#but you’re the only one who knows who you are; screw em if they can’t appreciate what you offer

[stephofromcabin12]

🫵 this is gonna get personal for a sec, I'm bisexual and demisexual, and my family keeps making homophobic comment. I haven't come out to them because of the comments, I just need something honestly.

[I have not edited this and I wrote it p soon after waking up so apologies for any typos or tangents — I hope the point shines through — in case someone hasn’t told you today: You’re valued, You’re worthy, You bring something to the table no one else can bring; Yourself. And I’m glad you’re here🩷]

Hey lovely anon,

Let me start by saying: You owe no one the priviledge of knowing that side of you. That’s a gift you choose when and where and to whom you give. Just because they’re family does not automatically give them an all access-pass to all of you. It’s a privilege earned through mutual respect and kindness. Don’t feel that you must come out to them, especially if you worry it’s not going to be received well.

I understand the wish to share it, because it is a part of who you are but you must remember that there is no arguing with ignorance, especially not if it’s stubborn and self-inflicted.

A therapist once told me that everything people say to you is a reflection of themselves. Meaning, if people feel the need to joke about you, point fingers and criticize you unwarranted, it’s usually a marker that they see how evolved you are, how smart and accepting and glowing you are. They see how easily you rest in yourself and allow others to do the same; and they’re uncomfortable with that because they lack those skills, and so they must try to knock you down to their level, so they can feel better. Let them try. The key in doing that is to Observe their behavior but don’t Absorb it. Know that it’s not you they’re talking about when they say those things; it’s them. And that’s got absolutely zero to do with you.

Don’t sink to their level, that’s exactly what they want, anon. Rise above it, floating over their lowly, narrow-mindedness really puts just how small their world is into perspective. Becoming bitter only festers into something worse, and you shouldn’t allow that kind of rot into your garden, it you can avoid it. Cut it out at the root and let something better and healthier grow instead.

Next, I want you to remember that there are people out there who will celebrate you, who will love you and accept you as you are and as you grow, regardless of what labels you pick up or put down or replace or find again (because labels are just a marker of here and now, not a definitive statement, because people aren’t definite—I’m not trying to sound like those people who say sexuality is just a phase but rather that you should focus on what feels like you right now rather than search for a label to put on it; sometimes there isn’t one, and that’s okay too. Which I’m probably only feeling called to say because I wish someone had told me that when I was younger and obsessing over what word to introduce myself to the world with, instead of just introducing me as myself)

And maybe your family can learn how to be those people, in time, if they’re willing to learn; oftentimes people are cruel towards things they don’t understand—and it’s not your job to force someone them to understand, anon.

You can present the opportunity to them, but you can’t make them learn. They have to want that for themselves. Give them time, sometimes they need that. But if they refuse then that’s their loss. You don’t have to make a big fuss about this. You just don’t grant them access to that part of you indefinitely until they earn it back. Simple as that.

A piece of advice from someone who had to learn to bite their tongue instead of engaging with idiocracy: Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is learn to shrug it off. No, it’s not fair and you want to educate, you want to share your truth and teach them some empathy. But you can’t. It’s not up to you.

And it’s an endless cycle. They won’t learn until they want to. So unclench your jaw, and drop your shoulders and learn the beautiful words: “Sure, whatever you say!” Before promptly moving on so you don’t feed their need for discussing things they dont understand or have a say in, in the first place.

They expect a fight. They expect to be proven right in their belief that they’re the rational one by making you lash out. And if you simply dismiss them in a levelheaded way, then you strip them of both of those things. You signal that “I heard what you said, but that’s an immature and uneducated thing to say, so I’m going to give you the grace of letting it slide and moving on” - akin to not entertaining a petulant child; they don’t know better, or feign not to anyway. So you’ll treat them as such. They say kill them with kindness, I prefer gentle redirection. You’re not hardening to match them, you can be firm and gentle at the same time. That’s real power. That’s maturity. Take a deep breath and tell yourself that your journal and or your therapist will hear all about this.

But move on. Save yourself the added irritation.

Next ask yourself: Do you love yourself? Do you accept yourself? Have you made a home for yourself in your body and soul and stand by it, no matter what? Do you show up for yourself and trust yourself?

That’s all you need at the end of the day, anon. The opinions of others who don’t understand you—and sometimes don’t wish to understand you— don’t matter. The right people will not always understand you at first; but they’re curious about you, and want to learn about you because they love you.

I can’t say if your family falls into that category, and the experience of hearing harmful, ignorant comments from the people who are supposed to be in your corner is all too familiar in the community. But my old 7th grade teacher once sat in our class, which consisted of 20 young girls—all of whom struggled with our identities in one way or another— and told us a story about her son, who was maybe 5 or 6 at the time. She told us how he came home crying after being called names by the other kids in his class. Before messaging the school, she sat with him, hugged him and asked him to repeat everything they’d said. Every little thing.

He did. He listed it all— admittedly very juvenile insults but to a five year old they’d been detrimental— and when he finished, she looked him in the eyes and asked:

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you all those things?”

“No! That’s why I’m so upset! It’s not true!”

“Okay, then that’s all that matters. Who cares if they *think* you are something. If you know you’re not, you’ll prove them wrong eventually by simply not becoming their assumptions.”

I’m sure she phrased it more in a way that a young child would understand but to us, who were older: 13 and having to decide who we were, it was a golden. Once you know yourself, anon, it takes a lot for people to get to you. Because anything they throw at you, you simply hold up to the truth of you, and if it doesn’t fit; throw it away. It’s not yours to keep then.

Regardless of the outcome, if you choose to come out— because it is your choice, and you don’t have to be out to be in the community, and you don’t have to be out to everyone you know— Know who you are. Rest in it.

When people question it or try to tear it down; don’t crumble. You can’t be a twig here, anon. You have to grow to a point where it takes more than a miss-step to break you.

You have to rest in your own self like an old oak tree with roots reaching miles down into the earth and branches stretching tall to the sky; unafraid to be seen— because there’s nothing about a tree that doesn’t belong here. You’ve grown that tall on your own; you’ve earned this spot in the sun just by staying true to yourself.

All that noise, wind and earthquakes doesn’t matter. You’re rooted in the earth’s core. It’s taken too much strength to grow to be knocked over by a gust of wind or stone thrown. Tree’s aren’t bitter either. Or vengeful. Its so easy to become that but don’t. It’s not worth it. Be as a tree: observing, sometimes seemingly still but always growing quietly. Be everything you wish to have: you want safety and security; become a shelter for yourself. You want friendship and love? Become your own biggest adorer, and your own most trusted friend. You want power and respect? Learn to be powerful without being cruel, and to respect yourself even on your bad days, and bad years. When you do that, others who have done the same healing will recognize it in you, and vice versa, and you’ll find what you’re looking for when it’s meant for you; because you already have it all in yourself. No one can take it from you, or give it to you if you’ve already given it to yourself. And why shouldn’t you? You deserve all those things and more.

Stand tall, anon, and know yourself. You know who you are, and you know there’s people out there who love you, and support you, even if you haven’t met them yet.

I’m with you. You’re not the first to walk this path and you won’t be the last, in that sense you’re never alone. We’re all cheering you on☀️

[pupkashi]

a/n: i read a tiktok comment and was inspired ,, no further questions ; gojo fluff as usual & two mentions of alcohol consumption

“who would you look for in a room full of everyone you’ve known?” you ask, your face is a bit hot, either from the alcohol or the heat you aren’t sure, but you’re grateful to the cool summer breeze that blows over the two of you.

the grass feels cool to the touch, running your fingers over it, petting it softly as it tickles your thighs. satoru sitting close to you, close enough for you to feel his body heat radiating onto you, his hands still oddly cold as they brush against yours on the grass.

he hums softly, plucking a wildflower from its place and inspecting it. satoru hesitates, glancing over at you before deciding to speak up.

you look gorgeous in this lighting, he thinks, relaxed and without a care in the world for once. you’re staring up at the stars, surely trying to find any constellations you can to try and point them out to him.

“I’d look for you” he replied finally, handing the flower to you, smiling softly when you turn to face him. “why do you look so shocked?”

“why me?” you ask, laughing softly, thinking surely he was joking and would retract his statement and say someone more meaningful to him. someone important.

“who else if not you?” satoru replies without missing a beat, no silly lilt to his voice or underlying teasing tone. his blue eyes stare into yours, breath caught in your throat as you keep his gaze for a second before faltering and focusing on the flower in your hand.

“i- maybe someone important” you chuckle nervously, “i don’t know” satoru furrows his brows at your words.

“you are someone important, though” he breathes out, “you’re important to me” his tone is a bit more stern, frustrated almost. “can’t you see? you’re everything i want- you’re the only thing i want.”

the confession is enough to tear your eyes from the flower in your hands back to his eyes. you don’t know what you’re looking for on his face, a hint of a joke? maybe the realization that this was a silly fantasy you’d soon be awoken from.

it’s real. everything is real.

you’re here sitting in the middle of a park in the dead of night with the one man you’ve had a crush on since you laid eyes on him. and he wants you too.

you open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. no matter how many times you’d imagined this happening you never really thought it would.

“of all the times I’d told you to stop talking and now when i want you to say something you have nothing?” satoru smiles, leaning in a bit closer to you.

you don’t say anything witty, crashing your lips onto his and screwing your eyes shut. his lips are soft, he tastes like peppermint and your lip balm he stole from you.

you drop the flower, one hand holding you up, the grass tickling the palm of your hand while the other found its way to the nape of his neck, tangling your fingers in the white hair over grown hair. you’re grateful he missed his haircut appointment, especially as your played with the soft hair between your fingers.

satoru grabs your waist, pulling you closer to him. he seems to forget his own strength in the moment, causing you to lose your balance and topple onto him, laughing against his chest.

“that’s one way to end a kiss” you giggle, moving to get off of him, his arms wrap around you, holding you firmly in place atop him.

“you started it” he teases, making you roll your eyes and slap his chest softly.

“we should probably get back soon,” you whisper, eyes lingering on his lips for a second before looking back at his eyes, “I’m sure suguru already realized his bottle of tequila is filled with water.” you push yourself off him, sitting back on the ground with your legs crossed.

“I’ll get ‘em a better brand anyway” satoru scoffs, standing up and extending a hand towards you, “that one tasted like shit,” he laughs.

“i thought it was good!” you gasp, taking his hand and practically standing chest to chest with him, you take a step back and satoru is quick to snake his arm around your waist, keeping you close.

“that’s cause you’ve never had good tequila, sweetheart” he chuckles, letting a comfortable silence wash over the two of you.

“it’ll always be you, by the way” you speak up, breaking the silence, “in any crowded room- I’ll always look for you.”

satoru doesn’t stop the giggle that slips past his lips, pulling you closer into him and bumping your hips together making the two of you stumble a bit.

“glad we’re on the same page then” he hums, removing his arm from your waist and i stead grabbing your hand with his, swinging your arm with his as the two of you walked hand in hand.

(suguru was less than pleased when he found the water filled bottle sitting on the opposite side of the room it usually was on, but was more than willing to let bygones be bygone when he realized satoru had finally confessed to you.)

taglist (send an ask to be added): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

[lovebugism]

if you're still looking for shy reader ones (with a hint of smuttiness) maybe Eddie finds shy reader's sex toys?

ty! — eddie munson stumbles upon your sex toy and shy!you learns to cope (shy!fem!r, fluff, allusions to smut 18+)

Twisted in thin sheets and Eddie’s Hellfire shirt, you fight for slumber in the honeyed haze of your bedroom. You rest on your stomach, arms wrenched around the pillow you clutch to your face. A heavy, comforting weight smooths over your back in the familiar shape of Eddie Munson. A lazy smile tugs at your lips.

“How are we supposed to nap if you won’t stop touching me?” you mumble as the boy sprinkles chaste kisses to your jaw and neck.

“Can’t help it. You’re too pretty,” he slurs, still sleepy but trying to fight it. 

The tip of his nose traces your pulse point when he moves down to kiss the bare skin of your shoulder — where the neck of your shirt has fallen slightly down. Chill bumps erupt beneath his touch. You feel his smile contort against your skin. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Eddie teases. “I know you do.”

“Hm,” you hum, writhing slightly between the mattress and his body. “I do like it,” you confess in a half-muffled murmur.

“Yeah?”

You nod against the pillow. “Very much…”

His bare stomach settles flush against your back when he rises on his forearms. His crotch ruts subtly (only sort of unintentionally) against your ass — cock already half-hard and aching. His plush mouth brushes the shell of your ear. You fight back a shiver. 

“Have any rubbers?” he mumbles.

“Top drawer. On the right.”

Eddie scoffs and sits back on his haunches, taking his warmth and the covers with him. He swats your ass with a rough, but not unkind hand, before rising off the squeaking mattress. “You minx,” he chuckles. “What the hell do you have a pack of rubbers here for?”

You giggle weakly into the pillow. “The same reason everyone has ‘em, Eds.”

“Who else are you using them with, huh?”

You’d roll your eyes at him if they were open. “No one,” you scoff. “You’ll be pleased to find them unopened.”

With your eyes still shut, you only hear the squeaking of an opened drawer. You wait for the sound of Eddie ripping the box open like a total maniac, but it never comes. The strange silence makes your chest ache.

“Well…” Eddie scoffs in a teasing lilt. “What is this?”

You lift your heavy head from the pillow to glance at him over your shoulder. Squinting with tired eyes, you find the boy on the exact opposite side of the dresser you pointed him towards. Your veins flood with an ice-cold horror. 

“I said on the right!” you shout, rising from the mattress and rushing towards him with a newfound life.

“This is the right!” Eddie argues, then makes an L shape with both his hands. His brows raise beneath his fluffy bangs when he realizes he’s gotten them backwards. “…Oh.”

You slam the drawer shut, as if the damage hasn’t already been done. 

You’re not sure what’s more embarrassing, actually — the fact that your boyfriend’s just seen your drawer of sex toys, or the fact that they’re audibly jostling against one another while you try to hide them. Both equally make you so mortified you could die.

“Hey!” Eddie shouts. “I was looking at those!”

You glare at him. “Don’t make fun!”

“I’m not making fun!” he assures through a set of boyish giggles. He gestures wildly with ringed hands and tells you, “You’re a girl with needs, babe— I’m actually glad you’re taking care of yourself when I’m not around.”

“Eddie!” you shout, equal parts scolding and whining.

He laughs again, louder now but no less sincere. “I’m serious! You don’t have to be embarrassed about it, okay? It’s normal. And it doesn’t bother me. Alright? No big deal.” He tilts his wild head to his shoulder and smiles lazily down at you. “Well. As long as you’re not planning on trading me for Mr. Sparkling Pink Vibrator in there—”

You swat half-heartedly at his chest, face screwed with a distant horror. “I said don’t make fun!” you grouse and try to step back from him.

Eddie pulls you back by your wrists, making you stumble into his chest. He ducks down until the tip of his nose brushes the bridge of yours. With a bright pink and crooked beam, he tells you, “I’m kidding, alright? I’m just messin’. I’ll leave you alone about it, okay?”

“Promise?” you murmur in a mousy voice.

“Mhm. I promise,” he nods once, then can’t help but smirk. “Unless, you know, you ever wanna use ‘em together…”

Your nose scrunches at the offer. Not because you don’t like it (your stomach is warm and swirling at the thought), but because you didn’t like he would. “You’d wanna do that? With me?”

“Yeah. You know, whenever you want. No big deal…” he shrugs and tries to be cool about it. 

But the thought of pinning you beneath his body, piercing you with his cock, and holding the pretty vibrator to your clit while you scream for him — unable to decide whether you want more of his merciless pleasure or if you can’t take any of it anymore — makes his hands tremble with yearning. 

“Though… Now would be preferable.”

[darlingdaisyfarm]

hurt/comfort with mullet!Stan

You’re leaning into him, practically melting in the warmth of his arms, but the weight on your heart isn’t lifting. Stan shifts beside you, so undeniably present, like he’s willing to be your anchor, even if he doesn’t know how to say it. The old couch creaks under you both, the whole shack silent except for the soft crackling of the cigarette you share between fingers, trading embers and breaths.

Stan’s brow furrows as he takes a slow drag, glancing over at you. You know his eyes are watching, obviously he’s studying you.

Finally, he shifts and says bluntly, “you’re wound up tighter than a cheap watch, ya know? somethin’ gnawin’ at you, huh?”

You exhale, watching the thin line of smoke spiral up. “Yeah. . . you could say that.” the ache in your chest tightens. Everything you’re carrying feels so complicated, like tangled threads you can’t even begin to sort through.

Stan just watches you, thinking, then he takes another drag and hands the cigarette back to you, nodding toward it. “Ain’t gonna solve a damn thing if you’re just gonna sit there and look miserable, sweetheart. Might as well get it off your chest.”

You manage a small laugh, bitterness slipping into the sound. “It’s. . . it’s just a lot, Stan. I don’t know where to start.”

Stan pulls you closer, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “Look, I ain’t no therapist, but sittin’ here mopin’ like a lost puppy ain’t gonna do jack. Spill it. Even if I’m a crap listener, you’re gettin’ it out, yeah?”

You look at him, into his dark brown eyes and find nothing, but pure worry here, even if his rough voice doesn’t match his care, somehow that’s still exactly what you need. A presence, even if he’s not exactly gentle about it. It’s the only kind of reassurance he knows how to give.

“I just. . . keep feeling like nothing I do is ever enough. No matter how hard I try, everything just feels like it’s slipping out of my control,” you confess, voice a little shaky.

Stan’s thumb brushes along your shoulder as he pulls you in tighter. His voice, when he speaks, is softer but laced with his usual rough honesty. “Well, first off, quit thinkin’ you gotta have it all together. Life ain’t a freakin’ checklist. You’re allowed to screw up, you’re allowed to be a mess. Hell, look at me, if I can keep goin’ after all the crap I’ve pulled, you’re more than allowed to trip over your own feet once in a while.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and somehow it makes you feel better. He may not have all the answers, but he’s here and that matters.

Your voice is small when you say, “but I don’t wanna screw up, I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

Stan grunts, his tone turning a little sharper. “Listen, you’re human. People who care about you ain’t gonna ditch ya just ‘cause you’re strugglin’. And if they do, fuck ‘em. They’re the ones missin’ out on the best damn person I know. Hell, you’re more than enough just as you are.”

A warmth blossoms in your chest, breaking through the ache, his words unexpectedly softening the edges of your pain. You look at him, really look, and see the sincerity buried beneath that gruff exterior.

His hand comes up to brush along your cheek, thumb grazing your skin. “You got a good heart, sweetheart. Don’t let anyone, including yourself, tell ya otherwise. If you keep beatin’ yourself up for not bein’ perfect, you’re just gonna make yourself miserable.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the two of you and the soft glow of his affection wraps around you like a blanket. You lean in, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling his steady heartbeat against you. Stanley sighs, letting his hand drift down your back in slow, comforting strokes.

You’re quiet, breathing him in, the warmth of his skin, the smoky scent of his clothes. And then, in a low murmur, he adds, “You think life’s about havin’ it all figured out? Pfft. Life’s about fallin’ on your ass, pickin’ yourself up, and keepin’ goin’ ‘cause that’s what makes you strong. The way I see it? You’ve already got that part down.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound a bit wet with unshed tears. “You make it sound so. . . simple.”

Stan chuckles. “Ain’t sayin’ it’s easy, kid. Just sayin’ you’re tougher than you think. And if ya ever forget that, I’ll be right here to remind ya.”

Stanley leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his hand cradling the back of your head. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment, his roughness somehow grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“You’re somethin’ special, don’t let anyone, including yourself, make ya think otherwise.”

and then Stan grins, tipping your chin up to meet his gaze. “And if anyone’s got a problem with that, they can answer to me.”

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Could you do Platonic Yanderes Endeavor (reformed), Aizawa, Present Mic, with a child darling who wears a mask and basically said screw hero life and became a vigilante + them finding out there a kid under the mask

Child Vigilante Reader | Yandere Boku No Hero Academia

They recognized that you were short and the words you’d say sounded funny in your deep voice modulator. But it still came as a surprise when they pulled that mask off your face to reveal the lightly battered face of a young child:

Aizawa Shota

Just by your height and general instinct as a hero he’s always putting a protective arm in front of you

And he figures your young with your insistent yells that ‘you’re not a kid’ 

Only to pick up your injured body taking off your mask to check if your okay

Only to be filled with an overwhelming urge to protect you as he registered how little you are

You’re his kid now 

No questions asked

He takes you to his home, having had you checked up by the doctors

He’ll do his research find out what you’re homelife is like

when you don’t show up and a fuss isn’t raise he takes it upon himself to officially adopt you

“You’re not my dad!”

“Your papers don’t say so!”

“Then give ‘em to me I’ll burn it now!”

“No!”

He’s used to dealing with rowdy kids

And he’s willing to deal with your now unpowered fits

And most animosity is cleared up when he gives you some food

You’ll try to run away but he catches you everytime

And eventually you’ll fall into a cycle

Where you join him as you fight crime 

Then you go home and live the domestic life with Aizawa

He doesn’t stop you until he feels like its too dangerous and when you’re lured into a false sense of security

“Sorry kid, I can’t have you getting hurt. Trust me this is an act of love.”

Hizashi Yamada

He probably quietly follows you at the end of a long day

Doing the thing he’s never doing around you: Being Quiet

Usually he doesn’t mind working with you 

After a couple attempts to bring you in he doesn’t anymore

And instead just works in harmony with you 

Usually joking and bantering with you to turn down all his jokes

But he’s horrified to know that your a kid

Young enough to be his kid is so nonreactive to his animated actions

What made you so serious!?

He does the same as Aizawa 

Finds out your homelife and legally takes control

“Whazzup kiddo! Guess who’s your new daddy!?”

“A bumbling frat boy idiot-hero?”

“Ack! H-how do you even know to insult me like that!?”

He’s not the best at catching you if you try to run away 

But you’re so lucid you’ll end up willingly moving in with him

because child services

He tries 

He really does

But you’re such a little adult you end up teaching him how to properly take care of you

He doesn’t really restrict you because you seem like you’re so smart

You usually outsmart him enough to keep doing your vigilante work

But the one time he outsmarts you, he might get some help you’re stuck

At least for this major battle you were prepared to die defeating

“Sorry baby bird, but I can’t have you getting hurt. That’s for your papa to deal with!” 

Todoroki Enji (Reformed)

“And you’ll be going away for a loong time.”

“Yes…thank you for your help with this one.”

“Of course! Always happy to help!” 

“...”

“...”

“...Now reveal yourself to me!” 

“Hey!? Let me go!”

He’s suspected you were young from the beginning 

And it infuriates him now

That some idiot father of yours would let you run around like this

They’re probably as bad as he was 

And he can’t let that be

So he’ll go to your family’s home

And tear them a new one 

Practically bullying them into signing adoption papers or at the very least making you meet up with him weekly daily

He’s such an old man

Lecturing you about how you dress 

Scolding you when he finds you fighting villains

He’ll force a bunch of tracking devices and bugs in your room 

So that he can keep you safe

And when it gets real he doesn’t mind locking you wherever he decides is best

“I’ve done…a lot of horrible things. I’ve hurt my family. I’ve hurt my fans. And you’ll probably hate me but you need me to protect you, to guide you. So trust me, this is for your own good.”

[devildomditzy]

Pacts - Mammon x MC

Part 3

Haven’t Read The Beginning? : Part One - Part Two

Tag list + Author’s Note at the end

Tags: Angst w/ eventual comfort, Mentions of Death/The Fall, Mentions of anxiety/anxiety attacks

——————————————————————————

Okay… Deep breaths. Just like Lilith taught ya.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In

In

IN!!!!

“Mammon, what’s wrong! Hey, Mammon, come on, come back to me.”

If only the simple snapping of your fingers in his face and the feeling of you grabbing his shoulders could bring him down from the panic he was now feeling.

This should be easy. He can remember another time, a simpler time, a time long gone by. One where his sister still lived and smiled and breathed. One where she taught him things like expressing your feelings and sharing your emotions with others. One where she showed just how important family and friends and lovers could be…

He was never good at it. Of course, that was his own personal opinion. But whenever he did Lilith would smile that blinding smile and glow and tell how much of a natural he was at it.

He’s flirted, sure, he’s put on the charm and picked up various angels and demons and humans and who even knows what to fulfill his more primal desires. He’s taken lovers and partners and been a part of a couple, or thruple…or even quadruple, some of which lasting for years or even decades.

But ever since the fall, ever since he lost his home, his friends, his sister, his life; and was left to pick up the pieces with the other six who swore themselves to damnation for the rest of existence? He can’t say that he’s been interested in another being. At least not like this.

You. You. The human. The stupid exchange student he was unceremoniously shackled to. The one he had no choice but to watch over. The one that seemingly didn’t care that they were thrust into hell. The one that defied his all powerful brothers, whether out of bravery or innocence or down right stupidity. The one that calls him silly for wearing sunglasses inside and hums to themselves when they’re really focused and explores the Devildom with curiosity rather than fear and is too friendly for their own good and looks at him with big, bright, beautiful eyes that nobody has ever looked at him with before and tells him they really like hanging out with him and and and…

Everything stops. Everything goes blank. The only thing Mammon can feel is a weight, one that’s made it’s way around his body. It’s comforting and warm and all consuming and it’s…

He opens his eyes he didn’t realize he had screwed shut, only to find you clinging onto his form, arms wrapped around him. Your face tilts upwards from where it was buried in his chest, your expression painted one of concern.

“Oh god- I mean, oh gosh? I think. Are you okay?”, you question, tone laced with worry. “I have anxiety attacks too sometimes, I know it sucks. Do you need space? Or maybe water? I don’t know how it works for demons but that usually helps me.”

Mammon feels the blush beginning to spread across his face, knowing the position you’re both in looks compromising. He can’t remember the last time he has someone make such a fuss over him, and of course it’d be you, while he’s trying to sort out his feelings no less! You make it extremely hard to think, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t absolutely enjoy every second you made contact with his skin.

“N-Nah, ‘m good. I guess it’s…just a lot to explain ‘n all,” he mutters, playing with a loose thread he found on your shirt collar.

“Well, then let’s start from the beginning. The pact, right? We formed it like normal, well… as normal as forming a pact with a demon can be, right?

“Right.”

“And the placement of ours… that doesn’t normally happen right- or at least, it hasn’t happened to you?”

“Right. Hasn’t happened to me before, or any of ‘m brothers. I dun’ even think Solomon’s got one there, and he’s covered in ‘em. It’s….rare.”

“Rare? How’s it rare?”

“Well…cause it means somethin’. Somethin’…. important.”

He continues pulling at the loose thread, looking anywhere but you, his face a brilliant shade of red.

“All pacts represent a bond right?”

“Yea.”

“A shared bond? Between the former and formee.”

“Yea.”

“And so a bond formed over my heart means something…else?”

“GAH! DO I HAV’TA SPELL IT OUT FOR YA DUMMY!”

Mammon jumps up from his seat and out of your arms before shoving his hands in his pockets, turning his back towards you. He brings a shaky hand up to wipe his face.

“Tch. Can’t believe ‘m sayin this out loud”, he mutters under his breath, before turning around.

“Human, I…I like ya! Okay! There, I said it, ya happy dammit?!”

It was now your turn to blush furiously, watching as he brings his shoulders up and winces, almost like he’s waiting for something bad to happen, almost like he’s bracing for the worst.

“You…like me?”, you ask, shocked at the bluntness of his confession.

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

You sit dumbfounded, letting the feeling of his feelings wash over you. He watched the gears turn in your head and thinks that if you think any harder, your brain is going to explode. Ya know, fragile human stuff ‘n all.

“But…Mammon, you said you didn’t like me being around you. You said that it was an inconvenience to be near me. You even said the pact mark was a blemish.”

Mammon freezes. Fuck. For once, the outspoken second born doesn’t have a response. He stares at you, eyes wide and wild, a deer caught in the headlights.

“So, you throw insults at me, tell me to leave you alone, and now you tell me you like me?”

“I-”

“Mammon, what am I supposed to do with that? You constantly treat me like an annoyance, you threatened me my first week here, hell, you just decided it was fine if I was seen with you outside of R.A.D., and now all of a sudden you like me?”

“MC-”

“I…I don’t know what to say, Mammon. Honestly, I don’t know…what you want from me here.”

His fists ball in his pockets as he starts to tremble a little. He bites his lip and turn his head, not wanting to face you for this next part. Even if you denied it due to the hurt he caused, he knew the undeniable truth; It sat right across your chest.

“Ya don’t gotta say anythin’. I already know how ya feel about me.”

“Mammon-”

“No, I do. Ya don’t have to say it. An’ I’m sorry for bein’ a jerk, alright. I just…I can’t…I’ve been…I mean…It’s cuz’…tch!”

He turns again to compose himself. You almost expect him to leave, to run towards the door and walk out, sulking by himself. You can’t say you’d blame him, you’d probably find yourself doing the same if someone responded to you the way you had just to him. Sure, you liked the second born, but he made it so hard with the way he flip flopped his feelings towards you. You don’t have long to mourn the budding friendship you were having with the avatar of greed before he makes his next move.

He shakes his head and turns back to you, his trademark cocky smirk reappearing across his face. There’s an expression in his eyes you can’t quite place, and he steps forward, crouching down to your eye level. There’s a new determination to his swagger, one that makes your heart beat speed up and your body run hot.

“MC, I know how ya feel about me, ‘cuz pact marks only form there if ya both feel the same way.”

Before you could process the thought, his lips are on yours.

You don’t have time to react, he’s doing that for you. One hand comes up behind the back of your head to fist your hair as he brings you closer to him, deepening the kiss, though he still leaves space for you to push him away, enough where if you truly didn’t want this, you could escape his grasp.

It’s tender, you think, the way he holds you. The way his lips move across yours is a softness you’ve never felt before, and it takes your brain a second to catch up and begin kissing him back. As soon as you do, you feel his lips stretch into a smile. This, a stark contrast from the sides of himself he’s been showing you thus far.

After a minute or so, he pulls away from you. “Ya have no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that.”

“Based on what you’ve told me”, you muse with smile, “It looks like it’s been…hmm…I dunno…about as long as I’ve been here?”

“Shuddup.”

You can’t help but laugh at his childish reaction. No matter if he was insulting you like a kid on the playground or kissing you like you were his only way to breathe, he was still Mammon.

“So what does the pact mark on the heart mean in scientific terms?”

“Scien-what?”, He gawks, clearly stumped at your question. You stifle another giggle.

“I mean, if I asked what it meant to a teacher or, say, Solomon, what would he say it meant?”

Mammon sighs at the question. You really were gonna make him repeat himself, huh. “It means that I like ya and ya like me, okay?”

You seem kind of bummed at this answer. “Aww, is that it?”, you question.

“Whadda mean is that if? Whadda ya want, it to mean we’re soulmates or somethin’?”

“Does it?”

“…”

“Mammon?”

“…”

“WAIT! MAMMON! DOES IT?”, you wildly smile, eyes bright in shock.

“S-Some old folktales may say-”

“I’M ASKING SOLOMON!”, you declare, jumping out of his arms and speeding towards the door

“Oi! No ya don’t ya little nightmare!”, he screams running after you.

He’d let you win this race, of course he would. And the one after that. And the one after that.

Besides,

He had the rest of your life to catch ya whenever he wanted.

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @someoneunkownforyou @fandomhell97 @crocrafts @dragonageoregons @furblrwurblr @youaskedfurret @simpinginthecorner @astarotha @glitterandgoldfinds @liminalimmortal @bestblob @crow-charlie @hauntedcatnerd @aprilwallflower @ungodlywoes @h2ojuice @nani-nani-nani @cant-sleep-because-anime @zarakem @rawharr @nicksworld0715 @fxllen-sxldier @someoneunkownforyou @lexiekim @darlingsama630 @xiaosalmoundtofu @abadonkori @harujkookie @whatamidoing89 @all-mights-wife @oliemolliever @kamukayakmonyet @zp1cy-tr4n5m4n @toobsessedsstuff @enwriq @emsieeee @just-an-indian-pre-med-student @chaoticjojo @todosteakettle @thepaleghost777 @milkysoobi @hopeannalea @pandaplan18 @cutiepattutiestarlight @mentally-unstable-simp @satanawakenedmyoceans

Author’s Note: Holy shit. Guys. GUYS. LOOK AT THAT MF TAGLIST. IM SO HAPPY SO MANY OF YOU ENJOY MY WRITING THAT MUCH 😭😭😭.

Thank you all so much for your support on this series! I’d love to try to do all the brothers next, or keep expanding on this one via MC’s and Mammon’s relationship as MC continues making pacts with the others. Not sure which I’ll go with! Any suggestions? Would we rather it continue being MC x Mammom as MC bonds with the other brothers, or every brother having their own romance line? Anyway, let me know what you think. Love ya lovelies <3

[2knightt]

if you havent already, request for the outsiders boys with a super sweet sunshine s/o?

↳i love you, so let me get to you!₊˚✧

──IN WHICH, the gang dates a happy go-lucky reader!。✦

||✰ — the gang, separately

Johnny Cade ;

your kindness probably frightened him at first, he wasn’t used to anyone as nice as you.

but when he gets to know you are—he can’t get enough.

your happiness probably rubs off on him.

johnny’s smiling more, opening doors for people, and has a little spring in his step.

the gang definitely knows about you and teases johnny about it.

“you gotta stop hangin’ ‘round y/n. you’re starting to get their smile.”

“yeah, johnnycakes. i swear—i ain’t never seen you this happy.”

“get used to it, i dunno.”

you refuse to see the bad in people, and honestly johnny kinda likes that mindset.

but he doesn’t at the same time.

he knows people in the world suck, he knows how cruel it can be—but with you by his side, you make it bearable.

you make him feel actual hope that he can get out of this place.

make him feel like he has a future.

“thank you.”

“for what?”

“..everything, y/n.”

Dallas Winston ;

opposites attract dare i say?

i can see you calming dallas down, just a bit though.

not too much. just a lot.

he stops beating up people for no reason, yelling so much, and even helps a few old ladies cross the street.

only when people aren’t look though. this is still dallas.

“jus’ get outta ‘ere, punk!”

“aw, dallas! you let ‘em go! ‘m so proud.”

“whatever.”

he mumbles, snaking an arm around your waist with his other hand stuffed in his pocket.

the gang was so fucking shocked when they found out you two were dating.

“…for real?”

“you ain’t pulling our legs, are ya?”

“no? what the hell would make you guys think that?”

“they’re sweet while you’re—you.”

“fuck’s that ‘posed mean?”

“nothing.”

i feel like a lot of people would judge you for being so happy, especially with the situation with soc’s and greasers.

but dally shuts them up real fast.

“they gotta be on drugs. no way someone can be that happ—“

“who? who’s on drugs? c’mon, you can tell me.”

“uh—no one, dallas.”

“you sure?”

“yeah.”

punches them anyways.

but i don’t want you to scroll with a bad taste in your mouth.

just know, you’re the only relationship dally has been serious about in a long time.

a very, long time. so—he loves you to death.

Ponyboy Curtis ;

admired you somewhat.

he loves the aura that surrounds you. he thinks it’s different—way different than what he’s used too.

he’s used to people beating others, spitting on people, mocking, teasing.

but you?

you go out of your way to help those who were pushed down, bullied, spit on.

he admired that. he admired you.

he loved that about you.

tries to pick up your habits—but ends up failing.

“pony, when’d you become so…happy go-lucky, huh?”

“is it bothering you?”

“a little.”

“…fuck you too then.”

i feel like he’d look for a partner like that.

his type??? possibly???

you just,

give him hope.

hope that he can leave tusla and live the life he wanted on the country side.

Sodapop Curtis ;

same thing, different font.

you two get along so well it’s sickening.

when the two of you walk in a room together you blind everyone with how bright the both of you are.

im not joking.

“did he really, soda?”

“yeah! can you believ—“

“JESUS CHRIST!”

“what?”

“get out.”

“WHY?!”

“what?!”

“y’all are ruining my bad mood. screw off.”

“is he always like this?”

“yeah. just ignore two-bit.”

takes after you a lot.

like a lot.

started fighting less, helping out more costumers at the DX, etc.

he loves talking about you.

he just

does.

you’re all he talks about. i’d know, cause i’m literally writing this rn.

Darry Curtis ;

THIS DYNAMIC IS SO CUTE OH MY GOD.

cold, closed off darry with a cute, kind and sweet reader.

i’m crying just thinking about it.

you force him to open him to others.

literally.

“how’s your day, darry?”

“okay.”

“just okay? didn’t something happen at work today?”

“well yeah.”

“then tell, em! he’s your brother, babe.”

people always chuckle, seeing you cling to his arm—all smiles while he sits, looking like a guard dog.

but as soon as darry glares at them—they stop laughing.

everyone calls you sunshine after darry mockingly called you that. sorry i don’t make the rules :/ (yes i do.)

“hey, sunshine!”

“oh—hey, dal!”

“don’t call them that.”

“why not, superman?”

“because.”

Steve Randle ;

Guard dog 2.0

you gotta hold him back all the time help.

“steve! you know violence isn’t good—i hate it!”

“LEMME AT ‘EM, BABE! C’MON!!”

isn’t also—not used to people being so nice to him.

so you being so affectionate, looking out for him, loving him—just being so nice to him in general is so..shocking.

“you did so good today, love. ‘m so proud.”

“what?”

“oh? did you not hear me?”

“no—i did. it was just, outta nowhere. kinda spooked me a lil.”

please just love him.

please. he needs it.

he needs someone like you in his life and he’s so glad you are in his life.

he would’ve lost his mind a long time ago if you weren’t.

Two-bit Matthews ;

YALL ARE SO CUTE.

silly goofy guy with a sweet loving partner.

you let him ramble about anything and everything. he couldn’t be more happy.

“and they dance, like all the time!”

“even the dog?”

“EVEN THE DOG! he got his own moves, y/n!”

brags about dating the kindest person in Tulsa 24/7.

like, actually.

if you don’t like his drinking cause you know it’s slowly killing him, he’ll slow down on it.

“two, you know i don’t like you drinkin’ this stuff!”

“i know. but it’ll be my last one tonight, promise.”

“better be, ‘m worried for you.”

you’re like all he talks about.

he’s just so blessed to have an angel in his life!

like, what’d a guy like him do to get a person like you? save a country?

[raindrop-21]

Scarred Love: Chapter Two: Need To Know

A/n: Here's chapter two! chapter three will be posted anytime this week as it's not the weekend anymore and I have school, so please keep that in mind! I've also given reader's friend a name: Eve!

word count: 1,114

Cw: somewhat insecure reader, Ghoap x f!reader, soulmates, talk about scars

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4, Ch5, Ch6, Ch7~ Masterlist

“Yes! Yes! Go! Go talk to them!” She says excitedly.

“What would I even say to them?” You reply, your voice a mixture of caution and want.

Your friend clasps your hands and looks at you with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen on her face. She looks at you with the determination you wish you could have. Her determination is somewhat giving you some determination of your own.

“Girl, I’ve known you for so long now. You’ve never liked the idea of having a soulmate, but the look in your eyes when you look at them is something I’ve never seen from you before. You’re looking at them with want and need. Go talk to them.” Eve says with the most loving and understanding look in her eyes.

You advert your eyes from her gaze in self-doubt. “But what if they think I’m just screwing with them…I’ve never heard of a person having two soulmates so I doubt they have either…”

Eve scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Dear, I don’t think they’d think that. I think they might find it strange that they have another soulmate and didn’t know about it. If you really think they’d doubt you with only being able to see the scars on your face, then take off your jacket. They’ll recognize the scars as their own. Recognize you as their own.”

You know she’s right, but you still can’t help but feel insecure.

“But still…They already have each other…What they decide that they don’t need or want me?” You sigh weakly.

Eve sighs disapointedly. “Sweetheart, if they decide that they don’t want you even though you might be their soulmate. Just know, I’ll personally beat their asses no matter how much bigger or stronger they are than me.”

She pulls you into a deep, strong hug. One that always grounds you and calms your nerves. You hug her back, knowing that she means it, even if it’s unlikely that she’d actually physically fight them. You take a deep breath, thank her, and walk towards the group of men. Once you’re within a couple of feet of the men you make yourself known.

“Uhm… Hello?” You say in a semi-quiet but confident voice.

One of the men, one with a blue cap with a British flag on it turns around at the sound of your voice. He looks you up and down and then smiles and holds out his hand.

“Hey there little lass, name’s Kyle.” He says sweetly with a toothy smile.

“Hi… Uhm, I kind of wanted to speak to your friends over there.” You say with a hand gesture to the two whom you think are your soulmates. A tall blonde man with a black surgical mask on, and a brunette man with a short mohawk who’s a tad bit shorter than the blonde man.

“Oh? You want to speak with Johnny and Simon? If you’re looking for a fun night, sorry but they’ve already found their soulmate; each other.” He says gently as if trying not to let you down.

“No, no, you don’t understand; I think I’m also their soulmate.” You say as you remove your jacket showing Kyle the scars that decorate your arms.

He takes a look at your arms and his expression turns to one of shock and his mouth makes a perfect little ‘o’ shape.

“Oh….Oh! Holy shit!” He immediately recognizes the scars as the ones he’s seen on Johnny and Simon’s arms a million times. “Simon! Johnny! Come here for a second!”

Johnny and Simon walk over to where you and Kyle are standing. Even though you’ve made up your mind to speak to them, you can’t help but want to walk away and forget for fear of rejection.

“What do y’need Garrick?” The blonde says in a gruff voice as if he’s annoyed to be called away from what he was doing.

“Simon, don’t be like that, Kyle’s got a bonnie girl with ‘em. Maybe he wants to introduce us to his Lassie.” The brunette jokes, which earns a scoff from Simon.

Your hands tremble a bit, and you clasp them behind your back nervously as you try to find the right words to speak. What if they laugh at me? What if they think I’m playing some sick prank? Any and every situation of what could go wrong played through your head, but you still went through with it.

“Actually, I’m here for you guys…” You say nervously as you look at the two men in front of you. The lights behind them have been somewhat engulfed by Simon’s large frame, so they can’t exactly see the scars on your face that match theirs.

“What do you mean ‘here for us’, Lass?” Johnny asks curiously with a raised eyebrow. Simon gives you an equally curious look.

“I-I believe I may be your soulmate.” You do this with all the confidence and courage you can muster. Your response to his question makes both Johnny and Simon laugh, not at you, but at the idea of having another soulmate.

“Lassie, I don’t think that's right. You can’t have two soulmates.” Johnny says with a light chuckle still present in his voice.

You sigh, a tad disappointed and upset. Disappointed because, even though you didn’t expect them to believe you they didn’t. And upset because you think they’re laughing at you.

“Look…I know it’s absurd. It sounds insane even to me.” You think for a moment on the way to ‘prove’ it to them and you settle for removing your jacket. You remove your jacket, but then you realize that Simon is blocking the light. “Hey, uh, could you move over a bit, you’re blocking the light.”

“Oh, sorry.” Simon huffs before moving over and letting the light shine onto you.

Once the light shines on you, the scars on your face, neck, arms, and shoulders are visible to your eyes. Their eyes trail from each little scar, a trail they’ve followed on each other’s bodies a million times.

“Holy shit…” They mumble in unison. 

“I-I….” At this point, all the words you wanted to say have left you. You’re left waiting for whatever the two men in front of you are going to do next.

Simon and Johnny look at each other, and then back at you, and then back at each other. They give each other a nod before looking at you and reaching out their hands.

“Come with us.” Johnny says with a bit of urgency in his voice. 

You’re stuck in your own mind. Do you take their hands and follow them or do you refuse them and say you want to talk here?

Taglist: @under-the-dirt @littlebluespoon

[razorblade-richards26]

the outsiders: two bit edition( because he’s the most underrated)

Scene: The Curtis House – Afternoon

The gang is sitting around the living room, trying to figure out what to do. Two-Bit is lounging on the couch, flipping through a comic book.

Dally: (frustrated) I’m bored. What’s there to do around here?

Two-Bit: (without looking up) How about you go find some Socs and offer them free haircuts? You know, show ‘em what they’re missing.

Steve: (laughing) You’d probably get yourself killed, man.

Two-Bit: (grinning) Yeah, but at least they’d look good for their funerals.

Scene: The Drive-In – Night

The gang is watching a movie, but Two-Bit is more interested in cracking jokes. He’s sitting next to Johnny, who’s trying to focus on the screen.

Johnny: (whispering) Two-Bit, I’m trying to watch the movie.

Two-Bit: (smirking) What’s to watch? The plot’s thinner than Dally’s patience.

Johnny: (grinning) You’re impossible.

Two-Bit: (shrugging) Hey, if you wanted peace and quiet, you should’ve gone to the library.

Scene: The Park – Morning

The gang is hanging out at the park, talking about the upcoming rumble. Two-Bit is leaning against a tree, sipping a soda.

Darry: (serious) We’ve got to be ready for anything. No messing around.

Two-Bit: (raising his soda) I’ll drink to that. Here’s to getting our heads kicked in—again.

Sodapop: (laughing) You’re not supposed to be looking forward to that, Two-Bit.

Two-Bit: (grinning) What can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment.

Scene: The Curtis House – Evening

The gang is gathered around the kitchen table, eating dinner. Two-Bit, as usual, is cracking jokes between bites.

Ponyboy: (talking about school) I’ve got this new English teacher who’s all about Shakespeare.

Two-Bit: (grinning) Shakespeare, huh? I bet you’re the only greaser who knows what that guy was talking about.

Ponyboy: (smiling) Maybe.

Two-Bit: (mocking serious) “To be or not to be—that’s the question.” My question is, who’s got the guts to finish this meatloaf?

Dally: (laughing) You’re hopeless, Two-Bit.

Scene: The Rumble – Night

The gang is getting ready for the rumble, and tensions are high. Two-Bit, as usual, tries to lighten the mood.

Darry: (serious) Everyone stay sharp. We don’t want any screw-ups.

Two-Bit: (grinning) Don’t worry, Darry. I’ve got a secret weapon.

Steve: (raising an eyebrow) What, your mouth?

Two-Bit: (laughing) Exactly. I’ll keep talking till they beg for mercy.

Scene: The Curtis House – Afternoon

Two-Bit walks in on Ponyboy studying for a test. He takes one look at the textbook and shakes his head.

Two-Bit: (smirking) Man, you’re making the rest of us look bad with all that studying.

Ponyboy: (grinning) Someone’s gotta do it.

Two-Bit: (sitting down) Not me. I prefer to keep my brain cells intact.

Ponyboy: (laughing) Too late for that, Two-Bit.

Two-Bit: (mock offended) Hey, I resemble that remark!

Scene: The Dingo – Night

The gang is hanging out at The Dingo, drinking sodas and talking about their day. Two-Bit, of course, can’t resist making a joke.

Sodapop: (talking about work) This guy came in today and ordered the weirdest combo—pickles and peanut butter on toast.

Two-Bit: (grinning) Sounds like he’s got the taste buds of a pregnant woman.

Steve: (laughing) Or he’s just nuts.

Two-Bit: (smirking) Hey, maybe he’s onto something. I could start a new trend—call it “Two-Bit’s Totally Twisted Taste Test.”

Dally: ……. You’re twisted.

[paperultra]

THE FIVE NONSENSES

[ SOULMATE!AU ] Pairing: Miya Osamu x Fem!Reader x Miya Atsumu Summary: Like most people, you do not meet the Miya twins so much as they are thrust upon you. Unlike most people, you are thrust upon them as well. read on ao3 | read on quotev

CHAPTER TWO: SOUND Word Count: 3,725 words Warnings: Mild swearing

Two months after you turn twelve, you watch your first horror movie.

“What a wimp,” Atsumu sneers, looking down from his nose at you. “Twelve and ya haven’t seen a horror movie yet? Me and ’Samu have already watched loads of ’em.”

“They’re not that scary,” Osamu adds through a full mouth. He’s already chipping away at the cheddar and caramel popcorn, fingers sticky and cheeks puffed full of salty and sweet. “You can see how fake they are.”

Fake, indeed. You glance at the TV. With all the lights shut off and all the blinds closed, the sun having set hours ago, the Miya’s old television set is your sole source of light. The DVD menu flickers before your eyes, a white, windowless room with a single mirror in the middle. Muffled static creeps out from the speakers and into your ears.

You shift discreetly in your seat, then look back at the twins. The cold light from the screen paints their faces ghostly pale.

You clench your fists and shrug impassively.

“Then let’s just watch it already.”

Osamu grunts in agreement. On his other side, Atsumu scowls.

“Don’t know why we gotta babysit ya on movie night,” Atsumu grumbles, reaching for the remote and selecting the Play Movie button. “Not like ya can’t be at home by yerself.”

Perhaps you should thank him for his rudeness this time, since it disrupts the tension enough for you to kick his ankle underneath the kotatsu.

Over the years, you’ve come to terms with the fact that Atsumu does not like you. This is compounded by the fact that Osamu does; of the few ways that you can tell the twins apart, nothing stands out more than their reactions upon seeing you, one turning towards you, the other turning away.

It’s funny how they balance each other out so completely. Osamu may be your soulmate, but Atsumu knows exactly how to get on your nerves.

“You’re the one who needs to be babysat!”

“Says the one who –”

“Can ya both shut up? It’s starting.”

You stop short at the dull prickle of annoyance from Osamu. From the way Atsumu screws up his face, halting his preparation to rear back and slam his feet into yours, he feels it too. The two of you glare poisonously at each other before settling in and letting the title sequence play without interruption.

I won’t get scared, you tell yourself as you reach out to grab a handful of popcorn. You toss a few into your mouth and the crunch of them between your teeth softens the uneasy sound of rolling waves coming from the TV. It’s all fake. Osamu said it’s not that bad, so it’ll be okay.

—

You should’ve known better.

Your room is completely silent as you look up into the void where the ceiling should be, muscles stiff and eyes wide and unblinking. The blankets are pulled up to your nose. It had taken a long time for the bed to warm up to your body, the only thing providing you with some semblance of safety, but it had taken only a matter of minutes before you found yourself agonizingly uncomfortable and sweaty.

You wish you’d kept the door open, but leaving isn’t an option. If you expose so much as a toe, the long-haired woman from the movie might crawl out of the darkness in the corner, stare down at you with a demonic eye and kill you on the spot.

(Telling yourself it’s not real doesn’t work. Because what if – what if –)

In the midst of trying to keep your breaths as quiet as possible, thoughts thundering around behind your eyes, the doorknob turns with a soft click.

“Oi.”

You jolt as if electrocuted.

The yellow beam of a flashlight shines upon your bed. It takes a moment to process everything, but once you do, relief floods your lungs.

“What?” you whisper back, peeking over the covers and squinting through the light.

Osamu and Atsumu crowd your doorway, shoulder to shoulder. Their bodies are nothing but shadowy figures until Osamu turns the flashlight to shine it at his hand, which is raised to show you a deck of cards.

“Wanna play Babanuki?” Osamu asks.

Your mouth parts.

Yes, is what you yell in your head. Anything is better than being all alone in the dark.

“Okay,” is what you say out loud, and the boys shuffle into your room.

You crawl out of bed. Atsumu closes the door behind him, and it is then that you notice the blanket underneath his arm. The three of you settle on the floor in a circle and he tosses the blanket over your heads.

Ah. It’s so the light doesn’t shine underneath the door and get you all in trouble for still being up.

“How’d ya know I was awake?” you ask while Osamu shuffles the cards on your right.

Osamu pauses to glance at his brother, and they seem to communicate something before he shrugs and answers you.

“Just knew.”

“Knew you’d be too scared to go to sleep,” Atsumu taunts quietly.

Your face heats up. “I wasn’t! ’S … ’s just too hot.”

“Liar,” both drone simultaneously.

You wither, lips protruding in a pout.

Osamu begins to pass the cards out. He’s steady and unhurried, three messy piles of cards building up as he goes around and around.

“… How come you guys are still up, then?” you finally mutter, drawing your knees up to your chest.

“Didn’t feel like sleepin’.” Atsumu picks up his pile and sorts through it. “’S too boring after watching a movie.”

Liar. The thought pops into your head unbidden, and you’re surprised at the certainty of it. The twins had jumped and screamed a few times during the movie, sure, but they get over things quick enough as a general rule and had seemed fine by the time the end credits rolled by. The image of them lying awake, terrified in their bunk beds like you had been in your own, is quite the odd thing.

But you do not voice that aloud.

(Babanuki doesn’t need three players.)

Osamu’s knee nudges your own. You look up to meet his eyes, and he holds his cards out towards you, face down.

“Choose one,” he says, and you do.

—

“[L/n]-chan, I have a question.”

“Mmhm,” you acknowledge distractedly, scribbling in the answers for today’s English homework. It’s less than ten minutes before lunch ends, and you had completely missed the other side of the worksheet. (Panicked, barely legible answers are better than none at all.)

Miki watches you carefully, fidgeting in her seat. “Is it true that you and Osamu-san aren’t really soulmates?”

You don’t even pause to think.

Even four years later, you’re faced with this same question from your peers. You fault Atsumu for this, who, despite having stopped outright denying the red string connecting you and Osamu, does nothing to clear the confusion except to say that he’ll always know his brother better than anybody else. Osamu doesn’t seem to give much of a crap, either. You’re the one left explaining things over and over again for some reason, and it gets tiring.

“No, we are.”

“Are ya sure? Even though Osamu-san has Atsumu-san?”

“Yeah,” you say. “We don’t really talk about it.”

More people are trailing into the classroom, including the twins, who had gone off earlier to intrude on Ojiro-senpai’s lunchtime. Despite your efforts to signal that it’s not the best time, Miki scoots closer to you. She’s silent for a few moments and then speaks once more, whispering now.

“Do … do you and Osamu-san actually like each other, [L/n]-chan?” she asks.

This time, you do stop.

It’s easy to feel sorry for Miki. Her name often comes up when your classmates are discussing soulmates – she had met hers during the first week of school, a popular senpai on the baseball team. Their timers went off at the same time in the cafeteria line during lunch.

According to the rumors, Matsuda-senpai told her off. He was graduating this year and didn’t have time for a soulmate two years below him, or something like that. Miki had cried in front of the whole cafeteria.

You do feel bad for her in that regard. Osamu and you may not be best friends, but at least you are on good terms. And despite Atsumu’s antagonizing behavior, he really is just a pest at worst.

“I like him,” you reply. “He’s easy to get along with.”

“But he’s already soulmates with Atsumu-san, and they’re twins. A-And ya don’t eat lunch together every day, even though ya always walk together n’ all,” she presses. “Are ya really okay with that?”

“Yes,” you reply shortly.

Miki doesn’t seem to like your answer. But it is the one you have, and you have to finish this stupid worksheet before the bell rings, so you turn away slightly and scratch at your paper. You hear her finally retreat back to her own desk.

When you glance up towards the front of the classroom, you catch Osamu shooting a rubber band at Atsumu. Atsumu yelps and scrambles to retaliate, and you hear a snap as his attack backfires and hits him in the face.

You cross your ankles underneath your desk and fill out the last blank on your worksheet. There aren’t any mistakes when it comes to soulmates. But each time someone comes up to you and asks that question, you wonder anyways.

—

On the walk home from school, Osamu and Atsumu talk about volleyball.

This is nothing new. There are many things that the twins enjoy, but volleyball is usually at the top of the list, and they always have something to say about it – about drills, their teammates, upcoming games. Most of the time, though, it is about themselves.

You don’t know how the conversation came to it, but they are arguing within a matter of minutes, which is also nothing new. No two siblings are more competitive than the Miya twins. It’s both entertaining and annoying, and you take Osamu’s side every time.

“I’m just sayin’ that you’re sloppier, ’Tsumu.”

“Sloppier?! Yer sets were off, like, half the time today!”

“No, they weren’t.”

“Yuh-huh!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“See ya tomorrow, [Y/n]-chan,” Kokomi tells you as you arrive at her house, and you nod, stopping just briefly to wave goodbye. She doesn’t bother bidding goodbye to the twins, who are too engrossed in their bickering to even notice. “Our packet for math is double-sided, so don’t forget.”

“… I won’t,” you mumble sheepishly.

She waves once more, then saunters down the pathway to her front door.

Turning to see that Osamu and Atsumu are now further away, having left you behind, you frown and jog slightly to catch up.

“If ya really are the better setter,” Atsumu is saying once you’re within earshot, his voice rising, “then prove it! Vertical sets, last man standing wins.”

“We only got one volleyball at home, moron,” Osamu retorts. Then he tilts his head, and you nearly miss a step, surprised, when he suddenly turns around to look at you. “You have one, don’t you, [Y/n]?”

Even after four years, you’re not quite used to him using your first name without an honorific. “Yeah,” you reply, attempting to keep your tone from sounding too flustered.

Your dad had gotten you one after the twins mentioned their interest in volleyball during an awkward joint family dinner not long after you’d met them. It’s important to support your soulmate’s hobbies, he’d told you, and it wouldn’t hurt for you to be a bit more athletic, anyway.

You like volleyball just fine. It’s one the more enjoyable sports to play during gym, but it hasn’t got a hold of you quite like it has on Osamu and Atsumu. Still, the volleyball remains in your room, pumped up and ready to be played around with when you feel like it.

“We’ll just borrow it for a bit,” Osamu says. “Wanna judge?”

“Aw, c’mon, ’Samu,” Atsumu complains. “We don’t need a judge. Why’s she gotta be there?”

The sharp reply in your throat is cut off by Osamu.

“’Cause we’re using her volleyball, and I want her there.”

You blink.

A bitter expression crosses Atsumu’s face. Then he knocks his head back and groans. “Ugh,” he says loudly, but for some reason, he does not push it further.

The three of you part ways when you reach your house. You head inside, text your mom to tell her that you’re going to the Miyas’ for a little while, drop your school things off in your room and grab your volleyball, and head back out.

Miya-san tells you that the boys are already in the backyard when she lets you in. Sure enough, when you walk out into the small strip of land behind their house, Osamu and Atsumu are waiting there, already disputing their previous setting records.

“Here,” you announce, tossing your volleyball to Osamu.

He catches it easily and meets Atsumu’s eyes, narrowing his own.

“Standing vertical sets, no stopping,” Atsumu says as the two of them move further apart.

“Loser gets first dibs on the PlayStation for the next two months,” Osamu adds.

“Deal.”

Your eyes track your volleyball as Osamu raises it over his head, perching it onto his fingers with a kind of firm delicacy that makes the ball look perfectly at home.

And without words, without even looking at each other, the two boys begin at the exact same time.

You sit on the chair next to the potted plant and watch them idly.

They really are mirror images of each other. The same concentration wrinkles their brows, their jaws set. You’ve heard from members of both the girls’ and boys’ volleyball teams that Osamu is the better player by a slim margin, but here, with them facing each other and the volleyballs’ soft tap tap taps hitting your ears in a syncopated rhythm, you admit that it’s very hard to tell.

Really, you do not need to be here – Atsumu’s right for once, because the twins have a scary awareness of their surroundings when it comes to volleyball, and one will certainly catch the other if he fumbles.

The competition goes on for a long, long time.

“Gettin’ tired, ’Samu?” After what seems to be hours, Atsumu breaks the silence, shaking you out of your daze.

Osamu scoffs. “You wish, ’Tsumu.” Though his voice is steady, you notice that he’s breathing a little harder, and his sets are getting higher.

Your own wrists are starting to cramp. How long have they been doing this now?

A few more minutes plod by.

Then – finally – the volleyball lands off-kilter on Atsumu’s fingers. You sit up, eyes widening as it bounces off to the side.

A curse flies out of Atsumu’s mouth as he dives after it, but to no avail. It lands on the grass and quickly rolls to a stop. He’s lost.

“You lose,” you say, because you feel like being petty.

“Shaddup!”

“Guess I’m still the better setter.” On your left, Osamu continues setting the ball. There’s a grin on his face now, and you know that he’s doing this purely to tick Atsumu off. “Bet I can break my record.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu gripes, picking up their volleyball and standing up. “Stop showin’ off!”

Osamu ignores him.

What happens next would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so horrible.

Fuming, Atsumu tosses the volleyball up. It ascends in a perfectly straight line, and as it falls back down, he winds his other arm back and spikes the ball straight at Osamu.

Instead of hitting Osamu, however, it slams straight into your volleyball right as it’s descending. Thud.

All of you watch, frozen, as your volleyball flies up and over the wall into the neighbor’s yard.

None of you say a word for a good five seconds.

You leap at Atsumu, fully intending to throttle him. “Ya idiot!”

“I didn’t mean to!” he shouts back, struggling to escape your grip. His hand presses flat against your face and you have half a mind to bite it off. “Let go!”

“Stupid ‘Tsumu,” Osamu hisses. “That’s Akiyama-san’s yard!”

Upon hearing the name, the two of you still.

Everyone on your street knows Akiyama-san. He’s old and crochety, and he walks with a cane that he lifts high above his head whenever he’s shouting at any of you because he hates kids. Everything your parents have hammered into your head about greeting your elders sails right out whenever you spot him walking down the street. Nobody says it, but you’re all afraid of him. Even the Miya twins.

The worst thing about Akiyama-san, at least at this very moment, is that he has a dog – a big, mean one, even meaner than its owner. A dog who, as you, Atsumu, and Osamu find when you peek over the wall, is thankfully nowhere in sight at the moment.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Do we ask Akiyama-san to get it for us?” you whisper, eyes glued on your volleyball nestled in one of the bushes.

“Are ya dumb? If he doesn’t kill us, he’ll just feed the ball to his dog,” Atsumu shoots back.

“Atsumu,” Osamu says, and you look over to see him staring ahead with his chin resting on top of the wall. There’s a serious tilt to his mouth. “Go get it.”

“… Hah?!”

“It’s yer fault,” you argue.

“Well – well”—Atsumu glares at you, then at his brother—“’Samu’s the one who was settin’ it!”

“Still yer fault,” mutters Osamu. “I ain’t riskin’ my life.”

“So you’re riskin’ mine?!”

You shift uncomfortably, their quarreling fading away as you consider the options. Your volleyball is a nice one. Not cheap at all. Your dad would be quite upset if he found out you sacrificed it to Akiyama-san’s yard, and he’d probably make you go apologize and ask for it by yourself.

Swallowing, you hoist yourself up.

“I’ll get it.”

The noise the twins make is nothing short of a hushed squawk as you clamber over the wall.

Your shoes land softly on the grass. Scanning the yard, you nod to assure yourself that it’s empty, then glance at the dog door built into the back door. It doesn’t budge. You look up at the windows. All the blinds are shut.

Further emboldened, you move your gaze to your volleyball, tiptoeing towards it and picking it up gently.

Success.

Smiling, you face the twins.

Their faces have gone pale.

Your smile fades as a soft growl pierces the evening air. Looking over your shoulder, you lock eyes with Akiyama-san’s monster dog.

Drool drips from its jowls, teeth large and sharp and yellow, eyes beady and black. You’ve no idea what breed it is. All you know is that it is there, and it is huge and angry.

It probably dreams of eating kids, you think, blood draining from your face. You’d be a full course meal with the volleyball as dessert.

Osamu whispers your name.

You turn again, sweat dripping down your forehead, and see him perched on top of the wall, knees bent and arms outstretched towards you as if he were in a volleyball match. The red string on his pinkie drifts in the breeze.

Throw it, he mouths.

You inhale. Tighten your hold on your volleyball. Then you launch it towards Osamu and sprint towards him.

The dog lets out a thundering bark, running after you. You can hear the tags on its collar clanking against each other. Its giant paws flatten the grass beneath it.

Osamu catches the volleyball and tosses it at Atsumu.

You jump, and you swear you feel jaws snap at your heels.

“Osamu!”

He grabs you by your wrists and throws his weight backwards. Your legs scrape against the concrete wall as the boy hauls you up and over it, sending both of you tumbling headlong into their yard.

When you come to, your mind feels fuzzy, body shaking with adrenaline. Beneath you, Osamu groans. You hastily roll off him to lie on the grass.

“Thank you,” you pant.

Osamu gulps for breath. “’S nothin’.”

Behind the wall, the dog continues barking.

“What the hell!” Atsumu cries, and you crack your eyes open to see his face pop into your field of vision. “Do ya have a death wish or somethin’?”

For the first time, Miya Atsumu actually looks concerned for you.

“No.” You prop yourself up onto your elbows, wincing at the ache in your shoulder and the stinging on your knees. You glance at them. Yikes. They’re all scraped up. But despite all of it, you feel a grin spreading across your face. “I just ain’t a wimp like you.”

He gawks, then sputters.

“Nice receive, ’Tsumu,” Osamu says. He gets up with a grunt, then helps you up. His arm slides underneath yours and across your shoulders. “You can walk fine, right?” he asks you plainly.

“Yeah. Kinda.” You’re still a bit trembly.

He nods. His hand remains steady on your shoulder.

As the two of you start ambling towards the house, Atsumu says your name.

Guilt twists his features in an unfamiliar way when you look at him. He lowers his head slightly, eyes averted.

“… Sorry,” he mumbles, looking for all the world like he’d rather wrestle Akiyama-san’s dog right now.

You regard him. “’S fine,” you say, slowly.

(In the back of your mind, you realize that it really is. All your anger must’ve fizzled out with the run.)

The boy’s expression doesn’t change, but his shoulders slump a little, as if relieved.

“Let’s get the bandages from bathroom,” Osamu mutters while Atsumu slides the door open. “But we gotta be quick, ’cause if Ma –”

“If I what?”

For the third time that day, you all freeze in place. It’s an interesting sight – you and Osamu with your arms around each other’s shoulders, Atsumu with both volleyballs in his arms. The shadow of the twins’ mother, falling over the three of you.

Ah, crap.

Miya-san’s gaze flickers downward at your scratched-up legs. Her face goes through more emotions than you can count, and then it stills.

She takes a deep breath, but the twins beat her to it.

“It wasn’t me!”

—

prev | next

[letterstotheflre]

"you can kiss me, you know" + daryl dixon... pretty please <3 I can imagine this being so soft

i don't think this is fluffy enough my apologies </3 || set in s4 when the claimers find rick + a little bit of sunshine!reader n grumpy!daryl

the fire crackles in front of you, tinting your skin in an orange glow that sends waves of heat down your body. what had started as a night full of screams and tears and pained grunts ended in erie quiet, only the wet squelches of a body being stabbed over and over again echoing across the small clearing.

now everything is quiet, even more so with daryl next to you who barely ever talks. especially when it’s his turn to keep watch. michonne and carl are trying their best to sleep in the backseat of the car, her fingers tenderly petting the young boy’s hair as he rests on her lap, hoping to make him forget about the man’s grabby hands– at least for a little while. rick, covered in blood and guts, is their strong guard, back pressed firmly to the door on the driver’s side. he’s staring straight ahead, barely even blinking. 

daryl’s gruff voice startles you. there’s a shadow cast over half of his face as he turns to you. “how’s your nose?”

you bring your hand to your face, gently pressing on your nose. it’s swollen, that much is impossible to deny, but it doesn’t feel broken. at least you hope it’s not. 

“s’okay,” you answer. “hurts a little to breathe, but i don’t think it’s broken.” 

he nods and looks back to the fire, chewing the inner side of his cheek, seemingly deep in thought. you guess he’s made up his mind about something because he grabs the handkerchief that hangs from his back pocket and the bottle of water next to your pack. not wanting to waste too much water, he wets the cloth just enough so that it’s good enough to clean a little, and turns to you. 

he gestures for you to get closer. “c’mere.”

you scoot over, turning your body until you’re facing him and automatically tilt your head slightly backwards with your eyes closed. he holds you in place by the jaw, a light hold as he sweeps the cloth across your upper lip, washing away the blood that dripped down your nose after one of the claimers bashed your head on the hood of the car when you tried to reach daryl. 

his eyes are focused as he runs his fingers down the bridge of your nose, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. “sorry,” he whispers when you hiss after he accidentally squeezes the middle of your nose. “s’not broken,” he confirms. 

“good,” you smile. he can’t help but wonder how you can be so happy after the night you’ve had. “i doubt i could get a nose job in these conditions. we’re a little too far from dr. miami.” 

daryl scoffs but doesn’t let go of the side of your jaw. he’s still looking at you, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, slightly swollen from the fight. you hold his wrist. “you can kiss me, y’know? my nose ain’t gonna break from it.”

it takes him a few seconds to press his lips to yours, his brain screaming at him words like “traitor” and “you don’t deserve her” and “you thought she was dead!”. but when he finally does, when you open your mouth to him and swirl your tongue around his, his mind quiets down. it’s like he’s being wrapped up in a blanket. like he’s being tended to from the inside out, warmth spreading all over him and healing the bruises that marr his skin. 

“i missed you,” you whisper when you finally pull away, forehead against his. 

“i missed ya,” he echoes. and then, because he still feels incredibly guilty, “i’m sorry. s’my fault. i’m sorry.” 

“shhh,” you murmur, pressing your finger to his mouth. “not your fault. you didn’t know– couldn’t have known.”

he screws up his face and looks down at the space of dirt between your bodies. “i knew they were bad.”

“you were alone. and you tried to stop ‘em. that’s all that matters,” you say firmly. when he doesn’t say anything, you grab the sides of his face and force him to look at you. “it’s not your fault.” 

even though he doesn’t agree, he nods anyway. he doesn’t want you to keep fighting him on this. doesn’t think he deserves your comforting words, either. he just wants to hold you in his arms to make sure that you’re real and not a figment of his imagination. so he spreads his legs apart so you can settle between them and holds you against his chest, kissing the top of your head several times.

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

[continued from here] [first post for October 18th] It may be Shinji who has more of a way with words between the two of them, but Akihiko has always been the one who fills their silences. Shinji’s the kind of guy who would rather listen than talk, unless he’s really got something to say. So naturally, that means it falls on Akihiko to break the silence they’re mired in now, as well. 

But he just can’t bring himself to do it. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t know what to say– he can think of plenty of things that he should say right now. The issue is whether or not he can. He tries a few times to speak up and feels bile rise in his throat instead of his voice. 

So he chokes it down and they’re left with…nothing. Nothing besides the scorched atmosphere Akihiko left in his wake.

Maybe it would be for the best if he leaves. Maybe getting away from here and taking some time to calm himself down is the better option, even though he’s loath to think about parting ways with Shinji on such an awful note. Even if it should only be temporary, how can he be certain it will be? How can he know for sure that their luck will hold, and Shinji will still be here when Akihiko gets his shit together?

He doesn’t know how he’d live with himself if the worst came to pass, and that was the last conversation he and Shinji ever had.

Akihiko’s inability to swallow his shame and talk past it turns out not to matter, ultimately. It’s Shinji who finally breaks the arid silence with a heavy sigh. 

“Look, I’m…really no good at this sorta thing,” he starts. “You already know that. An’ I’m also kinda high on painkillers right now, ‘cause– turns out getting shot doesn’t feel great. So maybe nothin’ I say’ll make any sense.”

Despite himself, Akihiko wheezes out a small laugh, and Shinji’s mouth twitches up on one side. He wants to believe that maybe this is a step in the right direction. It’s not like he’s wrong either; Shinji’s talents with words have never extended to talking about his feelings, even before his Persona went berserk. 

“But…you’re right,” Shinji continues. “I knew what the consequences could be, but I didn’t take ‘em seriously enough– not for Amada, or for you ‘n Kirijo– because I was too caught up in my own reasons.”

Shinji’s hands clench into fists around the bedsheets, his fingers trembling. “None of it– nothing mattered to me as much as the thought that maybe… Maybe I wouldn’t have to live with the fact that I’m a murderer anymore.”

“Shinji…” Each word out of Shinji’s mouth feels as heavy as a cinderblock, and Akihiko’s chest aches under the weight of them all. 

Shinji closes his eyes and sags back against his pillow, exhaling a weighted breath through his nose. He looks utterly exhausted. “That’s all I’ve cared about these last two years. The only thing I wanted was to atone, no matter how. And my life for the one I ruined seemed like a fair trade, y’know?”

When Shinji opens his eyes again, his gaze falls on the open window. The Moonlight Bridge winks back at him, the morning sun glazed mirror-bright over its arches, forcing him to wince and look away. “But I guess that’s pretty screwed up, right? I was just pushin’ my selfishness onto a kid and takin’ the coward’s way out, like you said.” 

Akihiko doesn’t quite trust himself to speak without a sob bubbling up instead, and in any case, the glare off the bridge is starting to get to him too, so he gets up to close the curtains. He grips the stiff, plasticky fabric tightly and bites his lip. 

“And that’s…” He almost doesn’t turn back around to face Shinji, but decides at the last moment that he needs to. “That’s really how you feel?” 

Shinji holds his gaze for just a moment before looking away. “Mhm.” 

It’s the first time Akihiko has heard Shinji like this– so somber and serious– in a very long time. But if he’s being truthful (Akihiko hopes to god that he is), it only serves as a horrible reminder of just how much Akihiko has failed. 

He must be making a face, because when Shinji looks at him again his mouth twists into a rueful smile. “Still mad, huh?”

“Of course I am.” Akihiko’s answer is immediate. “I just…am I really that unreliable?”

“...What?”

Akihiko almost returns to his seat but overshoots it and ends up pacing instead. “Shinji, you helped me so much when Miki died. You were there for me, you– you never left my side. You always made sure I was okay.”

Memories flood over him like a tsunami, churned together by time and grief until they all blend into an amorphous impression of those days, individual moments of shocking clarity floating within the tide like flotsam. 

Shinji had let Akihiko cling to him for days after the fire with minimal breaks, while Akihiko had cried until he’d been sick. Shinji had held him tightly all through the funeral as he’d choked on dry sobs, all of the tears wrung out of him, his eyes throbbing and swollen almost shut. Afterwards he’d bullied Akihiko into lying down and draped washcloths soaked in cool water across the top half of his face. 

Shinji, checking in with him between classes since they didn’t have the same homeroom that year. Shinji, walking the entire way home with him after school even after the adoption had been finalized and Akihiko had gone to live with his parents, their house in the exact opposite direction as the new building that served as the orphanage.

And that was just the aftermath of Miki’s death. Shinji’s been looking after him all his life and never expected anything in return. All those memories blend together until it’s impossible to keep track of them all. 

Akihiko had certainly appreciated it at the time, but he’d still taken it for granted. It’s only now that he realizes just how much it all meant to him. His breath shakes, his voice trembles. “I don’t– I don’t think I could’ve gotten through it at all if I hadn’t had you. So– the fact that you thought I couldn’t be there for you–”

“That’s not it.” Shinji cuts him off. “You’ve got it all wrong, Aki. I knew you would’ve been.” He glares into his lap. “That was the whole problem– I didn’t want you to be. I didn’t want your help, or Kirijo’s, or anyone’s. It all goes back to me bein’ a selfish asshole.”

Oh.

That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. 

“...Was it that you didn’t want it, or–” Akihiko swallows, the sound uncomfortably loud in his ears. “Did you think you didn’t deserve it?”

Shinji shrugs. “Same thing at the end of the day, ain’t it.”

“No.” Akihiko shakes his head. “It’s not the same at all. You did deserve it. You do deserve it, Shinji.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His expression is stony and contemplative as he mulls over Akihiko’s words. 

“...If I’m honest, ‘m still not sure I can believe that,” Shinji says quietly. He looks at Akihiko again, meeting his gaze and holding it this time. “But I am sorry, Aki. Sorry for bein’ that selfish asshole.”

Despite what he’d demanded earlier, he hadn’t really been expecting any kind of apology. He wasn’t sure if he’d even really wanted one, or if all he’d really been after was the catharsis of throwing a punch. But hearing it now, with Shinji sounding so genuine, so sincere– emotion starts to swell in Akihiko’s chest again. 

He pushes it down before it can strangle his voice. Shinji isn’t the only one who needs to apologize. It’s time he stops being so self-centered.

Akihiko makes his way back to his seat, pulling it even closer to Shinji’s bedside as he sits. His knees knock against the bed frame. 

“I’m sorry too,” Akihiko murmurs. He ignores the look Shinji gives him. “I kept saying I wanted you to rely on me, but– I didn’t take your feelings into consideration at all and I forced you back into a fight you didn’t want to be a part of. 

“And because of that…” He shakes his head, glowering down at his hands. He clenches and unclenches them into fists, watching the tendons in his wrists flex. “If I’d been paying more attention, if I’d just realized what was going on when Amada joined us–”

“Hey,” Shinji interrupts him using the same tone of voice he does when he’s about to tell off one of the juniors, or when he’d scold one of the younger kids at the orphanage. “Don’t you dare start blamin’ yourself for this, alright? None of this is your fault.”

It’s nice of him to say, but Akihiko knows it isn’t true. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You’ve told me a thousand times how tunnel-visioned I am. How I always run off on my own without thinking because I focus on one thing and forget about everything else.” Suddenly it feels like every lecture that Shinji’s ever given him and he’d brushed off is weighing down on his shoulders, heavy and shameful. 

“I told myself I needed to be stronger, but… In reality, I was just doing the exact same thing I accused you of. I was just running away too, from any problem that I couldn’t solve by knocking it down hard enough.”

What else has Shinji lectured him about that he just passed off as nothing when he should have listened? Why had it taken him until now to realize it? Why had it taken this? 

“You were right all along. And in the end, it didn’t even do any good. It didn’t matter how strong I was. Look what happened!” He gestures at Shinji, at the bed he’s propped up in– at everything in the room. It speaks for itself. 

“You almost died, Shinji! If one thing had been different– if just one thing hadn’t happened the way it did…you wouldn’t be here.” A sob clogs his throat. He drops his head into his hands, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes in a futile effort to keep the tears at bay. 

“All that strength, and yet I still couldn’t do anything for you. Not a single goddamn thing. I couldn’t even donate blood when you needed it, did you know that?”

“Aki…” Shinji doesn’t say anything more for several long moments, and the silence between them grows so heavy. Eventually, though, Shinji reaches out and puts a hand on Akihiko’s knee. 

“Listen,” he says. “We both fucked up. But there’s nothin’ we can do about it now. And…” He gives Akihiko’s knee a soft squeeze. “If it means anything, I don’t hold any of it against you.” 

Attempting to hide how emotional he’s gotten was hopeless from the start, but he’d been holding the line so far, if only by the skin of his teeth. Now Akihiko crumbles. He’s thankful that it’s just Shinji here instead of the whole team. He’d never live it down. At least Shinji’s seen him cry a million times before, so the blow to his pride doesn’t sting that bad. 

“I-it does. It means a lot to me, Shinji,” he replies, his voice quiet and hoarse, scrubbing the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

[noonaishere]

Music of the Heart [J.YH] - seventy-three | solving problems

Recording for Ans:wer started the next week and you were only just coming out of feeling like you were whirling around in a cyclone or something, everything around you was happening so fast and it felt like it would be so easy to get swept up in the chaos and lose your head. But you had to pay attention: this wasn’t just an OST, and this wasn’t Jongho and Satbyeol fighting over wanting you as a producer like how friends bicker over each other’s time and attention, this was a real album that had a rebranding pitch and everything.

Like usual, Hongjoong headed the project, and you and Maddox were his first and second mate. Maybe calling him ‘captain’ all the time was starting to rub off on you.

Hongjoong hit the PA button. “On ‘blooming flowers climb up’, you did really well. The second part of the line sounded like another person. So let’s do it again.”

Yongsun sang the line again.

“Again.”

He sang the line again.

“Again.”

He sighed and sang the line again.

“Again.”

“I can’t keep singing it!”

Hongjoong’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He moved to speak but seemed to think better of it. He thought for a moment, possibly calculating how to respond. Maddox looked at you and you stood and walked into the booth.

“Is it getting tough?” You asked.

Yongsun averted his eyes.

“Do you want to take a break?”

He kept his eyes averted and shook his head no.

“Do you want to try it again?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead.”

You left the booth and shared a look with Hongjoong before you stood behind him. He started the track again and Yongsun sang the line badly again. He turned as his fists reflexively balled up and came up to his temples and he shouted in frustration. Hongjoong stopped the track and looked at you.

You walked back into the booth and gestured for him to take the headphones off.

He did. “Am I in trouble?”

“You’re not in trouble.” You smiled. “Why would you be in trouble?”

“Because I keep singing… bad. I feel like a trainee again.”

“Well… not everyone sings everything right on the first try.”

“Choi Jongho does.”

“How do you know that?

“I watched the behind the scenes of his albums when we were on hiatus.”

“Well… Jongho has been singing for at least the entire time you were all on hiatus. Did you sing that whole time?”

He shook his head. “I should have.”

“Well.. you had nothing to prepare for and you were busy living your life, so it’s understandable.”

“He’s still so much better.”

“Well… I’ve seen him screw up takes when we recorded the OST for the drama he’s in.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I told you: no one sings everything right on the first try.”

He looked away as he still held the headphones.

“You’re getting too tense as you get frustrated though, that’s why it’s getting worse.”

He turned back. “What?”

“Here. Put this down,” you took the headphones from his hands and put them on the music stand. “Do what I do, shake your hands.” You shook your hands like they were wet.

He looked at you, puzzled.

“Do it, shake your hands.”

He shook his hands slightly.

“Harder than that! You’re in the bathroom and the air dryer isn’t working, there’s no towels! Oh no! You’re with someone you just met and you don’t want them to think you’re a weirdo with wet hands! Why are his hands so wet? Maybe he peed on them? Who pees on their hands?”

He laughed.

“You can’t let people think you’re a hand pee-er. Shake ‘em!”

He shook his hands harder.

“Shake your head side to side too.”

He laughed a little and did as you said.

“Now shake your shoulders and your whole body.”

You did something like The Twist together.

“Now go ‘brrrrrr!’” You pressed your lips together, blowing air through them like a rambunctious child testing the limits of what would get them a time-out. 

He imitated what you were doing and started laughing.

You stopped. “Do you feel better?”

“I feel silly.”

“That’s better than feeling upset though, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Take a few breaths, think about how you want it to sound, and try again, okay?”

“Okay.”

You smiled. “You got this, okay?”

He nodded and put the headphones back on.

You walked out of the booth and sat where you had been sitting. Maddox smiled at you.

“Can you play the track for me? I want to listen to my part again.”

Hongjoong nodded and played his section.

Yongsun hummed along as he read the lyrics. Hongjoog played it a second and third time and finally he was ready to try the take again. He nailed it.

You clapped.

He recorded the rest of his lines and the rest of the group recorded as well.

Mirinae, the group’s main vocalist, had a hard day the next day. Lots of missed notes and voice cracks, things that - if anyone had ever listened to Ans:wer’s music - were alien to him. He was on par with the other great vocalists of his generation.

He stood in the booth, fiddling with the edges of the lyrics sheet for a few minutes.

“Would you like to take a break?” Hongjoong asked over the PA system.

He looked up, shaken from whatever reverie he found himself in. “Uh-- yeah. If I can.”

“Go ahead.”

He nodded and left the booth, taking the lyrics sheet with him. He walked out of the room, neglecting to grab his phone.

You looked at Hongjoong and Maddox before you nodded and stood, following him out the door. You followed him slowly down the hall, he didn’t seem to notice you, stuck in his own thoughts again. He walked into the stairwell, and you stood outside the door for a few minutes before going in. You didn’t have to go far to look for him, he was on the next landing down, sitting on the step as he looked at the lyrics sheet, not even registering the words on it.

“Hey.” You said as you sat down next to him.

He looked up, a bit startled. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“No, I just didn’t know someone followed me.”

“Well… you left your phone so you probably weren’t going to make a call.” He nodded as his eyes found their way back to the sheet.

You watched him. For someone who was sitting right next to you, he was a million miles away.

“You okay?”

He shrugged. 

You waited.

He shrugged again. “Not really.” You nodded. 

He continued to stare at the paper for a few moments before he finally looked over at you.

“It’s just… I keep fucking up.”

You nodded.

“I’ve been in this business for so long that I did my military service and came back… and yet I keep fucking up.”

“Have you… maybe been out of practice?”

He looked back at the paper. “...I’ve been practicing less than I used to.”

“How come?”

“I have a wife. And a kid. I have to take care of them. I can’t just fill every day with vocal lessons and dance lessons and that kind of stuff any more.”

You nodded.

He sighed. “That sounds like I’m making an excuse.”

“Are you?”

He looked at you for a second. “A little. Maybe.”

“Well… I think that’s a little rude to use your, I’m guessing, lovely wife and beautiful child as an excuse for why you feel you’re having a hard time. Especially since vocal lessons don’t take all day and the choreo for the song hasn’t been decided yet.”

He looked at you, eyes widening at your assessment. “Yeah… you’re right. I shouldn’t use them like that when this is my fault.”

“So why haven’t you been practicing?”

He looked away. 

“Are you nervous about the comeback?”

He nodded slowly. “I think so… yeah.”

You nodded.

“What if people don’t like our new sound? What if they say we’re trying too hard? What if they hate us?”

“And the worst one:”

He looked at you.

“What if they don’t care?”

He turned away and sighed. “Yeah.”

You shrugged. “But who cares?”

He turned to you again.

“You really can’t stop people from feeling how they feel… but I’ve personally seen a lot of posts by people are so excited at the news of a new Ans:wer album. Your long time fans felt cheated that you had been on unofficial hiatus for so long, and… I think there are people who will hate it no matter what--”

He looked back down at the sheet.

“--but that’s only because they lead lives so miserable that the only thing that could possibly make them feel better is taking it out on someone else, you know? Most of the people in the world aren’t like that. And I think that Ans:wer has way more people who love you who are excited for you to come back.”

He turned to you.

“If you want, I think we can ask Hongjoong if we can postpone your recording. He wants you to have a great album above all else, and if you need a little extra time to get back into fighting shape, I don’t think he’ll mind.”

He nodded. “We’ve never worked with him before but he seems like a good guy so far.”

“He is. Should we go back and ask?”

He nodded and you both stood and made the walk back to the recording studio.

Hongjoong hit the button on the PA mic. “You’ll be dancing when you sing this, right?”

“Yes.” Changheon answered.

“When you think about the rhythm… do it like how your body feels when you’re dancing. Think of the rhythm you’ll be dancing to. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, try again.”

Hongjoong started the track over and Changheon sang his line again. He stopped it. “Very good. That was your best take so far.”

He smiled. 

“You can take a break if you want.”

He nodded and left the booth.

You and Mirinae walked over to Hongjoong. You gestured for Mirinae to ask him.

“Um, Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong turned. “Yes?”

“Would I be able to take a break on my recording? I think I need to practice more before I can sing how I used to.”

Hongjoong viewed him for a few moments before nodding. “You can. Do you know when you’ll be ready?”

“Umm… I’m not sure.” He looked to you for help.

“Maybe a week? Maybe two?” You offered. “I don’t know how long it would take to recondition a voice.”

He thought for a second. “Give me a week. It’s not a matter of learning to sing, it’s a matter of remembering.” He nodded.

Hongjoong nodded. “Okay. I’ll schedule you for a week from now. I expect to see improvement in that time.”

Mirinae bowed. “Thank you very much. I’m going to leave for the practice room now and get started.”

Hongjoong nodded. “I think your original vocal teacher might have left, so have your manager call one of the new ones.”

“Okay, thank you.”

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What’s Your Favourite Scary Movie, Eddie?

Edward Nashton (The Riddler) x Ghostface!Trans!M!Reader

Last Edited: 06/04/2023

TW: gore, blood, murder, stalking, dead bodies, transphobia, foul language, body dysphoria, phone harassment

Requested: no

Word Count: 2,381

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: literally rewatching the batman 2022 as i make this lel. also, kinda think of the ghosftface from dead by daylight as i love that costume/look so the outfit that’s described. i finished this shit on 1 hour of sleep btw so hope u enjoy

He’s an odd man. His schedule used to remain constant until it didn’t. You’re unsure of what changed. He’s still a forensic account by all means. He forged those documents to get the job so of course he wouldn’t simply just quit. That part stayed the same. It’s after work when he deviates from his original schedule. Going out at night, spying on people, and getting odd information. There’s also his online presence getting stronger. You see him on his computer more and more. Sometimes he’s typing, other times he has some sort of outfit on to do live streams.

No matter what, he’s always busy with something. That something has gotten more and more odd these past few weeks. He’s obsessing over a vigilante. A man dressed in black who goes around beating people down until they cannot get up to fight anymore. A “Batman” is what they call him. For someone so many fear, little ol’ Eddie surely loves him. It makes your stomach twist in disgust. How can this man obsess over this random vigilante? Sure, he fights crime but he’s not going for the bigger people. He lets cops run around, nabbing the criminals only to let them go after a bit of bribing. Some saviour he is. Plus, to see this somewhat nerdy and dainty-looking man go for a man who appears to be jacked screws with your head.

You can’t help but want to maul your own skin at this observation. The mousey man wanting the dark, mysterious, and bulky body type makes you think of your own figure. You don’t have the exact body type so may want after all the struggles to so much as get the medicine you needed for your transition. It takes time, ranging from months to years. And the first man you see him obsess over is the usual “jacked” and “hot” man makes you angry. That original figure you had has changed over time, into something you’re more comfortable with. While some changes haven’t been made yet due to the lack of money, you feel better; like you can actually live in your own skin now after so long of feeling like your body was out to destroy you.

But that feeling does fade now and then, especially when you see someone you’ve been watching and pinning over for months wanting the one thing you feel like you can’t be at times. Sometimes it’s your mind, other times it's old words from people you knew. The majority is the people you see online spouting nasty things, all ranging from hatred to fetishizing; there are even times when it’s a mixture of the two. A “real” man is what they want. For some reason as well, a “real” man isn’t someone who takes hormones or changes their body. A “real” man isn’t someone who says they are a man, even if they don’t transition. If they don’t pass their assessments, they’re not a “real man”. But how can they be one? How do they know what a “real” man is? They call those bulky hunks in bars real men. They’ll call the men from the army real men. The men from the gym are real men. But the moment a man so much as acts, looks, sounds different or doesn’t have the “right” body, they’re fake. And to you, it’s all bullshit. No one has any right to tell someone they’re not a “real” man, especially when they themselves know nothing about you or others in the same boat.

So to suddenly see such people in his streams? You can feel yourself losing it. While you wouldn’t kill them for such a thing unless they preached or even tried to kill people for being different or “unreal”, it’s the fact that so many were actual shitbags added to it. From people who wanted to simply kill innocent people, to people wanting to do awful acts to those they hate, you can’t allow that. Spying from the rooftops and alleyways turns into watching him from his very own streams.

Your username on the streams is Gh0stFac3, read as GhostFace, is usually caught in the streams, never saying a word. You let yourself lurk while he’s online, letting out passionate rants about Gotham and some sort of “renewal plan”. You don’t necessarily watch him on these streams. You do listen though, taking down notes on his words. You do have other people to watch and kill later on, of course. Some from his streams, others from night outs. A few are even from your times at bars, hearing their nasty talking or genuine disgust about certain groups of people who’ve done nothing but live their lives.

Another name is jotted down in your notebook, a multitude of pictures clipped to the page with the target. You scratch at your neck from under the mask, sighing. It’s just another asshole really. This one is from one of Edward’s streams. From what you found out, the guy had been sending nasty messages to a coworker who rejected him. Pathetic in your case. But you can feel that itchy feeling creeping up under your skin. You’ll have to kill again soon. It’s like a drug and it makes you feel powerful in a way. From people seeing you as some dainty girl back in the day, nothing more than something to be used for bearing kids and eye candy to look at, to feeling like a man after treatment, meds, and eye-opening articles; along with blogs talking about their own experiences, you feel like you can actually feel and do the things you felt you deserved to do. The people who looked down on you or disowned you disappeared in just a blink. All you needed was time away to find yourself, who you truly are, before returning and dealing out the same amount of pain to them they forced you to go through for so many years.

You snap the notebook closed, rubbing at the face under your mask. All this thinking about how your body is, alongside was, is giving you a headache. It doesn’t help that you have more than just that man as the next victim either. You’re not sure who to choose just yet. Or, well, you do. However, all the constant thinking, together with your inner voice reminding you of all the transphobia you’ve faced thus far, is killing your mood. A snort leaves you. Killing your mood. You’re truly a riot with your own jokes.

You grab the flip phone closest to you, flicking it open. It’s a burner you picked up a bit ago. There were plenty of others but the satisfaction of snapping the phone shut after a call is enough for you to keep it around. You look at Edward’s stream; he’s still going. You give a sharp grin under your scream mask before dialling his number.

You can hear it ring from the stream. Seeing him go silent immediately is satisfying. He looks like a mouse again; a confused one at that. He starts up his rant again, seemingly going to ignore it. Narrowing your eyes, you end the call before texting him. The ding he gets is ignored. Another ding. Another. Another. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and crazed. Finally, you type in chat.

> Hello, Mouse.

The chat, usually fast, stops for a moment. They seem to notice something is off.

> Will you answer your phone?

> I’m calling.

> I’m texting you, Mouse.

People in the chat start to type, sending in a multitude of messages. Some are asking Edward if he knows you. Others are asking if you know him. You don’t answer them at all.

> Answer. I won’t stop calling.

He looks mad, grabbing his computer. “Who do you think you are? You know nothing! You’ve said nothing until now! You’re just someone trying to bring me down aren’t you?! You’re trying to destroy everything I’ve been working for to help Gotham!”

> Answer the phone, Eddie.

Everything stops. It’s like the entire chat froze as well as Edward. You know no one has any idea what his name is. The fact that you know it and suddenly type it with no hesitation only shows you know more than does. With shaking hands, he lets go of the computer and sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry everyone… But it looks like we have a leak. I’ll be making sure to get rid of the mole and that they are dealt with accordingly. I’ll host another stream next week after all of this is fixed.” His voice is eerily blank, almost like he’s bored or in shock. With those final words, the entire stream ends. You sit for a moment before calling him once more. Edwards finally picks up this time.

“Oh, Eddie… Did you really have to take that long?” The voice changer in your mask disguises your voice. From what you’ve been told by many victims before, you sound like a very attractive young man.

“Who are you?” His question, asked in a cold way, makes you hum.

“Ghostface. What about you, Eddie? Are you Edward Nashton? The Riddler? Who are you?” His breathing has changed; he’s panicked. You’ve heard that type of breathing so much that you don’t do much beside coo at him. “Don’t worry, Dear Eddie. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to destroy all that you’ve been working on. After all, you’ve changed your schedule to fit this odd thing now…” You sigh, leaning forwards in your chair. You prop your masked head on your gloved hand. “After all, you spent so much time and resources on it. It’s honestly been the most interesting thing I’ve seen in years.”

“Why are you calling, Ghostface?” He asks, wanting to get this call over with. You don’t want that though. You like how he sounds in your ear. You like how you can make his breathing change with just a few words.

“What’s Your Favourite Scary Movie, Eddie?” The teasing way you say it only adds character, or that’s what you tell yourself. You want Eddie to like you. You want him to obsess over you as he does Batman. You want him.

“I’m not playing your games!” He’s stressed, practically about to cry from the frustration. You’ve ruined his stream, teased him over the phone, and called him Eddie in front of people who don’t know his name. In his eyes, you’re out to destroy him.

“Eddie…” You feel slightly bad. You really do want him to like you and this is the only thing you had thought of. It’s clearly not working. “I like you, Eddie. You’re doing what others can’t or won’t… How about a deal?” The idea of a deal to possibly end this talk seems to get to him.

“What’s the deal, then? Or are you going to keep talking to me in circles and messing with me?”

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you. As I said before. I like you. You’re the only person who went from a possible victim to something else entirely… You should be proud! No one has ever gotten that far! Usually, I’d be in their home by now, hiding and waiting for the right moment to strike…” As you talk, it seems he’s intently listening to you with genuine intrigue. “The fighting is always hard but so, so fun. And the moment my knife meets their flesh and blood spills? It’s beautiful.” You let out a sigh, one could almost call it dreamy with how you talk about your deadly hobby. “The screams are a bit much, not going to lie there, Eddie. They’re so loud.. But the moment the life is gone from those shitbags, I can make them oh so pretty.” You’re out of your chair, pacing around your apartment. Your combat boots are heavy against the wooden floors of your home. One of your hands moves as you ramble, giving more passion despite the other man unable to see it. “A few more cuts, maybe some mutilation, a bit of stabbing.. Then I have to set them up how I want and take a few selfies. The selfies are always fun… I can send you a few if you’d like. They always turn out great, I make sure of it.”

The silence on the other end snaps you out of whatever state you had been in when talking about your hobby. You don’t hear anything, not even Edward’s breathing. Your hidden lips pull into a frown. Here you are, pouring your heart out and he’s said nothing! No congratulations. No good job. Nothing. The squeaking of your gloves is heard as you tighten your grip on the burner.

“How does this help me? How are you going to help me with some pictures of your pinned-up dead bodies?” You grit your teeth, hating this call more and more.

“I’m saying that I can be your blade, dammit! You can sit in your messy lil’ apartment, talking, coding, streaming! I’ll hunt down whoever you want! I’ll mutilate them! I’ll leave clues or riddles, I don’t care!” You’re yelling into the receiver, finally tired of listening to the man’s complaining. Taking a deep breath, you try to calm yourself. “I do all the killing and you continue doing whatever it is your doing.”

“But what are you looking for? What do you get out of it?” A hum leaves you, letting all that rage go. A nasty smirk crawls over your features.

“I get to watch you work… I love seeing you put your pretty lil’ head to use after all, Baby.” You practically purr, the distorted warmth filling you. It’s unhealthy how much you like him paired with how much you want him to like you. Unhealthy or not, you don’t care. If he can have unhealthy views and plans, so can you.

You hear the end of his line go dead, having hung up on you. You give a mocking put from behind the scream mask. Quickly, you let your thumb fly over the numbers. You snap the phone closed, happy to see that this is the start of something very exciting.

> Can’t wait to work with you, Sweetheart ;))

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Force of Habit Part Four

Previous Part | Masterlist

Pairing: Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only

Notes: Hi welcome to the final part enjoy thank you for reaaaaadiiiiing

Warnings: Mentions/descriptions of anxiety; fluff; explicit sexual content—oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex

Summary: Maybe your dry run of the dishes should’ve given you some indication of this, but there’s a little part of you that’s unnerved by how…Easy this all feels. You won’t deny that there’s still some low-level of swirling anxiety in your belly, but it’s assuaged by the fact that whatever happens tonight, you’ve been through way worse. You’re certain that by the end of the night, you and Berzatto will both be a thousand dollars richer, and neither of you will cover yourselves in cold Au Jus and go running into the walk-in. 

“Can you help? I’m like—I am so screwed it’s not even funny.” 

Emma’s voice is tinny and desperate as it comes through your phone. You’re still looking at the menu that she’d sent over before calling. You bite your lip as you consider it. You could swing it, but it would be tight. You can either implore Crispy’s owner to close up early on a Saturday, or leave Steph in charge for the evening. You’re not sure which would be worse. Besides, you can’t cater a gourmet dinner service by yourself. 

“I’ll give you two thousand for the night,” Emma adds, “All cash, under the table.” 

“Christ, Em. Who the hell are you working with?” 

“Oh my god, yes or no, babe, I’m desperate here.” 

“Okay—okay, lemme make one other call, and I will get back to you in—” You glance at the time on your phone before raising it back to your ear, “Like, an hour, okay?” 

“Ugh, fine.” 

You roll your eyes, hanging up and lowering your phone again. You swipe through your texts, tapping on Carmy’s contact and raising it to your ear again. It rings three times, and you think it’ll go to voicemail until he answers—

“Yeah?” 

“Hey. Can you pull a job with me this Saturday? I know it’s super short-notice,” You hurry to add, “But my friend needs a favor. It’s a small wedding service for twenty at this fuckin' bougie hotel. Two thousand, all cash, even split.” 

There’s a pause on the other end; you can hear the slight scritch of him scratching his head. 

“Menu?” 

“Pre-selected. I can send it to you now,” You add, pulling the phone back from your ear and putting it on speaker. You pull up your email, tapping on the menu and forwarding it to him.

“Time?” He asks.

“We’d be let in for prep would start at four, service would start at five-thirty.” 

“...Even split, all cash.” 

“Yep.” 

“...Caviar-topped canapes…Grains salad…Duck confit spring rolls…Skirt steak with paprika butter…” He mutters, reading some of the menu to himself. He pauses before speaking up again: “…We springing for ingredients?” 

“Nope. Already ordered and paid for.” 

“The hell happened?” 

“The chef has some family emergency. My friend didn’t go into all the details.” You bite your lip. “Like I said, I know it’s super short-notice, but I need an answer like, ASAP—” 

“I’ll do it.” 

“...For real?” 

“Yeah. Are we meeting there, or do you wanna do a dry run, agree on plating?” 

“That’s probably a good idea. Crispy’s is closed on Tuesdays, so if you wanna come by some time then.” 

“You’re closed?” 

“It’s been our slowest day. We don’t even get delivery orders. I usually come in to do a deep clean and inventory.” 

“Okay, Tuesday. Is it gonna fuck you up for Wednesday if we do it kinda late?”  

“Pffft, please, Berzatto. On holiday weekends, we used to get, what, three hours of sleep from leaving for close to going in for prep? I can handle it.” 

“Hey, sorry for askin’.” 

“Forgiven. Lemme know what time is good for you and I’ll circle back with Emma, let her know there’s gonna be two of us.” 

“Sounds good. Thanks.” 

“Thank you.” 

You hang up, drawing in a deep breath and pushing out a long, slow breath through your lips as you look down at your phone. You feel a vague queasiness wash over you—and you’re not sure if it’s the cuisine, or the thought of being in the kitchen with Carmy again, or both. 

-- 

“Where’s the gremolata for the, uh—” 

“Halibat?” You fill in. "Working on it."

“How long?” 

“Thirty seconds, chef.” 

He doesn’t gripe with your use of chef this time; it’s right in this context, at least. You walk around to Carmy’s side, setting the bowl down beside his elbow before walking to the stove to turn the skirt steak. You glance back at Carmy, unable to help yourself. You watch him lower a clean spoon into the bowl and raise it to his lips, taking a taste—and then dip his head in a nod. Some little part of you that had gone dormant goes warm, vindicated. 

“Skirt steak?” He asks. 

“Just turned. Two minutes out, chef.” 

“Heard, thank you, chef.” 

You nod a bit to yourself, drawing in a deep breath and turning back to the pan. You can hear the scratch of Carmy’s pen on the printed menu by his station, no doubt taking stock of how long it’s taking you. 

“Paprika butter?” You ask. 

“One minute out, chef.” 

“Heard, thank you, chef.” 

The kitchen smells fucking delicious. With the restaurant closed, there are no other sounds besides the bubbling, sizzling, and crackling of food being cooked. It’s almost calming—almost. You just have the skirt steak to plate—and then you’re set. 

“Skirt steak is ready, chef,” You announce.

“I’ve got the sauce. Walking.” 

“Heard.” You wrap a dishcloth around the handle of your pan, walking the skirt steak up to the station and setting it down. Carmy takes the steak up, cutting it and eyeing the inside. Your stomach roils with nerves, eyes darting between the steak and his face. 

“This is perfect, chef,” He says, plating it. You have to fight back a grin, mumbling a, “Thank you, chef,” As Carmy spoons the paprika butter over the steak. He jots one more note down on his menu before he stops the digital timer that you keep in the kitchen. The two of you look over the six plates in the window—three appetizers and three entrees. 

“Wanna do the tasting in here?” He asks, glancing over at you. 

“Nah, no point when there’s an empty dining room. C’mon,” You nod, taking up two of the appetizers and one of the entrees. “We can put it out on the bar.” 

-- 

It’s a little surreal, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Carmy and taking bits and bites from the plates of food that you just cooked. In New York, you only ever took small samples of what you’d made to ensure quality. Now, you get to eat the whole damn thing. 

“Should probably make the paprika butter first,” You comment, pushing some chicken onto your fork. “It can stand for, what—Four hours? It won’t be there for nearly that long.” 

“Mhm,” Carmy nods, still chewing. “Prep the spring rolls, drop them as people get in…Put the farro on right after we make the paprika butter.” 

“Give it time to drain and cool. And the gremolata after that.” 

“Yeah.” Carmy reaches out, snagging his beer and taking a pull from it to wash down the caviar. “I think the chicken scarpariello’s gonna be the biggest hurdle.” 

“Agreed,” You nod. “It needs the most handling.” 

“Garnishes should be easy. Oven-roasted vegetables and sauteed spinach—” 

“Just need the odd look-in and turn.” You reach across him, plucking up the last spring rolls and biting into it with a sigh. “These are fuckin’ good,” You mutter around the mouthful as you set the second half down on your plate. 

“You know the chef that canceled?” 

“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. “I think they’re a friend of Emma’s.” 

“How do you know Emma?” 

“We went to college together. She was a business major. She started her own event planning business, like, right as Covid hit.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah. She’s keeping her head above water,” You shrug. “But it was touch and go there for a while.”

“...Why’d you ask me for help?” 

“Because I needed it.” 

“Why me instead of one of the other chefs you know?” 

You glance over to find Carmy’s eyes wandering you, though he doesn’t meet your gaze when you look at him. You shrug, turning back to your plate.

“I knew you’d take to the menu quickly,” You admit. “It’s the kind of stuff you’re used to.” 

“The kind of stuff we’re used to.” 

You smile a little. “I don’t know if I’m that used to it anymore.” 

“The skirt steak and I both disagree with you. Your instincts are still there.” 

Your smile widens, unable to help the bubbling of your flattery. 

“Well. Thank you to you and the skirt steak.” 

Carmy’s smile widens as he straightens up and reaches out, taking the last of the duck confit spring roll off of your plate and popping it into his mouth. 

“Dick,” You grumble. Carmy grunts in agreement, sitting up and plucking the last piece of skirt steak with his fingers. Before you can stop yourself, you lean in, catching hold of it in your teeth and slurping it into your mouth. Your lips, tongue and teeth brush against the swell of his fingertips as you lean away again. You raise your thumb to your lips, swiping away the stray sauce as you lean back. You swallow your embarrassment along with the steak, swiping your tongue over your lips. 

“Payback,” You slide off of the barstool and begin to gather up the dirty plates. “Never steal my fucking spring roll again.” 

“Heard,” Carmy chuckles. You try not to overthink the way he smiles—or the fact that he raises those same fingertips to his lips to lick off the remainder of the sauce. 

-- 

On the day of the wedding, you half-expect Carmy to turn up with his hair slicked back, like you used to see—slicked back hair, and a pristine white uniform. But Carmy is in the clothing that you’re slowly becoming more accustomed to seeing him in: dark jeans, a white t-shirt, and a blue apron. Between the two of you, prep goes smoothly. You speak little, save for asking what one or the other is doing, or may need help with. By the time service starts, you’re beginning to tingle with nerves. But Carmy’s call of, “I need two orders of spring rolls, one grain salad, one order of canapes,” Starts your engine. 

“Heard,” You call back, rounding to the frier. 

“How long on the spring rolls?” 

“Eight minutes, chef.” 

“Heard, thank you, chef.” 

Maybe your dry run of the dishes should’ve given you some indication of this, but there’s a little part of you that’s unnerved by how…Easy this all feels. You won’t deny that there’s still some low-level of swirling anxiety in your belly, but it’s assuaged by the fact that whatever happens tonight, you’ve been through way worse. You’re certain that by the end of the night, you and Berzatto will both be a thousand dollars richer, and neither of you will cover yourselves in cold Au Jus and go running into the walk-in. 

By the time the last appetizers have gone out, you feel yourself beginning to settle into an easy rhythm with Carmy. You’re each flurrying around the kitchen, in near-perfect sync. Sure, now and again you’ll get in your own head about something, but Carmy usually snaps you back out, asking for a time on an item, or murmuring, “Behind,” and resting his hand on your lower back to keep you steady as he passes. 

That’s new. Carmy has the same officious speed and manner in the kitchen, but there’s never been a consistent level of close proximity. And you’ve never felt so calm in a kitchen with him before—well, not a professional kitchen, anyway. Your personal kitchen is another matter. 

By the time the two of you send out the last round of entrees (three halibut, two steak, two chicken scarpariello), you shut the burner under the cast iron skillet off and sigh softly. You scrub the heels of your palms over your eyes, loosing a sigh that turns into a yawn. 

“...Doin’ alright over there, chef?” You hear. 

“Yep. Just taking a breath before we start clearing up.” You tip your chin up, lowering your hands and giving him a small smile. “You go ahead and have your cigarette,” You add, nodding to the back door. “I’ll get started in here.” 

Carmy seems to consider for a moment, glancing over in the door’s direction as he fiddles with the tasting spoon in his hand. 

“I’ll wait,” He finally says. “I’ll get started with the sauce station if you start with garnishes.” 

You’re surprised, but you nod, straightening up and turning. 

“Heard.” 

“...Think we’ll get any cake?” 

“Fuck, I hope so. Did you see it when it came in? It looked fuckin’ good.” 

-- 

“You gonna gripe at me if I want a drag of that?” 

Carmy chuckles, pushing the smoke out as he does.

“No,” He shakes his head, holding the cigarette out. You plop down beside him on the bench outside of the venue, taking it from him and drawing in a drag. You damn near groan as you tip your head forward, smoke pushed out through your nostrils. 

“Haven’t gotten a new rubber band yet?” He asks. You smile. 

“I have, but…I don’t know. This was always kinda our thing, right?” 

Carmy doesn’t answer right away, leaving you to stare at the smoldering tip of the cigarette in silence. But after a few nerve wracking moments of quiet, he offers, “...Yeah. Was.” He reaches out, fingers pressing against yours as he gently pries the cigarette from your fingers. You bite your lip, looking down at your empty hand and wiggling your fingers a touch. “Could work out a new thing if you’re tryin’ to quit, though.” 

“New thing like what?” 

You see Carmy flick the cigarette away. You frown, watching the half-finished butt fall to the ground. 

“Dude, what the hell, that was a perfectly good—” As you turn your head, your argument kicking up, Carmy’s hand raises to cup your cheek. The way he draws you in feels so effortless—like every action you’ve ever seen him make in the kitchen. His hands are warm, and smell like smoke and garlic—there’s a hint of the cake icing as he slips his tongue between your lips. Your eyes blink in surprise once before sliding shut. You lift a hand to hook in the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. The two of you scooch closer on the bench, knees knocking as your kisses deepen. 

You lean back first, tongue brushing against Carmy’s lip as you lick your lips. You give a short dazed nod, meeting his gaze. 

“Yeah,” You manage. “Yeah, that could work.” 

--  

You feel tired as hell. Usually after a service like this, all you want to do is take a long, hot shower and curl up in bed. Now, nothing of the sort is on your mind. Your hands fumble with your keys as Carmy presses up against your back. 

“Having some trouble there, chef?” Carmy teases, nose nudging against the hinge of your jaw.  You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head. You force yourself to focus up, looking down at the keys. 

“No trouble at all, chef,” You bat back, finally slotting your key into your apartment door lock and shoving it open. It whacks back against the wall with a bang that’ll surely annoy or alarm your neighbors, but you can’t bring yourself to give a shit. You half-stumble into the room, turning and pulling the key from the lock as you turn to grip Carmy’s shirt. He wraps his arms around your middle, just managing to keep you from toppling over. You slide your hands up into his hair, curling your fingers in the strands. Carmy tips his chin up a touch, catching your lower lip between his teeth and giving it a tug. You whine softly at the sting. You reach back ,unwilling to let go of Carmy or break your kiss, absently whacking at walls to find your bedroom doorway. 

You lean back just enough to kick your shoes off and tug off your shirt. You reach for Carmy’s shirt, too, but he takes hold of your wrists before you can pull his shirt up and off. Your breath catches in your throat as Carmy tucks your arms behind your back, holding them there and forcing your chest against his. You shiver as his thumbs sweep tenderly across your wrists. Carmy tips his head from side to side, giving you darting, quick kisses. You lower your eyes to his lips, tracking their movement, as if you can anticipate which way he’ll lean next. Carmy intertwines  your fingers as he dips his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw before slipping his lips down further. You close your eyes, tipping your head, as if you need to entice him further. The shifting sensation of  his tender brush of kisses blooms into a sharp heat as Carmy nips and tugs at the skin there. 

“Fuck,” You shiver, fingers twitching around his. Carmy grunts against your skin, pulling away with a final kiss before he lifts his head. He rests his chin atop yours, lowering your heads and guiding your gaze back to his.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he murmurs, “You pull any’a that yes chef shit in here and you’re gonna get it.” 

The warning sends an intrigued chill down your spine, and makes you smile wide. 

“Well sorry in advance, chef,” You murmur. “Force’a habit.” 

Carmy groans low in his chest. He teases his tongue across your lips before he lets go of your hands. You can feel him working at pulling off your bra, but you’re more focused on taking off his shirt. You scrabble at the fabric, nails scratching slightly over his side as you pull. He moans, sinking his teeth into your shoulder before he tugs and snaps your bra strap against your back. You wince, reaching back with one hand and deftly undoing the clasp before leaning back to shrug it off. Carmy doesn’t gripe at the assistance, just tugs his shirt up and over his head before flinging it aside.

Carmy shoves at your hips, pushing you back to the bed. When your knees hit the mattress, you sit almost obediently. You lean in, pressing gentle kisses along his belly, and over the thin trail of hair tracking down to his pants as you undo his belt, button and zip. Your hands smooth down, massaging his hardening cock through his jeans. 

You grin as you hear Carmy hiss a swear out under his breath. You shove at his waistband, grasping his cock as it bobs into view. Taking him in hand, you tip your chin up, peering at him from beneath your lashes as you swipe your tongue along the underside of his cock. Carmy draws his lower lip between his teeth, his hand lowering to rest on the back of your head. You fight off a smile, focusing on bobbing your head and teasing him with your tongue. 

Carmy’s fingers flex against the back of your head as you hum around his length. Your hands shift away from him, pushing his pants further down around his thighs. Carmy wriggles a touch as he stepped out of his shoes, nudging them aside. You draw off just enough for Carmy to shove his pants down the rest of the way before he steps up between your legs again, his hand back on your head. You begin to bob your head, taking hold of the base of his shaft and twisting your wrist. 

“Fuck, just like that—Don’t say it,” He warns as you turn a mischievous eye up toward him. You grin wide, drawing off of him and lapping at the head of his cock. He pushes out a shaky laugh, eyes bright as he watches you. You lean up, pressing a kiss beneath his belly button before you tip your head up, your hand still working over Carmy’s length. 

“Lean back,” He urges, nodding you toward the mattress before crouching down and gripping at your leggings, “And get these off.” 

You scooch back, wriggling out of your leggings and undies and kicking them off. You squeeze your thighs together, honing in on the slick throbbing between your legs. He slides his hands up your legs, pushing your thighs apart as he kneels down on the bed. You groan softly as he shoves your leg up to bend at the knee. You let your thighs splay, elbows propping yourself up to watch as Carmy slots himself between your thighs.

He trails his knuckles over your wet, plumped cunt. Your pussy throbs as he leans in and teases the tip of his nose along your slit, then tracks the same path with his tongue. You want to tip your head back, to sink back into the mattress, but you keep your eyes on Carmy. He meets your gaze so rarely, but now he holds his eyes steady on yours. Your gut swoops at the sight—at the way his eyes are bright in the dark room. Carmy parts his lips, lapping broadly along your cunt.

You bite your lip, quieting a moan as you push your hips down against his lips. Carmy flicks his tongue against your pulsing clit. He groans against you, tipping his head to and fro, laving your lips. You hiss softly, reaching down and sliding your fingers through his hair. You give his hair a harsh yank, pushing your hips down against his questing lips and tongue. Carmy’s eyelids flutter at the pressure and sting. His groan muffles against your skin before he draws off with a slick suck. He raises two of his fingers, teasing them along your opening. He takes your clit between his lips, sucking it harshly as he sinks the fingers down to the knuckle. You whimper, back arching up off of the bed. You slide one of your hands from his hair, thumbing and tweaking your hardening nipples. 

“Oh, my god,” You breathe. You roll your hips down into his mouth and hand, cunt fluttering as he stretches your aching hole. Carmy pumps his arm steadily as he swirls his tongue teasingly around your pussy. Carmy presses impossibly closer, sloppily sucking and lapping your pussy as his nose pushes against your mound. You can feel a familiar coiling sensation in your belly—one that you want to chase—but you reach down, gently pushing at his forehead. Carmy leans back, blinking up at you. You push yourself up and lean down, nudging your nose against his. 

“You gonna fuck me?” You murmur, and grin as Carmy hurriedly pushes himself up to kneel over you. 

“Condom?” He asks. You twist to the side, reaching into the drawer of your bedside table and rummaging around for a moment. Carmy’s hand lowers between your thighs, thumb teasing gently over your clit. You lean back with the foil packet. You rip the packet open with your teeth, taking the condom out and rolling it down over his throbbing cock. You grin as he twitches in your hand, your eyes lifting to his. Before you can tease or sass him, Carmy cradles your jaw in his hands, catching your lips with his. The two of you groan as he slips his hot tongue against yours, sharing the taste of you. You lower yourself down onto the bed slowly, a tingle running down your spine as you feel the head of Carmy’s cock brush against your tender pussy. 

Carmy breaks your kiss as he lowers his head, mouthing and sucking kisses to your breasts. He takes himself in hand, tapping the head against your clit. You whine, wriggling down against him. 

“Cut it out,” Carmy murmurs, slapping your hip. 

“Fuck me.” 

“So fuckin’ impatient—” 

“You’re right there, Berzatto, c’mon, just fu—” 

Your demands go quiet as Carmy shoves his hips forward. Your lips, parted from complaining, push into an o at feeling of him filling you so completely. 

Oh my god, and, move, and right there all sit on your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say a damn word. You just heave in a deep breath, eyelids fluttering as Carmy lowers himself down over you. His chest brushes against your sensitive breasts; his hips press flush against yours.

“Nothin’ to say now, huh?” He murmurs against your jaw. You huff out a harsh breath, cunt fluttering as Carmy shallowly rolls his hips. “Smartest fuckin’ mouth off the line, quickest fuckin’ hands in the kitchen and you got nothin’ to say?” 

You whimper, turning your head into Carmy’s shoulder as he begins to fuck you with short, harsh thrusts. Your hands curl around his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin. Carmy slides his hands beneath your head, cradling your head. You press your chest up against his, tipping your head back into his warm, steady hands. 

“Hmm?” He hums, right up against your ear. “Still nothin’?” 

You curl your legs around his, a hand sliding up into his hair as you give it a tug.

“Harder.”

Carmy’s expression goes stony at your order, and a smile flickers across your lips for just a moment before his hips snap harshly against yours. 

-- 

You sigh softly, shifting your head on your arms. You’re belly down in bed, sleepy, and sore. You smile as you feel Carmy slowly trail a finger down your spine before he palms one of your ass cheeks. You give a little wiggle, and grin when you hear Carmy chuckle. He presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder before nuzzling the same spot tenderly. 

“So, just so I know,” You mumble, turning your head toward him, “Is the post-job tradition just gonna be the making out, or all’a this?” 

“All of it,” Carmy answered steadfastly, lips brushing your skin. “You do a real good job, we’ll do it twice.” 

You scoff a laugh, rolling onto your side. 

“You telling me I didn’t do a really good job tonight?” 

“‘Course not,” Carmy coos, palming your hip and easing you back onto the bed as he covers your body with his. “I’m giving you a heads up for round two.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ;  @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce 

[petalsthefish]

1. Fortnight - functioning alcoholic 🥲 YOUR QUIET TREASON. All my mornings are Monday stuck in an endless February. POSTIC GENIUS. Magical move on drug YIKES. I love you you tis ruining my life. I touched you for only a fortnight but I touched you. “My husband is cheating I want to kill him.” MOOD. I love you it’s ruining my life. I’m calling ya but you won’t pick up. Went to Florida?!?! 🫡🫡🫡 thank you post Malone for your service.

2. The tortured poets department: “I’ve seen this episode but still loved the show.” Aka I THINK IVE SEEN THIS FILM BEFORE AND I DIDNT LIKE THE ENDING. “Who’s gonna love you if not me.” Lol “We’re modern idiots!!!!” JUSTICE FOR CHARLIE PUTH!!!! “A tattooed golden retriever” made me laugh out loud. “I chose this cyclone with you.” Is so Jily plz. “You’re not Dillion Thomas and I’m not patting smith.” Okay Tay. NO FUCKING BODY: 👍🏼 “Sometimes I wonder if you’ll screw this up with me.” Spoiler ‼️ he did. “Everyone we know understands why it’s meant to be.” I didn’t thanks. “Because we’re crazy.” Okay mood. HE PUT THE RING IN HER RING FINGER?!?! “CLOSEST IVE COME TO MY HEART EXPLODING?!?!” PLEASE?!?! “You left your typewriter at my apartment straight from the tortured poets department.” Five stars!!

3. My boy only breaks his favorite toys: ‘I’m queen of sandcastles he destroys.’ Jumps out at me. “Cause I knew too much.” WHAT DO YIU KNOW TAYLOR. “Should have known it was a matter of time.” Taylor is the queen of ignoring red flags. 🚩 This is a fun beat though besties. “Once I fix me, he’s gonna miss me.” YEAH. TELL EM BESTIE. “Stole my tortured heart and left all these broken parts. Told me I’m better off.” Sorry Taylor you were better off babes.

4. Down bad: NICER BEAT OKAY. “Dawn bad crying at the gym.” Mood. “Fuck it if I can’t have him I might just die.” No why is this so FUNNY. Like this is Matty we’re talking about for sure. “Everything forms out teenage petulance.” I mean yeah cause you were still developing a prefrontal cortex when you met him. “So fuck you if I can’t have us.” HAHAHAHAHAHA I LOVE THIS PART. Honestly I feel you Taylor, I’ve been dumb for a dumb boy before too. It’s okay.

5. So long London: EXCISE ME OPENING WITH A CHORAl. THESE KYRICS WHATLFHAKRHS FUCKKKKK. How much sad did you think I had??? Oh the tragedy?! So long London, you’ll find some one???? “You left me at the house by the heath.” “I stopped CPR”?!?! 😿😿 “YOU LET Me give all that you for free?!?!” SHE GAVE YOU A FUCKING GRAMMY YOGURT BOY AND YOU DIDNT EVEN WANT IT. “too graves, one gun?!” Good for you baby girl. “I’ll find someone” SHUT THE FUCK UP. I’m gonna throw up. Fuck fuck fuck. Taylor 😿😿😿😿 “I DIED ON THE ALTER” ALDBSKAHDBSJSKS NOOOOO. I’m crying. My Shakespeare queen. You’ll find someone RIPS at my heart.

6. But daddy I love him: “bedroom eyes like a remedy.” Fuck how many matty songs are we getting. This reminds me so much of a faith hill song. No I will not elaborate right now. Very country narrative. This one will be fun to scream in concert just for the “I’m having his baby…no I’m not!!!” Very chaotic. 4/5 stars.

7. Fresh out of the slammer: daily disappearing just to see him smile?!?! Girlie pop you really do lie to yourself don’t you??? “He was with her in dreams” I mean it’s really joeover. This song is fun, I like it, very chaotic as well. 5/5 stars.

8. Florida!!!: Florence my queen you make this song beautiful, I need more listens to deconstruct it though:

9. Guilty as skin: girl just write self insert fanfic if you want to fuck someone this badly (can’t wait to write and read fics based off this one hahahaha) 5/5 stars 🌟

10. Who’s afraid of little old me?: shit I’m crying. Fuck fuck fuck. She truly hates most of the new fans huh. Lmaooo SHE SINGS THIS IN ALL HER REGISTERS OMGGGG. It’s all her past selves screaming at us!!! Aldhaksjdka she’s so fucking clever

11. I can fix him no really I can: AHAHA THE ENDING KF THE SONG ALDBSKAHDKAJDHAKDHW SHE REALLY SAID “OH SHIT DAMN I FUCKED UP DIDNT I” 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

12. Loml: Joe Alwyn you need witness protection

13. I can do it with a broken heart: oh god this was hurts me more than so long London because it hits home for every damn time I had to preform on stage and then go cry in the shower between shows 🥲

14. The smallest man who ever lived: 🚨🚨🚨 found at the scene of the crime: Joe Alwyn's Small Dick

15. The alchemy: AHHHHHHH!!! HOLY FUCK WE GOT A TRAVIS SONG ALDBSLAHDBSKSJDBWKEHDBAKWJD HE GOT A SONG FUCK YESSSSS

16. CLARA BOW: the outro. The OUTRO. THE FUCKING OUTRO. I’m dead. 😵

Overall: I love it. I love it. I love it SO DAMN MICH. you can tell how much time and effort she put into production and story telling. FUCK. I love this album as much as I loved Folklore the first time I heard it!!