#have things ended this easily in the past?

[purinfelix]

you're no good for me, but baby i want you - n. riki ✶⋆.˚

summary: after growing tired of his constant teasing you made up your mind not to give Niki anymore of your attention, but you should've known that he wouldn't let you go that easily - and is willing to go to desperate measures to get you just to look at him ──── delinquent Niki x class president reader || sfw but a little suggestive, kissing/making out, so much tension like so much, enemies to lovers sorta? || w/c: 2.7k

a/n: okay i'm trying to get better at writing longer fics/ones that actually have closure bc looking back i realise i kinda always leave u guys on cliffhangers LOLL - also i rlly tried to avoid making this too cliche given the trope i hope it worked !!! actually really like this one so i hope it doesn't flop rip

‘Bad boy’ felt too cliche - at least for your liking. You preferred to refer to Niki as what he was, a delinquent, a troublemaker, someone who skipped most of his classes and spent the rest dosing off or arguing with the teacher. But no matter what you called him you were sure of one thing, he pissed you off.

To be honest, you had absolutely no interest in the sorts of things a student like him got up to in his own time, but it was the fact that he insisted on dragging you into his business that irritated you the most. You weren’t sure why exactly he kept targeting you, maybe it was because he just wanted to mess with the class president or because you seemed like an easy target to him - whatever reason he had didn’t make it any less tiring though.

Skipping classes was one thing, but his constant breaches of uniform code meant that you were running out of warning slips - and patience. It didn’t help that whenever you did, he would only look you up and down with an amused smirk, brows raised as if daring you to continue telling him off - which only worked to make you stumble over your words.

That’s why you had made the decision to stop giving him anymore of your attention, and the most recent time you had seen him sporting his signature look - no blazer, dress shirt half unbuttoned and several silver earrings, you chose to ignore him. You simply walked past him in the hallway without so much as a passing glance, hoping it would tell him to stop wasting your time and causing trouble.

Little did you know, he would misinterpret your signs to mean the exact opposite.

The next morning when you were waiting at your desk you heard a wave of hushed murmurs coming from down the hall, and couldn’t help but feel partly responsible. A loud thud sent the classroom door flying open and a couple of his friends filed in with amused grins - and it was only when Niki followed them in did you see why. Not only had he gone and messily bleached parts of his jet black hair, but he now donned a piercing straight through his right eyebrow which, judging from the pink tinge surrounding it, was both brand new and self-made.

You were unable to stop your neck from craning as your eyes followed his figure, watching as he sauntered over to his desk in the back corner of the classroom, threw his books onto it and sat down. The expression on his face showed that he couldn’t care less about being there, but his eyes trained on you as if waiting for you to make a move.

You hated that he knew you so well, because before you knew it you were out of your seat and at the head of his desk, arms folded with a stern expression on your face. You can’t remember exactly what you said but it must’ve been harsh, and loud enough to summon the attention of almost the entire class, and your teacher who stormed into the classroom shortly after to tell the two of you off. It must’ve also been harsh enough to earn the two of you an after-school detention, which was your very first - though it clearly wasn’t Niki’s.

So that’s how the two of you had ended up alone, in an empty, hot classroom - waiting as the minutes of your detention ticked by agonisingly slowly. Irritated was an understatement. It was taking every ounce of self-control you had not to turn around and punch Niki right there and then. You kept your fuming to yourself, at least for now though, while you worked silently on an assignment, determined to at least make good use of being stuck here for the next hour or so - even if it meant spending it in a tense silence.

Niki didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, having sat himself in the chair right beside yours and kicked his feet up on the desk, twirling a pen in one hand as he hummed softly to himself. You were trying your best to ignore him, and he was trying his best to make that very difficult.

“What are you working on?” he asked curiously as he leaned in over your shoulder.

“Just an assignment,” you shot back curtly.

“Ah of course, what a goody-two shoes,” he scoffed as he sat back.

“Rather a goody-two shoes than a good-for-nothing delinquent,” you mumbled under your breath, though not quiet enough to escape his ears.

“A delinquent? Is that really what you think of me?” he asked in faux-offence, “I’m hurt.” You turned slightly, just enough to see the dramatic pout he had formed across his lips, his brows curving upwards and his piercing going with it.

“Whatever,” you huff, feeling both irritation and exhaustion rise in you, “it’s your fault we’re here in the first place anyways.”

“Oh yeah, my fault that you started a petty argument.”

“Your fault for dyeing your hair that stupid colour and getting that piece of metal jammed in your face!” You cry out, fully facing him now as you felt your face burning hot, “I mean seriously, all I did was ignore you once, and you go ahead and did something ridiculous like that?” Gesturing to his piercing and new hair, you can’t help but feel even more infuriated at the sight of his smirk which only grew as he watched you from half-lidded eyes.

“What makes you think I did it for you?” He asks teasingly, and you suddenly feel your bravado begin to crumble - he’s right, who are you to assume that?

“Well, I-” you stutter, but he interrupts you.

“Well maybe I did,” he laughs softly, “that depends on whether you like it or not.”

“That is so besides the point, Niki,” you whine, “it’s against uniform policy.”

“Oh c’mon, you think it’s a little cool,” he taunts, and you turn back around in your seat, chewing your bottom lip as you’re determined not to give him a response which you’re sure will only fuel his ego.

You sit in silence for a bit, and you can tell he’s watching you carefully in the way he leans in, keen eyes trained on your expression - almost as if he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking. But that’s a challenge even you’re struggling with right now.

He’s the one to break the silence again. “I am sorry about getting you a detention though, that wasn’t what I meant to do.” You blink in disbelief because for the very first time, he sounds almost as if he really means what he’s saying.

“Is that an apology?” you say, gasping to show your surprise, though this quickly dissolved into a soft laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let it get to your head,” he sighs, “I just couldn’t sit here and watch you sulk for the next hour.”

You can’t help but smile to yourself, feeling the tension between the two of you melt away at his apology, just enough for you to want to keep talking to him - even if it means neglecting your homework, for now. Your eyes move over his face, his sharp jaw, his eyebrow piercing glinting under the warm classroom light.

“Did it hurt?”

It’s a stupid question, you know, but it’s the only thing you can think to ask as you fiddle nervously in your seat. If you’re being completely honest, you do think it’s cool, you’ve always thought his piercing were cool - and right now you want nothing more than to reach out and feel them for yourself. But your common sense stops you.

“Well, duh,” he scoffs, sitting back in his seat as his eyes fix on yours, “figured a smart-ass like you would’ve been able to guess that.”

“Just asking,” you grumble defensively, though your curiosity urges you to keep talking. “If it hurt, why’d you do it?”

“Well, you like it, don’t you?” He asks, “that’s all the reason I need.”

You’re tempted to tell him off again, but something about his tone catches you off guard - it’s oddly earnest, and he says it with such a simplicity that makes you really believe that maybe he’s telling the truth and you’re unable to find the resolve to spoil this moment

“Can I feel it?”

He’s almost as shocked by your request as you are, and even as it leaves your mouth you’re unsure entirely why you’re asking it. His eyes widen in a way that you can’t help but find a little cute, even as you’re struggling to process your own thoughts.

“Sure,” he replies, a little too quickly, almost as if he had been waiting for you to ask him that, but can’t believe you actually did. You turn in your chair to face him, your arms coming up awkwardly to bridge the distance between you both but it’s clear you’re still too far.

You’re about to lean forward more in your seat to reach him, until you notice his hand coming down to grip the leg of your chair and it isn’t until you feel yourself moving and hear the faint screech of the legs against the floor that you realise that he’s pulling it - pulling you closer to him.

Once you’re close enough he stops, though his hand doesn’t leave the back of your chair, instead resting there as if trapping you in with him as he leans down as that his face is level with yours. You try not to overthink the way your knees are touching, or how this is your first time seeing him this close and how he’s even better looking up close. Carefully, you bring your hand and pray that he doesn’t notice the way it trembles, as your thumb grazes his thick brow gently. Even though you wish he didn’t, he keeps his eyes open and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you as your fingers close around the small metal ball.

“It’s cold,” you mumble, not sure what else to say to fill the air between you two.

“It’s metal,” he says matter-of-factly, letting out a small laugh at your fascination with it.

“You didn’t need to to do this just to get my attention, you know,” your eyes focus on the piercing as you speak, unable to look him in the eyes when admitting something that feels like a confession.

“I had to get you to look at me somehow.” You’re again amazed at how he can say such earnest things with such a serious face, and even as you look away you know his eyes are on you.

“Most people would’ve just said hi or something, not put a brand new hole in their face,” you sigh, fingers moving to tuck a stray strand of bleached hair behind his ear.

“Well most people wouldn’t be here now with you touching their face, so by my standards my plan worked better.”

“Did that plan have to include getting me my first-ever detention?” You ask in annoyance, though you can’t help but laugh softly at his simplicity.

“Well, not at first,” he admits, “but at least we’re alone, hm?”

“Because you need me alone to talk to me?”

“No, because I need you alone to do this.”

You’re pretty sure if you weren’t already leaning towards him you would’ve fallen backwards from the forceful way his lips crash into yours - and if not from that then the sheer shock of just that. Luckily for you though, he already has an arm snaked around your waist, keeping a hold of you and pulling you closer.

It shocks you though that, despite the initial force, Niki’s kiss is gentle, almost as if he’s easing you into something he knows you’re struggling to accept. He’s experienced, that’s for sure, but you can tell in his movements that he’s holding back from pushing you any further.

You don’t even realise it but your hands are cupping his face, caressing his strong jawline and pulling him closer to you. You open your mouth to talk but the only noise that comes out is a breathy gasp and if you weren’t so caught up in the feeling of his hands in your hair you might’ve stopped to feel embarrassed about how desperate you sound for him right now.

“Niki,” you mumble against his lips, unsure of what to do as you feel your mind struggle to comprehend what’s happening.

“Want me to stop?” he says in between heavy breaths, and even though it sounds like a taunt you know him well enough to know he’s being serious.

You shake your head in response, but decide to have a little fun of your own while you can. “When have you ever cared what I think?”

“Oh, you have no clue,” he hums in a low whisper as he leans back in.

“And when have you ever listened to what I’ve told you to do?”

“You’re right about that,” he smirks, pressing his lips to yours again, this time with the reckless abandon you’ve come to expect from him - almost as if he was waiting for your permission to let go. You thought you would’ve felt a little predictable, pathetic even, for having fallen so easily into his trap and giving him much more than just your attention at this point. But from the way his hands roam your body, grasping for more of you as he whines against your lips you smile to yourself at the realisation that really, he’s the one who’s fallen into your trap.

This sense of control is what finally calms your mind, even if it still struggles with just how ‘wrong’ all of this sounds against how right his lips on yours feel. The sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway however forces you to tear yourself away from him, though his hands don’t leave your body as you strain to figure out who it might be.

“Shit, it’s the teacher,” you say under your breath, pulling away from him to smooth down your skirt. Niki clearly doesn’t care, but still lets out a soft sigh as he hangs his head, leaning back in his chair.

“Tomorrow,” you continue suddenly, “I want the eyebrow piercing and the bleached hair gone.” You know you’re being harsh, but you also know that, given what just happened, you can’t afford to be nice.

“Wh-” he says suddenly, looking at you in disbelief, “I thought you liked them though.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say firmly, “they’re still breaking like ten different uniform rules.”

“Just when I thought I’d finally broken your guard down,” he groans.

“Well, they’ve served their purpose already, haven’t they?” you taunt lightly, bringing a hand up to swipe at your bottom lip which you can feel is a little plump from him biting it. His eyes watch attentively as you do, and he lets out a soft laugh followed by a nod in agreement.

“You’re right,” he exhales, “but now I’m thinking if I keep them in I might keep getting lucky.”

“Niki,” you sigh.

“I mean, maybe if I had a reward for following rules I might feel more motivated,” he hums, looking away as he feigns innocence.

You pause, thinking to yourself for just long enough. “I’ll be studying in the library after school, maybe if you do as I say I’ll let you join me.”

“Studying? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll be there,” he laughs, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile - one that you can’t help but share even as the same teacher who gave you both this detention comes in to tell you you’re free to go.

You watch as he swings his bag over one shoulder coolly, tossing you his signature smirk - only this time, it doesn’t just annoy you, it lingers, sticking to your thoughts in a way you don’t want to admit. Because you know you should be mad, you should roll your eyes and remind yourself that he’s still the same infuriating troublemaker. But as he walks away the only thing you find yourself wondering is if he’ll actually show up tomorrow, and worse, if a part of you wants him to.

[genjyoandgojyoandhakkai]

Answers under the cut!

I'd already started thinking about most of this because I want to continue Rook's story past the Veilguard ending. If you are interested to read a one-shot that goes a little into Xiqaa's backstory (tattoos and origin), you can find that here.

I haven't even STARTED on Xi and Emmrich yet but I certainly will. 💚⚡Hints are all throughout Despite Everything.

I'm not using Rook's name a lot in my Rookanis story, to leave room for everyone else to make their own Rook the LI, but I use it liberally below. It's pronounced "Zika" or "Shika" depending on your accent and Xi is pronounced Z by Rook herself.

Xiqaa Rook Laidir

🌻 How old is your Rook? How do they feel about celebrating their birthday? What gift has meant the most to them?

🌻36. She was born a galley slave so she knows her birth year but doesn't care about birthdays. That miiight change if her friends decide to surprise her with gifts or a party - she is learning new things about herself all the time. She got her first piece of leather armor from Fia, someone she was with for a while after she escaped slavery. It wasn't given to her on her birthday, but that was the day she started commemorating her new life, and it is what she considers her birthday.

🪻 What is the most painful injury your Rook has received? How has it affected them once it healed/scarred?

🪻Xiqaa got her lightning from touching an ancient artifact she shouldn't have. (You know, like Rook do.) It was the most painful thing to happen because she injured herself over and over before she learned to control it. She's got lightning scars all over her body, but she's proud of them because she learned a survival lesson and they look bad ass and scary.

🌹 What’s the first genuine fight Rook got in with their love interest about? How was it resolved?

🌹Rook and Lucanis don't really fight, and that's problematic. Both of them tend to internalize the problem as something they did wrong. This does come to a head once in a while, and I haven't worked far enough into their future to see what their first real fight would be. It is pretty far out there, when the two of them have no one else to run interference between their stupid misunderstandings/assumptions and lack of ability to articulate feelings. They obviously haven't resolved this yet, but it's a process, as long as they come back to each other.

🌹Rook and Emmrich fight over his fear of death (kinda); she doesn't believe in letting your fears win, and giving away your fate so easily. She is stubborn about this to a fault. Emmrich is much more open with thoughts and feelings than Lucanis, so there's potential for them to clash over more clearly stated feelings and preferences, but Emmrich is also better at mending situations so it's rare they go to bed angry with the other. They are still working on things. Rook promised not to judge Emmrich so harshly, and Emmrich promised to try and live in the moment more. (Heaven only knows what Lucanis and Emmrich will fight about...I'm really not to that point with them yet.)

🌸 Does your Rook have any siblings or close friends they see as such? Where are they during the events of Veilguard?

🌸 As a former slave, mercenary, and rebellion fighter, she is used to dropping in and out of situations - that's why she trusts and is trusted so quickly, but she didn't allow anyone to get too close. Her closest friend from her early years was a slave named Chek, and when they got to the benches, he showed her how to survive differently. From him, she learned that their masters kept them fighting against each other to prevent them planning rebellions. From Chek she learned to share, to work on a team, and to open up to another person. He escaped before she did, and she found out later he was recaptured. His status is unknown. She's been on her own for a long time, and Varric was the older brother/mentor figure she needed, after Isabela, who showed her that you can let your guard down once in a while. We all know where Varric was during Veilguard.

🌾 If there was a demon trying to trap/take over Rook, what kind would be the most successful? What would break their hold?

🌾 Rook's demon would probably be Pride. She's proud of her ability to survive on her own, and the temptation to never have to ask for help again would be strong. Breaking their hold would require someone else to show her how strength doesn't equate to solitude. Her friends drag her back from that brink all the time, without demons involved.

🌱 Was Rook involved romantically with anyone before Veilguard? What was their partner like? How did the relationship end?

🌱 Rook's first relationship as a free person was Fia, a mage living on Seheron. Fia was bold and swaggering, a fire mage fighting qunari twice her size. Xi was drawn to Fia, wanting to be someone (and be with someone) who looked tough and talked tough, and they had a few flings here and there. It was chaotic; lots of drinking and fighting and fucking. Rook discovered she didn't actually enjoy being with someone who wanted to fight at the drop of a hat, so they just kinda grew apart. It was definitely a situationship of convenience, and Xiqaa left Seheron for Rivain soon after.

🌼 If someone was to ask Spite what Rook smells like, what would he say?

🌼Sea salt and sunshine. For those of us with physical senses, it would be a hot spring afternoon when the plants are blooming; the earthy scent of green things with an indistinct floral background, and a tang of salt like sudden tears.

🌷If Rook needed to get away from their responsibilities for a moment, where would they go? Where is their safe space outside the Lighthouse?

🌷Rook would go to the old Warden fortress on the Rivaini coast to get away from her responsibilities and just watch the world. (She's not really the type to just get away from it all; when she needs to get away she just finds something else from her long list to do.) She has an affinity for open spaces and clear sightlines, and she loves the sound of the ocean. Her safe space, though, is her apartment in the Hall of Lords. She's never had a home before, and she loves having a space of her own. The floor is made of old deck planks and it's her favorite thing about the apartment.

🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison?

🥀Xiqaa's galley benchmate, Chek, would definitely appear in the regret prison. He was a kind person, and he taught her how to survive differently; less fighting amongst those who were already prisoners, more generosity of heart. He escaped a year before she did, and she always regretted not going with him - she loved him like a brother. Later she found out he'd been recaptured and sent to a magister who used his life force to power their spells, and Xi has always wondered if she could have gone back for him.

🪷 Does your Rook have an irrational phobia? (ie spiders or large man-made objects submerged underwater)

🪷 Rook doesn't have any phobias that she knows of. Her flaw in this regard is that she believes facing your fears makes you stronger, so she's likely to work herself into a terrible state if she discovered a phobia. There's still time to find one, though.

🍀 Has Rook had any near-death experiences? What went through their mind during what they thought was going to be their final moments?

🍀 Rook's life is made of near-death experiences. Mostly she would just close her eyes for a second and think "Well, shit. At least it's on my own terms." The first time living and not just dying free mattered to her, though, was after she found the Veilguard. Fighting for her friends became more than fighting for a cause. She truly hoped to see the next sunrise and discover more life everyday. Since she fell for Lucanis, her fear of dying without telling him how special he is to her is foremost. Also top on that list would be never having her romance with Emmrich bloom into what she envisions they could have.

💐 What is the relationship Rook has with their faction mentor? What was the moment they sent Rook away like?

💐Rook and Isabela have an easy relationship for the most part. Rook prefers the raunchy jokes and tough talk that Isabela uses, so it was easy to make that their shared language. They also share a similar devotion to wealth, doing the right thing, and a disdain for political figureheads. When a well-connected noble double-crossed Rook on their attempt to take an artifact for the Venatori, Isabela wasn't surprised at all. She also wasn't surprised that Rook wasn't sorry for killing the Venatori scum, so temporary exile was pretty much the only solution. Isabela told Rook that she went through something similar (an exile of sorts) in her past, and maybe someday they'd share stories over drinks. Rook was annoyed that politics were stronger than her new allegiances but she just shrugged it off and threw herself into the next job. That upset Isabela more than she let on, so they had some frosty moments when reuniting.

🌺 Is there an object from Rook’s childhood they look back on fondly? (ie a favorite stuffed animal, book, or food)

🌺 It's more like a compensation for not having one, but Rook just likes food. The fancier and more expensive the better. It's not a childhood memory, but a response to not having much when she was younger, and food is comforting as well as an experience with culture.

🌿 Does your Rook have any tattoos? What was the moment when they got them like? If they’re a Crow where is their de Riva brand located? What vallaslin do they have/how did they earn it if they’re Dalish?

🌿Rook has a ton of tattoos, but no vallaslin. She's elvish, and grew up hearing the legends and songs in whispers at night, but she's not Dalish. For her, tattoos they are a way to tell her life story and to choose how she appears to others. She got her first one, a pair of wings, on her shoulder after she escaped from the galleys. It was exciting to her, to have control over her entire body and even the pain meant freedom. She added a rook piece between her breasts after becoming Varric's second in command...it distracts Lucanis and Spite to no end 🤣

🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards?

🍂 Rook's first time killing someone was when she was around twelve years old. Slaves were chosen for the benches based on physical characteristics, but the smaller ones were given a chance to fight their way in. Those not selected would be sold to other houses, usually industrial work like tanning or slaughterhouses. The galley bench meant you had three meals a day and a full shift of sleep, which was an almost-human experience for a slave. A wiry kid thought he could take Xiqaa because she was slender, and he fought with all his strength and cleverness to take her life. She didn't want to kill him, but that was her only choice if she wanted to have any existence that wasn't drudgery, so she did it. She felt anger at him, more than anything else, because she was forced into taking his life. It made her sick, but she wasn't one to give up, even then.

Woe! Rook ask game be upon ye!

🌻 How old is your Rook? How do they feel about celebrating their birthday? What gift has meant the most to them? 🪻 What is the most painful injury your Rook has received? How has it affected them once it healed/scarred? 🌹 What’s the first genuine fight Rook got in with their love interest about? How was it resolved? 🌸 Does your Rook have any siblings or close friends they see as such? Where are they during the events of Veilguard? 🌾 If there was a demon trying to trap/take over Rook, what kind would be the most successful? What would break their hold? 🌱 Was Rook involved romantically with anyone before Veilguard? What was their partner like? How did the relationship end? 🌼 If someone was to ask Spite what Rook smells like, what would he say? 🌷If Rook needed to get away from their responsibilities for a moment, where would they go? Where is their safe space outside the Lighthouse? 🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison? 🪷 Does your Rook have an irrational phobia? (ie spiders or large man-made objects submerged underwater) 🍀 Has Rook had any near-death experiences? What went through their mind during what they thought was going to be their final moments? 💐 What is the relationship Rook has with their faction mentor? What was the moment they sent Rook away like? 🌺 Is there an object from Rook’s childhood they look back on fondly? (ie a favorite stuffed animal, book, or food) 🌿 Does your Rook have any tattoos? What was the moment when they got them like? If they’re a Crow where is their de Riva brand located? What vallaslin do they have/how did they earn it if they’re Dalish? 🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards?

[sematarygirls]

 📖 ─── a cluttered scrapbook: send in any thoughts on any of the characters below for a blurb .ᐟ

omg hello congratulations??? literally love your blog sm. you’re writing is peak and so perf. i was thinking, we all know rafe is a “proactive” type of person (or so he says). so how would he react to reader giving him the silent treatment after she found out something? (maybe he was doing cocaine again after she explicitly asked him not to anymore???) and what antics would he use to get reader talking to him??

once again, congratulations to you. you deserve so much!!! so proud of you <3333

thank you so much !! i'm so sorry it took so long to get to this </3

cw: dark rafe, manipulation, controlling behavior, threats of self harm

Rafe hates the silent treatment. It feels like a slap in the face. After everything he's done for you, you can't even give him the basic respect of talking things out?

He had done a great job of hiding his ongoing cocaine addiction after you'd threatened to break up with him if he didn't stop. He absolutely couldn't stand ultimatums, being backed into a corner, but he also couldn't lose you, so he promised he would quit and get clean, even pretending to go off to a rehab facility for a month—during which he was actually going on a month-long bender in a fancy hotel up in California.

And his lies had worked. For months, he hid his addiction, leading you to believe that he was finally clean and that he had done it for you.

But then, you dropped your phone one night at his house, and it had found its way under his bed. Leaning down to retrieve it, you pushed up the bottom of his comforter and found yourself greeted by the sight of a wooden box you'd seen before—the very one you had watched Rafe throw away before he went off to "rehab".

With shaky hands, you opened the box and found yourself staring at a baggie of white powder, a substance you knew all too well.

"What are you doing?" Rafe's voice came from the doorway, sharp and defensive. He knew he had been caught, but his mind was already swirling with blame for you rather than accepting the consequences of his own actions. Why were you snooping around his room? Did you not trust him?

You looked up at him, your mind running a million miles a minute as a plethora of emotions overwhelmed you at once. You didn't want to talk to him. You could barely even stomach looking at him right now, so without a word, you grabbed your phone from where it had fallen and stood up abruptly.

He caught your arm as you tried to leave. "Oh, we're doing this now? Real mature," he scoffed at your behavior. You were being dramatic, childish even, by subjecting him to the silent treatment instead of trying to talk this out like adults.

You simply pulled your arm back from him roughly, not meeting his gaze as you pushed past him and hurried down the stairs. He should've followed you, but his pride and ego stopped him. You would come crawling back, apologizing for how you acted. He was sure of it.

But, you didn't. Days went by without a word, and he started to get antsy, started to spiral as paranoia overtook him. You were his. How dare you ignore him? Were you off with another guy? Were you with your awful Pogue friends? He couldn't stand not knowing where you were and having you with him every minute.

At first, he tried to manipulate his way out of it by feigning an apology and ending it with a guilt trip, texting you things like "Okay, I messed up, but you just shutting me out? That's fucked up. Just talk to me, baby," and "It's not like I was doing it all the time. I mean, cmon, are you really gonna throw everything away over this? It's nothing."

When you refused to be won over so easily, seeing right through his tactics, he would start showing up wherever you were—home, work, the beach, anywhere you were, he was there too, desperately trying to intimidate you into talking to him with his piercing gaze and menacing stance.

He would corner you, trying to force a reaction out of you. "So what, you're just going to act like I don't exist?" He'd ask harshly before softening, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his knuckle lightly grazing your cheek as he did. "C'mon, baby, I know you miss me, miss us." He could see the resolve in your eyes crumbling and it made him feel powerful and triumphant, but before you opened your mouth to speak, Kiara swept in, grabbing your arm and tugging you away from Rafe as she shot a glare in his direction.

This infuriated Rafe. Typical Pogue, always sticking their nose where it doesn't belong and fucking up his life.

From there, he attempted sending you expensive gifts with notes like "Just talk to me, baby. Let me fix this," and when that didn't work, he turned to threats, saying he would hurt himself or you if you didn't hear him out.

Finally, he showed up to your house in the middle of the night, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, pupils dilated. You hesitated but decided to open the door, and when you did, you felt guilty for ignoring him for so long. He looked absolutely wrecked like he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He was clenching and unclenching his jaw, leaning against the doorframe and peering down at you. His presence was heavy, the air thick with tension as neither of you spoke.

"Let me in," he demanded. His fingers twitched at his sides before he rubbed them over his jaw. "I just—fuck, I don’t even know what to do anymore, baby." His large frame blocked the doorway, making you feel small as his eyes darted wildly. You felt a mix of guilt and fear stir in your stomach. "You’re just gonna keep pretending I don’t exist? Really?" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "’Cause if you don’t talk to me now, I swear to God, I’ll—" He stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he stared at you with hardened eyes, the threat clear. You knew he meant it.

"Rafe..." You said quietly, your voice trembling slightly as you looked up at him with wide eyes, feeling like you were looking at someone you didn't recognize.

His lips quirked up in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “That’s all I needed, baby. Just needed to hear your voice," he whispered, stepping forward to invade your space and force you backward so he could come inside. "Y'know, I'd do anything for you, right?" He asked, the question rhetorical as he reached out to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "I’ve been losing my fucking mind without you. I won't lose you. I can't lose you, alright? I-I need you. You're mine, you got that? You can't just walk away. You can't just ignore me. I won't let you."

[espresso1patronum]

Nine Lives, One Knight

(batman!gojo x catwoman!reader)

synopsis: By day, Gojo Satoru is Gotham’s golden boy—billionaire, genius, untouchable. By night, he’s the Bat, a relentless force in the city’s shadows. You? You’re Catwoman—master thief, chaos incarnate, always one step ahead. You’ve spent years dancing around each other, neither willing to truly win. But when a new faction, the Black Veil, sets its sights on Gotham’s most powerful players—including you and the Bat—you’re forced into an uneasy alliance. Tension crackles, lines blur, and the game you’ve always played turns deadly. Because this time, it’s not just about the city. This time, it’s about each other.

cw: batman au, mutual pining, slow burn, sort of enemies to lovers, angst, violence, blood, injury mention, gun violence, kinda gory? kinda forbidden love? Toji, geto, shoko and nanami cameo lmao

word count: 10.1k

author's note: this had been in my drafts for a very long time and after the poll results, I thought i'd finish this. it's not much, but I enjoyed writing this jjk x dc crossover.

Gotham was never silent.

Not even at midnight.

Not even when the rain came down in thick, suffocating sheets, drenching the city in shadows. Somewhere below, sirens wailed. Tires screeched. A single gunshot cracked through the air, distant but unmistakable.

To some, the noise was chaos. To you?

It was home.

You move across the rooftop with practiced ease, the weight of the Black Veil’s encrypted drive tucked safely into the pocket of your suit. The heist had been too easy. A little slip past the lasers, a quick crack of the safe, and just like that—you were out.

Something worth a small fortune in your hands. Or rather—something that could destroy half of Gotham’s elite if it ended up in the wrong hands.

(Or the right ones, depending on who you asked.)

A clean escape. A successful job. You should be gone by now.

And yet—

A shiver runs down your spine. Not from the cold. Not from the rain. From something else.

Something you can’t see, but feel.

You land soundlessly on another rooftop, pausing only for a second to scan the city below. Nothing. No movement. Just the familiar neon glow of Gotham’s underbelly.

Still—your fingers twitch. Instinct coils in your gut, whispering a warning you don’t want to acknowledge.

Too easy.

Too—

“Going somewhere, kitten?”

The voice comes from behind you, smooth as silk, dark as thunder.

You don’t startle. You don’t turn. Instead, you let a slow, knowing smirk curl at your lips before you finally glance back.

There he is.

Perched on the edge of the rooftop like he belongs in the night, the rain dripping off the edges of his cowl, his cape shifting slightly in the wind. Batman.

Or rather—Gojo Satoru.

You should’ve known he’d show up. Maybe you did. Maybe you ignored it.

"Bold of you," you murmur, fingers flexing, ready to bolt. "Sneaking up on a cat in the dark."

His head tilts, and though the mask hides half his face, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Please," he drawls. "You knew I was here before you even touched the ground."

He's right. You did. But you don’t let him win that easily.

"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Bat?" You shift your weight, rolling your shoulders, keeping it casual. "Or do you just like following me around?"

He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. The way a storm rolls in—inevitable.

"You stole something," he says.

You sigh, dramatically. "I steal a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific."

"You know what I’m talking about."

He’s close enough now that you can see the flicker of blue beneath his mask. The kind of dangerous blue that makes your pulse stutter for half a second before you shut it down.

"Give it to me," he says, voice quieter this time.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. "Oh, Bat. You always ask so nicely."

Before he can move, you bolt.

And that’s when the rooftop explodes.

A deafening boom shatters the night, the blast wave knocking you clean off your feet. You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to react—your body moves on instinct, twisting midair, boots scraping against the slick rooftop as you skid dangerously close to the edge.

Shit.

The explosion wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you.

You barely have time to register the shift in the air before an arm wraps around your waist—strong, unyielding, and familiar—yanking you backward just as the ledge beneath your feet crumbles.

You don’t fall.

Because he doesn’t let you.

When the smoke clears, you’re half-sprawled against him, one of his arms still locked around your waist, his other hand braced against the rooftop. Your breaths come hard and fast, heart pounding against your ribs, adrenaline flooding your veins.

"Well," you huff, dazed but not broken. "Didn’t think you cared, Bat."

His grip tightens—just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it.

"I don’t," he says flatly. But his jaw clenches. "Stay down."

You snort, pushing off of him as you roll onto your feet. "You and I both know that’s not happening."

He doesn’t argue. Because you’re right. Because whoever just tried to kill you isn’t done.

And they’re not alone.

From the rooftop across the alley, figures emerge from the shadows. Armed. Precise. Waiting.

Batman’s shoulders go rigid. His voice is low. Dangerous.

"They knew you’d be here."

You exhale sharply, adjusting your gloves. "Looks like we’re on the same side tonight, Bat."

The rain slicks the rooftop, turning it into a death trap. But you’ve fought in worse.

Across the alley, four figures move into position. Their weapons gleam under the glow of a distant streetlight—guns, knives, and something that looks an awful lot like a taser baton.

Cute.

Satoru tenses beside you, assessing. Calculating. His voice is low, barely audible over the rain. "Stay behind me."

You scoff, rolling your shoulders. "Not happening."

He doesn’t waste time arguing. Because you’re both outnumbered, because the enemy is moving—because there’s no time to fight each other when you’re about to fight them.

And then—they strike.

One gunshot. Two. You react on instinct, dropping low, twisting away, boots skidding against the rooftop. Batman’s cape flares as he moves—one sharp flick of his wrist, and a batarang slices through the dark, knocking a pistol clean from one of their hands.

Fast and efficient. Classic him.

You? You have your own way of doing things.

The second attacker lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, grab their wrist, twist—the blade clatters to the ground. Before they can react, your elbow smashes into their ribs, sending them stumbling backward with a wheeze.

"Really?" you taunt, dodging another strike. "You came all this way just to embarrass yourselves?"

Batman doesn’t look at you, but you swear you can feel his exasperation.

"Focus."

You grin. "I am focused."

And then you flip over one of the attackers, landing smoothly behind them before slamming them headfirst into a ventilation unit.

Batman exhales sharply. "Could’ve just knocked them out."

"They’ll wake up." You dodge another strike. "Eventually."

More gunfire. Batman twists mid-air, cape flowing like liquid shadow as he dodges the bullets. In the same motion, he grabs your wrist—yanking you forward, pulling you out of the line of fire just as another shot rings out.

You’re so close you can hear his heartbeat.

For half a second, the world shrinks. The rain, the chaos, the rooftop beneath your feet, it all disappears.

It’s just you and him. Breathing the same air.

Then—"Move."

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You both explode into motion, flawless in sync. A kick to the ribs. A punch to the jaw. A perfect sweep of your leg sends another attacker sprawling.

It’s fast. Clean. Too easy.

When the last enemy collapses, groaning, you barely break a sweat.

You exhale, shaking out your arms. "Well," you say, breathless. "That was fun."

Satoru glares at you. "This wasn’t a game."

"Could’ve fooled me." You step over one of the unconscious bodies, crouching slightly to pat them down. No ID. No insignia. No obvious ties to the Black Veil.

But then— your fingers brush against something cold. Metal.

Your stomach drops.

A small device is clipped to one of their belts. Black, sleek, with a blinking red light.

Shit.

Your head snaps up. Satoru sees it the same moment you do, his voice is sharp. "Bomb." A soft beep. A single second.

And then— the rooftop blows apart beneath your feet.

Pain.

It drags you back to consciousness, slow and disorienting, like surfacing from deep water. Your body aches, the sharp sting of a fresh wound cutting through the dull throb of bruises.

The last thing you remember—the rooftop. The explosion.

And then—falling.

Your eyes snap open. You’re not on the street. You’re not dead.

Instead, you’re somewhere dimly lit, the soft hum of an old heater filling the silence. A safehouse.

Your head tilts slightly. The room is small—just a battered couch, an old desk, and a half-broken lamp casting flickering shadows against the walls.

And across from you— standing near the door, arms crossed, still in full suit— is Batman.

Gojo.

Watching you.

You shift, trying to sit up, but a sharp pull at your side stops you. That’s when you realize— your suit is torn and your stomach is bandaged, and you sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "Didn’t take you for the hands-on type, Bat."

His jaw ticks. "You were bleeding."

"Aww," you tease, voice still hoarse. "You do care."

He steps closer. The soft glow of the lamp catches the edge of his mask, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders.

"You almost died." His voice is quiet now, lacking its usual smugness. Too honest.

You tilt your head, studying him. Something about the way he’s looking at you feels... different.

Like he hated seeing you like that. Like it unnerved him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is thick, heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Then—he exhales, stepping back, breaking the moment.

"You need rest," he mutters.

You shift again, testing the pain, biting back a wince. "I need answers."

"You need to not die."

"You didn’t answer my question."

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is sharp, precise. Avoiding something.

"The bomb was a trap. Someone wanted you dead."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, I figured that part out, Bat."

He ignores the sarcasm. "Who else knew you’d be at that vault?"

"Just me."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and assessing. Like he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. "Look, I don’t have a name yet. Just whispers about a buyer wanting the drive. But if they’re willing to go that far to kill me for it—"

"—then you’re already in too deep."

There’s something grim in his tone that makes your stomach twist. You study him carefully. His cowl hides most of his face, but you’ve seen him fight, seen him move.

Gojo Satoru is always too confident. Too smug. Like he knows he’s the strongest, the fastest, the smartest in the room.

But right now? Right now, he looks... frustrated.

Not at you. He is frustrated for you and the realization is dangerous.

You push it down and swallow it whole. "Relax, Bat," you say, forcing a smirk. "I still got, what, six lives left?"

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t take the bait. But then your breath catches as he kneels infront of you but you don't move.

You should. You should say something—anything—but you don’t. Because his hands are on you again, pressing carefully against your bandaged side, checking his work.

He’s too close. His touch warm, solid, and careful.

And for the first time, he looks at you—not as an opponent. Not as a thief. But as something else entirely.

The silence stretches and you wish it hadn't because your heart is pounding in a way it isn't supposed to.

And then— he shifts.

You feel it before it happens. The slow lean forward. The weight of his stare. The way your own pulse betrays you, beating too fast, too hard, in the space between you.

Almost—

But then, the moment shatters.

The old radio in the corner crackles to life, static hissing before a voice cuts through. "Breaking news—an attack on Gotham’s financial district just moments ago—"

You blink as he pulls back and you just clear your throat, wanting to push all the wierd thoughts that were clouding your mind right now.

Satoru's expression hardens, as he stands, straightens his suit and steps away. "You stay here," he says, all business again.

You smirk, ignoring the sharp ache in your ribs. "Come on, Bat. You know that’s not happening."

He exhales, long-suffering. "You’re injured."

"And yet I still fight better than half your enemies."

He pauses and stares at you as though you'd said something wrong. Then, finally—a reluctant smirk. "Try to keep up, kitten."

Satoru hadn’t always been like this in the past when you met him. He was obnoxious, full of himself, always eager to show off his strength and speed in front of you. But today—this time—he felt different. For the first time, he seemed genuinely serious. And maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of vulnerability in the way he spoke, in the way Gotham’s Batman spoke.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with you. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t help but wonder—what if it did?

Sneaking into Gotham’s financial district isn’t hard. But sneaking in with Batman?

Now that’s a challenge.

You slip through the shadows like you were born for this—because you were. Satoru moves beside you, silent, precise, and still annoyingly smug. You glance at him. "Not bad, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you. "Not trying to impress you, kitten."

Liar.

The building looms ahead, dark and empty except for the guards patrolling the perimeter. "Twelve," you murmur, already counting. "Four on the roof, two at the entrance, six inside."

He hums. "I’ll take the roof. You take the inside."

You grin. "Awfully trusting, Bat."

"If you get caught, I’m not saving you."

You both know that’s a lie.

Getting in is easy. Getting to the main office where the stolen drive is hidden? Even easier. You’re already at the vault, fingers working over the lock, when— you hear footsteps.

Shit.

You whirl around, but it’s too late—one of the guards spots you. The alarm blares.

"Dammit," you hiss, already moving, flipping over the desk as more guards storm in. You could take them. You should take them. It's really easy for you actually.

But before you even get the chance— a blur of black crashes through the skylight. Batman lands hard, cape billowing, taking down two guards before his boots even hit the floor.

You blink. "Show-off."

"You’re welcome," he mutters, throwing a punch.

It’s a blur of fists, kicks, and electricity. You move too well together, too in sync. It’s not just skill—it’s instinct. Every time you dodge, he’s already covering your blind spot. Every time he moves, you’re already reading his next step.

It’s flawless. It’s deadly. It’s perfect but— a bit too much. At some point, you end up back-to-back. Panting, bruised and your adrenaline spiking.

His voice is low, breathless. "You good?"

You swallow hard because you shouldn’t be this affected. You shouldn't be affected by anything he says or he does because you don't care, right?

"Always."

And then— a hand grips your wrist. It was a guard you didn’t see. You twist your hand, ready to counter, but before you can, Batman moves first.

Fast. Too fast.

His hand grips the front of your suit—yanking you forward, spinning you behind him as he slams the attacker into the wall with enough force to shake the room.

With a loud thud, the guy drops instantly and you hear nothing but the silence that is lingering in the air. The only sound is your breath and his, his hand still gripping your suit, still holding you.

You look up at him and find him already watching you. He’s too close for your liking. Or is he?

His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling in steady yet controlled breaths, and his grip on you remains firm. Your pulse slams against your ribs. There’s something in the air—something that shifts, pulling both of you in. You feel it. And so does he.

You hate this. Or at least, you tell yourself you do. But the truth is, you can’t stop it. It’s happening, inevitable and inescapable. This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is something else entirely. And this time, no one interrupts. No radio crackling to life, no explosions in the distance, no convenient excuse to look away.

It’s just you. Him. And a choice.

Before you can even pull yourself back, before your mind can fully grasp the situation, Satoru makes the decision for you. He yanks you forward, his lips crashing onto yours, his mask half-pulled up—just like yours. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer.

And despite everything, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t—you kiss him back.

Your back slams against cold metal, the impact sending a shiver down your spine—not that you can focus on it. Not when he’s leaning in, fingers curling into your suit, pulling, pressing, taking.

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until it’s too late. Until your hands are in his hair, gripping, tugging, dragging him closer. Until his weight is the only thing keeping you upright.

The vault. The alarms. The entire damn mission—forgotten. Because all you can think about is—

This is dangerous. This is a mistake. This is—

“Fuck,” you breathe against his lips.

And then— he pulls back, barely.

His breath is ragged, his gloved hand still firm on your jaw, his eyes burning with something wild, like he can’t believe he just did that or like he can’t believe he wants to do it again.

The silence between you crackles like a live wire.

Then he swallows. “We can’t—”

You shove him off. Hard.

Your body still hums from his touch, your lips still tingling, your pulse betraying you. But you don’t let any of it show. Instead, you smirk, sharp as a blade.

“Didn’t know the Bat had such bad impulse control.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see it—the exact moment he chooses denial. The way his walls snap back into place like steel reinforcements.

His mask comes down. His voice turns cold. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Because now, the line between you is blurred beyond recognition. Because now, you know what he tastes like. Because now, everything has changed.

And there’s no undoing it.

Gotham’s elite love to party.

It’s how they distract themselves from the fact that their city is rotting beneath them.

Big money, expensive champagne, and a ballroom filled with people who don’t care about anything but themselves.

It’s your kind of scene.

A place where no one notices a missing diamond necklace. Where a stolen keycard goes unreported. Where masks are more than just accessories.

And yet— tonight, you’re not here to steal. Tonight, you're here for him.

It had been a few days since that night—since everything that happened between you and Satoru. Or Batman.

Now, another party was being thrown by Gotham’s elite, and of course, Batman had been invited. And, of course, you had to see him again.

It felt awkward.

Because no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, that kiss had meant something. To both of you. And you didn’t want it to.

You wanted to talk to him like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever would happen again. Right?

You wanted to tell him it was just the adrenaline, just the chaos of that night, nothing more. That’s all it was. That’s all it could ever be.

Gojo Satoru feels you before he sees you.

A shift in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck.

And then— you walk in, dressed to kill.

Silk. Black. Dangerous. A slit running high up your thigh, the soft glint of diamonds resting against your collarbone.

And when your gaze meets his across the ballroom— his throat goes dry.

Because he hasn’t seen you since the kiss. Because you’re smiling like it never happened. Because the second you do— you turn away, and walk straight into another man’s arms.

You feel his stare before you even see him. It lingers on your skin, heavy and unrelenting, like a touch without contact. But you don’t look. Not yet.

Instead, you let the man beside you—some rich idiot with more money than sense—pull you closer, his hand brushing over your waist, his breath warm as he leans in.

"You look exquisite tonight," he murmurs, voice smooth, practiced.

You hum, barely interested. "I know." And still, you feel him.

Watching. Brooding. Jealous. Exactly as you wanted.

So when you finally turn—when your gaze finally locks onto his across the crowded ballroom—you make sure to smirk.

And just like that, he’s gone.

But you know better. He didn’t leave. Not really.

So when you step outside onto the balcony, the cool Gotham night air brushing against your skin, you’re not surprised to find him already there. He stands by the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed, fingers curled around a glass of untouched champagne.

His mask is gone, but his walls? Higher than ever.

You exhale slowly as you step closer, watching him carefully. "Didn’t take you for the jealous type, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "I’m not."

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. "Could’ve fooled me."

Silence settles between you, thick with unspoken words and something else, something heavier. The tension coils between you like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

And then, you break it.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you say, your voice quieter now.

His jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t shift. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"Maybe," you admit. A small smirk tugs at your lips as you step even closer. "Or maybe I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s not how this works, kitten."

"Then how does it work?" Your voice is softer now, your gaze steady. "Because last I checked, you kissed me."

His breath hitches, barely audible.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

And then— you’re against the railing, his hand is on your waist, his grip firm, fingers pressing against the silk of your dress as if anchoring himself in place. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice low and edged with something dangerous.

"It was a mistake," he murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind the words.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly. "Then why are you still thinking about it?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because you already know.

And when his grip tightens on your waist, when his breath ghosts over your lips, you can see it—the exact moment he realizes he’s already lost.

You could kiss him right now. It would be easy. He’s already too close. His body is practically caging you in, his presence overwhelming. His fingers press into your waist like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath his touch. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

And you know he wants it. Because he hasn’t moved away. Because his grip keeps tightening, like he’s fighting himself but losing the battle.

Because when you whisper, "What are you so afraid of, Bat?" his lips part—like he’s about to answer.

Like he’s about to give in. Like this is finally it.

And then— "We’ve got a problem." The comm in his ear crackles to life, shattering the moment.

Just like that, his entire body stiffens. The warmth disappears, replaced by something cold, something distant. You watch it happen—the exact second he shuts down. The moment he remembers who he is. Who you are. What this is.

His hand falls away. His walls slam back up.

When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of whatever had been lingering between you just seconds ago. "I have to go."

You don’t let it show—the disappointment, the frustration curling inside your chest, the ache you don’t want to name. Instead, you force a smirk, tilting your head slightly.

"Duty calls, huh?"

His expression remains unreadable. "Always."

And with that— he’s gone.

But there's always a problem. You should've known this was a setup. You should have left the party the second he walked away.

You should have ignored the champagne, the meaningless conversations, and the empty laughter echoing through the ballroom. You should have disappeared into the night before anyone had the chance to notice.

But you didn’t. And now, you are paying for it.

The moment you step out the back entrance and into the dimly lit alleyway, something slams into you with brutal force. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, sending you stumbling. Before you can react, a sharp sting pierces the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs instantly as your body feels heavy and unsteady. The world tilts beneath you as you struggle to stay upright, but your limbs refuse to cooperate.

Through the haze, a voice reaches your ears, low and amused. "Nighty night, kitty."

Darkness swallows you whole.

"Say that again."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Shoko hesitates over the comms. "She’s missing. No one’s seen her since the party. Word on the street is—"

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. He is already moving. His mind is no longer in the conversation. His focus sharpens, narrowing in on a single, undeniable truth.

Someone took you. And that changes everything.

This isn’t part of the game you and he have played for years. This isn’t the usual chase through Gotham’s streets, the endless dance of pursuit and escape. This isn’t teasing smirks and near-missed captures.

This is something else, something darker.

Someone dared to take you, and that is a very, very big problem.

Because you are his to chase. Because no one else gets to touch you. Because if they have hurt you— he will burn this entire fucking city to the ground.

Pain is the first thing you register. The feeling's not new at all though.

A dull, throbbing ache pulses behind your eyes, heavy and unrelenting. A sharp sting burns at your wrists where the rope digs into your skin. Cold metal presses against your ankles, the bite of steel cuffs locking you in place.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself as the haze begins to clear. You’re tied to a chair.

The air is thick with the scent of damp concrete, musty and stale, like an old basement that hasn't seen fresh air in years. A single lightbulb flickers overhead, its dim glow casting long, shifting shadows against the cracked walls.

You take a slow breath and assess your surroundings.

You’re underground. Maybe an abandoned warehouse. Maybe a storage facility. Wherever you are, it's hidden, tucked away from prying eyes.

And whoever took you here—they know what they’re doing.

You flex your fingers, testing the restraints, but before you can shift too much, a voice cuts through the silence.

"Ah, you’re awake."

The words are smooth, laced with amusement, as if this entire situation is nothing more than an entertaining inconvenience to him.

Your eyes snap toward the source of the voice, adjusting to the dim light, and when you finally see him, irritation flares in your chest.

Fushiguro Toji.

You let out a slow breath, biting back a groan. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me."

Toji smirks, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. "Surprised, kitty?"

"Annoyed," you correct, rolling your shoulders against the ropes. "Didn’t think I was worth your time."

He chuckles, dark amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Oh, you weren’t. But then I heard about your little… situation with Gotham’s Bat."

The words are casual, but your stomach twists.

You don’t react. You don’t tense. You don’t let the flicker of unease show on your face. Instead, you arch a brow and smirk. "Didn’t know he had fans."

"I wouldn’t call myself a fan," Toji muses, tilting his head. "But I do love a good weakness. And you, sweetheart?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’re his."

Your heart skips just for a second.

But you keep your expression neutral because he’s wrong.

Right?

Right.

Right.

…Right?

Gojo finds the first guy in ten minutes.

The second in five.

By the time he gets to the third, his knuckles are already bloodied, bruises forming across his fingers from the force of his hits.

The man stumbles back, pressing himself against the brick wall, his breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. "I-I don’t know where they took her, I swear—"

Gojo’s expression is unreadable beneath his blindfold, but his voice is ice. "Where."

It isn’t a question. It’s a demand.

The man chokes, scrambling for words. "P-please, man, I just heard they took her underground—"

That’s all Gojo needs.

His fingers loosen, and the man collapses to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. But Gojo doesn’t wait. He’s already gone. Because he’s close. Because they took you from him. Because they think they can keep you.

And they’re about to learn just how wrong they are.

You won’t let him see you sweat.

Not when the ropes burn against your wrists, cutting into your skin with every twitch of your fingers. Not when your head pounds from whatever the hell they drugged you with, the fog in your brain refusing to lift. Not even when Fushiguro Toji leans in, eyes dark with amusement, the sharp glint of his knife catching the dim, flickering light.

He’s enjoying this.

Enjoying the way your muscles tense when the blade spins between his fingers. Enjoying the way your gaze flickers toward the door, toward the single exposed bulb swaying overhead.

Enjoying the way you’re waiting for something.

Or rather, someone.

"What’s wrong, kitty?" he murmurs, the cold edge of steel pressing against your cheek. "Thought your Bat would’ve come for you by now?"

Your lips curl into a smirk, masking the way your stomach coils with unease. "What, jealous?"

Toji chuckles, low and amused, before his fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His grip is firm—not cruel, but controlling. A predator playing with his food.

"Nah," he muses. "Just curious how long it’s gonna take him to break."

Your stomach tightens because if there’s one thing you know about Gojo Satoru, it’s this— he doesn’t break.

He shatters. And when he does— he takes everything down with him.

Gojo hears your heartbeat before he sees you. He has some sirt of a bat instinct, you see.

Faint. Steady. Alive.

That’s the only thing keeping him from ripping this place apart.

But the moment he steps inside—the moment his eyes land on you, tied to that fucking chair, with Toji crouched in front of you like a wolf toying with its prey—something inside him snaps.

"Step away from her." His voice is quiet and deadly. The kind of voice that promises violence.

Toji doesn’t even turn around. Instead, he grins, spinning his knife between his fingers. "Took you long enough, Bat."

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. "This is your only warning."

Toji finally turns, his sharp green eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Or what?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

Then—he smiles. "Or I’ll show you why Gotham is afraid of the dark."

You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen the way he moves—quick, calculated, precise.

But this? This is different. This isn’t the controlled Bat, this isn’t the patient hunter.

This is Gojo Satoru with nothing left to hold back. And it’s terrifying. Because he’s not just fighting Toji.

He’s dismantling him.

A fist meets flesh with a sickening, brutal crack. Toji throws a punch—Gojo catches his wrist mid-air, twisting hard enough that the snap of bone echoes through the empty warehouse.

Toji grits his teeth, lunges—Gojo moves faster, dodging with ease before slamming him into the concrete so hard the ground cracks beneath them. There’s no banter. No smirk. No teasing.

There’s just rage.

And the worst part? Gojo is enjoying it. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is everything.

This is Gotham. The corruption. The powerlessness.

This is every ounce of anger he’s swallowed down for years, unleashed on the one bastard stupid enough to give him an excuse and if you don’t stop him now— he won’t stop at all.

"Satoru." Your voice barely reaches him over the pounding in his ears.

But the second you say his name—his real name— he freezes.

Fist still curled in Toji’s bloodied collar. Breath coming in slow, heavy exhales. Shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury.

And then, slowly—he turns. His eyes meet yours, and for the briefest moment, they flicker—from Gotham’s Bat to the man underneath. That’s all you need.

"Let him go."

Gojo stares at you, unmoving, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sharp breath—he lets Toji’s unconscious body drop to the ground. The tension in his frame lingers, coiled tight, but his steps are steady as he moves toward you. The anger is still there. The darkness. The weight of everything he just did.

But his hands are gentle when they find the ropes binding your wrists.

"Let’s get you out of here."

The silence is suffocating.

You should be grateful though. The moment he cut you loose, he got you out—carried you through Gotham’s backstreets, made sure you weren’t followed. Now, you’re in a hidden safehouse—one of his, no doubt—sitting on an old couch, trying to ignore the dull ache in your wrists.

And him? He’s in the bathroom. Avoiding you.

You hear the water running, the steady drip of blood swirling down the sink. You should leave, you should run. But you don’t. Because you’re not done with him yet.

But for him it keeps replaying in his head. The way you said it.

'"Satoru."'

Not Batman. Not Bats. Not some teasing, smug nickname meant to piss him off. Just his name.

Like you knew exactly what it meant to use it. Like you knew it would break him.

His knuckles sting as he washes off the blood. He should have killed Toji. He should have— no.

No, he shouldn’t have let you get this close. He grips the edge of the sink, eyes burning into his reflection. He can’t want this. He can’t want you.

But then—a creak of the floorboard, a shift in the air. He doesn’t need to turn around to know you’re standing in the doorway. And when you speak— he already knows he’s fucked.

"Let me see your hands."

He doesn’t move, neither does he look at you. But he also doesn’t stop you when you step forward and reach for his hand. The bruises are already blooming, dark and angry across his knuckles.

You should say something sharp—something to piss him off, make him smirk, drag him back into whatever stupid game you’ve been playing for years. But for once, you don’t want to play.

"You could’ve killed him," your voice is quiet.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I should have."

"That’s not who you are," you say as you caress the back of his hand.

That makes him snap.

His head jerks up, eyes flashing. "You don’t know who I am."

But you don’t let go.

You squeeze his hand—challenging. "Then tell me."

He doesn't say anything for a while and you feel frustrated.

And then, softer—barely a breath. "You don’t want to know."

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, coiling around your throat like a noose.

His hand is still in yours, bruised and warm, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to pull away.

Or worse—hold on tighter.

You don’t let go. Neither does he. And for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe— maybe this isn’t something you have to fight. Maybe this doesn’t have to be another battle, another game of pushing and pulling until one of you finally lets go.

Maybe— but then his grip tightens, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse. "You should leave."

The words hit harder than any punch.

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. You force yourself to smile, to tilt your head like this is nothing, like you aren’t standing on the edge of something that could shatter you completely.

"So that’s it?" you murmur, fingers tracing absent patterns along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath your touch. "I almost die, you almost lose your mind, and now you’re just gonna pretend none of it happened?"

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing, but he doesn’t pull away. "It can’t happen."

You scoff. "Can’t, or won’t?"

He exhales sharply, the muscle in his jaw twitching again. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make this something it isn’t."

Anger flickers hot in your chest, and this time, it’s you who tightens your grip. "And what exactly is this, Satoru?"

He doesn’t answer and that’s the worst part. Because you can take a fight. You can take sharp words and heated arguments, can take anger and fire and frustration.

But this? This silence? This refusal to even acknowledge what’s between you? This is what fucking hurts.

You shake your head, laughing bitterly as you finally drop his hand. "You know, for someone who always acts like he’s got all the answers, you really are a fucking coward."

Then you turn. And this time, you walk away first.

He lets you walk away, though he shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

Because if he stops you—if he says anything else, if he gives in even an inch— he won’t be able to stop himself at all.

He won’t be able to stop himself from pulling you back, from letting himself want this, want you, from letting himself believe that there could ever be a world where this doesn't end in disaster.

So he lets you go. He stays in that goddamn bathroom, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white, staring at his own reflection like it’ll give him an answer he doesn’t already fucking know.

Because he knows.

He knows that no matter how many times he tells himself to stay away, no matter how many times he buries it— it’s still there.

It’s been there for years. And now? Now it’s unraveling, slipping through his fingers like smoke, impossible to ignore, impossible to deny. Because the moment you walked away? He felt it.

The weight in his chest, the tightening in his throat, the overwhelming urge to chase after you, to take it back, to do something—

And fuck.

Fuck.

He slams his fist into the mirror before he can stop himself, glass shattering beneath his skin, pain blooming sharp and hot across his knuckles. He doesn’t even feel it. Because all he can think about—all he can fucking think about— is you. And that’s when he knows. This is it. This is the breaking point.

Because the second something happens—the second something puts you in danger again, the second someone so much as looks at you the wrong way— he won’t be able to stop himself.

And this time? He won’t fucking try.

You shouldn’t care. You tell yourself you don’t.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

You tell yourself you should be used to it by now—used to the push and pull, used to the way he always leaves first, used to the way you always let him.

But this time? This time, it feels different.

This time, it feels like something inside you has been cracked open, exposed, left bleeding in the space between you. This time, you were the one who walked away—and it still fucking hurts.

Because the truth is— you wanted him to stop you. You wanted him to prove you wrong. But he didn’t.

And that? That fucking stings.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples, eyes fluttering shut as you try to push it down, try to shove it deep, deep, deep beneath the surface where it can’t touch you anymore.

But the second you open your eyes, the second you see your reflection in the grimy window of your apartment—

You know. You know this isn’t over, because no matter how hard you try to run from it— it always brings you back to him.

You were lost in your thoughts, more like consumed by them that you forgot. You're Catwoman. You're in the freaking city of Gotham. You should've known. It happens fast. Too fast.

One second, you’re walking down the empty streets of Gotham, the cool night air biting at your skin, the weight of earlier still sitting heavy in your chest—

And the next? You’re surrounded.

Shadows slip out from the alleys, footsteps closing in, voices murmuring in low, amused tones. "Look what we have here…"

"Thought you were untouchable, sweetheart?"

Shit.

You recognize them instantly—Falcone’s men. Which means this isn’t a random attack. This is a message, a warning. A consequence for getting too close to Gotham’s Bat.

You bite back a curse, hands twitching at your sides, muscles tensing as you count the men, assess the distance, calculate your odds.

Four—maybe five. Armed? Most likely. A fight you could win? …Not without consequences.

But what other choice do you have? Because you already know— no one is coming to save you. Not this time.

Satoru feels it before he hears it.

It’s instinct.

A sharp, sudden shift in his chest, a gut-wrenching pull like something inside him is being ripped apart. Then— the comm buzzes.

"We got a situation." Nanami’s voice is clipped, urgent. "Falcone’s men. Five of them. Near Harbor Street."

And before he can even think—before he can stop himself—he’s already moving. Because he knows.

He fucking knows.

You don’t go down easy. They think they’ve already won. They think this will be easy.

They think you’re just a pretty little thief, just a girl who got in too deep, just another lesson to be taught. And that’s their first mistake. Because you don’t go down easy.

You move before they do—a sharp kick, a twist, a knife pulled from your belt and pressed to the throat of the closest man before he can even blink.

"Try it," you hiss, voice laced with venom.

He hesitates, and in that second, you know—you have an opening.

But then— a gun cocks.

And a voice—low, amused, familiar—cuts through the night like a blade. "Tsk. Always making things difficult, aren’t you, kitten?"

Your blood runs cold because you know that voice.

Suguru Geto.

And that? That changes everything.

You’ve honestly been in worse situations. But not many.

Not ones that make your stomach twist quite like this, not ones that make your pulse hammer against your ribs in something too sharp, too visceral, too close to fear. Because this isn’t just anyone. This isn’t some low-level thug. This isn’t even some mob boss looking to put you in your place. This is Suguru Geto.

And he doesn’t waste his time on small threats. No, when he moves, when he speaks, when he smiles—it means something.

"You’ve been causing quite the stir lately," he muses, stepping closer, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets. "Getting on the Bat’s good side, stepping on all the wrong toes—really, kitten, I expected better from you."

You force your grip to stay steady, the knife still pressed against the throat of the man you caught off guard.

"Flattered, really," you say, keeping your voice light, like your pulse isn’t hammering, like your fingers aren’t itching to grab your grapple and run. "Didn’t think I’d be important enough to warrant a visit from the great Suguru Geto himself."

He chuckles—low, smooth, condescending. "Oh, you’re important," he says. "Just not in the way you think."

Your jaw tightens. "Yeah? Then why are you here?"

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already figured out. "Because," he hums, "you have something that belongs to me."

The USB.

Shit.

Your grip on the knife falters for half a second—half a second too long. Because before you can react, before you can process, before you can even think— The man you were holding twists, shoving you off, the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your ribs before you can recover.

And just like that— you’re out of options.

Satoru's close.

Close enough that he can hear the words, close enough that he can hear your fucking pulse spike.

And that? That’s what does it. Because it’s one thing to be reckless. It’s one thing to be stubborn, to push him away, to insist that you don’t need him, that you can handle yourself.

But this? This is different because Geto doesn’t make idle threats.

And the second Gojo hears the sharp intake of your breath, the second he hears the shift of movement, the second he realizes exactly what’s happening— he moves. Fast. Too fast for them to react.

Because one second, Geto is smirking, enjoying his little game— and the next? He’s eating pavement.

Satoru doesn't hold back. He could, he should. But he doesn’t.

Because the second he sees that gun against your ribs, the second he sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes flicker with something you never let anyone see— it’s over.

The first punch sends Geto flying. The second cracks something, leaves him coughing up blood.

The third? That one’s personal.

Because Gojo has been patient. He’s let things slide, let lines blur, let the underworld think he’s just another player in the game. But this? This is different. This is you. And that? That changes everything.

You've seen his fight countless times, but not like this. Not like he’s tearing through them without a second thought, not like he’s this close to losing control, not like the only thing keeping him from going too far is the fact that you’re standing right there.

It should scare you.

It should make you rethink everything, should remind you why you’ve always kept your distance, why you’ve always told yourself you couldn’t afford to get caught up in whatever the hell is between you. But it doesn’t. Because all you can think, as you watch him break Geto’s men like they’re nothing— is that he came. That you didn’t even call for him, and he still fucking came.

And when it’s over, when the dust settles and Geto is left bloody and laughing on the pavement, when Gojo finally turns to you, breath ragged, knuckles split, eyes burning— you don’t run. You don’t even flinch.

Because you know what this means. What it’s always meant. And maybe—maybe this time, neither of you will walk away first.

You really think you should stop this. You should. You should shove him away, should tell him this doesn’t change anything, should remind yourself why this is a bad idea, why this has always been a bad idea.

But when his fingers curl around your wrist, when he tugs you closer, when his breath ghosts over your lips— you don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe. Because this isn’t like before.

This isn’t a game, isn’t a moment either of you will walk away from, isn’t something that can be brushed aside when the night is over. This is the point of no return.

And when he finally, finally closes the distance— you let him.

Because maybe—just maybe—you were never meant to run from him in the first place. It was always going to be you, always.

From the moment you first slipped past his defenses, from the moment you first met his gaze across the rooftops of Gotham, from the moment you first left him standing there with nothing but your name on his tongue and your laughter ringing in his ears— it was always going to be you.

And now? Now, with you in his arms, with your fingers tangled in his hair, with your taste on his lips, he knows there’s no going back. He doesn’t want to.

Because if Gotham is his curse, if the mask is his burden, if the weight of this city is something he’ll never escape— then you? You're the only thing that’s ever made it worth it. And for once, just once—he’s taking what he wants.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him, where it all began.

The city glows beneath you. The skyline stretches out, endless and alive, neon lights flickering, sirens wailing in the distance, the hum of Gotham’s heartbeat steady and unyielding.

It’s always been like this. Always moving. Always demanding. Always taking. And you? You’ve always been running.

But tonight? Tonight, you stand still. Because Gojo is in front of you, mask off, white hair ruffled by the wind, the cut on his lip still fresh from the fight, his eyes— those damn blue eyes—locked onto yours like he’s trying to memorize you, like he already knows what’s coming.

"So this is it, huh?" he says, voice low, rough.

You swallow hard, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Bat. You knew it wouldn’t last."

His jaw clenches. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

You step closer, tilting your head. "You’ll live."

He exhales sharply, like he’s about to say something—something real, something that might make you stay— but you can’t let him.

So you reach up, fingers barely brushing his jaw, a ghost of a touch, a silent goodbye.

"Goodbye, Batman," you whisper, voice softer than you mean it to be. "Gotham needs you."

For a second, just a second—you think that’s it. That he’ll let you go. That he’ll watch you disappear into the night like you always do.

But then— his hand catches yours. Tightly. Desperately. And when he speaks, when his voice finally breaks— it nearly stops you in your tracks.

"Why don’t you stay, Cat?" he murmurs, raw, unguarded, everything. "I need you."

Your breath catches as your heart lurches. Because that—that’s the one thing you weren’t ready for. But you force a smirk, even as your chest aches.

"That’s your problem, Bat." You squeeze his hand once, just once—before slipping free. "You’re not supposed to." You pause and for once give him a big genuine smile. "See ya later batman."

And with that— you step back and you turn, as you disappear into the night, like you always do.

Because Gotham needs him. And maybe he was never meant to need you.

@do-morochaa @madamechrissy @katthekat1234 (hope y'all like it😭💗)

[gdinthehouseee]

Lucky Star: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: you're a member of 2NE1 and it's finally time for you and your group to debut. thanks to a minor distraction, disaster almost struck moments before you're supposed to go on, but luckily ji-yong is there to save the day--and your career.

word count: 4782

tags: fluff, slightly steamy flirting at the end

ao3 link

Pre-performance chaos filled the shared dressing room: staff rushing in and out, adjusting outfits, reapplying makeup, and running through final checks. The other members of your group, 2NE1, were occupied. Chae-rin was discussing something with the stage manager, Minji was stretching in the corner of the room, while Bom and Sandara were warming up together on the couch.

And you?

You were staring at your reflection in the mirror, barely tuning into the noise around you. Your hands fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, your stomach flipping for reasons you didn’t quite understand. Well, objectively, it was understandable: the time has finally come for your group’s debut, but your mind was elsewhere. There must have been a deeper reason, right? Maybe it was excitement, maybe nerves. Or maybe—

"You’re gonna rip your outfit if you keep doing that."

A familiar voice snapped you out of your trance. You turned your head to see Ji-yong leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an amused smirk.

You immediately let go of the fabric and frowned. "I wasn’t—"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe I was. But don’t you have BigBang things to do? Why are you here?" You huffed, your nerves jumping out through your vocal cords.

“Am I not allowed to support you?” 

You gave him a look. "To check on me or to annoy me?"

His grin widened. "Can’t it be both?"

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the mirror, but you could still feel his gaze on you as he walked in and sat down next to you. It was unnerving, but not in a bad way. More like a “why does he always get under your skin so easily” kind of way. It wasn’t just the way he teased you—it was the way he lingered, the way his presence wrapped around you like a thread you couldn’t quite pull loose. He had always been like this, effortlessly slipping past your defenses with a smirk and a well-placed comment.

And yet, beneath all the banter, there was something else. Something quieter.

You weren’t sure if it was in the way he watched you now, eyes flickering with something unreadable, or in the way he always seemed to notice the things no one else did. But whatever it was, it made your pulse stutter in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. And everything to do with him.

"You’re nervous," Ji-yong said after a moment, his tone light but knowing.

You scoffed. "I am not."

He tilted his head. "You only mess with your clothes when you’re overthinking something. I’ve seen you do it a hundred times."

That made you pause. "You… noticed that?"

He blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He hadn’t planned on admitting how much he noticed—the little ways your nerves showed, the way you tried to hide them. But he saw it all. He always did.

And for some reason, it made something tighten in his chest. He didn’t like seeing you doubt yourself. Didn’t like the way your fingers curled around the fabric of your outfit like you were bracing for something to go wrong. He wanted to fix it. To say something that would make that crease in your brow disappear, to remind you that you had nothing to prove to anyone.

He quickly recovered, however, masking the thought with an easy smirk. "Of course. I am very observant."

"Or maybe you just enjoy making fun of me."

"That too," he admitted, grinning. "But seriously, why are you nervous?"

You hesitated before sighing. "I don’t know. It’s stupid."

Ji-yong leaned against the back of the couch, watching you expectantly. "Try me."

Again, you hesitated. You opted to pick up your mic and just play around with it. Carefully, of course. You couldn’t have it damaged moments before your performance. 

You certainly weren’t used to talking about this kind of thing—not with him, at least. Sure, you bantered all the time, but this felt different. More personal. You were used to messing around with him during practice—playful teasing, stealing each other’s snacks, making small talk about the latest trends or whatever ridiculous thing that had happened during rehearsals that day. It was easy, effortless. A comfortable rhythm you had both fallen into without thinking. But this? Talking about something real, something personal? That was different. That was terrifying. If you let your guard down, if you let him see even a fraction of the doubts swirling in your mind, how would he react? 

What if he saw more than that? What if he saw the way your heart stuttered whenever he looked at you a second too long? The way you hung onto his words more than you should? You had spent so much time hiding your feelings behind witty comebacks and casual conversations, and now, with the weight of his gaze on you, you weren’t sure if you could anymore.

After a moment, you exhaled. "I just… I want to be good enough. I don’t want to mess up."

Ji-yong was quiet for a beat before he spoke up. "You are good enough."

You glanced at him, caught off guard by how certain he sounded. "You say that like it’s a fact."

"It is a fact," he said easily. "If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here."

Your chest tightened at his words—not because they made you more nervous, but because they somehow made you feel lighter. Like you weren’t carrying the weight of your doubts alone.

"You really think so?" You asked before you could stop yourself.

He met your gaze, his expression softening just slightly. "Yeah. I know so."

For a second, neither of you spoke. The noise of the room faded into the background, and you found yourself focusing only on the way he was looking in the mirror at you—not teasing, not smug. Just the real Ji-yong.

Then, without a word, he suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin bracelet. A simple black cord, with a single charm dangling from it.

You blinked. "What’s that?"

He held it out. "For you."

“Why?”

"Because it’s my lucky charm. And now I’m giving it to you."

Your brows furrowed as you placed the microphone back down onto the dressing table, turned your entire body towards him, and slowly reached out. The charm was small but detailed—a tiny star, slightly worn at the edges, like it had been touched a hundred times before. 

"You carry this around?" You asked, stil staring at the delicate jewelery.

"Yeah. Before every performance, I hold onto it. It kinda became a habit." He shrugged.

You looked back up at him. "But… why give it to me?"

Ji-yong’s smirk faded completely now, his smile softer and his eyes trained on you. "Because I think you need it more than I do right now."

Something warm spread through your chest, something that had nothing to do with simple nerves. You swallowed, looking down at the bracelet before he picked it up and slipped it onto your wrist.

"You better not be messing with me," you murmured. "Or I swear, I’ll—"

He chuckled. "Relax. No tricks. Just luck."

You ran your fingers over the charm, then glanced at him. "Thanks, Ji."

It was ridiculous how something so simple could affect him so much. He heard his name all the time—fans chanting it, members calling for him, staff addressing him formally. But when you said it, when you casually dropped the full syllables and just called him Ji—for the first time, at that—like it was the most natural thing in the world, his heart did this stupid little flutter in his chest. It was personal. Intimate, in a way he wasn’t sure you even realized. No one else had ever said it like you just did. And maybe it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

He smiled bashfully and scratched the back of his neck, stepping back. "Don’t get used to it."

Returning the smile, you laughed. "Too late."

Ji-yong opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Chae-rin called your name from across the room. “C’mon, girl. We’re on in five.”

It was only now you realised you were the only ones left in the room. Not an entirely great start. You turned to go, but just before you stepped away, you looked down at your wrist one more time. The charm glinted under the lights, and for the first time all day, your nerves didn’t feel so overwhelming.

Ji-yong watched as you walked off, hands in his pockets, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

Stepping out the room with Chae-rin, you were quickly escorted through the winding hallways of the backstage area by your managers. You felt like everything within you was racing; your thoughts and feelings, your blood, and not to mention your adrenaline. You took a deep breath as you stood with your group members and friends.

“Everything good to go?” You heard a manager ask your group, and you were about to confirm when you realised you were missing something. An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach as you realised you weren’t holding—

"My mic!" You gasped, eyes widening. "I left it in the dressing room!"

The staff around you tensed and the girls looked at you like you were a ghost. You felt the blood drain from your face. This was it—your career was going to be over before it even started.

But before the panic could fully set in, a familiar voice drawled, "Looking for this?"

You spun around. Ji-yong was standing there, casually twirling your microphone in his fingers, looking way too smug for someone who just saved your life. You were simply too stunned to speak. 

"You’re predictable," he teased. "I saw you put it down earlier and figured you’d forget it."

You grabbed the mic from his hands, your heart still racing. "You just knew I’d forget?!"

"What can I say? I pay attention."

There was something in the way he said it—something playful, yet sincere. For a moment, you forgot about the crowd waiting outside, the stage, the cameras. It was just Ji-yong, standing there with that cocky grin, acting like saving your entire debut was no big deal.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling warm. "Well… thank you."

He winked. "I got you."

The staff ushered you forward. As you stepped onto the stage, your nerves weren’t completely gone—but they weren’t overwhelming anymore either. And it was all thanks to your silly little crush.

The stage lights were blinding, the music pulsed through your body, and the crowd was electric. This was it—your debut performance. Your heart pounded, but the moment you struck your opening pose, adrenaline took over. The cheers were deafening, the energy infectious. You could barely take it all in when—

"YEAH! THERE’S OUR GIRLS!"

A seemingly louder voice—way too familiar—shouted from the crowd, making your stomach drop. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Sure enough, you spotted them. All the members of BigBang. Front and centre. Completely ignoring any attempt at blending in. Daesung was jumping up and down like an overenthusiastic fanboy, waving his arms wildly. Seung-hyun stood there, arms crossed with a proud smile. Taeyang was in full cheerleader mode, clapping and pointing at each of you as if you were his personal pride and joy. When did they get here?

But it was Ji-yong—always with the most subtle, but most intense gaze—who still caused your heart racing. His eyes were glued to the entire group, studying every move, like he was seeing each of you in a way no one else could.

You tried to shake off the nervous flutter that the thought brought, focusing back on the performance—but then—

"LOOK AT THEM GO!” Daesung shouted, pumping his fist in the air. You couldn’t help but laugh internally, knowing his tendency to be a little over the top.

Despite the fact that your heart was racing from the performance, you couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through you at seeing the boys so clearly proud of you and the group. You knew they were supporting you all, but hearing their cheers loud and proud for the whole of 2NE1 made you feel unstoppable.

Minzy, who was just behind you on stage, leaned in close enough for you to hear her without the mic picking up her words. “They’re like our personal fan club.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, glancing to the side at her with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t know they could get any louder.”

Dara shot you a knowing smile from across the stage, barely whispering into her mic as she adjusted her position. “I think your little boyfriend is impressed.”

You froze for half a second, caught off guard by Dara’s words, but then you noticed Ji-yong’s gaze again. He was watching you with an intensity that made your stomach do flips, but there was no teasing or playful banter. His eyes were warm, proud, but… there was something else there. Something you couldn’t quite name.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you quickly muttered back.

“But you still knew who I meant.” She teased quietly.

“Whatever.”

Getting into position for your part of the song—the first part of your performance—you quickly glanced at the boys, all of which were enthusiastically waving their lightsticks, yet you couldn’t help but focus on Ji-yong once more. It looked almost like he was seeing you for the first time, his eyes were full of admiration—truly in awe of your performance so far. To you, his focus almost felt like you were performing just for him. There was a part of you that wished it was just you and him. 

That’s why you had to nail your parts, and you did. Not just for the group and yourself, but for him, too.

Afterwards, the van ride back to the dorm was a whirlwind of laughter and energy. You and the girls couldn’t stop talking over each other, each of you still reeling from the success of your debut performance. The night had been everything you’d hoped for and more—an incredible first step into your career. As the van pulled up to the dorm, you practically jumped out of your seat, eager to celebrate.

“We did it! We really did it!” Sandara was practically bouncing in her seat as you all stepped out, grinning from ear to ear. Minji followed suit, already doing a little victory dance as she skipped up the steps.

"I can't believe it!" Bom laughed, walking alongside you. "We’ve worked so hard for this moment. It feels unreal."

"I know! It feels like a dream," you replied, your heart still racing from the adrenaline. The thought of everything that had led up to this point made your chest swell with pride.

Inside, the dorm was cozy, a stark contrast to the bright stage lights and loud cheers. The atmosphere felt so much more relaxed, and everyone quickly scattered to grab drinks, snacks, and anything that would make this night even more memorable.

You wandered over to the kitchen, the warmth and excitement of the night settling in as you took a moment to let everything sink in. Chae-rin handed you a drink with a proud smile. "You were incredible tonight. Seriously, you looked like a star."

“Thank you, Chae-rin.” You returned the smile, your voice much quieter than before. As the leader of the group, she immediately picked up on the change in your behaviour. She knew you a little too well for your liking. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just…”

Momentarily, you looked down at the floor. 

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to put it into words. You weren’t exactly sure why you’d been feeling off, but there was something about the night that made everything feel a little heavier. Between the performance, the teasing from the girls, and the subtle tension you couldn’t deny with Ji-yong, it felt like your emotions were tangled up in a way that was hard to unpack.

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “It’s just... everything happened so fast tonight, you know? I think I’m still processing it all. We worked so hard to get here, and now that we’ve done it, it’s like—what’s next?”

“I get it,” she said quietly. “It’s a big step. Sometimes, when you reach a goal, you don’t always know how to feel about it. Especially when it feels like it came all at once.”

You took a sip of your drink. “And it’s weird... because I thought I’d feel proud. And I do, but there’s also this... pressure. Like, we just debuted, and now we’re expected to keep getting better. To keep doing more.”

Her eyes softened, taking a step closer to you. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” she said, her voice steady and full of conviction. “It’s okay to feel a little lost. We’re all in this together. And I know you. You’ve always been determined, but you also care deeply about making every step count. You’ll find your way. Don’t let the pressure take away from the moment we’ve earned.”

You looked at her, surprised by how much those words grounded you. Chae-rin wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, but when she spoke, it always felt like she understood exactly what you were going through. You hadn’t expected this level of comfort from her, but in that moment, it meant everything.

“I don’t want to let the pressure get to me,” you admitted, lowering your glass. “But sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to be... perfect. You know? Like, we all have our roles to play, and I don’t want to mess it up.”

She gave you a small, knowing smile. “We’re all figuring it out. And trust me, you’re not alone in that feeling. You think I haven’t had moments where I felt like I wasn’t doing enough? Or that I was missing something important? We all get caught up in the idea that we have to have it all figured out, but that’s not the reality of it.” She paused for a moment, letting her words settle. “The important thing is that you’re doing it. We’re all doing it. You’ve come this far for a reason, and it’s not because you’re trying to be perfect. It’s because you have something real to offer. Don’t let anyone—including yourself—convince you otherwise.”

You felt a small weight lift off your shoulders, hearing her say it out loud. Sometimes, the doubt and fear could be overwhelming, but hearing those words from Chae-rin made everything feel just a little more manageable.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your voice a little shaky. “I needed to hear that. I think I’ve just been holding everything in, trying to be ‘on’ all the time.”

Chae-rin’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to do it alone. You’ve got the girls, and you’ve got me. Don’t forget that. We’re not just teammates—we’re a family. And we’ve got your back.”

The sincerity in her voice hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you could feel the tears threatening to surface. But you quickly blinked them away, grateful for her words and for the quiet strength she always seemed to radiate.

“You’ve also got the boys. I mean, you saw them out there, right? Our number one fans.” Both of you couldn’t help but to laugh at the thought of the way they were screaming their support from the crowd.

“Thanks,” you whispered again, this time a little more sure of yourself. “I think I just needed to hear that I’m not expected to be perfect. I’m not even sure where I got that idea from.”

“Everyone gets caught in that mindset sometimes,” she said, offering a small chuckle. “Just don’t let it control you.”

You both stood there for a moment, the noise from the living room growing fainter as the conversation between you and Chae-rin deepened. In that moment, you realized that despite all the pressure and uncertainty that came with debuting, you weren’t alone. You had your team, your family—your sisters—and they’d be there every step of the way.

With a final squeeze on your shoulder, Chae-rin gave you a wink. “Now, come on. Let’s get back out there before the others think we’ve abandoned them.”

You chuckled, feeling lighter than you had in hours. “I think I need some time to myself, my social battery is drained. But, seriously, thank you.”

“Of course.” She nodded with a small but genuine smile. “Anytime.”

“I’ll be on the roof if you need me,” you clarified, in case somebody really did need to reach you.

The cool night air felt refreshing against your skin as you stood on the roof, away from the noise and chaos below. The city lights flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the rooftops, but in this moment, everything felt still. You let out a quiet breath, your mind replaying the night’s performance, the teasing, the congratulations, and the deep conversation with Chae-rin. It was all so surreal—everything you had worked for, everything you had dreamed of. Yet, even now, as you stood here, alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t shake the pressure that had settled in your chest. There was a sense of responsibility that weighed heavy on you. You couldn’t afford to let down the people who had supported you—your team, your family, the fans. But for the first time tonight, you let yourself feel proud of what you’d accomplished, even if it was just a small victory in the grand scheme of things. You had made it this far. You had earned this moment. Maybe that was enough, for now.

A quiet peace settled over you as you stood there, your thoughts drifting away from the bustling celebration downstairs. It felt nice to have a moment of calm, even if it was just for a little while. But then you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps, and before you could turn around, a voice cut through the stillness.

“You know, you shouldn’t be out here by yourself. The night’s still young.”

You turned, startled to find Ji-yong standing just a few feet away, leaning casually against the railing with a small grin on his face.

“Ji,” you said, blinking in surprise. “I didn’t even know you were in the building. Did you guys stop by to celebrate after the performance?”

“Yeah, we came by,” he replied with a shrug, stepping closer. “But we thought you and the girls might want some time to yourselves. I didn’t want to interrupt. But, now that I’m here... looks like you could use some company.”

“And here I was, thinking you were too cool for group celebrations.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Who do you think I am? I’m here to celebrate you, of course,” he said with a wink. “You and that lucky bracelet. How could I not?”

You chuckled, crossing your arms as you leaned against the railing, mimicking his casual stance. “You’ve really taken the whole ‘lucky charm’ thing and run with it, haven’t you?”

He grinned, his confidence palpable. “Why wouldn’t I? I picked the perfect accessory, didn’t I? I’m just saying... maybe it’s more than just luck.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly masked it with a teasing tone. “What are you trying to say?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your voice light but curious.

He took a small step closer, his voice lowering just a bit, his gaze flicking briefly to the bracelet on your wrist. “I’m saying... maybe you’re the one who’s lucky.”

You glanced up at him, your heart hammering in your chest. His words were teasing, but there was an underlying seriousness to them now, a tension that was building between the two of you.

“Is that so?”

He took another step forward, and now, he was standing much closer than you expected. You could feel the heat of his body, the space between you two practically nonexistent. “I think so,” he said softly, his voice low, sending a shiver down your spine. “But I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Before you could respond, Ji-yong was even closer, his body nearly pressed against yours as he leaned in. His hands moved to the railing behind you, caging you in, his arms locking you in place as you felt your breath catch in your throat. He was now leaning over you, his presence overwhelming and intoxicating.

Your heart raced in your chest, and your breath hitched as you tried to steady yourself. “Ji, you—” you started, but your voice faltered as you looked up at him. His eyes were dark with something you couldn’t quite place.

“I don’t bite,” he teased softly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Unless you want me to.”

You swallowed hard, unable to keep the smile off your face as you met his gaze. There was a mixture of playfulness and something else in his eyes, something deeper, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

“And what if I do want you to?”

“Well, then I guess you’ll have to let me know.”

You shivered, your pulse quickening at the closeness of him. “I think you’re already too close,” you teased, trying to pull back, but the railing behind you kept you trapped in place.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice full of quiet amusement, but his hands on the railing tightened, keeping you right where you were. “But I’m not going anywhere. Not until you admit you’re at least a little curious about what comes next.”

The boldness of his words hung in the air, and despite your teasing, your heart was hammering, and the air between you two felt thick with unspoken words. You licked your lips, feeling the pressure of the moment, unable to pull away and unable to deny the electricity running through you.

“Curious, huh?” you murmured, your voice a little breathless now, and you gave him a sly smile. “Maybe you’ve got me slightly curious.”

He leaned in a fraction closer, his lips just brushing against your temple as he whispered, “That’s all I need to know.”

"Ji..." you whispered, your voice trembling just the slightest, barely audible in the stillness. His name felt so natural on your lips, but now it was more than just his name—it was a plea, an invitation.

His eyes softened, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his gaze. But then, he leaned in, slowly, almost as if giving you the space to back away, to stop him. But you didn’t move. You didn’t want to.

Ji-yong’s lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could feel the electricity between you two intensifying, crackling in the air. His breath mingled with yours as he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve wanted this for a while now...”

And then, without warning, he closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours softly at first. The contact sent a shock of warmth through your entire body, and you instinctively leaned into him, your hands reaching up to wrap around the back of his neck. His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you slightly closer, and his lips deepened the kiss just enough to send your pulse soaring.

For a moment, everything faded. The crowd downstairs, the loud celebration, the teasing banter—none of it mattered. It was just the two of you, locked in this kiss, and everything else felt like it didn’t exist.

Ji-yong’s lips moved against yours with a gentleness that was almost unexpected, but there was still a hunger, a desire, beneath it all. His hand moved to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek in the softest motion. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt as you tried to pull him even closer, if that was even possible.

When he finally pulled away, just enough for both of you to catch your breath, his forehead rested gently against yours. His eyes were still closed, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Ji-yong?”

“Yeah?” He opened his eyes again, his own breath hitching in his throat as he took in your beauty once more. “What is it, jagiya?” 

“Kiss me.”

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy

[ghostgirl-22]

hiii I was thinking about the opposites of popular tropes and how they’d play out,, and instead of only one bed maybe too many beds?? so then I thought about pat and art getting a hotel booked for a tournament where they have separate beds (and maybe even a couch in the room too, just to really show that they don’t NEED to sleep together) but the beds are like bolted to the floor so they can’t be pushed together. they try and fall asleep like that, and maybe pat is successfully able to but some point in the night art wakes up anxious and hard and has no other option but to shake patrick awake and get some TLC!

I love the opposites of popular tropes thing! Lol

I once saw a picture of an airbnb with 3 separate twin beds lined up next to each other some place in Italy and immediately thought of ATP going on vacation there saying “we need a place that will sleep three please” and getting that. No threesome for you. Lol. This is a mess and hardly proofread but I hope it amuses you.

CW: 18+ NSFW

——

So Art and Patrick are with a small group of US boys national tennis champions all playing in an international tournament in Italy. They’re staying in hostel style housing, Art and Patrick are roommates but there’s just way too many beds in their room. There’s like five beds. Two bunk bed set ups and an extra twin all the way across the room. All the furniture is nailed down.

In the past few months at school Art and Patrick have been oddly conjoined. Art is so used to laying down in their dorm room. Patrick needs to be an inch away from Art’s face at all times when they’re talking. One night they were up late talking and Patrick just shoved his bed closer. Since then they still haven’t bothered to push their beds back. It was almost three months ago. But it’s fine they still have their separate space even with the beds together and Art kinda likes it when he’s in the room without Patrick cause he spreads out like he’s in a queen.

Regardless Art thinks this setup for the next two weeks abroad is amazing. The room is huge and they get to have it all to themselves. Each of them with more than enough space compared to their tiny room at Mark Reballato. Plus being the only boy at home he’s never even had a chance to use a bunk bed like his sisters got to. He claims the top bunk and they spend the day out exploring with teammates so they don’t fall asleep and remain jet lagged for the start of the tournament.

They’re beyond exhausted by the time they get home at 8pm. They’ve been up since 2 in the morning their time. Even with so many extra beds they still end up sharing one bunk set up, Art on top and Patrick at the bottom. Art gets out of the shower and Patrick takes his turn Art climbs into bed expecting sleep to take him quickly. But surprisingly he’s still awake when Patrick gets out.

He watches as Patrick gets dressed and then turns off the light. He’s restless after the lights go out. He imagines it’s the awkwardness of being in an entirely different place. A whole new environment. As tired as he is he just can’t fall asleep. He hears Patrick’s soft snores an hour later and sighs. He climbs down from the top bunk. Patrick is breathing shallow, side sleeping with half of his body leaning up against the wall. Art slips in carefully next to him.

“Wha—“ Patrick stirs.

“I can’t sleep man, move over.” Art whispers. Patrick sighs and scoots even closer to the wall so Art can curl up next to him in the twin bed. He falls asleep right away.

He wakes up in the morning with Patrick’s arms around him, his nose buried against Art’s neck, spooning him. He’s hard, Art can feel it. He untangles himself and gets up for the bathroom. Patrick stretches and sighs waking up and they don’t talk about it. The day continues as usual.

The tournament starts that afternoon. They play doubles against a Dutch team, twins. They’re decent and if Art had a worse doubles partner he might feel a little worried, but he and Patrick take them down pretty easily. They spend the evening out with teammates, exploring Rome, the Pantheon and the Trevi fountain. They eat too much carbs for dinner and have gelato for desert. Patrick finishes Art’s.

Art thinks by the end of the night he’ll be exhausted enough to fall asleep right away. He doesn’t use a top bunk this time. He gets into the bottom bunk on the other side of the room. Patrick across from him. Maybe it was being up high that had him awake and anxious. But again after they turn the lights off Art is awake and restless for almost two hours. It doesn’t matter which way he tosses or turns. He sighs and sneaks back into the bed with Patrick.

“I knew you’d miss me,” Patrick smirks, he’s awake this time as Art shoves him over.

“Yeah right, I think I’m just not used to Italy yet.” Art says.

“Yeah, okay.”

Art rolls his eyes and settles into the tight space next to Patrick and falls asleep easily. He dreams about Patrick, they’re playing tennis, singles, hitting the ball back and forth and back and forth in an epic rally. Moaning as they do it. Moans getting louder with every stroke of the racket. Breathing getting heavier. In the morning he’s waking up, his boxers sticky and soaked with cum, blankets tangled up around them, he’s got one leg thrown over Patricks heated thighs. Patrick has an arm over Arts chest and he’s still asleep.

Art hurries out of bed, hoping to clean up before Patrick gets the chance to make fun of him for having a wet dream at this age. But Patrick knows. He pushes the bathroom door open while Arts in the shower so he can piss in the toilet.

“What were you dreaming about last night?” He teases pulling the shower curtain back so he can look at Art. Patrick’s hair is a mess of sleep, his clothes all disheveled and the side of his boxers have a little spot where Art stained him too.

“It was nothing…being in a new place probably…please I’m sorry okay?” Art snaps dragging it closed again.

Patrick chuckles. “So not fair. If you were gonna get your cum all over me we could at least do it the fun way.”

Art shivers thinking about the last time they jerked off together. Younger but still too old to be doing it sitting across from each other on their beds. Art realizing he wasn’t imagining anything, that he was getting off on watching Patrick alone. He panicked and refused to do it again after that. God, he hopes he didn’t say Patrick’s name in his sleep.

He comes back to himself and realizes he doesn’t hear Patrick’s steady stream anymore. “Don’t flush,” Art says quickly because Patrick loved to play that game when they were younger at school so the water would go instantly hot.

“Fine dude, just hurry up. We’re late.”

They make it to the courts on time. Progressing through the tournament. They beat one team after another even as a few of their teammates from the US are eliminated. Every evening their sponsors hold an event where they get to explore Rome. The Spanish steps, the Vatican. And by the end of the week Art has tried sleeping in every different bed in the room including the one Patrick claimed. Much to Patrick’s amusement because he always ends up back in bed with Patrick. And every morning with the limited space of it being a twin and the inability to move any of the beds closer he’s more tangled up with Patrick than he’s ever been before. He’s smelling him and feeling him and practically cuddling him every night and sleeping like a baby.

Embarrassingly he has two more wet dreams during the week one in which he wakes up midway through horrified to realize he’s grinding on Patrick’s thigh. To which Patrick jokingly says “dude we should just start fucking at this point.” Before rolling over with a loud groan and going back to sleep.

Art is humiliated. Not sure what the proximity is doing to him. He doesn’t stay up too late thinking about it because Patrick’s snores lull him back to sleep. And Patrick thankfully doesn’t bring it up in the daytime.

By Friday, they’re probably the only Americans that made it to the finals and they don’t play again till Monday.

The legal drinking age in Italy is 18 which Patrick insists they take advantage of. They go out bar hopping. Showing ids to try any and everything. A couple of teammates from Nevada meet up with them and they all go to a club, flirt with Italian girls who barely speak English and end up near the basically empty Trevi fountain at 2 in the morning. Sharing cigarettes with 3 girls from the club. Outside there’s a small smattering of people. one guy thrums a Spanish guitar. An Italian couple singing along to whatever he’s playing on a bench near by. It sounds beautiful.

Theres another random couple, two guys making out against the wall. Art feels so tipsy he has to do a double take. Patrick smirks when he catches him do it and Art feels himself flushing.

The Nevada doubles team are drunkenly posing for pictures in front of the empty fountain while Patrick is asking for Italian lessons from the girls. He mispronounces words and it makes all three of the girls giggle. He points at Art to try it and when he gets it down the girl Patrick likes tangles her fingers in Arts hair and takes the cigarette from him. “So good and handsome. Maybe we go to bed and teach more things?” She smiles at him and Art nods.

“Yeah let’s go to bed,” Art grins at Patrick who rolls his eyes in response.

“I want to go to bed, come on,” Patrick whines, trying and failing another Italian pronunciation which makes them giggle more.

They’re not allowed to have anyone of the opposite sex in the hostel so they unfortunately have to say goodnight. The girls promise to come by the tournament grounds after work on Monday.

As they get ready for bed they’re both excited from the alcohol and the girls, giddy with nervous energy and arousal. Art doesn’t bother trying. He just gets in the bunk with Patrick. Patrick plays with his hair. “Show me how you say that word.”

Art smiles. “You have to be able to roll your Rs.”

“Know it all,” Patrick kisses him and Art’s eyes widen in shock. “Roll them, I wanna feel it.” Patrick whispers against his lips.

Art is holding his breath, so stunned. So hard. He whispers it.

“Again,” Patrick says. Art begins speaking and Patrick kisses him through it. Tongue slipping into Arts mouth. Before Art knows what he’s doing he’s tangled up, mouths pressed together. Hand down Patrick’s boxers wrapped around his big warm cock while Patrick is using his large calloused hands to jerk him off. Gasping into each other’s mouths while they get each other off. Art moaning his name. Telling himself it’s the girls that have him all worked up like this. Knowing it’s a lie. They come almost simultaneously and it feels like a relief from whatever Art has been feeling all week.

“Mm,” Patrick moans against his throat. “Better right? Now you don’t have to just dream about me.”

Art shivers. “How did you—was I—“

“Every night. Saying it in your sleep. I thought you were awake the first night honestly. Pressing up against me. I had to grab you to keep you still so I didn’t fucking do something I shouldn’t.”

“Fuck,” Art whispers.

“I mean I’m willing if you want to fuck me next,” Patrick grins.

Art has to laugh, incredulous. he’s just so confused. “The dreams were about tennis.”

“I’m sure.”

“No i promise. We were playing tennis but it…” he shivers remembering the way Patrick was moaning through his orgasm so similar to how he sounded in the dreams. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“So what now?”

“You close your pretty eyes and go to bed so we don’t sleep through brunch.”

Art sighs “I should clean up a bit,” and Patrick laughs.

“What?” Art demands.

“Nothing. It’s just kinda hilarious that all it took 5 beds and 6 nights to end up here.”

[gilbirda]

How to Write Women, a quick guide by me

Hello! I was recently inspired to write a series of educational posts so I thought maybe it would be useful for someone.

I want to preface this that there is no criticism intended. I understand that female characters in general have been neglected in media, and I don't blame fandom for not understanding how to write a woman if there hasn't been a good reference in their lives.

My objective is that you, the reader, finish this post with a basic structure and few questions to ask yourself when writing a female character; and with the terms and curiosity to research more if you'd like to expand.

I'm no professional writer, but I've been writing for more than 20 years at this point, and I specialize in writing female protagonists and writing organic romantic storylines.

Here we go.

I want to write a woman, where do I start?

Writing women, at the end of the day, is no different than writing a man. Really, that's the trick.

Disappointed I'm not giving some kind of hot takes about this?

Good.

Because it should be that simple, but to get to that point we should unravel some baseline thought process that can and will get in the way even if you try to write a good female character.

A few questions to ask yourself are:

Why am I writing this character?

Does she have agency in her own story?

Does she have her own goals and aspirations?

Let's break them down:

Why am I writing this character?

What do I like about her? Is she annoying? Is she a hero? A villain? An antagonist? What thing do I like about her canon characteristics (for fanfic writers)? What would I change?

As mentioned at the beginning, female characters usually are not very well written. They are usually fridged or used only as a reminder that MC (usually a man) has emotions and vulnerabilities.

Take a moment to think about it. Think about the feelings her character gives you, and what are the things you do know about her. Think about wasted potential, or unanswered questions about her actions and plot lines that left you wanting more.

If you find her annoying, wonder why — usually, a female character being "annoying" or "not interesting" is tied to her not being developed enough, and pushed into a one-dimensional role. Pay attention at how many speaking lines she has, that usually gives you a clue of how much her character is developed.

Once you have decided who you want to write, this is where it gets interesting.

What kind of story do you want to tell? What role does she play in it?

When making the structure of the story and developing the plot, wonder about how exactly the female character(s) add to the table. Again, female characters can fulfill any role in a story, but watch out!

Bitchy mean girl lesbian

Motherly mommy mom/sister/friend that takes care of everyone

The "healer" of the team

These 3 roles have been used as boxes to fit female characters for ages. Be careful if you think you are pushing her into one of these.

But how can you avoid the tropes?

Does she have agency in her own story?

Or: if you remove her from the story, nothing changes?

Go into your mind palace, and remove the interactions and scenes the female character is in. Does the story still work? Could her lines be easily delivered by someone else?

If the answer is yes, then she doesn't have any agency.

It doesn't matter if she is a main character or a supporting character — she should have a say on the events or some kind of influence in the development of the plot.

Maybe she has a skill that is needed multiple times during the story, or maybe she has past experiences that are a mystery and unraveling her secrets reveals a plot twist, or maybe turns out she was the traitor all along. Make her MATTER.

Does she have her own goals and aspirations?

Or: Is she existing for someone else's sake?

This one is useful for the "mommy" character or the "healer" character.

Go into your mind palace again and think if you remove the female character's loved ones from the equation, does she have something to do?

If the answer is no, then she doesn't exist for herself.

She could still love and take care of others, but she has to exist for something else than that. Make her dream and yearn, and make mistakes, and sacrifice thing for selfish reasons.

Romance is usually a goal given for female characters (and that's a whole other topic I hope to write another post about), and it's a good one! Just be careful with falling for the trap of swapping the people (usually men) she exists for.

Give her hidden agendas, convoluted selfish secret reasons, make her want to destroy the world! Make her want to pursue the truth, chase someone for revenge, be a thrill seeker. Make her HUMAN.

In Conclusion

A quick trick I use when I write female characters is: If I swap her gender, nothing changes?

Of course there's nuance, but that keeps me grounded when even the questions I went over in this post are not enough for me.

Again, writing female characters should not be that different from writing men. If it feels different, ask yourself why and try to understand where the thought comes from.

NOTE: If the point of the story is to discuss the problem of codependency, or portray a toxic relationship, by all means skip checking about agency or her having goals. Rules are there to break them, but first you have to understand them.

I hope this helps someone and I will add and edit this post as needed, maybe to add useful links.

Happy writing!

[until-the-house-shakes]

Slip ups

Wolfstar raising Regulus/ Werewolf! Regulus

Microfic

-

Regulus didn’t mean for this title to become a regular thing. It genuinely started as an accidental slip up, and he was far too embarrassed to correct anyone. Plus, the idea of having others believe that Remus and Sirius were his dads instead of his actual birth parents, didn’t seem that awful to him.

As long as Remus and Sirius never found out. Because if they did, they would be over the top obnoxious about it.

-

The first slip up happened the first night at Hogwarts. Him and his new roommates were sharing small details about their lives. Barty went on about how awful his father was, and how he planned on being a much better Ravenclaw than he ever was. Evan talked about his twin sister and how he was happy they were put in the same house so he can keep an eye on her. Regulus then started to talk about Sirius and Remus, and didn’t even realize the titles he gave them until Barty spoke up.

“Wow, your dads are young. How were they even allowed to adopt you?” It was an innocent enough question, but still made Regulus beyond flustered. “Oh uh… well.. they.. it’s complicated but they’re basically my dads so… enough questions.”

The conversation then took a turn to special interests and Regulus honestly couldn’t remember what else happened that night, but ‘dads’ stuck to him like a parasite.

-

The second slip up was less mortifying, but maybe because it was also much more private than the first. It happened in the hospital wing after an accidental potion mishap. Barty was certain he knew how much fluxweed he needed to add to the polyjuice potion, but in the end, added way too much and the cauldron exploded. Thankfully nothing terrible happened, just a few burns on Regulus’ arm that Madam Pompfrey could easily heal.

“I will have to call your guardians about this. But I’m sure Mr. Lupin already knows.” Madam Pompfrey stated as he wrapped up the last of Regulus’ burns. “Great. More reasons for dad to flip out about my safety. You know he won’t even let me try out for quidditch? How unfair is that!” Regulus was so absorbed in his own pity party he didn’t even catch the title he called Remus.

Quidditch has been an ongoing fight between the three Lupin boys since the second day of school. Sirius and Regulus believe it would be a wonderful thing for Regulus to try out for, seeing as he’s been flying on a broom since last year (and really needed the friends), but Remus is far too concerned about the young werewolf’s safety. Regulus likes that Remus cares about him, makes him feel a type of love that his birth parents never gave him, but he was starting to cross a line of over protective that was annoying Regulus. He just wanted to play quidditch. Where is the harm in that?

“I see where your dad is coming from, love. He was in the hospital wing for your other father and Mr. Potter every other day due to a quidditch injury. It’s a dangerous sport.” Madam Pompfrey laughed, sending out a patronus for the DADA professor.

Regulus didn’t realize what they were calling Remus and Sirius until Promfrey said ‘other father’. Once it was clear, Regulus was bright red and quickly stuttering out “Don’t tell him I called him dad. Please. He’ll be a right prat about it.” The young kid groaned, feeling very embarrassed about their previous conversation.

The medi-witch only giggled and promised to keep their conversation a secret for the time being.

-

Months flew past and soon enough it was winter break, and Regulus only had very few ‘slip ups’ since the day in the medical wing. It wasn’t like Regulus was embarrassed to see Remus and Sirius as his dads, he just knew those two would be over dramatic about it, especially his brother, and he was never in the mood to deal with such theatrics.

Sadly, he definitely had to deal with ‘such theatrics’ soon.

It was the morning after a full, and Regulus woke up in the backyard of Sirius’ house surrounded by his brother’s closest friends. Remus was back to his normal self, but Sirius, James, and Peter were still in their animagus forms. It was pretty entertaining to see Wormy sleeping in the antlers of Prongs, while Padfoot was laid on top of Remus as a blanket.

Regulus tried to get up from the hard ground, but his plans were quickly foiled the second he placed any pressure on his left foot.

“Fuck!” The pained cry woke up all the adults around him, but Regulus didn’t care much about their comfort when his leg felt as if it just snapped in half. Why did it hurt so badly? He never was in this much pain after a full moon. What the fuck happened last night?

“Cub, it’s okay. You’re okay. What happened?” Remus instantly was at Regulus’ side. Carrying the small boy inside to safety. Even though the young werewolf didn’t remember, Remus was all too aware that last night was an awful moon. His cub kept fighting with Padfoot, and then became hyper aware of some scratch on his leg. Despite all the adults trying their hardest to keep the cub from tearing his leg apart, there were still a ton of scratches and a few large bite marks left on his poor cub.

“My leg hurts! I tried.. I tried putting pressure on it.. and I fell. It hurts so bad dad. I can’t.. I can’t” Regulus cried out, burying his head into the safety of Remus’ neck. By this point, all the marauders were shifted back into their human forms, and bustling around the kitchen to help however they can. Peter was making breakfast, James was getting clothes for the two werewolves, and Sirius was getting potions to help fix up their kid.

But everything stopped the second Regulus said ‘Dad’.

They all knew he accidentally called Remus dad every now and again, but he never once called him that in person. Never to his face.

Sirius was trying his hardest to not cry from joy.

“I know it hurts cub. We’re going to fix it okay? I promise we’ll fix it and it won’t hurt anymore.” Remus kissed the top of Regulus’ head before graciously taking his robe from James to cover up. He then helped Regulus into his own robe and started fixing his cub up with the help of Sirius.

-

It has been hours since Regulus called Remus ‘dad’, and none of them have talked since then. Not even James can get Regulus to come out of his room for a few words, and James was by far the kid’s favorite.

“He’s probably embarrassed! It’s like calling your teacher mom. You know all about that Pads.” Peter said, trying his hardest to defuse the tension in the room. He was right. Sirius used to accidentally call Minnie ‘mom’ all the time back in school, but that still felt so much different to Regulus calling Remus ‘dad’.

Remus being called dad wasn’t even an issue! All the boys thought it was an adorable and honoring title, but Regulus seemed far too embarrass to see it like that.

“He’s a kid. Let him be embarrassed by it. I remember being that age, if I did anything embarrassing I instantly had my walls up and ready to hide for days. I’ll give him some time and when he’s ready to talk, we can talk.” Remus shrugged, meaning every word he said. He got embarrassed easily his first few years of Hogwarts, and still does even to this day. While he fully believe Regulus had nothing to be embarrassed about, he understood why his cub wanted to hide away, and wouldn’t judge him for it. He would give him time.

-

Apparently all Regulus needed was a full day by himself, because by nighttime, Sirius and Remus heard the all too familiar patter of their cub’s footsteps heading to their room.

“Reg? Is everything alright?” Sirius asked once he was sure Regulus was fully in the room with them.

“… I had a nightmare. Can I sleep with you?” Came the small, broken voice of their kid. Sure, they didn’t birth him, but Regulus was their kid and nothing could change that. Hell he even shared the last name Lupin! He was theirs damnit.

“Of course you can cub.” Remus smiled, patting at the open space between him and Sirius- Regulus’ favorite spot to sleep.

A few minutes of quiet passed while Regulus got settled into bed between the two men. If Sirius didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was asleep, but before that thought could go anywhere he heard a very quiet, “night dads. Love you.”

“Night kiddo. Love you too.” Sirius smiled, allowing his eyes to close for some peaceful sleep.

“Night Cub. Love you the most.”

[remeberm3]

scarf | k.m

⎯⎯“Because I’d rather be cold than watch you shiver.”

warnings: fluff

Klaus Mikaelson did not give things.

He took. He claimed. He possessed.

The world was his for the taking, and he had spent centuries wrapping his fingers around everything he desired—land, power, blood, vengeance. A selfish man by nature, a conqueror by instinct.

And yet.

Tonight, he gave you his scarf.

༊*·˚

It had been an unseasonably cold night, the kind that curled its way into your bones, sharp and relentless. The streets of the city glittered with the aftermath of rain, lamplight catching on the damp pavement like spilled stardust.

You hadn’t dressed for the chill. You never did, stubborn thing that you were, forever underestimating the bite of winter.

You had brushed off his concerns earlier, waving a dismissive hand when he told you to bring a coat. And now?

Now you were shivering.

Klaus noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

You tried to be discreet about it, stuffing your hands into your pockets, hunching your shoulders against the wind. But it was no use. He knew you too well, could read you too easily.

And so, without a word, he unwrapped the scarf from around his neck.

The fabric was soft, the kind of luxury that whispered of old money and old habits. It smelled like him—like cedarwood and aged whiskey, like something ancient and endless.

Before you could protest, he draped it around you, tugging it snugly against your skin.

“Better?” he murmured, voice low, rough with something unreadable.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. “You—”

“Yes, yes,” he drawled, ever the picture of impatience. “I know. I don’t share.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “And yet, here we are.”

You touched the scarf lightly, fingers brushing over the place where it still held the warmth of his body. “You’ll freeze,” you pointed out, as if he of all people could be affected by the cold.

Klaus huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Darling, I have endured a thousand winters. I think I’ll manage.”

You hesitated. “Why?”

His lips twitched, as if amused by the question.

He could have said it was nothing. That it was simply practical. That it was easier than listening to you complain.

But instead, he leaned in, voice dropping to something softer, something meant just for you.

“Because I’d rather be cold than watch you shiver.”

༊*·˚

Later, you tried to return it.

Of course you did.

You thought you were being clever about it, sneaking into his study and draping the scarf over the back of his chair, thinking he wouldn’t notice.

Foolish.

You might as well have tried to slip something past a wolf’s nose.

Klaus walked in not five minutes later, spotted the scarf immediately, and let out a slow, exaggerated sigh.

“Really, love?”

You feigned innocence. “What?”

He gestured broadly. “This.”

“It’s your scarf,” you reminded him.

“Yes, and I gave it to you.”

“Temporarily.”

“Indefinitely.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t need it.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes. “Do you truly believe that, or are you just being insufferable for sport?”

“… Bit of both.”

His gaze swept over you, assessing, as if weighing his options. Then, with the kind of dramatic exasperation only he could pull off, he yanked the scarf off the chair, stepped forward, and personally wound it back around your neck.

“There,” he murmured, fingers lingering a second too long against your collarbone. “Problem solved.”

You scowled up at him. “You can’t just decide things like that.”

“I can. I have. I will.”

You sighed, gripping the ends of the scarf. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you adore me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you.

Klaus smirked, smug as anything. “That’s what I thought.”

༊*·˚

The weeks passed.

And slowly—inevitably—the scarf became yours.

Not in name, not in spoken agreement, but in practice.

It lived in your wardrobe, draped over the back of your chair, wrapped around your shoulders on chilly evenings. It absorbed your scent, carried traces of your perfume, belonged to you as much as anything ever could.

Klaus never asked for it back.

Not once.

And if he looked a little too pleased whenever you wore it?

If his gaze lingered, if his lips curled into something unbearably soft when he caught sight of you wrapped up in it?

Well.

That was his secret to keep.

༊*·˚

One night, as you stood before the fireplace, basking in the warmth, Klaus approached from behind.

You felt him before you saw him, the shift in the air, the way your body recognized his before your mind even caught up.

He reached out, fingers brushing the scarf where it rested against your collarbone.

You turned slightly, meeting his gaze. “What?”

Klaus studied you, eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, quietly, he said:

“I should have given you something sooner.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve given me plenty.”

He hummed, but shook his head. “Not like this.”

Not freely. Not willingly. Not without expecting something in return.

This—this was different.

You reached up, fingers grazing his.

“Then give me something now.”

Klaus’s breath hitched, so quiet you barely caught it.

His hand slid lower, fingers brushing over your wrist, tracing the lines of your pulse—not to take, not to claim, but simply to feel.

You thought he might kiss you.

Instead, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“I already have.”

And as his arms wound around you, as he buried his face against your hair, as his hold tightened like you were something precious—

You realized he hadn’t just given you his scarf.

He had given you himself.

even more fluff fics <3

[ass-fuehrerin]

The Line

Hwang In-ho/Seong Gi-hun

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: Gi-hun’s mind is a patchwork of missing time, blank spaces where memories should be. His life is simple — work, drink, exist — until nightmares start clawing their way into his waking hours, and the man at his side stops feeling like an anchor and starts feeling like a trap.

There was a before. There will be an after. The only question — where to draw

the line?

CW: post-Gi-hun’s second Game (with implied ending); psychological trauma (amnesia, PTSD-related dissociation, hallucinations, paranoia); physical trauma; complex emotional entanglement & gaslighting.

✐ᝰ

Gi-hun remembers nothing. As in nothing at all. Not a single fragment of that goddamn notorious incident and almost not a single one of the past several years has survived in his memory. It's as if someone took a scalpel to his mind and cut them out, leaving only the phantom pain of something missing. Something important.

He, along with several others poor desperate bastards, was kidnapped by collectors due to their gambling debts, and forced into some sort of slave labor in an isolated facility, enduring physical and psychological torture until he managed to escape.

At least that’s the story he was told — the supposed cause of his severe memory loss, leaving him with only fragmented recollections of the past.

“Dissociative amnesia,” the doctor had called it. A defense mechanism. The mind, in its desperate bid for survival, buries the unspeakable so deeply that it might as well never have existed. “PTSD.” Gi-hun’s mind simply decided the past was a wound not worth carrying.

So he didn’t carry it. Simple like that.

Instead, he built a life. Brick by brick. Well, at least he tried. He tried to wake up, get dressed, work, eat, drink, and kill his free time that was dragging like a chewing gum (so, more like survive it). Usually together with a man he knew (or thought he did), but didn’t remember meeting.

Young-il.

Their relationship didn’t fit into a neat little box — didn’t come with a label Gi-hun could slap on and say, "Yeah, that’s what this is." It felt old, like something that existed long before he even became aware of it. It felt odd, as if they’d been connected, but he didn’t really know how.

It was complicated.

When he woke up in a hospital bed — blank, erased, empty — it was Young-il sitting beside him and filling in the gaps, helping him piece together the puzzle. The one who told him they used to work and gamble together. Three of them — including Jung-bae. The explanation made sense. It didn’t feel… right though. And yet right enough that Gi-hun didn't question it. Maybe that is what bothers him. How easily he accepted that.

But maybe it wasn’t that difficult due to their common language — loneliness.

Gi-hun had lost his mother and never mustered the courage to insert himself into his daughter's life. Young-il had told him to go — offered to pay for the trip, even — but Seong refused. Money didn’t fix things like that. It was enough that Young-il had gotten him a job at the same vague company — or something like that (to be honest Gi-hun didn’t know a thing about it) — where he himself worked as a manager. Some low-level work, driving deliveries, moving packages, sometimes people, never asking questions.

There were no friends either. Sang-woo was still buried somewhere in America, his only contact — at least, Gi-hun thought so, though he didn’t remember it well — being a single wire transfer, hush money, sent to his mother, as if trying to buy back his absence. Jung-bae had vanished after his divorce — for reasons Gi-hun never managed to figure out. That left no one.

Just Young-il.

Young-il didn’t have anyone either. His wife had died in childbirth. He once mentioned a half-brother somewhere, but it was a passing remark, long lost in the haze of soju. He never brought it up again, and Gi-hun never asked.

Despite the glaring differences in their social standing, they spent a ridiculous amount of time together. Drinking in dingy pojangmacha stalls, playing endless rounds of janggi (Young-il taught him the rules, and over time, Gi-hun even started winning occasionally), or just sitting in silence for hours — either meaningful or empty, he wasn’t sure.

Talking, though — that was rare.

There was a subtle tension between them. It wasn’t spoken, but it was always there, lingering in the space between their words, between the clinking of bottles and the shuffle of their feet on cracked concrete.

It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. No, that wasn’t the right word to describe that.

It was something else.

Their “twoness” was quite strange, and Gi-hun could never brush off that disturbing feeling, no matter how used to it he had grown.

Every conversation, every glance, every shared game left a strange, crawling itch under his skin. Like something half-remembered, like a dream that was slipping through his fingers just as he was about to wake up.

Like an answer trying to claw its way to the surface, only to be shoved back down before it could breathe. Gi-hun didn’t know what the answer was. What question was he even trying to answer? He only knew that when he looked at Young-il for too long, he wanted to scream.

Or hit him.

Especially after waking up in a cold sweat from yet another shitty dream.

A nightmare too vivid to be a nightmare.

The same setting, over and over — a surreal maze of pastel walls and twisting staircases, like a playground built in hell. Masked garish-pink figures. A cocktail of terror and a faceless green mass. The gut-wrenching horror of a game where survival had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with luck.

And always, always, that one figure dressed in black. A shadow at the edge of every nightmare, the sight of which filled Gi-hun with something primal — dread, rage, betrayal, and a searing loss he could not name.

The figure bled into reality. Hallucinations. Another PTSD-gift. A distorted, mechanical voice that whispered in his ears. And also blackouts — minutes, hours, sometimes whole days gone.

Young-il knew.

It seemed like he knew him better than Gi-hun knew himself.

He was the one who dragged him to therapy. Psychiatry, to be specific ("You'll need meds," he had said, too sure, too knowing). Gi-hun went. But after the first session resulted in the worst blackout ever spitting Seong out into reality after God knows how many hours, with his fists still in Young-il’s shirt and a bruise blooming on the man’s cheek, Gi-hun started rationing his appointments — just enough to get a prescription and leave.

The doctor said all this was normal.

Young-il said all this was normal.

Gi-hun knew all this was anything but.

Yet, he swallowed the pills. Drowned himself in alcohol. Ignored the sick, festering contradiction that clawed at his ribs whenever Young-il was near — because he couldn’t tell if this man was keeping him afloat or dragging him under.

Young-il’s presence became a constant pull on Gi-hun’s thoughts, a weight he couldn’t shake off. It was not even that Young-il was a bad person, or that he’d done anything that should set off alarm bells. Nothing like that — quite the opposite. Sometimes when Seong managed to shake off the tenacious claws of dark feelings, he found comfort in spending time with him.

Besides, when he woke up from his nightmares — breathless, shaking, throat raw — the name that burned on his cracked lips wasn’t Young-il.

For absolutely no fucking reason it was In-ho.

The only In-ho he even remotely knew was the owner of the nearest pojangmacha to his house. And this decrepit old man — the kindest soul ever to walk the earth — was far from the concept of a menace.

But sometimes — when Gi-hun’s vision blurred and the hallucinations took hold, he saw the black mask slip over Young-il’s face.

To cherry-top this pile of shit — sometimes that was exactly when he wanted to kill him.

Sometimes.

"Sometimes" had a way of turning into "too often."

His mind was a damn mess.

Gi-hun feared himself — his fractured self, his unpredictable outbursts — but he feared for Young-il even more. He brought it up only once, and he could bet he saw it: the way Young-il’s sharp features grew even sharper, which made something in Gi-hun want to recoil.

He never mentioned it again.

Instead, Gi-hun kept taking the pills. He kept drinking. He kept ignoring the way Young-il looked at him — curious, sharp, like he was peeling Gi-hun apart, layer by layer, like a frog.

Seong couldn’t pinpoint when he began to sense the shift in his own perception of… huh… them? — from what seemed like just two people passing time together to something deeply unnatural, something fucked up.

But it was exactly in that very way Young-il watched him sometimes. Like he was waiting for something. Like he was checking whether Gi-hun remembered anything. Whether it was all coming back.

There was a contradiction in everything between them — an undercurrent of trust that felt like a lie. Gi-hun didn’t know if it was something Young-il was hiding, or if it was something about him that he couldn't understand. But the more time they spent together, the more it felt like a trap he’d walked into without realizing it.

Young-il didn’t seem to mind. His calmness, the ease with which he existed in Gi-hun’s life, was something both comforting and suffocating at once. Gi-hun felt as though he was being swallowed whole, piece by piece, and still, he couldn’t help but want to trust that man. Even when that trust made no sense at all.

The distance between them was narrowing. Every small talk, every joke, every half-smile from Young-il started to feel too loaded, too meaningful. A kind of slow drowning that Gi-hun couldn’t fight, even as he started to wonder on rare occasions if he even wanted to.

There were moments when their bodies and hands brushed against each other, just barely, subtly, like an accident. But with too much intention in it and too much awareness. As if Young-il was pushing the boundaries. Gi-hun told himself it was nothing. It was just the alcohol. The late hours, the heat of the games, and fruitless conversations. But when he looked at Young-il, he saw the flicker of something odd in his eyes — something he couldn’t even begin to understand.

A question, a challenge.

Gi-hun didn’t know if he was ready to answer it. He wasn’t even sure it wasn’t just his imagination. Another hallucination among many.

He refused to think about it altogether.

And still, somewhere in between those “sometimes” and his pathetic attempts to exist their meetings grew more frequent, their time together stretched longer as did their exchanged glances and accidental touches over shared games and meals — kimchi jjigae, banchan, steaming bowls of rice.

Gi-hun didn't even think he could embrace it, watching everything as if from the sidelines, as if it were happening to someone else.

And still, one night, in the quiet of his apartment, beneath the gentle rustle of cherry blossoms in the April breeze flowing through the open window, their fingers brushed against each other on the floor once more — and for the first time, intertwined — twisting their lives even tighter into an already intricate, tangled knot of red threads.

He refused to acknowledge it.

And still, the moment he clutched Young-il’s hand tighter he felt a jolt of electricity, a shock piercing his chest that he couldn’t ignore.

Gi-hun wasn’t sure if he was holding on to Young-il’s hand because he wanted to or because he was scared of what would happen if he let go. And still, —

at that very moment, he drew a line — separating the foggy “before” from the clear “after.”

To early though.

The line was still to be drawn in two months. The happiest two months in Gi-hun’s recent memory.

ــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ

Young-il’s nearly week-long business trips had long since become a mundane routine for Gi-hun. What hadn’t was Young-il showing up in a horrifying state — head bloodied, stomach riddled with a bullet — after returning from one of them.

To Gi-hun’s own astonishment, he neither screamed in a panic nor froze in shock. Instead, something in him clicked into place. Without a moment’s hesitation, running purely on instinct, he loaded Young-il into the company car and drove him straight to the private hospital — the same one where Young-il had once sent him for psychiatric care.

In the small, dimly lit waiting room, no one so much as acknowledged Gi-hun’s presence. Doctors and nurses flitted past without a glance, as if the rigid figure on the couch — frozen like a wooden idol — were merely part of the furniture. No one asked questions. No one inquired what had happened (not that Gi-hun himself had any answers), who he had brought in, or why.

His emotions, dulled by the sheer force of stress, barely registered. And yet… something gnawed at him. An elusive, intangible detail. His hand clenched the black leather armrest so tightly that his knuckles blanched, but the buzzing, persistent thought refused to fade.

Something’s wrong.

Hours of empty waiting bled into each other before a nurse finally approached with a polite nod, inviting Gi-hun into the private recovery room. Whoever they thought he was, Seong didn’t know. But they let him in without hesitation, granting him unmonitored access to an unconscious Young-il. The nurse gave a brief report — he would need some time to recover from the surgery — but assured him that the patient’s life was not in danger.

Gi-hun sank into the small chair opposite the hospital bed.

Young-il’s breath was slow and even, deep in anesthesia-induced sleep. For once, Gi-hun saw him truly relaxed. The man was always composed, as if every muscle in his body, down to the cellular level, operated under strict control. But now, his face was strangely serene. Gi-hun let his gaze linger.

Almost absentmindedly, his hand reached out, wrapping around Young-il’s — warm, solid, real. A genuine, fleeting (more like unconscious even) smile disrupted the grim tension on his face. His eyes drifted, following the tangled web of wires looping over the bed and pooling onto the floor, before flicking back up to Young-il’s peaceful features.

Something’s wrong.

The thought stabbed through his skull with razor-sharp clarity. But why?

His gaze flickered downward again, drawn toward something at the edge of his vision — something his mind had registered before he had.

A patient file. Hanging just beside the headboard.

He wasn’t even sure why he was looking at it. He didn’t even mean to. And yet his eyes found the name printed across the top, and —

Nothing.

What the..?

For a second, absolutely nothing happened. Just the quiet hum of the hospital lights, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. His brain refused to process what he had just seen.

Then, the world tilted.

Not physically — no, the floor remained where it was, the chair still solid beneath him — but his sense of it shifted, like a sudden, nauseating drop on a rollercoaster. A slow, creeping wrongness sank into his bones, spreading from the base of his skull to the tips of his fingers. The air thickened. He tried to swallow but found his throat dry.

His fingers twitched. He reached for the clipboard. But the movement felt distant, like his own hands weren’t really his. Like he was operating a puppet on invisible strings.

This isn’t real.

His pulse hammered in his ears as he forced himself to look again, eyes scanning the printed letters, trying to make sense of them.

Wrong.

The name was wrong.

But that wasn’t possible, was it?

His grip on the clipboard tightened, a cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He should know this. He should remember why this was wrong.

He shook his head. No. No, this isn’t right.

His breath stuttered — short, uneven gasps — but he forced himself to sit still. Forced his fingers to loosen around the clipboard, forced his mind to obey.

The doctor said this could happen. Hallucinations. Memory distortion. His brain was just playing tricks on him. That was all this was. He had grown used to it, hadn’t he?

He gripped the armrest again. Pressed down until his knuckles go white. Focus. Ground yourself. Breathe.

But his lungs wouldn’t work. His eyes kept dragging him back to that name, over and over, until the letters weren’t letters anymore, just shapes carved into his skull.

The answer was right there, dangling just out of reach, like something seen through fogged glass —

And then, without warning, the glass shattered.

And this time he didn’t plunge into some sort of a blackout or a fever dream. It wasn’t some twisted game of his mind.

Game.

A rush of images — too fast, too chaotic, too real — slammed into him like a truck.

Blood. The scent thick in the air. The taste of copper on his tongue. A voice — his own? Someone else’s? — screaming.

Concrete. Cold beneath his knees. A sharp, searing pain tearing through his body.

A number. White. Painted. Flickering in the darkness behind his eyelids.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred at the edges. His entire body seized.

The hospital room flickered, shimmering like a heat mirage, bending at the edges.

His ears ring — no, not ring, scream, a piercing high-pitched wail that swallows every other sound. The nausea comes next, curling in his gut, thick and relentless. The air is syrupy, clinging to his lungs like tar. His stomach twists. His pulse is wrong, pounding too fast, too hard. His throat spasms.

The taste of metal floods his mouth. Copper. Blood.

A voice. Distant. Mechanical at first. And then — human, painfully familiar —

“Player 456.”

No.

White. Black. No — Red. Blue. Floor flooded with corpses. A bright shiny room. Twisting, suffocating. Hands grasping at empty air.

A staircase. A scream. A gunshot. Another one. Not here. But inside his head, cracking through his skull like a fucking lightning strike. Too loud. Too real.

The scent of sweat and fear. The rough fabric of a black coat beneath his fingertips.

And then —

he wasn’t in the hospital anymore. He was —

No. No, no, no.

His stomach lurched. The room was wrong. The air was wrong. He was wrong.

He wrenched himself back into the present with a violent jolt, his body convulsing with the effort. His head snapped up, eyes wide and wild, chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic gasps.

“Young-il” hadn’t moved.

Nothing in the room had changed.

Except for Gi-hun.

ـــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Hwang wakes an hour later.

His senses return to him in pieces, sharpening one by one like a blade being drawn from its sheath. Awareness seeps in, cold and mechanical. The first thing he registers is that he isn’t alone.

The second is who is with him.

Gi-hun.

And something is very, very wrong.

He isn’t just sitting there. He isn’t waiting.

He is staring.

Hwang should speak. Move. Do something.

But his hands won’t unclench from the sheets. And for the first time in years, his pulse stutters — with something dangerously close to fear. Seriously?

Dark eyes, too wide, pupils blown wide open in the dim glow of the hospital monitors. Not with confusion, not with worry, but with something else. Something raw. Something dangerous.

Hwang hates (sometimes to an extreme degree) that the gaps in Seong’s memory — minutes, hours, or even days of lost time — are his own routine by now. They are threads woven into the tangled web of his life, and he knows each one intimately.

He knows Gi-hun.

Three years have passed since Gi-hun’s last games.

Three years since a blank spot carved itself into his memory of them — and everything they entailed. The fleeting, fragmented return of those memories, surfacing in unprocessed bursts of aggression, is a passage Hwang has memorized cover to cover.

He’s studied Gi-hun like a well-worn book, returning to its pages time and again, willingly — almost religiously. A book meant to be owned, displayed neatly on the shelf of his personal library, within reach whenever he pleases.

To Hwang’s vague irritation, what began as a mere ”scientific” interest has degenerated into something painful, like an ingrown toenail he refuses to remove, for no reason at all. Or rather, for a reason he refuses to even put into words.

So, wehether he wants it or not, he knows Gi-hun.

And yet —

Something in that book has changed.

A new passage. Or, the old one, crossed out?

He knows Gi-hun.

He knows the way his body moves, the way his face twitches when he’s trying to hold something back.

This is different. This isn’t just confusion. It isn’t frustration or a hollow aggression. It’s understanding. A sharp, jagged awareness flickers behind Gi-hun’s eyes.

Hwang swallows. So that's how it is. So many years, and that’s how… — well, how stupid.

Awareness.

In his gaze.

In his posture.

In his voice.

Hwang blinks once. Twice. No surprise. No confusion. Just a quiet, detached acknowledgment. This was inevitable. But why the hell… why the hell was he so… disappointed? Upset? Really?

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Gi-hun breathes in. Then out. Slow. Deliberate.

Like he’s tasting the words before saying them.

Like he wants “Young-il” to feel it — deep in his ribs, where the knife Gi-hun pulled out of himself twists the hardest.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and steady: “What was the line? ‘Young-il. Just like my number.’ Yeah… —

A pause. A breath. “Young-il's” face barely shifts, but Gi-hun sees it anyway. The moment he registers the change.

A heartbeat too long.

Hell of a joke,

In-ho.”

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Chapter 16

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13   14   15

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with this linked post to be added to the tag list.

Entire chapter is Dion’s/Ash’s POV, takes place during the day of chapter 14 during the beginning scene of when Dion and Reader share a moment that is not nice in her mind. He is also out of character again lmao

Edit: LMAO I FUCKED UP THE TITLE OF MY OWN FIC. can you tell I wrote this entire thing in one setting while very tired? God now I need to check the other chapters lol

NOTE: Dion is having a very small crisis towards the end. Also, I do not know how to write fight scenes. I’m also getting kind of tired of saying ‘male’. Also two chapters within two days!? I'm on a roll baby! (I will proceed to not update for at least a week since life gets in the way/motivation/ideas won't come to me)

Warnings: slight yandere themes, themes of obsessive and possessive behavior/thoughts, toxic marriage/relationship, murder, blood, threats of injury/murder, slight torture (probably?), mention of divorce (it almost does not end well, rip Ash lol), Dion accidentally gets hurt (it’s his own fault), attempted murder, mention of past murder, implied murder (I think?), implied threats of injury, thoughts of imprisoning the reader at the end but he decides against it, implied stalking, HEAVY VIOLENCE Dion’s actions are toxic no matter how you look at it. Please tell me if I missed any.

NSFW-ISH WARNINGS:  (NO SEXUAL ACTIVITY ACTUALLY TAKES PLACE) suggestive, implied vaginal pain (I think), throw back to their first time, implied perverted thoughts (Dion), Lant once again being a pos, encouraging Dion to force himself on the Reader, implied/mentioned past sexual activities, implied past Dub-con. Please tell me if I missed any.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANIZED AS THEY ARE EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND TOXIC.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS, BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR REBLOG FANDOM RELATED THINGS (FICS, ART, ETC.) DNI

“How's married life?” 

Boredom fills the voice of the redhead doctor as he dabs a cotton ball on the patient’s wound, crimson soaking into the fluffy white cotton. Once done treating it, he starts to wrap it up a little too tight, irritated that a certain Agriche got distracted, slipped down a slope full of sharp rocks and thus, sliced his arm open. So unlike him and yet, he still saw it coming from miles away.

God forbid if anyone in this hunting party listens.

“... why are you asking?” Dion questions back, narrowing his eyes, glaring daggers into the very doctor who’s treating his wounds. Still, it’s not like Ash would harm any of his patients, as he was well above that. Even with someone like him.

However, Dion Agriche often challenges his views and morals. He had always thought of the second eldest as a fool - however, ever since he got engaged to you, he became more so of one. While smart and talented in many areas - hunting, sword fighting, ballroom dancing, leading hunting parties for both monsters and animals alike, maybe a musical instrument or two if memory serves correct, and of course, assassinting - by the Gods, is his personality a nasty one.

“Am I not allowed to? After seeing the mess she was after your first night… I worry for her. Poor girl probably lost faith in God the moment she saw your face.” Ash bites back, tying the bandage up and securing it with pins before patting it down hard. He holds back a smile when THE Dion Agriche flinches at the pain.

It doesn’t matter if it was physical or emotional - pain is pain. Although, it would be better if it was both, finally hitting his employer where it hurts the most. But Dion always bites back.

“You’re rather mouthy for someone I could cut down easily.” Dion's threat is empty, but the urge to throttle the doctor remains. While he wouldn’t kill the man, putting him in a full body cast would settle some things.

Ash only sighs with a shake of his head. Gesturing your husband to put his shirt and black arm sleeves back on, the redhead starts to clean and put his medical supplies away. Currently, the two of them are alone in a tent that was hastily set up, the rest of the hunting party members outside eating dinner. The sun had barely set.

“Come now, I even tended to the poor girl as a free favor. Surely, answering a question or two isn’t that hard - consider it payment for that black eye I left with.”

“And I’ll leave another one on the other eye.”

“... why must you always be so violent? It’s clear that your wife isn’t fond of violence - much less you.” He hits where it hurts, patting the ‘poor’ man’s shoulder as he buttons up his uniform shirt. He watches with great interest when the black haired noble stiffens before resuming his task.

‘So, it’s not going all that great…’

“I mean, it’s only natural for me to ask, taking the fact you personally invited me to the wedding into account.” Ash continues to dig for answers, enjoying the way his scarlet hues become hollow and unfocused. Had he been a better man, the doctor would have pity the newly wed noble some more. 

But Dion Agriche is nowhere close to even a decent person.  

“It’s…,” his low and tired voice trails off before he stands and straightens his clothes out, “fine. Nothing for you to worry about.” A lie paired with another lie. How unlike him. 

“Hm. Sure.” 

Dion leaves the tent without another word, leaving the doctor behind.

As soon as he steps out, one of his men rushes over to him. Dion's mood only sours more, not wanting to interact with anyone just yet.

“Sir, we haven’t found any traces of the monsters. The entire area is empty.” The jet black haired noble can’t stop a brow from raising. 

The brunette delivers the news in a hurry, out of breath. Your husband notices the way he tries to keep his voice down, eyeing everyone behind him. Weird. 

Closer inspection revealed the dirt on his boots and leaves in his hair. But towards the chest, there’s a speck of red on the purple accents that’s barely hidden away by the cloak. 

It’s even slightly damp. His sleeves look a bit too short as well. The gloves don’t look right, not fitting the fingers, slightly sliding off with each gesture of his hands. Scarlet eyes zone in on them before returning to the soldier’s face.

The hair looks a bit lighter. The eyes are a bit deeper.

“How far did you go?” Dion asks as he comes back down to earth.

“Oh!” The soldier straightens up before going on to tell him the details. Your husband listens with little interest, already looking at the area from where the soldier just came from. And then, he glances around the camp, eyes landing on each person once. Once he’s done with relaying the information, Dion walks past him. 

The brunette follows. “Is something the matter, sir?” He follows until the chatter of the camp becomes distant. He runs into Dion’s sturdy back as the man comes to an abrupt stop. Gently rubbing his nose, the shorter man backs up.

“I must admit you have guts.” Dion’s voice is low, mockery laced in it despite ‘praising’ him. 

“...huh?” 

In a flash, his gloved hand slams the other man’s neck against a tree trunk. The bark bites into the exposed skin of his neck while his face turns red. Gasping for breath, the man makes a futile attempt to claw at Dion’s gloved hand.

His legs kick and kick, but it does little to help. Scarlet eyes stare at him emotionless, and the sight of the glowing orbs sends chills down his spine. “It’s amusing how you thought you could replace one of my men.” He chuckles low and deep, increasing the pressure on the poor man’s neck.

“But I have memorized each and every one of their traits - from their eye color to the way they even walk. Not to mention I didn’t order them to look for any monsters in the near vicinity.”   

The black haired man considers snapping his neck right at this moment. But his actions are halted when he hears a twig snap under someone’s foot.

He scowls once the familiar voice reaches his ears. His eyes narrow at how annoying the new addition sounds.

“Is this really necessary? How about we find out what happened to the victim before killing the perpetrator,” Ash advises as he gets closer. He stops once he’s two feet away from the now angered man.

Close to being enraged but not yet, irked that one fool thought he was stupid while the other had just interrupted his actions.

“Dion.” Ash tries again. “Ask questions first. You can do whatever with him later, after we get answers.” 

A hiss of annoyance and Dion drops the man. While he’s coughing for breath, with his boot Dion delivers a hard kick to the imposter’s stomach that has him wheezing for breath. Ash sighs in exasperation at the scene unfolding before him. 

‘Once a brute, always a brute.’

“Talk. Maybe I’ll be merciful depending on your answers.” 

“Arg! W-wait, fuck, wait!” He raises his hands as he surrounders. “I’m not the one who killed him - I was just given the uniform. Honest!”

The two standing men share a look.

“Regardless of who killed him, didn’t you at least consider that maybe everyone would notice you weren’t originally part of the party?” Ash squats to the enemy’s height, observing the hand mark that now decorates his neck. “Unless you’re an idiot.” 

“I wa-wasn’t supposed to get too close to the others… just to lure you away.” He stares up at your husband the entire time while clutching at his stomach. Saliva drips from his mouth as he shakes. He looks more pathetic than a terrified dog.

“How far? I’m assuming just a bit further away from here.” The Agriche continues the integration. His head tilts when the idiotic imposter nods. 

Ash looks up at him. “Should we call for reinforcements? It’s probably not a good idea for you to go alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

“...huh?”

- - -

Against his own will, Ash follows close behind the prisoner and warden. His arms are wrapped around himself as a cold breeze starts to pick up. His long red hair sways in the wind as Dion’s hood flops back due to the direction of the sudden wind.

“I’m not a fighter, you know this.”

“Right.”

“I’m a doctor - I help the wounded, I don’t give injuries. I don’t even have the training of a swordsman - unlike you.” Ash continues to complain, wanting nothing more than to kick your husband straight in the ass. 

“Right.” Dion’s one word replies are dismissive - the doctor doubts he’s listening at all. 

All the while the brunette is being dragged by the collar. He only listens in silence as the two assumed co-workers or something of that sort have a one sided argument or conversation. He can’t tell what it was. 

“You have like what, thirty men?”

“Thirty five.” He takes a pause before correcting himself. “Well, now it’s thirty four.”

“Thirty four? And you choose me, a weak and mild doctor -”

“More like an annoying one,” Dion cuts in, starting to regret bringing Ash along. He forgot how… yappy he can be. Even with the amount of money he pays him, he always has something to complain about. 

“... If your wife ever divorces you, I’ll help her in every way I -”

SNAP

Twigs break in half under your husband’s feet, the prisoner choking as the taller man turns on his feet so quickly it gives him whiplash. Ash immediately shuts his mouth as shadows start to cover the sharp features of Dion’s face. His eyes glow in the moonlight. His scarlet eyes are narrowed, filled with unsaid threats, glare so sharp it cuts into his very soul. 

The redhead takes a step back as his employer towers over him. He breaks out into a cold sweat, the forest having become silent - like every animal in the vicinity sensed the bloodlust of this obsessed man and went into hiding. 

It feels like death itself is breathing down his back, his stomach twisting and turning painfully. His mouth becomes dry, and he can hear every breath Dion takes. So, this is what it feels like, to be on the sharp side of Dion’s blade.

He gulps, Adam's apple bobbing. The air becomes suffocating. 

“... it was a joke.” Ash says slowly, unable to look away from the grim reaper. A quick glance to his hands shows that they are both tightly clenched. The enemy is shivering in fear as well, worried for his own safety.

One wrong move and he’ll lose his head, it doesn’t matter if he wasn’t involved with the conversation. The fact he’s here at all spells out his doom.

This rage was different from the one that was directed towards him. He doesn’t know who the wife - you are, but at the mention of divorce, Dion became a different man. A worse man.

Did you mean that much to him? Or was it a pride thing?

“...A joke? I didn’t realize my marriage was a joke to you.” Husky and deep, your husband’s voice sends chills down the other two spines. Each step carries weight and the poor man dragged along regrets ever taking the job. 

“No, I don’t think your marriage is a joke… I’m sure she’ll open up to you. Eventually. Just a bit.” Trying to soothe the pissed man proves to be futile.

Ash doesn’t understand why Dion was so smitten with you. You were strangers prior to the engagement - only shared a space in the ballroom without interacting with each other. However, one memory that will never be erased from his mind was when the then nineteen-year-old had pointed at you with his red eyes and declared to the doctor he would marry you during a ball that took place a year ago.

Right after you and the Agriche accidentally locked eyes.

Ash always knew he was mental. Just not to this degree. 

“Listen, I’m sorry; I overstepped. Let’s just get this done - the faster we finish the faster you can return home. Maybe not into her arms, but at least you’ll see and hear her voice. Right?”

At the mention of that, the murderous man calms a little, but the looming threat of being cut down is still in the air. In the moonlight, your husband looks imposing, his red eyes glow as his short black hair moves along with the wind - all he’s missing is the scythe, standing tall and oh so close to putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Ash slowly lowers his hands when Dion sneers at him one last time and turns his back. Tension still in the air and in everyone’s body, they continue the walk. Each step is on the verge of being heavy, but caution prevents them from dragging their feet. The captive was soon thrown over Dion’s shoulder, the sound of dragging getting on his nerves while Ash brought up the amount of noise it made. 

The captive and Ash stare at each other in silence. He almost feels bad for the man, but the doctor quickly reminds himself that he was his employer’s enemy - if he pities him he might cave in and help. But helping would mean that Dion would cut his pay, assuming he doesn’t put him six feet under. 

Or both.

“... we’ve been walking for a bit now. Maybe you should turn around to let the man get a view. We might have taken a wrong turn.” The doctor suggests as Dion hums, considering it. He halts and drops the man who lands face first on the ground. Dirt gets in his eyes, groaning in pain as he rubs it out. 

“If you try to run I’ll cut your legs off.”

“And this is why you don’t have any friends.”

The captive listens in confusion, baffled that there’s someone who can shit talk the infamous Dion Agriche and live. A pause and he stands to his full height, a head shorter than your husband. Dusting himself off, he quivers under Dion’s sharp gaze. His voice cracks as he looks around before giving them directions. 

Or at least, attempts to. 

Swoosh 

Thud!

“Wha!?” Ash backs away as an arrow impales the imposter’s head. He falls to the ground immediately, eyes becoming lifeless. Blood pools underneath his head as some drips down his face. Dion whips his head to the right, where the arrow came from. 

Swoosh

Before it can hit him, Dion catches the arrow with his hand after rushing in to save Ash. He snaps it in two easily. The forest becomes quiet. Both men look to the right, but sense nothing. 

The Agriche feels a hit to his pride once he realizes that he had just lost his prey. His scowl deepens, and Ash squats to investigate the dead body that lays on the cold ground. 

Gently, he lifts the head, getting a good look at the fatal wound. Upon closer inspection, the head of the arrow was dipped in a purple liquid - most likely poison. He glances at the man standing behind him, but quickly returns his attention to the corpse. 

‘Not that it matters if he got hit… he’s immune to most if not all poisons. Oh, but what if he’s not immune to this one?’

The doctor mentally questions as he looks over his shoulder again. Only to be met with the sight of Dion licking the arrow head, tasting the possible poisonous liquid without a second thought. Ash blinks blankly.

‘Are all Agriches like this?’

“It’s poison -” the black haired man starts before he gets interrupted, holding the urge to throttle his employee back. It’s so tempting.

“Obviously -”

“- that’s made from Mellow light*” He finishes while he glowers at Ash. “How unfortunate. Had I known it was drenched in it I would have let it hit you.” A crooked smile plays on his lips as the redhead furrows his brows at the younger man's ‘teasing’. 

“Ha ha. That’s enough from you - what do you want to do with the body?” He looks at the corpse next to him. “Should we burn it? Or bury it?” 

“We’ll bring it with us.” Answer your husband. Without another word, he grabs the corpse by the collar of the shirt and drags it alongside him. “It’d be interesting to see their reactions.” 

Ash stays quiet. 

- - -

“Where’s the doctor and the young master?” 

“I saw them heading that way…”

“Were we abandoned?” 

“Do you honestly think they would do that? Master Lant would have a field day if the young master just up and left. Even if he’s the favorite, he wouldn’t be able to get away with doing such a thing.” 

Chatter fills the air as the soldiers scratch their heads. Stars twinkle in the night sky, and yet despite the pretty sight, only tension is present. Everyone is tense as some look around them to make sure nothing or no-one surrounds them.

“Actually,” one young man starts after he looks around, “where’s Adam? I haven’t seen him since we got back.” 

“Maybe the young master disposed of him.” One says casually.  

“Or he was eaten by a monster and that’s why the other two left - to investigate. It’s normal for them not to say anything sometimes.” Another man offers up, scratching his head despite the implication that their fellow soldier is dead somewhere.

It’s a normal occurrence they’re used to seeing rather than experiencing - it was only a matter of time until someone from their group would die in action or get disposed of by one of the Masters.

Despite their unease, they stay at the camp, weapons ready and alert about their surroundings. The night was still young and the person in charge was missing. 

- - -

They stopped at an abandoned cabin. However, like the fools they are, chatter is loud enough to be heard from outside, and a lantern was lit inside, showing the silhouettes of people through the windows. Two people stood guard outside, Dion and Ash hiding near the trees. 

“Talk about being obvious,” Ash mumbles under his breath, staring at the sight with furrowed brows. Wasn’t this a little too easy? Out in the open, did they think that the night alone would conceal their presence?

Or maybe this was a trap. Making it look too easy so attackers would act cocky or something along those lines. Acting without thinking. Makes it easy to -

“This is dull.” Dion walks out into the open, clearly having no intention of staying hidden. Unlike the swordsman, the doctor says in hiding. He sighs, shaking his head as he quietly prays for the poor souls. Three strikes of his sword and both are on the ground, dead. One with a slash to his neck and the other was pierced with Dion’s sword to his head. Their bodies fall to the ground with a ‘thud’. 

Then, he kicks the door in without warning, caution thrown into the wind, the corrupted noble acting out of character. Slowly, the doctor follows after, watching from the doorway as your husband swings his sword to slash someone’s eyes, making them blind. The Agriche jumps back when one of the men thrusts their sword with all his might towards your husband’s chest.

He deflects it easily. 

From the doorway, Ash witnesses as the younger male swipes his opponent from his feet, his booth making contact with their own, causing the enemy to trip over. Dion wastes no time in bringing his sword down, blood splattering on his boots and floor, the hem of his cloak also now stained as he kills him. There is no remorse in his red eyes. 

The doctor shivers. 

Two capable men remain. They look at the brooding figure like he was a beast - and perhaps he was, the man emotionless when it comes to his victims. Shaking in their boots, their hold on their sword’s hilts loosen. Their eyes are so wide it’s cometical.

“Remember to leave one alive,” Ash shouts from the doorway. Dion doesn’t spare him a glance as he rushes forward, and another man is killed. Blood is shed and none of it is from him. 

The man who was blind by the Agriche writhes on the floor, palms pressed against the wound as he tries to soothe it. He’s also sobbing, and for a moment, the sound reminds your husband of you.

He’s quickly ripped out of his thoughts as his opponent dashes towards him, lifting his sword and is about to bring it down before Dion just… stabs him in the chest. The sword falls to the floor with a clatter as the man cripples over in pain. Slowly, life fades from his eyes, your husband taking it upon himself to end his life faster.

The sight is reflected in scarlet eyes and their owner feels nothing. He’s all but a canvas painted a bright red, no more room for anything else to be added, black fading at the corners.

The wails of the now blind man reach his ears. He turns on his feet, realizing he should have let one of the enemies who could still see live. A blind man can only help so much with directions. 

Dion takes a quick glance around the one room cabinet only to realize one thing - there are no arrows. Whoever the archer was, they were not here. His eye twitches but he calms himself as he looks at the injured man on the floor, blood dripping from his eyes onto the wooden floor.

His steps are heavy, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Ash reaches the new victim before Dion does. He only stares, standing above him as the doctor checks out the gash. 

“F-fuck! You - you -” The nameless man stutters out before he stops to sob, the pain unbearable. Ash doesn’t blame him.

“He’ll kill you if you keep talking without permission.” A half-lie, the doctor giving your husband a look. “Just keep your mouth shut until spoken to.” Reaching into his coat's inner pocket, he brings out a small bottle full of some type of medicine. 

Dion scoffs as the doctor rinses out the wound, dusting himself off as the wails get stronger. Louder. What was the point of performing first aid? It’s not like he’ll live for long.

Without heistance, Dion kicks the man in the stomach once Ash is done ‘treating’ him. He’s getting impatient - their idiotic and poor attempt to kill him, to trick him was only making the length of his mission longer. He could be with you right now. Watching as your chest slowly rises up and down as you sleep, as his insomnia prevents him from joining you.

He could be in your shared bed by now, the only time you don’t squirm under his gaze. When he can trace the contours of your face with his eyes, wishing that he could do it with his fingers instead. 

He directs his attention back to the matter at hand. Thinking about you only distracts him.

“Talk. The longer you lie or stay quiet, the longer I’ll beat you.” Not a complete lie. He swears he’s trying to be a bit less brutal. For you.

But it’s hard when it was hardwired into his very being at a young age.

“I-I don’t -”

THWACK

Another kick to the stomach that has the man wheezing. Drool flies from his mouth as he doubles over in pain. His entire body feels wrecked, his eyes fucked for the rest of his life, no matter how short. Breathing hurts but his lungs won’t stop seeking for oxygen. The burning sensation almost makes him wish he was dead. 

“Ugh… I-I was ju-just ordered to be stationed here…” He braces himself for another kick that never comes. However, he doesn’t delude himself into thinking that the threat before him has decided to let him rest. He knows that Dion is planning something else. 

And he’s scared to find out what.

“So you’re mercenaries. Who hired you?” The interrogation continues. 

“I-I didn’t see his fa-face… he wore a ma-mask. Dark blue. A-a bit shorter th-than you." The mercenary gives details as he prays that his death will be a swift one. He knows he’s not leaving alive. 

- - -

The matter was out of their hands now. He has to report everything to Lant, and wait for further instructions. It’s a routine he hates.

He’s treated no better than a show dog.

“At least you’re almost done with the original task.” The doctor tries to be positive.

Dion doesn’t answer as he brings the blind mercenary with him. Unlike with the first one, he carries this one over his shoulder the entire trip back to camp. It’s quicker and easier, while dragging him would slow him down a bit. 

It doesn’t make him dislike it any less. 

“Surprised you kept him alive.” The doctor stares at the unconscious man as he walks behind Dion. “What about the rest of the bodies?”

“We leave them as a message,” is all your husband says. What a crude thing to do, Ash thinks. But he doesn’t comment on it further. 

By the time they reach camp, the soldiers look on in shock as their leader returns covered in splatters of blood with a man on death’s door slung over his shoulder. 

- - -

  “...you want me to do what?”

“Take the money and buy the necklace I told you about earlier. I’ll either be kicked out or they’ll run away immediately as soon as they see me.” He gestures to his messy appearance.

“Just take off your cloak! Wash your face! Besides, what will your wife think if she ever finds out I was the one who got it!? She’ll think that you’re lazy and it’ll only make her view of you worse!” 

The hunting party is on the outskirts of a town they passed by on their way to the hunting grounds. Dion stares at Ash with money in his hand, silently ordering him to take it and buy a necklace that matches your pretty and lovely eyes. 

Dion had passed through the town himself a few weeks ago while out on a different mission. Curious, he decided to check out the local jewelry store. He was only supposed to take a peek, not leave with plans to buy a certain piece. The only reason he didn’t get it right then and there was because he forgot his wallet. 

He still holds that against himself to this day. While it’s true he could have used his status as being part of the Black Clan, it didn’t sit right with him. How soft has he become?

It’s all your fault. And yet, he doesn’t hold it against you. It’s impossible to do so.

“... I suppose you’re right.” 

“Then go get it yourself!” 

The blind and unconscious mercenary is forgotten on the carriage that also holds some monster parts.  

The soldiers in the background try their best to ignore their conversation. But it’s hard when the doctor’s frustration is bursting through the streams, clearly done with their leader. While it was common knowledge among this group of how the two butt heads, it’s a secret outside of it.

For a mere common doctor to go against a child of Agriche, it would be a death sentence. Especially with his occasional condescending remark or tone that would bring punishment or even death for anyone else. However, for whatever reason, Ash Katopodis was the only one who ever lived without injury after shit talking Dion Agriche. The first time it happened, they waited with baited breath for the doctor to fall to the ground, dead. 

The second time it happened they thought it was fluke. 

Everything after that showed that he had a privilege that no-one else ever will have. It’s curious how he’s the only one. 

One time, a soldier, a stupid one, who overheard Dion’s men talk about it did try to snitch on them to Lant, hoping to bring down Dion’s reputation. Safe to say his death wasn’t quick and painless. After that, they all realized that the only reason Dion kept them around was because they knew when and how to keep their mouths shut.

Still, it was entertaining for a man below Dion in status to lose his temper with the crimson eyed noble. 

Even if they can’t hear every word. 

“Take off the cloak - oh. Right. The Agriche crest.” The sudden memory of what’s engraved into that uniform hits Ash hard. How stupid of him to barely remember.

“You there! Come over for a second.” Not waiting for Dion’s response, Ash calls over one of the soldiers. He walks over in confusion, slightly irked that a doctor dared to order him around. But due to his leader being there, he keeps his mouth shut.

“Y-yes?” The man looks at both of them with uncertainty in his eyes. Worried, he keeps himself from turning around to avoid your husband’s eyes. 

“Can you lend him your cloak? Just for a bit.” 

Dion glares daggers at Ash.

- - -

“We-welcome! How may I help you to-today?” Open twenty-four-seven, Ash watches as Dion had knocked on the door of the store, deciding to stay in his stained clothes and dirty boots while staying outside, not staining the store’s floor. How benevolent of him.

The owner, who was originally confused and slightly annoyed, quickly changed tune once he saw the two men. Since he had met Dion before, he knew who he was. Which meant his automatic fear and willingness to work with him and not send him off only made sense.

“The necklace,” Dion starts while recalling how it looks, “the simple gold one with a small (e/c) jewel in the middle - how much?” He knows it’s genuine after the first time he examined it. What he forgot was the price.

This isn’t like him. None of this is. But the second you entered his life, he’s been… different. 

The owner blinks before answering. “Oh, that one? It’s 1240 - but for you, I’ll only charge half.” Business is still business to this man, clearly. Still, seeing how it’s an Agriche who’s his customer, he doesn’t want to test his luck too much.

It’s also amazing how he memorized the price of each and every one of his goods. 

“Alright.” Dion doesn’t try to negotiate to lower the price further. Ash watches in amazement as the exchange comes to an end as the gift is placed in a small elegant blue box that’s carefully placed into his pants pocket. 

- - -

Ash left the party before reaching the Agriche estate.

Everyone else goes their own ways once everything is reported to Lant, the head of the family scowling at the news. Perhaps too tired to care much, considering the time, he dismisses everyone without incident. Everyone but Dion, that is.

“The girl didn’t leave your room today. Were you too rough before departing?” His father takes a puff from his cigar as he questions his son on a matter that frankly, doesn’t concern him. His ugly smirk only makes the context worse.

“... she’s still getting used to ‘it’.” A simple lie that has his father chuckling. It’s nails on a chalkboard, making his ears bleed. 

“Interesting. I never thought you would be that type.” One more puff after a suggestive line. “Well, it’s late - you should get some rest. Or don’t, depending on your mood. It’s not like she can deny you.” 

His hands form fists before they relax. Getting mad here wouldn’t help. Even though every fiber of his being is enraged that Lant is treating you like a sex toy - then again, in his eyes, you probably are. A nice little breeding tool given to him, his son.

He ignores the urge to give in and punch him. 

He wonders how long he’s had these violent feelings towards him.

“Yes, father.” And with that, he leaves. 

The walk to your bedroom feels longer than what it is. Too long. Even so, he doesn’t rush, knowing that you prefer it when he’s gone. A part of him does feel guilty about it, really. At times, he does consider separating himself from you physically - as long as you’re married, as long as you don’t look at anyone else, as long as you belong to him, it should have been fine.

And, truthfully, it was, at first. He was content with the knowledge that you were his wife and he was your husband. Looking from afar would sate his needs, small dinners here and there would have been better than fine. Just hearing your voice would improve his mood, and sharing a bed with you was nicer than nice. 

That day when you were sitting on the floor and fell backwards, head resting on his legs, he couldn’t help but admire your beauty. 

Although, looking back on it now, you probably took it differently.

The night where you allowed him to touch you, his fingers on the bare skin of your back, how loose you were with him, his resolve started to crumble. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have acted in a suggestive way, either the position sending his mind places that you clearly didn’t appreciate nor agreed with. He should have gotten up the moment he was done with untying the strings and not imply he wanted to make you cum with both his words and actions.

His behavior that night only served to drive you away further. 

You both had your first time together, which was amazing - but he does regret how it went. He should have been softer, kissed you, whispered praises in your ear as he slowly, inch by inch, entered you, said you were beautiful because you were, because you are. 

But, shamefully, he was caught up in his head. Too eager to take you, to become one, his actions only worsen your impression of him. He should have been better. Instead of trying to hold himself back which only made him look disinterested, made him look selfish with sexual pleasure, he should have given in a little bit, at least with making you cum and sweet words he should have said instead of calling you cute only when you started to cry.

Maybe then, you would be more welcoming to fleeting touches and even accept a kiss to the forehead or at the very least, hold his hand. But now you only see him as a perverted creep, and no matter how hard he tries, everything only backfires on him.

He has no-one to blame but himself. 

He pauses once he reaches the bedroom doors. It’s only now does he realize he didn’t wash up - still dirty and covered in specks of blood. Dirt in his hair, he wonders if he stinks or just smells like the outside. Or maybe that would smell bad to you too.

His eyes glaze overs at the thought of you shooing him away - can’t he just spend a few minutes with you? Maybe he should just… lock you up. That way, you wouldn’t be able to avoid him. You wouldn’t be able to give your attention to anyone else, if he just hid and locked you away all for himself.

A pause before he sighs through his nose. Not a good idea despite how tempting it is.

He’ll just take a peek. To see if you’re asleep or not. He’ll leave to wash up as soon as he sees you before going in.

Only he caves in once he sees you on the terrace, in nothing but your sleep attire. A frown pulls at his lips - it’s slightly windy - he knows this is only an excuse to get closer to you, but an obsessed man can only hold back for so long. In the beginning, he was satisfied with just being married to you. But your personality, your real one that shined through in the past, was addicting. Your skin was so warm and hair soft, and the way you  had clung to him during your first night would have eventually caught up with him, wanting to hold you in his arms again.

It didn’t have to be in a sexual manner. Your genuine sweetness was never meant for him and he knows this. But, at times, it does hurt a bit that you just don’t remember past events, no matter how small.

His thoughts are interrupted when his hand starts to turn the door knob without his knowing. He caves.

Quietly, by reflex, he enters the room and opens the closet to pull out a coat. The first one he sees is a gift from his mother.

Despite his distaste of it, he pulls it out regardless and walks to you. You smell nice, he thinks as he gets close enough to place the coat over your shoulders. He sees the way you tense but he still can’t stop himself from saying -

“You’re still awake.”

= = =

EDIT: *- it's a plant I made up. That's all.

tag list: @tiny-mimi @umi-adxhira @pix-stuff @queenofspades403

@manitscold @s-ajia @disappointment-san @rentaldarling @darkumbreon92 @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[bluespiderlully]

KNY - Fix it! AU (+ My Characters) Canon Hashiras

This is the first post of the modern AU series, where I'll share with you moodboards and headcanons, for this post I'll cover just the canon Hashiras and in the next ones we'll see the non-canon and the OCs ones. A little warning: some of these headcanons are angsty but the concept I want here is of course hurt/comfort and it's a "bad things happened in the past but things aren't going bad now, we're all friends" kind of things. Anyway angsty headcanons aren't the majority.

🌊 Giyu Tomioka

Knows how to play piano, likes classical music a lot

60s/70s/80s sci-fi books reader, would probably start a conversation about a random book he red and end up talking about philosophy, religion and politics (Enmu and Harriet are the only ones to have actual conversations about the topics and don't just stand there confused).

Loves marine biology but never succeded in making a goldfish survive for more than one week.

🌫 Muichiro Tokito

Definitely a cat person.

Suffers from sleep paralysis and nightmares but draws anything disturbing he sees as a copying mechanism, Giyu thinks his art is pretty cool.

Super skilled at snowboarding and skateboarding.

🌪 Sanemi Shinazugawa

Overprotective with everyone he becomes friend with.

He always has rage issues, but they used to scare Ayumi off so he started working on it and managed to become calmer.

He doesn't listen to music, he listen to NOISE, if a vocalist doesn't sound like a clogged sink he doesn't listen to it.

🐍 Obanai Iguro

Has a Glasgow smile after surviving a serial killer attack. In this AU he wears a mask too, he just doesn't like to show the scar. He doesn't eat in front of people for the same reason.

Owns a black ball python and a white hognose snake and spends a lot of time decorating his terrarium (but he is careful with the hognose one, he doesn't want him to get stuck stucked as they always do).

Interested in occultism, reads a lot about it.

🌸 Mitsuri Kanroji

She does ballet since when she was 4.

Very good at baking sweets, but likes few of them so she always ends up giving them to others.

Makes friends easily and very quickly, her and Kyojuro are best friends since they were at kindergarten.

☄️ Tengen Uzui

When he was a child he wanted to become an astronaut, now he found out about planetary defense and wants to become part of that organization because "diverting asteroids is cool".

Got in every kind of trouble at school.

Drives like he could respawn infinite times.

🦋 Shinobu Kocho

Could talk about chemistry for hours.

Listens to metalcore and hyper pop and ends up hyperfixating with a song and listening to it until she ends up hating it.

Friends with Obanai, enjoys spending time with him and helping with his terrariums.

🔥 Kyojuro Rengoku

Eats a lot but would set the kitchen on fire if he tries to cook anything.

Couldn't get a driving licence and gave up on trying for his and others safety lol.

Cancer survivor but still feels insecure about his scars and about the fact he has some extra weight. He doesn't like talking about that.

Parts: | 1 | 2 |

[impala124]

Theory of love Episode 1: I hate myself for loving you

Well well well, what do we have here? Could it be my half-baked thoughts on Dear Dakanda, a movie I was supposed to have finished watching 3 days ago, but couldn't get through in a single sitting because I was too busy face-palming myself the whole time, and how it relates to episode 1 of Theory of love? Yes, it is.

The film is about a shy art student, who's in love with his bestfriend but is unwilling to confess because he's scared of losing their friendship.

Third in his review of the film:

I was practically cheering for Khaiyoi. I felt relieved for him.

Even though the film is told from Mhoo's perspective, we know very little about the man himself, other than his unrequited love, which made it really hard for me to root for him. So, Third was definitely projecting onto Mhoo.

As @lurkingshan has already pointed out, Third sees himself in Mhoo and has chosen to out do him in his pining for his bestfriend. It makes me wonder when Third saw Dear Dakanda for the first time, whether it was before meeting Khai or after. He and Khai had a meet-cute which is similar to that of Mhoo and Dakanda, atleast that's how Mhoo views it.

If he had watched the movie prior to meeting Khai, then he was just setting himself up for failure by comparing Khai to Dakanda. Now, if it were the latter, I wonder why he couldn't see himself in Nui rather than Mhoo. Maybe Nui was too honest about her feelings for Third to relate to her. I'm pretty sure that one of the reasons Third likes Khai is because Khai isn't afraid of confrontation, unlike him. Khai goes to the film sceening of a guy his ex chose over him, just to publicly humilate the guy. Third can't even himself to show Khai the concert tickets he bought for them to go together.

Side note about their meet-cute: It's a reference to the characters from My girl, which credits the director of Dear Dakanda as one of its screenwriters. If I'm remembering it right, My girl is also on the list.

@neuroticbookworm made a note about the romanticisation of pining in the movie and I'm pretty sure Third caught that because he was embodying it. As harsh as it might sound, the suffering of both Third and Mhoo is self-inflicted.

At no point were they given any indication that their feelings might be reciprocated and yet, they continue to resent the other person for treating them 'only' as a friend. I understand yearning, I love it, but give me some insight into the character before showing them as a pathetic loser (my favorite genre of men, if I may say so myself).

@bengiyo made an interesting note about the overtly heterosexual bubble Third lives in. This gave me a whiplash because in 2025, I'm kinda used to bls where queerness is the norm. We don't know anything about Third's past experiences and how long he's known that he's attracted to men to make any judgements here, but let me just note that Third is not some wallflower, he's part of a clique that is rather popular. Now that Two saw Third crying in the dark over Khai, maybe he'll find an ally, because Third definitely needs someone in his corner.

Something I'm interested in knowing more about is what Khai brings to his friendship with Third. Third repeatedly says that being friends with Khai is better than nothing, so he can't be a friend that flakes on him constantly, as he did in this episode. Hope you're not that much of a masochist, Third!!

Mini-rant:

Having Dakanda mention that she broke up with her boyfriend in her letter to Mhoo was definitely a choice and I wonder how much of that factored into Mhoo mailing her the postcards in return. Also, Mhoo writing I'm happy that, in the end, the thing that lasts the longest and can't easily be ruined is our friendship and ending the postcard by stating that this will be his last correspondence with her doesn't sit right with me.

Of course, one can outgrow a friendship, but, was Mhoo only friends with Dakanda in the hope that she might wake up one day and see him in a romantic light? That would be rather disingenuous now, wouldn't it?Is a female friend worth having only if she's a potential romantic partner? Is the narrative punishing Dakanda for not recognising Mhoo's quiet pining and replying with Why did you confess now?after he let her know about his feelings for her by having her break up with her boyfriend? This whole sequence reeks of valourization of Mhoo's unrequited love over Dakanda getting herself a boyfriend and Third definitely feels the same way about his pining and Khai's flings. Told y'all, I can't look at het romantic relationships objectively because biases start kicking in.

(OR)

Maybe it's about Mhoo choosing to move forward in his life instead of trying to see what can become of his relationship with Dakanda, now that she's aware of his feelings towards her.

We can't know for sure, but I feel like it's a bit of both.

[7postitsjumpingonabed]

TF2 Mamma Mia! AU

Cannot over stress how it’s-on-the-tin this is.

If you’re curious, my qualifications for this are the fact I’ve seen the movie like 4 times and am currently in a production of the musical so I know my shit.

Also Mamma Mia! is a romcom so I’ll just say the roms I chose are Sniper/Scout, Spy/Ma, minor Heavy/Medic, and optional Soldier/Demo(I present two options).

That’s all the preamble, lets get into this

Sophie

Alright let’s start with the most important character, who is our bride-to-be and catalyst for the whole plot? Scout, of course. Did I mostly pick him because he has known familial relationships that are easily enough translated to these characters? Yes absolutely. Did I also pick him because he seems the type to think inviting three strangers who could be his dad to his wedding is a good idea, he seems the type to be excited over a large and exciting wedding, and is commonly characterized with some form of anxiety that would lead really well into ‘Under Attack’? Also yes absolutely. Broadly, I think that Scout’s young, enthusiastic, and not-forward thinking personality lines up well with Sophie. For this we are going to ignore the other 7 Willis boys as characters, sorry unnamed brothers Sophie is very significantly an only child.

Skye

A reader with baseline knowledge of Mamma Mia! and who read the preamble can easily guess that Sniper is my Skye. I chose him because I like Speeding Bullet, he would definitely prefer a quiet elopement over a big white wedding, and he is also commonly characterized as kind of whipped for Scout so I would see him begrudgingly accepting this wedding as his life and making it work. You may be seeing this and asking ‘Postit, how on earth are you getting Sniper to dance, sing, and do all that theater kid bullshit?’ And to that I raise two things, 1. that is making me think of a community theater AU and that’s absolutely hilarious and now I want to make it but as I write this I’m realizing he would be in lighting… alright anyway 2. Through musicals are things are possible so write that down. Scout and Sniper going off to travel together seems very accurate and cute as well.

Donna

Alright this one should be clear, it’s Scout’s Ma. In all honesty I did briefly consider having Spy in this role but the fact that Sophie wants her dad at her wedding to do dad things is really important to setting the plot in motion so I’ve relegated him to a different role. Anyway besides literally being Scout’s mom I think she fits well because despite her lack of characterization, from what we do know about her she is a no-nonsense hard worker, who is trying to move past old and questionable decisions, and support her son in what she thinks is a silly decision. Overall I just think she’s the best option and can be made to fit well.

Ali and Lisa

If you only have a passing knowledge of Mamma Mia! you might not know these characters, and honestly I considered combining them into one person because they don’t have large individual impacts but it just worked better to keep them both, but they’re Sophie’s friends and advisors, as well as generation counter parts to Rosie and Tanya. I chose Ms. Pauling and Pyro for these roles. I had really no ideas on this front so it got filled in near the end of planning but I think Pauling and Pyro work well enough. I think if Pauling and Scout can move past potential love

Sam Carmichael

Who else? It’s Spy. With Scout’s Ms as Donna there wasn’t really any other choice. Sam is sort of the prime father and ends up marrying Donna at the end of the story. The second act songs between him and Donna are all about the past, regrets, and missed opportunities and that goes perfectly with the implied dynamic between Spy and Scout’s Ma. In this AU ‘Loraine’ would be Spy’s job, he would leave to work it and come back only to find Ma with other men. Speaking of.

Harry Bright

Harry is contemplative, plays the guitar, and had a ‘rough’ past that doesn’t reflect his current quieter life? Now who does that sound like? Engineer isn’t canonically an ex-punk but the idea of him ‘headbanging’ is really funny. I largely chose him because of his demeanor and the irony of him being a punk in a previous life but the straight forward attitude and guitar playing are also very appropriate.

Bill Anderson

Heavy is my Bill Anderson because he’s the last reasonable man left, his writing associations, and the fact Bill’s two duets in the musical have him mostly responding to another’s behavior. After Heavy the men get a little more visibly insane, even on a picturesque Greek vacation. Bill is a writer and travel books aren’t exactly Russian lit but the general idea lines up. The role of Bill being quiet most of the time and being the first father to figure out his relation to Sophie feels very Heavy.

Rosie

Rosie is Donna’s friend that is on the wild side, never married, and ends up ‘taking a chance’ (imagine me lightly elbowing you at my joke) on Bill. Replace Bill with Heavy and that’s an in complete description of Medic. I can see Medic having not terrible, if not normal, friendships with people willing to embrace the lunacy. A lady who shot her shot with Spy of all people and raised Scout can definitely handle some lunacy. Also there’s a line somewhere, musical or movie, when Bill mentions having one of Rosie’s cookbooks, and that seems like a sweet, Red Oktoberfest thing to do.

Tanya

For lack of better option, Demo is my Tanya. There’s no particularly strong connections between them but Demo needs to go somewhere and Soldier is even worse of a fit for this role. Since this is where he’s going I’ll propose that, if the viewer desires so and is willing to lose the alignment of Tanya’s marriages with the one happening at the end, the series of failed marriages could be changed to jobs, which would give this hypothetical casting more cohesion.

Pepper and Eddy

The only merc left is Soldier and I think him as a largely unhelpful, partying, kind of a freak feels… not terrible. This is where my two options in the Soldier/Demo situation is explained, you can go classic ‘Does Your Mother Know?’ and set the two up as romantic counterparts or you could just have them as friends. Like, Soldier is a ‘bad’ influence and Demo is trying to be normal for Scout’s Ma but is having too much fun with Soldier to resist. I think both work fine and it depends on preferences. For Eddy I want an unenthusiastic Merasmus. We know that Soldier just harasses him and drags him into random scenarios so a reluctant Merasmus can fit as a variation on Eddy so the cast is all lined up.

That’s where my fan cast ends but I want to say that if anyone wants to work with this idea, go ahead but tag me so I can see! Also I’m still thinking about Spy!Donna so there might be a follow up…. But we’ll see. Thank you for reading!

[miizuzu]

“How did??” You couldn't even finish your question. Your voice was caught in your throat.

“Come on, you really thought you could run from me? Even destiny brought us together. I was visiting my uncle and cousin when your packages arrived. I even helped you sign for them. Aren't I the best boyfriend?”

“Zenin, we broke up a long time ago.”

“Naoya. Also I never agreed to breaking up. Only allow you to have some time alone, and you dare to try and run from me.” 

He cages you in with both his arms next to your head, you've backed yourself along the wall and now you have nowhere to run. You were shivering in fear, couldn't help but get Flash back from the past.

Naoya Zenin was your first relationship. Right after moving to Tokyo, you transfered into his class. You were very friendly and active so you ended up with a lot of friends. Naoya was one of your closest friends, he helped you get used to your new life in Tokyo. You used to tell him about your friends from before you moved and he would enjoy listening to your stories. He would easily get jealous when other boys got your attention. It wasn't too bad at first but it gradually got worse. 

He asked you out on your 16th birthday, and you agreed. His family was rich, and they went away on vacation a lot, even throughout the school year. He was pretty smart in school, so the teachers didn't have much to say for him going away. He would be so nice whenever he comes back, but as soon as he realized there are guys close to you he would get mad. He would yell at you like it was your fault, you shouldn't be so friendly towards everyone. He would constantly make you choose between him and your friends, to a point you stopped talking to others just so he wouldn't be mad at you. 

He would never be there when you needed him, always away on vacation and when you called him while he's away, he would call you clingy and tell you to grow up. By the time you noticed how bad it was, it was already too late. All your friends had left you, you had no one else. 

You stayed with him, thinking you had no one else. You couldn't talk to anyone without him getting mad at you. On your 18th birthday, he asked for your virginity and you gave it to him, not because of love, but because of fear. Fear that you would lose the last person who matters to you. 

After taking your first time, everything went downhill. Nothing you do ever satisfies him. Even in bed, he would criticize you for every little thing. How you always make him use a condom and never let him finish inside you. Saying your moans sounds forced and you should keep quiet, or you just lay there like a dead fish. 

You finally had enough of him and said you needed time. He said fine and went on his family vacation. That's when you finally decided to run from him. You packed all your things and moved away, found another city and that's how you ended up here. 

You find that you could no longer talk to people normally if it is not work related, it felt awkward every time you tried talking to someone. Your only escape was your feline friends. 

You stood there, frozen in fear. You do not want to go back to those dark days, you managed to avoid him for 4 years, changing your phone number multiple times, only to be dragged back into his life. 

You were saved by your coworker who came looking for you when your break time was over. You got back to work, but you couldn't help your hands from shaking. Naoya never left, he tugged himself at the back of the sitting area, watching your every move. He would get frustrated when you help male customers. He tapped his foot loudly and got a lot of attention. Your coworkers were so close to asking your manager to send you home early just because they didn't want him to cause problems. 

You were trying to think of ways to get away, and as if it was right on que, Satoru walks in with a bouquet of flowers. Naoya eyed him down right away, Satoru didn't notice him, his attention was on you, and how he could see something was wrong. Satoru walked in front of you with a worried look.

“Y/N? Is everything ok? You don't look so good.” 

“......help me.” You whispered.

Satoru turned serious, he reached for your hand only to be yanked back by Naoya.

“What are you trying to do?” Naoya questions Satoru.

“None of your business.” Satoru calmly glares at Naoya.

“It is my business. I am her boyfriend.” Naoya smirks at Satoru.

Satoru looked at you and you shook your head. He knows it's not true. He has never even seen a single picture of them at your house. Never seen him or even heard you talk about having a boyfriend. 

“Well it doesn't seem that way, plus, we are currently dating.” Satoru grabs your hand over the counter. 

Naoya was about to punch Satoru when he was stopped by the store manager. She kicked him out for disturbing the other customers and her employee. Your coworkers actually stood by your side and tried to protect you from Naoya. That one girl feeling bad for not checking with you first before letting him in to see you. 

Your manager told you to take the rest of the day off, telling Satoru to get you home safely which he instantly agreed. The 2 of you took the back door to avoid Naoya, but not sure where you should go since he knows where you live. 

“We could go to my place? Only if you are comfortable with it. I could get you a hotel room if you like.” 

“Anywhere is fine. I just want to get out of here.”

Satoru nods and leads the way to one of his homes. He told you to go in front of him, keeping a safe distance between the 2 of you, wanting you to feel more relaxed. He told you where to go and you followed his instructions, arriving at the building of his penthouse. 

You didn't really speak during the whole way here, the only thing said was Satoru telling you directions. He got you settled down inside. He offered you some hot cocoa and sat you down on the couch. He then disappeared into his room, you didn't even have time to thank him. You were grateful for his help, you also appreciate him giving you space and not questioning you like others would. 

Even though you didn't want to talk, you do want some company, you are just not sure how you should ask, since things ended a bit awkward between you and Satoru. 

It was as if Satoru read your mind, he came out of his room, not as his human form, but his cat form. He slowly walked towards you, and when he saw you petting the couch next to you to invite him over, he quickly hopped onto the spot, nugging your forearm with his head. 

You pet his head gently and scratched his chin. “Thank you for helping me. I don't know what I would have done if you weren't there today.” 

You could hear him pur as you kept petting him. You suddenly remembered your friend while you were young. Almost as if the memories Naoya made you suppressed come rushing back. 

“You know, I used to have a best friend who was like you. He could also turn into a cat and would always comfort me when I'm down.” 

Satoru stiffens, before jumping off the couch and running back into his room. 

You were confused why he suddenly went away, you went after him but he locked himself in his room.

“Satoru? Are you ok? Did I say something wrong?”

“......” No answer.

“Hey… you're worrying me now. What happened?”

“So you really don't remember me…” he pouts as he swings the door open, he's turned back into human form, well not completely. His ears and tail were still showing, he got a towel and wrapped his lower body so you wouldn't see him naked.

That's when it finally struck you. His hair and eye color, merging with the memory of your best friend from the past. Finally remembering him. 

“So… you were him all along…”

“Mmhmm…”

“Wait, so you knew it was me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“How? I couldn't even remember after everything that's happened.” 

“You've never once left my mind. I promised that I would be your cat, I have every intention to keep my promise to always be with you.”

You could feel tears threatening to spill from your eyes. After his whole heartedly confession you hugged him in your arms tightly. 

“I'm sorry, Satoru! I'm so sorry for forgetting about you! So much had happened. I'm sorry!” 

You started bawling, Satoru held you tight in his embrace. You felt safe, everything felt right. This is where you belong.

He lets you go when you finally calmed down. He excused himself to put on some clothes as he got you to wait in the living room. 

You were sitting back on the couch, everything happened all at once. Your mind was going on overload. Satoru made his way over to you and kneeled down in front of you, grabbing hold of your hands.

“You can count on me. I will always be there for you. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like. As long as you're comfortable.”

You nodded and thanked him again. You could hear Satoru's stomach growling, he hadn't eaten anything yet. He turned away embarrassed, which made you laugh at him. 

“Can I see what's in your kitchen?”

“Sure, my fridge is pretty well stocked.”

He wasn't kidding. You could find anything in there, and everything seems fresh. He had people who would come and clean and cook for him. There was also a full shelf of sweets and cakes. You know he had a sweet tooth from his cup of cream and sugar with a drop of coffee. 

You asked him for an apron before pulling things out of the fridge to prepare for a meal. Satoru always hoped that there would be a day where he could be around you while you cook with him staying close to you in his human form. He was so happy his wish came true. 

“Is there anything you want me to make?”

“Sweet Tamago!” 

Of course he would pick a sweet dish. You sighed and laughed at him. You got the ingredients out and cracked the eggs into a bowl, you put in the sugar and soy and a hint of fish sauce and you asked him to whisk everything together. He enjoyed being your helper as you prep the other ingredients. His kitchen had everything, if you could put your mind to it, he had it. It made it so easy to cook everything. The sweet tamago was made perfectly with the square pan. You always make them weird looking since you only have a round pan at home. 

You set the dinner table, you could see Satoru's eyes glittering. He pinched his cheeks as if he was trying to see if he was dreaming. You told him to sit and eat while it was still hot. He loves your cooking, eating so fast he almost choked. 

“Slow down, I can always make more. No need to rush.” 

“You cook so well. I've been wanting to tell you.” 

Satoru hits you with a childlike toothy smile, your heart beating out of your chest, finally remembering he was your first crush. You wanted to keep in touch but didn't know how. You and your mother left in a rush and you were sad for a long time. Even after meeting Naoya, you would talk about your fun times with Satoru, which made Naoya brainwash you into actually suppressing all your memories of him. 

Satoru helped with cleaning up after dinner. It was the first time he got to help, he offered to wash the dishes and asked if you like to shower and just relax. You took his offer for a shower and he lent you his t-shirt and a pair of shorts.

Satoru focused hard on the dishes as he heard the shower running, he couldn't help but be reminded of how you look naked and could feel his blood rushing south. He didn't want to be a creep about it but you just have this effect on him. He wanted to touch himself so bad but held it in, thinking of everything and anything for his buddy to calm down. 

“I'm done with my shower, it's your turn.”

You walked out, wearing his oversized clothes on your tiny body, his eyes linger a bit longer than they should. Satoru started nose bleeding, he quickly grabbed the washcloth and covered his nose. He excuses himself again as he sprinted to his room and slammed the door behind him. ‘How can someone look this adorable in baggy clothes???!!’ You were pretty well covered but he thought that was the sexiest thing you've ever worn. 

Satoru didn't want to be rude so he shouted from his room, telling you he will be taking his shower now and that you could find something to watch while you wait. He quickly slipped into the showers, his hands making quick work to relieve the throbbing pain on his cock, squeezing tight around the base before furiously stroking himself, picturing how cute you looked just now. He let out a pornographic moan before shooting his thick load, wishing someday you would be on the receiving end. 

You watched TV as you waited, not sure what tomorrow would bring. What could you do? Naoya knows where you live and where you work, how can you continue hiding from him? You could feel another headache every time he occupied your mind. You were lost in deep thoughts when Satoru came out, he saw you laying on the couch, your brows furrowed and your eyes were closed. He pokes at the spot between your eyebrows, something you used to do to him long ago when he was overthinking. 

“You must be tired, I have spare rooms you can stay in. It would be more comfortable than sleeping on the couch.”

His smile was so gentle it was making you melt. You nodded your head and followed him to a room close to his own. 

“Well then, good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Satoru.” 

He turns to walk towards his own room but your arm moves on its own, grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt. 

Satoru's eyes widened and kept blinking at you with a semi confused look. You let go of him and apologize, “Sorry! I don't know what came over me! Good night!!” You tried to close the door only for Satoru to intercept. 

“If you want me to stay, you only have to ask.” Satoru smirks as he enters the room. You stumbled backwards towards the bed, your legs hit the side of the bed and you ended up sitting on the bed. 

He walked closer and started taking his shirt off.

“???! What are you doing??” Your hands fly to your face and you cover your eyes as you squeeze them shut. “Don't worry, I'll take care of you.” 

You could tell he was taking off his pants too but you kept your eyes covered. Next thing you felt was Satoru rubbing against you, in cat form. He thought you wanted his company, which he wasn't wrong, but you didn't know how you should ask him to stay. He hopped onto the bed and patted on the pillow with his paw, telling you to go lay down. You moved toward the pillow and laid your head on it, Satoru lay beside you, not as close as he did before, but close enough for you to feel his presence. 

“Thank you Satoru, sweet dreams.”

You closed your eyes and could hear his soft purrs, it lulled you to sleep soon after. You haven't had a good night's rest for a while, the same goes for Satoru, his worst fear was that you would hate him and never let him see you again. You both had a sweet dream, dreaming of when you both used to play together, always having one another.

Satoru woke up before your alarm went off, he always does. He just likes to pretend to be asleep and hear you giggle at his silly sleeping poses. He's still in cat form, but he wished he was in human form. He wants to touch you so badly, not in a sexual way, just feeling you in general. Your hair falls perfectly over your features, cheeks look so smooth and soft and your lips look oh so, so, So sweet. 

Maybe he could have a taste before you get up? He leaned in slowly, his heart was beating out of his chest, he could hear the ba-thumps ringing in his ear. He was SO close, he could almost taste you, his whiskers accidentally touched you and you turned away. He didn't have the courage to try again, since your alarm will go off soon. He laid himself down, just watching your peaceful sleeping face. This is all he wishes for right now, he shouldn't be greedy and scare you away again. 

Your alarm finally rings, you reach for it and turn it off. You turned your head and saw Satoru staring at you, instead of resisting or hiding, your arm moved to pet him.

“Good morning Satoru, You're up early.”

Satoru purrs to your touch before jumping off the bed, walking towards his clothes and dragging them outside with him. He returned shortly after, fully dressed. 

“Good morning. How was your sleep?” 

“Great! Haven't had a good night's sleep for a while.”

“... I'm sorry, it was all because of me wasn't it?”

“Don't worry about it, I already forgave you. A while ago actually… I just wanted to prank you a bit more.”

Satoru was shocked, he could sense things were getting better but he didn't want to jump to conclusions. 

“I promise I won't lie to you ever again.” 

He looks so sincere, just kneeling down by your bed, keeping himself away because he wasn't sure what you feel about him being close. You thought he was very thoughtful, always keeping you in mind, nothing like the person you used to be with, so arrogant and selfish, only thinking of himself. 

You could feel your heart racing, your old memories of how much you enjoyed his company floods your mind. With him always putting you first, and with him being your first love, he had you crushing like a school girl all over again. 

You listened to your heart, your hands reached to cup his face, his eyes widened before you surprised him by pulling his face towards your own, capturing his lips. 

Satoru never would have expected that, he wasn't sure what you thought of him right now, but this? He couldn't resist at all, the moment your lips touched his, his eyes were rolled back so far in bliss. He felt like he was melting, you taste so much sweeter than he could ever imagine. He responds back by seeking access with his tongue, you parting your lips and even extending yours to meet him halfway had him moaning as both of your tongues danced in harmony. 

You and Satoru lost the sense of time, losing your mind on each other's kisses. Satoru was drowning in pleasure, he had wished for this day to come a lifetime ago. Both you and Satoru became a drooling mess, both still unwilling to let the other go. Just as Satoru was leaning in, about to push you down to the bed, your phone started ringing. 

You both snapped out of your trance, wiping the drool that seeped out from the corners of your mouth, you picked up the phone and realized it was your manager calling. 

“Hello?”

“Hey Y/N, I just wanted to let you know, the guy who showed up yesterday is here again. You might want to take a day off, you have vacation saved up too if you would like to use them. Just let me know.”

“Thank you so much Uraume, I'll take some time off then. I'll have this figured out before returning to work. Thanks for your understanding. Help me thank the others as well.”

You hung up the phone and sighed. Not sure what you should do next. Satoru knows something is up, it is written all over your face. 

“Is it him again?”

You nodded. 

“What's his problem anyway? Why is he acting like he's your boyfriend?”

You sighed but decided it was best to tell him what had happened between you and Naoya.

Satoru sat there, processing all the information that you've just given him. He thought Naoya was an asshole and he never deserved you. He was hurting to hear that your first was given to him.

“Y/N.” Satoru said with a very serious face.

“Let me protect you from now on. I won't let him hurt you anymore. You shouldn't have to change for anyone. You can be yourself when you're with me. Let me take care of you. Will you be my girlfriend?”

You were shocked from his sudden confession, you were overwhelmed with happiness, tears were flowing from your eyes, you haven't felt this way for a long time. You eagerly nodded, your arms flung around the back of his head, his arms held your middle protectively as he was also overjoyed. 

With your feelings finally reaching each other, Satoru thought you could stay at his place for now, at least until the Naoya issue is settled. He suggested for you to stay over, since he has the space and you both could use each other's company. Your only problem was you not having any personal belongings other than your wallet and your phone. You haven't had the chance to get home since Naoya’s sudden appearance. Right now the 2 of you were just enjoying being in each other's embrace. 

The tender moment was cut short by your grumbling tummy. You turned away embarrassed while Satoru chuckled. He suggested going to the mall to pick up some things for you to stay over, since he wasn't sure if you should go grab them from your place since Naoya could also be waiting for you there. You agreed and you both went to get ready to head out, you changed back into your uniform, since it was just a white blouse and black pants, it looked better than wearing Satoru's oversized t-shirt.

Satoru was in one of his fancier dress shirts and dark pants. Your gaze stayed on him for a bit longer as you felt your cheeks starting to burn. You don't want to admit it but he did look good in everything he wore, you thought that before as well, even when you couldn't remember him and thought he was just acting like a thorn in your sides. 

“Like what you see?”

“Yup.” 

Your straightforwardness actually caught him off guard, he's now blushing and looking away, fiddling with his hair as you giggled. He extended his hand for you to hold, you reached for it with no hesitation. The 2 of you left his penthouse and headed for the mall in his car. You 2 held onto each other's hands every opportunity you got. 

You had a meal together, went to buy a matching toothbrush and towel, even a few sets of matching pajamas. Satoru insisted he paid everything, he knew you could afford everything you want but he just wants to spoil you rotten. He was going overboard, to a point where if you just look at something a second longer, he would buy it. He bought you different outfits and dresses, some he just picked out thinking they would look good on you. He was carrying so many bags it was starting to get difficult walking, he didn't want to stop buying things for you though, wanting to put everything he bought so far in the car so he could get more. 

You 2 walked by a lingerie shop and Satoru stopped for a second, eyes landing on the set on display. He quickly shook his head and started walking again. You told him to bring the items to the car, and that you had to use the bathroom first. Satoru insisted he wait for you but you told him it wouldn't take long and that he is carrying too much stuff, so he sighed and agreed. 

Satoru went to the parking area, putting all the bags in the trunk, it could hardly fit with the amount of bags there were. It took him a while to finally put everything away and you went to the parking lot right after. 

On the way back to Satoru's apartment, you told him to think of what he wanted for dinner, as a thank you for buying you all the things. He doesn't really know what he likes most since he loves everything you made him. He suggested you make him dessert, and you thought you could make him some cupcakes. 

When you arrived back at the parking of the penthouse, Satoru asked some of the receptionists in the front to help carry stuff back upstairs. The ladies were all fond of Satoru, so young and rich, too bad he was never interested in anyone other than you. They envied you when he carried most of the bags, while the ladies carried some and you just stood there empty handed other than your personal bag. You kind of felt bad for them, you could have carried your own things but Satoru wouldn't let you. 

After putting everything inside, Satoru gave the girls a generous tip for helping with the bags, they thanked them happily and went back downstairs. The bags were everywhere, it would take a while to sort everything. You appointed Satoru to do the sorting while you prepared to make his dinner and dessert. 

He brought the bags in the spare room and started filling the drawers and closet with the new items. His thoughts went back to the lingerie shop, he looked up the site with his phone and scrolled through sets he thought would look nice on you. Would you wear it for him? He couldn't help but think how nice you would look in them, he had already marked a few and had them added to the online shopping cart. He thought it wouldn't hurt to have a few extra sets of undergarments, right?

It took him a while but he finally got everything sorted. The closet and drawers were already full of clothing. You have months worth of new clothes, he thought maybe you could do a mini fashion show for him. 

The yummy smell of dinner had caught his attention and he came out of the room, going to the kitchen and hugging you from behind while you cooked. He loves just being there with you, and you don't mind him being there as well. You asked him to set the table and he gladly does it. Helping you bring the finished dishes to the table. 

“Your cooking is so much better than the chefs I used to hire. Maybe you should consider living here and being my personal chef.” Satoru jokingly said even though there was 90% truth and the rest of the 10% was wishful thinking. 

You didn't give him an answer, you thought it was too soon to live together, it hasn't even been 24 hours since you got together. You thought of what could have happened, if you didn't move away, would you be together with Satoru? Would you be dating each other sooner? It feels like so much time has already been wasted and you should just do what you want to be happy. 

“We’ll see~” you teased.

Satoru had enough of not being with you, he would marry you right away if you told him yes. He's tired of waiting but he knows he cannot rush you, he respects you too much to not consider how you feel. 

You both finished dinner and you told Satoru to go wash up first while you finish with the desserts. He agreed and went to take his shower. You cleaned up and did the dishes, finishing up with the final touches of his dessert. 

Satoru came out of the shower, wearing the new pajamas that you bought together, he was excited for his desserts but you told him to wait until after you finish with your shower, wanting to savor them together. He patiently waited, looking at his phone once again and buying more outfits for you. (This man needs to stop…) His heart was racing when he saw you come out, wearing the matching pajamas, you left the first button loose on purpose, he could feel heat building up between his legs.

You brought the cupcakes over to the coffee table and grabbed one before sitting yourself down on his lap, making him flinch and stiffen his posture. You turned to face him and began feeding him the cupcake, the blue icing smeared on his lips for him to lick off, moaning at the delicious treat as you fed him more. There was a bit of icing left at the corner of his mouth and you licked it off. 

Satoru was feeling flustered, you must be doing this on purpose right? Were you inviting him to touch you by sitting on his lap? You were driving him insane, he wasn't sure if he should be taking this as a chance to advance or not. You could almost hear the gears spinning in overdrive. 

Satoru's eyes were glued to you, how you took a bite of his cupcake as big chunks fell on your semi exposed chest. 

“Hey Satoru, could you get that for me?” you acted all innocent but you were anything but.

“Umm… Ca-can I?” He started stuttering.

“Yea, help me please?” You changed your position, having one of each leg on his side, semi saddling him as you lean your chest towards his face. 

“You're gonna be the death of me.” He tried to eat the chunk of cake but it fell further into your bra, he looked up at you as if he was waiting for your instructions.

“What are you waiting for? Aren't you going to help me get it out? I thought you wanted your dessert?” You playfully teased him. 

He lets out a sound that was a mix of a whine and a moan. His fingers work to unbutton your pajama top to get to the bra, his eyes widened as he sees you wearing the set of lingerie he was eyeing earlier at the mall.

“!!!” his mouth gape open and he was at a loss of words, his Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes tried to burn the image into his brain. You even picked his favorite color. 

“Do you not like it? You're being awfully quiet.” you continue to tease. 

“You tricked me! You told me you were going to the bathroom. I wanted to buy everything for you!” He starts pouting. 

You put the rest of the cupcake back down and licked your fingers, “Well I wanted to do something for you, since you were so nice to me.” 

“Wait, you got this for me???” 

“Mmhmm, do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it!! Does this mean I get to…”

“Mmhm-” you couldn't even finish as he had already popped your breasts out of its refines, he had one hand on each of your breasts as he rolled his fingers on the hardened nipples, making you whine, before taking one side and sucking it in his mouth. His tongue swirls hungrily on your nipple as his other hand squeezes your other breast. He eats up the piece of cupcake which was stuck between your breasts before moving to suck the other side. 

“So yummy, best dessert ever.”

You were starting to feel a little embarrassed, feeling your whole body was heating up, especially down at your core. You are slightly wiggling awkwardly, Satoru noticed and you could FEEL the smirk on his face. 

“You teased me long enough, now it's my turn.” He abruptly got up, his hands grabbing onto your under thighs as he carried you off to his room. 

“Get ready babe, our fun is just about to begin.”

sorry it was getting way too long so im cutting it off at the BEST PART. look forward to the next part n3n~♥

@moonchhu @non-artistic-license @entr4p3 @prtty-pink-angel @nonamevenus @victoria1676 @haithamsbb @jotarohat @birbwithhat @hel1nn @undercooked-chaos-noodle @akiraneedstobefixed @soozeu @sukunadckrider @yihona-san06

[chrollospsychologist]

Tanjiro

This man worships the ground you walk on. No, literally, he would drop to his knees and wipe the dirt off your shoes with his haori.

He loves hugging you—he says your warmth feels like home. He’s always rubbing your arms, back, or belly absentmindedly while talking.

If anyone so much as thinks about making a comment on your body, Tanjiro will sense it before they even speak and shut that down IMMEDIATELY. His tone is still polite, but his eyes? Unforgiving.

“I don’t know why you thought that was an appropriate thing to say. Maybe rethink that before you say anything else, hm?”

Loves carrying you. You think he’s joking when he offers, but he’s not. Easily lifts you like you weigh nothing, and he’s so proud about it. “See? Told you I could do it!”

Learns how to take care of your hair like it’s breathing technique training. He watches intently when you do your wash day routine, making mental notes. The first time he helps, he moves so gently, treating your scalp like sacred ground.

“Tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” he whispers, massaging the oil in. You swear you almost fall asleep.

Scalp massages that make you MELT.

Thinks your cooking is god-tier. You made him jollof rice once, and he nearly cried. “This is better than Udon,” he says as he stuffs his mouth til his cheeks are protruding outwards, with the most serious expression. You laugh, but he’s deadass. You catch him trying to recreate it in secret, mumbling about “honoring tradition.”

Values your strength over everything. You tell him stories about growing up—how you had to work twice as hard, push past stereotypes, and stand tall no matter what. He listens.

“You’ve had to be strong for so long,” he says one night, voice soft. “You can rest with me.”

Zenitsu

He screamed when he first saw you. Not out of fear—just pure, unfiltered admiration. “HOW CAN SOMEONE BE SO BEAUTIFUL?!?!”

This man is CLINGY. He will attach himself to you at any given moment, draped across your lap, hugging your waist, or just resting his head against your chest. He calls it his “safe place.” :eyeroll

He loves buying you gifts, especially jewelry that compliments your skin tone. “Gold/copper looks so good on you, babe!”

Compliments you at least ten times a day. “You’re so soft. You're the best girl ever. You’re literally the love of my life.”

If someone says anything negative about your body, Zenitsu goes FULL THUNDERCLAP AND FLASH on them. They won’t even have time to regret their words.

Will cry over how beautiful you are. Not an exaggeration. If you dress up for a date, he might actually tear up. “I don’t deserve you… you’re divine…”

Overdramatic but in the best way. You wear a sundress one day, and he faints. You twist your hair up? “You’re a queen.” You walk into a room? “Oh, we’re so blessed.” Sometimes it’s silly, but when he says, “You deserve to be adored every second of the day,” you know he means it.

Goes through phases with your hair. First, he’s scared to touch it. Then, he’s obsessed. Tries to “help” braid it once but gets frustrated within five minutes. “How do you do this every week? Your fingers must be blessed by the gods!” Ends up just watching YouTube tutorials and taking notes so he can at least detangle it right.

Buys you clothes he knows will hug your curves just right. He’s your personal stylist, making sure every outfit makes you feel confident. “You’re literally a goddess. We have to showcase that.”

Loves playing with your hands. He’ll trace his fingers over your knuckles, kiss your palms, and interlock fingers just to feel close to you. “Your hands are so soft… just like the rest of you~”

Inosuke

At first, he didn’t understand why you were insecure about your body. “You’re strong, right? You’re soft, but you’re still strong. That’s all that matters.”

He thinks your thighs are the best pillows. Falls asleep with his head on them all the time.

Brrrraaaagggs about you to random people. “My woman? The most beautiful woman in the world! No one else compares!!!”

Accidentally matches your energy. You side-eye a stranger? He side-eyes them harder. You start talking with your hands? Now he’s really talking with his hands. “Why you acting like me?” “You act like this, so now I act like this.”

He doesn’t let ANYONE disrespect you. The moment someone even looks at you wrong, he’s ready to fight.

Inosuke is surprisingly gentle with you. He’s loud and brash with others, but when it comes to you? His touch is careful, his voice softer. You’re his queen, and he treats you like it.

Loves resting his hands on your belly. Not in a teasing way—he just likes the warmth. Sometimes he pats it and hums in approval. “Comfy…”

Yuji

This boy is your biggest fan. He hypes you up more than you hype yourself up. “Look at my girl! Just LOOK AT HER. She’s GORGEOUS.” Hands flailing and errthang.

Has no spice tolerance but tries SO HARD. You give him a plate of pepper soup, and he’s struggling, but he refuses to tap out. “I love it,” he chokes out, sweating. You hand him water. “Admit defeat.” “NEVER.”

He’s always touching you—holding or fiddling with your hand, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. Physical affection is his love language.

Loves going out with you, could be anywhere, he cherishes every moment. He loves going shopping with you.

When you’re cuddling, he loves tracing little patterns on your arms and thighs, pressing soft kisses to your skin every few minutes.

Yuji is a lot more attentive than what people give him credit for.

Thinks your family’s side-eyes are the funniest thing ever. You don’t even have to speak sometimes; your expression says it all. He starts doing it too. “That’s not how we do it,” he whispers at a restaurant when he sees unseasoned food. You’ve corrupted him.

Takes random pictures of you all the time. Even if you think you look bad, he insists otherwise. “Nope. You’re breathtaking. End of discussion.”

Chrollo

Chrollo finds beauty in all things, but with you? He’s utterly captivated. Every curve, every dip, every inch of your skin is a masterpiece to him.

He always talks about you like you’re a rare, exquisite art piece. “She moves with the grace of a queen, and her presence alone demands reverence.”

He loves reading poetry to you while tracing slow circles on your skin. “Every poet wishes they could capture your essence in words, but they all fall short.”

Writes poetry about you. You’ll wake up to handwritten notes describing your beauty in the most devastatingly romantic ways.

Buys silk scarves for your hair like they’re artifacts. You mention needing a new scarf? The next day, he gifts you one that’s imported. “I researched the best fabric for your curls,” he says like it’s a thesis.

Buys you the most luxurious clothes and accessories. He has a particular weakness for seeing you in silk and velvet. “It compliments your figure beautifully.”

You’re the only one who can humble him. Others fear him, but you? “If you don’t sit down somewhere,” you say, and he actually does. When he gets dramatic, you just give him a look. “My apologies,” he says immediately.

If anyone dares to insult you, they simply disappear. No one knows what happened. No one asks.

Okarun

This boy is absolutely down bad for you. The first time he saw you, he nearly malfunctioned.

He blushes EVERY time you touch him, no matter how small the gesture. “W-why are you so soft…?!”

You catch him staring at you all the time, completely mesmerized. If you call him out on it, he gets all flustered. “I-I wasn’t staring! …Okay, maybe a little.”

He is your personal hype man. “You’re so cool. So pretty. So amazing. How did I get so lucky?!”

Gets overwhelmed when you wear something form-fitting. He short-circuits. Stares. Mouth open. Blushes so hard he might pass out. “U-Uh… wow.”

Loves cuddling into your chest. It’s his safe space. If he’s stressed, he’ll just bury his face there and mumble, “Five more minutes, please…”

Calls you the strongest person he knows. Not just physically—he admires your mind, your resilience.

Has a phase where he just loves your accent, slang, and language. You call him “boo,” and he’s grinning for days. You switch between English and your parents’ language? He’s trying to learn. “What does that mean? Say it again.”

Thinks protective styles are sorcery. You get braids done, and he’s baffled. “How long did that take?!” You let him touch them, and he treats them like royalty. “This is so cool…”

Loves watching you dance. At a party, you hit a move, and he’s just staring. You pull him in, and he’s awkward at first, but he tries. “Am I doing it right?” “...Bless your heart.”