a shrug. “Now I just kinda wanna focus on escape rooms again though. These are easy for me at least.”

“It's coming together real nice,” Wifies says. He's back to chewing on his pen.

“We can probably start building it tomorrow. I'm pretty sure we're almost done.”

There's a cracking noise and black ink splatters all over Wifies's mouth and clothes. He curses, and Wato scrambles for some tissues, the acrid scent of ink filling the air. They hand the tissues over, and Wifies presses them to his mouth. Wato finds a trash can and comes around to dump the popped pen into it. Thankfully, the now ruined blueprint Wifies was working on is one Wato has duplicates of, so they dump it out too.

Wifies keeps the tissues to his mouth though, and Wato gets concerned.

“Let me see,” Wato insists, placing the trash can down and turning Wifies's chair so they're facing each other.

Wifies glances up, his eyes are so violet, and then back down. The black ink stains right through the tissues, looks bloody despite the fact it's too dark to be blood.

Endermen don't bleed. Wato hadn't really realized it before the 100 days began, but Endermen don't bleed. They collapse into a dry pile of crackling scales and bones and eyes before poofing out of existence. Despite that, enderpearls are always a little slick with something like blood when first picked up; it's thin, periwinkle, and so quick to evaporate that you almost never get to feel it once you pick the pearl up. Wato had plenty of time to get acquainted with it, though.

“ ‘s okay,” Wifies struggles to talk, clearly holding his mouth open under the tissues so as to not swallow ink. “I just gotta clean up.”

Wifies stands up in a single jagged jerk, and Wato has to scramble back to not get hit by him. He leaves so quickly that Wato is shocked.

“Did you get hurt?” Wato calls out after him, shuffling to the doorway to peer down the hall where Wifies presumably ran off to the bathroom.

Wato waits and waits, but Wifies doesn't respond. Maybe he's just embarrassed? Wato hesitates for a moment longer before making their way to the bathroom. The door is shut. They knock.

“Wifies?”

“I'm good!” Wifies calls out, opening the door and peeking around it. “I'm okay, sorry for scaring you. The— I think a piece of the plastic split my lip, but it's all healed now.”

He's managed to get the ink off his face, and there are wet spots on his gray sweatshirt where the ink has stained it. There's a smudge of wine colored blood left on his upper lip though. It has a blue undertone, much cooler looking than Wato's own. Another reminder of the fact Wifies was made with void.

“Looks like you missed a spot,” Wato says, and Wifies turns back to wash his mouth again.

Does the water sting? Not everything from the End is allergic to water, and Wifies isn't explicitly spliced together with Enderman genetics. The cloning process was a mix of different things— technology, genetics, magic, there was even skulk involved at one point. Each clone was, ironically, unique in how it was made, no formula working the same twice in a row. This Wifies smells like void and the pseudo-citrus of chorus fruit, sees better in the dark, breathes out plumes of frozen breath when he's upset and can't always keep eye contact when angry.

Why did Wato cling to him so strongly?

Wifies turns around again, wiping at his mouth. They lock eyes and Wifies looks away. 

“Did I get it?”

“Why won't you look at me?”

Wifies startles, eyes wide as he forces himself to stare at Wato.

“What?”

“You’re avoiding looking at me. Why?”

“I'm not.”

“I'm not— you are, Wifies.”

“I,” Wifies looks away again. “You look. . . unhappy when I look at you. So I don't want to.”

It's easy to cling to Wifies. Gentle voiced Wifies who wants to be liked more than anything, facing Wato’s unconscious ire and not saying a word. Of course it had to be Wifies, because who else would put up with any of Wato's unsure madness? Who else would avoid Wato's gaze and put— put what are basically catbells on their boots just because Wato’s scared?

And that's the word, isn't it? Scared. Wato's scared. Now that it's over, now that the walls of their prison have fallen, they're scared of going back, of being alone, of fucking Endermen ruining their shit.

But really, they're not scared of Wifies. Hugging him is easy. 

“I'm sorry,” Wato says.

Wifies clams up. He barely hugs back. Contact burns, touch feels heavy, foreign, an unknown country that Wato only remembers as a blur.

“It's okay.”

“When I was almost done with the challenge, I imagined you being there,” Wato confesses. Wifies makes a strange, clicky noise. “I showed you around the world, and you listened to me, and told me little facts, and asked me questions. I was so alone, and I had to imagine you there. I've never wanted anything more than to just see you again.”

Wifies holds onto them in earnest now, tight and warm. There's nothing truly void-cold about him; he may run cool, but it’s nothing Wato can't help with.

“I missed you. The Endermen couldn't even compare.”

“But I remind you of them,” Wifies murmurs. “Not forever, but for now, I remind you of them.”

Wato imagines Wifies pulling away. They imagine him insisting that he doesn’t want to startle Wato so much, that maybe he should leave. Wato shudders at the thought.

“Please don't leave,” Wato's voice cracks, and now Wifies is holding them as they slump further into his body. It’s such a selfish request, and they know Wifies won’t say no, but they can’t stop themself from asking anyway. “Please. I'm sorry, I know I can't be pleasant to be around right now, but please don't leave me again.”

“I won't,” Wifies says. “I won't, you don't have to be alone.”

They don't want to cry. It would be— they didn't cry in those 100 days, even when they thought there was nothing left to give but tears. But Wifies is real, and here, and he's holding them so tightly that he has to be real, and for the first time since Wato got out of that wretched, rotting house of a world, they weep openly into a shoulder that won't leave.

Wifies doesn't say much. He's not the best with these kinds of strong emotions. But he hugs Wato, and hums a tune into their ear, and lets them ruin his sweatshirt even more, and it's more than Wato has had in over a hundred days.

Wato let's themself have this. Have Wifies. It feels good to have someone stay.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ BUT YOU BELONG TO ME — you, your boyfriend johnny, and his friend simon

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, polyamory, threesome, enemies to lovers, bi ghoap, angry sex, hate sex (kinda), dom/sub undertones, bickering, friends to lovers (for ghoap), love confessions

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

You love Johnny's friends.

Really, you do. They're a rowdy bunch, all in-your-face with their larger than life personalities and even larger frames. However, overall, they're people you don't mind hanging out with, as long as your lover is by your side.

But that's all... general.

It's an entirely different story when discussing Johnny's closest friend. The only other person to hold their own acre of property in his gentle heart. A man who the Scot admires almost as much, if not the same amount, as he does you.

Simon Riley.

Since the day you met the lieutenant, you knew that your relationship was going to be a rough one.

He's quiet. Annoyingly so. Somehow, he manages to deliver the nastiest of words without opening his mouth, or taking off that damn balaclava of his.

No. He says it all with deep brown eyes, and overall presence. Who the fuck does that? Can manage to do that?

The feel is mutual, you discovered within two seconds of meeting him for the first time, all those months ago. All it took was a firm, almost warning, shake of your hand to cement that fact, and a hardening glare of his from behind the mask.

Since that very first interaction, the animosity between you both has been nothing if not apparent.

And, look, you try. Really, you do. This is your soulmate's best friend, the one who he spends an equal amount of free time with as you. That's all fine. You're happy for Johnny.

It only becomes a problem when his love for the two of you overlap. When he invites you both over at the same time, or you plan to go on a date and Simon just 'happens to be there'.

It's weird. Alarm bells siren in your ears, red flags are waved in your head, and you have an inner monologue yelling at a mile per minute.

At the end of the day, if you ever truly suspected Johnny of being unfaithful, you would end things.

You knew your worth, even if the pain would be near unbearable.

But this is different. Hell, you know that this is different. And not because it's a man -- your boyfriend had always been open with his inclinations for just about any gender -- but because it's Simon, and because it's you.

So.

When you and Simon are in the same room together, it encompasses a hell of a lot of insults and pettiness from your end, with Simon's cold glares and huffs of indignation on his.

It's a never-ending cycle.

Johnny, for his part, puts up with it. He laughs it off, cooling the mood, because that's who he is. It's part of the reason that you love the man, his ability to work with people and deal with confrontation outside of missions.

Neither you or Simon could've properly prepared for his patience to end, however.

Or the realisation he came to.

You're spending the night at Johnny's, which, at this point, is an event occurring more often than not, when Simon knocks on the door.

And, look. Usually you'd pull up your big girl pants and deal with it.

But you'd been waiting for weeks to try something out with Johnny. You'd both done all the research, ordered the rope, and bought the blindfold and cuffs. The wine in your hands and makeup you'd done with the specific intention to cry it off later said just as much.

It all collapses onto itself when Simon fucking Riley knocks on the door.

Johnny gives you an apologetic rinse, before hopping off of the ouch and lightly jogging to the front door, unlocking it and cracking it open. You mourn the lack of his body heat, his warm body against your own.

The dim lights from the warm yellow lights sat at the back wall cast heavy shadows over Simon's face -- his maskless one. It's rare that he shows up without it. In fact, that's only happened once in the year and a half you've known the guy.

"What's up, mate?" Johnny asks with a tilt of his head, leaning against the door frame and folding his muscled arms over his bulky chest.

Lord, if you didn't already have him, you'd be praying to every God to get your hands on that frame of his.

Simon replies quiet enough that you can't hear, and you know it's an intentional act. It shouldn't piss you off as much as it does, but you can't help the feeling of annoyance and distaste creep into your mouth like a poisonous acid, lacing your tongue with the bitterness.

Johnny murmurs back his reply, before Simon steps in, and your boyfriend shuts the door closed behind him.

"Are you serious?" The words slip out on your own accord, before you can stop them. They're accusatory, angry, and... reflective of your current mood.

If Simon's responding glare could kill, you'd be six feet under. "Date night?" Is his dry, curt reply, and fury boils in your blood.

"He had no where else to go, lass," Is Johnny's input, but you don't even spare him a glance. No. Your ire is all directed at his best friend, and he deserves every last drop of it.

"Actually, yes, it is date night," You quip back, ripping the blanket off of yourself and standing up, moving towards the two men where they stand in the doorway. The light creeps onto the floorboards, the darkened corner of the room shrouding yourselves in shadows. "You know. One without your ass for once."

Johnny rubs his roughened hand over his face, looking up to the roof as if asking it to spare him.

With a roll of his eyes, Simon spares you a flitting, dismissive glance, before turning back to his best friend. "Needta' keep her on a tighter leash."

There's a moment, then. One where you're stuck on a forked path, where each option seem as unimportant as gum on a city sidewalk.

They'll both change the course of your life forever -- but it certainly doesn't feel like it, and it certainly isn't about to affect your decision-making in the slightest.

"Is that why you can't get laid, huh, Simon? Want a submissive little wife you can walk all over? Didn't know you were compensating that fucking much. Hell, if you're that fucking desperate, we can lend you a few bucks and you can go get lucky at the fucking strip club!"

There's a tense silence, that passes for a few beats.

One.

Two.

And then Simon scoffs a nasty, incredulous sound, his attention now fully on you. "Didn't realise ya were so passionate about where I stick my dick, Princess."

It's a lot of words from the usually quiet man, and -- and they're hostile, with anger lacing every syllable that escapes his scarred mouth.

You take a step closer, unknowingly, jabbing a finger into his -- admittedly built -- chest.

"Wasn't until it started to affect me and Johnny! You're always hovering, always fucking there -- hell, if it weren't for social decorum, you'd be pulled up beside the bed while he fucks me! Maybe you could take notes, hey? You know, so you could actually find a chick that could fuck this -- this clinginess out of you!"

It's a low blow, you know it all too well, but he reacts like a dog with a bone, and it's somehow satisfying, rewarding in a way it shouldn't be. Not at all.

"You're actin' like a spoiled fuckin' brat, Princess. What, Johnny's gotten' bored of your ass? Gotta beg him to fuck ya?"

You aren't entirely sure when the two of you had gotten just a breath's distance apart, when you'd had to start tilting your head back to keep eye contact, when the tips of your bare feet started pressing against his black shoes.

Both of your breaths come out ragged, and you're entirely in your own world, forgetting all about the man holding both of your affections, the man that started this vitriol-filled relationship in the first place.

"What? Wish it was you he was fuckin' instead?" You hiss, lowly, calculated, and Simon rears back as if you've slapped him.

In a way, you might just have.

"You need to get put in your fuckin' place," is his slow, scarily calm quip in return. Your spine is ramrod straight, eyes filled with a fire in the barely-there light.

"You need to get laid," you seethe, hands balling into fists at your sides.

"Ye both needta' fuck a'd get it over with."

Silence, once more, fills the room, infinitely more cataclysmic than what any of you had planned for.

But that's just it.

There's no planning a calamity.

"What?" Johnny shrugs, as if he hasn't set a bomb between you all, as if he hadn't planned for you all to fear shrapnel scraping your skin. "Dinnae realise it was a fuckin' revelation."

"Johnny --" you begin, or, well, you try to, but your brain isn't exactly cooperating with your mouth, and vice versa.

"No, love, I'm serious," he raises his hands, palms facing both you and Simon in a placating gesture. "Hell, yer both givin' me a boner jus' from watchin' ya both go at it."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, he's right. He's so fucking right. The tension, the thinly veiled animostiy between you both -- it's never been one of pure hatred. Never been one of pure, mutual dislike.

It's been one dripping of sex, of desire. One consisting of lashing words and biting tones because you couldn't unleash them on each other in the one way you wanted to.

And maybe something else. Something you're not quite ready to face, not yet, not now.

But you will. Someday.

"Johnny..." Simon's brows are pulled together, and god, now that your lover has made you confront the feelings so heavily pushed down inside of you, you realise how beautiful the man is. Short, almost messy blonde hair, scarred face consisting of sharp features and defined cheekbones.

He's disarming in how attractive he is.

And when paired with Johnny? It's as destructive as the very bomb resting between all three of you, the one that your partner had constructed with bare hands and an ever barer heart.

"Yer tellin' me ya don't wanna bend 'er over the couch?" Johnny asks, flippantly, a genuine question.

The silence is as good of a reply as any words, and the man figures as much.

It's Simon's next words that change everything.

"Not just 'er," he says.

Not just her.

...He says.

Not. Just. Her.

The warmth of the living room reflects in Simon's velvet brown eyes, in the vulnerable glint in them. With those three words, he's put everything on the line, prepared himself for the guillotine that's in Johnny's hands to erect.

You see your lover work his jaw, work around the words about to leave his mouth, and your stomach hollows out.

If it had, oddly enough, been anyone else. Anyone else, you'd have already asked them to leave, let alone after that remark. But it's Simon. The man you know Johnny loves just as much as he does you, and the man you've forced yourself to hate, if only to repress the emotions you wouldn't allow yourself to feel.

"You," Johnny says, properly rolling his tongue over the full word, letting its weight sink in to the quiet of the apartment. "Want us. Both."

A moment passes.

Then, Simon nods, albeit stilted and, dare you say it -- nervous.

They both look at you, then, and you realise that what happens next is entirely in your hands, that all of your lives are effectively at your mercy.

So, with a deep breath, you nod.

a/n. just a teaser for this oneshot. ghoap x reader agenda 4ever!! just something about them is so flavourful and then adding a reader-insert?? boom there u go that's the good shit

[vyainide]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤso smile the heavens upon this holy act ㅤㅤ＼ㅤpraise be the forgiving, the just heaven and its gatekeeper.ㅤㅤ𖥟

伏黒甚爾၇⃪⃖ꪆ୧ㅤ𝒇. toji x gn! readerㅤ 𓊉 ㅤ~1800𝗐𝖼.ㅤ─── nsfw, drabble, no plot, far too much religious imagery, oral (m! recieving), not beta'd, is this blasphemy? feels like it, reader has long enough hair for a ponytail kinda⠀᭮ ━─⠀ ❤︎ ㅤ2024©vyainide ㅤㅤㅤ︶ིྀᩧㅤ1864lib

vyon's mouthpiece. uhh, a tag for my wife @sugojosgf who was the reason why this came to me in the first place, and the post that struck a whore string in me; this started as a quick oral drabble and derailed; less about sex and more about the metaphor... like it often is with me

Religion is a fool's coping mechanism, his very last attempt at a good, a very true life— that's where Toji stands with God; he's no space in his life for an all encompassing devotion to a man that he'll never see until he dies. He doesn't care, even when the frantically religious admonish him and cite lines upon lines upon lines of a welcoming god who will forgive all so long as he is welcomed. Toji thinks a god who would forgive him is a bastard and so he rejects it all. Damns it all the way to their measly hell.

The idea of a god may be lost on him, but heaven, sure as hell, is not.

If a man like Toji tells you that he's seen heaven, you'll think him a messenger of a cult. You'll laugh when Toji claims not to have only seen heaven, but touched it— ran the dirty hand of a murderer over the gates of paradise and felt the ichor metal quiver under the weight of sin and rust with blood painted over its intricate lines, pressed the tongue that's lavished on animal carcasses indiscriminately over the salt of fountains until the marble wore away unstable. He could speak with the fervour of a man searching for forgiveness, speak to the desperate and the strange, get a suit and try to become a little more presentable, and still no one would believe him.

But Toji knows. And so does God, if he exists.

And Jesus, if God did exist, Toji pities him. He pities the great Zeus who'll never find the syllables of his name on your tongue when he gets to feel that same mouth of yours on his aching dick whenever he wants. Heaven is real, Toji maintains, and it begins in your mouth.

You're far too good to him, in an all–forgiving way that he's heard only God is capable of. He comes home at some time in the night, his soul tangled and his muscles all pulled taut with his hand still fisted around a gun that he no longer holds— he searches through the apartment for something that might help him forget, and instead, he finds the curious human shape of euphoria.

It takes you no more than a glance over the poor excuse of his posture to realise what he needs.

There's no foreplay to getting you on your knees— it's quick, easy. The flip of a switch, a light turned off, a body dropping to the floor. A bullet that leaves the gun, a child blessed underneath water long enough to learn death.

Toji feels like a dog you've pavloved; bright eyes peeking up through lashes up at him, an innocence rounded on the fat of your cheeks, hands anointing his thighs— over his pants, too faint it is, your touch. You drag your hands slowly up and down, sweeping away dust and dirt unseen— it's sweet sin enough for him to feel a twitch in anticipation. Toji tucks his hand down into his pants.

He feels your gaze gathering on the bulge of his hands as it turns over, cupping both dick and balls before he wraps the hand around the base, jerking over the length lazily. He's intent on the view for just a moment. Toji's all filth, his teeth catching the smirk off of his bottom lip. His other hand reaches out, his thumb blessing over your lips, tugging down from your cupid's bow to your bottom lip and watching your mouth obediently part open, then he starts at the corner of your lips and draws across— stopping halfway and finishes the mocking denial by pushing the pad of a calloused thumb down onto your tongue.

He'll never get over it, he'll think of it in death— turn away God who might seek refuge in favour of you. "So," he breathes before he even knows it, the air of the word so hot and so true, "so fuckin' pretty." His voice grounds out into a growl— not unheard of with Toji, the only truth he's known is decorated violence. His thumb turns over your mouth, catching enough spit to pull it down over your lips. "Look at ya, always so eager— so good." His voice levels into an even coo, head tilting and the haunting of a smirk turned over his lips.

He smears it around your lips, the shine that fills in your pout a shade of blue with how the sky was bleeding into your apartment's living room, the shadow of god's weeping at Toji's misdirected idolising. Shifting his lap forward, the man finally pulls his cock out of his pants and before he lets you do what you do best, he settles back and pulls up his shirt enough to let you see the trail of hair from his belly button. You shift closer, your chest pressed against the edge of the chair and then you're straightening up. Communion and blood are the kisses you lay over the trail, from his belly button down.

Your lips wrap around the weeping tip, licking up the first drops of pre and in return, Toji offers his first prayer. A soft hiss and his hands tightening around the leather of the armchair, calling out fuck; he finds stability elsewhere, his hands never straying close enough to mess with your carefully curated tempo, crushing the armrests with his fists. He claws desperately away from the burning light of heaven.

The horrible man he is— he stares at you with the intent of branding the image into every fucking nerve that's got to do with his seeing; the beauty of heaven is never lost on sinners, who cry and beg for a do–over, who wish desperately to even trace their hands over the gate and wash their feet in the clouds even at the risk of being burned. So, unlikely it is, that Toji'll ever forget this picture.

Tears wet your eyes, rolling down your cheeks and slipping into the mess of slobber and spit at your chin as you struggle to accommodate an evil like Toji. Your hand picks up your slack at the base, playfully turning up and down as you come back up for air, turning your hand up so that you can drag your spit downwards.

Your eyes drink in the sight, scrutinising every careful jerk of his hips, his jaw locked tightly shut, the vein that crawls up from his neck. How his lips part and he struggled through a gasp when you parted your lips and gave him entry once more. "Shi— shit, fuck, so fuckin' good."

His hands hold over the sides of your head, he pushes the hair out of your face first and finds stray Atlas rumbling around in his strength, holding still heaven and forcing his way in. His hips stutter upwards as your hand wrapped around his calf, jaw slacking open as best you could to make it an easier process.

His groaning turns into stuttered beats, turns into dazed panting; hands loosen up around your head when he feel your throat protesting the forced entry, fingers wrap around your hair, fixing it into a makeshift ponytail with shorter hairs spilling out messily. When you bring your head back up for air, he uses the leverage to push you back down.

There is it— he thinks, some sick satisfaction turning over in him, scratching out against his bones. The glare and the anger that you level up at him, the look that he'd think God would have for men like him. "C'mon," lips turned up into a sardonic smirk, "you started this so do it properly, yeah?"

One day, you'll see the warning lights that are flashing you, the loud siren that blares over the serene and the calm, the darkening of clouds and thunder that'll rumble the very foundations of your being. One day, you'll turn away Toji if you know what's good for you. His skin pricks in morbid anticipation for the day.

He coos, "don't pout. Pretty mouth like yours should be too busy to pout." Your glare softens and he’s reminded of how truly fallible you are, how concepts like God and heaven are. But your pout ceases and you enrapture him with a mouthpiece of small death, and god— what else is this but heaven? The pleasure of being taken in without complaint, finding warmth and feed without having to struggle and barter for it, the perfection that should come with no mistakes, remarkably far from human capacity, only for gods to have, for the good and the saints.

And here it is. The human desire and want disguised with its noblesse oblige, taking care of its servants. “There you go,” his tone hangs on a lilting tease, the smirk on his face practically palpable as a hand of yours moves upwards to massage his balls. When he starts thrusting into your inviting mouth, feeling the scrape of your teeth against his skin, the threat that comes with it only spurns him on more. Toji fixes his feet into the floor, balancing his weight back with a hand on the chair and straightens himself up so he could punctuate each thrust with a lingering bruise.

Let there be damage ensued, let God see who He’ll have to forgive.

He’s deaf to your gags, spit bubbles past the lines of your lips. Desperation clings to his movement, haunts the shadow of his that’s struggling to catch up with his thrusts, Toji sees you press your thighs together, how tense your body is strung up— but that’s for later.

God sure is an unlucky bastard if he does exist. Lost the tongue of his greatness to Toji, only allowed sneak peaks through opened blinds when you’re so lost to pleasure that you make the mistake of calling out God; even as Toji’s brutally fucking your mouth with abandon, you still find a way to work your tongue over him. The tip of your nose huffs hot breaths on his navel when he sinks in a final time, a swear and more between his lips when his spine cracks over you. A large hand pressed against your head, his large frame curls over you as he cums.

“Shit,” a wrecked gasp leaves his mouth as he lets you go, finally giving you enough space to pull back and find air. He watches with rapt interest as you swallow before your mouth opens in an attack of coughs.

You stuff your face into his knee, body shaking and spitting out excess fluids. “Asshole.” He hears you call out brokenly.

It only makes him grin, snickering. He shifts himself, picking you up from the floor easily and settling you sideways onto his lap. “M’sorry,” he hummed, his voice achingly true and honest, “let me make it up t’you, yeah?” His dry lips pressed over your cheek, grabs your hair and sweeps it out of the way so he can lower his head and open his mouth over your neck.

You squirm, hands tightening into fists. You and Toji both know you don’t need any more encouragement, but he seems strangely intent on this act. So when his hand sneaks upwards under your shirt, you start begging until he’s satisfied.

He smacks his hand on your ass as he pulls up over his shoulder to carry you to bed. And by the time the sun rises, Toji can confidently brag that he knows what heaven tastes like.

[zivazivc]

Did Les ever dated in the past? Also is he with anyone recently?

Les quit school really early, like 10-years-old early, and he started working soon after, so he didn't really have friends his age. That kinda puts a buffer on a teenager's social and love life. Though there was something that happened at a house party once, that was, uh... a bad experience, and it left him with a lot of issues. Also, partially because of this, he's not really someone who acts on his crushes. So he never dated before.

But at one point the band spent a few months in the same location (dunno the reason yet, but maybe they weren't getting enough gigs and they had to take up some part time jobs for a while), and Les developed a crush on a bartender at a nearby club.

She's the only OC of mine who's visually a bigger weirdo than Les, and he definitely saw a little bit of himself in her, and hoping for someone with some shared life experience, it's what initially attracted him toward her and vice versa.

So they had a thing going on for a short time. It never developed into anything serious because sadly they are very alike, which means they are BOTH morons who are shy about making the first move. And after a while they came to the agreement that they were better as just friends.

Floyd with his persistent crush was not happy about the possible romance at first, but he ended up being happy for Les, and he finally decided to give his hopeless longing a rest, since the only good it was doing was growing a rift between his and Les's friendship.

Funny enough it was Floyd backing down which allowed the two to grow closer. Les lowered his guard since he no longer had to overthink if Floyd would interpret anything he did or said as some kind of flirting or act of love, and he no longer had to brace himself for any uncomfortable romancing coming from Floyd either.

They were already good friends since the start but they became much more casual with each other and began to understand each other on a deeper level as years passed. As Floyd got older and more mature, and became an equal with the rest of the bandmates, it was actually Les who fell for him, hard. He didn't really do anything about it though, but Floyd eventually realized this and you know he did something about it. Though Floyd's crush had gone from looking at Les as this cool experienced older guy when he was younger to now seeing him as a shy innocent teddy bear compared to his lewd self ksjhdkjs.

So technically they became each other's first proper all-encompassing relationship. And by that I mean that besides the lovey-dovey obvious stuff, they were also best friends and helped each other grow a lot. Also Floyd by the time they got together, already started a habit of hooking up with strangers at parties, so being with Les forced him to slow down and progress through a relationship slowly and at a healthy pace for someone his age (since you can't really get anywhere with Les without a lot of patience). And Floyd got Les to become comfortable with opening up and talking about his deep-rooted feelings. They talked about issues they faced, many of which were related to Les's childhood trauma, instead of him just ignoring or suppressing it all. (Floyd also opened up about his own family trauma with Les obviously, but he talked about it even before they got together.)

The relationship, especially at the start, could still be considered questionable from an outsider's perspective, but so was the band's lifestyle in general. They were good for each other during that period while they were growing up and figuring themselves and each other out, which is what matters I think.

It was honestly mainly Floyd's undiagnosed bipolar disorder that made the relationship suffer toward the end of Floyd's days in the band. It created a lot of trust issues between Floyd and Les, and also Floyd and everyone else, heck it even made Floyd distrust himself, since he and none else knew or understood what was happening with him. This led to a lot of misery and anger that he mostly ended up directing at Les, and it was what eventually made them break up and Floyd leave.

[bisnes-socks]

the video you guys... maybe it's bc it's the middle of the night but i'm losing it

i've said this before and i'll say it again, i think käärijä is pretty much the most interesting thing that has happened in finnish music in a long long time. but that is of course a matter of opinion

what is not a matter of opinion is that in the last almost two years now, he has been the most famous person this country has ever seen. like idk how clear it is to international fans, but it's not normal in finland for a musical artist to have their own personal bodyguard go with them everywhere. he's talked about it yes, but like.. there is like a bend in reality around him in this country that you can only really comprehend when you stop to look at it.

and i've wondered two things. i've wondered if he knows how much he has done for people in this country. i've talked to people in their fucken 50s who have found the confidence to speak english in public because of him. i've seen the absolutely all encompassing effect he has had on the city of vantaa. ccc in esc truly united this country right after an election that tore us apart.

like.. we laugh about how finnish people care so much about what other people think about us. and all these stereotypes us finnish people believe as being the way we are seen. quiet, stoic, a bit unemotional, hard to read, depressed, weird with a quirky language no-one understands. imagine the impact of him showing the world a completely different side to us, that we all still recognise as OUR culture and something inherently finnish. him becoming so loved all around the world and in this country, not despite but because of things we have been culturally taught to be ashamed of. things he refused to be ashamed of, and he showed us. he has done SO MUCH for all of us, and i wonder if he knows.

and i've wondered how he has managed to keep it together through everything. like i said, there is no-one, absolutely no-one, who has had that level of attention in this country. and i wonder how has he stayed sane.

and the song and the video kinda answer these questions and it's as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. absolutely fucking killed me. so many things in that song i can relate to on a very personal level as well, but his story lives on a scale i could never even dream of. and so now i know. i know he knows but how he still can't feel it. and i know if he has stayed sane and he hasn't and i know how he's felt and. it. is. heartbreaking.

but at the same time i have to say how much i admire his decision to put it all in this song and make this song the lead single of the album. he continues to show us and i have so much not only love but fucking respect for him for that. fuck.

[the-fictional-wife]

Finding Happiness (Itachi Uchiha x reader)- 1

This is the start of a series of scenarios for post-war Itachi (yes he lives) finding happiness with you! I miss fluff in Itachi's tag so why not make my own.

I want to mainly focus on the relationship but some chapters down the line will explain more plot also the chapter sequences might not end up in chronological order^^

This will be fem reader heads up so she/her pronouns!

Even though this isn't nsfw, some things in this series won't be exactly appropriate so imma still say MDNI!

////- means pov switch

Word count: 2.0k+

Chapter 1- Grocery Shopping + Cafe Cuties Next Chapter?

“I want to help.”

“You should want to take it easy instead,” you sigh. Itachi was up...yet again to help despite being on mandatory bedrest to help his body regain its strength back. He’s restless; it’s easy to understand; he’s banned from missions, and staying home is rather dull, but...

“Tsunade strictly said you were to rest while on house arrest. That’s the whole point I’m here.” You rest your arm on the cool kitchen countertop to grab a pen and begin writing down a shopping list with a huff.

“....”

At the silence, you turn around with pursed lips to face Itachi only to stifle a laugh when you see his face: eyebrows furrowed, lips just slightly jutted-

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.

“I would argue three weeks of nothing but bed imprisonment is adequate enough rest, don’t you agree.” Itachi huffs. 

After weeks of being detained right alongside Sasuke, Kakashi made the executive decision that Itachi deserved something better than a jail cell: temporary house arrest. 

With a babysitter. 

You glance at Itachi’s mildly annoyed face, momentarily taking in the sight.

You’ll spare him...for today.

“hm...fine, the sun would do you well anyway.” You finish writing the list and hand it to Itachi, whose eyes blankly rake the paper, then folds it into his pocket.

“Well, let’s go,” You stand at the doorway where a large black seal awaits, designed to trigger the alarm around Itachi’s ankle. Weaving the signs, you both squint at the burst of light before ushering him out the door.

As the two of you walk out of the Uchiha compound, you ponder over the last few weeks with Itachi. You can’t count the heart attacks you’ve gotten from seeing an empty bed and surprise; he was admiring the fish. 

He is a quiet, stealthy patient, somewhat akin to an 87-year-old senior citizen. On the more serious end, you think back solemnly; his eyes had often reflected his concession to emptiness. Sunken in and soulless.

‘But now…’ You peer at Itachi from the corner of your eye.

His eyes sharp and attentive; the color is back in his face; sunkissed pink cheeks, his short sleeve shirt giving view to his lean muscles-

‘He’s actually kinda...’ 

////

Itachi can’t tell if it’s the heat of your gaze or the sun flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze washes over him, a captivating light he yearns to forever bask in. Domesticity is a variable of life he is unacquainted with and…undeniably undeserving of. 

And yet, the further you expose him to gentleness, affection, and peace, the more he greedily deludes himself into that he belongs.

Encompassed in a life of peace he’s desperately craved, peace he’s found with you.

Within the shinobi existence, emotions, relationships…living. All become an unforeseeable luxury.  

It’s unsettling to desire. To be human.

Itachi silently shifts his eyes toward you, observing as you conceal your face, abashed from being caught. He finds himself smitten. 

“You were looking a little pale. If you feel weak at any time, don’t be afraid to lean on me.” 

A lie, of course. An utterly endearing one.

‘Perhaps, in this life…’

He capitalizes on the chance anyway. 

‘…I can be selfish.’

////

As you head into the village, you feel something creep around your arm. 

Neither of you acknowledge it.

+++

Your arm is still intertwined with Itachi’s as you both find purchase in a decently sized everything market. Waving to the cat perched in the front, you read the aisle numbers with its affiliated products: ‘Household items- 1, Toys- 2, Jewelry- 4,...Fruits & Dairy- 5’. After detecting where you wanted to begin, you guys head to your destination, avocados. 

Itachi lightly tugs your arm, signaling your attention.

“It’ll be quicker if we split. The potatoes are within eye range; I’ll only be a minute.” Your face scrunches in; reluctantly, you let go with a poorly concealed pout.

“... don’t trust me? I promise I’ll return to you shortly.” With that, Itachi saunters, leaving a lingering graze against your skin. 

You pause, leaving the way your heart palpitates unavowed. ‘A kiss would have sufficed,’ you snicker and return to your dilemma with hunched shoulders.

You’re on your fifth avocado before you give a groan of defeat. “I can’t tell which ones are good or not; they all look the same,” you mumble, distracted enough to miss the figure peering closer.

“May I see?”

His gentle whisper tickles your ear, you force the quiver down your spine to still- even when you feel his careless lips making one too many brushes to your ear, you wordlessly nod yes.

His broad chest and feather touch of his hair against your cheek overwhelm your senses as he reaches his arm around your waist to probe at the fruit you have in hand.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart beats.

“Hmm...this one is ripe. You can tell by the dark color and firmness...good eye.” Within a blink, the weight of Itachi’s presence vanished, and he pulled away.

Ah. That.

“R-right, thank you,” you fumbled over your wording and rushed to the edge of the aisle. “Okay, let’s split from here to make things easier; I do the first half of the list, you do the last. Capeesh?” Fingers bend into a okay sign; you give a shaky grin and rush down to the next aisles, leaving Itachi to fend for himself.

“...” Itachi blinks, idly standing before he lets out a defeated puff of air.

 ‘...It appears I’ve made a mistake.’ With furrowed brows, he peers down at the list with a harsh, focused stare.

Your mind hasn’t left Itachi as your heart physically pains in guilt; it’s his first time out in weeks, and you flat leave him. Putting your final item in your shopping basket, you haul it down Itachi’s direction, only to find him in the exact same position as before.

Tilting your head, you ask befuddled, “Itachi, what are you doing?...” Oh. 

You steer closer, and the pitiful sight in front of you makes your shoulders pull straight; Itachi’s eyes strain, glaring down at the paper an inch away from his face at a poor attempt at reading the words.

He can’t see.

‘How long has he been-’ you quickly shuffle in your bag and call for Itachi’s attention. “You should’ve said something! I had brought your glasses with me, but I completely forgot about it-” Itachi takes it with a grateful upturn of his lips.

“Thank you..” He mutters, drawing his attention back to the list. “We are still missing the tomatoes and bread; I passed them earlier on our way in. Follow me.” Itachi gingerly takes your wrist in hand and leads you down the correct aisle.

Soon after you paid, you’ve collectively decided to grab a bite to eat. “Itachi, you smell that?” You sigh out an exhale; an alluringly sweet smell wafts itself above all the open markets along the sides from a small corner amongst the buildings. A mini cafe.

You brush against the roughness of Itachi’s calloused fingers, only grabbing his pinkie to lead him down.

You’ll pretend like you didn’t see the way he flushed. 

+++

Slouching in the seat across Itachi, you flex out the ache in your fingers from the weight of the bags as you wait for your shared order of dangos.

“I’ll assist you with the baggage on our way out.”

Looking up in disbelief, you scoff,  “Hell no- you’re still in recovery.”

“Don’t overwork yourself for my sake....”

Hypocrite.

You open your mouth to respond, only to suppress yourself at the sight of the waiter approaching.

The waiter smiles while serving your drink and food, then turns over and carelessly drops Itachi’s tea, droplets splashing onto Itachi’s lap.

With a twitching smile, the waiter laughs, “Oh, how clumsy of me, you should get yourself clean. You mutt; should be easy for a traitor, always covering his dirt.” Your mouth is agape, eyes shifting from Itachi to the waiter.

Itachi remains unfazed, his gaze fixed on the waiter with an air of nonchalance. It’s almost patronizing. The waiter scowls, turning away from the stare-down, muttering his pitiful complaints about Itachi’s mere presence.

“Geez, what was their problem?” You scoff side eyeing the waiter. Itachi sits silently, sipping his tea, looking down at his plate with a vacant stare. “...Itachi, you okay? I’ll go backhand a bitch for you, they had no right to treat you like that.” 

Itachi’s eyes shift to you at your aggressive demeanor. “Don’t. I’ve made peace with my past; their hate will only torment themself.” 

A lie. For a brisk moment, you noted how his mug trembled under the tension of his grip. You make a tsk noise, propping your head onto your hand, reluctantly letting the situation go.

Glancing up, Itachi discerns how your lips are still pulled into a snarl, glowering in the general direction of the offender. 

‘Hm, that won’t do.’

Rolling back the ache in his shoulders, he figures he could relieve your tension. If it’d make you smile,

“…besides…”

He’d be a fool. 

You turn back over with an inquiring hum.

“...they just aren’t sigma enough to control themself.” He returns to sipping his tea.

“…”

“....”

“Pfft- WHAT” You break the silence, convulsing with laughter. “I-Itachi, don’t ever say that in your life again- I’m not a good influence on you.” Still unable to break the giggles, you look at Itachi’s soft stare and slowly compose yourself under his unwavering gaze.

You cough in your hand and shift your eyes away.

“Let’s eat.”

You fall into a rhyme of chewing and idle conversation. 

“See, now you’re lying! I never laughed when you put your glasses on-” The table shifts from the weight of your knee. You firmly dangle Itachi’s wrist away from his glasses as he attempted to remove them a few seconds ago.

“...you couldn’t even catch your breath.”

“I was just surprised! I’ve never seen your eyes so…beady.” You tremble, holding back a cackle. His prescription, unfortunately, made his lens the size of a brick, but thankfully, Tsunade aided in making it more suitable.

“So now my eyes are beady,” His voice barely whispers, he looks off to the side. A look of dismay washed over your face; you cusp his face between your hands, pulling his gaze back up to you.

“Hey- don’t get all mopey; you know I think you’re cute with the glasses on.” You softly look to reassure him, guilty over your tease...until you notice the subtle twitch in his lips, a poor attempt at maintaining his stoic facade.

He was joking. 

Itachi shifts his weight into your palms, eyes closed in total serenity. “Do I?...”

‘Absolutely full of himself.’ You express your annoyance with an eye roll and flop back into your seat, leaving Itachi’s head to hang.

‘...did I displease her again.’ Itachi looks down at the final dango stick and holds it to you.

“Here, a truce for forgiveness.”

“But, that’s your favorite…and we bought that with your budget-” you sheepishly add.

“Please, I insist, I...don’t think I can finish this.” Itachi gives a light smile as he hovers the stick to your lips.

The blood rising to your face makes you dazed as you brush aside bits of your hair and savor the first dango ball on your tongue with a hum.

You swear it tastes sweeter from him.

“Thank you, Itachi; consider yourself forgiven.” You say before opening your mouth for the next one.

+++

-------------------------------

“All done,” you brush your hands off proudly after putting away all the supplies and produce. When cleaning up the bags, you notice a mini bag that looks different from the rest. 

‘Could this be Itachi’s?...’ You gently spread open the bag, eyes widening in astonishment; a beautiful crystal necklace sweetly lying in a small box with a small note tagged onto the front.

It reads,

‘I hope it’s to your liking, I noticed you wear this color frequently. Let this be a mark of our friendship ~ Itachi.’

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Heyyy haven't wrote anything since like 2021 but I might be back probably, probably not- This is pretty self-indulgent but hope yall still enjoyed ^^

Do I think Itachi would say "sigma" if it meant you'd laugh for him after feeling like he depressed the mood? YES. Live with my canon.

Do I think Itachi actually likes physical touch but is just touch starved? YES. I'm projecting.

Any sort of love is appreciated don't be shy to say hi and good luck to everyone during finals week!

*Also-If you have any tips on writing + writing Itachi please let me know!