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sixeyesonathiel · 4 months ago

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

CH03 – you can't flirt your way out of protein deficiency

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

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

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

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

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

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chapter summary : step three in ditching the world's most persistent nerd : do not wake up in gojo satoru’s condo. do not let him steal your custom-made designer heels. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, let him blackmail you with breakfast.

the pillow collides with satoru’s face with a satisfying thud, muffling his startled inhale. for a moment, he remains perfectly still, as if processing the sheer audacity of your assault. then, slow and deliberate, he peels the pillow away, adjusting his glasses with unhurried precision before leveling you with a heavy, unimpressed stare. sunlight filters through the windows, casting sharp edges across his cheekbones, his messy white hair catching the morning light like spun sugar. meanwhile, you are already smoothing the sheets, fingers lazily combing through your hair, entirely unbothered by your own violence. if anything, you look like the picture of elegance, stretching out against the expensive cotton sheets like a pampered house cat.

satoru exhales—not a sigh of frustration, but something closer to amusement, something too composed to be truly exasperated. “good morning to you too, princess.” his voice is dry, lightly teasing, but entirely unshaken, as if being assaulted first thing in the morning is just another tuesday. you narrow your eyes at him, suspicion curling in your chest, irritation already simmering beneath your skin. “i swear if you pulled anything—” your tone is accusatory, sharp, but he only raises a brow, the barest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you drooled on my notes,” he deadpans, “if anything, i’m the victim here.”

silence. long. seething. you refuse to acknowledge that piece of information. instead, you inhale, tilting your head as if the past five seconds of conversation never happened.

you shift, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, only to realize something is missing. a second passes, then another, before it clicks. your heels. your very expensive, very limited-edition, custom-made heels with your initials engraved inside. your stomach twists. your eyes flicker to satoru, sharp with suspicion, and you feel it immediately—the way he knows you’ve figured it out. “…where are my heels?”

satoru takes an obnoxiously slow sip of his milk, because of course he drinks milk—because coffee is too bitter for his celestial tongue. he exhales, gaze flicking toward you, and—without a single ounce of remorse—says, “confiscated.”

your mouth falls open. you blink. “excuse me?”

he hums, completely at ease, swirling the milk in his glass like it’s aged wine. “can’t have you running off before breakfast.”

breakfast? he’s delusional.

you immediately push the blankets aside, scanning the room in a frenzy. where the hell did he put them? you check under the bed, inside the closet, even peek into the ensuite bathroom, but they are nowhere to be found. behind you, satoru leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching your efforts with the deepest amusement. “you can look for them,” he muses, voice rich with smug satisfaction. “but statistically speaking, you’ll give up before you actually find them.”

you clench your jaw, seething. statistically speaking, i am going to strangle you.

straightening, you cross your arms, eyes burning into him. “satoru, it’s saturday. you have to let me go.”

he tilts his head, expression unbothered. “do i?”

“yes!” you throw your hands up. “we’re not in class, i have no obligations, and you have no reason to keep me here.”

he hums, feigning thoughtfulness. “mm. incorrect.”

your brows furrow. “incorrect?”

his gaze sharpens, and something in his tone shifts—soft, but steady. “it’s not about keeping you here,” he says, voice smooth, deliberate. he takes another sip of his drink, placing the glass down with a quiet clink. “it’s about preventing you from running off to make another irresponsible decision.”

your arms tighten around yourself. your nails dig into your skin. “what irresponsible decision?”

he lifts a single finger, all patience, all calculation. “the one where you ignore our project, go out drinking, and pretend like the deadline doesn’t exist.”

your nostrils flare. “i wasn’t—”

his second finger goes up. “the one where you text me at two a.m. saying ‘i’ll make up for it, pinky promise’ and then disappear for another twenty-four hours.”

your mouth opens, then closes.

his third finger lifts. “the one where—”

“okay!” you snap, hands flying up in frustration. “i get it.”

he smiles then, all smug victory and soft amusement, sipping his stupid milk. “thought so.”

whatever. if you’re going to be stuck here, you might as well be comfortable. your dress is tight, your patience is thin, and gojo satoru is still standing there, too smug for someone who just kidnapped you over a stupid project. you exhale, tilting your head as if this entire situation isn’t already ridiculous. “at least let me change before you start your villain monologue.” he hums, unsurprised, already reaching for something. with an infuriating lack of effort, he tosses a neatly folded pile of clothes onto the bed, not even looking as they land perfectly in place.

you narrow your eyes, picking up the fabric like it’s personally offended you. oversized sweatpants, a soft cotton t-shirt—his clothes. obviously. your fingers smooth over the material, taking in how annoyingly soft they are, how they probably cost an obscene amount despite being so plain. gojo watches you with lazy amusement, arms crossed, waiting. “don’t flatter yourself,” he smirks. “they’re just extras.”

you scoff, holding the shirt between two fingers. “you expect me to wear this?” the fabric is light, draping between your hands like it was made to be comfortable. he shrugs, unbothered, like he hasn’t trapped you in his condo. “unless you wanna walk around in that tiny dress all morning.” you inhale sharply, hating that he has a point, hating that you agree. without another word, you snatch the clothes and turn on your heel. “where’s the bathroom?”

he gestures lazily down the hall. “take your time. i’ll be making breakfast.”

perfect. time to find your damn shoes.

the second you step out of the bathroom, fresh clothes hanging loosely around you, you’re focused. satoru is too relaxed, too confident, which means your heels are hidden somewhere close. you watch him carefully, studying the way he moves around the kitchen, looking for any subconscious tells. does he glance toward a certain cabinet? does he tense when you walk too close to a particular area? he’s sharp, but so are you when you wanted to be.

casually, you wander through the condo, trailing your fingers along the furniture as if admiring the interior. you open a drawer. satoru doesn’t react. you walk past the living room. nothing. but the second you get too close to the coat closet—his grip on the spatula twitches. your heart leaps. got him.

nonchalantly, you inch toward the closet, watching him carefully. his jaw ticks, just slightly, as you place a hand on the door handle. then—swiftly—you throw it open. jackpot. perched neatly on the top shelf, your heels gleam under the soft lighting, practically mocking you. you reach up, fingers brushing the leather but then—

“ah, ah, ah.”

an arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back before you can grab them. warm, steady, effortless. your breath catches for half a second before you twist in his hold, eyes burning into his smirking face. “bold move, princess,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement.

you struggle, pushing at his chest. “let me go.”

“mmm, no.” he kicks the closet door shut with his foot, still holding you in place, like he isn’t taking any of this seriously. “gotta admire your dedication, though. i almost let you have it.”

“almost?” you glare, seething. “you were this close to losing, gojo.”

he chuckles, releasing you—but only so he can reach up and grab your heels himself, lifting them with ease. you watch, horrified, as he dangles them just out of reach, like a goddamn villain. “what was that about me losing?” he muses, smirking.

you grind your teeth, so close to committing a felony.

and then, before you can lunge for them, he tosses them onto the highest shelf, where even your most expensive stilettos can’t help you now.

“better luck next time,” he winks, already walking back to the kitchen.

you hate him.

statistically speaking, you are going to commit a crime.

the plate lands in front of you with an air of finality, accompanied by satoru’s insufferable smirk. he leans back, arms crossed, watching you with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knows he’s about to be annoying. steam curls from the freshly prepared food, filling the kitchen with the kind of rich, savory aroma that should be appetizing. but instead of appreciation, you only narrow your eyes at the dish, taking in the suspiciously nutrient-dense arrangement. the omelet is folded too perfectly, golden edges sealing in the spinach, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes like some overpriced brunch order. beside it, the whole-grain toast is adorned with smashed avocado, a poached egg, and a pretentious sprinkle of chili flakes, sitting next to a bowl of greek yogurt, granola, and freshly sliced strawberries.

you stare at it like it personally insulted your entire bloodline. after a long, drawn-out pause, you lift your gaze, voice flat. “…why does this look like something from a wellness influencer’s meal prep vlog?” satoru doesn’t even blink. “because it has nutrients.” your lips press together, fingers tapping against the edge of the plate, contemplating violence. “you say that like it’s a threat.” he shrugs, unbothered. “your body probably doesn’t recognize them as food.”

you scoff, tilting your head, fully prepared to dismiss him and his ridiculous health agenda. “why are you even doing this?” he leans against the counter, adjusting his glasses with the same ease he delivers his next words. “logical reasoning. i can’t have you dropping dead or getting sick when we have a project to finish. given your current eating choices at the cafeteria, you’re at risk of becoming a liability.” your brows furrow as he casually lists off the stove evidences of your supposed malnutrition—your tray with a single iced coffee and a single croissant for lunch, multiple days in a row. the overheard joke from some acquaintance claiming you live off champagne, wine, and spite.

you hum, feigning intrigue as you lean forward, propping your chin on your palm, eyes gleaming with amusement. “so you watch me?” you purr, tapping a manicured finger against your cheek. “i didn’t take you for the obsessive type, satoru.” he doesn’t even flinch, simply reaching for his milk—because of course he drinks milk—before replying, “you wear billions yen worth of clothes to school every day.” he takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “you’re hard to miss.”

your lips curl downward as you cross your arms, glaring at him. you hate him. you hate that he’s right. but most of all, you hate that your stomach growls, traitorous and weak, at the sight of the food. satoru, always prepared, simply sets his glass down and gestures toward the plate. “i’ll leave it here,” he says smoothly, “but you’re not getting your heels back until at least 75% of it is gone.”

your fingers tighten against your arms. “50%.”

satoru doesn’t even blink. “70.”

“60.”

“74.”

you groan, grabbing the fork, already regretting every decision that led you here. the first bite is annoyingly good, the kind of well-balanced meal that tastes fresh in a way your usual diet does not. satoru watches as you grumble through another mouthful, amusement flickering in his gaze like he’s thoroughly enjoying this. you hate him. him with his stupid carrot. him with his stupid perfect family. him with his stupidly delicious breakfast.

you shove the plate away with dramatic flair, as if the very act of finishing a balanced meal has physically wounded you. the scrape of porcelain against the table echoes your irritation, your chin tilting upward in defiance. satoru, completely unbothered, lifts his cup with an infuriating smirk. he takes a slow sip, stretching out the silence between you like he’s savoring this exact moment. “there. happy now?” you huff, extending your hand expectantly, fingers curling. “great. now give me my shoes.”

satoru hums, head tilting, eyes glinting with something far too thoughtful for your liking. the pause is just long enough to make your stomach twist, a telltale sign that he is about to be insufferable. finally, with a lazy shrug, he exhales. “hmm. nah.” you blink. “gojo.” his smirk widens, and you know—you know—this is going to be a battle.

“look, princess, i did the work last night,” he says smoothly, setting down his milk with a soft clink. “you owe me at least a couple more hours of focus.” the way he says it—calm, reasonable, completely unshaken—only fuels the fire burning beneath your skin. you open your mouth to argue, to tell him he owes you for this entire ordeal, for stealing your shoes, for ruining your Saturday. instead, he slides something across the floor toward you, the sound soft against the polished wood. cotton slippers.

you stare at them. then at him. then back at them.

oh. oh, so this is war.

your fingers twitch, nails pressing into your palms as you wordlessly slip your feet into the slippers. no reaction. no visible irritation. he wants a fight? fine. you storm toward the door, posture sharp, head high, fully prepared to make the most dramatic exit of your life—until something catches your eye.

you freeze.

the full-length mirror by the doorway reflects a horrifying truth. oversized t-shirt. baggy sweatpants. cotton slippers.

oh. oh, hell no.

your breath catches in your throat, a slow, creeping horror settling in your stomach. there is no reality where you let anyone see you like this. your heels—custom, initials engraved inside—are the only way you are leaving this condo with your dignity intact. your fingers clench at your sides, jaw locking as you inhale through your nose.

retreat is the only option.

the study is set up like a war room, everything meticulously arranged—his laptop open, notes stacked neatly, a fresh glass of milk still steaming beside him. satoru settles into his chair with practiced ease, fingers already moving over the keyboard like he was born to do this. you, on the other hand, drag your feet, slumping into the seat across from him like you’re being held hostage. which, technically, you are. you sigh—long, exaggerated, a pointed display of suffering. three minutes pass before you do it again, just to be insufferable.

satoru doesn’t even glance up. “you sigh that dramatically again, and i’m charging you per exhale.” you shoot him a glare, arms crossing as you sink deeper into your chair. he remains unbothered, typing away, his attention focused entirely on the screen in front of him. the case study sits between you like a physical barrier, detailing how high-end brands manipulate exclusivity to maximize profits. for once, he is the one completely immersed in work, and you are the one plotting something else entirely.

he’s too focused. too comfortable. you need him distracted. so, as he types, you lean forward—slow, deliberate—elbows resting against the table, chin propped in your palm. your movements are fluid, effortless, the kind of ease that comes with knowing exactly what effect you have on people. “you know, satoru…” your voice is honeyed, smooth, the kind of tone that makes men listen.

he doesn’t stop typing, but you see it—the brief flick of his eyes, the way his fingers hesitate, just for a second. “no,” he hums, still focused. “but i have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

your smile curves slow, knowing, as you tilt your head just enough to let your hair cascade down one shoulder. “you work so hard,” you murmur, trailing a single finger along the edge of his notebook. “shouldn’t you take a break? relax a little?”

he hums again, as if actually considering it. your breath catches—not from nerves, but from the anticipation of winning. and yet—

“fascinating,” he says instead, voice lower now, laced with quiet amusement. “i seem to recall you saying you’d ‘just sit pretty and get the grade.’”

your lips part slightly before you recover, before you let the smirk return, slow and deliberate. “i could help you relax,” you whisper, voice edged with something dangerous, something inviting.

satoru finally looks up.

and oh, he looks.

not in the way you expect—no fluster, no hint of weakness, just sharp, assessing eyes that take you in entirely. his glasses are missing, leaving nothing to obstruct the clarity of pale blue, framed by thick lashes, unreadable and steady. his hair is slightly tousled, the result of him running his fingers through it absentmindedly, a stark contrast to the crispness of his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up with casual elegance.

he has always been unfairly good-looking, but this—this—is irritating. because as per the disney movies you watched as a kid—nerds aren’t supposed to look like this. nerds should be awkward and fumbling, stuttering when girls like you flirt with them. they should be socially inept, incapable of handling someone like you.

gojo satoru is none of those things.

he is calculating. meticulous. impossible to throw off balance. and worst of all—he’s looking at you like he already won.

your stomach tightens, and you hate that it does. it’s an involuntary reaction, a betrayal of logic, and yet you feel it—low, insistent, coiling beneath your ribs like something dangerous. satoru hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t done anything except look at you, but somehow, that’s worse. his gaze, sharp even behind the lenses of his reading glasses, is steady and assessing, pale blue cutting through the space between you like a finely honed blade. he isn’t flustered. he isn’t falling for it. he’s just sitting there, adjusting the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt with the ease of someone who already knows how this will end.

then, finally, his lips curve into a smirk, slow and deliberate, like he’s humoring you. “huh.” a quiet, thoughtful sound, like he’s observing a puzzle in motion, waiting to see if the pieces will fall into place. anticipation curls in your stomach—warmer now, thrumming—because you recognize this game, have played it before, have won before. but just as you settle into that confidence, just as you prepare to push further, he shifts. a subtle tilt of his head, a glance downward through his glasses, a movement so calculated that it makes your breath catch.

and then he leans in.

closer. slow. mirroring your energy perfectly, matching you in a way that makes your pulse stutter. his movements are effortless, precise, not the hesitant reaction of someone caught off guard, but the deliberate advance of someone fully in control. his breath is warm against your skin, a ghost of heat, and for the first time tonight, you feel the weight of his presence like something tangible. framed by his reading glasses, his gaze flickers down, cool and unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher. he is closer than he should be, closer than you expected, and the moment stretches between you, stretched thin, electric—

then, voice dipping lower, teasing, “tell me—what’s the ROI of this strategy?”

you blink.

“…what.”

he leans back, smooth, unbothered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as if that’s all this was. his hands return to his notes, fingers tapping idly against the paper, focus shifting like you hadn’t just offered yourself up to be indulged. “return on investment,” he repeats, tone bordering on conversational, as if this is a casual business discussion and not an outright reversal of power. “if i stop working to entertain you, what’s the profit margin?”

your lips shut at that.

but you are nothing if not determined.

so, as satoru turns his attention back to setting up the presentation slides, fingers skimming across the keyboard, you shift slightly in your seat, stretching out one bare leg beneath the table. it’s lazy, absentminded—except it isn’t. the movement is slow, deliberate, just enough to brush your foot against his calf, a soft touch, fleeting, barely there. his fingers pause over the keys for the briefest second, hesitation so minuscule that most wouldn’t notice. but you do.

he doesn’t react.

your lips curve, pressing a little more, your foot nudging against the muscle of his leg, lingering warmth against fabric. you hum, voice dipping lower, amusement threading through your words. “you know…” the suggestion is light, teasing, edged with something playful, something calculated. “this project would be so much more fun if we loosened up a little.” your touch lingers, slow and patient, waiting for the inevitable reaction, waiting for the shift in his composure.

satoru finally looks at you again.

except—this time, his gaze sharpens.

your breath catches, but you keep your smirk, waiting, expecting something—a quip, a flustered look, a flicker of something to prove that this is working. then—without breaking eye contact—his hand moves. fingers grazing over your ankle, warm, steady, barely a whisper of touch. your pulse skips, anticipation curling at the base of your spine.

then, effortlessly, gently—he lifts your foot, his fingers skimming over the curve of your ankle, warm and deliberate. the touch is barely there, almost reverent, like he’s handling something fragile, something worth preserving. your breath catches, pulse tightening in anticipation, but he doesn’t waver—doesn’t hesitate—as he guides your foot downward. soft fabric brushes against your skin, unwelcome, final. and before the weight of the moment can settle, before you can even think to react—he pats your ankle.

twice.

it is the kind of gesture meant for small children, for sleepy kittens curled up in their beds, for something harmless—something lesser. like a parent indulging a tantrum. like you were never playing the same game to begin with.

and then, just like that, he returns to his keyboard, his attention already elsewhere.

you gape.

he did not just do that.

“you’re predictable.”

satoru's voice is calm, absentminded, like he’s merely making an observation. like he has already moved on from whatever game you thought you were playing.

silence. absolute, deafening silence.

heat prickles at the back of your neck, irritation creeping up your spine like a slow-moving fire. this isn’t new. it’s never been new. he’s done this before—stolen the upper hand, outmaneuvered you, made you feel small without even trying. when you were five, chocolates cradled in your hands, heart wide open—only to be met with rejection. when you were fifteen, watching him sit there, perfect, untouched by the kind of ruin that had hollowed you out. it has been years of this, and now, here you are, again.

but this time—this time, you thought you had him. and yet, there he sits, completely unfazed, as if you never stood a chance. your nails dig into your palms, jaw locking, frustration bubbling up before you can stop it. in the game of seducing countless of nameless idiots who call themselves men, you have been winning, effortlessly. and for the first time in a long, long time—you lost.

and you hate it. hate that he saw through you so easily. hate that he dismissed you so effortlessly. hate that he’s right.

so you do the only thing you can do—you tilt your chin up, smooth down your shirt, and pretend like it doesn’t bother you.

(it does. it really, really does.)

you sulk as you scribble down numbers, barely sparing them a glance, not even pretending to check your work. bored, you start reading over satoru’s shoulder, eyes skimming across the words on the screen as his fingers move over the keyboard. at first, you’re only half-paying attention, your chin propped up in your palm, counting the seconds until you can leave. but then—something catches. a tiny inconsistency, a missing link between numbers and reality, something he should have accounted for. your frown deepens, and before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “…wait.”

he doesn’t stop typing, but his head tilts slightly, acknowledging you. “hm?”

your hand gestures vaguely at the screen, brows furrowing. “you missed something.” that finally gets him to pause, his fingers hovering over the keys. your eyes flicker over the data again, mentally sorting through the logic. “your numbers are right, but this doesn’t account for social perception. brands don’t just limit supply to make something rare—they manufacture desire.”

he exhales, slow, thoughtful. “…elaborate.”

you tilt your head, considering how best to phrase it, tracing a pattern against the wood of his desk with your finger. “luxury brands aren’t just selling exclusivity,” you murmur, the thought coming together as you speak. “they sell identity. people want what they think will make them feel important. it’s not about who can afford it—it’s about who wants to be seen affording it.”

satoru stills.

it’s subtle—the way his fingers stop moving, the way the air between you seems to shift. when he finally turns to look at you, his usual lazy amusement is gone, replaced by something sharper. it’s the first time you’ve seen him really listen, really assess you like you’re more than just a puzzle he’s already solved.

“…huh.”

your brows pull together. “what?”

his gaze flickers over you, unreadable. “nothing. just… didn’t expect you to actually think about this.”

your lips curl, chin tilting slightly. “surprised i have a brain?”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “nah. just amused you actually use it.”

your hand moves before you think, launching a pen straight at his head.

he dodges, of course—leaning slightly to the side without even looking up, still grinning. “that was uncalled for.”

“so is your entire existence.”

he smirks, tapping his fingers against the desk, but there’s something else beneath it—interest, still lingering in his gaze. “tell me more.”

you blink. “…what?”

he gestures toward the screen, expectant. “the whole ‘manufacturing desire’ thing. break it down.”

your eyes narrow, skeptical. “…why?”

he leans back in his chair, arms crossing as he watches you. “because it makes sense. and you clearly have thoughts on it.”

you hesitate. there’s no teasing lilt in his voice, no smug challenge—just a casual statement, an easy invitation to keep going. and for a brief second, something flickers in your chest—something foreign, something unsettling, something dangerously close to satisfaction. because satoru gojo, for once, is actually listening to you.

you should be smug about it. should be flipping your hair, rolling your eyes, brushing it off like his sudden interest doesn’t get under your skin. but instead, you just stare at him, momentarily thrown off by the simple fact that this is is new.

so you scoff, tilting your head, voice deliberately light. “wow. gojo satoru, actually listening to someone else? historic.”

he just grins, spinning his pen between his fingers. “nah. just enjoying the novelty of you saying something that isn’t complete nonsense.”

there it is. the irritation you needed to shove away that strange feeling in your chest.

you huff, grabbing crumpling a sticky note and tossing it at his head. “never mind. i take it back. go back to being insufferable.”

satoru dodges again, still smirking. “too late. tell me more.”

you almost do. almost get caught up in the fact that he wants to hear what you have to say, that he’s watching you like you actually matter. but then reality settles in—the project still unfinished, your actual shoes still out of reach, and the longer you entertain this, the longer you’re stuck here, in his oversized clothes, in his stupid cotton slippers, playing his stupid game.

your lips press into a thin line. focus.

with a dramatic sigh, you stretch out your arms, feigning disinterest. “whatever. let’s just finish this so i can get my heels and leave.”

he smirks, tapping his pen against the desk. “wow. didn’t think you’d be the one saying that.”

you roll your eyes, already reaching for the keyboard. “shut up and pull up the market segmentation reports.”

satoru huffs a quiet laugh but complies, spinning his laptop around. “yes, ma’am.”

afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, stretching long shadows across the study. the air is thick with the remnants of concentration, the quiet hum of progress settling between you. the introduction is done—barely, but enough to count—so when satoru pushes back his chair and stretches, you barely glance up. when he leaves the room, you assume it’s to grab another glass of milk or some other infuriatingly wholesome thing. but when he returns, something gleams in his hand, catching the light.

“here.”

your head snaps up. your heels. your very expensive, custom-made, long-suffering stilettos, finally returned to you. you don’t waste a second—snatching them from his grasp and shoving them onto your feet with the desperation of a woman reclaiming her dignity. the familiar height steadies you, makes you feel normal again, no longer reduced to the soft, pitiful comfort of cotton slippers. before he can say anything else, you grab your dress from the guest room, tossing it over your arm like a war trophy, and stride toward the door without a single glance back.

“alright, thanks for the hospitality, gojo. it’s been terrible.”

you know you look ridiculous—white t-shirt, oversized sweatpants, designer stilettos, party dress draped over your arm like evidence—but you refuse to acknowledge it. if you have to walk through tokyo looking like a scandal waiting to happen just to escape, so be it. commit to the bit. escape with what’s left of your pride. but just as your fingers brush against the doorknob, a hand catches your wrist.

you turn, slow and deliberate, gaze flat, unimpressed. satoru stands there, leaning against the doorway like he has all the time in the world, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that effortlessly smug way that makes you want to throw something at his head. his expression is unreadable, but his presence alone is an obstacle, another roadblock standing between you and your much-needed exit. his voice is calm, too casual, as he says, “i’ll drive you back.” there’s no inflection, no hesitation—just a simple statement, as if it’s already decided.

you hum, tilting your head, considering him for a moment before your lips curve. “aw, can’t bear to let me go yet?” the teasing lilt in your voice is light, effortless, a carefully crafted trap—but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of a reaction. instead, he watches you, expression steady, the corner of his mouth twitching—mildly amused but not enough to give you the upper hand. when he finally speaks, his voice is smooth, completely unaffected. “no.” simple. final.

your pout deepens, purely out of spite, fingers lazily tracing the smooth fabric of your dress draped over your arm. “don’t worry,” you murmur, eyes glinting with mischief. “you’ll see me in your dreams.” it’s meant to be a parting shot, something to fluster him, something to at least chip at his infuriatingly composed exterior. but satoru just exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh—not mocking, but certainly not flustered, either.

he raises a brow, unimpressed, amusement barely concealed behind his glasses. “i’ll see you in class, where you’ll be late, as usual.”

your eye twitches. annoying. so annoying.

his gaze flickers downward, scanning you, slow and assessing, like he’s only now taking in the full absurdity of your situation. then, finally, his lips curve—barely noticeable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the edges. “you are about to walk around tokyo in a white t-shirt, my sweatpants, and heels—while carrying your skimpy little dress like evidence.”

you don’t react. just stare.

but of course, he isn’t done.

“probability of people assuming you just got kicked out of some guy’s condominium? 86%.”

your jaw clenches.

“probability of old women on the train side-eyeing you in disappointment? 94.3%.”

your eye twitches.

“probability of you running into someone from university and them recognizing the pants as mine? 78%. higher if they have working eyesight.”

deep inhale.

he taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, tilting his head slightly as if going over the numbers again. “probability of them taking a picture and posting it on the university forum with a vague, scandalous caption?” he pauses, lips curving ever so slightly. “mmm. 67%.”

you hate him.

you hate that he’s right. hate that he’s always right, that no matter how much you maneuver, no matter how much you scheme, he somehow stays three steps ahead. but more than anything—more than his arrogance, more than his stupidly smug expression—you hate that you now have two options. one: suffer the consequences of your own stubbornness. two: let him win.

so you choose violence instead.

before he can say anything else, you latch onto his arm, syrupy sweet, bright-eyed and deadly. your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, your full weight pressing against him like a clingy girlfriend, voice dripping with feigned resignation. “you’re right, gojo,” you sigh, exhaling dramatically, batting your lashes. “guess i’ll just have to stay by your side, huh?”

his gaze flickers to you, mildly amused, as if you’ve just done something vaguely entertaining but ultimately unsurprising.

no blink. no hesitation. no telltale crack in composure—just the slow, deliberate way his eyes skim over you, unreadable, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even seem remotely affected, only watching you with a kind of detached curiosity, like he’s waiting to see what else you’ll try. then, with infuriating ease, he lifts a hand, adjusts his glasses, and exhales—slow, bored, utterly unshaken. “guess so.”

and then—without a single pause, without even acknowledging your grip—he starts walking.

your brain short-circuits.

your heels dig into the floor, fingers tightening around his sleeve, gaping. this was not the plan. he was supposed to freeze, to stammer, to at least acknowledge what you were doing. instead, he just keeps moving, unbothered, uninterrupted, dragging you along with the same level of concern one might have for a shopping bag hooked around their wrist.

“…you were supposed to be flustered.”

he shrugs, effortless, not even sparing you a glance. “try harder.”

tag list : @s4ikooo1

comment to be added on the tag list! xx

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cryinggirlnamedhelen · 7 months ago

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Content: Theater Kid!Chrollo x Theater Kid!Reader, modern era, no Nen or crazy stuff, the Troupe members are just kids who grew up in the same neighborhood and had happy childhoods🥹, SARASA IS ALIVE!!!, female reader (I’m so sorry😭), mentions of different musicals and plays, mentions of séx, mostly fluff

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Theatre Kid!Chrollo, who’s known you ever since you were both only 6. Your parents both brought you to the same youth theater program 2 towns down just to see how the both of you would be as actors. Chrollo is staring at you doing the improv, impressed by how quickly you can snap back with such an emotional line right after the person in front of you starts the scene with no context at all.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who falls in love with you because of how talented you are in acting, your angelic voice, and hardworking attitude. Whenever you’re both performing a show together, even if the director cuts a scene or adds a scene within a day’s notice, you’ll have it mastered within that very day. He can’t help that the admiration turns into romantic feelings!

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who’s ecstatic whenever you’re both cast as some sort of romantic duo. Whether it’s the Phantom and Christine, Cady and Aaron, Gabriella and Troy (which you weren’t particularly happy about), Ben and Mal, Marius and Cosette, or Alexander and Eliza (Chrollo wasn’t too happy about that one)

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who is perfect at acting JD from the Heathers. His acting is so impeccable and realistic, but when you’re cast as Veronica and Chrollo is singing Meant To Be Yours, his reaction seeing your “dead” body doesn’t really seem like acting anymore, especially not the small sobs that he lets out

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who acts so well with you whenever you’re in a romantic duo together that the entire school ships the both of you. Especially in the curtain call, when you and Chrollo walk out together, everyone is cheering for the both of you to kiss, in which Chrollo playfully “pretends” to plant his lips on yours until you walk away, fanning your bright red face. You tell him it’s just the bright lights shining on you that makes you feel warm—yep, it’s totally not the fact that Chrollo almost kissed you. Yep, totally.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who is always the one paying for your food at the after parties. Whether the party is at a steakhouse or sushi restaurant, he will always take out that damn wallet before you do and pay for whatever you want to eat or crave that day.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who finally kisses you during the last curtain call of your senior year. You can see Shalnark, Bonolenov, and Kortopi cheering, Franklin and Pakunoda clapping, and Phinks, Feitan, and Nobunaga seemingly talking about bets, and Nobunaga taking out his wallet in annoyance to give Phinks and Feitan both 500 dollars.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who goes to the same elite college as you to pursue an acting career. You’re both dating, though unlike your child and teenage days, you’re not constantly acting in the same shows anymore. You both get role offers often, with mind blowing auditions.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who only ever talks about you during interviews. Social media and paparazzi go crazy over the both of you, making so many edits of the both of you to all sorts of songs. The amount of edits you’ve seen of the both of you with people calling you both “mother and father” or saying “help bi panic rn” is honestly funny.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who proposes to you at age 24 at the Oscars after he won the best actor award. Everyone on the internet and the awards ceremony is going crazy, and when you say yes, all you can hear are screams, cheers, and clapping—but all you can feel are Chrollo’s strong arms holding you close and his lips on yours.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who cries when he sees you in the white dress. After all those times the characters that you both act get married, the actors acting those married roles are finally getting married themselves.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who is always joking about “consummating your marriage” right in front of the paparazzi and media, in which you always pretend that you don’t know him, much to the internet and your fans’ amusement.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who is always shielding you from the paparazzi. The moment Chrollo sees one, he instinctively walks with his arm looped around your waist, other hand holding yours as he stares at the paparazzi trying to take a picture of you. Whenever someone asks a weird question about you during an interview, Chrollo isn’t afraid to shoot right back with a snarky yet still polite reply.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who is infinitely more protective of you while you’re pregnant. You have some insane pregnancy glow, and he’s aware of that. So whenever you’re on the red carpet and all sorts of people are taking pictures of you and your bump, Chrollo makes sure that they don’t get too close and make you uncomfortable.

Theater Kid!Chrollo, who isn’t a kid anymore. In fact, he has kids. He’s always making sure that your twin son and daughter never have much information given about them to the media, and that the media won’t get many pictures of them—if any at all. After some incidents of invasive paparazzi taking pictures of your kids and posting them on social media, both you are Chrollo are pretty damn close to quitting acting just to make sure something like this never happens again. Finally, after much coaxing from your managers, agents, and publicists, you both finally decide not to after setting some ground rules.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

bro why was i using the word “internet” like im a millennial or something😭 guys im gen z i swear

#hunter x hunter #hxh #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #hxh chrollo #hxh hcs #hxh x reader #chrollo hcs #chrollo hunter x hunter #chrollo lucifer x reader #yandere chrollo #chrollo x y/n #chrollo smut #chrollo x reader #chrollo x you

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dreamescapeswriting · 1 year ago

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Stray Kids Reaction || You're Not Financially Stable [Mafia Edition]

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - April 2024

⤜MASTERLIST

CHAN:

Chan was starting to get increasingly worried about you. You had been evading him for weeks, your once warm embraces replaced by cold distance. Suspicion clawed at his mind, whispering tales of betrayal and deceit. Unable to ignore the gnawing doubt any longer, Chan set out to confront you at your apartment. As he approached your door, his heart hammered against his chest, each step a testament to the turmoil within him.

Knocking gently, Chan waited with bated breath, the tension thick in the air. When no answer came, he pushed open the door, his eyes scanning the barren room.

"Yn?" he called out, his voice echoing against the empty walls.

Silence greeted him, the absence of her presence a heavy weight upon his shoulders. But then, amidst the desolation, a glimmer of hope flickered—a letter lying on the table, its edges crumpled with despair.

With trembling hands, he unfolded the paper, his eyes devouring the words scrawled upon it—a tale of eviction, of loss, and of a new beginning. You had been forced from your home, cast aside like a forgotten memory.

Determined to find you, Chan retraced your steps, each corner of the city a labyrinth of possibilities. It wasn't long before he stumbled upon a quaint café, its windows aglow with warmth and laughter. Above it lay a modest apartment, a sanctuary hidden from the chaos below.

Heart pounding, Chan ascended the stairs, anticipation mingling with trepidation. When he reached the door, he paused, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. But then, with a resolve born of love, he knocked.

The door swung open, revealing your tear-streaked face, your eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of him.

"Channie?" you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of the city. You never thought you'd see him again after everything.

"Yn," he breathed, relief flooding through him at the sight of you, knowing you were well...at least alive, you looked as though you'd barely slept and had been crying a lot. Tears welled in your eyes as you beheld the man who had once held your heart, his presence a lifeline in the storm.

"I thought I'd lost you," You confessed, your voice trembling with emotion. After being kicked out, your phone was off service and you'd lost your charger so you couldn't even get his number. Everyone you turned to for help ignored you or pushed you away. Chan stepped forward, enveloping you in his embrace, his touch a promise of safety amidst the chaos.

"You'll never lose me," he vowed his words a beacon of hope in the darkness.

"I'm here, Yn. And I'm not going anywhere." He promised, kissing your cheeks and keeping you pressed close to him. He wasn't certain what the future held for you both but he was sure he wasn't going to lose you again.

MINHO:

Lee Minho, a prominent figure in the underground world of organized crime, strode into the opulent ballroom of the Grand Palazzo, his arm intertwined with that of his stunning girlfriend, you. The two of you were a striking pair; Minho, with his sharp suit and commanding presence, and you, elegant in your signature red dress, exuding grace and beauty.

The occasion was a black-tie charity event, a masquerade of the city's elite, where appearances were everything. Minho relished the opportunity to flaunt his status, but tonight, his focus was solely on you.

As you mingled through the crowd, a snide remark caught Minho's attention. A well-dressed socialite whispered to her companion, casting a disdainful glance at you,

"Isn't that the same dress she always wears? How embarrassing. Clearly, she can't afford anything better." It was a comment you'd grown used to hearing by now, it wasn't as though you could afford extravagant gowns every time Minho wanted you to join him at a party. Minho's jaw clenched in anger, his protective instincts kicking in. He resisted the urge to confront the woman, knowing it would only draw unwanted attention. Instead, he steered you away, his mind swirling with thoughts.

Later in the evening, amidst the swirl of music and laughter, Miinho overheard snippets of a conversation nearby.

"Did you hear about Yn? Word has it she's struggling to make ends meet. Works multiple jobs just to pay the bills."

"I heard Izzie say she saw her working in a diner just outside of the city," Another voice said before laughter ensued. Minho's heart sank. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. You had never mentioned anything about financial difficulties, and he had never thought to pry into your personal affairs. But now, faced with these rumours, he couldn't ignore them.

He guided you to a quiet corner of the room, his expression troubled. "Yn, is it true? Are you having trouble with money?" Your cheeks heated with embarrassment, and you looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

"Minho, I... I didn't want you to worry. It's nothing, really." It wasn't as though you were in tons of trouble, you just struggled to make ends meet sometimes and some weeks you'd have to survive on just noddles. Minho gently lifted your chin, his eyes searching yours for the truth.

"Don't shut me out, baby. I need to know. If you're struggling, we'll face it together." Tears welled in your eyes as you finally confessed,

"I've been working extra shifts at the diner, tutoring on the weekends, just to keep up with the bills. I didn't want you to think any less of me." his heart ached at your words. He had always admired your independence and strength, but now he saw the toll it was taking on you. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his embrace, holding you close.

"You don't have to do this alone, baby. I'm here for you, always. We're a team," he whispered softly, promising to support you in any way he could.

CHANGBIN:

Changbin strode purposefully up the steps to your apartment, anticipation building as he looked forward to spending time with you, the two of you had hardly spent any time together as of late since he got busy with work. However, his eagerness turned to concern as he noticed the unmistakable shape of an eviction notice pinned to your front door.

His heart sank as he read the terse words printed on the paper, realizing the gravity of the situation. Without hesitation, he knocked on the door, his mind racing with worry for you.

When you opened the door, your eyes widened in surprise and a flicker of embarrassment flashed across your face at the sight of him standing there with the notice in hand. You'd meant to take it down when you got home from work but you'd completely forgotten when you were cleaning the apartment.

Before you could say anything, he spoke gently but firmly, "What's going on, baby?" Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you met his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I've been struggling," you confessed, your words heavy with shame and yet admitting it felt as though a weight had been taken off your shoulders. "I couldn't keep up with the rent, and now they're evicting me." Changbin's heart ached at the sight of your distress, his protective instincts kicking into high gear. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, enveloping you in a reassuring embrace.

"You should have told me," he murmured, his voice filled with tenderness. "We'll figure this out together."

Determined to help you through this difficult time, he wasted no time in springing into action. Whether it was arranging for temporary housing, offering financial assistance, or simply providing emotional support, he was determined to be there for you every step of the way. He'd been tempted to buy the apartment building out from your landlord but you'd refused to let him, promising that what he was doing was already enough

HYUNJIN:

The atmosphere in the grand hall was electric as the auctioneer's voice echoed off the walls, commanding attention. Hyunjin was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and surveyed the room with a practised eye, his gaze flickering over the exquisite artworks on display. It felt as though he did this a few times a week if he was lucky enough and he could never get enough of the art functions.

But amidst the flurry of bids and whispers, something caught his attention—a series of paintings that seemed strangely familiar. As he drew closer, his heart skipped a beat. They were your paintings, each stroke a testament to your talent and passion. Confusion and concern swirled in his mind as he approached the saleswoman, his tone carefully controlled.

"Excuse me," he began, "but could you tell me about the artist who donated these paintings?" He knew you'd never want to sell them and he worried someone might have stolen them from you. You'd sold a few paintings before but these were your masterpieces, the ones you couldn't even dream of selling.

The saleswoman offered him a sympathetic smile, her eyes betraying a hint of sadness.

"The woman who donated them was struggling," she explained softly. "She didn't want to sell, but she had no choice." A surge of protectiveness washed over Hyunjin as he listened to her words. He knew how much those paintings meant to you, how each brushstroke told a story of your dreams and aspirations. Without another word, he made up his mind. As the bidding continued around him, he silently placed his bids, determined to acquire every single one of your paintings.

Once the auction concluded and the paintings were in his possession, he wasted no time in arranging for them to be hidden away, safe from prying eyes and opportunistic buyers.

Weeks passed, and Hyunjin watched as you struggled with your art, unaware of the fate of your precious creations. He knew you longed to reclaim them, to see them hanging proudly in your studio once more. Hyunjin knew you'd never let him help you if he tried to give you money for rent or even if he tried to get you to let him help with anything but he was proud of you. You'd dug your way out of the financial pit you were in until you were ready again.

"I thought we were going to dinner," You giggled as Hyunjin took you into a warehouse, the two of you were going to celebrate your new job but he wanted to take you to your paintings first.

"It's a secret." He chuckled, as you entered the dimly lit room, Hyunjin could sense the tension radiating from you. You glanced around, your eyes widening in disbelief as they landed on row after row of canvases shrouded in darkness.

"What is this place?" You whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. Hyunjin stepped forward, his hand reaching out to gently grasp yours.

"This is where I've been keeping something for you," he explained softly, guiding you further into the room.

As you approached the first stack of paintings, he paused, allowing you to take in the sight before you. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as you realized what lay hidden beneath the cloths. You'd been desperately trying to find the buyer for almost a week now, willing to trade him some of your other paintings for your old ones.

"These... these are my paintings," You whispered, your voice shakey as you turned to look at Hyunjin who was nodding, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips.

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze never leaving yours. "Every single one of them." Tears welled up in your eyes as you moved closer, reaching out to touch the familiar textures of your artwork. It felt like a dream, surreal and yet undeniably real.

"Why?" You asked, your voice choked with emotion. "Why did you do this?" He squeezed your hand gently, his eyes filled with tenderness.

"Because I know how much these paintings mean to you," he replied softly. "And because I wanted to make sure they were safe until you were ready to reclaim them." Your heart swelled with gratitude as you looked up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. In that moment, you knew that you were loved more deeply than you had ever dared to imagine.

Wrapping your arms around him, you buried your face in his chest, overcome with emotion.

JISUNG:

Jisung sat patiently in the living room, his mind drifting as he waited for you to finish getting ready for your date, the two of you were going out to celebrate your anniversary tonight. Glancing around the room absentmindedly, his eyes fell upon a stack of unopened envelopes on the coffee table—bills and late notices, their contents a stark reminder of the financial struggles they faced.

His brow furrowed in concern as he picked up one of the envelopes, his heart sinking as he read the ominous words printed on the front. He had suspected that you had been under financial strain, but he had never imagined it was this severe.

Before he could dwell on his thoughts any longer, he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching, and he looked up to see you descending the stairs. But instead of the usual smile on your face, he was met with tear-filled eyes and a quivering lip when you saw what he was holding.

Instantly, his heart clenched with worry as he rose from his seat, crossing the room to envelop you in a comforting embrace. You snuggled into him and sniffled a little.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he murmured, his voice filled with concern. You buried your face in his chest, your tears staining his shirt as you struggled to find the words to explain.

"I... I'm sorry," You choked out between sobs. "I didn't want you to see this... I've been trying to handle it on my own..." Your family taught you never to rely on others for your money and it was something you'd tried to stick by but it was getting harder and harder to hide your troubles. Jisung held you tighter, his own heart heavy with the weight of your pain. He had never wanted you to feel like you had to carry the burden alone, but he understood why you had kept it from him.

Gently guiding you to the couch, he sat beside you, wiping away your tears with a gentle touch.

"You never have to hide anything from me, my love," he assured you, his voice tender and reassuring. "We're in this together, no matter what." He whispered before kissing the top of your head, your heart was heavy as you stared at the stacks of unpaid bills just waiting for you to get another paycheck.

"It doesn't matter how much overtime I do, it's never enough." You admit to him with a sad smile, you wanted to be able to do this alone but it seemed damn near impossible.

"What can I do?" He whispered, rubbing your back softly as you stared down at the bills.

"Give me a job?"

"How about I do that and you come to live with me? We can split everything," You stared up at him, nodding with a small smile on your face, you couldn't think of anything better.

FELIX:

Felix sat in the dimly lit restaurant with his lawyers, enjoying the ambience of the evening. As plates clinked and conversations murmured around them, the mood suddenly shifted when his lawyers leaned in to offer some advice.

"Boss," one of them began cautiously, Felix thought his name was Noel but he couldn't have been sure since the two of them were twins and he could hardly tell the difference.

"We've been noticing something concerning about the women you've been seeing lately." Felix lowered his drink to the table and raised an eyebrow, intrigued but also wary of where this conversation might lead. He hadn't given them any permission to dig into you or your life, in fact, he'd given specific orders for almost all of his men to leave you alone.

"She doesn't seem... financially stable," The other lawyer added, choosing his words carefully, swallowing a lump in his throat and Felix noted he appeared to be sweating.

Felix felt a surge of disbelief and anger. These were his trusted advisors, but their intrusion into his personal affairs caught him off guard. He clenched his fists beneath the table, trying to keep his emotions in check.

"Not financially stable?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" His lawyers exchanged uncomfortable glances, sensing his displeasure.

"Well, boss," Noel ventured,

"we mean that perhaps the woman isn't the best match for someone in your position. They could be a liability, you know?" Felix's jaw tightened. He felt a mix of indignation and hurt. You were being judged solely on your financial status and he wanted nothing more than to kick the lawyers to the curb but they'd told him something you hadn't yet.

He leaned back in his chair, a steely resolve settling over him.

"I appreciate your concern," he said icily, "but I'll thank you not to meddle in my personal life. I'll handle my relationships as I see fit." His lawyers exchanged uneasy glances, realizing they may have overstepped their bounds. But the Felix wasn't finished.

"And from now on," he continued his voice like ice, "I don't want to hear another word of advice on this matter. Is that clear?" His lawyers nodded hastily, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Later that night Felix found himself sitting across from you in your small apartment, your bills stretched out on the coffee table as you showed him everything that was late or on its final notice. It wasn't exactly something you were proud of but when he'd asked you if he could see it you didn't want to hide it from him.

"So Noel and Joel told you?" You laughed dryly and rubbed the back of your neck,

"I would have loved for you to tell me." He admitted, looking at the pieces of paper before he started to organise them into piles from most urgent to not-so-urgent.

"I was-"

"I know," He whispered, rubbing your hand softly as you laid your head down on the coffee table. You'd been trying everything to get yourself out of the hole you were in but it was proving to be more difficult than you'd been intending

"I think the best option is for you to move in with me," The suggestion came out so casually you thought it might have been a joke if it wasn't for him looking at you with a serious look on his face.

"Your biggest problem is your rent, once that's out of the way you'll have more than enough money for your bills." He told you with a smile, he'd been meaning to ask you for a while but this was just giving him that final push.

"I still need to pay rent at yours," You told him and he nodded at you,

"Sure, but only once you're back on your feet, I won't take no for an answer," He smirks at you before your cheeks begin to heat up, moving in with him was the next step in your relationship, it only made sense.

"O...Okay, great. I'll call my landlord-"

"I'll call, you focus on packing," He smirks, kissing you softly as you rush to go and get some bags and suitcases ready.

SEUNGMIN:

Seungmin's heart pounded with fury as he burst into your apartment, only to be met with a scene of chaos. Two burly loan sharks loomed over you, their menacing presence casting a shadow over the room as they smashed objects in a display of intimidation.

Without hesitation, Seungmin stepped forward, his imposing figure radiating authority. The loan sharks froze in their tracks, their expressions shifting from arrogance to fear as they recognized him.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. You turned to see him, relief flooding your features at the sight of him but you were still scared that he was here.

"It's... it's nothing," you stammered, your voice trembling with emotion. "They say I owe them money, but I don't know what to do."

Seungmin's jaw clenched as he surveyed the damage, his mind racing with a mix of anger and concern. He knew you had been struggling, but he had never imagined the extent of your troubles.

Turning to the loan sharks, he fixed them with a steely gaze. "Leave. Now," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. The loan sharks hesitated for a moment, exchanging uneasy glances before hastily retreating from the apartment, their bravado crumbling in the face of the Seungmin's formidable presence.

Once they were gone, he turned his attention back to you, his expression softening with concern.

"What happened?" he asked gently, his voice tinged with regret for not realizing the extent of your struggles sooner. Tears welled up in your eyes as you recounted the story of your ex-boyfriend, how he had left you drowning in debt with no way to escape. God, you'd been too ashamed to ask for help, too afraid of burdening him with your problems.

But as you poured your heart out to him, you felt a weight lifting from your shoulders, knowing that you no longer had to face your troubles alone.

"We're going to find your ex, make him pay those assholes back and then you're moving in with me," He tells you plainly, looking around at everything those two had smashed up,

"Make a list of everything they've broken, I'll have your ex or them replace it," He said sternly, looking at you as you wrapped yourself around him and cuddled into him, just happy you weren't going to go through this alone anymore.

JEONGIN:

The atmosphere at the black-tie event was opulent, with chandeliers casting a soft glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Jeongin, resplendent in his tailored suit, mingled effortlessly among the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and nods with fellow attendees.

"Isn't that your girlfriend?" Someone asked him, his gaze wandered to where his friend had been pointed and he frowned when he spotted you. His heart skipped a beat as he realized it was you, clad in a crisp uniform as you moved gracefully among the guests.

Confusion and concern mingled in his mind as he watched you discreetly from across the room. You had told him you were too sick to join him tonight, but here you were, working tirelessly to cater to the needs of others.

"Who knew you'd be dating a waitress," Someone sniggered before Jeongin "accidentally" spilt a glass of champagne down his suit, glaring at him before going back to watching you. Anger simmered beneath the surface as he approached you, his steps purposeful yet controlled. When he reached your side, he fixed you with a steely gaze, his voice low and measured.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his tone tinged with a mix of frustration and disbelief. Your eyes widened in surprise as you met his gaze, your whole body heating up. You hadn't known that this was the specific party he was going to be at tonight,

"I... I had to work," You stammered, Your voice barely above a whisper. Jeongin's jaw tightened, his mind racing with a whirlwind of emotions. He had trusted you and believed you when you said you were too sick to accompany him tonight. But now, faced with the truth, he couldn't help but feel betrayed.

"Is that so?" he replied, his voice cold and distant. "You couldn't even be honest with me?" You lowered your gaze, your hands fidgeting nervously at your sides, it wasn't like you wanted to hide it from him but you were working four jobs and it was hard to let people know that.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of the crowd. "I didn't want to disappoint you." Jeongin's anger softened slightly as he looked at you, his heart aching with a mixture of frustration and compassion. He knew you had your reasons, your own struggles and obligations that you felt compelled to fulfil.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out to gently cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly tender despite the tension between them.

"You should have told me," he murmured, his voice softer now, laced with an undercurrent of understanding.

"How? I work four jobs and you barely work one, I-I felt like you might hate me if you found out." You admit before he takes you in his arms, wrapping them around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

"I couldn't care if you worked none or ten, you're my girlfriend and I'm here for you, no matter what," He whispered before kissing you softly.

@chiisaiblog @sw33tnight @kaitieskidmore97 @laylasbunbunny @stayconnecteed @saymyspringrain @toplinehyunjin @katnisspeetaprim @acciocriativity @just-aelia @choisoorin @straykids5star @midnightfrog625 @beccaskz @scarletemeterio @halesandy @junhannies @gothic4under4lord @lixie-phoria @soulphoenix1618 @aerastus @jin-from-the-block @lensfilm @elizaschuyler18 @piratequeen-impact @kpopsstuffs @chaeyoungs @delulu18 @xyahrinx @katsukis1wife @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan @blairscott @4-chan-inpadella @niktwazny303 @moonlight-the-writer @armystay89 @hadassahchan @yxngbxkkie @myyouthdonut @extrhotjne @ca11me3mily @elissasimp @piercedddriver

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hotvintagepoll · 1 year ago

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this is a poll for a movie that doesn't exist.

It is vintage times. The powers that be have decided to again remake the classic vampire novel Dracula for the screen. in an amazing show of inter-studio solidarity, Hollywood’s most elite hotties are up for the starring roles. The producers know whoever they cast will greatly impact the genre, quality, and tone of the finished film, so they are turning to their wisest voices for guidance.

you are the new casting director for this star-studded epic. choose your players wisely.

Previously cast:

Jonathan Harker—Jimmy Stewart

The Old Woman—Martita Hunt

Count Dracula—Gloria Holden

Mina Murray—Setsuko Hara

Lucy Westenra—Judy Garland

The Three Voluptuous Women—Betty Grable, Marilyn Monroe, and Lauren Bacall

Dr. Jack Seward—Vincent Price

Quincey P. Morris—Toshiro Mifune

Arthur Holmwood—Sidney Poitier

R.M. Renfield—Conrad Veidt

The Captain of the Demeter—Omar Sharif

The First Mate of the Demeter—Leonard Nimoy

Edit: adding since there’s been some confusion—this is for MR. SWALES, the old seaman with a bizarre accent in today’s entry of Dracula Daily.

#dracula casting #dracula daily #hotvintagepoll #mr. swales

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nottsim · 4 months ago

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— ɴᴇᴡ ᴅʀ ᴜɴʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ: 𝐣𝐚𝐬’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫

══════════════

⊹ ࣪ ˖ welcome to my better cr. same me, but with rich people privileges and a roman postcode. the cobblestone streets? stunning. rome wasn’t built in a day but it will take my shoes out in one. thankfully, my bank account now pretends to support my expensive taste, so we suffer in style. independence is about to taste like espresso and fresh cornetti. am i going to thrive? we’ll see. will i commit to the bit with full enthusiasm? absolutely. ୨୧

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 - 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖𝟒

if you thought what was in my room was fun, wait til you see what’s in my apartment, mind you it overlooks the colosseum (yes, i’m geeking). in case i haven’t made it clear this is me, living abroad with money to burn...anyways. my apartment? where do i begin? one bedroom, one bath, a spacious living room, a classic kitchen, and views so breathtaking they almost make me forget how much i’m paying in rent. just kidding. i’m financially responsible (a lie). the ceilings, you ask? high. the windows? dramatic. the natural light? so good it practically demands i become a morning person..unfortunately, i remain immune. my living room is perfect for having people over, if i ever decide to be social. otherwise, it serves its true purpose (naps). now..the kitchen? charming, classic, and mostly untouched because let’s be real i’m keeping the local restaurants in business. but i did script a grocery store nearby because i simply cannot wait to spend an absurd amount of money on fruit, fruit, and more fruit. IMAGINE THE PRODUCE. peak main character behavior is romanticizing fresh figs like they’re a personality trait. also, there’s a pilates studio within walking distance because balance (i scripted it in). will i go regularly? maybe. will i feel superior just knowing it’s there? absolutely. all that’s left is for me to dramatically sip espresso on my balcony and pretend i have no responsibilities. sigh.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐝𝐢 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚 - 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠..

you might be wondering… jasmin, what exactly are you doing in rome? excellent question. just vibing. but i figured i needed at least one semi respectable reason to leave my apartment, so i enrolled at rome’s university for marketing and graphic design. am i passionately pursuing a career? partly. due to obvious reasons, mainly perfecting the fine art of editing aesthetic pictures. clearly, this is less about career ambitions and more about having a mildly intellectual hobby (and a student visa). though, it might come in handy…am i secretly plotting to take over vogue italia? i’ll update you on that. yes. i also made sure my schedule is laughably slow paced, because stress? in this reality? couldn’t be me. i’m shifting here to romanticize my life, spend an unreasonable amount of money, and get called bella on the daily.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 - 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞

playing social life architect for this dr? a first. casting my own friend group? elite decision. enter: bianca, alessia and giulia (aka the roma gals). all born and raised in rome and fluent in girltalk and italian, naturally. did i script myself to be fluent? obviously. we’re a unit. a force of nature. so synchronized we practically communicate through looks alone..but let’s be real. i’m still their little foreigner, their beloved study abroad kid who somehow infiltrated the group and is now simply part of the infrastructure. we’re basically a packaged deal. the group chat? a constant stream of chaos. the plans? always almost canceled because of my taurus tendencies. alas, they know where i live and trust me, will show up. it’s a “just an aperitivo” turning into alessia passionately debating politics with the cab driver at 2am. simply put? i may have scripted them, but they are absolutely unscripted.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐳𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐚 - 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞

some things remain constant across every reality, my love for theo is one. i needed my man. this time, theo is lorenzo. same essence, different name. the multiverse is vast but somehow he always ends up here, next to me. fate? destiny? an unshakable gravitational pull? or just me refusing to script a dr without him? interpret as you will. lorenzo is basically theo, just with a rebrand. scripted differently but make no mistake, it’s still him. and this time? no acting. i simply would’ve lost my mind knowing what goes down on set. instead, he’s the ceo of a film production company in rome. he spends his time producing and marketing independent films. emphasis on independent. because mainstream nonsense? not on his watch. he’s all about classic cinema, deep character development, and historical narratives. if the script lacks substance, he’s simply not answering the call (love that for him). but don’t let the job title fool you. this man, this highly respected ceo, still zips around rome on a vespa like he’s in a 1950s arthouse film. why? because he still hasn’t gotten his driver’s license. make that make sense. his work schedule? flexible. no soul crushing 9-to-5 here. he’s selective with his projects, only taking on what aligns with his vision..basically passion projects, handpicked with precision. some men choose their battles, lorenzo chooses his films. and, apparently, chooses to never set foot in a driving school. as for us? we’re private but not a secret. media speculation? not our problem. and financially? let’s just say, between his thriving career and my ability to script whatever i want, my romanticized roman lifestyle isn’t exactly suffering.

══════════════

the script is done and the vision? fully realized, already romanticized to perfection. all that’s left is for me to step into it. when i do? consider me italian (and probably running late).

gelato in hand, 𝐣𝐚𝐬 “𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐞” ୨୧

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reyaint · 1 month ago

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magic system dr | core mechanics

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date: june 10 2025. got home from work early. currently working on the teachers section and lowkey wanna edit the language but other than that i just have to add more ppl and i'm done.

idk what aesthetic i'm going for okay. i haven't even made a pinterest board on this dr.

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✧˖*°࿐mana system

*ೃ༄mana pool

each individual's mana pool is a measurable resource—the internal energy reserve from which all magical abilities draw.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ the size of the pool is determined by: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › aura size (bigger auras = more mana), ꪆৎ 𓂃 › aura tone (e.g., Iridescent tones expand mana pool beyond normal size; Adularescent tones may provide near-limitless microcasting or instant regeneration) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › training level (users can expand their capacity through rigorous control training and exposure).

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ tone modifiers: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › Metallic: +15–25% efficiency. neutral on capacity, but increase efficiency of spells (less mana used per cast) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › Iridescent: +20–50% bonus pool (varies by user control) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › Adularescent: variable—may regenerate over time, overflow, or break normal caps. Grants passive regen and immune to burnout once per day ꪆৎ 𓂃 › Lighter: +10% potential power, but -10% control precision ꪆৎ 𓂃 › Darker: +10% control precision, -5% total output

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ mana usage feels different per element. for example: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › lightning = sharp, rapid drain. ꪆৎ 𓂃 › earth = slow, heavy drain. ꪆৎ 𓂃 › psychic = steady trickle with sudden bursts.

*ೃ༄regeneration

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָꪆৎ baseline: a full 8-hour rest cycle restores 100% mana. this process is tied to biological circadian rhythms.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָꪆৎ meditation: allows 20–40% partial regeneration over 1–2 hours, depending on tone. Silver auras, for instance, meditate more efficiently.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָꪆৎ environmental ties: some users regenerate faster in elemental environments. a Water user near a river may regenerate faster.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ accelerated methods: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › magical potions or healing spells (rare and expensive) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › aura-linked mana siphoning from others (only some colors like black, gold, or amber can do this ethically) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › some users can tap into "Reserve Mana": 10% hidden pool accessible only under stress or emotional surges ꪆৎ 𓂃 › overuse can damage mana pathways and lead to chronic burnout

*ೃ༄physical drain

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ using more than 70% of one’s mana pool begins to manifest bodily side effects: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › fatigue, dizziness, nosebleeds, shaking hands, slowed thought processes. ꪆৎ 𓂃 › continued usage leads to muscle fatigue, heart stress, or fainting ꪆৎ 𓂃 › some tone variants like Darker can handle these effects more gracefully.

*ೃ༄overcast penalty

using magic at >100% mana (overcast) forcibly pulls energy from muscle and nerve systems.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ results include: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › blackouts, seizures, coma, and in rare cases, permanent aura fractures (rendering magic inaccessible or unstable). ꪆৎ 𓂃 › unconsciousness or temporary paralysis ꪆৎ 𓂃 › potential "mana scars"—long-term damage to aura flow ꪆৎ 𓂃 › locked magic (cooldown ranges from hours to days) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › only elite or highly trained casters (often tri-aura users or white/silver elites) can intentionally dip into overcast range without immediate collapse.

overcast use leaves a visible "scorch" in the user's aura, detectable by trained mages for up to 24 hours.

*ೃ༄mana density

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ heavier spells cost exponentially more ꪆৎ 𓂃 › tier I: small utility (lights, detection) – low cost ꪆৎ 𓂃 › tier II: combat-ready (barriers, fireballs) – moderate ꪆৎ 𓂃 › tier III: large-scale manipulation (teleport, weather, mind break) – high to extreme ꪆৎ 𓂃 › tier IV+: forbidden/legendary scale spells – unique to rare auras or artifacts

✧˖*°࿐aura visibility

*ೃ༄visible spectrum

non-magic users see a faint shimmer or colored haze in strong emotional moments or high-casting situations.

magic users with basic training can perceive the aura’s main color.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ advanced users can detect: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › tone (metallic, iridescent, etc.) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › subshade ꪆৎ 𓂃 › general mana fullness

*ೃ༄trained sight

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ individuals with insight-based abilities (indigo, silver, purple) or advanced schooling can read: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › mana stability ꪆৎ 𓂃 › elemental alignment ꪆৎ 𓂃 › recent overcast use ꪆৎ 𓂃 › aura fusion or damage

specialized devices in schools or combat teams can scan and report aura stats instantly (mana % / tone / color index).

*ೃ༄aura suppression

advanced users can learn to suppress their aura, rendering them invisible to magical detection.

full suppression is extremely taxing and requires constant micro-mana output.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ long-term suppression can cause: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › internal mana turbulence (like a magic pressure cooker) ꪆৎ 𓂃 › higher overcast risk when reactivating

black and indigo users tend to learn suppression faster than others due to affinity with stealth and aura control.

✧˖*°࿐multi-aura mechanics

*ೃ༄dual auras (approx. 5%)

possess two independent aura types, typically of complementary elements (e.g., Fire + Wind or Water + Ice).

cannot use both simultaneously without suffering mana dissonance—violent internal energy rejection.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ must switch manually between aura states. ꪆৎ 𓂃 › switch time: 10–30 seconds under focus.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָꪆৎ cooldown: must stay in an aura state for at least 5 minutes before re-switching.

*ೃ༄tri auras (approx. 0.5%)

possess three complete aura profiles—each with a tone, affinity, and mana behavior.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ switching is mentally taxing and slower: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › switch time: 1–3 minutes, depending on mental focus and mana stability. ꪆৎ 𓂃 › cooldown: must maintain auras for 10+ minutes.

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ tri aura users are typically: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › elite-level individuals ꪆৎ 𓂃 › descendants of rare-lineage bloodlines ꪆৎ 𓂃 › chosen in metaphysical or unknown ways (e.g., born during an aura storm, soul rebirth, etc.)

improper switching causes "split casting", leading to uncontrolled results (e.g., lightning made of poison).

*ೃ༄fusion techniques (advanced)

დ࿐ ‎˗ˋ some highly trained dual/tri aura users develop hybrid casting styles: ꪆৎ 𓂃 › e.g., fire + gravity = flame bombs that anchor enemies to the floor. ꪆৎ 𓂃 › these are rare, dangerous, and require a high resonance threshold to perform without shattering aura balance.

fusion can only be used once the caster passes a synchronization trial—a metaphysical rite conducted in specialized environments (often school graduation capstones).

#reyaint #reality shifting #shiftblr #reality shifter #shifting #shifting community #shifting motivation #anti shifters dni #dr scrapbook #dr world #boarding school dr #magic system dr

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hongjoongspoetry · 8 months ago

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A Love Written in Gold | Masterpost

🦢 Summary: Whispers of piano keys and music sheets danced through your dreams since the tender dawn of your existence — a passion evidently inherited from your esteemed father. Alas, following the tragic demise of the late Viscount Lee, Dowager Viscountess Lee cast a ruinous ban upon any melodious pursuits within the confines of her lavish abode, thus steering you towards the trials of the debutante season and the quest for a love match. Yet the relentless glares of your brother proved a formidable obstacle in your pursuit of a gentleman worthy of your affections. Enter the dashing Duke Park, whose prospect dazzled your kinfolk, yet unbeknownst to them, your heart harbored a secret rendezvous with one commoner by the name of Hongjoong. Dare you tread the dangerous path between the gilded elite and the humble heart, or perchance would you instead find yourself enchanted by the charms of Duke Park, who is indeed the talk of the ton?

🦢 Pairing(s): Proletarian!Hongjoong x Noble!Reader, Duke!Seonghwa x Noble!Reader

🦢 Genres/Tropes: Bridgerton AU, Regency era, forbidden love, fluff, angst, romance, suggestive themes, drama

🦢 Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), female reader, explicit language, everyone is 20+, sexism, classism, betrayal, set in London... more to come with each chapter!

🦢 Current Wordcount: 30.1K

🦢 Author's Note: Soooo, I did a thing 👀 I know everyone's waiting on the final part of Cold Hands, Warm Heart buuuuut I'm not feeling all that inspired to write it yet and I'd rather wait than post a rushed ending no one will be satisfied with! This little gem has been in the works since Bridgerton S3 aired, but I've only gotten around to writing it now! Anyway, the first part will be posted next week so if anyone wants to be tagged either leave a comment or join my permanent taglist. Also, I don't know how many parts this one will have, but I'll aim to not make it more than 10!

This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes. Minors and ageless blogs refrain from reading or interacting with this work!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard Permanent taglist

01 — The Debut

02 — The Garden

03 —

#kim hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez #ateez fanfic #bridgerton #bridgerton au #bridgerton fanfic #kpop #kpop fanfic

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zeke-fanfucs · 2 months ago

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So since one of you want to know about one of my guys. Here he is. I can’t really draw so I got inspo art from Pinterest. Props to all the artists!

Name: Colt (formerly Subject 5580)

Species: Varkari

Age: Appears mid-20s | Escaped at age 9

Height: 7”0

Blood: Bioluminescent green, slightly acidic

Distinguishing Features: Glowing eyes, mechanical tail, white hair, sharp teeth, scar across back to hip

⸻

Backstory:

Born as 5580, he was one of thousands bred and cataloged by the elite Varkari to be used as living test subjects. The Varkari higher class believed in genetic purity and mechanical augmentation—but only for themselves. The lower caste, like 5580, were nothing more than disposable prototypes.

At age 9, after a brutal experiment to graft a cybernetic tail nearly killed him, 5580 snapped. He slaughtered the scientists responsible, hijacked a stolen pod, and crash-landed on the wasteland world of SpringRock. There, the desert didn’t ask where he came from—it only asked if he could survive.

He could.

The tail they forced on him? Now it’s his weapon. It wraps, strikes, and impales like a serpent. Over time, he taught himself how to use guns, daggers, and traps, studying other bounty hunters from a distance—until one noticed him.

That man was Luwine, an aging Ranger who never expected to live long enough to mentor anyone. But the silent boy with the deadly tail and burning eyes reminded him of a wild colt—untamed but deadly. And so, 5580 got a name.

He became Colt.

The Fall of Luwine:

For years, Luwine was Colt’s anchor—the only one who didn’t treat him like a freak or a weapon. The old Ranger taught him how to shoot, how to track, how to move like a ghost and fight like a devil. Colt even called him “Old Man” when no one was listening.

But at age 17, the past caught up.

A quiet night. A cracked communicator. A contract, disguised as a message from Luwine’s higher-ups:

“Subject 5580 located. Terminate immediately. Bonus for clean retrieval of cybernetics.”

Luwine hesitated… but not enough.

When Colt found out, he begged. Not out of fear, but heartbreak.

“I’m not a number anymore. I’m your damn kid, right? Right?”

Luwine didn’t lie. He just said:

“I’ve got a real family, boy. You were just a stray I picked up.”

And so, Colt killed his father. Quick, clean. One bullet to the head. The tail didn’t even move.

He cried—but he didn’t break.

⸻

The Shift:

Something in Colt twisted that day. Something sharp.

Grief turned into dark humor. Isolation turned into swagger.

The smile came back, but it was crooked, dangerous.

Now? He talks too much. Laughs during gunfights. Calls enemies “sweetheart” or “meathead.” Cracks jokes about how killing Luwine finally made him “a real adult.”

He’s terrifyingly cheerful, like Deadpool meets Billy Kid, with a sharp tongue and sharper daggers.

He still bleeds green. Still fights like a beast.

But now he enjoys it.

⸻

Quotes:

• “Don’t flinch—your head comes off cleaner if you hold still.”

• “Wow, that was dramatic. You wanna die with more flair next time?”

• “I’m not broken. I’m limited edition.”

• “Guess I am a good boy after all—killed my old man and made quota!”

⸻

Combat Style:

• Uses the tail like a whip, blade, or grappling hook. It coils, launches, and extends with brutal precision.

• Dual-wields modified pistols with acid-coated bullets, scavenged tech fused into his weapons.

• Hand-to-hand: Relies on speed, brutality, and unpredictable movement. Fights like someone raised in chaos.

⸻

Nicknames:

1. “Strayshot”

— A nod to his origin as a discarded ‘stray’ and his sharpshooting skills. It sounds cocky and fast, just like him.

2. “Ghost Hound”

— He’s silent until he wants to be, fast, and leaves a trail of corpses. People say he’s more monster than man.

3. “Kill-Switch”

— Rumor says he’s a failed weapon with a buried kill mode. No one knows if it’s true—but they don’t want to find out. (Heheh Hipswitch, Killswitch)

——————

What They Say About Colt (“Strayshot”)

⸻

Hipswitch (Obscuran Bounty Hunter):

“He’s like a mutt with a bomb for a brain. Acts like a clown, fights like a storm. You never know if he’s gonna help you, shoot you, or hug you. Tail’s impressive, though. Bet he could cut a man in half and still have time for a one-liner. I kinda like the freak.”

— usually calls him “Kiddo” or “Tailboy” just to piss him off

⸻

Meksha “Blackwire” Tonn (Cybernet hacker & bounty rival):

“Strayshot? Ugh. That twitchy bastard makes me nervous. You try scrambling his tech, and somehow your hand’s the one bleeding. Last time I saw him, he grinned and called me ‘WiFi.’ I nearly shot him. He said ‘Do it. I’m bored.’”

⸻

Fisher (Mobster on SpringRock):

“He’s a broken science project with a kill count. A tail like that ain’t natural. And the way he laughs? That ain’t either. Word is he put down his own maker. If he’s got a leash, no one’s holding it.”

⸻

“Mouthless Magda” (Half-dead smuggler):

“You hear that tail dragging on the steel, you don’t look back—you run. He don’t just kill for coin. He kills ‘cause it feels right to him.”

⸻

Mahatma (Timid doctor traveling with Hipswitch):

“I stitched him up once. He thanked me, then offered me a half-melted lollipop. I think he’s… hurting. But he hides it so deep under teeth and trouble.”

⸻

The Reputation:

• Other bounty hunters call him “lucky,” “cursed,” or “feral.”

• Criminals don’t know if he’s hireable or just a chaotic element who kills whoever he wants.

• Newcomers think he’s a joke—until they see the body count.

• He’s known for taking jobs no one else will, especially ones that involve going into infected zones or heavily fortified compounds.

#my oc #can’t draw #feel free to draw him with your own ocs #he would totally flirt with Karmor to piss Hipswitch off #I should write about him more #what do you all think?💭#HE MY BBY

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anarchotolkienist · 3 months ago

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Anyway read Nitzsche's Jewish Problem by Hollub. And I mean Read it, don't just watch the philosophytube videos. Slave morality is a morality that upholds slaves rather than slave owners, which is bad because Nitzsche Looves good Aryan slavery, opposition to which is just straightforwardly Jewish or, as he himself would put it, smells strongly of garlic. I say Aryan not European or White or European because he adored racist pseudotranslations of Hindu texts, espescially the Law Book of Manu as well as wanking to germanic paganism. The pan-European post-national aristocracy he envisioned had racial or ethnic elements because he thought certain traits should be bred into it - for this reason he supported the idea that Prussian junkers should intermarry with "jewesses" in order to breed "Jewish money sense" into it. His sister's edits of his work and correspondence is primarily related to exageration of her own relationship with her brother, since her position as his executor is her sole source of income following the death of her idiot anti-semite husband Bernard Förster, and there is no evidence at all of her introducing anti-semitism into otherwise innocuous writings - in fact, it was Friedrich who introduced his sister to political anti-Semitism and indirectly her proto-Nazi husband. His pro-Jewish writings are done specifically to ingratiate himself with what he sees as the Jewish ruling elite of Europe, and primarily consists of casting common anti-semitic tropes in a positive light (the jews are a great example of the will to power in their domination of europe through their control of money, and etc). Nitzsche hould have killed himself with syphilis much earlier and saved us all much trouble. I'm sick and tired of leftist/anarchists/radicals carrying water for him, as if we needed to import more anti-semitism into our political tradition as a matter of urgency.

#edit: the garlic thing is in reference to an older anti-semitic trope that isn't that common any more #the Foetor Judaicus

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battinscnz · 2 years ago

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𝑪𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑷 𝑴𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑷: Manu Rios/Matthew Daddario

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mrinafria · 1 year ago

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Lovely Runner on Netflix from August 1.

Oh the laugh I laughed. Their struggle so far has been VERY real xD

@ Netflix, now you can use actual scenes from the show instead of recycling Wooseok and Hyeyoon's old shows on your platform. Must have been hard lol>>>

Excuse me in advance for acting all elite and shizz xD but I'll always take pride in the fact that I chose this show when it was nothing. When only a few of us, scattered across the globe, thought of watching a show with no ratings, no promotions, a single very basic poster, no hype. It was this tiny thing, our small weekly dose of happiness. Our Monday-Tuesday therapy.

I'm so grateful to have been there seeing it grow and flourish till this point. As an OG audience, the motherly instincts and the urge to protect the show and the cast at all costs is so real I'm just T-T

Live watching Lovely Runner has been a glorious experience, with all the anticipation, no spoilers, 124312 theories, detectiv-ing, inferencing, group chats, dms, edits, essays, character/scene analyses and all those sleep deprived nights and days because time zones are a thing. It allowed me to meet some of the sweetest, warmest, most sensible people from different corners of the world. It allowed me to love Wooseok and Hyeyoon and everyone in the cast and crew who wanted to tell a beautiful story and went above and beyond given the means available to them. It allowed me to unleash my inner unhinged fangirl that I thought I had long left behind. I just. have. a lot of. feelings.

But also to the people who'd get to experience it for the first time: you are in for a ride. I wish I could do this all over again, but I also don't because an experience like this should be once in a lifetime imo. I really hope y'all obsess over it as much as I do. I hope you cherish this because it's a show well worth cherishing for an eternity.

Love, OG Subeom

#Lovely Runner #Byeon Woo Seok #Kim Hye Yoon #Sun Jae #Im Sol #Seon Jae #선재 업고 튀어 #kdrama #kdrama recommendations #east asian drama #I'm so emotional actually it's quite ridiculous #like my baby is all grown up #and it's a new chapter in their life #netflix #wondering how the conversation went on their end #for two months lol

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m0chaminx · 2 years ago

Text

Sejanus Plinth | Whispers

*•.¸♡Request: Heyy Could you write a Sejanus Plinth x reader? Maybe some angst/comfort?

*•.¸♡Prompts: "We didn't all have happy childhoods, so sorry that I can't cope." "My childhood wasn't happy just because it wasn't yours. Yeah, I was safe, but I was alone and I never had no one to turn to. There's more than one way to fuck up a kid." from @promptsforthestrugglingauthor (its changed slightly tho)

*•.¸♡Warnings: Angsty as shit, Sejanus may be slightly ooc, bastards? (i think the capitol would hate bastards), the word whore in like a prostitute way, slight pacing issues (its 2am, ill edit it again later)

*•.¸♡Paring: Sejanus Plinth x GN!reader

*•.¸♡Summary: When District meets Capitol, a kind boy like Sejanus is born. When Capitol meets District, a messed-up kid like you is born.

Sejanus learns you care just as much as him

*•.¸♡Words: 1.1k

The academy's echoing halls bore witness to a chorus of whispers that followed Sejanus like persistent shadows. He was neither oblivious to these whispers, nor stupid enough to engage. The students, wrapped in their Capitol privilege, money, status and style, often vocalised their prejudiced perceptions, casting Sejanus as the outsider—a boy from the districts, like a stain in the polished corridors of the elite.

Each comment carried the sting of disdain, a reminder that, in their eyes, he should have remained tethered to District 2. The snide comments echoed in the hallowed halls, questioning his nobility, his eloquence, his attire, and even his intellect. To them, he was an anomaly challenging the Capitol's rigid social hierarchy. Yet, Sejanus pressed on, his spirit unyielding, his kind heart and sweet words charming any who had escaped the whispers.

There had always been whispers about your mother and her flimsy beliefs with the Capitol. She was no one important to the Capitol’s government, systems of education or even associated with the Hunger Games. People whispered about her visit to the district and the child she returned with. Her marriage to a businessman, another individual largely unnoticed by the Capitol's discerning eye, provided no shield from the prying whispers. So, the whispers turned to taunts and the taunts fell to humiliation.

At every chance your classmates had, they would remind you of everything surrounding your family. Every grade that was slightly below perfect left you pointed at and laughed at with words so smooth the teachers with no concern for their students did nothing to stop it. Letters and threats were slipped into your books and bag, promises that even if you slightly smeared the reputation of the capitol would result in a bloody end. Yet still, you held your head high, but your mouth ran wild, insulting the students who stepped too far over the line.

It was only natural that a bond between you and Sejanus would blossom, and then grow stronger with each passing day. The insidious nature of the whispers, each with its unique twist, seemed to seep into the very air you both breathed. There was an acute awareness that, despite the bonds you were weaving, there was no fortress impervious enough to shield you from the relentless scrutiny of your peers that thought themselves better,

Yet, in defiance of the echoing gossip, you and Sejanus found solace in the simple acts of togetherness. The friendship grew to a point that simply knowing the other was there was enough to make the days bearable. Sitting closely in the classroom, sharing quiet moments during lunch, or merely walking side by side through the bustling halls became your only moments of peace. In the bubble you created, the whispers seemed to lose their cutting edge, despite the storms of constant judgement swirling around you.

But when Sejanus’s tribute Marcus, a boy he had been friends with had been strung up in the arena like a trophy or a warning, everything around him had collapsed at once. He grabbed his chair, throwing it and his desk across the room and he turned to the students and teachers, tears streaming down his face. “You’re monsters!” He screamed. “All of you!”

He stormed out of the hall, and you barely spared a glance at the screen before chasing him. He threw the doors open, storming down the hall and walking from the academy collapsing onto a stone wall. He screamed, tears streaming down his face. The courtyards were empty, the people shut themselves in their homes to watch the games.

You stopped by Sejanus, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning to meet his eyes. “Janus…” Your voice was soft, as you called for him, but his tears continued to stream down his face. “I’m so sorry.” He straightened, trying to stop the shaking from consuming his body but he couldn't.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace as if trying to absorb every emotion that was consuming his body. His arms wound around you, as if simply holding you could wash away everything in the world. In your arms, nothing could hurt him.

Your mind scrambled to find any words that could comfort him, but you couldn't. Nothing you could say could make any of this alright.

“What can I do?” It was a weak attempt to help, but you couldn't do anything else. He knew that but somehow, a part of him thought you could fix everything. It was irrational but his mind wasn’t working properly.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you muttered.

They weren't the right words.

“How are you so calm?” Sejanus' words were harsher than he wanted them to be, and his quick movements to pull away didn't help.

You were stunned at the way he snapped at you and you stammered,

“I can't- I can’t fix it, Janus. I’m just trying to help.”

This time his anger was more purposeful, “No you’re trying to calm me down, like this isn't a big deal.” Sejanus shook his head, trying to keep his anger at bay. "We didn't all have Capital childhoods, so sorry that I can't cope."

You scoffed, your own anger rising. "Just because my childhood doesn't mean it wasn't bad. Yeah, I was safe, but I was alone, and I never had anyone to turn to. I don’t understand what you’re feeling, but I’m trying to help." Sejanus turned to you, and you shook your head, your voice raising, “Just because you live in the capitol doesn't make you capitol.”

“Are you bringing up the districts? Now?”

“You’re not capitol because once you were district, you're not capitol because you are kind,” Your voice shook, the anger leaving as Sejanus’s tense shoulders dropped. “You’re kind Janus. You care, and you hope. People in the capitol don’t see anyone else that way. Not people like us.”

You sighed and leaned against the stone wall. “You have status Sejanus; your father has money. You’re protected even though you don't know it.” Sejanus sat next to you, watching you closely as you played with the sleeves of your academy uniform. “My mother is a nobody capitol woman, and my father was a district whore. I was safe in the capitol, but not from them.” You turned back to gesture at the academy.

“I wasn't safe either,”

“It's different and you know it.”

“I’m not saying it isn't. I’m saying you’re not alone and… I’m always here for you.” He took your hand, intertwining your fingers. “There’s always someone on your side.”

Sejanus smiled, tears gathering in his eyes once again. “Thank you… for helping.”

“And someone on yours.” You looked around, making sure there was no one nearby. You shuffled closer to Sejanus, whispering to him. “When it gets dark, if you give one of the peacemakers enough money, they might let you in.” Sejanus turned to you; his eyebrows furrowed. “Pay your respects. It doesn't make it better, but- I, I don’t know what else.”

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#m0chaminx #sejanus plinth x reader #sejanus plinth #sejanus deserved better #sejanus plinth x you #sejanus plinth imagine #the hunger games #hunger games #ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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