#he was rather off model in the Mechanic though

[la-amarga-lizard]

So uh, I was combing through my collection of Pengy things on my camera roll and I found a few clips of him that I liked, so I compiled them here. There’s only 4, but yeah.

I love the little laugh after: “why, did you lose him?”, it’s just so sweet. That line over all is just perfect.

And he looks so tiny in that last clip (and that’s coming from someone who only stands at 4’11)

[coffee-and-geto]

“BE MY VOICE AND I CHOOSE YOU TO FILL THE VOID”

“Why a second chance when the first one didn’t work?” “Because we’re too stubborn, love.”

pairing: fashion designer! suguru geto x supermodel! reader

summary: after you broke up with suguru a few years ago, you swore you’d never have anything to do with him ever again… until new york fashion week arrived and you found yourself forced to take part in the event with suguru geto — aka your ex and one of the most famous personalities in the fashion world, as your fashion designer. but perhaps the latter will take advantage of the event to do his utmost to regain your heart.

warnings: +18 only, smut, modern au! (no curses), exes to lovers, geto is your ex-boyfriend, fluff, (light) angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety attack, bossy! reader, nobara is the reader’s assistant but also plays cupid, only one bed/second chance trope, jealous! geto, gojo makes an appearance because he’s a fashion designer too, switch! geto, oral (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, handjob (m! receiving), body praises, fanart by @ / hiikeu.

wc: 15,257

“He wants you among his troupe.”

You nearly spit out the sip of your drink through the straw. “Excuse me?” you laugh out loud.

But even in front of the serious expression of one of the employees of the agency you work for, it’s hard to keep your own. A fit of giggles takes over your stomach, releasing uncontrollable laughter that echoes throughout your dressing room.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Nobara — your assistant — squeezes her planner against her chest — a nervous tic that has never been trivial to you. Silence finally returns to the room, and neither of the other two women utter a single word. The corners of your lips fall. “This is a joke, right?” you whisper breathlessly.

Nobara pulls her phone out of her pocket and scrolls for a few seconds before showing you an announcement from the official website of New York Fashion Week. She is followed by the employee who hands you a tablet screen displaying an email signed by someone you had erased from your life years ago:

Suguru Geto.

°°°°

“Next.” Suguru’s sharp tone cracks like a whip as another model steps onto the casting studio podium. His fist clenches nervously around the handle of the megaphone, resting its bell on the foldable wooden table.

In front of the silhouette of yet another candidate, Suguru’s gaze scrutinizes the model’s fine features that adorn her refined face with prominent cheekbones. A defined jawline. Hazel eyes and a slender body.

“Next,” Suguru repeats mechanically — perhaps because his eyes are desperately searching for your form? With each new woman, he hopes to meet your captivating gaze. And he almost systematically dismisses everyone when it’s not you?

“Mr. Geto, maybe we should—”

“Silence,” he cuts off without a glance at Manami, his assistant.

She sighs and offers an apologetic smile to the model who leaves the podium with a look of icy disappointment. Suguru’s right leg starts to twitch slightly in his chair—a sign of anxiety gradually eroding the calm he tries to maintain in his troubled mind.

“Night Skies: The Illuminated Darkness.” 

A relatively inspiring theme and quite easy to design. So why has no inspiration come to him since the announcement? Why do his thoughts constantly drift to outfits that only you deserve to wear, making him prefer to withdraw his participation rather than let someone else wear them?

Fuck.

After the next four hours, Suguru and Manami leave the casting studio for a break in the lounge. He leans against the counter, letting his obsidian eyes fix on a void, swept away by his overwhelming reflections. In the background, the coffee machine rumbles.

You had to join his troupe. Even though he already envisions a firm refusal from your agency. But he is ready to try anything for you — even risks that could endanger his career.

Manami clears her throat slightly and takes a hesitant step towards him. “Mr. Geto? Out of the three hundred top models proposed by partner agencies, we’ve only shortlisted four…” She fiddles with her nails painted in vermillion red, bites her lower lip, and adds, “And that’s under my insistence. At this point, I seriously doubt—”

“Write a letter to this agency,” Suguru cuts in once again without listening to a word of what she tried to explain. He hands her a business card from your agency and mentions your name. “You must know her. I want her among the models for my collection. Otherwise, I’ll cancel my participation,” he declares in an uncompromising tone.

Manami carefully takes the small card and studies it. She lets out a perplexed sigh and nods. “Alright.”

°°°°

“No, absolutely not! I refuse! Reply to him that it won’t be possible!”

“Miss, please—” Nobara tries to calm you and prevent you from committing murder against the top model manager of the agency.

“We’re talking about Suguru Geto! THE internationally renowned designer!” the manager yells with such vehemence that it surely carries well beyond your dressing room.

“I don’t give a fucking damn! There are thousands of models in the world! No one knows, so reply to this email with a fucking refusal!” you yell back just as fiercely. Your usually well-groomed hair is slightly disheveled by a few rebellious strands as agitated as your anger.

There is no way you’re participating in New York Fashion Week or any other event involving Suguru Geto. Not after everything that happened. 

Not after he abandoned you. 

No.

“But are you aware of what you’re saying—”

“Shut up! If you’re not happy, I’ll quit this damn agency right now! Do you think you’re the only one who wants me? I have hundreds who will be at my feet as soon as I’ll leave!” you spit after a bitter laugh.

Nobara’s soothing hands rest on your shoulders and force you to sit in a chair. Assured that you won’t attempt another assault on the manager, who has turned pale at your declaration, your ginger-haired assistant easily pushes the manager out, whispering to her not to set foot back in here until the refusal is sent to Geto.

She tries to argue one last time, her voice a bit more pleading and less aggressive, but Nobara slams the door in her face. She leans against it, sighs deeply, and closes her eyes for a moment. “Phew…”

As for your own state, ‘fury’ is the perfect adjective. Hair in disarray, cheeks flushed with anger, chest heaving with irregular, harsh breaths, and a vein throbbing along your neck; it’s as if you could turn your dressing room upside down at any moment.

Nobara heads to your automatic water dispenser and pours you a fresh glass. After ensuring you drink every drop, she notices you seem calmer.

Your bloodshot eyes meet her gaze, and she offers you a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll personally make sure everything is sent properly.”

You nod and run a hand over your face to wipe away your overflowing emotions.

It’s crazy how just the mention of that cursed name can set you off. But the final straw was when your manager was informed of Suguru Geto’s request for you to join his models for New York Fashion Week. She insisted relentlessly despite your patience for a no.

She said she didn’t understand. 

Of course, no one could understand when no one knew that one of the world’s greatest designers had been your boyfriend before your careers took radically different paths. But how could you explain when he was the one who pushed you to break up with him, leaving you alone, lost, and broken with only an unknown fate to face without anyone’s help?

It was without anyone’s help that you built yourself into who you are today. 

Even less your international career.

All the agencies are at your feet, but the only person you wanted to see there wasn’t. 

So there was no reason to pay attention. 

You will not participate in New York Fashion Week. As long as it involves Suguru Geto, anyway.

°°°°

Mouth agape in shock, Suguru thinks what he sees before him is a prank. 

But it’s indeed a clear refusal from the agency you work for. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

NO.

Suguru storms out of his design office and rushes upstairs to his luxurious bedroom to rummage through his personal belongings. An old photo album is hidden under the piles of clothes in his dresser. He scatters his things carelessly, paying no attention to the mess, and with trembling hands, he drops to his knees, flipping through the album.

On each page, a plastic film covers photos of you and him. One — the most painful — is the first one he took at the beginning of your relationship with him. Both of you standing next to an ice cream vendor, radiant smiles on your faces with sun rays illuminating both your faces, you had your arms around Suguru���s neck. Another one, as he turns the pages. You, lying in his bed one morning. He had taken it the night you had your first time with him. Your figure, which he worships, is covered with his sheets, and your mouth is slightly open as you sleep. A cute little drool escapes from your mouth.

All these photos hold real memories. Proving that nothing was imagined by him when, in his moments of madness, he wondered how he could have ended up here if it all was real. His heart twists in his chest when his eyes catch a photo of him with a bouquet of flowers in his hands and your lips pressed against his cheek. Those flowers were the first Suguru had ever received. He had never received flowers — not even from his own family. You were the very first to give him any.

Suguru pinches his lips, lost in reflections that lead him to check your Instagram page. On your profile, your posts are often collaborations with luxury brands, your body wrapped in fabrics showing your silhouette in its best light, some old videos of you as a child that you wished to share with the world, or random photos of you in pajamas in front of your mirror or with your daily makeup.

He couldn’t help but watch your stories, your posts, your interviews, and your shows in the shadows, never intervening as much in public as in private. 

Suguru is obsessed with you. 

And he has never stopped being, even after you broke up with him years ago. He never wanted to end things with you. 

He pushed you to do it so as not to hurt you more than you would be.

It was when you announced the breakup that he felt all the accumulated resentment he had caused in your heart, and he was nostalgically happy for you. 

You no longer had to endure the pain of canceled dates, missed calls, his constant absence.

He knew, at the time, that he was hurting you. He knew you hid your wounds behind forced smiles and excuses you found for his lack of involvement and neglect without him even having to make them when his career started to take off in the fashion world. He understood that he didn’t deserve you.

Yet today, Suguru burns for you. 

He is ready to risk his career to find you and seek your forgiveness. 

He is ready to lose all his dignity, let you use him like a mere pawn, humiliate him, and break him. 

All that, just for you.

Even if he doesn’t deserve you, Suguru wants your forgiveness at all costs. 

Even if he doesn’t deserve you, Suguru wants to redeem himself to you. 

Leaving your Instagram page, he opens Twitter and tries to find a way to force your hand to participate with him in New York Fashion Week, to meet him, to allow him to do everything to deserve you again and no longer have any regrets. 

He taps the ‘New Tweet’ icon and writes words that may place his reputation on an unsteady platter that could fall at any moment.

°°°°

The grip around your phone threatens to make it explode between your fingers. Your knuckles whiten, your hand trembles, and your eyes burn as you read the few words on a Twitter post where you’ve been tagged. It’s as if this time, you’ll actually turn your dressing room and even your agency’s headquarters upside down.

“@reader’sagency. @reader, would you do me the honor of participating with me as a model at the next New York Fashion Week? :)”

Your eye twitches, and you robotically lift your head toward your assistant. “Nobara, I beg you. Pinch me, hit me, slap me, but tell me this is just a nightmare.”

She looks up from your phone and sighs with a forced smile. “It’s... a nightmare?”

You grab a cushion from your red velvet sofa and bury your face in it to muffle a long scream from the depths of your soul. Nobara chuckles and places a hand on your shoulder. “You can just refuse. I’m sure everything will be fine. A public refusal should calm him down,” she whispers.

“Have you seen the comments, retweets, and reposts?” you murmur in a small voice, your brain numb.

Nobara frowns and shakes her head before taking out her own phone. But you stop her by handing her yours without lifting your face from the cushion. “No... Already? But... He posted it less than twenty-four hours ago!” Nobara breathes out in astonishment, covering her mouth with her hand.

Indeed, even though Geto’s tweet is less than a day old, it hasn’t stopped an overwhelming number of internet users and fans worldwide from reacting strongly to the news. You could very well refuse publicly yourself or through your agency — even humiliate him by posting a screenshot of the initial private request that was rejected, making him look desperate and creepy. But that’s not the issue.

By daring to renew his request publicly as if the previous one never existed, he’s putting your reputation and your fans’ hopes — whom you cherish so much — at risk.

If you refuse, you risk disappointing many and tarnishing your image as an arrogant and condescending supermodel for refusing to participate in such a globally anticipated event with one of the best-known designers in the world — despite the fact that no one knows about your past connection with Geto.

The reactions are so hyped, so excited and amazed at the possibility of you and Geto forming a partnership that would result in something beyond imagination.

Suguru Geto has just forced your hand, hovering a threat over both your career and reputation, as well as his own. But you need to make a decision.

You lift your head from the cushion and take a deep breath to brace yourself for what you’re about to do.

“Nobara?”

°°°°

With one foot in a pair of shiny white stiletto sandals and an outfit of the same color, one of your bodyguards helps you step out of the black sedan with your first step onto the ground. You stand up elegantly, wearing dark sunglasses. You are escorted in front of a huge building — one familiar to you from the pages of fashion magazines you usually read — and the immaculate sliding doors open for you.

You stand in the middle of the enormous hall, head held high and one eyebrow raised. “Weren’t the other models supposed to be here at the specified time?” you ask Nobara, who hurries to join you at your side.

“That’s what the email indicated…” she sighs, busy arranging the white fur draped over your arms, framing your long strapless dress in the same color as your heels — a tribute to Marilyn Monroe. Nobara lifts her head with a worried frown. “He couldn’t have stood us up or changed the address at the last minute—”

A confident and cheerful female voice calls your name. In a synchronized movement, you and your assistant turn toward an elevator entrance where a fairly tall woman with a slender and elegant figure, dressed in a long sleeveless Byzantine purple dress, stands. Your two bodyguards follow you and Nobara to join the woman, but she raises a firm hand.

“Your assistant will suffice.” She smiles professionally, and you nod, entering the elevator with the other two women. Like Nobara, she holds a clipboard against her chest and almost looks at you with admiration. “It’s an honor to meet you in person.”

You offer her a polite half-smile, and the elevator begins to climb its endless floors.

“My name is Manami Suda, Suguru Geto’s personal assistant and one of his executives,” she continues, glancing at Nobara. “And you are?”

“Nobara Kugisaki, her personal assistant,” Nobara replies with equal seriousness, and a hint of pride fills your chest. “But since you are Mr. Geto’s assistant, that answers our question. Why are we the only ones to arrive at the agency on time? Where are the other models?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, skeptically.

A small chime announces the arrival at the very top floor, and the doors open to let the three of you out.

Manami doesn’t lose her smile and leads the way down a corridor with an immaculate gray carpet. Her black heels make muffled sounds with each step until reaching a door where she knocks three times. “Everything will be explained by Mr. Geto himself,” she assures, opening the door after a ‘come in’ is heard from the other side.

The voice, though muffled by the door, is easily recognizable. A bitter pang grips your heart, but you shake it off within seconds with a blink.

Manami steps aside and introduces you as you enter.

At the back of the office stands a black swivel chair facing away from you — masking the already known identity of the owner and adding palpable tension.

Manami discreetly leaves, closing the door silently, leaving you to face one of your worst nightmares. The chair turns to face you and Nobara, and the face of Japan’s most popular designer and couturier lays his dark eyes on you.

You remain secretly frozen a few meters away, back to the door, your eyes coldly staring at your ex.

Suguru Geto has always had a reputation for being a man of style, in his behavior, his language, and his way of dressing. While the basic suit he wears contrasts with the extravagant outfits that the wealthiest designers can afford — in this field, they are certainly experts, and some can wear clothes as expensive as the series of Picasso’s “Les Femmes d’Alger” paintings — his perfectly sculpted body and charm embellish the slightest thing he wears, even if it was straight from an old supermarket. But if there’s one prominent feature of his face that can match his advantageous physique (his body), it’s his hair. Being a chic, elegant, and refined man, Suguru is also known for his iconic long raven hair. With strands cascading down his back and bangs framing his temple, the half-bun at the back of his head has always earned him numerous compliments and collaborations with the most well-known brands for their haircare products.

Suguru’s piercing eyes narrow as his lips stretch into a smile. Your name rolling off his tongue gives you goosebumps. “Welcome. Please, have a seat.” With a broad gesture of his hand, he indicates two cocoa-colored leather chairs at the end of a ridiculously long glass table.

You take a seat without looking at Suguru at first, and Nobara seems to read your thoughts as she immediately asks, “Where are the other models?”

Suguru places his forearms on the table in a measured gesture, but as he responds, his gaze never leaves yours. “None are at this agency, it seems.” And it all feels as if asking such a question is stupid.

“That’s what was written in the email,” you reply in a dry voice.

“That’s what was written in the email,” Suguru confirms with a strange softness. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? If I hadn’t said that, you would have refused the meeting.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Suguru’s smile widens even more as he continues, “Aren’t you happy to see me again?” And for a nanosecond, you thought you saw his irises darken.

Nobara alternates her gaze between you and Suguru, completely lost.

“Mr. Geto,” your tongue clicks against your palate, “I came here to discuss the initial progress of the collection you will present at New York Fashion Week. Nothing else.” You pause. “If it’s for any other subject, please address my manager, and I can leave right now.” Your frozen facial mask doesn’t falter at all.

“Awwww… You’re breaking my little heart, love—”

“Enough.”

Nobara looks dubious. “You… you already know each other?”

“We…” You pause, torn between the idea of confessing everything to Nobara or pretending nothing happened. “In the past. Before we became known,” you reluctantly admit. “But it doesn’t matter. I have nothing to do with anyone now.”

Suguru’s gaze darkens and never leaves yours. Yet, he doesn’t say a word, and an uncomfortable silence sets in.

Nobara decides to break it by clearing her throat and speaking again. “I— I see. I won’t say a word,” she murmurs.

You sigh and straighten slightly in your seat. “Fine. Let’s discuss the proposed theme.”

Suguru’s Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and during the next half-hour, neither of you brings up your past relationship with Suguru again. The choice of the leading model was quickly settled on being you — because among all the proposals from partner agencies, no other model in Japan reaches your level of fame.

Suguru also doesn’t waste time revealing that he has selected very few models since the theme announcement. The delay will potentially impact the preparation and organization for New York Fashion Week, but he hasn’t bothered to explain why. He simply asked for your help with the rest of the selection.

You hesitated before accepting, finding it strange that someone like him is so behind. But how could you know that you are Suguru’s muse — his source of inspiration, the purpose of his existence? He is much more confident than a few weeks ago since he finally saw you again and ensured you decided to work by his side. It’s only a matter of time before you settle the score with the low blow he dealt you — something impossible to do with witnesses like Nobara around.

The agreements also included a trip from Tokyo to New York. The group will be accommodated in a secure, comfortable, and luxurious hotel until Fashion Week ends and preparations allow access to dressing rooms for each model.

This means being much closer to Suguru than expected...

°°°°

“What do you think?” 

“I’m not a stylist.” 

“That’s true; you’re more than that.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Come on… Don’t be so rude! I need your help!” Suguru grins, and you roll your eyes, noting the name of a model who just walked past. 

On the runway where hundreds and hundreds of models from all over the world are parading, you, along with Suguru — much to your dismay — are perched on a high platform giving a panoramic view of each model. Of course, he had to move his two-seater table just to spend time with you — a detail he didn’t hesitate to hide from you. What’s the point? he muses with amusement, glancing at you; from the side, he gets a view of your hair falling like a curtain along your cheeks, your nose bent over your clipboard as you jot down names of models that would be interesting to keep for Fashion Week. This poses no problem in itself, especially for an event like this.

If only your partner wasn’t Suguru Geto. 

Ugh.

“Help you? While I’m the only one noting names while you harass me with your pathetic attempts at conversation? Don’t pretend to ask my opinion when you’ve barely looked at more than ten models,” you retort irritably. The ballpoint pen rolls over the paper with obvious frenzy.

“‘Harass’ is a bit harsh,” Suguru comments, his lips pursed in a mockingly offended pout — just to hide his predatory smile. “I’d say I’m trying to have a conversation — something you, let’s be honest, avoid like the plague.” A smile curves his thin lips. “And then, why bother looking at what doesn’t interest me when I already have what I want. I’ve never bitten, you know,” he whispers, his eyes softened by a tenderness he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“You don’t have me,” you respond immediately. You raise your eyebrows and, without looking at him, you continue, “Oh really? You do have quite a resemblance to dogs,” You wrinkle your nose to sneer mockingly as he takes offense. It’s strange because you haven’t laughed in front of Suguru for years. But as expected, the laugh is not joyful; on the contrary, it’s meant to hurt him because you still can’t stand his presence — even less when it’s forced.

“Hey! You’re insulting me!” he frowns and wipes away a laugh. Suguru shakes his head and sighs. “How cruel.”

Your lips turn downwards, and you roll your eyes yet again (you could have won an award for the record number of eye rolls in such a short time). Ignoring the feeling of vice and hatred gnawing at your heart, you refocus on the runway several meters below. The blinding spotlights brilliantly illuminate all these models eager to participate in the highly anticipated Fashion Week alongside Suguru Geto, the internationally renowned stylist, and you, a supermodel equally famous — while you both are plunged into the shadows of the upper floor that looks more like a hallway where stage technicians usually come to secure and manipulate high-up equipment, rather than anything else. Especially when the provided table is just foldable wood and almost fragile to abrupt movements.

Your eye catches a rather tall model with long ebony hair and golden, radiant skin. Her silhouette seems almost ethereal, and it’s at this moment that you don’t regret for a single second having taken your life into your own hands when you were alone just to admire the beauty of all these women of various beauties, shapes, and ages. The female body is beautiful.

No, magnificent.

“That one…” you murmur, noting the candidate’s name announced by Manami below. You bite your lower lip in a concentration tic. “She’s perfect. We’ll keep her for later.”

Suguru nods, but his gaze hasn’t once rested on the model whose name you just mentioned. His irises don’t leave your features, which he has missed so much, especially at this distance. “Hmm…” he hums simply. He gets lost in his contemplation.

You haven’t changed a bit.

Even if your hair is styled differently, your makeup meticulously done, and your chic and luxurious fashion sense, to Suguru, you left him in the same state you are now. He knows your body by heart — not thanks to the photos he kept of you — but because your existence has marked his so much that your simple face is forever etched in his retina.

When Suguru says he is obsessed with you, he goes to the end of his words.

Of course, he regrets his past actions and seeks the right moment to ask for your forgiveness, but he couldn’t hold back.

It was stronger than him.

°°°°

In the spacious studio typically reserved for smaller fashion shows (the irony noted), today it is being used to give Suguru a first taste of what his final troupe was proposing. With your help, Suguru has finally moved on to the next stage just before the outfit creations begin.

Manami, who is backstage, is managing the music and the secondary effects. She sends a message to Suguru to indicate that the line of models can begin their walk before returning from the runway.

The music starts with a rhythmic tempo suited to the steps the models are to take. You are the last to go, which annoys you immensely. Your supermodel status is far more valuable than that of a mere model. Every aspect of your profession is a relentless effort; so seeing these poor models advance with such banal and mediocre strides makes you want to vomit.

Did you accept this for that?

Already, you’ve had to endure disdainful looks from the other models in the group regarding your popularity. It’s quite audacious for them to act so confident when their steps resemble those of a penguin, you can’t help but ponder.

When it’s finally your turn, you waste no time.

The music resumes, and you begin your first steps with a feline grace, almost silently gliding down the runway. Your high heels strike the ground with a hypnotic regularity, syncing with the pulsing beat of the music and its rhythmic cadence: a perfect synchronization. Each step is a demonstration of confidence and control, shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Each step brings a breeze that lightly lifts your hair from your face, like a halo enhancing your display worthy of a true model. At the end of the runway, you pause gracefully before turning on your heels with impeccable precision.

As you return, it’s even more captivating as you continue to walk with palpable assurance, your hips swaying slightly, capturing everyone’s attention.

Your turn finally ends, and the desired effect has certainly been achieved: everyone’s eyes have been glued to you from start to finish. You also didn’t miss Suguru’s gaze fixated on you, his lips parted in captivation. This, of course, earns you the disdainful looks of the other models in the troupe, but a triumphant smile adorns the curve of your lips.

This is what it means to be a model.

���Very well, very well! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your very pleasant and… captivating performances,” Suguru announces energetically, standing in front of his chair with his arms open towards his official troupe.

Unsurprisingly, his gaze does not leave you and remains fixed on your silhouette as you move towards the backstage, back to him.

°°°°

You knock on the door, and Suguru’s muffled voice invites you in.

For a stylist and designer as popular as he is, Suguru’s sewing workshop is… more unconventional than you would have thought.

Indeed, several spacious tables are littered with sketch sheets—some colorful—fabrics of all colors, lengths, and textures. Crafting materials are scattered here and there, cluttering the passage along with open boxes on the floor, making it nearly impossible to take a step without brushing against piles of stuff that threaten to collapse. But at least the workshop isn’t filthy and retains the same aesthetic touch you’d find in TV shows or fashion serials.

At the far end of the room, a single chair is occupied by Suguru, who is sitting with his back to you. Hearing your approach, he turns towards you, his eyes fixed on a bright yellow measuring tape and a metallic needle wedged between his teeth, with a fuchsia pink thread running through the tip.

“Come closer,” he murmurs, moving towards you with the help of the wheels on his chair.

Feeling self-conscious, you take another step closer, and when he lifts his eyes to you, it feels as if you are naked before him: less than a step away, you are wearing a delicate sport bra that barely covers your chest, dreading any shiver that might reveal hardened nipples, along with a pair of equally revealing bicycle shorts in the same color. You had insisted to Manami on a firm refusal to wear any underwear in front of Suguru, without providing a reason.

Even though he has seen far more intimate parts of your body before, the current situation with him challenges everything.

A faint blush colors your cheeks, and without a word, Suguru extends his arms, his long, slender, pale fingers wrapping the measuring tape around your waist first. You can’t gauge the meaning of his gaze. How is he reacting internally right now?

But his mischievous remark answers you the moment after, “You okay? Are you still breathing?” The sarcastic tone immediately irritates you.

“And you’re taking the opportunity to enjoy the view, aren’t you?” you retort venomously. You’re about to continue spewing your hatred towards him when his hands gently — but with some firmness — grasp your hips and make you turn around. You stifle a moan at his touch, which sends a shiver through your body and, as you feared, your nipples harden. You step away from him abruptly when his breath grazes your side. “What are you doing?” you ask sharply, your arms futilely trying to cover your chest.

Suguru sighs. “Are you done acting like a kid?” He grabs you by the elbows and forces you to turn your back to him. He wraps the measuring tape around you again. “So no, I’m not enjoying the view, I’m doing my job.” He kneels to measure your hips, and with a glance downward, you see his amused smile. “You should have refused to work with me if it bothers you so much to be measured.”

“Ah, as if I had a choice?” you retort abruptly.

“You did,” he whispers as he stands up, brushing your hair away from your back, and for a moment, his warm breath caresses your shoulders. All you want right now is for him to place a tender kiss on the side of your neck, but the resentment towards him always takes over.

“No, you know that’s not true.” Your tone is harsh as a whip. “By the way, have all the other models been through here? I saw assistants with all this gear. Why am I the only one alone with you?”

Suguru grins. “The others went through with my assistants,” he replies with a chuckle before taking your bust measurements. “You’re the first I’m measuring, and the only one.”

“What game are you playing?” you murmur after a pause.

“None.”

He continues with the rest of your measurements — bust, thighs, legs, and finally arms. During this part, he takes an unusually long time to scrutinize you, and his head tilted close to your skin makes your heart race uncontrollably.

The final straw is when his lips accidentally brush against your arm.

“Stop that,” you warn him all of a sudden, stepping back. Your furious gaze seems to want to kill Suguru on the spot, and he loses his smile.

“I—”

“Stop pretending to be clueless, Geto.”

He already knows it will be hard to win you back, especially with this reaction he had long feared. But it had to explode sooner or later.

“If you think I’ve forgotten the past, you’re deluding yourself. The jerk you were is still the same in my eyes,” you seethe.

Suguru takes a step towards you in an attempt to beg you not to avoid him as you continue to back away. He murmurs your name in a plea. “I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be, but I did all this for you. I knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse a second time with—”

“I don’t want you to try to make up for it, not after all these years. Is that really why you asked me to come back? Because I’ve reached your level of popularity? My money? My body?” Your throat tightens further, and you squint your eyes to hold back your tears. “I will never forgive you, Suguru. I’m no longer the naive girlfriend who waits like a fool for someone who didn’t give a damn about her!”

“I— It wasn’t— Please, let me explain… I still love you as much as I did before, and I know I’ve been unworthy of everything you’ve put up with for me, but—”

You bitterly laugh in his face. “Liar! You’re lying, and you always have, even when you said you loved me! Your babble about what you were and what you are now is just the typical crap an toxic ex says when they want to win someone back. Did I really have a choice to come back to you? Do you think it’s a good method?”

With those words, you turn around and walk away towards the workshop door.

Suguru’s heart screams at him to follow you and beg on his knees for you to listen, but he knows your stubborn temperament. The only words that come from his mouth after his first failure are enough for him to know you’ve heard them, even as you fling the door open and rush out.

He knows you heard him.

“You will always have a choice with me.”

°°°°

“What do you mean, ‘the camera isn’t working’?” Suguru thundered with severity.

The entire group waiting for the final shoot (including you) turns towards the back of the studio to face a visibly agitated Suguru. He is handling the camera in every direction and then turns towards you.

You’re ready, dressed in the latest collection from the luxury brand you’re working with for Suguru’s troupe’s Fashion Week. There’s no problem on your end.

So why is he talking about a camera that isn’t working?

Especially when it’s your turn?

You take a hesitant step towards him, and Manami quickly avoids your questioning gaze, stepping away from her superior.

A few other models follow you, whispering incomprehensible things not far away to your ears, but all you care about is hoping you’ve misunderstood something.

“Find me another camera,” Suguru orders, violently throwing the one he had against a wall. The sound of metal shattering on the floor startles everyone.

Manami follows him out of the studio at a brisk pace. “Wait! Mr. Geto! Did you forget that this isn’t our studio? It’s the only camera we were able to borrow!”

“SO?” Suguru retorts acridly. “She’ll be the only one not photographed while she’s the star of MY troupe?” His tone rises significantly towards Manami. But he doesn’t spare a glance at you, even as everyone listens to their conversation intently. “Don’t forget that tonight the magazines will be prepared, and we won’t be here but at Gojo’s reception!”

All the other models turn to you in unison, watching you with astonishment.

“Too bad, I’m sorry but she won’t be in it!” Manami resigns with an even tone. “We need to leave in an hour, and the reception starts then!”

“Absolutely not! Find me a fucking camera so she’s in the magazine for tomorrow!” With those final words, Suguru opens the studio door and storms out, slamming it shut behind him with a loud bang.

Silence envelops the room, and you find yourself at a loss for words, your lips sealed and your voice stuck in your throat.

Manami sighs and finally turns to you, her face showing sincere regret. “I’m sorry… I know it’s really unfair, but I think you won’t be in the promotional magazine for the brand partnering with us…”

“I—” Your face falls completely, and you look in dismay at the broken camera on the floor from a few minutes ago.

“I’m truly sorry…” Manami murmurs, lowering her head in genuine remorse.

A few hours later, you’ve resigned yourself as well. The luxury brand partnering with Suguru’s agency had lent outfits from their latest collection for advertisement in fashion magazines. The models and the brand were to be highlighted, but this preview was unfortunately ruined by the delay caused by Suguru, who couldn’t complete the photo shoot in his own studio. On the same day — at a time too close to the reception hosted by his friend-rival Satoru Gojo, a stylist of equal renown—the weather and equipment decided to turn against you.

According to Manami, the camera borrowed from a nearby photo studio was sabotaged right after photographing all the other models. So, despite your star model status, you won’t appear in the magazine coming out. The lack of time also prevented photographers, as well as Manami and Suguru, from finding another camera in time, as everything was prepared at the last minute.

Your troupe isn’t the only one participating. Those of other stylists — like Gojo, for example — will also be featured in a fashion magazine with their partner brand and all their models. The shame will fall upon you as the one not included.

And it will be a scandal — you couldn't make it up.

But Nobara has been far more helpful than you would have thought. She learned the news that evening while helping you prepare in your dressing room for Gojo’s reception and was outraged by the situation. Most of all, she was scandalized to learn that someone had attempted to sabotage your photo shoot.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Your name rolls off Satoru Gojo’s tongue as he bows respectfully and takes your hand, brushing his pink, thin lips against it.

“Likewise.”

Your raise eyebrow and small, sly smile don’t escape him, and he responds with a laugh that makes your heart flutter. Through his signature round sunglasses — Gojo’s trademark — his cerulean eyes sparkle with mischief. He gives you a wink, then releases your hand and offers you his arm. You take it without hesitation, appreciating the touch of a man like him.

The reception hall is packed with models and stylists; some are Japanese, while others come from different corners of the world, ‘passing through’ before heading back to New York. Indeed, the trip is fast approaching, and this evening is one of the last things you’ll need to face before traveling to the other side of the world.

Chandeliers light up the marble floor with tiny reflections that resemble stars. Tables lined against the walls overflow with dishes and canapés — along with chocolate fountains and desserts. Small groups are gathered in every corner of the room, and the dance floor is filled with couples or partners dancing amidst the exceptionally chic ambiance.

“I’m meeting you in the flesh,” Gojo murmurs, casting a flirtatious glance at you. This man has always had the reputation of being exceedingly handsome and tall. Today, you confirm it.

In his immaculate tuxedo, Satoru Gojo walks with you through the room, maintaining a perfect conversation without awkward pauses or questionable vibes. He is exquisite, charming: everything a woman could dream of.

“Few people get to meet you up close,” you add with a light giggle. You adjust your hold on his arm and look up at him. “I heard you’re also participating in the New York Fashion Week.”

“Indeed.” He takes a glass of champagne and hands it to you. “It would have been a pleasure to work with you, though,” he murmurs with a wry smile.

“I would have loved that.” Your gaze sweeps across the room as you take a sip of champagne. “It’s a shame I went with Mr. Geto.”

“Oh yes, Suguru. My eternal rival. I was surprised by that Twitter post. A model like you… should be among the best, and unfortunately, Suguru is one of them.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Gojo?”

He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you a bit closer as he stops near a table with canapés, not far from a window. “Call me Satoru,” he says, looking at you over his sunglasses and taking a mini macaron.

You pick up one as well, and Suguru’s figure passes by you, too quickly for you to understand what’s happening but close enough to notice his gaze on you and Satoru.

“Would you be interested in working on a future collection with me after Fashion Week?” Satoru asks, his attention completely focused on you.

Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel his breath on your lips and you hold back the urge to lean in and kiss him.

“With pleasure, Satoru,” you respond with a smile as playful as his.

“Perfect.” His face lights up, and he is about to say something when he is interrupted by a trio of models approaching you.

“Excuse us, Mr. Gojo,” one of them coos with a sugary voice, batting her eyelashes.

“Can this wait?” He rolls his eyes without any shame. “I’m busy.” He pulls you closer to him with a firmer, more possessive embrace.

Without wasting any time, he takes you out of the reception hall, where a few people are lingering and chatting in a slightly more intimate setting. Thick crimson velvet curtains adorn the various entrances, and Satoru leads you further in.

Your cheeks flush in reaction to the pleasant situation you’re in. Your mind even begins to compare him to Suguru...

“Have I told you how beautiful you are, especially in that dress?” Satoru whispers near your ear, his voice low and warm.

“No,” you murmur, dazed by his hand resting on your lower back, his thumb making gentle circles.

Satoru leans in and his lips brush against yours. “May I?”

You nod, aware of what’s to come as his lips slowly capture yours in a soft, needy kiss. Your lips respond immediately, and Satoru’s two hands join behind your back to guide you into a room that looks like a luxurious bedroom.

Without breaking the kiss with its wet sounds, your back meets the soft surface of a mattress, and you’re already panting. You know that with him, you won’t regret doing anything.

Satoru’s heavy breathing moves away from your pink, swollen lips to approach your bare collarbone and kiss it with those same lips. With his hand gently caressing the back of your thigh, which you lift and drape around his waist, Satoru uses his nimble fingers to slide down the thin strap of your dress. Your chest rises and falls with the sensual tension descending upon you. Your fingers help him lower your dress, first revealing your bare breasts, and a flush colors your face.

“Beautiful, sweetheart,” he purrs in your ear, taking pleasure in depositing a line of soft, affectionate kisses along your neck and down to your chest. Satoru stretches his lips into a smile against your skin and lightly touches the swell of your breasts. He takes one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue.

A moan escapes you, and you arch your hips to rub against him desperately. His bulge becomes more prominent and presses against your own underwear, adding friction that makes your core sensitive. “Satoru…” you pant softly, stroking his snow-white hair as he lavishes your breasts with wet kisses. “More…”

He grins and returns to your lips, whispering “Adorable…” while sliding your dress down further.

But the door to the room suddenly opens, revealing a frozen Suguru standing before the scene. You and Satoru immediately turn your heads toward the intruder and pull away from each other abruptly.

But it’s already too late, as neither of you have time to say a word before Suguru turns and leaves as quickly as he arrived, his face as pale as a sheet.

An unusual pang tightens in your chest, and you sit up from the bed, overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. But why? Why feel this way?

You sigh, and Satoru shakes his head. “He won’t say anything,” he reassures you, reaching out a hand to stroke your cheek.

You don’t push him away, but he understands that you wouldn’t want to go any further with him tonight.

°°°°

“Here… Lift your chin…” Suguru takes a photo with a sharp click. “Perfect…” he murmurs to himself, his tone filled with admiration.

Sitting on the floor of Suguru’s photography studio in yet another outfit from the luxury brand partner, you give him a profile shot, your chin lifted in a dreamlike expression of devotion. For another photo, you lie on your side, your eyes fixed directly on the lens.

Suguru, for his part, doesn’t hesitate to give his best effort to capture the most beautiful photos he’s ever taken in his career. He insisted on handling it personally — despite what happened less than two days ago at Satoru’s reception. He even came up with an idea to make up for the consequences of his delay with the magazine published for all the participating Fashion Week troupes in New York. The scandal over your absence, despite being one of the featured models, had shaken most social media, and indeed, enough for Suguru to come up with a plan that would do justice to you.

What better way than to discuss with the luxury brand partner to release an entire magazine featuring you as the sole model? You would showcase the clothes that weren’t worn due to the lack of time. The success and attention would be all focused on you — spotlights fixed on you.

Because you deserve it.

No matter how long it takes Suguru.

He vowed to do everything to make amends.

So that’s why you find yourself alone in the studio with him, posing in outfits that shake him so much that he’s suggested taking a break twice to calm his trembling hands.

Two days later, the magazine is finally out, with you as the star, once again shaking up social media and causing a wave of appreciation from fans. At your finest, every page shows only you.

You, the heart’s desire of Suguru Geto.

“Have you seen the reactions?” Suguru asks as he approaches you while you’re busy admiring the sky and the skyscrapers from one of the agency’s balconies. Suguru slides the glass door closed and joins you. “Am I bothering you?”

You sigh.

“Come on, at least thank me for doing such a good job. You look stunning in all the photos.” He has a smirk and nudges you in the ribs as he leans his forearms on the glass railing. “And you always have been.”

You give a subtle smile but don’t immediately respond. You leave a small silence between the two of you. For the first time in years, Suguru’s presence doesn’t bother you as much.

“Thanks, I suppose,” you murmur. Without looking at him, you continue, “It’s nice of you to do this.”

“I did it for you,” Suguru breathes, his heart tight.

You nod. Lately, it feels like you don’t quite know how to react. All these compliments, the fact that he hasn’t changed his behavior after catching you with Satoru (he’s even become even more gentle)... It’s a lot to take in.

You eventually clear your throat. “Well, I think—”

“Wait.” He turns his head toward you. “Please.”

The note of pleading is the only detail that brings your feet back to the railing.

He lets a light silence linger, not saying a word. A breeze brushes both your faces, like cool water on a tired face.

Perhaps it’s this that makes Suguru speak up, saying your name.

“You’ve become someone since then,” he whispers with a faint smile. “I’m proud of you.” And oh, how you wish you could erase the blush spreading across your cheeks! “I don’t want to pretend like nothing happened anymore.” He turns fully toward you, the wind whipping his long raven hair and his obsidian eyes scrutinizing you. “I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve never forgotten you, actually.”

His sudden declaration catches you off guard. Why is he saying this? You already knew it. And your behavior towards him gives an unspoken response. You simply turn your head towards him without moving your body, with a forced nonchalance. He mustn’t see what he still evokes in you after all these years.

“Not a single day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you. I know I hurt you, and coming back now is probably not the best way — especially after I pushed you away.” He takes a step towards you. “And I want to win you back.” You prepare to retort, eyes narrowing, but he cuts you off immediately. “I know. And it’s not because you’ve become a famous model. Far from it.”

He repeats your name once again.

But this time, his tone is different.

His voice returns to what it was so long ago. The voice he used to whisper in your ear in bed, when you were standing in a supermarket line, and on the phone.

The thorny brambles of your heart wrap painfully around you, reminding you of what he became later.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Your lips press together, and you start to pull away from the glass railing.

“Give me a second chance, I—”

“No. There’s no point.”

Your steps move closer to the glass door, but Suguru grabs your hand.

“Please, let me at least explain—”

And your hand tears away from his grasp with an insensitivity hidden beneath its opposite in your heart. “We were perfect, Geto. Incredibly perfect. But now, I really wonder if you ever truly loved me,” you admit without any warmth.

“I did, and I still—”

“No. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been increasingly distant, avoiding our dates as your career took up more and more of your life.” You take a trembling breath meant to chase away the tears from your eyes, but it’s in vain. Your voice quivers. “At least you didn’t give up on your dreams for someone. Even less for love. And for a love that only brought you pain after it left you…”

“Love,” Suguru pleads in a heart-wrenching whisper. He takes another step towards you, arms outstretched, but you shake your head.

“But at least, I can thank you for what I’ve become today. I’ve become the person that little me always dreamed of being. Thanks to your departure from my life.”

The words slap and scratch him violently.

You turn on your heels and open the glass door, casting one last glance back at him, tears streaming down your face, smearing your mascara.

“So don’t ruin it all.”

°°°°

As scheduled, the private jet successfully dropped Suguru’s entire troupe at a New York airport less than a week before Fashion Week, where a luxurious van awaited your arrival. As soon as you stepped inside, fuchsia purple LEDs assaulted your eyes, and a multitude of leather seats were lined against the vehicle’s walls. At the very back, there was a mini-bar stocked with alcoholic beverages and spaces near the seats featuring multifunctional drawers: a retractable coffee machine, a selection of accessories and makeup products, as well as blankets, sleep masks, and other handy items. Near the driver, who greeted the troupe with a nod, a tablet fixed to the wall allowed you to change the background music at will.

Without delay, everyone rushed to the seats and chatted merrily over drinks and snacks as the journey finally began. All the models’ assistants were allowed to join the trip, which meant you found yourself laughing with Nobara about the different shades of blush provided in one of the drawers.

She took out her phone and suggested doing an Instagram story, which you accepted without hesitation. You were soon joined by the others, and a group photo was taken by Suguru. To your great surprise, you participated with a small pose. It was also posted on Suguru’s agency’s Instagram, and Nobara quickly showed you the reactions. For the past three weeks, she has almost been gushing on your behalf over the wave of positive responses you received following your appearance in the latest leading fashion magazine in the United States — even despite the success that Satoru Gojo’s own troupe has also enjoyed.

But it has also been three weeks since you last spoke to Suguru following your conversation with him. Throughout the journey to the hotel — where you will stay with your troupe for the rest of Fashion Week until its end — you couldn’t help but have unintentional eye contact. Fortunately for you, he didn’t make any attempts, and somehow, you would have liked to have Suguru in your life once more — just one last time.

But your bitter past with him still haunts your dreams, so that’s out of the question.

A few hours later, the van drops the troupe off in front of the famous hotel, but to everyone’s great surprise, a crowd is packed around the entrance. Security is pushing back some people protesting that they’ve been queuing for hours, and Suguru steps outside to observe what’s happening.

“They were right. The hotel is packed.” Of course, all due to Fashion Week taking place just a few kilometers away. Celebrities, high society, and tourists alike, the gigantic hotel promises not to be easy for the model troupe and Suguru himself. He signals the driver, who contacts security agents and bodyguards via his walkie-talkie to approach the van so that the troupe can either queue or simply navigate through the crowd.

So, with further delays and heightened security, a decision was made regarding the group: it was divided into several smaller groups so everyone could pass without issues. Some models have already gone to the reception and are enjoying their rooms, while you find yourself paired with…

…Suguru.

And last in line.

Neither of you speaks a word, and you are engrossed in your phone, trying your best to ignore him. On the other side, your assistant with ginger hair, Nobara, has asked if it bothers you that she takes a trip to do some shopping in New York— a rare opportunity for the young woman. How could you refuse her? How could you say that you don’t want to be alone with Suguru, even if it’s for the sake of organization? Being stuck in a line with him is uncomfortable?

You finally sigh in relief when your turn comes after forty minutes of waiting while other customers check in.

Bodyguards step aside, both of your luggage in their arms, waiting for a word from you.

The receptionist clears her throat and squints at the screen of his computer. “I apologize, but... I think there’s a reservation issue with your rooms.”

“What do you mean?” Suguru and you ask in unison.

“Um... There’s only one room reserved for both of you.”

The response hits your ears like thunder. You blink, the embarrassment of the situation rising to your cheeks. You don’t even dare to glance at Suguru. “Then book me another room,” you request in a measured tone.

The receptionist discreetly elbows her colleague, who looks up at you. “I— Miss, you are the last guest with Mr. Geto for the coming weeks, and there are no more rooms available…”

For the next five minutes, you try every possible way to avoid being alone in a single room with Suguru. But it’s in vain, as you end up in the infamous room with the receptionists offering a myriad of apologies, blaming their oversight regarding the reservation.

In the room, you stand, boiling with anger as the bodyguards set down your luggage and leave. One of the women tries to divert your attention from your ready-to-explode gaze by pointing out an undisturbed sofa — of course — where one of you might sleep.

But a single glance is enough to see that even your own feet wouldn’t rest on it. The receptionists leave the room in their little heels, and you sit on the firm sofa. You grimace and massage your temples while Suguru has not said a word since entering the room.

He takes a few steps towards the bed and places a hand on the mattress, so soft and comfortable that his fingers almost sink into it. “You can take the bed if you want,” Suguru offers with a calm and kindness that makes you grit your teeth. “I can take the sofa.”

Your body is in such turmoil that if you stay one more second in the room with him, you might explode — literally. So, you don’t respond and rush to your luggage, driven by the need for space. You pull out some comfortable clothes and retreat to the bathroom.

A small sigh of exasperation from the main room still reaches your ears.

You lock yourself in and collapse on the floor, groaning with frustration.

Damn it.

Why does this only happen to you?

If a shower seems to have calmed your nerves a bit, you would have preferred not to have decided to shower right away because, barely dressed in a loose t-shirt and pajama shorts, hotel staff members are gathered around the sofa and start carrying it out of the room.

In shock at the realization of the situation, you call out to them. “Hey! We need that sofa!”

One of them turns his head towards you nonchalantly. “There’s been another reservation issue. We need this sofa for others in a much more urgent situation than yours, miss.” He adjusts his hat as a gesture of apology and leaves the room as if nothing happened, taking with him the only thing that provided a slim chance of escape — however slim — to avoid Suguru.

Suguru stands there, arms hanging, too stunned by what’s happening to react. He blinks several times without saying a word.

This is all just a nightmare.

°°°°

“I’m not going to break my back sleeping on the floor, and neither will you. Or is that what you want?” Suguru nearly barks as he slips under the covers.

“There’s no way I’m sharing a bed with you!” you retort in the same tone, arms crossed over your chest.

“Stop being so prissy for two minutes, will you? It’s not like we haven’t done this thousands of times before.” He rolls his eyes and finally lies down.

The comment hits your chest like a sharp arrow. The already horrifically awkward situation combined with Suguru’s reasonable demeanor, which only seems to make things worse, makes you look simply ridiculous for not cooperating out of pride.

So, you find yourself under the covers, forcing as much space as possible between you and Suguru, trying to stay as far away as you can. Both of you have turned your backs to each other, nerves too frayed to say anything without igniting yet another argument.

But Suguru closes his eyes with a smile on his lips that night, noting in the back of his mind to thank Nobara as soon as he has the chance for agreeing to his ridiculous plan of deliberately booking a single room for both of you.

°°°°

That night, your sleep is much more restless than usual. You have sleep troubles, but this night they seem to intensify despite your peaceful breathing, which Suguru uses as a lullaby to fall asleep. You toss and turn from time to time, with your leg carelessly hanging out of the bed or an arm too close to him. A dangerous position where you might easily slip off and fall.

When Suguru feels the sheets pulling away from him as he’s about to fall asleep, he turns around and catches you just before you fall. With a pounding heart, he pulls you a little closer to him and finally lets you go.

Unaware in your sleep, you roll towards him and your fingers cling almost desperately to his t-shirt. He freezes and doesn’t dare move, hoping you won’t wake up so he can extricate himself from the embrace you’ve claimed. Your arms drape around his shoulders and your legs seek to wrap around him like a koala.

“Sugu…” you murmur in your sleep. Your face contorts into a small frown.

His nickname is a purr to him. He’s tempted to push you away, but your slight frown, seeking comfort, makes him relent, and he holds you completely in his arms. Your nose nestles into the crook of his neck and you hum before letting out a small snore.

Maybe Suguru is dreaming — amidst the dim light of the room and your two blurred bodies. Nevertheless, he rocks you gently in his arms, holding the most precious thing to him close.

°°°°

Your dream continues where you’re alone, nestled in your bed — yes, it must be that. Finding yourself in the same bed as your ex is just a nightmare.

Or maybe a dream.

Warm, sweet whispers envelop you in a comforting embrace.

“Forgive me, love. I’m sorry… I love you so much.”

These distant words soothe you enough when your sleep is half-awake, with Suguru’s body and voice surrounding you. You should push him away, but everything around you feels so dreamlike. So why not give in for once when you can’t in real life? After all, it’s just a dream for one night.

Nothing can happen to you.

Especially at a moment when your heart wants to accept these pleading whispers of forgiveness that will probably never happen in real life.

°°°°

A warm ray of sunlight tickles your cheek, and you hum as you bury your head against something firm and comfortable that envelops you. Arms rub your back, and you smile, deciding to give in to the warm embrace. Something places a gentle kiss on your temple, encouraging you to stay in bed a little longer.

Before a knock at the door jolts you from your comfort.

Nobara’s voice is heard from the other side. “Are you awake?” she asks out loud. “Almost everyone is already ready!”

You open your eyes at the same time as Suguru, and your noses almost touch. It’s a close call not to scream and almost jump out of your spot. Dazed and still groggy from sleep, neither of you says a word, only muttering a few curses about the alarm not going off.

You rush to do your makeup and put on your outfit, as by 11 a.m., at the very place where the last preparations for the show will be made, hundreds of fans, journalists, and paparazzi will be lined up behind barriers or security ropes, shouting for autographs or even a smile. So there’s no time to waste; you need to cover your tomato-red complexion with foundation.

Downstairs in the hotel, the rest of the crew is waiting for both of you, and others arrive at the last minute — some even with their poodles. To your great relief, no one seems to suspect anything about Suguru, whom you carefully avoid even after arriving at the Fashion Week preparation area.

As you step out of the black sedan, piercing fan screams ring out, eagerly waiting for you to approach them: banners with names written in capital letters, notebooks, and hands outstretched almost desperately.

On the red carpet and under the bright morning sun, female fans call out your name, and you turn with a smile to approach them behind the security barrier. You spend about ten minutes taking selfies and signing autographs with the rest of the crew until one girl, after you’ve signed her autograph, speaks to you again. “It’s incredible that you’re working with Suguru Geto! I never thought I’d see this day, so I’ll be here to watch you walk the runway!” she exclaims with stars in her eyes.

Your smile freezes at the mention of Suguru, as you’re constantly reminded that no one but you and Suguru know what happened between you two. You swallow and regain your composure. “Oh, honey, you’re adorable. I’m glad you’re coming. I hope we’ll run into each other again.” You then give her a final wink and rejoin your group.

Nobara catches up with you a few minutes later in your dressing room with a smile and quietly closes the door. You collapse onto a couch and sigh, hiding your face in your hands.

°°°°

“You’ve measured me before.”

“I lost them.”

“Liar.”

Suguru lets out a small laugh and grabs his measuring tape before approaching you. “It’s just my job, love.”

“You’re playing around,” you accuse with a pout, and he kneels in front of you to measure your legs and waist.

His movements are precise, slow, meticulous, and attentive. Even his gaze doesn’t fall inappropriately on you, a look of respect filling his entire being, guiding him gently with that eternal mischievous smile that reminds you of Satoru’s.

“Don’t give me that pout, now,” Suguru whispers as he stands up with a sigh.

Today, he’s wearing a simple white shirt under a pair of black pants and a matching blazer — perfectly tailored, of course. An unfair perfection. Among all the exes you could have had in your life, it had to be Suguru Geto—the man with a beauty almost impossible to rival, and who clearly shows a refusal to let you go. And the worst is the still-fresh memory from the night before with the image of a half-asleep Suguru against you — you in his arms. If you loathe yourself for what happened, why does his embrace comfort you so much? If you truly hate Suguru, why do you show such weak resistance to both his gentlemanly behavior and his irresistible charm?

“And there we go,” Suguru announces softly with his notepad in hand. “Lovely as always,” he adds with his eternal smile. “Hey!” You punch him in the bicep, and he steps back, laughing.

“Don’t mess with me,” you grumble, still pouting.

When was the last time this kind of situation happened?

When you two were still together.

And is forgiving him a good idea after all?

“I wasn’t messing with you, love,” Suguru replies quietly. He locks his eyes with yours to capture all your attention. “You’ve always been beautiful. And that will never change, even if you turn into a slug.” He grins at your comical look of disgust.

"A slug? You’d still choose me even if I were a slug?" you repeat, not convinced at all by his promises.

Suguru scoffs and moves closer, facing you directly. “No matter what you are in any lifetime, it will always be you that I choose, again and again.” He slowly lifts his hand and places it on your cheek. His thumb caresses your cheekbone, and your guard weakens. His words, spoken with sincere tone, float like clouds in the dressing room-turned-sewing workshop.

You remain as vulnerable with Suguru Geto — despite years of building a fortress to avoid falling back into the state you were in years ago. Yet, you are in a massive denial, giving a semblance of change in your life. You haven’t erased all feelings for Suguru. You’ve simply buried them in a corner of your heart and forgotten where—neglecting the risk they might resurface someday.

You look up at him, your lower lip trembling. “Then why didn’t you in this one?”

The question seems to catch him off guard, as his lips part and an equally vulnerable look appears on his face. He’s about to respond when someone knocks on the door.

“Mr. Geto? Are you finished?” Manami’s voice calls from the other side, sounding slightly concerned.

You both immediately step away from each other, and the tension between you dissipates, replaced by the usual coldness.

Suguru clears his throat, runs a tired hand over his face, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Uh, yeah, yeah. You can come in, Manami.”

°°°°

Less than two hours before the main moment, you are practicing breathing exercises to calm the stress of a runway show. You’re wearing one of the luxurious outfits designed by Suguru himself, and if that alone isn’t overwhelming enough, an invisible vise is tightening around your chest, making your breathing heavy and your lungs congested.

You grimace at the sensation and groan as your heart beats more erratically than expected, and tremors run through your limbs. You can’t have a panic attack now.

No.

Not when Nobara isn’t by your side to help you relax.

Staying locked in a stuffy dressing room won’t help, but the very idea of stepping outside paralyzes you. You need to wait patiently for the makeup artists to finalize your look, and it only makes you more impatient and on edge.

Someone knocks at your door and asks to enter.

Suguru.

You open your mouth to utter even a sound, but anxiety wraps around your throat and chokes you. You gasp for air, your hands sweaty and cold, slipping from the back of the chair you’re clinging to, and you collapse to the floor.

The noise is enough for the door to burst open, and Suguru rushes in, dropping to one knee and taking you into his arms.

“Love, what’s happening?” Suguru murmurs as you cling to him as if your life depends on it.

The panic attack gradually overwhelms you, and you start crying in front of him. Thank God your face is only covered with skincare, but tears are streaming down your cheeks, mingling with your grimace and your difficulty breathing.

“I…” Then a hiccup takes over. You try to inhale, but as soon as your lungs fill, the air cuts off and doesn’t pass through. You keep trying, but all you manage is to cry without stopping.

Suguru frowns. “You… Wait.” He slides one arm under your knees and back to lift you easily and place you on a sofa. “It’s going to be okay, my love… Everything will be fine… Do the same thing I do.”

You sniffle and wipe your eyes to prevent the blurred vision from making it even harder to see Suguru helping you. He places his hand on his chest and does the same for you. “I’ll count to three and you breathe in very slowly, okay? Same for exhaling,” he murmurs with all tenderness and patience. His chest rises slowly in sync after he counts to three. The air flows more smoothly now. Encouraged by this, he smiles and holds his breath. He nods for you to do the same, intertwining your fingers with his and exhaling at the same slow pace. The icy air leaves your lungs at the same time as your racing heartbeats.

For the next five minutes, a silence punctuated by controlled, rhythmic breathing fills the dressing room. You eventually manage to regain a normal breath and quell your panic attack, leaving only a few residual hiccups.

Suguru leans toward you and kisses your sweaty forehead. With your still-trembling arms, you grip his to keep him close and draw him against you, the tip of his nose brushing against your neck. The unexpected action makes him freeze, and up close, you can see goosebumps spreading over his skin. With hesitant movements towards each other, you both hold each other gently in a comforting embrace.

“Suguru…” you whisper, your voice hoarse from the recent panic attack. You take the opportunity to bury your head in the crook of his neck.

He immediately welcomes your touch and affectionately kisses your cheek. “I love you, love. Do you feel better?”

His affirmation reaches your heart so strongly that, once again, tears well up and you force yourself to blink them away. Suguru notices and a worried crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, his chest against yours allows you to feel his racing heart. “You—”

“I’m better,” you interrupt weakly. “Thank you…”

He sighs in relief and gently caresses your hair absentmindedly. His fingers weave skillfully through your strands, bringing back a memory that hits you hard: him comforting you for various reasons when you were together, that same hand resting and caressing the same spot on your head. So for once in years, you let yourself indulge in this nostalgic feeling without pushing it away.

However, you can’t prevent a burning question from crossing your lips. “You love me?”

Suguru reacts immediately. He carefully pulls away from you and helps you sit up on the sofa, wiping the dried tears from your beautiful cheeks. He smiles at your flushed face and bloodshot eyes. “Of course I love you. I’ve told you. I’m sorry, and even if you don’t accept it, I’ll do everything to make you forgive me.” He kneels in front of you. “I didn’t want to break up with you because it would have broken my heart, so when I saw that my career was starting to affect our relationship and I couldn’t take care of you as you deserved, I thought it would hurt less if I let you detach from me.” His shoulders shake with a sigh. “Forgive me, my love. I want to make amends and—”

“But why a second chance when the first one didn’t work?”

“Because we’re too stubborn, love.”

His words, spoken with such sincerity, reach your heart directly.

You take his face in your hands and press your lips against his. Suguru gasps slightly in surprise but quickly follows your lead, his hesitant hands sliding to your waist to deepen the contact.

Fuck.

How he missed you…

With every kiss, you reclaim Suguru’s lips as if one moment without them would take away your life. They are so soft and warm, as alluring as they are addictive, making it almost impossible for your body to pull away from him. It’s only when you feel that time seems to be passing a bit too quickly that you finally pull away from him.

“I…” A semi-horrified expression pulls at your face as you’ve just initiated a kiss with your ex—the one you’ve been avoiding for months. You shake your head and back away, stammering, “Sorry… That was a mistake, I—”

Suguru utters your name in a pleading tone. “Please… I’m begging you. Give me another chance. I only need one word. One word, and I’ll stay. One word, and I’ll leave and never come back to your life.”

“You…” If you’ve never been short of sharp retorts for Suguru, today is a new experience.

One word from you, and Suguru will accept your choice. For any other ex you might have had, you wouldn’t have even attempted to participate or do anything that involved them. But with Suguru…

“S-Stay…” you murmur in a broken voice, almost throwing yourself into his arms. He wraps you in his embrace and rocks you, his breath quick. “Stay, Suguru…” You break down, tears returning with a vengeance, flooding your face.

“I love you, sweetheart. Forgive me…” And he continues to repeat these words until someone else knocks on the door.

He prepares to pull away, but you hold him back, not wanting him to leave you once more. With a swift move, he crouches and rests his forehead against yours. “I have to go. You’re going to do great. I have no doubt, and you have no reason not to, understood?” His breath, as warm as his hands around your head, brushes your nose, and you sniffle one last time, nodding. “You’ll be perfect. I’ll watch and wait for you at the show. You’re going to shine.”

°°°°

The lights in the hall dim, plunging the audience into darkness. A bright spotlight illuminates the runway as the music begins to resonate throughout the fashion studio, amplified by the speakers.

“Here we go… In three… two… one…” Manami makes a frantic arm gesture to signal the lineup of models to step onto the runway.

The first model makes her entrance, wearing a spectacular outfit that instantly captivates the audience, with audible “oooohs!” reaching even backstage where you await your turn with a suffocating pressure. You are among the last to walk, but the distinct sound of heels clicking in rhythm with your heartbeat still reaches your ears.

But there is no room for panic now that you no longer carry the weight of your past relationship with Suguru.

He will be there to admire and reassure you from afar.

Manami gives a final signal and your lineup thins, giving you the space needed to step onto the stage.

The outfits parade down the runway, each one more impressive than the last. The theme of the collection is clear: dark silhouettes adorned with sequins and stars, reminiscent of a starry night sky. Your own outfit, the centerpiece of the collection, is bound to captivate the awed spectators. The black, sparkling dress catches the light with every step, creating an illusion of a moving firmament. Murmurs of admiration fill the room first, followed by camera clicks and cheers as you appear at the first quarter of the runway.

Taking a deep breath, your heels glide as elegantly as ever down the runway. One foot in front of the other, the sole firmly planted but almost silently advancing on the runway, chin up, and a neutral expression on your face; if anyone had never heard of your modeling career, your impression answers immediately.

Your hips sway slightly from side to side in the same entrancing rhythm as the powerful beat of the music, giving an unmatched grace to your walk. Reaching the end of the runway, your gaze falls on the front row where recognizable men have their eyes fixed on you, feeling the palpable energy of the room.

The scene lasts only a second, but it feels like an eternity.

Satoru Gojo, with a smirk, hands in the pockets of his dark stylist suit, stands with his legs spread in a posture highly unflattering for a personality like his. But then again, he exudes a carefree attitude, so who would be shocked? You manage to keep your mouth from stretching into a smile thanks to Suguru Geto, whose eyes are glued to you. His obsidian irises shine with admiration, professionalism, and also pride. He gives you a knowing wink that sends a warm, pleasant wave through every corner of your abdomen.

You snap out of your trance and pause, striking an elegant pose under the camera flashes before gracefully turning around. The shimmering fabric of your dress captures the lights with every movement, creating a shower of stars around you.

As you return backstage, the music shifts, signaling the grand finale. The crowd is buzzing, applauding enthusiastically as the spotlights sweep across the stage to accentuate the dramatic effect of the starry collection. The show comes to an end several minutes later, and you notice the applause intensifying. Suguru seems to have taken the stage and begun speaking — his voice reaching every ear — and you listen intently near your pairs.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. This collection has been a true labor of love, and I am honored to share it with you. Thank you also to all the wonderful people who made this possible, especially our incredible models,” Suguru declares, a wave of shared pride resonating through his speech.

The applause erupts once more, louder than ever.

°°°°

“Really?” you murmur softly, the tone as warm as Suguru’s hand on your hip. “If I did so well in the show, don’t I deserve a reward?”

He kneels in front of you, sliding his large hands along your thighs. “So beautiful, so magnificent…” Suguru continues to whisper as if in a prayer. “I love you… Ruin me… Use me and hurt me, love…” he pleads before placing a long, sweet kiss on your inner thigh.

The effect sends waves of goosebumps across your body, and desire burns in your eyes as you lower them to your desperate lover.

What better place to want to fuck your ex than during a festive reception hosted by Satoru Gojo, in one of the luxurious corridors of his many mansions? The same heavy, thick, velvet burgundy curtains brush against your back as he nuzzles between your legs like a little boy.

The gesture might seem funny and cute, but not when he slides his head under your evening dress and presses his nose against your panties. You gasp in surprise and place your hands on his head. “Sugu… Not here…” you whisper, alarmed.

He grumbles like a displeased child, the vibration of his voice against your core increasing your sensitivity. “You— Ah…” you moan as he plants a kiss on your already swollen clit.

“I love you, sweetheart… I love you so much…” Suguru keeps repeating these words that make you melt. He shifts your underwear with his index finger, finally gaining access to your core. He starts with a chaste kiss on your damp folds and hums in contentment, as he catches the first drop of your juices. “Tastes s’good, baby…”

Your moans intensify under his agile tongue as it licks and laps at your swollen, wet folds. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, forcing you to gasp. “Suguru…” You groan as he focuses on your throbbing bundle of nerves this time. He gently sucks on it, coaxing more juices from you, and this has the effect of drawing whimpers from your lips. If you were already struggling like mad to keep quiet, Suguru always loves to tease you and he gently inserts a finger into you. Your walls clench around it as if afraid he might pull it out. Unfortunately, pleasure comes far too quickly. With only a few long, slow thrusts inside you, your fingers find their way into his dark strands. “I’m going to—”

“Cum for me, my love,” he murmurs between flicks of his tongue.

You pray that no one can see or hear you, letting the knot in your stomach that was holding back your orgasm finally release. It bursts onto Suguru’s mouth, who doesn’t waste a single second in collecting your juices until the last drop, all while you moan in pleasure.

He finally pulls his hands and head from under your dress, panting in the same ragged rhythm as you, a satisfied smile on his lips. “I love you,” he murmurs for the umpteenth time.

A slightly exhausted smile from the intense sensation lights up your face, and before you can even respond, Suguru scoops you into his arms and nearly runs to one of the luxurious bedrooms in the Gojo mansion.

He locks the door and gently lays you on the mattress. Within seconds, you take charge, removing Suguru’s pants and teasing his bulge with the tips of your fingers. You smile mischievously and giggle.

Suguru shivers at your touch and props himself up on his elbows, weak as he is for you. “Sweetheart—” But you catch him off guard by pulling down his boxer, exposing his twitching erection. “Oh God…” He almost rolls his eyes as your hand administers a few gentle strokes. “I love you… I love you… I love you… I love you…” he repeats in a plea in the dim light of the room.

Your fingers wrap around his base as you lower your head just to kiss his sensitive, reddened tip. “What, baby? Is it too much for you? You’re already so hard f’me…” And he doesn’t have time to protest as you go slowly, for he might not last. He smiles slyly as you lick the bead of pre-cum that escapes his length.

“Damn, princess… I’m not gonna last…” he hisses, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. He lets out a sigh, his muscles tensing under your hands. You run a thick band with the flat of your tongue along his dick, and he grits his teeth. “Tease…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? Let’s see about that…” Your lips part around him, taking him fully into your mouth. As soon as his tip hits the back of your throat, he lets out a groan. “Sorry…”

Your hands slip to graze his balls and caress his thighs. With a motion of your head, you suck him, your tongue swirling around his tip and veins. “Love, I—” And with a twitch of his cock, he signals that he’s about to cum. He shudders and groans, moaning your name. His cheeks flush, and you take the opportunity to tease him. He gives in and lets his release paint your mouth white. Without wasting any time, you swallow the warm substance and pull his cock from your mouth, a string of saliva mixed with his cum linking your lips to him.. The sight of your lover in a messy, submissive state sends a shiver down your own spine.

He regains his breath, rising onto his knees, unuttons his white shirt, and tosses it into a corner at the foot of the bed. Suguru’s hands settle on your hips, pulling at the fabric to undress you completely. Your panties are just as damp as when he ate you out. Your bra quickly joins his discarded clothing, and he seals his lips with yours as if it’s the last thing he needs to do in his life. He gently flips you onto your back on the bed.

Your hands move sensually across his chest to settle on his shoulders, maintaining a grip, while Suguru’s hands grasp the back of your thighs and slowly detach his lips to press them against the side of your neck where your pulse races. He marks a hickey in that exact spot and revels in the moan you produce.

“Suguru, please… I need you…” you plead into his ear, you aching clit grazing his hard cock, and he clenches his jaw to avoid holding you too tightly in his arms. Hasn’t he dreamed for years of having you like this, in his arms, begging him to please you?

“Anthing for my princess,” he coos, his lips curling. Gently, he wraps your legs around his waist and maintains eye contact with you. One of his hands grabs his dick and teases your needy cunt with the tip to collect droplets of your wetness. “Still so wet?” Then your blush is enough to make him burst into laughter. You pout, and he purrs. “Awww… I’m going to give you what you want…”

With utmost care, his tip parts your folds and slowly pushes into you, finding its way deep inside your hot, dripping pussy. Breathing between his teeth, Suguru closes his eyes for a moment and hisses. “Damn, you’re so fucking tight…” He pants for a few seconds before resuming his movements as you moan for him to go further. “Fuck, princess… taking me so well… Like you were made for me since start…”

“Suguru…” You moan, your nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. The pressure his cock exerts makes it hard for your pussy not to react and tighten with each of his slow thrusts as you adjust. “That’s it, my love… You’re doing so well…” He whispers in your ear. His hands grip your hips, helping you find the right space for both of you as he sinks into you, your pretty walls clenching around him deliciously. He lets out a whimper of your name and hits that sweet spot deep inside, making you twitch beneath him.

"Again… Please… Sugu—” But another sound of pleasure escapes you as he slowly increases his pace inside you. His length twitches between your gummy, tight walls. “So deep… So good…” you murmur with a pleasure-filled wince. “I love you… I love you…”

Words hit Suguru like a punch to the stomach, and he almost has tears in his eyes. He doesn’t stop bucking his hips into you and nuzzles his head in the crook of your neck. “Baby…” you whisper, your fingers tangled in his hair, pleasure all for you now. He nods, and his hand snakes to your clit, rubbing it in circles. “Suguru… I’m close…” you squeal as he continues to pound into you until you see stars and your cunt contracts around his length, your toes curling.

His seed paints your walls white, a warm, gentle sensation spreading through your lower abdomen, Suguru groaning into your neck, his teeth biting into the flesh of your trapezius. He slightly lifts his head, panting heavily, and presses his lips to your ear. “I don’t want to see you on anyone else’s arm, okay? Not even Satoru.”

You nod and giggle, trying to catch your breath, your eyelids closed and exhausted from the aftermath of intense pleasure. “Jealous, hmm?”

“Yes. And very possessive, love,” he affirms in a strained voice. “Will you forgive me?” he adds with a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. He withdraws from you and lies down beside you, attentive to any signs of discomfort.

“For a long time, Suguru,” you affirm, yawning.

“Oh.” He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Can I ask since when?”

“Since the hotel.”

Suguru buries his head between your bare breasts and closes his eyes with a sigh. “I see. I owe that to Nobara. What do you think would make her happy?” he asks in a casual tone.

Suddenly, it’s like gears are turning in your brain, and your fingers, which were caressing his hair moments ago, freeze.

“WHAT?”

And Suguru’s laughter echoes throughout the room.

a/n: finally! i'm relieved that i've finished this fic (promised from far months now...) well, i hope you'll enjoy it! <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @alwaysfreakingout @mutsu422 @lymsfm

[slowd1ving]

Hello, I love your work, can you write a Dg x boyfriend! Reader who is like Osaragi from Sakamoto days please, take care of yourself, you are great

FAR FROM ANY ROAD ゜・DG

"And strange hands halted me, the looming shadows danced; I fell down to the thorny brush and felt the trembling hands." And after the numbing day concludes, after the rain swallows all your sorrows, where else do you return if not home? honestly anon when I got this request I was fully wondering whether you meant the full deal of osagiri and was going to write actual assassin reader... then I re read the request. anyways hope you enjoy this short fic because once more I was at a loss whether to write actual headcanons or a scenario.. pairing: diego kang x male reader warnings: canon typical violence, blood, sort of hurt/comfort? not comedic sorry :'( wc: 1.4k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Tonight, the rivulets of rain streaming down your body feel particularly heavy. Those drops chase the blood that stains your skin and seeps into your clothes: petrichor battling against the acrid, metallic reek; purification against the concentrated sanguine of your sins and the sins of these assailants. 

In this abandoned construction site, you feel much like these unfinished buildings. A crude facade with crumbling foundations. Of course, the unconscious bodies of these Workers resemble those decrepit structures far more—alas, you’re not referencing their physical state, but rather the slightly-numbed, slightly-exhausted mental state you’re in. 

The bruises and scrapes littering your skin might make any lesser man hiss at his incompetence in guarding his temple, but to you, you absently trace the wounds with curious fascination. One last moment of entertainment, before your fun and games abruptly end. 

“How unpleasant,” you finally utter—the bleak words are washed away by the rain, to be heard by nobody but yourself. It’s always a thrill to perform your Sacred Duty; that is, teaching these wrong-doers a salient lesson that is beaten into their very bones. Your transgressions are only to correct their own sins, not bound to any particular affiliation but yourself. 

Against your injuries, your gelid fingers don’t spark the same warmth he does. It is at this particular moment that the joy completely evaporates, it is at this moment where all you want is to take off the crushing black veil and retreat back home. 

Home. You’ll be late as usual—limping back to the dimly-lit apartment with carmine kissing your knuckles and a frown on your face. 

These hours, where the clouds swirl a rich black, and only the street lamps pity your lonely journey home, no longer feel so welcome. So it's despondently that you start the meander back to the city. 

゜・

It’s early summer when you transfer to his class—almost comically late in the year, James Lee notes. Right on the cusp of the holidays, you stand before your peers with caustically empty eyes and a careful blankness on your face. How dull, he dismisses before crunching down on his candy: an obnoxious gesture that swivels your pupils in his direction. But not much else changes in your face—it seems you’ll be just as boring as his classmates, if not slightly more weird.

Though, as you slip into your seat with almost serpentine grace, as you click your mechanical pencil in such a way he briefly wonders whether you know you’re wielding a writing utensil and not a weapon, as your loping gait starts appearing in the edges of his vision wherever he is—this is where his eyes start following your motions curiously.

These endeavours prove fruitless; you’re a model student, if not subpar to his own vast academic success. There’s nothing noteworthy about your clipped speech, nor about your penchant to eat heaping bowls of food in one serving on the rooftops. Maybe there is that feeling he gets—that you seem to be holding yourself back during sports and other activities—but he’s come to his own conclusion. Boring. And just like that, his interest wanes once more.

It’s in the holidays that he sees you once more. This time, you’re out of uniform and in such peculiar garb he half-believes you’re an apparition: clad in rich black with a veil thrown over your head.  Or at least, he would believe you were a ghost were it not for the heaps of unconscious gang members strewn around you, and the vibrant red staining your fists and face. And when he laughs, when your head finally turns to gaze at the boy at the abandoned parking lot—you look as nonplussed as ever, and that is perhaps the most interesting thing about this ill-fated encounter.

Even with the lacerations cutting deep, you barely wince. Even as he finds you, again and again and again as you’re guts deep in beating these ‘sinners’ up, you barely spare him any greetings as he watches on amusedly. Even as he’s taken to cheering you on from the sidelines, you ignore him just like he did you—though, it’s more matter-of-fact than malicious, like it would be unprofessional to acknowledge him. 

It seems James Lee has found himself a new form of entertainment: all wrapped up neatly in a parcel of a boy with weirdly haunting eyes. 

゜・

But with age, naturally, comes the act of growing up. As he sheds his crimson locks, as he slips on his new moniker and buries his name along with his past, as he finally puts a name on the captivation you’ve bound him in—no longer does he laugh as you throw yourself into danger. 

Rather, with each new scar you accumulate on the vast and brilliant canvas of your skin, he can’t help but feel each pain on his own body. 

This especially bodes true as you stumble across the threshold, back into the lonely recesses of your apartment. It’s a small thing in the suburbs—far from prying eyes that snag on the lace decorating your body, far from those that could pick up on your sins. 

When you shuck off the heavy boots—ever the contrast against the exquisite craftsmanship of your clothing—you want nothing more than to collapse against the cold tiles of the floor. As you take on the more fatal—the more perilous—jobs, the money proportionally increases. 

But you don’t get the chance to sink onto the ground, because warm hands suddenly catch your frigid body just as you’re about to keel over. 

DG, Kang Dagyum, Diego—he’s got many names. James. The man you’ve known for the past three years holds you close to his designer sweater. He willingly lets the plush fabric to be soaked in the sins that trailed in with you: clear, polluted rain, which seems to perfectly encapsulate your sullen mood; mud soaking the hem over your veil; and finally the sanguine, oily blood that never seems to wash off. 

“Sorry.” Guilt eats away at you as you watch the material seep with wickedness. “I ruined it.”

Laconic as ever, you feel worse for staining his clothes than you do for coming home bruised and bleeding. His heart seems as tattered as you look, wrenching and twisting through his flesh while you inhale the powdery scent of his freshly-laundered loungewear. 

“You’re not sorry for coming home to me like this?” he bites out. There’s not a trace of laughter in the tight lines of his mouth—for James can’t find these stupid jobs amusing any more. He makes enough, God knows he makes more than enough, for you to leave this cursed work behind and just stay by his side. 

“Um,” you murmur, and he can practically hear the cogs in your brain whirring as you wonder why he’s not mentioning the deep smears of crimson that assault his outfit. “I can change before coming in—”

“Stop.” He interrupts you with his tight grip on your body and the concerned, devoted glint in his softening eyes. “Can’t you worry about yourself for once?”

His job is harsh within itself: volatility and high-pressure wrapped in one, but the things you do for money are downright punitive. It’s paradoxically comical: a man who’s stained his hands with blood far darker and deeper than you have, versus a pseudo-vigilante whose life revolves around violence. Diego Kang, or more accurately, James Lee conceals his past as though it were a separate entity: while still keeping the dregs of yesteryear with him in the form of you.

No, that’s not right. He doesn’t keep you by him. He’s bound to you instead, he realises through his adoring gaze and tender hands, through the reverent kisses he presses to your glacial arms. 

You still as his fingers card through your skin: past the fragile, wounded dermis; weaving through the sinuous muscles, and past the tangles of veins; and finally, they hold tight on the steady thrum of your pulse. You’re alive. You’re alive and breathing, and your heart is still beating through all those layers. 

Only then does he gaze up at you. None of his past ghosts through his look: neither boredom nor the callous indifference he once regarded you with. He’s been destroyed and reborn anew within these three years, while you still remain the painfully reckless fool. 

He’s no longer James Lee.

No, there’s not a single trace left of the boy who once saw your endless struggle as entertaining: save maybe the part of him that’s always been enraptured by your existence.  

゜・

EXTRAS

DG: …

reader: yeah I beat up those haters who were harassing you on twitter

DG: …

DG: without me 🥺

[weirdmarioenemies]

Is King Bob-omb a robot?

Is he? Huh?

Recently I have been thinking about the nature of King Bob-omb, because I think it is more interesting than one may think upon first consideration! Yes, he is a big living bomb. But what does this mean for him? Let's discuss!

Bob-ombs

Bob-ombs! They are bombs. Even a dog could look at a Bob-omb and tell you "Rhat's a ralking romb! Hreeheehee!" What do we know about Bob-ombs? Well, they are very clearly artificially created entities. I mean, they're bombs. They're powered by wind-up keys! And they're mass-produced in factories. These are artificial, mechanical creatures. Automatons! The ones in Sunshine are very overtly robotic, and even if those ones are Bowser Junior creations, it may reflect how he views the real ones.

There is a history of sentient, talking Bob-ombs and Bob-omb society, so these are clearly rather advanced automatons. All the more reason for me to confidently declare them to be robots! It's weird to make a living bomb capable of thought and emotion, but as established by Origami King, the ones working for Bowser are intent on making their single blast really make a difference. So I guess making them sapient is ultimately helpful for Evil purposes, if unethical.

King Bob-omb

Now let's consider the King! That guy loves to be considered. He is NOT mass-produced. He does not have a wind-up key. He does not even have a fuse! And of course, he has arms. No Bob-ombs have arms...

...but Chuckyas do! Big, Bob-omb-like, with arms for throwing Marios. King Bob-omb seems like he could be a stronger, more refined model of Chuckya! Chuckyas are absolutely robotic, so this does make a good case for the King being such, as well!

Could a robot have such a magnificent mustache, though? Yes, a robot could. Even standard Bob-ombs are capable of having mustaches, as are creatures made of ice, and also this is a silly cartoon world. So yes, I think a robot could have a mustache.

Mecha King Bob-omb

Now HERE's the thing that got me thinking of this in the first place! Mecha King Bob-omb, from Mario + Rabbids: Sparks of Hope. This is a robotic version of King Bob-omb... hm. This IS obviously a robotic replica based on him, and there's no reason a robot based on another robot couldn't exist, but that WOULD make the "Mecha" title pretty weird! Is the original king mechanical or what? I guess the "Mecha" could also be referring to this version being a pilotable mecha, unlike the real version, which is a Guy. This brings up questions, and answers none!

The Big Dud

Finally, the last possibility of King Bob-omb's origins. If you are aware of the Super Mario 64 Iceberg, you are aware of the Big Dud theory! After Big Bob-omb (as he is known in 64) is defeated, an additional metal ball will be rolling around at the base of the mountain, and a Bob-omb Buddy will declare that the Big Bob-omb is nothing but a big dud now. This has led some to believe that the additional cannonball might be Big Bob-omb himself, made inanimate upon his defeat!

And then THIS gets me thinking about Power Stars. They do weird things to Mario creatures! I think it is likely King Bob-omb could have been created BECAUSE of the Power Star he holds. Maybe he was an ordinary Bob-omb enhanced into a new, regal form by the Star, or maybe he even was an ordinary inanimate metal ball, chosen to be extra resilient compared to his subjects! You know, in 64, he doesn't even explode like a Bob-omb. Is he a FRAUD? (No, he explodes in other games)

Final thoughts

So, after all this analysis, is King Bob-omb a robot or what? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. No one knows. This guy is weird! He can fly with no effort if thrown off the mountain. When killed, he congratulates Mario for killing him and invites him to do it again sometime. If I HAD to come to a conclusion... I would say he is technically robotic, but that's not something the designers/developers actually ever have or had in mind, and is just a result of being a Bob-omb.

I don't mind that there is no concrete answer! I was not expecting there to be! This is Super Mario we're talking about. They're not going to expect us to analyze evidence about characters and come to conclusions. But it is so much fun to do! That's why we do it! Call this guy a robot if you want! Or affirm that he is not if you don't! I don't really care as long as you are nice!

[wonryllis]

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 & 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖𝐒 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐒

𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗒 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎?

ׅ ꢾ꣒ find the MASTERLIST here.

PREVIEW. you always get what you want, spoiled with the love of everyone around you. and it's all innocent love, at least that's what everyone thinks. it comes with much surprise therefore, when heeseung makes a move on you. thirteen long years of being in the brother zone having made him utterly clueless that if he’s going to date you he has to pass through your actual brothers first. and he knows how scary they can be. especially since they are known to have a sister complex and he’s been the third scary one with them, numerous times before.

𝐈 check out the PROFILES.

PLS READ THE CONTENT BELOW ALL THE CHARACTER INFO IS LISTED IN JUST THIS ONE POST !

𝐈𝐈 tune in to the CHARACTER INTERVIEWS ( given by the characters themselves ! )

CHOI YN 20 ( fashion ), well what do i say? hello everyone i'm choi yn! im sure everyone knows me already ^^ .. what else do i say? hmm i love my life a lot! i love my brothers and heeseung and wonie so much, they are the closest people in my life! oh shit sorry riki too hehe oops. college has been fun since im doing exactly what i wanted and it's fun to hangout with won all the time. seungie brings me snacks all the time and binnie lets me eat cakes everyday even though junnie has scolded them not to cause i easily get dental problems and then he has to convince be to go to the dentist, eww.

LEE HEESEUNG 23 ( film ), if you ever stop hearing from me, please know that my day has come and i have chosen to be exposed. as much as jun and soobs love me, and as much as they love tiny(my yn, she's just real cute) if i ever dare speak of that kind of love with tiny in the same sentence it's my last moment on earth. jay and taehyun help a lot and i'd give everything to thank them for it but man they still haven't been able to actually help me get with yn?

CHOI SOOBIN 24 ( law school ), yes my sister is my everything, each one of her wishes no matter how stupid and idiotic they are, must be fulfilled. i think i was like ten when ynie said being a lawyer would be so cool, and it's been my life's motto now. law school kicks my ass yeah but whenever i think of how happy she'd be to see me as a badass lawyer it feels like nothing. i could easily help her win the divorce that's a plus point, i think i should start looking into divorce attorney things.

CHOI YEONJUN 25 ( model ), i swear scaring away my baby sister's admirers is one of my full time jobs besides runaway modelling but alas she is my sister of course she's a beauty. i know she will date and marry a motherfucking guy one day, and i won't be able to stop it but i hope that day takes the longest time to come. she was one of the first ones to say how good my dressing style was, if it wasnt for her i would not be one of the rising faces in the fashion scene today.

PARK JAY 22 ( music production ), being lee heeseung's childhood friend has been my life's greatest downfall. and being his emergency contact number one is probably the biggest mistake of my life. it's so so so infuriating to see him do nothing and panic over the fact that some might sweep her off her feet right before his eyes like fucker you gotta sweep her off her feet rather than worrying over how someone else might sweep her off her feet. taehyun probably understands me.

SIM JAKE 22 ( physics ), it's fun, so so fun i can not express it verbally man, 'm having a blast! there's so many new things to learn i am so happy with my major and my astronomy club thing is going so well too, it's been amazing so far. the only thing i dont like is my mates ignoring me, like i tell them about all these quantum mechanics things and how it's works like it's legit the coolest thing ever and they don't wanna listen me and then come to me for help with assignments like dude? there's no give and take here and it's not high school anymore? but i do it cause im nice :)

PARK SUNGHOON 22 ( communications ), first of all i gotta thank my man taehyun for letting me copy off of him to pass my semesters so far. as a full time commercial and photoshoot model, college is just a side quest for me at this point, just need an arm candy degree to show that i am infact educated contrary to what people think. oh and i'd like to tell this, don't tell anyone, i actually know all the drama going on and it's so funny but i gotta stay low if i wanna be safe. sometimes i do think of stirring things up but yeonjun man he scares me, i better be on his good side.

KIM SUNOO 21 ( journalism ), for real god am i the only one working my ass off here cause why the hell all these dicks be fucking up their lives and copying off people to survive like? look at me, every little gossip on campus and you know who to go to get the full info! exactly how it should be for a journalism major. i swear i am doing all the shit ass work here. i admit i slip sometimes especially with heeseung's secret in front of god forbidden yn but 'm just a human, and humans make mistakes yk? and please tell kai to fuck off please, thank you.

YANG JUNGWON 20 ( fashion ), it's a different feeling when three guys trust you with their precious sister. and it's a different feeling when that precious real spoiled girl treats you like the best buddy she could ever have. but it's not so fortunate when you gotta dash to protect anytime the brothers ping you, it's like a national secret agency part time job and it's the hardest thing when the target is someone like yn. i treasure her a lot, as a friend! yes, yet the times when her brothers get jealous of me are some of the most nerve wrecking times.

NISHIMURA RIKI 20 ( photography ), are we surprised here? no wtf have y'all not seen the pics i post on my twt like i got talent you have to accept it. especially a lot of talent in gaming and luck, my luck be through the roofff. just started lol a year ago and my YouTube Chanel six months ago and im already almost a diamond and about to hit a million subscribers.. talk about god's favorite! ha that's me. but the thing is more than that i wanna be yn's favorite like i know she says won and i are same but i know that kitty is closer. for now i like being glued to yn, but after figuring out things so easily it's hard to keep quiet.

CHOI BEOMGYU 23 ( film ), with the amount of hate train behind me it's a miracle i am still breathing and in one piece. praying all this ends quickly and my life is returned back to me or i'll go crazy it has been like what two? three? years already! i need my freedom. i can count and name with my fingers the people who hate me. actually no it's everyone. anyways, i share all classes with heeseung and lord is it the scariest part of my life. at least yeonjun and soobin would need time to hunt me down but lee heeseung? he's right behind me two rows, staring down my every movement. look it's not my fault okay?

KANG TAEHYUN 22 ( communications ), it wasn't consensual. it is very important to clear this up. i did not give my papers to park sunghoon by choice. he had to pay me hefty for that so there's no thank you man, dude is pretending. and i am fucking sick of covering for heeseung all the time like dude grow balls, real balls dig up some manly guts and fucking do it before i lose patience and fuck shit up. every moment of listening to him lamenting over his feelings is the most frustrating shit ever. make him hear this one for god's fucking sake.

HUENING KAI 22 ( journalism ), no matter how much everyone denies it, i know they won't survive a day without me like? i provide sunoo with all the gossip of our side? how else do you think heeseung sneaks around yeonbin with his feelings? god it's me i do the passing the parcel of info. i mean taehyun is also involved with them but then i am more useful than that reality check of a guy, i mean who needs reality when you can live in a fantasy! hehe i just outdid everyone with that! or not anyway moving on yn's cr— SUNOO: shut the fuck up bitch!

𝐈𝐈𝐈 learn about THE GROUPCHATS.

01. HEEYN TRUTHERS heeseung, jay, jake, sunghoon, taehyun and sunoo: the group that has been supporting heeseung in pursuing his feelings since he first revealed it to them. for whenever he fucks up and they have to discuss how to save his ass. normal chats happen too.

02. BOSS BABIES yn, jungwon, riki: the trio that has been friends since middle school, and sticks together. yn spends most of her time with them, that is in college. often goes out to hangout and these two are yn's only actual friends!

03. SHOOTERZ 4 YN yeonjun, soobin, heeseung and jungwon: they use this chat to text each other whenever someone upsets yn or she's going somewhere alone and they need jungwon to secretly tag along to give them updates later.

04. PRINCESS & HER KNIGHTZ yn, yeonjun, soobin and heeseung: the main stars— spoiled baby and her overprotective boys. usually text her when it has to do something with the four of them, like when yn goes out or she needs someone to pick her up or accompany her or when they have dinner at each other's place and someone's missing and likewise.

05. PSYCHOS W/ SICKOS yeonjun, soobin, beomgyu, taehyun, huening kai and heeseung: well this is heeseung's other friend group with the yn brothers' friends that become his own after a while. this is yeonbin dominated friend group chat and beomgyu is main character lmao

START THE STORY — prologue 𓈒 ‎𓈒 ‎𓈒

TAGLIST . ( OPEN ) @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @snoopypupp @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @diorsyun @hooniehon @fakeuwus @caramelcandescence @intromortal @kookify @yutasberryy @sumzysworld @nikiswifiee @shuichi-sama @primroselover @rayofsunshineeee @aishigrey @yjwluvs @soraokkotsu @nyfwyeonjun @srhnyx @trashx678 @wondipity @winuvs @hoondiors @niniissus @firstclassjaylee @biancaness send an ask to be added! (if your comment goes unnoticed it is not my responsibility)

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

meaning upon motion: rosquez [e]

Marc catalogues those things that keep showing up.

The rosé wine he likes—God, Valentino used to give him so much shit for that, him and his girly drinks. Sugar next to the coffee pot. A room for himself, but Valentino’s door is always open. The towels are 100% cotton, silken soft to the touch.

It says—something, maybe, or it’s the heavy roll of all that fucking wine in his stomach.

Marc doesn’t want to look too closely into it, so he doesn’t. Everything is still there.

Valentino makes a noise, that cross between kissing his teeth and clicking his tongue. “Tomorrow, eh?” He says, pointing his chin to the window, to the track outside.

Rain had turned it into a slippery hellslide, all brackish puddles and mud banks. He’d been thinking about that track for ten years now, give or take. Dreading it, picturing it, loving it. If they go to shit tomorrow, if racing does to them what it likes to do, he’ll have gone up on a dirt bike there anyway.

It helps. A little.

“Yeah,” Marc mutters. He goes for another sip, finds his glass empty.

Valentino is right there, though. Their calves are touching. Their knees. He lets out a soft ah, let me and fills it again for him, just a couple of fingers, almost like a fancy restaurant. It’s funny, because a couple of minutes—hours—ago, they were pretty far from each other on this ratty couch.

Marc snorts. Doesn’t want to linger on this either. “Who else is coming?”

“I tell you, no? Just the two of us.”

Valentino’s expression stutters, his baby-fine eyebrows twitching and his mouth pursing. Marc wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t so close.

“Did you? Sorry, I forgot.” It comes out easy, that harmless little lie.

Problem is, Valentino is bright like a knife between the ribs. “You are alone,” he points out. Then, less sharply: “I think, allora, for sure he brings Álex this time.”

Marc pulls a face, and Valentino breaks into a chuckle. He’d considered it, for a brief, panicky half second, right before he boarded on the plane to Bologna.

But Álex is already unhappy enough with this whole thing.

So Valentino is right—he is here alone. No Ducati mechanics, which he could’ve demanded, back to their usual tune; no Álex, which was expected; none of his branded bikes.

And the Ranch is empty.

“He wouldn’t leave the dogs,” is what Marc settles on saying rather than why don’t you have any of your staff here? Where are your Academy boys? Why are you doing this? Am I being stupid again? Is it funny? Another little harmless lie.

“All the better for me.”

Marc smiles. “Isn’t it usually?”

And that’s how the night goes, the two of them not quite talking, brushing against the heat of each other, edges dulled on rosé wine. Marc allows himself to wonder if tonight, maybe, but nothing happens.

The disappointment only softens the next morning, when Valentino shows up at his door at an insensate hour and drags him to the garage. He shepherds Marc along, a hand splayed on his back, between his shoulder blades, to show him—

“So?”

Valentino is basically bouncing. Trying to play it cool, with another impatient tsch sound, but his eyes are too keen, and there’s something jittery about the sway of his long, spindly arms.

Marc swallows past the tangle in his throat. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

It is an MX Honda, a red and orange 93 emblazoned on the front, two stroke engine. Not his model, but close enough. Everything about it is smooth and new and polished. If he tried, he thinks he would be able to smell the leather, the freshness of undented metal. His stomach rolls, light and airy like a frizz of champagne.

What an odd, expensive thing to do for a one-off guest when you have dozens of bikes around. Marc would’ve ridden any of them.

“It is,” he fishes for a word. Any word. Everything he feels is the hook of affection tangled in his guts, tugging. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton. “Good. Tell me the specs?”

“Always the hunt with you,” Valentino says.

It sounds mean—a little. In that way of Valentino’s of prodding bruises. Fond too, with him squeezing his arm, fingers lingering on the crook of his elbow. Marc wants to get on it already. Wants to race. Wants to freeze this instant, Valentino golden in the morning sun, just the two of them, talking about a dirt bike’s innards.

Leathers, gloves, boots, helmets. They hop in, and the track unfurls ahead of him. Dejavu threatens to kick Marc off the first five or so laps, where they aren’t exactly racing yet. It’s not that different—except the angle of a few corners. Too narrow here, too wide there, places where it’s either his memory fumbling or Valentino, shockingly, making changes.

“Still remember it?” Valentino prods, shouting over the engines rumbling. Marc can picture it, the slanted curve of his grin.

He scoffs. “Of course.”

Then they are racing, reckless with it. Valentino slides on a half-dried mud patch when he gets off the usual line to try and overtake him. Marc goes down too low on a corner and loses the front. They kick up dust and dirt, laughing uproariously, and Marc allows himself to think, just once, that Valentino has to be up to something.

It is easy anyway, to have fun, even if he knows that Valentino is shrewd, no stitch without a knot, even if he’s prickling, restless, unkissed. They didn’t come up with rules, so the excuse of racing becomes a graceless overtake fest, round and round and round, until their bikes start to splutter without fuel.

Valentino leads them through a final show, a victory lap on the colosseum, bathed by the infernal midday sun. Leads them to the kitchen after that—chipped plates, an atrocity of a tablecloth, horrendous yellow flowers on a green field. Another world from the track, it looks like.

There’s escabetx. The fish is soggy—reheated—but it tastes good. Familiar. Way, way, way above Valentino’s cooking skills.

Dishes left on the sink for later or tomorrow or whenever, they circle back to the couch. It throws Marc off more than the changes to the track, more than his growing catalogue of things that don’t quite add up. Last time he was here, there wasn’t a moment to think. The Ranch was full of cameras, and events, and eager-hungry Academy kids, and personnel, and PR stuff.

Valentino brandishes a small chocolate bar like a parrying knife. Breaks off a piece for himself, shoves the rest in his hands. Marc can’t pretend to not want it. He’s always liked sweetness.

He can’t pretend to not have something on his mind either. It lingers, red-hot.

Might as well do it. Make it real.

“Valentino,” he starts, gets cut off.

“Are you having fun?”

Marc’s mouth clicks shut. He prods his tongue against his teeth, the chocolate sticking there, to not laugh. The weave of them sitting so close feels like crystal in his grip. Fragile glass. It’s very Valentino. A bit myopic. He’s immortalized moments less gentle than this. Cradled them close and kept them with him forever.

And really, fun.

Was fun ever the issue?

“Of course,” he answers, smiles. The corners of his eyes are crinkling, he knows, but so are Valentino’s.

There’s a suspended beat, Valentino inching closer, about as subtle as his neon merch. “But is it fantastic—the best you’ve ever had?”

Marc does laugh this time. Valentino aims for smug, hits it pretty well.

“Almost.”

And it’s a mindfuck, that he sees the way Valentino straightens up in real time. Now that he isn’t so young anymore, buzzing with the chance of touching a streak of the divine. Now that he can recognize the man in him—which is no less devastating, truth be told. The little frown on his forehead, deepening the wrinkles there.

Tell me, he says without saying, spreading his hand on Marc’s ankle. “You used to be pushier when I was twenty.”

Valentino’s breathing does something funny. A convulsive little wheeze.

“You,” he starts, has to try again. “In Argentina.”

Marc looks off to the side.

Argentina, right. His arm had been hurting, chainsaw teeth to the old wound. Álex had been watching, a worried, unhappy tilt to his lips—one in a sea of pinched-tight faces, going from the jerky seesaw of his shoulder to Valentino standing there, close. Too many cameras, too many eyes, too many points he could win. Did win.

And Marc is as superstitious as he can afford to be.

Nothing good can come out of Termas, of Sepang—like nothing good can come out of Galilee.

Marc doesn’t remember what he said, exactly. Only that he’d been clenching down on a razor blade for the whole weekend and very, very tired of being in pain. If Valentino touched him then, it’d have hurt too. But now he has Marc’s ankle, and a bike for him, and Catalan food, and chocolate, and soft towels, and everything rattling in his mind for the past thirty-something hours is—

Kiss me.

“But it’s fine, now.” It isn’t.

It categorically isn’t, but it’s stupid to worry about that. Why tempt this into breaking? Marc licks chocolate off his fingers, Valentino’s eyes burning on his hands, his mouth. He clambers into his lap with the sugar sharp on his tongue, their knees knocking together.

Careful, mild, it never lasts, not between them. Valentino gets both hands on his waist, thumbs digging on the sliver of skin where his undershirt has ridden up.

The small bite of pain is exquisite. Barely anything, but still.

“Cannot be easy, hm?” Valentino hums, lilting, bemused, closer than they’d been since that odd week between Sepang and Valencia.

“Like you want it easy.”

He spits out the word, and Valentino laughs. Runs his fingers over the jut of his hipbones. “Allora, we can say we try, it is boring.”

It’s that small sway of movement that gets him. His head is spinning. He surges into the kiss he’s been hungry for a humiliating stretch of time, catches the noise Valentino makes ravenously. Marc likes it more than he thought he would, making out like teenagers—nipping at Valentino’s lower lip to make him hiss, licking into his mouth.

The kisses start melting together, one after the other after the other. They’re greedy, unashamed. Marc only realizes they’re grinding against each other when Valentino breaks off, groans, sweat beading on the edge of his thinning hair.

“Do you want—” Valentino skims his hand over the knobs of his spine. Marc wedges them closer together, leaning in to suck a bruise on the hollow of his throat.

“Not yet,” he mumbles there, hidden, safe as it gets. “No. Sorry. I am not—I do not know what—”

“Alright,” Valentino tells him, brusque but not unkind. “Alright.”

Is it, Marc wants to ask, but instead he takes his time pressing his teeth to Valentino’s jaw, leaving a red imprint there. Marc can feel him hard against him, pressing against his belly. There’s a gasping noise, but Valentino shakes his head at his inquisitive look.

It’s exactly as ungainly as the past thirty minutes and thirty hours were, Valentino pulling their cocks out. Takes some shuffling. Marc ends up with his hand on the half-melted candy bar, stumbles over half a dozen curses, and Valentino tugs at wrist to lick it clean before managing to get his underwear down and spitting on his own palm.

His hand is still dry around them both. The callouses there scrape. Marc chokes on a whine, closes his eyes, then forces them open again because he has to watch this.

“Vale,” Marc moans, hips hitching. Valentino’s other hand surges up, grabs his chin tight to force his head back. There’re teeth, his tongue soothing their sting.

Marc jolts, their cocks rubbing together—and God, it’s only everything he wants. After that, they don’t settle into a rhythm as much as they crumble into one. Valentino’s hand hot and tight around them, and his mouth insistent against Marc’s for a kiss, two, ten. The slide gets easier, wetter. There’s the fucking noise it makes, damp, obscene.

And there’s Valentino, looking at him. Softer, maybe, than either of them should risk.

“Are you—wooing me?” Marc asks, halfway to a laugh. He doesn’t stammer. Much.

It’s there, behind his teeth—were you wooing me this whole time? Are you being gentle?

Valentino has the gall to grin, makes his grip a little firmer when Marc tries to pretend to be annoyed. “I am a romantic,” he says, all showmanship that shatters when Marc bucks against him, grinds them together. “Stop that, Christ.”

He doesn’t.

So Valentino clamps down on his nape, wound tight, biting on his throat. There’s zero fucking finesse to any of it, Marc fumbling for air, for the string of his sanity, digging into Valentino’s skinny, sharp shoulders. It’s ugly, too fast. Valentino jerks at the bite of his nails. Marc is so hard his vision that starts to wobble.

Next time, they can get on a bed, they can be sweet—maybe.

Right now, Marc wants to come so much he’s unraveling, drool pooling inside his mouth.

“Good?” Valentino asks, strained. He could make it sound cruel—there was a time when it was the only way he spoke. But it’s plaintive instead. Small.

“Fantastic. Best I’ve ever had.”

God, he tries for a joke, for wryness—it comes out too honest, instead. Marc vows to be ashamed about it later.

Or not at all. Valentino buries whatever he was going to say next in a bite, hard and mean on the swell of his chest. Marc catches a fraction of what his face looks like, shocked, hungry, mouth tight. He comes over his hand, his stomach, shaking with a keening groan.

It’s—Christ. Marc ruts against Valentino and his lax, sloppy grip until he’s twitching and whining with oversensitivity, cock fully soft against his thigh. But those flashes of pain get Valentino back online, have him wrapping his come-streaked fingers properly around Marc.

He doesn’t take that easy, either. Fucks Valentino’s fist, pants heavily. It’s burnt with hot iron in his mind, how Valentino’s expression had turned raw like a bruised nerve ending. Marc chases his own orgasm wildly, babbling—Spanish, Catalan, Italian, whatever. He comes in a kaleidoscopic fritz of color, everything narrowed down to the slack line of Valentino’s mouth.

His bones are loose, liquid. If he tried walking, he thinks his feet would sink in clouds. The minutes tick by around them, a string of flowing, round pearls slipping from his fingers.

Marc blinks—once he feels marginally more human again—and stretches his neck. Smooths his hand over Valentino’s crooked collar, his skinny chest. There’s come on his stomach, drying on a viscous patch over dark gray fabric.

“Your shirt is dirty,” he says, feeling clumsy, feeling golden.

Valentino clicks his tongue. “Ah, who cares.”

“Uhm, okay.” Marc decides against safety, tucks his face into the crook of Valentino’s throat. “It is an ugly shirt anyway.”

There’s laughing, the sound punched out and disbelieving. A hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. Outside, it’s raining, a soft, gray security blanket over the everything else that they’ll one day be able to say.

[valorantmenheadcanons]

Innocent and shy masc reader has an incredibly dirty search history and an even worse taste in porn, has a large collection of order receipts from bad dragon. Cypher goes snooping and finds this all out? They have a little "chat" about network security -🐩

this is like my biggest fear except with my parents accidentally opening one of my packages. its either shampoo or a toy gnmsfgns

cw: suggestive, mentions of Corn, technically kind of cyberstalking? it's cypher what do u expect

wc: 718

It's late when you hear a soft knock at your door. You put your phone down on the bed, wondering who's on the other side of the door, especially at this hour. You hope it isn't a call for a last minute mission- the last thing you want right now is to be in a plane in a matter of minutes, geared up to fight.

When you open the door, you're greeted to the sight of a familiar beige figure, standing just a little too close. Cypher never seemed to mind getting in other people's space as long as he was the one doing it; invade his and he'd scamper off in seconds. His blue mechanical eyes scan over you quickly, though in a way that reminds you of someone checking for weapons rather than looking appreciatively.

"I need to talk to you about something," the man chirps, inviting himself inside your room before you can say anything. He slides by you with a careful hand on your shoulder, the leathery material of his gloves cool against your skin. You flush a little at the contact, fleeting but strangely electrifying. You shut your door behind him, folding your arms over your chest as you turn around to face him. You assume he's going to ask for a favour of some kind, or he wants to steal a piece of machinery from you, again, but you're really not in the mood to humour his requests, tired, and a little cranky because of it. Cypher pauses for a moment, hand half-raised in the air like he's trying to figure out exactly what he wants to say. "You know that I am very technology proficient, yes?"

You nod, frowning at the opening. He's usually pretty straightforward when he's asking for something.

"Come on, everyone knows to delete it afterwards. Are you trying to tease me?" Cypher's voice is smooth, peppy and cheerful but calculated, any hint of hesitancy gone. He's talking to you the same way he chides his opponents in a fight he's already won. The realisation sends a shiver up your spine- he knows something that either you don't know or don't want him to know. But you have an inkling, a gut feeling, that it's something you didn't want him to know. Not yet, anyways.

"What are you talking about?" You try, a little too quick to appear genuinely confused. Cypher's head only tilts minutely.

"You're too smart to be playing dumb. I mean, really?" Cypher scoffs, taking a few steps forwards, forcing you to take one back to maintain a semblance of distance between you two. "Looking up Moroccan models?" Another step forward, and your back brushes against the wall next to the door. "Picturing me as any one of them, hm?" Another step, and there's barely any space between you, and you want to die.

You hadn't intended for him to see any of that- although that meant he was snooping around your private search history, a whole other issue to tackle- but you also hadn't not intended for him to see any of that. It was a blurred line, your attraction to Cypher.

"'dirty talk in arabic'?" He has the decency to stifle a laugh, which only makes your face flush deeper, embarrassment, shame, and something else washing over you. "Mm, not to mention your purchasing history. Dirty, dirty, dirty boy," he clicks his tongue. "I thought you were all sweet, not so perverted."

You finally find your voice, the tips of your ears burning at this point. "I'm not the one snooping around in other people's stuff!" You tout back, a weak deflection.

"I'm not the one imagining their coworker is fucking them."

"Shut up!" You groan, really wishing with all your heart that you could be anywhere but here.

Cypher's beady blue eyes lift with a mirth you can sense through his mask. "Ohhh... but you like it. You're so red," and this time he does chuckle, mean and condescending, and damn if it doesn't send a little jolt of warmth through you, the idea that that little laugh is just for you to hear. "How about this: You show me which videos you like, and I'll give you a... personal lesson in how to delete your search history. How does that sound?"

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Intrigued With You

I ii iii iiii

Yandere! Pinocchio x Fem! Mechanic! Reader

Warnings: Implied toxic familial relationship, unbalanced power dynamics between the reader and Geppetto, very slight mental breakdown, slowly going into a downwards spiral, paranoia, mentioned past violence and stalking. When the full game comes out, this work may be completely different from the actual game. Please tell me if I missed any.

This blog contains/creates/interacts with dark content.

Minors/blank blogs/blogs that don’t reblog any fan art or fan fiction DNI.

Word count:3096k

Over all story summary: Your uncle’s puppet takes a bit too much of an interest in you: in which you fucked up in this chapter.

==

The public’s opinion of you started to go downhill since then.

It’s been a week, and while most of the citizens won’t throw rocks or stalk you, they still stare – glares that are sharper than a knife, cutting deep into your arteries. You could practically feel the blood oozing out, a puddle forming underneath you as you stood on the stage, heart threating to explode any second now. The crowd just stares, and the puppet next to you cheers. How funny. The damn puppet is offering you more support than the intended audience.

Your foot taps against the wood. Your head throbs and you hold back a scream. You’re a monkey in a circus and they’re throwing peanuts at you.

“Hello everyone. I am here today to introduce a new, and improved, Nanny Puppet, upgraded with new codes and everything.” Your smile is strained, some of the people cheering with others sitting in silence. Seems as though some are genuinely interested and perhaps even excited about the new developments.

Glancing at your uncle who rests behind the curtains to the side, he nods his head.  But most of his attention was on the puppet rather than you. “And it even comes with settings you can adjust yourself at home.”

The Nanny cheers again, robotic, and staticky still. So lifeless, its entire being written on a script. But as you look over the crowd on the wooden stage, head light and heart thumping like thunder, you feel the same. From the way you are standing, to the wave of your hands and your words, is all scripted.

A script written by your uncle.

“Now, come,” you gesture to The Nanny, and it listens, turning its back towards the crowd as you stand next to it. There’s buttons and latches, and you undo them all, with a quick ‘sorry,’ uttered into its ‘ear.’ A habit you picked up from the years of working with your uncle.

And with the rise of malfunctions, part of you thinks it’s for the best. Pretend you’re sorry to them, and maybe when everything goes south, they’ll take pity on you. Paranoia doesn’t look good on you, you realize, showing the audience the off switch, the lights in its eyes dimming as it turns off. This wasn’t a new feature.

But the kill switch is.

“As you can see, the power switch is still enabled, even in these new models. So, don’t worry about that, but!” you bring out a control panel from your waistcoat pocket. It’s small enough to fit in your hand, and on the black surface lies a red button, a little glass cap covering it. To prevent any accidental touches. You grip it a little too hard.

“This right here is a kill switch. Now, I’m not going to press it,” your thumb rubs circles over the cap. You can’t find it in you to force another smile, mentally and physically drained from everything. “But the moment you press it, the puppet will immediately shut down… but it won’t turn on again, either.”

There’s some ‘ooo’s’ and ‘awe’s,’ but the silence of the rest is what puts you on edge. They’re most likely the protesters. You wouldn’t be surprised if this stage would set fire any minute now. You shudder at the thought. Another glance at your uncle – he nods, again.

But his eyes are still mostly focused on the puppet. You can’t tell if it is in interest, hope, or disappointment. Just like how you can’t tell if there’s still warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

“How does it work?”

You blink, off guard. A woman raised her hand, curious eyes drilling into you. You prepared yourself for this, practicing in front of a mirror for hours on end. You got this. You need to. You might fall apart otherwise.

“So, essentially, it – “

“Or, how about you don’t make them at all? The puppets, I mean.” A man speaks up, hat hiding his gaze, but you feel the hatred and frustration radiating off him in waves. You prepared yourself for this too. But reality still sends you reeling back mentally, the thought of rocks being thrown, or stage set on fire. At least he pretends to be respectful, even with his group frowning at you.

Your body trembles the slightest bit.

“Oh – um… I understand where you come from. It’s… it can be difficult to see use in the puppets, but they’re mostly here for when you can’t do something or need extra help…” you can’t tell if you’re lying to him or saying the truth – it’s all part of the script. And truthfully, you agree with him.

You just keep your mouth shut on the matter.

“They’re taking our jobs, you know? Oh wait, you probably don’t – you’re well-off, producing and selling these… things.” The same man shakes his head before pushing others out of his way – he stops just shy of an inch before the stage. “You don’t have to worry about them stealing your job. For now, at least.”

He adjusts his hat, and the contempt in his eyes is so heavy you’re on the verge of drowning. You swallow. You do know, you do, but it’s not like you could do anything. You already tried, you tried, but talking doesn’t work and –

“Alright, alright, I think that’s enough for now.” Your uncle comes out, places a hand on your shoulder. It feels more restricting than comforting. “It’s been a rather long day for everyone, hasn’t it? The sun is going down, and dinner time is drawing near. Same place and time tomorrow, as it was yesterday and today.”

Unlike you, he sounds confident. Gentle, but firm, and yet, you’re starting to grow more wary of him than the protesters. You wish you could hurry and pick a side. Money or no money, everything was starting to seem more futile, meaningless. You want to live under a rock.

Live under a rock and become separated from your job. You tap your foot more aggressively, biting your lip once your back is turned to the crowd. Your hands twitch even with the control in your hands.

He doesn’t leave room for debate, guiding you on the shoulder to walk down the stage and to his little personal workshop. The police – puppets, again – prevent anyone from getting close. You weren’t here yesterday; it was just him. Did he go through the same thing? Is that why he’s so calm, so natural about it?

Or was he always like this? Disconnected from everything that did not concern his work, his dreams? His puppet, his –

“… Uncle,” you fiddle with the control in your hands. “Did anyone accompany you yesterday?” You can’t find it in you to look at him. Can’t even talk properly, no matter how hard you try to accept everything, like you should. It’s expected of you. And maybe it is because of that, that you can’t find yourself willing to do so.

“Mm. Howard did. It was a welcomed surprise.” He chuckles low in his throat, adjusting his hat as you make way home. Guilt immediately starts to boil within, your heart squeezing painfully as your throat closes in on itself. “He’s a fine young man indeed.”

“He is, isn’t? Such a nice young man…” you agree, nodding your head, ignoring the gnawing at your chest. You care about him, dreadfully so, to the point it was horribly painful. Which was why you tried to keep him out of your business.

But he was just so stubborn.

“Hm,” he takes a glance at you; eyes shifting from one side to another. You see it but don’t think much of it. But even so, you can’t ignore the lack of warmth in his gaze. “I heard he’s been visiting you more often now. Are you two perhaps…?”

“No! No, it’s not like that. It won’t ever be like that again.” You laugh, shaking your head. You fidget with the control more. You look down at your hands – scars and light burns decorate them like tattoos. No longer as ‘pretty’ as society would like to describe.

The though brings out a laugh.

“It just won’t work out.”

“How come?” He sounds interested, but not in a caring way – it was in a way that made you feel like a test subject. “You were such a great pair. He would have made an excellent son-in-law for your parents.”

You grit your teeth. “Yeah. He would have. But that’s neither here nor there; it’s in the past. And it will forever remain in the past.” Your face feels hot – anger? Shame? Annoyance and irritation jabbing at every corner of your very being, you try your best to remain stoic about the conversation. Even if you subconsciously know he’s taking a jab at you.

Even though he has no reason to.

You were sure of it now – all of the warmth that was inside your uncle was slowly becoming cold. Was he always this type of man? Cold? Disconnected from everything? But surely, there was still some left for you, right?

A faint chuckle. “I apologize – I shouldn’t have brought up the subject. I wasn’t aware that it was still a touchy subject.” His fingers dig into your shoulder before his grip loosens. He pats it twice before fully letting you go, turning his head to smile at you.

You think it was meant to be gentle. “It’s fine. It was my fault for… assuming you had other intentions by bringing it up.” It’s a lie. It wasn’t fine, and you both know that. But it should be okay, because he’s a man you consider to be your uncle, and of course uncle Geppetto always wants what’s best for you. It would crush you if he didn’t.

“Mm, that’s the spirit. Don’t let anything drag you down.” You’re at his personal workshop now, the wind picking up. It’s getting colder. The leaves are starting to fall more and more, flowers wilting as the days go by. Just like you.

“Now then, I hope you take great care of him. I have other business to attend to, but I wanted to make sure you made it back safe and sound.” Your uncle gives you exactly two pats on the back. Adjusting his glasses, he turns to look at you, smiling.

Smiling, smiling, smiling – it’s all he does. It’s what unnerves you the most. It’s what the citizens hate about him. It’s what unarms your family. It’s what feels the most inhuman about him.

“Yes, of course,” you reply, nodding your head. Your fingers start scrapping against the control gently. Foot tapping, you attempt to smile. “I would never harm… it. It is also my project, you know?”

It wasn’t.

“Mm, yes, of course. Thank you for all your hard work.” And with a tilt of his hat, he’s off – you watch his retreating back, the muscles with every movement. You just realized he could easily overpower you.

Your fingers dig harder into the control until you can feel your fingernails digging into your own flesh. You wonder if he would turn against you if you were to abandon this job field.

--

Two hours and forty minutes.

That’s how long you have been tampering with the legion arm – your uncle begged you to stop calling it a mechanical arm – greasing it, tightening the screws, making sure that the fingers curl just like a real hand would. And of course it did – it should, especially since nearly all your paychecks and funds go into this puppet and not your own personal life.

Two hours and forty minutes, plus two months and you’re barely about to be done with this damn thing. You finished two other ones before this, but even then, you might have to ‘fix’ them. Make sure that they’re up to your uncle’s very high standards.

“Fuck… why am I even working on this thing? This is the least of our concerns, not to mention – ow, fuck!” In your hurry to get another type of screwdriver, you pushed over a failed ‘heart’ test dummy. It lands directly on your foot, causing you to drop everything else as you hold it with your trembling hands.

They were doing that more often. “Wow, okay, great. Sure, let’s just let everything fall on you. God, I’m going crazy. I might turn into a menace before the protesters and puppets do.” Running a hand through your hair, you pace back in forth, biting your free thumb.

Every time you enter this godforsaken place, your sanity dwindles bit by bit. “Okay, let’s calm down – my foot isn’t bleeding, I think. I should… I should take a break.” Despite your words, you go back to working – picking up the old ‘heart’ and placing it back on the messy table.

Research papers messily stacked at a corner, puppet parts scattered all over, grease stains on the wood. The table wears scratch marks like medals of honor. Pausing for a moment, you walk to the far-right side of the table, picking up the papers and placing them into a clean square bin on the floor. You kick it to some random corner of the workshop.

The urge to rip them to shreds is, in a way, comforting. If those were gone, how could you continue on? They even had blueprints. Nails dig into your palms at the thoughts. Not harsh enough to draw blood, however.

“Hm, I should clean up… but what’s the point? Everything gets scattered again, uncle moves the parts to the most random of places, Howard ends up losing them… so much to do, such little time.”

Ranting to yourself, you stomp to the table again, picking up the new and ‘official’ heart for the puppet. You remember putting it elsewhere. In a drawer. Safe and sound.

And yet, it was on this stupid, stupid table –

“Are they trying to kill me?” you mumble out, on the verge of pulling out strands of your hair. “Not only that, but the fact I could have been harmed today… he knows they already threw stones at me, why make me appear in public again? Why get on the wooden stage that could easily be consumed by fire?”

Without thinking, you stride over to the puppet sitting on the red plush chair. When you’re shy a few inches from it, you take a moment to admire its beauty – the eyes were closed. Long eyelashes that cast shadows onto pale, freckled ‘skin.’ The carob brown hair still looked as soft as ever, with messy curls that remind you of his hair back when he was younger.

Back when everything was normal. Gentler times where warmth wasn’t forced into honeyed words, when you weren’t so scared of being beaten to death. When everything was fine. Happy.

It was missing the left arm – the legion arm. You cast a glance behind you, spotting the arm on the table. That’s the one he wants to put on for now. The most simple, basic one, no complicated functions, no paint, just metal. You decide to leave it.

Turning to face the puppet again, tilting your head, you really take in its appearance; it has an average body type. Maybe a bit more on the lean side, but aside from the pretty face and missing arm, it looked human. It looked normal.

And that’s what scares you.

“…,” against your better judgement, your hand reaches out. Fingertips graze against the cheeks, feeling how cold and smooth it was. It’s flawless compared to your hand. You pause to see if the puppet will move at your touch. When it doesn’t, you bring your hand up, taking a closer step to it. The hair was soft, fluffy. It didn’t feel fake like it should.

It felt real.

“… I shouldn’t be doing this. Hah. I really am going crazy.” The thread that was holding your sanity together was close to snapping. Again, against your better judgement, you act on impulse. Unbuttoning the white button-down, you feel your heart drop at how… human it looks.

But upon closer inspection, there was a thin line, forming a square across the chest. There was a little screw, the opening to inside of the chest. Huffing, you dig into your overcoat pocket, retrieving the specific screwdriver – your uncle makes you carry it like a lifeline. However, you are not sure if he thought it through – what if someone mugged you?

Your hand hesitates as you hold the screwdriver, hovering by the opening. The ‘heart’ was still in your hands. It starts to beat slowly, almost as if coming to life. “… Uncle might kill me if I mess with his favorite puppet…”

Instead of heeding your own words, you open the chest cavity, placing the screwdriver back into your pocket. You’ve seen it before; hollow, wires connecting with each other and to the sides. There’s a small open space where a human heart would be. You look at the one in your hand before nodding your head.

You were acting rebellious, in a way. And it may very well lead into your downfall, either being killed by a puppet going haywire or by your uncle’s red, blinding rage.

You hesitate before gently putting the ‘heart’ into its assigned area. Connecting the wires to it, patting it, watching as it starts to glow, beating steadily. You did not think twice about your actions. After a second, you close it, screwing it shut before walking serval steps away.

Nothing happens.

“Hah… ha-ha, what was I thinking? I went from zero to a hundred within a few minutes… I should take a few days off. Maybe even a week…” chuckling to yourself, you rub your head. You’re getting a migraine. Much be too much caffeine, that coffee would eventually kill you.

Turning around, you walk away from the puppet, heading towards the door to get some fresh air. To force some sanity back into your head before you scream your lungs out and pull out every single strand of your hair out. The longer you stay here, the worse you become.

Creak.

You stop in your tracks, blood turning cold. No. surely not – your eyes widen when you realize how stupid you are. You were dumb enough to connect the wires to the heart. But! When your uncle did that, this didn’t –

You turn your head around so fast you almost snap your neck. Your heart drops.

It opens its eyes, and the first thing it sees is you.

tag list:

@ijustreblogstuff-i-like @chiofany @quzbea @cute-angi

@nealcaffrey2129 @connorsoddsock

@rositabluemoon

[bite-scars]

Recently fully contenting with the fact that I have a big brother kink,,

I blame being stuck as the oldest child but with horrible anxiety, autism, and emotional neglect making the idea of being any kind of role model without one for myself Terrifying, combined with being transmasc and having that pretty much dismissed or at the very least constantly undermined literally all throughout my teenage years 💀

I was also just an obsessively horny kid for no discernable reason dhzjhx maybe it was the only clear form of affection from guys I was at all familiar with being romantic/sexually coded and not really knowing how someone was meant to bond with them otherwise idk. Add that to me literally making an imaginary friend that was just a caring older brother at first and you can imagine the progression of that had a hand in this also🧍

I'm just. I think enough Tough Love type kinda loser older brother that's also just super overprotective and will back you/help you through anything while simultaneously insisting you should "man up" fantasies could fix me--

Older brother that on the one hand has a rebellious dgaf overall bad influence reputation to uphold but on the other hand had to deal with the same parents I did and can't help but be protective of his cute little brother seeing him going through the same or similarly shitty situations, doing his best to mitigate the damage when he realizes how much more sensitive I am to it than he was.

Being the only person in the house I'm comfortable going to for anything, always making me feel safe even when trying to get me to push a boundary for my own good (whether it's Actually for my own good or not-). Insisting any and all unhealthy coping mechanisms I've turned to (or he's introduced me to) are done in his presence only, he's just concerned about my safety and doesn't want me doing them alone (again whether true or not I'm too trusting or dependant to notice a difference). Basically singlehandedly supporting my transition, making sure I get any and all hand-me-downs he still has lying around (and there are plenty, his closet is like a museum of old shit at this point, like he's never gotten rid of a thing in his life even though he definitely has. There are still character-print boxers in there that are pretty much my size), going over our parents' heads to talk with my school about it (having to "correct" all that would be too much effort for them anyways, they'll just leave it be at that point) and interacting with our parents in general for me unless it's absolutely necessary for me to be there.

Finding any excuse to brag and show off his adorable little brother to his equally delinquent friends, letting me join in on smoke sessions since he knows I can't go 10 minutes without following him around like a little puppy, always wanting to be in his lap (he tries to act like it's annoying but he thinks it's cute, not to mention convenient), and hey, with how high-strung i am already he decides maybe the weed would do me good anyways. Keeping the less respectful of his friends on a short leash around me, not hesitating to kick anyone out that can't heed a warning (full-stop, better not forget anything on your way out because you ain't gonna get another chance to get it back-). Getting quietly jealous over any of the others I end up getting sort of attached to, but rather than starting actual shit with them he'll just find ways to remind me that he's the most important to me, even if his friend is cool he's always cooler, right?

Idk this general underlying setup is a theme in a lot of my fantasies tbh, there's a lot that can vary between them (sometimes either brother is grosser or more genuine, really just depends on my mood lol) but the dynamic is always some flavor of this and it probably says a lot 💀

[rightshoeonleftfoot]

Marius "Jäger" Streicher headcanons, I may or may not be completely in love with him...

🥃 Jäger is a whisky drinker. It's his drink of choice, no ice needed. He still does drink beer but he'd rather have a glass of whisky than a bottle of beer. (His favourite whiskey is Yellowstone, yes it's absolutely self-indulgent)

🚗 He drives a shitbox. I'm talking like an old ass 80's Buick, or something similar. Though he's definitely partial to German cars (he's a patriot, what can I say), def has a Volkswagen or an Audi. He definitely knows which Audi models are the most reliable. (He drives a Volkswagen Scirocco Mk 2, it's his pride and joy, I don't make the rules)

🎶 Listens to mainly German rock/rock in general. Here's a playlist that I find accurate to my headcanon of his music taste: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/29N16n6eHU6P2hExqaa4xY?si=FFtI6gEKSqW9ZPF36OZINg

🪛 This is based off of canon, but he's 100% a workaholic. His work is his hobby. He literally mentions that spending his time off in the lab is like a dream vacation to him. He feels he needs to be productive all the time, he doesn't really like "relaxing" that much. His time to relax is when he's either learning something new or working.

🖌️ He is insanely good at drawing machinery. He doesn't consider himself to be an artist, but he is really really good at drawing anything mechanical. He draws cars and car engines for fun, he draws his own prototypes and inventions for his patents and blueprints. Expect him to have a notebook full of messy and clean drawings of cars, helicopters, random parts he just felt like drawing. He mainly draws to see things from a different perspective and to learn.

🌯 He doesn't cook for himself often, but when he does it's absolutely delicious. Jäger knows how to cook! He's a banger cook, too. He only has a solid few cookbooks at home that he uses, he always tries something different but it's always from those three books.

[uplatterme]

a/n: im putting the warnings first this time because the writing style is a bit different. also, it really isn’t clear what actually happened to sohreh so this whole thing is just a fun interpretation is all.

cw: violence, murder, dark content (this is insane, like actually. please read with caution) | sub!zandik, zandik!dottore, gender-neutral terms and pronouns but reader has a cock, exhibitionism, semi-public sex

———

Journal Entry No. XX (Recorded on: ??-??-??)

—Written By: (Dastur Sohreh)

These reports seemed to have been stained heavily with bodily fluids. Certain words are unreadable.

—The team consisted of renowned students of the Akademiya, including; Sohreh, Zandik, XXXX, and XXXX. This team was led by Sage Shanarma and Senior ▇▇.

Each one had brought something new to the plate, despite not getting along at first due to different views on the decisions that the team followed. Notably, from Zandik, whose suggestions seemed to be far too dangerous to even try, that was immediately shut down without even a second thought.

However, Senior ▇▇ always heard him out and always stood by his side whenever there were arguments. Rumors spread throughout the team about their supposed relationship.

Being scholars of the Akademiya meant that we should always rely on facts rather than meaningless accusations. Once I told them of this, the gossip was never brought up.

▇▇ was kind to everyone, even to me. They would always assist me whenever I had trouble walking because of the heat.

I had an ominous feeling that someone was glaring at me from behind whenever I was helped, but when I turned around, there was no one but the forest itself.

Perhaps, it was just my anxiety acting up from feeling as if I wasn’t contributing much to the group. ▇▇ reassured me I was doing just fine.

—I trusted ▇▇’s words about Zandik. I once found myself exploring the jungle with him and even though the start of our expedition proved that we had nothing in common, he opened up interesting topics to discuss, ranging from plants and animals to the current evolution models.

I found myself being taken aback by him, the way he spoke showed off his clearly high intellect. His appearance is also quite attractive. I sometimes matched my gaze with him intentionally and he would return it with a smile that made my heart flutter.

Unfortunately, I grew distant from Senior as I relied on this information to them. They said encouraging words about Zandik and I’s relationship but their eyes looked saddened, almost empty the longer I observed them.

They never approached me after that and the only time they would talk to me is if I approached them first.

Maybe it was true that there was a past relationship between Zandik and Senior ▇▇? If there was, it didn’t seem to matter to Zandik anymore as he agreed when I suggested that we should go on a picnic tonight.

The picnic was lovely but I couldn’t get the feeling off my back that someone was watching us together.

———

The next writings are written with blood, the writing is shaky and incomprehensible as if it was written with pure desperation.

You let out an amused sigh, taking your pen out from the drawer under your stable.

“Such a shame, Sohreh. You didn’t even get to finish this note. Should I help you out?”

You tapped the pen on the table, wondering where to start.

———

You commended your patience at the time. Seeing Zandik with someone else and not doing anything about it? You honestly couldn’t believe it.

It was obvious that he didn’t like the attention he was receiving. That’s what you told yourself, at least. You couldn’t figure out what it was that he was using Sohreh for.

Then again, he was never the one to just simply spit out answers without a price.

There wasn’t exactly a label between you two. So perhaps you shouldn’t even be jealous to begin with. 

Oh, please.

The expedition was going far too smooth for your liking anyways.

The violent and loud mechanic noises rang in your ears. There were screams all coming from the team, wondering what it is that they should do.

Yet, out of all the horrified faces on each of them, one stood out.

A face of shock that soon turned into a gleeful one, excited for something new. Knowledge, that would soon quench his thirst at the moment.

He was truly an eccentric one. 

You smiled as he took a step forward, and eventually, those slow steps hastened, running to the ruin guard instead of backing away.

The scholar beside you, however, still hadn’t reacted. Sohreh’s shaking. The poor thing was terrified, legs giving up and failing to notice the ruin guard eyeing her way.

You could pull her away in time if you wanted to. There was enough time to keep her out of harm’s way.

If only she listened to those rumors.

The ruin guard had attacked Sohreh, her body flopping to the floor. The sound of bones breaking stood out from the screaming and metallic noises.

You clap your hands together, gaining the attention of everyone.

“Zandik’s trying to fix the problem right now. Everyone, focus on your surroundings, don’t make unnecessary movements that’ll trigger more reactions.” You directed, ignoring the groaning of the woman below your knees.

Suffice to say, each one was horrified. There were minor injuries that the others had gotten but nothing severe. You could see how grateful they were that they didn’t end up like Sohreh, who was now laying on the ground, in dire need of medical treatment.

In the end, these scholars only valued themselves.

“Senior? What should we do?” One of them had asked, bearing a pathetic look on their face, avoiding the gruesome state of the body placed on a picnic blanket that somebody had found.

“We will return at once.”

Zandik stepped in front of you, not agreeing with that choice.

“Should we not bring this machine back to the Akademiya? I can guarantee that this can prove to be useful in different ways! It’s the first we’ve seen of this kind.” He enthusiastically said.

The others did not appeal to that thought.

It seemed that these scholars did not value the life that was slowly withering away next to them, choosing to argue instead of seeking the medical attention that Sohreh clearly needed.

“Are you insane? That thing cannot be brought back to the Akademiya! It will spur chaos with the sages!”

“And you have seen my prowess, have you not? I was the only one with the slightest clue on how to keep it dormant while you stood there like cowards!” Zandik angrily shouted back, biting his teeth together.

This silenced the arguing. He was right and everyone knew that. Without his help, who knew what else could have happened instead?

You sighed at the useless bickering. The priorities of these people were laughable.

“We’ll have to hear from the Sages, Zandik,” You reassured.

“Meanwhile, as Sohreh cannot travel. I’m requesting everyone to seek help from the Akademiya, a healer preferably, or anyone that you could reach out to as quickly as you can.”

“Well, aren’t you just as mischievous as before?” Zandik stated, no longer keeping his thoughts as everyone besides you two had left to get assistance.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Is that how you want to take this conversation?” He huffed, walking towards you—no, walking towards Sohreh.

He examined her body, guts almost slipping out of her torso, her right leg dislocated. Her blood seeped to the picinic blanket that they had used during their date.

It was honestly a miracle that she was still breathing at this point.

And almost as if she could hear your thoughts. Sohreh’s eyes opened, directly facing Zandik.

“Z-Zandik?” She mustered out, coughing and spitting out blood from her throat.

“It’s alright, I’ve taken care of the ruin guard.”

“Of course, you would have… You’re the only capable one here.” She joked.

You stayed quiet, listening in on the conversation. You doubted she even knew that you were here.

“Are you…going to help me out?” She asked and Zandik only answered with that picture-perfect smile that he always wore when he wanted something.

The man fixed her hair, moving them away from her eyes.

“Show me.” He said.

“Wha—?!”

Zandik’s right hand went for her throat, pressing deep. Her vocal cords getting too damaged for her to even scream.

She flailed her arms around, trying to escape the scholar’s grip. Sohreh was confused by the man’s new behavior. She was mouthing out several words that fell silent.

Her reactions were quite beautiful. Sohreh had always been expressive, putting everything on her sleeve. It would make sense that he wanted a better view when he finally ended this whole thing.

It was then that she decided that she couldn’t escape from this man alone. She needed someone, anyone to help her. Her eyes scouted the empty forest when she saw a familiar hair color.

“S-Senior!” She choked out, her voice hoarse and ruined.

“Zandik.” Once he heard his name being called out, he stopped.

He stared at you, those eyes that only focused on him. Oh, how grateful he was that you two were the only ones here.

Zandik dropped the woman without a care, her whole body trembling from barely escaping death. She was glad that you had intervened before it was too late.

“You shouldn’t use your dainty hands for something like this, Zandik.” You cooed and got up from your seat, approaching him.

You took his hands, bringing them to your lips, kissing them softly.

Sohreh couldn’t believe what was happening right in front of her eyes. Dainty? He had almost killed her and yet you were treating him as if he was porcelain?

“I missed this. Don’t you also?” You tilted your head as you asked him, Zandik blushing deep from your affection.

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you prove it?”

Sohreh watched in pure agony, she could barely move and even if she did, she wouldn’t get far. The pain was too much to bear to even try. Her wounds grinded against the rocky and dirty ground whenever she breathed too hard.

She could hear her organs slushing as if they were jelly. She didn’t know if it was because the whole thing made her senses more aware or if it was like that in reality.

The worse part was that you and Zandik didn’t pay any attention to her. As if you two were already set that she would die in her state, as if she was a dying cockroach that lay beneath your feet.

“You don’t know how insufferable it was holding myself back, Zandik.” You said, trailing kisses on his chest.

“To think you’d be so touchy with someone else. You really are a slut, aren’t you?” You spat out before biting his skin, your teeth going so deep that blood dripped down to his stomach.

God, Zandik could have finished right then and there.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to.” He apologized, face pouting as he said.

You chuckled at his expression. “You liar, I know you liked the attention.”

“I only like attention when it’s coming from you.” He refuted, snugging his head to your chest.

“Yeah? How could I be sure about that?”

He unbuttoned his pants, showing off everything to you. “Look at what you’ve done. Already so wet for you. I’m your slut, not anybody else’s.”

“Ah, Zandik. You know just the right words to say.” You laughed.

He grinded himself on your leg, rubbing his groin as he stared into your eyes. Lewd noises slipped out of his throat, missing how you took care of him. You pat his head and immediately, you received a whimper from Zandik.

You enjoyed the noises that Zandik made, huffs and breaths of your name as he pleasured himself with your body, begging for more.

Unfortunately, that was hindered by a scream from Sohreh whose throat you were sure would render her to never speak again. Not that it mattered, since there was no way she would be coming out of this forest alive.

You held onto Zandik’s thigh, stilling him in disappointment. “As much as I do love hearing you scream for mercy, I’m busy right now.”

She glared at you, obviously wanting to curse you out.

“However, you do remember that we’re not the only ones in this forest. I hear tigers have pretty good hearing. Ah, but you probably already knew that, being a student of Amurta and all.”

Once you reminded her, you could see fear strike in her eyes. To think she would be afraid of tigers more than you. How stupid really.

Zandik placed his ass on your lap, wanting your eyes on him.

“Need you.” He said.

“I’m sure you can do it by yourself now, no?” You answered, a flustered Zandik coughed, remembering the last time he tried to ride you.

Carefully and slowly, Zandik placed the tip of your cock near his entrance. He grit his teeth together, already feeling your warmth inside him when you’re still not all the way in.

An idea formed in your head. 

“Love, can you face the other way?” You asked him.

Zandik couldn’t believe that you’d only tell him this right now when he’s almost done taking in your whole length. 

Well, he could, being mean to him was your forte and he enjoyed every part of it.

He rolled his eyes back from taking you out, feeling empty.

Zandik’s back is now faced against you. You could see his hole open up as he inserted your cock inside of him.

“I’m feeling nice, Sohreh. So, I’ll give you a lesson on how to properly use Zandik.”

Zandik bounced against your thighs, moaning each time he slapped skin with you. “Haah~” 

“I’ve rammed into him so many times and he’s still just as sensitive. Isn’t he great?”

Zandik whined in agreement, hearing you praise and show him off to someone else extremely turning him on.

Sohreh could only look in horror, seeing the man he admired of, moving like an animal in heat, desperate for his senior’s cock.

“See here, if you give him a slight spank.” You continued, slapping the side of his ass as gently as you were able to.

Zandik yelped, cum leaking out of his cock.

He faced down lower, gasping for air as he could feel another orgasm coming.

“P-Please–! Let me–ah!”! He pleaded your name asking for permission, which you were proud to give.

His entire body shuddered as he came, cum splattering everywhere, even to the half-dead person on the ground.

“You did so good, Zandik.”

“T-Thank you…!” He squeaked out.

Sohreh wanted to vomit, you two were insane. If the Akademiya had access to this information then—!

Her hands searched for the notepad in her pockets. With no other option, she used the blood leaking out excessively from her body.

“What are you doing?”

Sohreh tried to hide away the evidence but it was stolen quickly. 

“You really are amazing. To think you’re still alive right now, even when I purposely let you get hit by that ruin guard.”

She stared in confusion. This whole thing…was your fault?

“Oh, don’t blame this on me. You were the one who went after Zandik. I’d say this makes us even, doesn’t it?”

Your hand reached for her neck, matching the bruises that Zandik had left earlier.

You squeezed hard, Sohreh losing the strength to even fight back. 

Realizing that you had gone too far, you snapped out of your daze, quickly apologizing to Zandik.

“Sorry! Did you have business with her still?”

Zandik swallowed the lump in his throat, amazed at how your muscles flexed when you strangled the body.

He could feel himself getting hard again, everything you do really, sent a rushing thrill to his spine.

“C-Could you do that to me?”

You slammed yourself into Zandik’s walls, the scholar moaning in pleasure as his back laid down on the corpse which was now used as a cushion as he pleasantly received your thrusts.

The body turned into a mess as you continued pounding in him roughly and as quickly as you can, knowing that you two had only so much time before someone else got here.

“M-More! More!” Zandik begged, his head rolling back from the intense sensations.

“As you wish, love.”

[ace-of-snz]

I think it’s about time I post something of my own!

This is the first story I’ve written for my little sci-fi/urban fantasy universe, which I’ve dubbed Case Files. It’s actually been up on the forum for about a year, but I’ve neglected posting it anywhere else.

Hoping I get a passing grade in writing robot snz stuff, because this guy WILL be sneezing more =]

——————————————————————

Case 1: Archives of the Occult

[Android, M, Dust]

——————————————————————

I’d been informed of the big changes to the precinct three weeks prior.

Our precinct was finally on the list to receive funding for the newest available technology, and that week, that included androids.

I’d seen the bots walking down the streets sometimes— human as they could be, you had to really look to be able to tell them apart. The companies making them had done a *good job*, and that much was clear. I often wondered how much magic had to truly be imbued in an automaton like that to make it work so fluidly, because there wasn’t any way they were just mechanical.

But they were damn expensive. So you can imagine my bafflement when my captain had come up to my desk, dumped a stack of books on it, and told me to ‘read up, Hickman, because we’ve got some damn good funding, and I don’t want it to go to waste’.

I’d met my new android a week later. Android Mk. 20.3, who Captain Gibbs had already taken to calling just ‘20.3’. I shortened it to Twenty, and the android couldn’t have cared less.

…To be honest, I don’t think he was half bad in terms of androids. He looked *good*, if I’m still being too honest. He carried a stoic demeanor that I wasn’t exactly sure was caused by being an android, or if that was just a him thing. Serious and no-nonsense, it seemed. 

Male detectives seemed to have been paired with male-model androids, and female detectives seemed to have been paired with female-model androids. I thought that was a little dumb, but hey, looking at Twenty, I definitely couldn’t complain.

We were given a week to get used to our new androids before we were sent out on jobs with them.

And that’s what led me here, to the basement library of an old abandoned house, where an occult-related murder had occurred. Twenty and I were told that there likely would be related books that we could find down here that would be relevant in determining the cause of death for this case (which, seeing the scene, had… quite obviously been magic.)

I didn’t know how to read Latin. But Twenty, being an android, absolutely could, and now we were here, in an abandoned basement, flipping through book after book after book. I was tasked in looking for books that may be spellbooks, while Twenty skimmed through the ones that actually were written in Latin.

It was boring as hell. But it was work, so I’d take it. 

I took a new book off the shelf, replacing my previous one, and brought it back to where I’d been seated. 

…Before I could begin reading it, though, I was distracted by a soft chuffing sound from behind me.

I turned just in time to see Twenty bobbing down a second time, nose clamped in one hand. A hiss of air exited the set of vents on either side of his neck, and when he resurfaced, the look on his face was one I never thought I’d see on a robot— especially not from him.

Irritation. Itchy, tickly irritation, and his face contorted a brief second before he bobbed down a third time. Rather than being completely silent, this one was accompanied by a little ‘hngk—!’ and that same noise of escaping air.

It took me a moment to fully register the fact that my android companion was sneezing. I mean, obviously I’d scoured the books that Captain Gibbs had given me (and my attention had been completely snagged by the page on sneezing), but I hadn’t expected it to look like this. So… natural. Fluid. The expression on his face made something flip within me. If not for the slats on his neck, I’d completely believe he was human. 

Blindsided as I was by this, it took me a moment to regain my senses.

…That probably wasn’t a good sign, was it?

“Twenty? You okay?”

He seemed to be done for now, and he straightened, giving an experimental sniff.

“…Yes, I’m fine.”

“Was that… Were you sneezing?” The question was out of my mouth before I could fully think about it. Twenty gave me a confused look.

“…Yes? I… Suppose I was.” He sniffed again— something had to have been… well, getting to him was the only thing I could come up with. “As far as I know, it’s a function that ah-ahhctivates when my— eh-ehhxcu-hu-se m—“ 

He clamped a hand tightly around his nose as fast as he could before he shook with the suppressed sneeze. A hiss of air came from the vents, and then he straightened again.

“Ghhuh… Excuse me. I believe what I was saying is that it’s a function that activates when my filters get too full of irritants. It works very well in expelling them.” 

“Oh. That makes sense. What’s causing it?” 

He sniffed again.

“It’s very likely that it’s the dust. This place hasn’t been touched in years, and even the finest dust could wreak havoc on the more delicate of my inner workings.”

“Why do you keep doing it? There can only be so much dust that can get stuck within that period of time, right?”

If he’d been human, I think he would’ve gotten sick of my questions real fast. If he’d been human, I would rather die than ask these sorts of questions. But it was my job to ask questions, and, well… I had to admit, I was really curious.

“Well, that’s… holding them in certainly isn’t as effective in expelling irritants.”

“Don’t hold them in, then.” 

“It usually takes quite a few… I suppose you could call them sneezes. But it takes quite a few of them to remove the irritants, and I’d rather not be standing here trying to get all of the dust out when I just know that more will take its place.” 

I opened my mouth to reply, and closed it again, feeling my heart jump. Oh. Great. He was prone to sneezing fits, as well.

…I couldn’t tell if I was winning or losing today. I mean, obviously I wanted to see it happen, but this was a professional setting and I was on a job so I’d just… ignore it. Yeah. 

“Alright. We’ll make this quick then, how about that?”

He gave me a curt nod, but I could see his face twitch as he tried to stave off the irritation.

“…Or, what if—“

“Ngk—! Hh— hh—“ There was another in there, I could tell, and he was trying so hard not to let it out. But being an android, it was quite literally programmed into him. There was no way he’d be able to stop it.

“What if you just—“

“Ch’ht!”

That one came with almost a noise. He looked miserable, I could tell that much. How much dust was actually in here?

��What if you left the room to clear your filters, and I stayed here to continue looking?”

“Absolutely not.” He sniffed again. “You have no idea what you’re looking for.”

“Excuse me? Hey, I’m just as involved in this case as you are!”

“And you still don’t have any idea what you’re looking for. Can you even read Latin?”

“I—“

“That’s what I thought. N—Now…”

He sniffed again, and brought a knuckle to press to his septum. I briefly wondered if it tickled in his nose area at all— I assumed his filters were within the vents on his neck.

“Hh-knn!”

It seemed that the more he stifled, the more intense his sneezes were getting. He was being far more stubborn than he needed to about this. But if he wanted to be stubborn, then he certainly could. I wasn’t about to stop him.

We continued our work in silence— or, well, near silence, as it kept being broken by the flipping of pages or the quiet stifled sneezes that Twenty thought I couldn’t hear. Unluckily for him, though, my… relation to sneezing had me hypervigilant, ears pricked closely for the slightest of uneven breaths. 

—————

“This search is useless.” I grumbled after a while, and Twenty looked up at me.

“Id’s id here, I’b sure of id.”

I first and foremost noted the thickness of his voice.

“Ca’bdai’d Gibbs told us id was likely dowd here rather thad adywhere else.”

“We’ve been here for hours and we’ve found nothing.”

“We jusd habe to keep luh—looki’g.” His face twisted in irritation, and he clamped his nose hard between his fingers, bobbing down once, twice, three times, trembling with the effort of holding them in.

“Ngk! H-Ngk! Hh— Hh’CHnngk!” That last one had been louder than any sneeze I’d heard from him thus far. But it most certainly was not a fulfilling sneeze, as he resurfaced, looking dazed and unsatisfied. And still completely and utterly miserable. Well— as miserable as a robot could look, I guess.

“Apologies. Snf.* Jusd the fil’ders.” He sounded the part, as well.

“Twenty, come on. Let’s just suck it up and call it a day. I don’t want you damaging something just because you’re deciding to be stubborn about it.”

“I’b dot ‘dabagi’g’ adythi’g.”

“Dude, listen to yourself. Why does your voice sound like that if you’re just fine?”

“Firsd of all, do’t call be ‘dude’.” He sniffed thickly, putting a knuckle to his septum. “Seco’d of all, by fil’ders are probably full. Id happeds sobetibes.” He sniffed again.

“You sound like shit, man, and it sounds like it’s really uncomfortable. Come on.”

“Ex’guse be? Absoludely dot, we caddot jusd eh-eh’d our search here!”

“We can come back tomorrow! It literally does not matter.”

Twenty stood up from his seat, placing his hands firmly on the table as he glared at me.

“I a’b your superior in this case. A’d I—“

…But doing so had caused the book he’d been reading— a thick, heavy novel— to snap shut again, the pages ruffling until it slammed closed. Sending up a very large plume of dust into the air.

“A—A’d I— I…” I could see his eyes fluttering shut as the irritant hit, the urgency quickly growing on his face.

“I— I— aAh’DSHU’H!” He doubled over with the first true sneeze I’d heard from him, and I had to admit, it was… wow. Just wow. Not too intense, but just desperate enough to let me know that the dust really had been teasing him this whole time.

Um— anyway. Unprofessional thoughts about my new robot companion aside—

It was accompanied with a sound I could only compare to decompression as the vents at the side of his neck sent jets of air out, along with a good amount of dust. Jesus, we’d been here way too long.

“Hh’HASHU’H! Hh— H’dCHU’H!” He was showing no signs of stopping, which could not have been a good sign. I’d be flayed alive by my superiors if I broke an android.

So I finally snapped out of it enough to take him by the shoulders and begin steering him towards the exit. Every time he sneezed, his shoulders shuddered forcefully underneath my hands, but I didn’t let go. I wrinkled my nose at the dusty air being expelled from the vents at his neck— from where I was positioned, it hit me right in the face. Lucky I wasn’t allergic to dust, or neither of us would be getting out of here any soon.

“Hh— Heh— heH’DSHU’H! HAH’CHU’H! Gghh… hh— hhHh—“

“What in tarnation is goin’ on down there!?” 

I heard heavy footsteps start down the stairs, and I winced.

“HhHH’KSHU’Uh!”

“Lieutenant Hickman!”

I tensed.

“I thought I told you to be more careful with that android! Did you even read the book!?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Then why—“

“I-Ihh— It’s my fault, Cahh—CaptainnN— HE’ASHU’hh!”

Captain Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

“L—Lieutena—ahhnt Hh—Hh-Hihckman—“

Okay. Yeah, that was my name. I could have died right there. 

“Take a moment, detective.”

“AASHU’H! HhhAH’SHU’h!”

Oh, good god, he just wasn’t going to stop, was he?

“Hickman ss—Said to cah—cahhhll off th— theE’H’ECHU’H!”

I could see what he was trying to say, and despite how uh.. distracting he was in this moment, I took pity on him.

“…I tried to call off the search midway through, ma’am. Twenty insisted he’d be okay, and only let me lead him out when he was sn— er…” I had to remember the technical term for it, didn’t I? “…In the process of purging harmful substances?” I made a gesture to the vents, wincing as he sneezed again. The dust was getting thinner, which seemed good.

Twenty nodded at what I was saying.

“Aha. I see you did read the manual, Hickman.”

I gave her a nervous smile.

“Well done. And 20.3?” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but another sneeze cut him off. 

“Be more careful. Don’t want to have to bring you in for servicing, y’hear?” 

“Yhh—Yehhhs, Cah—aH—“

He couldn’t even get through a two-word sentence.

“HhH’ADSHU’H! TCHU’H!”

“Easy, detective.” Captain Gibbs said. “I’ll send down some human officers so you two can get a break. Ones without sensitivities.”

Twenty put a knuckle to the bottom of his nose, and nodded. I wondered if it helped stave off the irritation at all— in any definition of the word— but I could see the squint in his eyes and the twitch of his nose still. 

“Take a rest, both of you. I’ll have a different case ready when 20.3 has recovered.” Captain Gibbs nodded at the both of us, and then headed back up the stairs.

We were both silent for a moment, but the quiet was broken by a quick intake of breath from Twenty.

“HH’SHU’H!”

He sniffled— actually sniffled— before putting his knuckle back up to his nose, scowling deeply.

“This is completely unnecessary.” He muttered. I begged to differ, but I didn’t say it out loud.

“Do you wanna go somewhere that’s less…” I made a vague gesture to our surroundings, where the dust still floated in the air— though it was dispersing.

“Dhh— Dhhusty?” Even saying the word seemed to trigger something in him, and he nodded. “Yes. L—Let’s.”

[farasen]

So... racing AU

Brain rotting brain rotting

Here I'll write a lil concept for dwk racing au, who what which and blah blah blah

I'm not very familiar with all the intricacies of racing and driving technics so it's gonna be pretty surface level. And I don't know jack shit about car models, so you ain't gonna see them there.

Okay then, let me tell you about the characters. They're all amature street racers, aiming to become pros. Also they're aged up so all of them are in their early 20s. They made a team called DWK and challage other street racers and even pros.

Leon. He is known for his agrresive driving style, like putting the pressure on the opponent by driving VERY close to their car (he'd never hit it tho), speeding up and drifting at a high speed. But he's good at it and shows good results at the time trials. Prefers to lead if ''cat and mouse'' kind of race. Good with mechanics, not as good as Raban, but he can take care of his car if needed. Got in a several accidents due to his driving style before, yet he's alive somehow. Probably got a rear wheel drive car, but dreams of all wheel drive.

Marlon. This guy is good on wet roads, somehow driving the car at a high speed on it. Unlike his brother, he doesn't show his whole potential right away and puts more thought into when and where it's better to speed up and overtake. Always achieves high level of concentration and thus can react quickly at critical situations to prevent anything bad happening. Has a rear wheel drive car too.

Vanessa. The guys didn't want to take her on their team for a long time, because:

She is a woman

She used to be a biker

These two factors made dwk very skeptical of her being on the team. If the first one is obviouse, the second is because she didn't really drive cars before she got one, or so they thought. Actually I haven't made up my mind on how she was tought to drive cars. Perhaps, her grandma landed Vanessa her car and that's how she gained some experience. She ended up on the team eventually after winning ''cat and mouse'' race to Leon. Their driving styles are pretty alike as it may seem, she drifts and speeds up at corners, but she's rather defensive in a race. Also, since she was a biker, can handle bikes as well. Drives a rear wheel.

Markus and Jojo. I think it's better to talk about both of them in one paragraph since they usually work together. Jojo doesn't have a car so he drives Markus'. The irony is, even though Markus is the one who owns a car, he usually serves as a navigator, his ability to concentrate and memorize the road is very helpfull. It doesn't mean he isn't driving his car at all, but his speeding and braking techniques lack good execution. Unlike Jojo's. They compensate each other's disadvantages, which makes them a good duo. Nonetheless, they can manage racing on their own, even though it would take more effort. They drive all wheel car.

Deniz. When I said all of them are amatures I kinda lied since Deniz is very close to the title of pro. He's a rally driver and has some experience in official competitions, just like his father. He's known for his outstanding skills at driving off-road and dealing with winding road and sliding through corners. Has a high level of concentration, but maintains it... in a rather weird and maybe even dangerouse way - by holding his breath. If gets carried away it might lead to the opposite outcome - loss of concentration so he's gotta be careful with that. His father wasn't happy with the fact that his son does street racing and wastes his time instead of preparing for actual competitions, but allowed it later. He has a rally car, thus an all wheel drive.

Raban. The only one who has a front wheel drive. Mainly uses grip technique while racing. Kinda sucks at it tho. What he does good is tuning and mechanics. He learned that from Hadschi and sometimes Raban helps him with service. While he may not be a good driver, he's a good navigator. He spots everything that's happening on the road, calculates the time and finds better trajectories to pass the corners faster. Very helpful to Willi with these skills.

Willi. An ex-pro, who got in an accident which prevented him from racing anymore. Now he dedicates his life to making these teens achieve their goals. Usually does all the planning and comes up with strategies.

Hadschi. The mechanic and engineer of the team. Does all the tuning and set ups for the guys. Knows a lot about cars and can give information about weak and strong points of the opponent's car.

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

That's all for now. Idk if I ever going to continue working on this AU, it will probably sink into oblivion like the rest of my AU concepts. I'm drawing some concept art, but I haven't finished it. I hope I will. But if not, have a peek, just in case. Might change them later on, but most likely not, I'm lazy.

[raving-raven-writing]

Recom Headcanons

So, some of this is from my mind, but some of these headcanons I'm sure are based off others' headcanons I've seen. Also, some of these headcanons may actually be written in terms of some of my fics that I have written for Avatar. Particularly if you have read my story Lost and Found or any of my Recom Smut series. @hellpmeimobsessed You asked me to tag you, so here you go! Warning: Some of these headcanons may contain mention of past abuse/past child abuse/past sexual abuse, and may also contain content in terms of what the character enjoys in the bedroom Brown: -Was SAed when he was younger -Loves karaoke, even though he might be a bit tone deaf -Enjoys cuddling naked with his partner -Did modelling for a brief period of time before he decided to join the marines Fike: -....I got nothing for him, sorry. No hate to him, just don't have any at the moment.

Ja: -Was raised by his grandparents -Seeing the EMTs work on his grandma sparked his interest in wanting to become a medic -A sensitive soul, rather quiet and reserved -Enjoys movies, most genres except for horror; is a bit of a baby when it comes to the scary movies -Has minimal sexual experience compared to some of the others; but has always wanted to titty f**k his partner -Him, Prager, and Lopez are close

Lopez: -Is a masochist and will openly admit to it -Comes from a large family, a middle child of five. Very close with all of them. -Has problems with authority figures, always having to hold his tongue so he doesn't get himself into trouble -Very protective to those he loves or is loyal to -A rather horny drunk...this may or may not be how he and Ja got it on Mansk: -Has a light sensitivity, hence the sunglasses all the time. But also uses the sunglasses as a layer of protection of being perceived by others -Sits somewhere on the autism spectrum but was never diagnosed, comes across as just being "socially awkward" -Gives off the "strong and silent type" vibe -Was sexually abused by his uncle as a child well up until his late teen years -Definitely a mama's boy - The younger of two kids. Has an older sister named Nora -Turned to cooking as a way to cope with his trauma--found he had a gift for it and just kept at it. But also enjoys making others feel good by being able to give them a good meal

Prager: -Is a pothead -Grew up with alcoholic/drug addict parents, but was eventually fostered by an old teacher who took him under their wing -Likes most types of card games and board games -Stress cleans -Enjoys rollerblading and skateboarding -Easy going/go with the flow type of person--both in day to day things and in bed Quaritch: -Grew up on a farm -Raised by an abusive/alcoholic father and a mother that fell ill when he was in his teens -The oldest of three children---lost connection with his siblings when he left to join the military -His relationship with Paz started as her simply flirting with him based on a dare, but eventually turned into a fling as Miles was impressed by her boldness -Smokes when stressed but turns to alcohol as a bad coping mechanism if given the opportunity -Enjoys camping and hiking and being able to be out in nature so he can reflect upon life and to be able to get more in touch with his emotions -Likes to take charge in bed, but Paz is able to persuade him into being a sub in some situations Wainfleet -Has a bit of a crush on the Colonel. He thinks it isn't obvious, but some of the others see it -Is a switch in the bedroom. But prefers to be the sub when he is with his girlfriend, Mina. -Makes jokes constantly despite the fact that he struggles with his mental health--saw being the funny man as a way to make others like him -A middle child of three; has an older brother who is also in the military, but joined the Army branch, and a younger sister, who died when he was about thirteen -Grew up on a farm, although not many people know this -Grew up being rather sensitive and a "cry baby" as his brother dubbed him. Was a big mama's boy and her death damn near broke him -Smokes when stressed

Walker: -Likes to scrapbook in her spare time -Her and Z-Dog have flings with one another, but neither of them would label themselves as an "item" -Likes to sit down with a good book on a stormy day and curl up by the fire with some comforting snacks Warren: -Gives off the "strong and silent type" vibe -Has a crush on Mansk (initially unrequited?) -Is gay, but no one knows this (at first) -Is very much a wallflower, people forget he is there sometimes -In sexual relations, is very straightforward and a take charge type of guy--but makes sure that he is never rough with his partner

Z-Dog: -Grew up in a house full of men. Her mother left when she was young, so she just had her dad and her three brothers -Was very much a tomboy before realizing that she liked girls more then she liked men -Her father was a mechanic so she knows her way around a car -Enjoys physical sports like boxing and kickboxing -Chews gum as a way to manage her anxiety as well as to curb any emotional eating Zhang: -Is one of the three "strong and silent types" (with Warren and Mansk being the other two) -Rarely smiles -Enjoys shibari (Japanese rope bondage) and 69ing -Looks mean since he has a "resting bitch face" but can be quite gentle and doting with his partner -Joined the marines as a way to rebel against his parents since they wanted him to become a doctor or lawyer or engineer.

That's all I got for now. Might eventually develop some headcanons for Fike and might add on to what I have here. Hope you enjoyed reading!

[star--joy]

Repairs

In which Percy gets a date, is late to work, and fixes a broken espresso machine, not in that order.

-

Six Shot Americano Man leans over the counter, glancing at the scattered tools surrounding Vex as she kneels on the floor for easier access to the innards of her broken espresso machine “Hm. I could take a look, if you don’t mind."

-

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: None

Words: 1395

Originally posted: 8/2/23

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49056469

“Is everything alright?”

Vex startles at the sudden voice, screwdriver slipping from her hand and clattering to the floor as her head jerks up, thumping against the counter-top with a painful thud. “Shit!”

“Ah, apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

At the counter of the small cafe, Six Shot Americano Man is staring at her. He always comes in ten minutes after open and orders his monstrosity of unsweetened caffeine. Normally, Vex has it on the counter waiting for him, but with her machine busted, there’s little she can do.

She presses a hand to the spot where she’d smacked her head, wincing at the immediate shot of pain. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ll have that Americano out for you in about…” she glances at the exposed innards of her broken espresso machine. “Well, probably not for a long time.”

Six Shot Americano Man leans over the counter, glancing at the scattered tools surrounding Vex as she kneels on the floor for easier access to the machinery. If it were anyone else, she might be annoyed, but Six Shot Americano Man is her favorite customer, partly because he’s polite, but mostly because he tips insanely well. “Have you called someone to fix it?”

“They won’t be here until tomorrow, and I figure I can’t make things much worse, can I? If I could just find out what’s wrong with the thing…”

“Hm. I could take a look, if you don’t mind. I’m rather good with these things,” he offers, stroking the stubble that’s just beginning to peek through on his jaw.

Vex peers at him with narrow eyes. Normally, it would be a quick and easy ‘no’ to a request like that, but, hell, she’s willing to try just about anything. After all, Scanlan had called out for his shift today, and although this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop is rarely busy, Vex doesn’t want to deal with a broken espresso machine by herself. Besides, Six Shot Americano Man hasn’t yet given her a reason to be overtly cautious. Fuck it. “Alright, but I can’t pay you.”

He shrugs off his formal jacket, walking around the corner so he’s behind the bar. “That’s not an issue. May I?”

She easily steps away to make room for him. “Be my guest.”

His face is quickly pulled into a look of consideration as he pushes the wires around to get a better look inside the machine. Vex leans against the back wall, keeping a curious eye on him as he fiddles with some mechanism or another, quietly muttering to himself. What little words she can catch are some kind of technical jargon.

“Have you worked on these before?” she can’t help but ask, watching his fingers move with practiced precision.

“Not this particular model, but I’ve always had a knack for machinery,” he hums, green eyes never leaving the task. Vex should probably be watching his fingers as they delve into the wires, in case this issue should ever arise again and she needs to fix it, but she finds herself studying the man, instead.

Objectively, Six Shot Americano Man is rather attractive, though that’s not a new revelation. It’s hard for anyone to not notice that the first time they lay eyes on him. Hell, when he first started coming in all those months ago, Scanlan had fallen over himself trying to land a date, though found himself unsuccessful. So, yes, Vex knew he was attractive.

Somehow, though, that had never really resonated with her until now. He’d always just been Six Shot Americano Man who tips well and doesn’t talk much, and Vex had been content with that.

So why is she feeling the sudden urge to have a name for him?

It probably has something to do with the small emoting of his expression, lips pursing and nose scrunching and eyes narrowing when he fiddles with what must be a difficult component. Or perhaps it’s the practiced, confident movements of his hands deep within the machine.

Either way, Vex figures it’s been a damn long time since she treated herself to a proper date with a handsome somebody. Might as well give it a go, now.

“You know, I see you nearly every day, but I don’t think you’ve ever told me your name,” she hums, trailing over to his side.

“My name is Percy,” he answers, only glancing at her for a second before turning his attention back to his work. “And you’re Vex’ahlia, if the nametag is correct.”

The way he says her name is strangely appealing, the syllables slotting together so perfectly when wearing his posh accent. “You can just call me Vex, darling. Everyone else does.”

She doesn’t think anything of the moniker, but it causes Percy’s hands to fumble for half a second. “Well. It’s nice to meet you, Vex.”

“And you, Percy.” If he were looking at her, she’d throw in a wink, but alas. “So, I have to ask, what keeps bringing you back here? You know there’s a Starbucks down the street, right?”

He laughs. “Is it standard practice to recommend the competition?”

“I would argue that this is more of a customer satisfaction survey. Something must be keeping you loyal to us, it’s only helpful to know what it is,” Vex says, finding herself leaning over him slightly. 

Percy glances up at her, then looks away a tad bit too quickly. His cheeks are beginning to turn a dusty pink. “I like the quiet. Everywhere else is too busy.”

“So you like that we get bad business? That’s not very helpful for my survey.”

There’s a short pause before he says, “Well, the baristas also provide excellent company.”

Vex’s smile grows. “Hm, good to know. I need as much detail as possible for this survey, could you be more specific?”

“The one named Scanlan is particularly enjoyable.”

His voice is so deadpan that it takes Vex a long second to recognise it as a joke, but the smirk on his lips gives him away. She snickers. “Don’t let him hear you say that, he’ll start trying to flirt with you again.”

Percy grins as he pulls his hands out of the espresso machine’s innards. “I’ve dealt with worse. And… there we are,” he says, pressing the power button and watching with satisfaction as the machine begins to start.

Vex’s eyes widen as the screen comes to life. “No shit, you actually did it?”

“Did you not think I could?”

“Of course not! I just figured you couldn’t make it worse,” she admits, clicking the single shot button and watching with awe as espresso starts to pour. “That’s amazing!”

His preening is subtle, but Vex is good at reading people, and she can see the way his chin lifts and his smile grows a centimeter. It’s endearing. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Oh, shut up,” she scoffs, easily grabbing a cup and beginning to prep his Americano. “You just saved my ass. I’m never letting you pay for a drink again, they’re all on the house.”

Percy considers something for a second. “The business is already struggling enough, I don’t think that’s the best idea. Though, if you truly want to repay me, you could let me take you out to dinner. It’s not in any way expected, of course, but I would enjoy getting to know you.”

Her heart thunders with excitement, but she keeps her cool. “I suppose I can manage that,” Vex teases as she hands him his Americano. “You free tomorrow?”

“I can be,” he quickly agrees, just eager enough to be endlessly charming. “Here, my phone number. Just text me a restaurant and time, I’ll be there.” He quickly jots his number down on a napkin. “Unfortunately, I must get to work. I’m already late. I look forward to tomorrow.”

Vex blinks. “You were late to work to fix my machine?”

“I’d say the outcome was well worth it,” Percy hums, grinning wide. “I’ll see you soon, Vex’ahlia.”

She shakes her head, exasperation and fondness mingling together in her chest. “Yes, yes, I’m excited, too, now get to work! I’m not going to be the reason you get fired!”

He’s still grinning as he races out of the coffee shop, though Vex is pretty sure she doesn’t have much room to judge, given she’s doing the same. God, tomorrow can’t come quickly enough.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Lore headcanons for a few of the nonhuman creeps

BEN, Sally, and Pup when in physical form, and Liu (who is half-zombie in my canon) all have to regularly do full-body stretches. This is because they're all technically dead, and so their bodies will go into rigor mortis if they're still for too long. For the ghosts, they have to do it every single time they switch to physical form, and they and Liu have to do it whenever they've just been lying down or sitting and not moving for more than about an hour. Waking up in the mornings hits them hardest, and sometimes they might even need someone to help get them out of bed because their bodies are so firmly locked into place. Liu and the ghostly creeps in physical form have a hard time healing from injuries, and heal at an extremely slow rate compared to humans, and if any of them suffer an extreme injury they might be unable to recover from it. None of them technically need to eat or sleep, but they often do so anyway because it can pass the time and remind them of their time as humans. While Liu does need to breathe, though, the ghostly creeps do not need to, even in physical form. 

Jason and LJ in my canon were both originally made as giant toys in the Overworld. LJ (standing 7'5" at full height) and Jason (standing 6'5" at full height) were both from different toy lines of giant toy helpers, being phrased as giant because they are full-sized like people, and not as small as normal toys. They both have a power-indicative symbol on the backs of their necks, the symbol being a circle with a dot in the center. When they are sleeping, the symbol will slowly flash for a few seconds before shutting off. If they decide to power down fully, or if someone else powers them down, the symbol will quickly flash for a few seconds before shutting off. When they "bleed", rather than blood it's essentially something akin to oil that pumps through their bodies to make them look more lifelike. Their eyes can scan and visually identify individuals and check for injury of any kind, something originally to be used for children they were to look after. If either of them takes too much damage, a repair symbol will flash on their bodies indicative of the areas that need to be fixed. Both of them can open up their bodies to reach their mechanical insides.

LJ's line of toys was, of course, laughing toys in a box. Each toy variant had a different name, with Jack being a Laughing Jack, the only of his kind as he was a test run that was discontinued after he fell from the Overworld and became a demon in my canon following his incident. As seen in my most recent artwork for him (which you can find for reference by clicking here) as of writing this, he looks the most like a toy out of him and Jason. Where all of his main joints are (like shoulders, hips, elbows, abdomen, knees, fingers, neck, ankles) he has rotational balls or slots that allow him to move as a human would be able to. He is also able to extend his arms, being able to extend up to 10 feet in length outwards. He can also make himself compact, being able to shrink his body down to the size of a normal toy. His insides are purely mechanical, and his outside "skin" is made up of a special material that feels and acts like felt, but can heal back like flesh if he stitches it. He has synthetic hair that mimics the feeling of human hair and can grow. He has a mechanical "heart" that beats and functions like a normal person's would. LJ can reproduce a sound like a purr when he's happy, and he can also use it to calm people down, as was originally intended.

Jason is a different model of toy, one that was originally made in the most popular and efficient toy-making industry in the Overworld. He was meant to entertain children and be able to craft his own toys. His insides are also mechanical like Jack's, but they're made with a much higher quality material, giving him the ability to seem more like a person than a toy, much softer and nicer to squeeze and touch. His skin is more similar to porcelain than felt, and when it cracks Jason can repair himself. While Jason also has a mechanical "heart", it takes the background to his actual heart, which is a music box, hidden away in a compartment in his chest. He can choose to show or hide the box as he pleases. It can play music that can be heard inside of his body or out, originally used to entertain children or calm them down whenever they would cry in his original workshop. Jason was manufactured to not have a set personality and to instead adapt to every single child he met. This is why Jason excels at being manipulative as a demon but suffers insecurity and trauma over not knowing who he is truly meant to be, and what he's truly meant to act like. Jason's hair is unable to grow (although it still feels like natural hair) and has retained the same length for all of his existence. He may cut it if he chooses, but if he wishes to have it long again he must manually remove and replace his hair, which he would rather not do, so he's left it long and cares for it. 

EJ is, as I've said many times before, a feline demon in my canon. He is modeled after a jaguar mainly and has spots all along his skin. (You can click here for the main art that I use in reference to his appearance.) He has cat ears on his head and a tail on his back about where a human tailbone is. His tail is about three feet long, and incredibly soft, with a spotted pattern with fur that is brown like his hair. His feet are pawed and a bit angular, a combination of what would be human and cat-like feet. His hands are mostly human, but they like his feet have paw pads on them, and both his feet and hands have claws for nails. He has the same amount of teeth that humans do, but his canines are very long and sharp like that of a jaguar. I think his teeth can fit into his mouth, but the longer he goes without eating human meat, the longer they grow, and eventually, his top canines will extend out of his mouth and rest against his skin. He can growl and purr, with his growl terrifying even Slender if he's caught off guard, and while his purr isn't nearly as scary, it does sound very demonic and could be confused for a growl if you aren't familiar with it. He cannot taste human food with his taste buds unless it's extremely spicy. He lives off of human meat and blood and can eat human meat raw if he so chooses, which he often does. His eyes are not pure black, but instead filled with constellations (relating to the demon that he was fused with in a ritual in my canon). He is not completely blind, but he is only able to see based on heat signature, something that aids him in hunting down humans to kill and eat.