#fUCKING BREAKS NEARLY EVERY TIME ITS ON-SCREEN

[kitsune-kira]

so i haven't finished hi3 part 1 yet but

admittedly suspecting that the real reason Bronya becomes the Herrscher of Truth is to escape the Herrscher of Reason's curse of eating shit every 30 minutes

[tenebrous-dream]

ok i still think that the first style boutique/savvy game is the worst in the series, but im playing it a lot recently (after not really touching it in a while) and its better than i remember it being

[yourstrqly]

✰ LET ME ANSWER, L. HAMILTON

[ preview ] the possessiveness comes to the light when your ex won't stop calling you during sex

[ tw ] smut, sir kink, description of a female body, answering the phone during sex, piv, riding, possessiveness

. minors do not interact .

lewis raises his eyebrows. four times, for the fourth time your phone screen light up on the nightstand, the name 'ex' showing, causing you to reach out, hands that claw on his strong back letting go, to decline the incoming call. it irritates him but the disturbance won't stop him from pushing inside your pussy again.

"give me the phone, darling", is all lewis says, shortly pulling out to sit himself against the headboard.

he looks ridiculously hot like this, tattoos glistening under the sweaty film on his skin, a single braid having found its way from the ponytail. there's a smirk on his face as he pumps his length and you want nothing more than for him to say what you should do now.

And then he does. "Ride me."

You hand him the phone and grab the base his cock to hold it in place, so you can easily slip the length inside.

A loud wail escapes your throat when his heavy cock scrapes up your inner walls, and you slowly start to ride him. he slides a hand under your ass, forcing you to bounce faster in his lap. your back arches, leaning against his chest and your hot breath fawns on his neck, where you bit softly into it. his throbbing dick stretches you out, leaving a burn when he reaches the depth of your wet hole.

You don't notice lewis pressing the green button, accepting the face call.

"hi baby, look I—who the fuck are you and where's my girl?", the guy on the other side asks, voice gruff and laced with anger. you try to keep quiet, but lewis has different plans, bending his knees to fuck himself roughly in your spongy walls that make lewd, squealing sounds. the trill of humiliating your ex turns you on; you thighten around your boyfriend's fat cock, feeling an orgasm incoming. nails dig into his shoulders, your vision is blurry and you moan, head thrown back with the mouth agape.

"tell him darling, who's making you feel this good?", lewis grunts, seeing your creamy pussy leaving a white ring around the base of his cock.

"you, sir", you whine, "you feel so good."

needily you rock your hips in his lap, ignoring the fire in your legs; his thick tip gazes the g-spot over and over again, causing you to choke out mewls and cries of pleasure — you nearly have forgotten your ex. "who the fuck do you think you are, huh?"

"i'm the boyfriend", lewis bits out. "You hear that?" You let out a high pitch cry, legs trembling as you cream his cock and drench his balls and tights. "that's the sound of my girl coming around my dick. every single day."

limp in his arms, you rest your head on his shoulder to make room for him to mark you up; you feel warm at his possessiveness, taken care of and loved. lewis' pillow lips nibble on your throat while he chases his high, chanting curses before he pulls out, throwing you on your back and spill on your pudgy stomach. you reach for the white liquid, skoping some on your fingertips before licking them clean, sucking gently the bitter taste of him, making lewis groan. "my dirty little girl, hm?", he whispers, the naughty smirk he still wears changing into proud one.

"for you, i'm everything, sir."

having not forgotten the face time call, you grab the phone to face your ex, who looks straight out of a comic with his harden gaze and red-from-anger cheeks. with mischief on your mind you angle the phone and press an open mouthed kiss on his lips, all tongue and teeth. it's messy like that and you love it.

breaking apart, the screen is black.

"didn't know you could act like this, lew", you grin happily. the man only laughed in response as he got up to get you a cloth to clean you and himself; he knows that you're turned on by this side of him, and maybe, just maybe, he'd do it again, even though the thought of someone else hearing your sweet moans make him jealous. wordlessly, he puts on sportify, the voices of temptation singing his girl, and he goes down on you, ever so softly whipping your pussy.

humming from inbetween your legs, lewis states: "you're made for me, darling."

"I know", you reply, slowly drifting to the lands of dreams.

rina speaks • ₊° ✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ . . [ 🪐 ] based on this requests! hope I did it justice x

[sturnioz]

jealous and possessive fratboy!chris after he finds out shy!reader's male friend is back into town?

chris is.... yeah. dipping more into mean chris with this one, especially towards the friend. you've been warned, please do not read if you're uncomfortable.

tw. mentions of drugs [cocaine].

note. also i chose a random guys name for shy!readers friend, so if there is an influencer or anyone you know that shares the same name.. its not them lol.

you haven't stepped foot in the frat house in nearly a week, completely caught up in the excitement of reconnecting with a childhood friend who had come back to your hometown for his break; the two of you spending your days hanging out and catching up on stories — which meant you unintentionally ditched chris.

honestly, chris didn't really notice your absence at first.

he was too preoccupied with his own life — planning for parties, selling his drugs and counting cash, spending time with his frat brothers, and his classes. but as the friday approached, the day the house is filled to the brim with students from the university, the realisation startled settling in.

now, he's sitting on the worn-out couch surrounded by the chaos, staring down at his phone, scrolling through the countless unread texts he'd sent you, each one more frustrated that the last. his eyebrows knit together in irritation, and he presses his tongue against his cheek, waiting for the delivered sign to change to read.

he swipes out of your conversation, rubbing at his jaw in frustration as he opens the instagram app. he goes to search for your account to check if you've posted anything on your story, but instead, he freezes, staring at a collection of recent pictures you just posted.

a scoff escapes he lips as he begins to swipe through each new one, his jaw clenching with every image. there you fucking are, beaming with joy, capturing the moments of you and the stranger beside you visiting cafes, shopping at your favourite stores and taking walks. chris grits his teeth as the last image, the sight of you both in your bedroom, watching childhood movies.

chris feels a bubble of anger rising within him, his leg bouncing restlessly as he fixates on the photo of the guy pressed against your side, his arm wrapped around you shoulder and playfully squeezing your cheeks while grinning widely.

chris' nostrils flare, and he tightens the grip on his phone. in one swift movement, he locks the screen and tosses the device carelessly onto the table, shaking his head in disbelief as he rubs the bridge of his nose. he fishes a baggy of white powder from his pocket, pouring a line onto the coffee table and shaping it up with his credit card.

just as he leans down to lose himself in the haze, his eyes dart up to see you walk in, the guy still by your side, both of you wearing smiles on your faces as if everything is perfectly normal. chris sits up slowly, a mix of anger and confusion swirling within him as he watches you scan around the room, and when your gaze finally lands on him, your face lights up instantly, and you tug on the guy's arm, pulling him over to chris.

he can't help but stare at the way you cling to him, rolling his tongue across is teeth in irritation, his gaze drifting up your arm to your face as you near closer, but that gentle smile of yours only deepens his frustration.

"hi," you greet him with such a soft tone that it makes chris want to scoff, watching as you drop down beside him, pulling the guy down with you. "chris, this is lucas."

chris doesn't even spare a glance at lucas, his attention solely on your as you continue to smile prettily at him. it only tightens his jaw.

"right... the guy you uh, you've been ditchin' me for," he says, his voice laced with sarcasm. "s'nice, kid."

you, still buzzing from the day, take his comment as a joke. "we were friends growing up! he came to visit me," you explain, glancing at lucas returning your gaze to chris. "he's only here for a week.. but you should join us—"

chris cuts you off with a scoff, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. "yeah... 'cos i'd love to be the third fuckin' wheel in your cute lil' reunion, kid. don't piss me off."

you look momentarily taken aback by his attitude and tone, and your smile falters in in an instant. even lucas looks taken aback by the shift in his tone, but chris couldn't care less about lucas' feelings; his focus remains locked on you.

"hey, man.." lucas attempts to speak up, clearly trying to defuse the tension, but chris waves him off dismissively.

"don't uh, don't wanna hear you — at all, actually. yeah. couldn't give a fuck about you." chris murmurs as he leans down towards the coffee table, plugging one nostril and inhaling a line of coke, grunting as he slumps back into the cushions, running his fingers through his curls.

chris' head rolls to the side, finally glancing past you to lock eyes with lucas. he notices the uneasy look on his face shift into something more confrontational, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. a grin slowly spreads across chris' lips, adrenaline surging through him.

"what? why y'lookin' at me like that?" chris presses. "you... y'mad at me or somethin'?"

"chris." you warn softly, pushing gently at his arm. you can feel the tension thickening in the air, and you don't want him to start something could spiral out of control, something that might lead to someone getting hurt — to lucas getting hurt.

but chris leans forward, looming over you to get closer to lucas, a glint in his eyes. "c'mon.. if y'got somethin' to say to me, say it."

you feel a knot tightening in your stomach, anxiety creeping in as you shake his arm more insistently. "chris, please," you plead, your voice urgent. "just let it go. it.. it's not worth it, please."

chris' eyes flick to you, noticing the worried look on your face and he huffs, before pulling away to slump back into his spot, sniffing and rubbing his nose.

he feels your arm loop around his, and he turns his head slightly to see you rest you chin on his shoulder, a small gesture meaning to ground him. and for a fleeting moment, chris considers yanking his arm out of your grip, the urge to push you away battling against the subtle comfort your touch brings him.

but then his gaze drifts back to lucas, who is watching you both, and chris' expression shifts once more, sliding his hand down between your thighs, gripping possessively and holding on tight.

[floralscented]

mechanic!dean x bimbo!reader - old habits die hard.

includes, so damn fluffy it's SEEICK. not teeth rotting fluffy but it's just ENDEARRINGGGG okay.

★ ˚⋆

it'd been a long ass day at the garage, and the last thing dean wanted to do was salt your fucking house.

it was a mistake, telling you about salt deterring demons, because now you seemed to think that demons were everywhere. which... was right, of course, but that guy at the bar that you'd thrown salt at was fine. a bit too drunk, but he was too out of it to know that he was staring at you.

guy realized it pretty quickly when you'd whipped out your to-go salt shaker and started pouring it into your hand like it was a sugar packet and tossing it at him.

really, he couldn't be mad. it was as cute as it was irritating, how determined you were to understand the lifestyle he had and then abandoned.

it came back, though, as all things left in the dust tended to do. catch up and with a vengeance.

it started simple. you’d texted him while he was slid underneath a car at the shop, grease and oil all the way up to his hands and smearing all over his screen when he’d grabbed the phone to text you back.

conveniently, one of those splotches of oil covered the important parts of your message.

can u replace salt with pepper

*warding

*wording? idk pls answer quick!!!

the last two came in quick succession, as your rambling thoughts often did when they translated into text, and he didn’t bother to scroll up and read the rest when you were absolutely adamant he answer quick. you typed so quickly that you often misspelled things with those acrylics of yours, so he just disregarded those details as nothing serious.

yeah sure.

dean didn’t know why you were so worked up over salt, of all things, but figured it had to do with cooking, and that you were out because you’d used all of yours — and his — on your little quest to salt every little thing you deemed demonic.

cute. like little kids were cute until they started wailing.

but dean was never, ever mad, even on days like this where nothing ever went right. carburetor’s busted in this guy’s piece of shit truck, and guy’s pissed because dean can’t shit one out and has to order it. diner down the road handed out the last piece of apple pie before he walked in there to get you and him one, like he usually did, on his way back to your house to see you. someone ran a redlight and nearly creamed baby.

yeah, by the time he got to your place, he was ready to throw the towel in and break something. to sit down and not touch anything else, since apparently everything was going to shatter when he touched it.

dean walks up your front steps, heavy sigh already laden on his lips about the fact that he did not have a sweet treat for his sweet thing, excuses sour in his mouth because he knew he’d endure a reaction akin to total devastation when he told you.

his hand lifts to knock, and he sees there, in a fleeting moment in the seal of your door, little ants. so damn many of them, its just a line of black. his eyebrows furrow, hand falling to his side again, as he kneels to get a better look at it.

his eyes are real close to it. he breathes in as he squints, trying to see if the movement is just hallucination or there really were so many that it looked like that—

immediately, dean’s nose burns. he can’t even stop the three sneezes in quick succession, or how his eyes water from it.

realization settles in. pepper.

his sigh is so damn heavy it rattles his bones. he makes sure, though, that he’s not anywhere near the pepper again, already having learned that lesson once.

dean grasps your doorknob and opens it, internally bristling at the fact that you didn’t even lock it. warded the house with pepper, so scared of a demon coming in, but not of the very higher chance of a break-in.

you were bent over all pretty over the back of your couch, little skirt riding up on your thighs, shirt bunched up where your chest pressed against the part of the windowsill that connected with the couch—

he gave himself a five second free card to admire the sight, before he cleared his throat.

“wanna tell me what you’re doin’, princess?” dean asked, his arms crossed firmly over his chest as he watched you. you, so focused on pouring the entire container of pepper in a strategic and straight line on the window sill.

you startled, as if you didn’t hear the door open and close, or, you know, his car pulling up.

“i’m salting the house,” you told him very matter-of-factly, your lips in that little pout that always zilched away every bit of irritation he could ever feel toward you.

dean blinks once, twice. “that’s pepper.”

you, again, look at him like he’s the one who doesn’t understand. “you said—”

“i thought you were talking about cooking!” he interrupts before you could try and ridicule him over this. nuh uh, that was his job right now.

you bristle, very visibly, and he almost laughs aloud right there. “i don’t cook, dean. be serious.”

how could he be serious when you were turning your house into a breathing hazard?

his lips start to curl, the laugh right there in the base of his throat.

“stop it. stop looking at me like i’m doing something silly and you’re not gonna tell me.”

“princess, you’re peppering your house,” dean says, and it feels so good to laugh after the day he’s had. you couldn’t stop the chuckle if you tried. “you have to know that’s silly, right?”

you told him to stop calling the little quirks you have stupid, even if it’s lighthearted. it’s implemented well into his vocabulary.

dean huffs out a breath through his nose to try and stifle it, at least. the last thing he wants to do is make you cry, or mad at him, when you were trying so, so hard.

he straightens, crossing the distance from where he stands to your spot on the couch. gently, he pries the pepper shaker out of your fingers. “were you really scared?” he asks you, and has to close his eyes at the weight — or lack thereof — of the pepper shaker. you’d done so much, and he could only see the front door barrier and the windowsill.

you’d turned your house into a lemon pepper chicken, and you were telling him not to laugh.

“yes!” you exclaim, still wearing that little pout. you’ve brought your hands into it, though, tossing them around in your upset. “i heard something outside, and i was really, really scared…”

dean’s expression softens. his free hand comes up to trace lightly over your cheekbone with his fingertips to try and soothe you. “and,” he drawls out, attempting to finish your sentence where you cut it off. “you didn’t have any more salt, so you had to use pepper.”

“you said!” oh, you were worked up. he felt like animal control trying to wrangle the puffed up kitten barring its teeth at him. “you said i could!”

dean’s eyebrows raise. “how was i supposed to know you meant to salt the house?”

your hand slaps very aggressively on your phone screen, resting beside you on the couch cushion. your manicured nails are typing so furiously on the screen that the clicks sound like popping gunshots.

then, you’re shoving your phone in his face, the text thread between you and him two inches from his eyes.

dean leans back to read it, the entire time watching you as you look poised to strike.

can u replace salt with pepper when wording your house

right. so that’s the part that he conveniently didn’t see, and the source of your typos.

the sigh he looses is so damn heavy.

“that’s my bad,” he says slowly, even though he still, still, is barely keeping his shit together.

you let out a triumphant little hmph that has him wanting to bend you over and show you what happens when you give him attitude, but he reels it in.

“yeah. it is your bad.” reels it in, barely. “now what do i do? my house is haunted, and— and there’s pepper everywhere—”

well, now the ice cold exterior is melting, because you’re standing in front of him with a wobbly lip, and it’s no longer funny anymore.

“where did you hear something?” he asks, his hand cupping your cheek again, resuming his soft touches to try and soothe away the upset, this time. “hey, c’mon, princess, i believe you. put those tears away. can’t help you if you can’t talk to me, can i?”

dean is never this soft with anyone. you’ve done a number on him from the very moment he met you.

your hand shoots out to point at the front door.

he uses his gentle grip on your cheek to tug you in, kissing your forehead lightly. dean has to remind himself a lot of the time that you don't know these things, because you grew up in a home that didn't prioritize raising soldiers instead of boys. your naivety was a blessing. "lemme go look," he mumbles on your skin, before he tugs back and turns.

he's gonna feel like a real piece of shit if there really is something.

his hand doesn't even touch the doorknob before he hears a soft sneeze on the other side.

dean peers through the glass, his eyes narrowed as he searches for the person on the other end, haunches raised because maybe his first theory was right. not a demon, but some fucker trying to break-in on his girl.

his eyes land on a squirrel, nose buried in the streak of pepper lining your front door. it sneezes, and sneezes again, before it scampers off on the creaking wooden boards that was your porch.

your soft steps pad up behind him, very blatantly tucking yourself behind his arm. "did you see it? i heard it, dean, i know there's something out there!"

you sound too damn upset still for him to tell you that your demon was an intrusive squirrel.

so he turns and brings you into his embrace, his chin resting on the top of your head, where he can hide the grin away from you. "yeah, i heard it, princess. we'll get this all cleaned up tomorrow and properly salt it. keep my baby girl safe from all the demons."

you nod into his chest, and it's so damn sweet, the trust you place into his hands. this little white lie won't hurt. not this one time.

notes, i rly don't know where this idea came from but it made me cackle so hard i had to write it instantly N E WAYYSSSS dean x stuff tomorr hope this hold u off til then

tags, @jasvtsc @titsout4nicholas @figthoughts @depressionbarbie2023 @deans-yn

[starlitiris]

“To Lick Your Wounds” ~ (Sebastian x Reader)

Summary: “You come into Sebastian’s shop with some serious injuries, and are having a hard time taking care of it yourself after you purchase a medkit. Sebastian begrudgingly decides to help you. Have fun!”

Warnings: Deep wounds, blood, getting said wounds stitched, and uhh gender neutral reader if that counts as a warning!

~ 🩸 ~

Fuck. Fuck this stupid fucking place fuck it and fuck everything that’s in it.

You opened a Good People door. You’ve been through this place SO many times, you KNOW all the tells of a false door. The breathing, the sparks from the sign overheating, the faint static on the screen. But you were in a rush, because the lights flickered and there wasn’t a locker in sight! Not even in the room before this one! Thank god it was Chainsmoker that was coming through. He gave you enough time to hurry to the correct door and find your way into a locker, even with three fresh gashes in your side. You carefully stepped out of the locker once he passed.

It hurt. It burned. Hot blood spilled down your side, down your leg, onto the floor. This was far from the first time you’ve been injured in this hellish place, but that doesn’t make it any easier when you continue to get hurt. You hate it here. Everything sucks. You can’t wait to give this place and Urbanshade the middle finger and leave with your full pardon. If that day ever comes. Sometimes all this effort feels futile.

But you’re determined. So you continue. Slightly hunched forward and holding your side, you make your way through the dark hallway into the next room. And the next. And the next. And the next. Avoiding squiddles, occasionally looking over your shoulder in case you didn’t hear a wall dweller break loose.

You only had to wait out one more Angler - this time in a room with lockers - before you heard an all too familiar voice beckon you closer in an all too familiar room.

This asshole better be selling medkits.

You wince as you crouch down at the vent and crawl through into Sebastian’s shop.

“Hey, it’s you! Welcome back.” His esca flickers on for you to see his stupid shiteating grin in all its glory, one of his fins flicking in response to your arrival.

You just grunt at him and slowly stand back up, trying to move as little as possible with your new wounds. Looking over to Sebastian’s stock, you immediately spot a medkit. Bingo.

“Oh, thank fuck.” You mutter, making your way over to his tail.

As you exchange assets for the medical supplies, you hear the mutant chuckle.

“What happened to you?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” You sit in the middle of the room and open the kit, scavenging through its contents for what you need.

“Ooo, snappy.” He watches you take things out and lay them on the floor in preparation. “You didn’t even make it to my shop last run. You getting worse or what?”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “I just got really unlucky last time. That’s all.”

“Uh huh. Did you get unlucky this time too, or do you just suck?”

“The former.” You snap back with a glare. Usually his snarky insults don’t bother you as much, especially since you got used to hearing them nearly every time you died, but today you were in no mood. This run sucks. This place sucks.

“Certainly. I believe you.” He doesn’t.

“Yeah right, you oversized worm.”

“Wow. You are snappy today.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

Attempting to ignore him, you try to analyze your injuries. If you could strangle that meat blob, you would. It got right under your left arm, making it difficult to work on. You groan as you lift your left arm so you can see the wound better and reach it with your right hand. The lifted arm is shaking, being difficult to hold up. You’re having to crane your head down at an awkward angle to even see the gashes. And the placement of them makes it awkward and difficult to clean. Stitching this is going to be near impossible.

Sebastian watches you struggle, almost amused by how pathetic you look. Your face scrunched up in pain and discomfort, arms and hands shaking, cursing under your breath every time the rag you’re holding so much as grazes the deep cuts. You poor, miserable creature. This is just sad.

After watching you struggle and complain for a solid minute, Sebastian clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes.

“Alright, cut it out.” He makes his way towards you, lowering himself to about your level.

“Ngh- Hey!” You protest when he quite easily rips the rag from your hand. He holds it away from you when you try to snatch it back.

“Ah, ah. That’s enough. Stand up.”

“What?? But I’m not even-”

“Stand. Up.” He sternly ordered, giving you a warning look that let you know he wouldn’t be repeating himself.

You grunt in annoyance and begin to stand. “Why?? Are you gonna let me finish patching myself up?”

“No.”

“But-!”

“I will finish patching you up. Now don’t move.” Sebastian drops the rag, leaving you completely befuddled. How does he intend to fix you up if he isn’t at least going to clean up the area first??

You step back away from him as he tries to move closer towards you.

“Hey, wait a minute! What the hell are you doing?”

“Did you not just hear me? I’m helping.” He glares, annoyed by your outburst.

“Uh, hello? You dropped the rag on the floor? And you’re completely ignoring all the medical supplies next to it. How the hell are you supposed to help me without those??”

“If you would let me get closer, I would show you.”

“Oh, hell no. Let me handle this myself!”

Sebastian groans and face palms. “Would you just trust me for a minute?”

Oh. Oh, that’s laughable.

“Hah! Trust you? You? The guy who loots my corpse, insults me every chance he gets, and is actively hoping for my demise? No thanks.”

“Oh, please. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have by now. You should know that, based on your little flash beacon incident.” He points an accusatory finger at you. You suppose he has a point. “Let me help you so I can get you out of my shop.”

You pause to contemplate what he’s saying. Then you sigh. “Fine. Just… don’t try anything funny, got it?”

“As if you could do anything about it if I did.”

“... Nah, see you can’t just say shit like that and expect me to trust you.”

“Well, I’m right, aren’t I? I’d love to see you try to win a fight against me.” He flashes you a toothful grin before slithering up to you.

“Eugh.” He is right. You would lose that battle real quick. Begrudgingly, you let him lift your arm so he can inspect the wounded area. You watch him closely, still not fully trusting him. “So, uh… what exactly do you plan on doing?”

“Helping.”

“Wow. Thanks. Real specific with the details there.” Your eyes land on the half-soaked with blood rag that’s on the floor. “You know, if you’re gonna use that you probably shouldn’t have dropped it on the dirty fLOOR-” Your voice raised in pitch and entire body stiffened when you felt something thick, wet, and slimy run across your wounded area. You looked back down at Sebastian as he sucked his bloodied tongue back into his mouth.

“Good thing I’m not gonna use it.” He smirked and opened his maw to lick you again, gently holding your waist with his left hands to assure you wouldn’t squirm too much. You shivered. His licks were long, deep, and slow - almost as if he was being careful not to hurt you too bad.

“What the hell are you doing…?!” You watch him in disbelief. It stings, but after he licked you a few times, you realized it sort of felt… soothing.

“Helping.” He paused briefly to say so before continuing.

You were speechless. This was quite frankly the last thing you expected him to do. But you let him do it because it felt better than the coarse rag, and he was able to reach parts of the gashes that you couldn’t. Watching him lap up your blood, in and around the wounds, you realize it’s his saliva that’s soothing the searing pain. He must know it too, otherwise he would have no reason to lick directly on your injuries the way he was. Unless he’s doing it to get a better taste of you. Eugh. You shudder at the thought that he might just be doing this as an excuse to snack on your blood. But that’s probably not the case. Probably.

A minute or two of licking passes and he finally pulls away from your side.

“See, was that so hard?”

“Shut up.” You retort.

He chuckles and grabs what he needs to stitch you up. “Hold still.”

He begins to stitch, earning a wince and a grunt from you here and there as he worked. He sewed you up quickly and with finesse - much better than anything you could’ve done, even if it was in a spot you could reach well. Once he finished, he helped to bandage up the area and backed away.

“... Thank you.” You say, watching him go back to his normal position in the corner of the room.

“Don’t mention it.” He clasps his upper two hands together, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

You crouch down to clean up the medkit supplies - you may need them later. “Do uh- I owe you anything? For that?” You’re hoping he says no. This run was so shit that you barely had enough to buy the medkit off him.

“Nope! Not a thing. Consider it a thanks for being my most loyal customer.” Something about his tone just makes you not want to believe him. But that’s nothing new for him.

“Right… Okay then.” You finish cleaning up and make your way towards the vent. “Thanks again.”

“Mhmmm.”

You start to leave his shop.

“Expendable!”

“Huh?” You turn to look back at him, peaking your head out of the vent.

“Next time, I will charge you.”

“... Ugh.” You roll your eyes and continue to leave. “Hopefully there won’t be a next time.”

He chuckles darkly, making you feel uneasy. Prick. Once you reach the other end of the vent, you shake your head and stand to make your way to the next door. As you’re walking, you replay whatever the hell just happened in your head.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way his tongue felt on your skin - thick, warm, and soothing. Or the way he held your arm and waist. Firm, yet gentle. It felt sincere. Thoughtful. Then you wondered why he would even help you in the first place. If it really was just to get you out of his shop, why didn’t he just yell at you to fix yourself elsewhere? Maybe he just wouldn’t admit that he genuinely wanted to help you. All of these things make your stomach flutter. You desperately try to ignore the butterflies as you reach the-

“I think you’re forgetting something…” You hear Sebastian call out. “On the table?”

… God fucking dammit.

[peppermint-toads]

slight mention of sexual assault

you were sitting on your porch when he arrived, chin resting over your knees where you sat huddled up on your chair. you’re totally zoned out as he storms past you, letting your screen door rattle shut, shaking in its hinges and on the verge of breaking.

you felt your chest deflate as you let out a deep sigh, slowly unfurling yourself. no point in trying to hide it. he knows what he’s looking for, knows he’s gonna find it, too.

after shoving past your front door, uninvited, he only got angrier seeing empty cans of his beer scattered and crushed on your coffee table.

you followed his trail, taking in the scene of your living room and thinking about how it must’ve looked to him. the longer you lingered, the worse it got. so, you stopped looking.

you caught up to him in the bedroom where he was sitting on the edge of the crumpled sheets. a can of beer sat atop the nightstand. not on the side you sleep on.

“he was here. in my bed.”

you sighed again. “it’s not your bed, simon. especially not after what you said to me.”

you weren’t even being argumentative, your voice was soft and tired. you had given up. his words barely even hurt anymore. the previous night with your ex had nearly washed it all away.

but you started to think maybe it hadn’t as you stared at simon, who was staring up at you with a blank expression. suddenly, your chest was hurting all over again.

“h-how could you say that to me?” you hiccuped, face crumpling into a deep frown, sobs beginning to wrack your body.

he’d become closed off again, something you thought you’d worked through, at least a little bit. but then the cycle started all over again.

“simon… i miss… i miss feeling like we’re in a relationship. i don’t feel like i matter to you anymore.”

you weren’t sure what brought on the moment of honesty, and you wish it wouldn’t have come out in the first place.

“that’s what you think this is? a relationship?”

and your whole world had collapsed around you in an instant. the man who slept in your bed every night, went with you to get your belongings back from your ex’s apartment, the man you let fuck you after months of being too scared after what you’d been through didn’t even consider himself yours.

“why did you invite him here.”

you shrugged, losing more composure as you went.

“because at least he could pretend.”

simon stood, rising to his full, intimidating height.

“pack a bag, the essentials. we’ll come back for the rest in the morning.”

“simon—what are you talking about i’m not going anywhere with you.”

the thought of staying in your home with the memory of your ex lingering made you squirm, but you wouldn’t admit it.

you heard him mutter an okay under his breath as he made his way into your closet to grab a duffel. he always knew you were stubborn.

he packs your comfiest pajamas, socks, toothbrush, deodorant, everything you’d need to hold you off into morning.

you didn’t have it in you to fight with him anymore. you let him do with you what he wanted, like always.

you didn’t know at the time that you’d never see the inside of that house ever again, that simon’s home was your home from then on.

[skateordiebitch]

dom x famous!reader where he has a crush on her and has mentioned a few times and they they are cast together in a project and hook up

SPOTLIGHT || D.F. x reader

summary: dominic has a celebrity crush, and it just so happens to be you.

a/n: in another universe this is meeeee like when will it be my turn??!! this request is amazing tysm for sending it in! i love writing dom being all cute and in love LMFAO

Dominic had always admired you from afar. 

It was no secret—he’d mentioned your name in interviews a few times when asked about his celebrity crush. 

Each time, he’d brush it off with his signature charm, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he said something like, “Y/N is ridiculously talented. And, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she’s way out of my league.”

It became a running joke among his fans, a tidbit that made its way into countless TikTok edits and late-night talk show montages. 

But Dominic wasn’t joking. 

Not entirely. 

Every time he saw you on the big screen, every red-carpet interview, every magazine cover—it only solidified the idea in his head that you were untouchable. A dream. Something to admire but never hope to hold.

Until the day his agent called with the news.

“You’re fucking kidding,” Dominic said, nearly dropping his phone. He was pacing the length of his living room, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I’m not kidding,” his agent replied, a note of amusement in her voice. “You got the part. Congratulations, Dominic. And guess who’s your co-star?”

He swallowed hard. “Who?”

“You’re going to love this—Y/N.”

Dominic froze, the name hitting him like a lightning bolt. His agent kept talking about contracts and schedules, but he barely heard a word. 

All he could think about was that he was going to spend months working alongside you, sharing scenes, sharing space. It was exhilarating—and utterly terrifying.

The first table read was surreal. 

You walked into the room like you owned it—poised, radiant, every bit the movie star he’d imagined you to be. 

Dominic tried to play it cool, keeping his head down and focusing on the script in front of him, but when you sat down beside him, his palms started to sweat.

“Hey,” you said, offering him a smile. “You’re Dominic, right?”

He looked up, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Hi. Uh, it’s great to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Your smile widened, and you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “I heard you’ve got a bit of a crush on me.”

Dominic’s heart stopped. He could feel his ears burning as he scrambled for a response. “Oh, uh—I mean, people take those interview things way out of context, you know? I just… I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Relax,” you said, laughing softly. “I’m just messing with you. It’s sweet, though. I’m a fan of yours too. I listen to your music all the time.”

Dominic blinked, utterly disarmed by your casual compliment. He managed a smile, but his brain was short-circuiting. You’re a fan of mine? You listen to my music?

The table read started before he could embarrass himself further, but throughout the session, he couldn’t help sneaking glances at you. 

And, to his astonishment, you caught his eye more than once, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

As the weeks went on, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm. Dominic found that you were nothing like the untouchable goddess he’d built up in his head. 

You were funny, down-to-earth, and sharper than he’d expected. On set, you were professional but warm, always quick to offer a kind word or a joke to lighten the mood.

The chemistry between you was undeniable—not just on camera but off. 

The crew started to notice, throwing each other knowing looks whenever you and Dominic laughed a little too hard at each other’s jokes or lingered in conversation during breaks. 

But Dominic kept his feelings in check, reminding himself that this was work. You were colleagues... And nothing more.

Until the night everything changed.

Dominic couldn’t breathe.

The day’s schedule loomed over him like a storm cloud, and he swore his heart was pounding louder than the hum of the cameras.

Today was the day.

The kiss scene.

The one moment in the script he had fixated on since the project began. He had kissed people on screen before—it was part of the job. But none of those kisses had ever involved you.

You weren’t just another costar. You were the costar, the actress Dominic had secretly admired long before he landed the role.

Everyone knew it too. His harmless crush on you had been splashed across the internet, after all. He thought he’d been subtle. He wasn’t.

And now he was standing on set, trying to convince himself he could handle kissing you without losing his mind.

“Knock, knock,” your voice chimed as you peeked into his trailer.

Dominic jumped, nearly spilling his coffee. “Oh. Hey.”

You stepped inside, a warm smile on your lips as you held up a script. “Just thought I’d check in before the scene.”

He raised an eyebrow, trying to appear casual. “You mean the one where our characters kiss?”

You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Yes, Dom. That one... Are you nervous or something?" You chuckled softly, watching the heat rise in his face.

“I’m not nervous,” he said quickly, though the slight crack in his voice betrayed him.

Your grin widened, and you tilted your head. “Really? Because you look a little nervous, dude.”

Dominic sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Maybe a little. But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh?” You stepped closer, crossing your arms. “And what reason is that?”

He hesitated, glancing down at the script in your hands as if it held the answers he needed. Finally, he looked back at you, his eyes locking onto yours. “I just... I don’t want to mess it up. This scene, I mean. It’s important to the, uh, story.”

You chuckled, nudging his arm lightly. “Dominic, you’re going to be fine. You’re quite a professional, believe it or not.”

“Right,” he muttered, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

You studied him for a moment, softening your tone. “Okay, what’s really going on? You’ve been acting weird all day.”

Dominic’s jaw tightened as he shifted uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to deflect, but the words that came out were honest instead. “It’s just... it’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve had this stupid crush on you since forever, and now we’re about to kiss on camera, and I’m trying really hard not to completely fuck it up.”

Your eyes widened, caught off guard by his truthful confession. “Dom...”

“I know,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s ridiculous. But I couldn’t not tell you. And now that I have, we can move on and—”

You interrupted him with a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Dominic, you’re not ridiculous. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re overthinking this. It’s just a kiss.”

“Just a kiss,” he echoed, though he didn’t sound convinced.

--

The set was quiet as the crew made their final adjustments. Dominic stood at his mark, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.

The scene was simple: your characters would share an emotional moment, confess their feelings, and kiss.

Simple in theory, but nothing about being this close to you felt simple.

You appeared on set, your costume flowing effortlessly as you took your place opposite him. Dominic forced himself to focus, to remember the lines, the marks, the choreography of the scene.

But then your eyes met his, and all the preparation flew out the window.

“Alright,” the director called. “Let’s roll.”

Dominic forced himself to breathe as the scene began. Your characters stood close, the scripted tension palpable.

He delivered his lines, but it wasn’t just acting—it was everything he’d been holding back, spilling out in words not entirely his own.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t care,” his character admitted, his voice trembling just slightly. “Because I do. I care more than I should.”

Your eyes softened, your own delivery layered with something unspoken. “Then stop pretending.”

There it was—the moment.

Dominic stepped closer, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. You closed the distance, and when your lips finally met, it was electric.  

You took a step closer, your face just inches from his. Your gaze flickered to his lips, and he followed the cue, leaning in slowly. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from your face before resting gently on your cheek. It was all part of the script, but nothing about it felt rehearsed.

The kiss was supposed to be brief, just long enough to convey the emotion. But neither of you pulled away right on cue. The director didn’t call cut, letting the moment linger, and it felt like the entire set had disappeared.  

Your lips met his, soft and warm, and the world fell away. The kiss was slow, tentative at first, exactly as the scene demanded. But as the moment stretched, Dominic swore he felt something real—a spark, a connection that wasn’t written in the script. His fingers curled slightly against your jaw, pulling you closer without thinking.

“Cut!” the director called, breaking the spell.

You stepped back, your expression unreadable as you adjusted your costume.

Dominic blinked, trying to ground himself, but the lingering warmth of your lips was impossible to ignore. You met his gaze with a soft, unreadable smile, then turned away to reset your position.  

---

The set began to clear as the crew packed up for the day.

Dominic lingered near the table, pretending to be interested in a bag of chips while his mind replayed the kiss over and over. He couldn’t tell if he was imagining things, but for a brief moment, he thought he’d felt you lean into him—like it hadn’t been just acting for you either.

“Hey.” Your voice broke his thoughts.

He turned to find you standing behind him, your expression soft but cautious.

“Hey,” he said, his heart racing.

You hesitated, biting your lip before taking a step closer. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“Of course.”

“That kiss…” You trailed off, searching his face. “Was it just acting for you? It almost seemed real.”

Dominic swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his ears. “No,” he admitted quietly. “It wasn’t... I know, it's embarassing. I'm sorry-"

You studied him for a moment before answering. “It wasn’t for me, either.”

His breath hitched, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. “What?!" he loudly exclaims, before composing himself back together, "So... what does that mean?”

“It means,” you said, stepping closer, “that I’ve been waiting for you to stop overthinking long enough to figure out that I like you too. I kind of always have...”  

Dominic stared at you, dumbfounded. “You... what?”

You laughed softly, taking his hand in yours. “I like you, Dom. A lot. And not just because of some script. I'm just... not as vocal about it in interviews, I guess.”  

He let out a breathless laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. “I really thought I was going to mess this up.”

“You didn’t,” you said, your smile warm. “Not even a little.”  

Before he could respond, you closed the distance between you, your hands resting gently on his chest as you kissed him.

This time, there were no cameras, no lights, no script. It was real. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, savoring every second.

When you finally pulled away, your cheeks flushed, you gave him a shy smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first table read.”

Dominic laughed, the sound full of disbelief and joy. “You could’ve told me. Might’ve saved me a few sleepless nights.”

You grinned, lacing your fingers through his. “Where’s the fun in that? You should've seen yourself. You looked adorable, trying to act like you weren't freaking out."

Dominic groaned, his free hand running through his hair as his cheeks reddened. “I was not freaking out.”

You arched an eyebrow, your grin widening. “Oh, you so were. But it was cute. Endearing, even.”

He rolled his eyes playfully, though his heart was hammering. “Glad my nervous breakdown was entertaining for you.”

“It was,” you teased, stepping closer. “But for the record, I was freaking out a little, too.”

Dominic tilted his head, his eyes softening. “You? You’re always so calm, so collected.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, your voice lowering, “you have this way of making people… forget themselves.”

His breath caught at your words, and before he could think better of it, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again. It was slower this time, less urgent but just as consuming. Your fingers curled into his shirt as the rest of the world faded away.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to just be a scene between us.”

Your eyes searched his, vulnerability flickering across your face before you nodded. “Me too.”

Dominic exhaled in relief, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Let's get out of here,” he murmured suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You blinked, startled. “Where?”

He glanced toward his trailer parked on the edge of the lot. “Somewhere private. Just us.”

Your cheeks warmed, but the way his hand slid down to intertwine with yours reassured you. “I like the sound of that,” you said softly.

Inside Dominic’s trailer, the space felt more intimate than usual. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of the dim lighting.

He closed the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “I can’t believe this is finally happening,” he admitted with a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

You turned to face him, your lips curving into a gentle smile. “All your dreams coming true?"

Dominic nodded and stepped toward you slowly, as though afraid to shatter the fragile moment. When he reached you, his hands found your waist, pulling you close.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to pretend this is just… professional.”

Your fingers brushed the back of his neck, playing with the edges of his hair. “Well, luckily we don’t have to pretend anymore,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

His lips found yours again, and this time, the kiss deepened with unspoken promises and longing. His hands roamed your back, pulling you flush against him, while yours clung to his shoulders.

He guided you toward the small couch, and when you sank onto it together, the world outside seemed to disappear entirely. His kisses trailed down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “I’ve thought about this. About you… so many times.”

You shivered under his touch, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Dominic…”

He paused, looking up at you with a mixture of adoration and vulnerability. “We don’t have to rush,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I just want to be close to you.”

You smiled, your heart swelling at his sincerity.

The rest of the evening unfolded in whispered confessions and soft laughter, each kiss and touch building the connection between you.

It wasn’t just about the physical aspect—it was about finally letting go of the barriers, about finding something real amidst the overwhelming chaos of your lives.

As the night wore on, you lay curled up together, your head resting on his chest. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his voice quiet but filled with warmth.

“Hey, Y/N..." he says jokingly, "I didn't know if you noticed, but I kinda like you. A lot. Like, really like you,” his words half-laughing, half-serious.

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. “Mhm, really? I couldn't tell...” you replied, your voice just as soft. “You think we'll break the internet?”

Dominic laughed, his nerves finally dissipating. “Probably. But I don’t care. I want everyone to know.”

“Thank god,” you said, kissing him again. “So do I."

Dominic let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his lips curving into a grin that reached his eyes.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his heart beating a little easier now.

In that moment, words felt unnecessary. The quiet, the warmth between you, the unspoken understanding—it was enough. For the first time, Dominic wasn’t overthinking. He wasn’t worried about what came next.

With you in his arms, everything felt like it was exactly as it should be.

[lilac-5ky]

Roommates from Hell, pt.2 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 2: 2912

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the first part of the story! I'll do my best to update every 1-2 weeks and to keep things interesting. Feedback and suggestions are always welcome, and if anyone wants to be notified for updates, drop your name in the comments and I'll gladly tag your @.

Warning: Flashback, mentions of violence, blood, and sex toys (odd combo, I know)

2…9…1…2

Deft fingers punched in the numbers on the door’s keypad, a practiced crescendo of beeps and bops granting you access to your flat. Hesitant fingers that dropped to the handle, but refused to push forward, instead anchoring you there. Not yet, you mumbled, your eyes squeezing shut as soon as your forehead hit the frame.

Today has been a long day. So long that you barely had a moment to process the line of rapid escalations as it brought you to this very doorstep, with the ghost of your former scarf dangling from your neck. Some people would rather be glued to the little screens of their little phones than discipline their eight-year-old brats who, for some reason, thought playing tug of war with others’ scarves while they busted their gut to make a leaving to be of utmost entertainment.

Some people ought to keep their genes to themselves, you exasperated, untying the fabric from your neck and then balled it inside your bag, zipping the bunny across the seam.

The bunny…

Toji…

It was becoming a habit of yours to follow up his name with a sigh. Sometimes a sigh that meant “What am I going to do with you?” and others coming from a place of deep longing and frustration, meaning “What am I going to do without you?”

He said he’d be home after “snipping some loose ends,” which in his dictionary either referred to him breaking some poor woman’s heart, or quite literally stabbing some equally unfortunate man’s heart out of his body at his job’s demand. Depending on the plausibility of each scenario, you were given a minimum of four and a maximum of six hours to try and make sense of his actions and devise a plan to make this cohabitation work.

You licked your lips for the millionth time that day, gnawing at the chapped flesh with the edge of your teeth. No lip balm could aspire to salvage their sorry-ass state, aggravated by the low temperatures and honed by your continuous munching on them. You’d become so conscious of their existence, that it seemed as if you were trying hard to erase it before he had the chance to realize his goal of kissing them— even when that was a common goal shared by the both of you.

The taste of metal pooled in the hollow of your mouth, your teeth sinking a tad too deep. There wasn’t much reason to keep contemplating that which never happened and that which, perhaps, would never come. You wiped your shoes on the crooked doormat (was it always crooked?) and walked inside, your legs nearly giving out at the sight of two knees dangling from your beloved couch’s armrest.

“Woah, keep it down, won’t ya?”

None other than the voice of Toji reprimanded you as you screamed at the top of your lungs. His body was spilled across your couch, the expanse of muscles barely fitting upon the three azure-colored pillows. A soda —your soda— nested in his palm, while a bag of empty potato chips —your chips— lay on the kotatsu.

“What the hell are you doing here?!?” A trembling hand reached out to where your heart supposedly was, checking whether it was still in its place.

“Watching some travel show about Chikura,” he answered, unfazed and undisturbed. “You like abalone, right? Why don’t we-”

“I’m asking, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Oh, that,” Toji smirked, lowering the TV’s volume just when the travel host was about to devour a platter full of steaming hot seafood—mouthwatering enough to divert your attention for a second. “Sayaka let me in.”

“Sa-yaka…?”

“Flat hair, narrow eyes— kinda like Izumi Pinko. Walks around with a cane twice her size. Rings a bell?”

“Talking about Ogawa-san?” you asked, a caricature of your crabby landlady taking shape before your very eyes. “She never lets in anyone without a key, though. Last time I forgot mine, she acted as if she didn’t know me and went right past. Had to phone a locksmith,” you sighed, murmuring under your breath about the extravagant sum of money you were forced to pay. “How did you do it? Convince her to open up?”

“How else ya think?” His chin rotated leisurely atop his knuckles.

“You can’t be serious! Y-you fucked her?” Your eyes went wide like saucers, the notion sounding both feasible and surreal.

His smirk sharpened into a sly grin as he stood up, a slight slouch on his shoulders carrying him to your eye level. You couldn’t exactly look away from this proximity, so you began quietly analyzing him. The tight-fitting black tee and baggy training pants that greatly accentuated his hips and shoulders; his work outfit. The overgrown hair that curtained the dark circles of his eyes; evidence of a sleepless night. The absence of scent, not even of dirt, sweat, or struggle. He must’ve actually been working on a bounty, you deduced, your final thought of rationale as he invaded the last bit of personal space you’d left.

“You really think the worst of me, huh?” His tongue circled his lips, prompting yours to do the same as you sheepishly shook your head, the sultry sound of his voice as hypnotizing as his hooded green eyes were.

“You think I go ‘round spreading the legs of everything that moves?” Toji asked again, his tone growing more condescending by the second. “ ‘fraid that ain’t the case, princess. I’m not into goodwill. Don’t do things without merit, either. She asked who I was, got all perky when I said I’m moving in, and then handed me these,” he paused, throwing a bundle of creased envelopes at your feet.

You kneeled awkwardly, seeking the sender’s origin in each logo seal. Water company. Electricity company. Phone company. Insurance company. Even the bills from that one debit card Hinata issued in your name in case of an emergency.

“Could say I paid my way in,” he scoffed, his eyes searching for an inkling of appreciation that he failed to find in your stubborn squint.

“I could’ve handled these myself.”

“Thought you’d say this, that’s why I saved this one,” he tossed another, smaller yellow-tinted paper onto the pile. “Eviction notice. My, you have it quite hard, don’tcha?”

“I don’t need classes on financial handling from someone whose living conditions are entirely dependent on ‘the bimbo of the week’,” you snapped, rising back to your feet with the bills in hand.

Maybe things were a bit tighter these past few months than you’d accounted for, but you weren’t like him. Sooner or later, you paid all expenses through sheer work and effort— a concept foreign to him, who’d rather be thrown into the streets than save a dime.

You weren’t like Toji. Not one bit. You knew that if he hadn’t run into your landlady, you would have definitely paid all your debts off in a month’s time or two, even if that meant devolving your breakfast’s nutritional value to that of instant ramen. You could take care of yourself, just like you’d done for 14 years now. He had no right to interfere because, come next month, you’d—

But the overdue deadlines at the top of each paper spoke louder than your inner thoughts and bravado did. The next month would never come for you. Not in this house, at least.

Defeated, you unfolded the paper, straightening the creases your fingernails had helped create. You hated feeling this way— indebted. The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into just another transactional relationship with an expiration date dependent on the other’s wage.

“Thank you, and,” you mumbled, your stare hiking up his body and stopping at his chest —right about where the difference in your height manifested— “….sorry, I guess. Just thought that with the way you look, and all that-”

“The way I look…?” A winsome smile tugged at his dimples, his left hand weaving through his hair as if he were oblivious to how effortlessly attractive he appeared in his work clothes, every single crevice of his body visible under the little piece of fabric.

“N-never mind.” You tore your eyes away, cheeks flushing bright red at thoughts a friend shouldn’t be having. “How was work?”

“Pretty dead,” he shrugged, using the same hand to rub some of the tension around the crook of his neck. “Don’t see a real challenge rising until that Gojo kid hatches from his egg. Rest die like flies.”

As a regular person with about an average percentage of cursed energy running through your system, you had little understanding of the mystical world of Jujutsu and its sorcerers, all the information you had acquired being bits and pieces that Toji had shared with you over the years. He never went into too much detail about his job but never hid anything either. He killed sorcerers with the same ease he spread butter on his bread.

You really didn’t understand much, and perhaps the keywords “kills for a living” ought to ring an alarm or two, but an outsider like you who didn’t abide by their rules had no right judging those who broke them. Besides, with the way his family had disposed of him as if he were a chewed piece of gum stuck on the back of their sole, things weren’t as black and white as one would assume.

“Gojo, you say,” the name sounding awfully familiar on your tongue. “Is that one of the three big clans?”

Toji nodded, his arms folding over his chest. “Special grade when he ain’t grown any pubes yet,” he scoffed, voice twisting in an unnatural way that could have tricked you into thinking he was jealous of the young boy.

“Are you gonna kill him?”

His brows knitted together, clearly not expecting such bluntness. “Question is, can I? Answer being, for the right price,” the frown he wore subdued into a crooked smile. “maybe. Kid should fetch one good wad of cash. I’m sure many want the six eyes out of the picture.”

Six eyes?

“Just make sure you save some of it,” you mindlessly said, eyes dancing around the room for the first time since you’d entered the house.

There were no real signs of his presence. The duffel bag seemed to be nowhere in sight either. Only his shoes were left by the door right next to yours, a sign you’d completely missed upon entering.

“What happened to your things, by the way? Don’t see ‘em.”

“Took the liberty of sorting them out,” Toji said. “You had a lot more empty space than you made it sound earlier.”

Somehow that statement terrified you— not because you were some overbearing control freak who didn’t want others interfering with their stuff, but because you feared the misplaced items he might have found casually lying around, providing him with all the excuse he needed to tease you to an excruciatingly slow and shameful death.

You went on a parade through the rooms, Toji following in your steps like a well-trained puppy, letting you freely inspect the new “changes”.

In the living room, you spotted a pair of dumbbells lying by the window, heavy enough that when you tried to pick one of them up, it resulted in one loud, unintentional shriek as your feet were nearly crushed, much to Toji’s vile amusement. Then in the bathroom, you found a second toothbrush that shared the exact same color yours did, along with a black fuzzy towel and a men’s deodorant that was missing its lid. You’d have to get another cup for his toothbrush, you noted, and moved along, eventually making it to your apartment’s sole bedroom.

“Where are your clothes?” you asked, Toji nodding in your closet’s direction.

You opened the first door, finding a series of dark-colored shirts, sweaters, and cardigans hanging from the previously vacant racks. You didn’t wear much color yourself, but when comparing the disparity between his almost exclusively black side of the space and the creamier pastels that predominated yours, the clash in taste was indisputable.

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers through his clothes, stopping at the dark blue parka you’d gotten him for his 21st birthday. He wasn’t the type to keep gifts from women, but seeing he’d preserved yours in mint condition filled you with a strange sense of pride.

“Not bad,” you exclaimed, satisfied with how aptly his clothes were displayed until a new worry surfaced. “What about your underwear?”

He glanced toward the bottom drawer, his instep gently kicking against it. You weren’t too sure if that was necessary, and under different circumstances, you’d rather avoid such overt embarrassment, but this was your house first and foremost. Your closet, your drawer, and—

“The bottom drawer…?” The realization struck like a ton of bricks, your pupils widening and then trembling as a breath hitched up your throat, remaining there.

The bottom drawer is where you kept it, perhaps the only thing in this entire household that you’d rather he didn’t see, at the cost of your own life, even. A rabbit, whose little ears tapped in excitement every time it saw you. A rabbit vastly different from the ones that hopped around happily in fields or the one that was weaved through the zipper of your handbag. A rabbit that had kept you company in his place many nights and knew the sound of his name better than Toji himself did.

Sinking to your knees, you felt his shadow loom over you like the shadow of imminent death. You let go of that breath and yanked the drawer open, eyes squinting at the sight of neatly stacked black boxers, their size big enough to make you arch a brow, yet not big enough to completely conceal 6 inches of hot pink. You were safe.

“Looking for this?” A light buzz rang in your ear, your head tilting to meet Toji’s namesake.

“G-give it back!” You dived forward, gracelessly collapsing at his feet when he pulled it out of reach.

“Come and get it,” Toji retorted, wiggling it before your very eyes.

Piecing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you pounced at him, fingers locking around the silicone and his hand, while he refused to surrender, his thrilled expression revealing just how much he enjoyed the demand in your tone as you bossed him into handing back the vibrator.

“What will I get in return?”

“Wha— why would you get anything?” You gritted your teeth, stumbling forward as he dragged you to him.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he shook his forefinger playfully. “Finders keepers, losers weepers. If ya really want it, better compensate me first. Oh, look, it has multiple speeds, huh….” he said semi-impressed, revving up the rabbit’s switch to its second and third speeds.

“…What do you want?” You practically begged, seeking a way out of this humiliation.

“Now we talking,” Toji smirked, barely restraining himself from ruffling the hair of the ferocious, albeit cute, beast that attacked him. “2912. What do the numbers mean? Tried your birthday first, but seems like you do have a few brain cells in there,” he tapped at your temple with his free hand, frustration pooling in your eyes. “Then your mom’s death anniversary, your sis’ birthday, that brat’s too— even mine, but no good.

“So, what’s 2912 to you? Indulge me, and I’ll let you have it.”

2912, or more accurately, 29/12. It didn’t surprise you that he didn’t remember. After all, it wasn’t an important date, just another winter’s day from many, many years ago. A day that was all but erased under the thick blanket of snow as it engulfed your tender memories.

A heavy sigh parted your lips, and at that moment, you knew you’d already lost.

“You really wanna know?”

It was the 27th of December.

The 27th morning of a month whose sole notable event was the week-long blizzard that’d condemned the entire nation to a period of absolute and unfaltering inertia. Well, as unfaltering as the in-between downpours let it be, snow washing over the streets in a diluted mixture of ice and mud every two days— streets turning into a dangerous minefield, and hospital beds quickly filling up with broken-boned smarty pants who thought wandering out and about in the heart of winter would be as inconsequential as those dull days were.

You were one of those idiots. Not quite, but you were on your way to join their ranks, every step you took across the frozen pavements of Tokyo threatening to leave you with a bad case of a sprained ankle, or worse, a cracked skull. You regretted wearing those worn-out boots today of all days, but then again, your wardrobe choices were limited to whatever clothing you’d grown out of, and the clothes your mother left behind.

This old suede pair was hers, too. A gift from back when your house was still open to crowds and birthday parties— when it wasn’t just an empty carcass of termite-eaten joists and web-infested corners that could barely welcome, let alone host, the final of its residents: yourself.

Returning to the reason why you’d chosen today as the day to stride across Shibuya —a thermos of soothing Butajiru soup gripped tightly between your mitten-clad palms and a backpack full of advertising fliers for your afternoon job attached to your back— and consequentially, the reason why you sported your mother’s beloved shoes: you had a job interview. Your first non-canceled interview in over two months since your personal inertia began when you were suddenly and unjustifiably laid off.

Those were tough times. The entire country was dipped in despair over the biggest economic recession they’d known. Left and right, people had their jobs snatched from within their grasp in the name of meek excuses such as cost reduction, or merging and buyouts, or even staff redundancy, and who could blame those small enterprise owners, really?

In any case, the cost of running your previous employer’s rathole of a convenience store might have been reduced, but your living expenses weren’t, and the supplementary funds the state provided were running dry. No one wanted to hire an inexperienced, uninsured high schooler. It was too much of a gamble, especially when the contenders were overqualified college graduates desperate enough to work menial jobs for the same breadcrumbs a part-timer would.

You were at your wit’s end. Out of luck and starved for something other than vending machine onigiri. Thirsty for a life you’d probably never be able to obtain. But today wasn’t about wallowing in self-pity. No, today was the day you’d take your first step toward normality and dignity. Today, you marched proudly in your mother’s most prized possession, and today you felt her comforting scent linger in the breeze, giving you the much-needed push to achieve what you’d set out to do.

Live. That was the final request that left her lips, and that was exactly what you were planning to do. You’d live. No matter what, against all odds, you would live.

The headlights at the bustling intersection shone a brilliant green as the herd of sharply dressed businessmen and casually dressed students on their day off pushed forward like a troop of toy soldiers, sweeping you past Shibuya River, where the crystallized waters from below its bridge stilled your grimacing reflection.

It’d been so long since the last time you’d genuinely smiled that your facial muscles barely remembered how to. It looked awkward and forced. Foreign. You’d practiced your introduction days ahead, but that damn smile stood in the way. If only there was a “smiles for dummies” playbook, though you doubted it’d help. Those without a reason to smile could only second-guess the happiness of those who were blessed with it.

As if to further test your theory, today’s misfortune came pedaling right in your direction, a hasty biker knocking the thermos off your hands and onto the water with a faint “sorry” echoing in his stead. You ducked over the handrail, spotting the silver shine a couple of meters away from the river’s brink. You sighed in relief, grateful that the impact hadn’t shattered the ice and that you still had about 45 minutes to catch your interview— more than enough time for you to carry out your flask’s impromptu rescue operation.

You walked over to the bridge’s sideline, where, in place of stairs, an overgrown cherry tree cast its shadow. This was far from sensible, but the cliff wasn’t steep enough to dissuade you. You looped your scarf around a leaning branch and began your descent, the non-existent friction between your tattered soles and the slippery cement sending you to meet your maker as you tumbled down the slope and hit the ground. Shit.

Once you were done lamenting your sheer idiocy, your faulty shoes, the tree branch, the weather forecast, and every Shinto deity’s name you could remember off the top of your head, you pushed yourself onto your knees, carefully rotating each ankle around itself. Not broken. Thank those aforementioned gods you cursed, or else you’d never be able to afford the medical bills.

You shook the snow off your clothes and stood up, stretching both arms over your head, only to realize your blunder had become a lonesome spectator’s object of amusement. The man —assuming that the creature behind you was a man and not some wild beast with the way his jacket fluffed over his skull— was bent in half, knees to his chest, and arms coiled around, the sole distinctive trait that of his sparkling green eyes zeroing in on your plainer orbs.

You could have sworn you heard a chuckle, too, but you weren’t about to start a fight with some unhinged bum at the bottom of a bridge— not when you were one missed bill away from sharing his fate.

Deciding to temporarily forsake his presence, you located the now broken branch and attempted to fish your bottle out, moving as close to the ice as you could. Desperate lunges pushed the thermos further in, your hold on the wood relaxing with each failed attempt until you barely had a grip.

“Excuse me!” you turned at your last resort. “Hi, um… could you please help me out here? I dropped this into the water, and it’s really important I get it back, but my arms can’t reach and the ice is so thin and slippery I just might fall.”

An uncomfortable chuckle failed to appease its tough crowd, with the man remaining lost in his thoughts, his eyes blinking slower than traffic lights during rush hours. It seemed like you’d found the worst person to exercise your communication skills with.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Shut up.”

It was your turn to blink in surprise, your jaw dropping at the man’s barking. You were too shocked to be offended and too offended to question if it was you he addressed, but his next sentence left no real room for misunderstanding.

“I said, shut the fuck up and take it elsewhere. You were the one who dropped it. If it was that important to you, then shoulda taken better care of it instead of avalanching your way down here and disturbing my peace.”

Clapping your hands over your agape mouth, you muttered an apology and faced away from him, coming to your senses a minute later when you realized you weren’t in the wrong. Sure, he could be dealing with some lachrymose life-shattering situation you knew nothing about, but that wasn’t an excuse for him to act like a complete jerk to a fellow stranger in need.

You weren’t sure why you held back from flipping him off. Maybe you’d accepted that dealing with douchebags was going to become part of your new reality as a service worker, or maybe it was because you really didn’t want any trouble with a guy who looked this intimidating even while seated. Either way, you whipped out your trusty branch again and neared the brink, this time using it as a cane to help you tread the frozen waters and snatch your thermos.

You didn’t even get a chance at a victorious cheer when you felt the ice shatter beneath your feet, eager to swallow you into the depths of its bottomless abyss. Or that’s what would have happened if the river didn’t cap at 2 meters, and if a hand didn’t yank you by the scruff of your neck, hurling you back to the shore as if you weighed no more than a snowflake.

“The hell you think you are doing? Got a death wish or something?” the brass voice of your savior accused, belonging to a much more pleasant and youthful face than one would have expected.

The boy was more or less your age, about a head taller with broad shoulders and a toned physique his baggy clothes undermined— much stronger than your average high-schooler, judging by the sheer strength he’d flung your body with. Messy raven black hair rained down to his ears, sloppily chopped into shape by their owner himself. Eyes as green as a thousand springs gone by, and as fiery as the blazing fury scorching them. The only discord in his features was that of a scar on the right side of his lips, begrudgingly moving with each profanity he spat.

Your second apology came as a knee-jerk reaction to his outburst, encouraged by the temporal trance his good looks had subjected you to. You wouldn’t say you had a type, and even if you did, you doubted that a no-good, rude bridge inhabitant was it. However, the only way for you to tear your gaze off of him was to physically force yourself away. The guy murmured something under his breath and moved back to his original spot, arms dangling over his spread thighs.

You were unsure of what to do. The time for your interview was closing in, and no one guaranteed he wouldn’t rip the vocal cords off your throat if you tried to verbally thank him. You had a very bad feeling about this guy, and perhaps you should have listened to your gut rather than nullifying the distance with a peace offering.

“Here,” you prodded a spare cup of soup into the empty space between you.

He arched a brow at your gesture, his irritation gradually melting into curiosity and then acceptance as he brought the cup to his lips and took a hesitant sip.

“Hmm,” he hummed, gulping down some more after he’d made sure you weren’t trying to poison him.

You expected something else to follow, but it seemed like his outburst exhausted his vocabulary. You could always ask what he thought of it, but the thought alone was as scary as going for another suicide dive. So you said nothing, and he did the same. Just two strangers who barely tolerated each other sharing a moment of silence in the snowy landscape.

A short while later, the boy shoved the cup toward you and dug his hand in his jacket’s front pocket, dropping about six crumpled ten-thousand yen bills at your feet.

“For the soup,” he explained as if the notion of spending such an extravagant sum on half a cup of pork loin soup made sense.

“Are you outta your mind?” You pushed the bills back at him, lest your greed take over. “How much do you think this cost to make?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, no real hurry to reclaim his cash.

Your initial impression was completely false. No bum would ever wave ten-thousand bills around as if they were nothing. No, this guy ought to at least be some troubled conglomerate heir that’d run away from his five-bedroom mansion.

“I’m sure you don’t know how dangerous this neighborhood is,” you said, placing your hand against your heart. “But as a born and raised local, allow me to say that if you keep flaunting wads of cash in people’s faces so recklessly, it won’t be long before you get mugged. It’s your lucky day you ran into me and not some sleazy money grabber, but trust me, not every day’s lucky, and not everyone’s as nice.”

Something about what you said must have resonated with him, considering his frown cracked into a simper.

“I’d like to see them try,” he spoke in a cocky tone that reeked of confidence. “How much for seconds then?”

“Not for sale,” you answered, throwing the thermos inside your backpack.

His weight shifted in your direction, chin balancing against his elbow. “Why not?”

“You see, I’m on my way to a job interview. Figured if I don’t cut it, then the soup will,” quickly adding, “It’s my trump card.”

“What a dumb plan,” he sneered. “If ya wanna bribe someone, better make an offer they can’t refuse. Couple of these work like a charm.”

He waved the money again, successfully drawing your interest when you noticed tiny splotches of red on one of the bills. Blood.

Picking up on the change in your expression, he hurriedly stuffed the cash inside his pocket, his thumbs sticking out in a relaxed grip so as to hide his discomfort. The air grew heavy once more, albeit for a different reason.

Every guess you’d made regarding this guy’s identity clashed with the next one. He was rude, but he’d jumped to your rescue. He looked unkempt yet strikingly handsome. He’d taken refuge under a bridge but was damn loaded. A walking (more like seated) contradiction of a man that intrigued you in more ways than he repulsed you.

“So, what are you doing out here? Did you also fall from up there?” You chuckled nervously while pointing upward.

He smiled.

“That’s a pretty old-school pickup line, if ya ask me.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Your chest pounded against your fleece jacket, hands quick to dispute him. “Did something happen? Why did you end up here?”

He shook his head.

“Did you run away from home?”

He shook his head again.

“Did you get into a fight with someone?”

He thought about shaking his head a third time, but instead, he opted for a groan and hissed about how he should have let you drown.

Your tongue embarrassed you yet again, as you mumbled an apology and cowered in your corner. For some reason, you couldn’t stop apologizing to him, and if that was enough to frustrate you, then it was definitely enough to annoy him. Maybe the time to leave had come. You’d done your part in thanking him, and it was really none of your business to pry into his sad character backstory.

“Well then. It was nice knowing you, and all. Hope you have a Happy New Year’s and a nice life, and let’s never see each other again for as long as we-”

“What if I told you I just killed someone?”

The blood in your veins froze for a reason separate from the cold. You were left staring at him with wide-open eyes and a wide-open mouth that refused to form anything other than a soundless “What?!”

“Thought so,” he scoffed as if he expected the outcome, sorrow lingering in his voice. “Go away if ya don’t wanna end up the same way. I’m still getting the hang of it, and I’m afraid it’d hurt more than drowning.”

But you didn’t leave. Even when that little voice of reason thrashed and begged for you to seize the opportunity and get the fuck away from this place, your legs refused to take another step. Instead, you settled back upon the snowy blanket and stilled your gaze on his face, watching a glimmer of something tune in the green of his eyes.

“W-Who was it?” You feigned calmness.

“Does it matter?” he shrugged.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Does it really matter?” he sighed, reconsidering his answer. “Dunno. Money, I guess. Not as if I had a personal grudge or anything. Didn’t even know the dude up until three days ago. Took him out with a single bullet to his brain. T’was instant since he didn’t move. Painless, too.” He tried to humanize his actions.

You weren’t entirely sold on his story, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that made him a murderer and you a witness to his crime. Worse, if you didn’t rat on him, it made you an accomplice, and as far as you were concerned, neither was less illegal than the other.

Your hands cupped your mouth completely as you pretended to blow hot air, the reality being that you didn’t want to spew anything too backhanded before thinking things through. Oddly, it all made sense. The reason he sat down there like a puppy kicked by his owners. His devil-may-care attitude and rude comments that meant to throw you off. The blood on the bills and the stain on the hem of his jacket that you’d previously overlooked.

That was all the incriminating evidence one needed to possibly sentence him, and yet you sensed no real danger in his presence. Only a deep sadness that stemmed from his lifeless eyes, making you believe that his so-called victim was none other than himself. He looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in God knows how long, the light in his eyes reduced to a murky shade of jade now that everything was laid bare.

There was so much you didn’t know about this boy, his name included. But you knew that look of despair all too well. If it was because of money, then maybe, just this once, you wouldn’t mind giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“How much did you make?” You lowered your palms.

Your question surprised him more than he thought possible, and his stupefied expression was a telltale sign of that. He flipped both pockets inside out and let the money fall onto the snow, revealing twice the amount he’d held before— a total of 120.000 yen.

“Minus a grand. Felt hungry after,” he admitted.

“Must be nice… With that amount of money, I could have rice to last me until the end of the year.”

“You’d kill for rice…?”

Glancing at his face, you couldn’t help yourself from snorting. You were both too deep inside the twilight zone to be questioning each other’s motives.

“Why act surprised? People like us do all sorts of things to get out of our predicaments, don’t we?” you asked, deciding there were more things you had in common than things that divided you. “Is ‘just money’ a better reason than rice?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “But if I were you, I’d get myself a pair of boots that ain’t a death trap of its own. Gotta be a special kind of idiot to wear crappy shoes in the snow.”

“These were my mother’s!” you objected, and he smirked. “What about you? Where do you plan on spending all that money?”

“Roppongi probably. Or Kabukicho. Heard the right price fetches you the right type of fun there.”

He couldn’t be serious. Those were two of the most renowned bad districts in the history of bad districts. Drugs, gambling, prostitution— you name it.

“How old are you again?”

“Older than you,” he childishly retorted.

“What’s your name?”

“So you can snitch?” His tongue wet the scar below his bottom lip. “Toji.”

“Last name?”

He contemplated his answer for a bit before proudly stating that he didn’t have one —that he didn’t need one— and then he asked you the same.

“Y/N.” You smiled faintly. “I do have a last name, but doubt the one who gave it wants me to have it. Would’ve asked it back if it had any real value.”

“So we are two fuck-ups,” he— Toji, declared.

“I suppose we are.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t heard but felt through the eyes of two kindred spirits entirely content with each other’s presence. Ever since your mother passed, you lived in a sphere separate from other people. Your classmates and those who tried to be your friends could afford the luxury of sharing takoyaki on a school day and going karaoke singing the next. They could attend field trips and leave memories on a string of Polaroid frames.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. There wasn’t a single moment in your life when you hadn’t thought about the cost of milk and the value of one-plus-one deals you convinced yourself you didn’t need. Such were the concerns you had at seventeen. Not boys, no friendships, no university entrance exams, no nothing. You couldn’t afford the price tag of a dream, let alone a tomorrow. You lived for today and for making ends meet, so how could someone like you ever aspire to be understood? How could you ever view yourself as something other than the zeros at the bottom of your meager paycheck?

Your self-exile had no room for others, yet somehow, this foul-mouthed stranger had barged his way in and given you a moment that you couldn’t price. A moment that neither loan sharks nor the bank could ever steal. A moment of your youth.

The thick fingers of a calloused hand came to tap at your knee softly, making you wonder whether you’d missed something during your short period of contemplation.

“When’s the interview?” Toji asked.

“Uhm.” You rolled your sleeve to check your watch. “Ten minutes? There’s still time; the place’s right around the corner.”

“Somethin’ tells me getting your ass over there will take longer than that.” Suddenly, the hand that was on your leg hovered above your head, prompting you to grab it as Toji towered over you. “Let’s go.”

“You coming with?”

“You think I’d rather sit down here like some bridge troll that reels in defenseless damsels in distress?”

You were tempted to answer “yes” to see his reaction, but he resumed talking before you could utter a word. “Won’t say it again. Let’s go.”

And with that, you followed Toji to the other end of the bridge, where the stairs you previously failed to locate mocked you with every little squeak your heels produced, until you stood back at the top of civilization, finding it, unsurprisingly, the same as you’d left it. Thoroughly white and eerily quiet.

Just as you thought your ways would part, Toji took your hand in his rather forcefully and picked up a steady gait that you were made to keep up with, your shoes leaving deep imprints in the snow.

He held your hand all the way to the diner, and although you were truly curious as to why he did that, you didn’t dare ask. You walked side by side in silence, occasional fleeting gazes catching his warm breath clashing with the cold. It was then that you realized how warm his palm felt, despite it being all bare. Warm, strong, and certain. So this is what holding a guy’s hand feels like, you giddily mused.

By the time you reached the front door, you were more reluctant to let go than you’d been to grab his hand, thinking that this was the first and last time the two of you were saying goodbye. Sweat made your fingers slippery. You were anxious. You slid your mittens off your fingers and, on a whim, pressed them tight against his palms, making him the recipient of the first gift you’d ever given. He shot the pink-colored wool a funny look —maybe because the prospect of him accepting such a girly-looking accessory puzzled him— and then lingered for a moment or two before he turned around and waved at you over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you gonna wish me good luck?” You asked when the distance between you began to increase.

“You won’t need it,” you heard him say. “The soup will do.”

And with those final words exchanged, you traded the frigid cold for the diner’s artificial heat and the presence of a prospective friend for that of your boss-to-be.

Just like Toji predicted, you didn’t need luck, and you didn’t need that lukewarm soup either. The man hired you almost as fast as he saw you, sternly announcing that you start come Monday. You thanked him from the bottom of your heart and ran back outside, searching through the various white-painted buildings for that stubborn hint of black you’d not too long ago parted with— which you quickly spotted a couple of alleyways ahead.

“I got the job! You hear me, Toji?” You yelled in utter glee, sensibility alone keeping you from springing upward like a jack-in-the-box. “I’m not a fuck-up anymore; I got it! I got the job!”

You weren’t even sure whether that shadow really belonged to him and whether he’d actually made sense of all your frantic cries, but maybe if you’d hushed a little, then you could have heard a distant voice chiming, “I knew you would.”

It was the 27th of December when we first met, but it was on the 29th that I fell in love with you— the scruffy boy with the snow-laced hair and emptied pockets who ordered the cheapest fries off the menu as my company’s fee.

You had your answer locked and loaded— a trigger waiting to be pulled. A clear shot. One bullet was all it’d take to end it. One word, and the farce you called friendship would fizzle right then and there. A sadistic impulse uncoiled deep within your stomach, hitching up your throat like a vile serpent of temptation spurring your chaste tongue to commit the greatest sin imaginable.

I hate being your friend. I don’t want to do this anymore. Do you have any idea how hard it is?

All synonyms for the same emotion. A gut-wrenching, soul-crushing, and above all, self-destructive unrequited love that made your heart clench at the mere sight of him, pound at the sound of his voice, and hammer at the ghost of his touch. If you could reach deep within your chest and cut that useless thing off the strings that held it in its cavity, you certainly would. You’d hand it over to him and gladly watch him stomp on it with the biggest smile contorting the final expression on your face. You wanted to rid yourself of this pointless emotion, but you knew very well that to destroy yourself meant to destroy him.

The 18-year-old Toji that held your hand on a cold winter’s day as if it were the most precious thing to him. The 20-year-old Toji that came along to meet the sister and nephew you didn’t know you had. The 22-year-old Toji that said he was proud of you when you paid off your parents’ house’s mortgage. The 24-year-old Toji that came to your graduation from state college with blood-stained lilies in his hand, again letting slip how proud he was. The 26-year-old Toji that didn’t hesitate to knock the teeth right out of a handsy prick’s jaw, spending his first and last night in a holding cell. The Toji from the last ten years of your life that never strayed too far away from your sight and always managed to return in time for lunch.

Standing in front of the 28-year-old Toji, you felt more apologetic than ever, wishing that you wouldn’t have let your love for him fester into something so selfish and consuming. Because if Toji left, then you’d still have your sister and her family, but if you left, Toji would have none.

And that was why you could never tell him what that day meant. It was impossible to speak of it with any less fondness than the one depicted in your memories, and as dense as Toji could be at times, he was no idiot. So rather than giving him the answer he thought himself to seek, you retracted your hand and took a step back, forcing the meekest smile your guilty conscience could muster.

“How about an offer you’d never refuse?”

tags: @absoluteindulgence

[gabriel-rorke]

Glitchy Rorke au part 2

.. they took the disk out; it was steaming hot and overheated the consol, this is why you don't buy cheap games from eBay.

they attempted to contact the seller a day after, they let them know the issue and all they responded with was

":) maybe you're playing it wrong"

and then they blocked them

sigh, looks like they're stuck with this game that doesn't work, probably a creepypasta or a pirate, and the seller won't cooperate. Google has nothing because nothing pops up when you put in "Call of Duty Ghosts glitch" nothing besides hacks and stuff for multiplayer.

they decide to clean off the disk with premium cd cleaner you found in a cabinet, Afterall, maybe the old owner just used it so much it started to scratch the disk and break the game.

they throw the clean disk back into the console, if this doesn't work it might be something wrong in the console and should take it to a repair shop. After throwing the game back in, it doesn't start back on the title screen with all the options, it starts in the middle of the campaign, but it's not glitchy anymore!

until the characters just stopped moving, they weren't even at a cut scene

it started to glitch out again, Rorke specifically, his character model started to move weirdly, and the sound was gone, the other characters stayed still but they weren't glitching, Rorke had rgb effects around him as the character model twitched and freaked out. The game was broken.

while walking over to take the disk out of the console, the character... started banging on the screen, the glass starting to crack as the player backed up quick, to stunned to take the disk out. IT had gained consciousness and wanted out, its hand busted through the screen, glass shattered as the glitchy hand desperately tried to latch onto something, the player quickly lunged toward the consol, desperately trying to unplug the thing form the wall as the hand kept trying to grab onto something. anything. It wanted out.

after a minute (that felt like 30) the consol was unplugged and the arm faded back into black pixels. the broken tv's glass was on the floor and tv stand, the innards of the tv could also be seen, there was a large hole through the whole tv... the tv was soon also unplugged.

after that the player was too scared to go back online for the day.

The next day around 12:49 player decided to open up their laptop, it took longer to turn on than usual. When the computer was turned on the player could have sworn there was fist flying at them through the screen, it made the player jump back and pupils dilate... what the fuck... after catching their breath they unlocked the computer, almost puking when the background was replaced with Rorke. It was the photo of him staring at the player at the end of the game, eyes boring into the soul of the player, but there was something off... his eyes were bloodshot and tired. After blinking a few times, it went back to the normal photo, a picture of the player's cat. After forgetting about what they were going to do online they shut the laptop and put it in a drawer... rushing to the bathroom to splash ice water on their face... it has to be fake... this has to be fake... it's a virus... or something!!!

The player jumped nearly jumped out of their skin when they got a call... the phone was taken from the pocket... it was an unknown number, but the background of the call was glitchy... the player let out a frustrated scream this fucking thing was taking over their life... the player answered

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS...?!?" the voice was paranoid, frustrated, and nervous. there was no answer just 3 beeps and then the thing on the other side hung up...

the player is paranoid. They started getting notification's, a lot of them.

one from Messanger

2 from Snapchat

1 from Instagram

1 from Tumblr

2 from Discord

1 from Virus protection.

As the players phone blew up, they shut it off in fear, every notification and vibrate like stab to the gut. It was unbearable. the phone turned back on, the screen glitchy and cracking just a bit. The player, with tear filled eyes picked up the phone and looked at the notifications.

1 new message

Gabriel has added you as a friend. Say hi!

Gabriel sent you a message

1 new notification from Tumblr

2 new messages on Discord

New virus detected!

threat level: dangerous

The player sniffled and opened Messenger.

there wasn't any text, but an image... an image of the same photo of Rorke with the bloodshot, tired eyes.

then the player opened Snapchat...

the same image.

the Bitmoji in the right corner of the screen was glitching out.

player had a new massage on Tumblr...

the same image just more glitchy.

Discord wouldn't open, it kept crashing.

Virus protection was glitching out and crashed as well as the player tried to protect their phone.

after it closed all the apps were deleting themselves, the icons were glitchy and shaky. The background had set itself to the photo of Rorke.

FUCK

the player quickly put the phone in their pocket and ran back to their room. Slamming the door and throwing open the draw the computer was in making it slide forward slightly. There had to be a way to fix this

Player unlocked the computer all of the applications and files were gone except for one.

Gabriel.exc

Virus protection was the only notification received before that got silenced and deleted to. The player let out a choked sob as they opened the file. It needed to be deleted. The same photo, its eyes still bloodshot, tired. The image was burning itself into the players mind, every little pixel. After exiting the file, the wallpaper had also set itself as the image. Player is going insane.

It needs to be taken to a device repair store.

-------~--------~----------~---------~--------~---------~----------~------

Hey! with the success of part 1 of glitch Rorke here is part 2! part 3 probably won't come for a little while (I'm sorry for starving you guys)

Just wanted to let you guys know I really really really appreciate suggestions, anons, likes, reblogs, ect!

I'm super happy you guys like the fic I wrote randomly for fun while needing to do my animation project:3 !!!

I love you guys!- Milo <3

ps. I might have some bigger projects involving this later on!

[mariacallous]

Ticketmaster has a dream. A dream that one day, it will be “pleased to have partnered with” your child’s school, making it “easier for you to buy tickets” to the nativity play. Which will henceforth be known as the nativity experience. But listen – Ticketmaster wants to make the whole process run more smoothly, freeing you up to connect with the performers you love (your kids) while being “gifted” the paper cup that forms part of the package in these platinum seats (the tiny chairs from the classroom).

No, none of the standard seat tickets are still available. But you can upgrade to the ultimate VIP package, meaning you have access to the Bethlehem lounge (the reception reading corner) an hour before the event. If you want to experience magic this Christmas, do remember to clear all cookies, have only one tab open, and prepare nevertheless to be ejected from the queue four hours in after being accused of being a computer, by a computer.

So yes: Ticketmaster. After the Oasis tickets horror show last weekend, the row about the ticketing website this week developed into such a horror show that you could probably sell tickets to it. And if you could, Ticketmaster surely would, having previously handled ticketing for such fan-facing events as the crucifixion and French Revolution guillotinings (mandatory purchase from one of our knitting concessions). Sadly, the Competition and Markets Authority (CMA) doesn’t seem to recognise that rich heritage, opting to launch an investigation into Ticketmaster over Oasis ticket sales, “including how so-called ‘dynamic pricing’ may have been used”. Sarcastic scare-quotes: the CMA’s own.

I’m not saying the ticketing websites are quite simply the worst people in the world, even though I’d quite like to provoke Ticketmaster’s lawyer into writing a cease-and-desist letter listing much worse people from the 20th and 21st centuries. Listen, I already love this notional lawyer. Like a lot of people who draw a salary in his stratum of reality-laundering, he possibly tells himself he works in respectable business, but may be better off informing his parents he works in a more popular trade, like puppy-drowning or journalism.

Now, there are some companies in this world of ours that love to be talked about. But a feature of ticketing companies is that they don’t want anyone talking about them, because if people are talking, the talking is always bad. Nobody goes through a ticket purchase these days and wants to sing its praises. They get to the final scene of an absolute ring quest of an attempt to see an artist/show/ballgame they like, are faced with the last-minute news that, actually, their ticket is going to cost nearly three times as much as they thought, cycle through the five stages of grief while a little counter threatens to time them out, decide to pay the extra, and are left staring at the success screen thinking: “Fucking Ticketmaster.”

Obviously, it’s better if they say this on their own. Unfortunately for Ticketmaster, more and more people are saying it out loud, some of whom are the UK culture secretary, others of whom are the CMA, and the last of whom is the US attorney general, who in May launched a lawsuit against LiveNation-Ticketmaster seeking to break it up on grounds of “monopolisation and other unlawful conduct that thwarts competition in markets across the live entertainment industry”.

What its Department of Justice detractors don’t love about the firm is its ability to dictate to every part of the entertainment supply chain, from venues to artists to promoters, and that’s before you get into its role in the resale market. Unsurprisingly, this is not the vibe you get from the Ticketmaster website, which is a masterclass in that very particular self-pitying corporate tone. “The fees we charge,” it quavers, “are often the only revenue we get for making sure you can get the tickets to the events you love.” Oh no! Who’ll spare a thought for poor old Ticketmaster, simply trying to connect fans with their beloved artists, and surviving only on the coins thrown into its begging bowl? Counterpoint: this is a vast international firm headquartered in Beverly Hills, currently worth an estimated $22bn.

That’s enough cash to make you the proud licensee of some ultra-high-end euphemisms. “Processing fee”, “service fee”, “delivery fee” – truly it has 100 ways of saying “because-we-can fee”. If that feels like you accepting a wage for your job, then charging your boss a supplementary “doing my job” fee each time you feel you’re doing your job … try it, see how you get on! The fact is, Ticketmaster fees can be as high as 75% of the base price of the ticket. Arguably the worst euphemism of them all is “dynamic pricing”, which sounds buzzy and energetic, and something we’d all like to be involved in, until you realise that it means the £148 ticket you queued for hours for now costs £355 – and your favourite artist agreed it all via their management. Whatever they may now say (“Shut up”, in the case of Liam Gallagher.)

In the end, like most things with the word “experience” tacked on to them these days, the “fan experience” has become a soul-swallowing submission to getting rinsed and having to look grateful. But with so many hares now running on Ticketmaster and the practices of the wider ticketing industry, it would be nice to think we might be closer to better regulation in the interests of the customer. Record numbers of fans would buy tickets to that.

[lollybliz]

Jesus fuck

*gibbers vaguely*

;^;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; ow

History, Repeating (But Xiao dies instead)

Similarly to an earlier prompt that I wrote, wherein Aether dies during the 100th Vision acquisition - I decided to write an alternative ending where Xiao does not survive the events of chapter 13. If you would like some hurt/no comfort, this is for you. <3

Keep reading

[era404-skib]

(Somewhat silly) Idea on an Alliance & Toilets vs Mothership Battle

So, before I lay out the battle concept, I need to state one theory I believe:

The Mothership is incapable of directly harming others. I believe it serves as a massive power bank / core for the Astros, hence why it didn't teleport in instantaneously like every other Astro - the amount of energy it holds is so high that it takes a while to transport that. Ramming isn't an option either because of its long teleportation time, and even if it could ram, it would risk cracking its defenses, releasing its energy and nuking itself from the force of the impact. Biting is probably not an option either as (a) we've never seen an Astro extend its neck as far as I can remember and (b) it would risk someone like TTV slashing off the neck and killing it. It's able to defend itself by the soldiers it powers and the heavy armour it has.

Now, for the battle concept. Here's where the silly part comes in: I'd like to briefly recount the Milky Way Wishes segment of Kirby Super Star Ultra.

To summarise it very shortly, Kirby has to go through some different planets to reach NOVA, this big machine thingamajig that grants whoever activates it a wish. Right as Kirby is about to make his wish to resolve an ongoing issue, Kirby is knocked to the side by Marx (no, not Karl) and his wish is stolen and Marx becomes fucking God in an effort to try and destroy Kirby. Kirby destroys NOVA from the core out because jokes on Marx, KIRBY is God, and he launches Marx into NOVA and then both it and Marx explode.

Now where this relates back to skib:

I want to see a scenario where TTV teleports TSpeaker back and TCam either escapes or TTV comes back for him. All the non-titan Alliance and Toilet members call a truce - so basically every single standard soldier and toilet they can fit with the Matriarchs, Elites and mutants leading the way as they invade the mothership through an opened door. They KNOW there's some sort of trap inside, otherwise the surrounding Astro troops wouldn't have let them in so easily - but desperate times call for desperate measures. Episode ends on their entry, with the door dramatically shutting behind them, engulfing the army in darkness.

The next episode shows us a POV from TTV - a small camera was attached on each of his little spiky things at the top of his screen so the viewers can look around the streamed footage from all angles (think of it like the 360° view on Google Streetview and Google Earth). TTV is seen teleporting TSpeaker to the Speaker Base (finally showing us what it looks like too :D) and comes back for TCam but can't find him anywhere. Suddenly, GT flies in, followed shortly by the containers attached to the helicopter skibidis. GT was searching for the G-Squad (they went in the mothership alongside the Aliiance) and a confrontation nearly breaks out between the two when TTV receives a message from the TV Scientist telling him to ally up with GT. VERY begrudgingly, the two form a temporary truce, as TTV defends the containers whilst GT breaks them open and attaches his "arms" and "legs" (moreso claws but whatever).

The next episode opens back on the mothership door shutting and the combined army being engulfed in darkness. Suddenly, there's a jolt as Polycephalies rips open the door, chucks it away without a care and jumps in. In the quick upgrades and repairs he received he has a massive expansion of screens and speakers that can extend from his back. Polycephalies and every single camera and TV in the army shine their lights as bright as they can, revealing a very large inner system of the Mothership. They begin to journey through the darkness as they discover zones that vastly differ from eachother - some are rusted, scrappy and are full of spikes and other hazards whilst others are clean and well kept but have extremendefense systems in place. Gradually, the population of the army begins to whittle down.

The next episode cuts to TTV and GT once more (now from a POV cam, not a TTV spike cam), GT finally assembling his upgrades and leaping into battle. Suddenly, a large metal structure teleports in at TTV's feet. TTV gets the memo and picks it up. He is able to twist one of his arms and takes it off safely, attaching the new one in place while hanging the detached regular one on his back. The POV looks at his tablet and flickers onto a livestream from inside the arm - showing Scientist TV having the time of his life controlling it. The arm powers on and begins to revolve at extreme speed - just as a large astro comes rushing towards TTV at lightning speed, which is quickly matches by the built in reaction speed of the arm, which drills into the Astro, leaving a cloud of scrap metal and dust. The arm turns into a trident and curves at the edges slightly - before stabbing the Mothership's spinning ring at a perfect angle. The rapid spinning comes to a stop and the Mothership can no longer fly - so TTV sets her down on the ground, only because there's Alliance members in there, vice versa with GT. In the same moment, multiple bomber Astros try to rush into TTV at that same instant speed with acid - but the reaction speed of the arm is too fast for them. It turns into an Entrapper Astro arm and picks them up before hurling them at the Astros nearby. All the Astros in the region have been destroyed, so TTV and GT stand by, remaining vigilant.

The next episode cuts back to the army inside the bunker, its numbers slowly dwindling. Suddenly, dozens of tiny Astros appear - and start knocking out the army one by one at rapid speeds - too fast for anyone to kill. The G-Squad, Matriarchs, Polycephalies, Elite TV, all the other TV's and the most units and toilets each could carry are the only ones that manage to speed off and shut a large door. The army is now faced with a large core area - many astro troops and defense systems await them and guard the core. I couldn't be arsed to write a full fight scene so just pretend they managed to maneuver around the defense systems and killed the Astros (perhaps Elite TV controlled them and made them fight eachother). They make it to the core, which is completely unprotected, and turn off the armour on the control panel, making the mothership and easy kill. The army, who felt the shake of the mothership being set to the ground, know a titan is out there - and know its TTV as he's uninjured. The TV's send a signal to him to cut open a latch now that the armour is gone and TTV does so. The army scrambles out before TTV picks up the mothership in one hand. Suddenly, TSpeaker flys in - not upgraded, but quickly repaired with some backups the speaker faction made for him prior to the Astro fight - helping TCam, of whom he has finally located, to come over. TTV let's the other two know of the truce with GT, and the 4 focus on annihilating the Mothership. TTV loans some energy to all the others - TCam now has enough to keep going, GT's core now glows again, and TSpeaker is hypercharged.

In the last second, the Astro Emperor (or juggernaut as alot of people call him) tries to stop them, but little does he know, his panic to save the Mothership has cost him his life too. The Titans and GT release core beams in unison - GT spams orbs at inhuman rates, TTV uses the absolute fucking obliterator, TCam uses the flamethrower and TSpeaker uses the beam. They hit the Emperor in unison and its shield completely breaks - and once the combination of all the core attacks hit him, the Emperor crashes down directly onto the Mothership. The Mothership begins to encounter multiple fatal errors from the crash and is about to power off to enter recovery mode and signal for more Astros to come and save her - but TCam, hellbent on vengeance after his injuries, attaches his jetpack to the Mothership and sends it flying back to space where it came from. Unfortunately for it, it doesn't seem to make it as before it surpasses the Atmosphere it explodes like a firework with the power of a nuke. Episode ends.

[abeautylives]

Trip Around the Sun - The Epilogue

a/n: If you’ve made it this far, THANK YOU! I really loved writing this little miniseries so if it made its way to you and you enjoyed it, thank you thank you thank you.

Series Masterlist

pairing: Joshxfemale!reader

word count: 3k this part

summary: A vacation fling that ended in heartbreak. How far will you go to put the pieces back together?

warnings: Absolutely none other than some language

Six Months Later

I do not need this shit today.

Your boss has been riding your ass particularly hard this week, but today it’s taken the form of email after email, requests for quarterly reports, calendar invites to meetings you won’t even get to speak during. Why did she wait until Friday to lay all this shit on you? The incessant ding from your computer with each incoming notification is giving you a migraine. You let your eyes drop to the bottom right corner of your screen.

11:47am. Fuck it.

You clock out for your lunch break unannounced, grab your bag and your phone and make your way toward the elevator. No one so much as raises their head in notice of you, but you avoid their eyes over the walls of their cubicles anyway.

The midsummer heat envelops you as soon as you step out onto the sidewalk, a welcome change from the frigid conditioned air inside the office building, your headache easing up instantly. Bypassing a Starbucks on the way, you pop into your preferred coffee bar, a cozy local spot with better drinks and far superior food. From behind the counter, the barista greets you by name and asks if you’re having your usual, but you turn down the hot drink in favor of something iced.

The second the heavily caffeinated liquid hits your tongue, you can feel the remnants of your headache melting away. You find a lone seat outside on their shaded patio, sipping your drink as you pull out your phone to scroll mindlessly for the next forty-five minutes.

You’re doing exactly that, flipping your thumb over the screen as your For You page flashes past, pausing occasionally to watch a video in its entirety. Every five or six videos or so, the same song starts to play, something that’s trending but that you don’t recognize, so you flip past it. Over, and over, and over again until you realize you’ve heard it nearly ten times.

Your thumb moving now of its own volition, you swipe another video away as that same song starts. This time, you bring it back to you with a downward pull.

The screen is split, your eyes first drawn to the person on the left who’s definitely wearing a ridiculous wig and mouthing along to the words of the song, an acoustic guitar strumming the tune that’s vaguely familiar to you now that you’ve heard its beginnings so many times. You let your focus slip to the right, the video that the creator is clearly imitating, and your phone slides from your fingers. It hits the edge of the bistro table and bounces, landing face up on the ground at your feet, the song still playing as the video runs on a loop.

There’s no fucking way.

You scramble to scoop your phone from the bricks, the screen undamaged and his face on full display.

His face.

It looks different than the face in your memory, younger maybe, softer at the edges that you remember being sharp, defined. Maybe it’s the lack of facial hair.

The video plays on and you can’t stop watching it, again and again, eyes focusing on a different part of him with every loop. The way his plump lips move over those obscenely perfect teeth, the way his eyes sparkle as he lifts them though you can’t see the exact shade of his irises, the way his curls look almost exactly as you remember them, despite the ways he’d changed. The way he drops his head and his jaw flexes, that is very familiar to you.

Josh.

What the fuck is this?

You’d been so stunned at the sight of him that nothing else had truly registered, but now your eyes are bouncing around the screen. He’s singing. Is he a singer? What the hell is he wearing?

What is this?

Greta Van Fleet. The words tumble over themselves in your mind as if they're in a language unknown to you. The tags on the video capture your attention.

#gretavanfleet #gvf #snl

Saturday Night Live? You’re about to dive into a Google search when you catch the time at the top corner of your screen. Shit.

Coffee in hand, you speed walk back to your office building, eyes still trained on your phone’s screen. It’s a miracle that you haven’t tripped or mowed someone over as you’re stuck scrolling, your first entry into the search bar being what you assume is a band name.

Rock band from Michigan

Kiszka brothers, twins Josh and Jake

Kiszka. Josh Kiszka.

He’s fucking famous.

The rest of your work day passes in a blur of emails and reports, your focus effectively obliterated by what you’ve discovered. You actively have to resist searching for him on your company computer, your fingertips itching to type in his name, so you settle for putting in your AirPods and pulling up their discography on Spotify.

Unfortunately, the sound of his voice, nothing like the voice that spoke so many beautiful words against your skin, sucks the air from your lungs until you feel like you might actually have a panic attack. You wrench the AirPods from your ears and throw them back into your bag.

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

The door of your apartment slams behind you, your bag and keys tossed to the ancient hardwood and heels kicked aside within seconds. You can’t be bothered to change out of your clothes, tossing your blazer aside as you enter your bedroom and hiking your pencil skirt up over your thighs as you sit cross legged in your bed, laptop already pulled to rest in front of you.

His name is typed into your browser as soon as you flip it open, and within seconds you learn more about him than you did in all the hours spent together. His birthdate, his hometown, his middle fucking name. This almost feels invasive, like you’re suddenly privy to information that should be secret, yet here it is for all the world to see. You open the Images tab and hold back a sob, a hand flying over your mouth to capture it.

Before today, you’ve never seen a picture of him. There’s a barrage of them on your screen, ranging from what must be a few years old to what you assume are current, his appearance so similar to that of your memories. Clicking on one to enlarge it, your fingertips leave your lips and trace over the image of his. You feel a hot tear slip free and roll down your cheek.

You’d love to say you had boarded that plane and simply accepted the fact that your time together was just that, limited and perfect in its brevity, a sweet escape from reality that was never meant to exist beyond the confines of a tropical resort. But that would be a lie.

Instead, you’d returned home a broken woman, bereft in the loss of him. It wasn’t logical, your heartbreak, but that fact hadn’t helped it heal. As you look at him now, through a watery veil of tears that won’t stop coming, you realize that time has done nothing to lessen the hurt.

Unable to stop yourself, you let your eyes move over the screen, taking in every version of his sweet face. Some pictures look like they’re from the same period of time as the footage from the TikTok, his stage outfits much more flamboyant and form-fitting than the plain white t-shirt or tank he’d adorned every day that you knew him. Knew him. That’s a joke. You didn’t know him at all.

But you had wanted to.

You switch back to the Google search results. As you scroll down the page, you avoid clicking links to videos that look like interviews, the thought of hearing him speak is overwhelming in the worst way, but something else grabs your attention.

His Instagram.

Your laptop abandoned, you open the app on your phone and search for his username, your finger hovers over the top result before you suck in a breath and tap it.

More pictures, a carefully curated collection of images made up almost solely of him. You open the most recent and feel heat blossom over your cheeks. It’s just him, you’re growing used to the sight of his face already, but he’s in profile and his curls are pulled back and tucked beneath that cap. The same one he’d been wearing when you met him by the pool. It’s so nearly exactly how he looked the first time you saw him up close that you have to move past it before you crumble completely.

His captions are sometimes poetic, as you had learned he could be, and now it all makes perfect sense. He’s an artist, a lyricist, he is a poet.

Here you are again, scrolling, growing numb to the digital portrayal of his face as you take in each one, watching him age in reverse as you reach the very last post on his account. When you make it there, you click on his username and it opens back at the top. You stare hard at the options before you.

Follow

Message

There’s no way it could be that easy… right?

The next days pass slowly, dragged out by the dwindling hope that the message you had managed to type out with shaky fingers somewhere around midnight that first night, will be read.

Days turn into weeks, your work performance suffering as the hole he’d left in your heart only seems to grow. You check Instagram almost obsessively but that little note never appears to indicate that he’s even seen your message. You lose yourself to it a little bit, the fixation, the need, he feels so close and somehow farther away than he’s ever been. It sometimes feels worse than not knowing anything about him at all.

In a dark moment of tequila-fueled weakness, you send another message. And another, convinced that somehow you’ll grab his attention. Prompted by a new set of black and white portraits uploaded to his account, you’d purchased the bottle and brought it home to drown in it, staring at the photos until your vision blurs. In the first image he’s looking directly down the barrel, into the lens, his body facing away and head turned toward the camera, an unbearably devilish smirk curving his lips. You know that smirk and the dimple it pulls into his skin well, it appears frequently in your dreams and now it takes up the entire screen of your phone, made up of pixels that lack all of the warmth and vibrancy that emanate from him.

You double tap your screen, a white heart appearing and disappearing over his grin. In a desperate attempt to be noticed, for him to sense your torment, you tap the heart at the bottom left corner of the picture, changing it from red back to an outline, a shell of itself. You repeat this over and over, red to outline, red to outline, will he see the notifications? Will anyone? Even if he did, would your username set off any alarm bells, does he even remember you?

He promised he would, but he didn’t keep every promise he made. Not when it mattered.

Willing yourself to stop liking and unliking the picture, you go back to your messages. Still unread.

The frustration gnaws at you from the inside until you feel on the verge of a true mental breakdown, a snap decision away from being locked up. Ignoring the potential consequences, you make that decision anyway, and a quick search brings you the name of their management company.

This is crazy… right?

You had definitely called. The first call was answered with cool professionalism that you met with your own cultivated “phone voice”, the conversation pleasant enough until you’d come out and asked for Josh Kiszka’s contact information. You’re sure you heard the woman on the other end of the line gasp, a sharp intake of breath followed by a heated dismissal as she admonished you for even daring to ask for the personal information of one of their clients. When the distinct click of the call disconnecting hits your ear, you’re not surprised.

But it doesn’t stop you from dialing the number again. And then again when the call goes unanswered.

The same woman picks up the phone after allowing it to ring for a considerable amount of time, and she manages to maintain the professional tone she’d answered with the first time. You ask if you can leave a message for Mr. Kiszka, but she declines and advises you to stop calling their office.

Two days later, you call again. As soon as you hear her, you know it’s the same person and that she’ll be prepared to hang up on you the moment you open your mouth. You don’t even try to hide your desperation, practically begging her to just take your name and number and pass it along, no message, no further information, please just tell him I called.

Click.

Six weeks. It’s been a month and a half since you saw that God forsaken video and it’s haunted you every day. You’ve gone to borderline embarrassing lengths to reach him. Messages, comments across the band’s various social media platforms, you’ve gone so far as to slide into his brothers’ DMs, in the hope that maybe one of them actually checks them.

They don’t.

As if it’s routine for you now, you absently scroll through your recent calls while you sit at your desk and tap on the number you’ve memorized as that of their management office, putting your phone on speaker as it rings. Ready to go toe-to-toe with Amber again while you wrap up an email, you’re shocked into momentary silence as a voice you don’t recognize comes over the line and greets you with the name of the company followed by their own and an offer to assist.

“Oh, hi um, Drew, was it? Drew I’m trying to get in contact with a client of yours, a Mr. Josh Kiszka. Could you-“

“What’s your name?”

Fuck. You can’t lie, so you give him your first name and hold your breath, waiting for the inevitable click.

“Please hold, I’ll connect your call.”

Holy shit. Your palms are instantly clammy with a cold sweat. There’s no way. The phone nearly slips from your fingers again as you take the call off speaker and hold it up to your ear with a shaky hand, the generic hold music drowned out by the rush of your own blood, your heart racing.

In a small conference room several floors over Drew’s head, the intercom at the center of the table beeps. Josh is seated there, next to Jake, the other band members across from them. All eyes dart to the intercom before sliding back to Patrick, their manager’s assistant that’s leading this meeting. Patrick sighs and leans in, pressing the button to answer the call.

“We’re in the middle of something, what?”

“S-so sorry sir, Mr. Kiszka has a call waiting on line three.”

Patrick sighs again deeply as he shakes his head, the other men around the table grin at each other, individual eyebrows raised in curiosity before they look back to the head of the table.

“Sorry guys, new fucking intern- Which Mr. Kiszka, Drew? Quickly.”

“Oh- I, sorry, Josh, sir.” Drew is about to lose this job before he even truly has it.

“And you didn’t just take a message because…?” Patrick is understandably irritated but the rest of the guys take the interruption in stride, leaning back into their chairs and letting their gazes drift back to Josh, intrigue written between his brows and on the subtle downturn of his lips.

“I- Don’t know sir, I’m so sorry, I’ll let her know-“

Josh interjects, cutting Drew the smallest amount of slack that he seems to desperately need. “Hey, that’s okay I’ll just take it. Where can I…?” He trails off and Drew stutters through telling him there’s a vacant office next door to the left, he can pick up line three, before Patrick presses the button to end Drew’s suffering.

“You expecting a call, Josh?” Sam, the youngest Kiszka brother speaks up, an inquisitive eyebrow still sitting high on his forehead.

“Ya know, I’m not, and that makes it all the more mysterious doesn’t it?” He waves his hands through the air and flashes a wide grin before standing and leaving the room.

The office next door is indeed empty, and dark. Josh flips the light switch on the wall and strolls in, rounding the tidy desk and taking a seat behind it. A multi-line corded phone sits at the corner, a red light flashing next to a button labeled Line 3. He leans in and lifts the handset from the receiver, putting it up to his ear as he pushes the button and the flashing light goes solid.

You’ve been on hold for what feels like hours, though it’s probably been only a few minutes, and you can’t bring yourself to end the call. The hope radiating through your body has caused a flush to creep over your chest and up your neck, you’d torn your cardigan off and thrown it onto your desk after the first minute. Your cheek is hot against the glass of your phone’s screen and your heart feels like it’s about to burst from your chest. You suck in a gasp and hold it when you hear the line click.

“Hello?”

His voice. You haven’t heard it at all since the day you’d found out who he was, haven’t listened to a song, haven’t watched a video. There would have been absolutely no way you could’ve handled it, and you’ve been holding out hope against every odd that the next time you did hear it… it would be straight from his own mouth. The sound of it leaves you light headed as you exhale the breath you’ve been holding, and you realize you haven’t said anything.

His voice rasps through the speaker again. “Hello?”

“… Josh.”

Taglist:

@lightmylove-gvf @spicedandicedtea @weneedsomehealing123 @milkgemini @why-ami-on-here @gretavanbitches @twistedmelodies @wildflowerxx-x @dannythedog @blissfulbellss @averagemisfit03 @dharmasdivine @thetroublegetssoloud71 @lucimoo @toxbexannouncedx @dig0930 @maddie-van-fleet @friska101-cg @welllauragvf @gretasimp @objectsinspvce @writingcold @gretavangroupie @sweetybre @gretasgoose @gvfjess @josh-iamyour-mama

[fuck-customers]

fuck corporate. i work in a cafe inside a larger store, and we've been undergoing renovations since i started back in september. a few months ago the new cafe was finished, so we were moved to the new location within the store. not that bad, still close to where we were before, everything's great.

except when renovations for the new cafe were almost finished, we found out it was going to be smaller than the old cafe (which was already small). way less storage space, less space for us, overall just fucking tiny. but we figured, okay, it could be worse, we can make it work.

but then we started at the new cafe, and things started breaking. the nitro machine's longest streak of working days in a row is about two. it's broken a whopping 95% of the time. (why the hell did higher ups decide we need the damn thing when maybe one person a month even asks if we sell nitro??? i can count on one hand the amount of nitro coffees we've sold since we got that machine)

one of the espresso machines broke only a week in, and after it got fixed the steam wand was still broken, and a week ago we just shut the whole machine off. so now we're down to one working espresso machine, and this is HELL especially on days like saturday and sunday when we have huge lines of people.

only one of our cold brew machines was working from the beginning of this whole mess, and then about a month and a half ago the other one broke too. so now we're using this old toddy in the back that just doesnt work nearly as well and is a pain to drain into the pitchers.

on top of all this our oven and blenders broke about a month or so ago, so we had a solid week where we could basically only sell hot bar drinks, refreshers, and brewed teas/coffees. it was such a nightmare.

and to cap it all off we have two registers that only partially work. the new card reader at the new register has a broken chip reader, so we use the old one, whose card reader touch screen isnt working a solid 85% of the time and we have to tell EVERY CUSTOMER to please use the pen to select an option on the screen to pay because for some reason we're not allowed to put a note on the reader that the touch screen isnt working.

i miss the old cafe so much. i actually enjoyed working there!! but now everything's broken all the time, it's too goddamn small to fit everything we need, let alone EVERYONE, and i miss my friends from other departments i barely see anymore because of the location we were moved to.

and no one higher up seems to even give a shit about any of this. i talked to our regional manager when he stopped in the other day and told him we were really struggling with everything breaking, and he just told me "well, you can file a work order".

first of all, no i can't, because no one fucking teaches us how to do that in the first place. would certainly be nice if i could! second, we keep having people in to fix all this shit, and it just breaks again within a day or two. and then it takes a week AT LEAST for someone to come in again to fix it.

i used to enjoy this job, but now its such a nightmare. i'm really tempted to switch to another department but i'm not sure if it would be worth it since i'm probably leaving in a few months anyway.

Posted by admin Rodney.

[trashc-anon]

Disney PJO is mellow

post with spoilers, duh. srly I doubt I'm thinking anything new, but I need these thoughts out of my head!

i recently watched Season 1 out of curiosity (i know, so late) and wow! first impression is how they mellowed out almost everything. I'm re-reading book 1 to double check my impressions and coulnd't get past chapter 3 without writing this post, because the changes in tone are so drastic!

HUGE POST BELOW kinda rant-y

First things first: I adore they decided to cast age aproprite actors, make the insanity they go thorugh obviously insane! (im englishing well)

That said: Percy in the books is an angry lil shit! Boy was ready to throw down with anyone and everyone. Series!Percy barely has a funcionting personality. Not dishing on the actor! When the character is supposed to be angry and angst-y, I can see him doing his best <3 My critique is with the writing. It seems they decided to make Percy more approable and relatable as a "good kid" as opposed to a traumatized ADHD student with consistent behavioural issues. It happened in the movies too. Movie!Percy got to be snappy because the actors and audience were older, but not nearly the level of rage and disrespect a 16 year old could have.

Given how mild series!Percy home life is vs book!Percy I don't mind as much as the the series develops because it looks like character development after repeated murder attempts.

Which brings me to point 2 - the reason I can't get past chapter 3: SALLY FUCKING JACKSON! She's a saltless cracker, overgrown teenager still wheeping over her summer romance with "the guy"! I knew the fandom had glorified her, I've seen some posts "hey, did you actually read the book?" And I hadn't since middle school, so my memory was clouded, but fucks sake! I was drinking the emo Kool-Aid to forget that mess of a plot hole. Thank fuck they rebranded series!Sally. She actually has a personality and seems like to know what is what and try to prepare Percy as a demigod who will outgrow her protection.

The diner flashback scene in which she talks to Poseidon helps her "I knew all along" know it all attitude, which doesn't work in the books because as far as she explains it: she and Poseison did the do, she got pregant and they never saw each other again. No reason to be greek mythology geek, definitly not enough to know about camp and the lastest breaking news in the mythic world.

(Poseidon's involvement creates some morality questions for me, some "how are we going to handle some topics later on" issues when episode 3 comes up, but more on that later)

I blinked and missed the reveal that she married Gabe to protect Percy, and the cascading logic of how her different personalities affected that marriage is mindblowing.

It affects the type of Gabe she married, therefore, how much of his abuse was Sally's fault. Series!Sally has agency and talks back, the kind of woman I can see attracting a god. More importantly, if she's making the decision to deliberately put her beloved son in contact with a nasty person whose smell will deter monsters, she won't put up with a monster herself, rather a loser who might as well be stanky trash sitting in the corner for too long. B

ook!Sally just doesn't sell that kind of confidence and since the books are first person POV we have to postulate that over the years Sally fell victim to Gabe's abuse (resulting in her lack of outstanding personality) and justified staying in the relatioship as "protecting Percy", which makes her complicit. Which is not great mom. And I do remember later in the books its resolved off screen and she "marries a nice guy, florishes as a person and has his baby". Errrr.... It's fiction, and I don't care for the mother character abused for the sake of her child to be saved by another marriage and have another child.

3: don't have much to say about Groover, I love him every time. <3 Book!Grover whines more and is a bit of a coward, while series!Groover is more like the sweet resilient pacificist that chooses non-violance. (and a twelve year actor saying "I'm 24" to Ares was hilarious!)

4: WILL ANY INSTALMENT WILL EVER SOLVE THE MYSTERY OF CHIRON AT PERCY'S PRIVATE SCHOOL?

He is the one functioning "trust worthy" adult in the entire camp and he leaves for months at a time to teach at private schools? Leaving behind, I don't know, teenagers and a drunk god to look after the smaller ADHD kids with powers all year round? Does no one see a problem with this? *side eye*

As a plot device it only serves to give Percy A SUPER POWERFUL SWORD WITHOUT HIM EVER HAVING BEING TRAINED FOR IT, and to have Percy trust him before arriving at the crazy camp that regularly send children to their deaths.

(AND THEN THAT PONY HAS THE AUDACITY TO PIKACHU FACE WHEN PERCY IS REAVALED POSEIDON'S KID WHEN ITS IMPLIED THE ONLY REASON HE WAS AT THAT SCHOOL, AWAY FROM HIS OTHER HUNDRED UNDER AGE CHARGES, WAS TO PROTECT PERCY THE BIG THREE KID NO ONE KNEW WAS A BIG THREE KID)

*inhale**exhale* I'm cool I'm cool

I will probably have more thoughts as I reread the book. I think I will write my impressions of series!Annabeth before she turns up in the next chapter so I have a more controled before and after impressions.

so far, overall, I was bored up until episode 3 with Medusa, and boy! that's when you can tell Uncle Rick is involved in the production process. After the first book series being critized for lacking diversity, he did his homework on many polarizing subjects which I appreciate being talked about in middle grade books/ series. And I think that will bite him in the ass when it polarizes the fandom in coming seasons and Disney cuts him out.

See ya!