#hes so funny. for just staying on the floor

[no-144444]

PLEASE WRITE SOME MORE ARTHUR LECLERC FICS PLSSSSSS

preferably angst, fluff or smut 😜

tyyyy

caveman tendencies- a.leclerc

꩜summary: he's not a caveman... sometimes...

꩜pairing: arthur leclerc x fem! reader

꩜a/n: smut 18+

Arthur was dramatic at the worst of times, but this was excessive. Monaco GP, an important weekend, you understood. Emotions were high. You were all cheering on Charles, and hoping against hope that Lando wouldn’t take pole. 

Then he did. Arthur slammed his hand against the desk, discarding his headphones as he walked away, livid. Part of you wanted to follow him, but you really knew he just needed space. You knew it wasn’t just Charles’s pole being taken from him that set Arthur off, it was also the fresh wound of the reserve driver situation. Everyone knew Arthur was a brilliant driver. He had pace. He had talent. Yet, he didn’t get chosen, because Zhou was just better, and that was a hard pill to swallow. He’d been battling it for months, trying to rationalise Ferrari’s choice in his own mind. It was hard. It has been hard. This was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

You watched as he walked away, and despite your heart shouting at you to go after him, you stayed put, right beside Pascale, Alex, and Lorenzo. 

“He’ll be fine,” Lorenzo whispered, noticing your internal battle. “Nothing like a bit of drama in Monaco.”

You chuckled with him, the tension in your body relaxing. He was right, Arthur just needed a moment to calm down. “There always is,” you smiled back. 

Parties on yachts weren’t mandatory, but Charles had been invited, which meant he was dragging Arthur along, which meant he was dragging you along. It was loud, annoyingly loud, and Arthur was still fighting some inner battle, so he was silent and pissed the entire night. You spent your time with Charles, who found Carlos, who was pretty funny, you’d found out. You basically spent the whole night by his side, listening and laughing. You appreciated it, considering how the day had panned out. Even Charles seemed to relax, which was surprising considering the devastation he had been dealing with earlier in the day.

Arthur watched you from across a sea of people. You looked radiant in the setting sun, your dress perfectly complimenting everything about you, and that smile. Genuinely, he didn’t know what he did in a past life to deserve you, but he thanked his past self daily. You kept laughing all night, and at first, it didn’t bother him. Why should it? Charles made you laugh all the time. Then he caught a glimpse of Carlos Sainz, and his mood changed completely. Of course he was there, capitalising on a moment where Arthur wasn’t there. He’d never told you (and he never would) that he had heard Carlos talking about you once, he was gone for you. He wanted you so badly, he didn’t even care if he had to take you away from his then-teammates brother, saying that ‘he’d be a better fit’. It had made Arthur’s blood boil, but he didn’t say anything, not wanting to make a scene, or let Carlos in on the fact that he knew. 

In moments like these, where Carlos was standing just an inch too close, Arthur wished he’d gone up to him and punched him square in the face, warning him to stay away from you. But he didn’t. 

There was a whole dance floor of people between you, and yet, his eyes didn’t leave you for one moment. The way you spoke. The way you stood. The way you smiled. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. 

“What’s going on?” Lorenzo asked, seeing the way his little brother stared.

He cleared his throat, pulling his eyes away from you for the first time that evening. “Nothing.” 

Lorenzo gave him that knowing look he hated so much. He rolled his eyes as Lorenzo chuckled. “Doesn’t seem like nothing.” 

“Well, it is,” he argued, turning his attention back to you. Well, to where you were five seconds ago. You weren’t there anymore. Arthur’s eyes searched the boat, and finally found the pink fabric of your dress, descending down the stairs with Carlos beside you. He felt a sense of possessiveness blossom in his chest, and he swallowed the string of curses he would’ve let out, had his very observant older brother not been beside him. 

“He’s probably showing her where the bathroom is,” he chuckled, leaning into Arthur. “He’s just a nice guy.”

“He is in love with her,” he gritted out. “And he doesn’t even try to hide it.”

Lorenzo nodded. “But I think you’re forgetting the fact that Y/n is in love with you,” he added before walking off. 

Annoyingly, Lorenzo was right. You were in love with Arthur, you told him so everyday. Not only that, but you showed him everyday. Showing up for important moments in his life, supporting and loving him unconditionally, and everything else you did for him. Truly, he had nothing to worry about. Still, he felt that stupidly possessive side of him call for him to march downstairs and pull you into a bedroom and show you that you were his. Remind himself too. But he wasn’t a caveman, and he had a semblance of  self control. 

“Putain de ridicule,” he spat out, his hands gripping at your waist, hard enough to leave bruises. He practically manhandled you into one of the yacht's bedrooms, glad it wasn’t already in use. He was going to fucking ruin you, and hope Carlos heard every single second of it. He pressed his lips against yours, pouring every ounce of passion and affection he had for you into the kiss. He couldn’t stop now, and you didn’t want him to. You had no idea what had gotten into him, but you weren’t going to start complaining. You liked this side of Arthur, this uncontrolled, sexy, and fun side of Arthur. He was so routine sometimes. So busy. It was nice to see him let go. 

Your ass hit the bed and you fell back, being caught by the comfortable pillows and mattress. You stared up at him. Hair messy, eyes dark, an expression you couldn’t quite make sense of, on his face. “Are you ok?” you asked, reaching up and cupping his cheek. His hands circled your waist as he nodded, and he kissed you again, all tongue and heat. 

You kissed him right back, fisting at his shirt, a silent plea for him to remove it. He did as he was told, quickly unbuttoning his white shirt, then wrapping his arms around your body, pulling you up against him so you could feel everything. I mean, everything. He groaned into your mouth as you grinded up into him, and you smiled into the kiss. 

“Enlève tes vêtements,” he huffed out, pulling back and starting with the zipper of your dress. You thought he forgot sometimes that you weren’t completely fluent in French, but he seemed to say that a lot, take off your clothes. You complied immediately, shedding yourself of the dress. His mouth watered when he realised you hadn’t been wearing a bra underneath. “Mon Dieu,” he breathed out, dropping his head down and beginning to kiss small love bites onto your tits. You lay there, enjoying every second of it, hand in his hair, lost in the moment. 

“What has gotten into you?” you groaned as he kissed lower, the tops of his fingers slowly making their way into your white lace panties. 

“Tu es parfait,” he kissed your stomach. You're perfect. “Je vous aime tellement,” he was breathless, and insatiable. I love you so much. “Please,” he pleaded, his eyes wide and begging. You knew what he wanted. “Please, my love.”

“Just fuck me, Arthur,” you smiled, pulling him up to your level by his hair. He continued kissing you as he pulled down his dress pants and boxers in one, then turned his attention to your dripping panties. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out and he hooked a finger in your panties to pull them down. The action made you moan, a ghost of his finger over the place you wanted him most, then the cold air hitting your cunt. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, your face. Eyes screwed shut and nothing had even happened yet. He smiled. “Ready?” 

You nodded as he lined himself up, and pushed inside with one movement. You groaned out much too loud, and clapped a hand over your mouth. Slowly, he moved, and with every thrust, you felt yourself getting louder, closer to cumming, your brain clouding over. “So good,” you whined out, your hands dragging down his back as he fucked into faster. “So good.” 

“Love you,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, a groan ripping through his throat as he grabbed your thighs, changing the angle. You moaned louder than you knew you could. He smirked, a small chuckle leaving his lips. “Wanna try something,” he breathed out, his eyes stuck to you like he couldn’t look at anything else. He placed your legs up on his shoulders, basically folding you in half, and he went deeper than he’d ever been. You yelped, but he kissed you, tapering it off. He was pretty sure Carlos got the message at this point, if he could hear it. “Love you,” he babbled. “So much.” 

“Love you-ugh- too,” you whined. “Faster Arthur,” you groaned. “Please.”

“I’m gonna cum,” his voice was strained, trying desperately to not cum too soon. “So beautiful baby, so pretty.”

You didn’t even have the time to warn him, you just came all over his cock, fucking up to him. Your cunt tightened around him and it triggered his orgasm, a loud moan leaving his own lips. You both stayed there, utterly exhausted. 

“We should probably get back to the party,” you whispered, your eyes half closed. He lifted his head off your chest and it gave you a glance at his puffy lips. You smiled.

“Yeah, two minutes,” he agreed, trying to piece himself back together after having the best sex of his life.

navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

[finallychaoticeffigy]

Can you make a fic where the reader is in a mental hospital and their psychiatrist is a yandere, who purposely keeps reader unstable so he can keep treating them?

Yandere psychiatrist x patient reader

(sorry this is late, my life's falling apart)

It's been over 6 months since you've been admitted to a mental hospital. Apparently you have some sort of mental illness you didn't understand, but you trust your parents especially the Doctors. They're professional and they know whats best . You didn't like the fact that they recommended you staying here but you agreed since you didn't wanna seem crazy, the more you tried to refuse the more they'll be convinced your ill, you pondered lost in thoughts.

You hissed when you felt the needle being pressed into contact with your skin. That sharp metalic object, Gosh how you hate that thing. For some reason during your time period of staying here, you didn't seem to be getting any better. Infact you seem to be getting worse. You started thinking if it was the medicine that's making you feel worse. You softly rub your temples. 'NO' you thought. That's exactly how a mentaly ill person thinks . They all think that the medicine given by the doctors are bad news, and your becoming one of them. 

"How are you doing Y/n? " your doctor interrupted, softly caressing your hand that was placed on your lap.

Your personal Doctor is literally the hottest guy you've ever seen. You remembered first time seeing him ,your felt your mouth unconsciously dropped to the floor. That's one of the reason you agreed staying here, a hot Doctor will seriously makes you feel better.

"Um...Good, i think? " You lied, No you don't feel good. You started seeing things that weren't there. The headaches, the hallucinations, you know it wasn't normal , especially after you saw a patient walking with four legs.

It was quite a funny sight. "HAHAHA" you unconsciously laughed. The image of the woman with four legs flashed through your mind. 

You suddenly stopped and looked at the male doctor beside you already eying you carefully. He pulled out his notes and wrote something quick.

"Did i say something funny?" He raised a brow, taking your hand squeezing it.

You softly yank your hand away. He's always so touchy that it makes you uncomfortable, but hey hes a professional and hes hot so you brushed it off....but that's the least of your concern now. "This isn't what it looks like i swear. Um ..... I just thought of something funny.... I didn't like laugh for no reason.. I'm not ill" you  defensively declared biting your lips. It's not a lie, you've always laugh with your own ever since you were a kid thinking about something. Wait.... does that mean you've had mental illness ever since you were in nappies!?

He chuckled taking your hands and placing it with his. "It's fine...When I'm thinking of something, it sometimes makes me happy too" He flashed you a cute smile.

"Hmm.. i see hehe" 

"I just need you to take this medicine and your good to sleep" he muttered softly 

He takes out what seems to be a medicine and feeds it on you. "Swallow my dear " you did as he instructed . "Goodjob.. you're always so good Y/n. " He grin wider caressing your hair.

"Doc?"

"Yeah Y/n?"

"Why are you so touchy? I don't know...It makes me uncomfortable sometimes" you mumbled feeling shy, you weren't one of those types to confront others. You were used to keeping your mouth shut and just letting others do what they want, but this time you got a bit of courage.

"What do you mean? I'm not doing anything wrong y/n. This is why your not getting any better, your always overthinking stuff. You need to start trusting people especially those who wants to help you Y/n" he said ,tone changing. Is he angry? Disappointed? You can't read his expression.

"I'm sorry... Um i will sleep now . Please leave" you lay on your bed feeling comfort.

"No, i need to observe more"

"Again?" You asked, voice masked of disappointment.

"Yes y/n ,again"

You felt yourself drifting to sleep . Sleeping now was easier than before . You used to tossed and turn but with the help of sleeping pills, you didn't have to anymore.

The man watched the girl asleep. Face flushed, heart shaped pupil and heavy panting. His hands traveled to her thighs and gently squeezed it. He got up from the chair he was sitting on and lay next to her .

He was being a creep, and he knows it.But fuck he loves and craves for her so much he didn't even think about morals. He wrapped his huge arms around her small waist hugging her and sniffing her addicting scent.

"Baby... I am so sorry, i know this is wrong but I can't help myself, i love you way to much. " He whispered licking her neck.

"Poor baby, i know am practically giving you poison, but i promise it won't hurt you too bad. Just enough so you can stay here... By my side." He embraced her tighter, giving her kisses all over her sleeping face.

"Your mine. Your only mine my Y/n. Your mine" he chanted reapetedly as he bit your cheeks

You winced in your sleep, having no idea what's been happening. He smiled, happiness evidence in his eyes. 

------+--+--+--------+++----------

"What ? Is that even allowed? " You questioned clearly shock. You're gonna stay at his house for 'recovery' apparently you need calm invironment where you can be alone. You can't go home yet so your best choice was his house, others explained.

"Dude what the fridge... I don't think that's appropriate. I thought you all graduated from Harvard or something, where's your common sense?" 

"I know what it seems like dear. But your doctor suggested it and it seems like a nice idea. It's for your own good , we care alot about our patients you see" the woman about in her 30s explained 

"Clearly" you said voice toned with sarcasm. You didn't argue further, you knew you couldn't do anything especially your basically recorded as a person with mental health problems. 

The headaches and hallucinations just seems to get worse. You almost couldn't get out of bed but today your legs unusually cooperated.

The door suddenly flung open revealing a massive man in his coat. Him. He looks strangely happy , like he just won a lotto or something. 

"Y/n come now, let's go home" he reached his out his hands with a smile which you clearly ignored and walked passed him. You were upset that the home your going to wasn't your own. You missed your room. You missed staying up late just binged reading shits on your phone.

Oh well... atleast your gonna gonna get out of that white room. It makes you sick seeing nothing but White and being outside again makes you a bit excited. 

When you left the smile that he already had grew wider. He just loves you so much. He would do anything just to be with you .

[ruusawa]

✶⋆.˚ MDNI, 18+ ONLY

✶⋆.˚ dick grayson x female reader

✶⋆.˚ sending nudes, male masturbation, dirty talk (??), both reader and dick are down bad, beta read by kali ml @silkentrigger ♡

✶⋆.˚ 1.3k words

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You and Dick were friends. Good friends, best friends. From bumbling around with your newfound freedom when he made the Titans, to the still as chaotic but much more manageable life of adulthood, you and Dick have stayed friends. Even being miles away from each other, you both find time to keep in touch. Even if it’s only you sending a quick photo of what you’ve bought at the local patisserie or Dick sending a snap of the Blüdhaven skyline during a full moon.

You pretend not to notice the fluttering in your chest everytime you see Dick’s name light up on your phone screen. You’ve been friends too long for that.

You’re ignoring that feeling right now, in fact, as Dick’s text has you smiling already, you haven’t even read it yet.

‘Look at Haley!!!!’

You open your phone excitedly, expecting another photo of Haley to grace your screen.

What greets you is not an adorable photo of the lovable pooch, but something that makes your brain screech to a halt. All thoughts promptly leave your brain, and your mouth feels dry.

The image currently gracing your phone screen is probably the most artistic nude you’ve ever seen.

Dick sent you a dick pic.

Holy shit.

Dick is laid out across his white sheets, winking into the camera. His other hand, the one not holding his phone is- holy shit. You’re pretty sure your eyes are bulging out of your head like an old cartoon character. Dick’s fingers are wrapped around the base of his cock, the tip is flushed pink, precum smeared over the slit, his abdomen and the coarse hairs leading from his navel to the base. You squint slightly as you try to work out if he’d even fit inside you, he has to be an inch above average at least.

Dick’s illuminated by what you’re assuming is the sunset, the golden light making him look ethereal.

Your hands are shaky as you stare at the masterpiece that is your naked best friend.

What do you even do now? This was obviously not meant for your eyes. But you’ve seen it. You’ve seen your best friends’ nudes. The best friend you’re absolutely not secretly in love with, no, sir.

Do you send one back? Do you pretend you never saw it? What’s the etiquette here? You certainly don’t know.

It could be funny, right? To send Dick a photo back. Then you could both laugh at this and move on. Pretend it never happened. Yeah, that’s a really smart idea.

Dick is pulling on his Nightwing suit as his phone buzzes. He figures it’s you, replying to the adorable photo of Haley presenting her tummy to him for tummy rubs.

It is not.

Dick feels like someone’s sucker punched him, the air leaves his lungs so quickly.

There you are, knelt in front of your mirror on the carpet of your bedroom floor, knees spread just enough that Dick can see the lacy blue- Nightwing blue- panties hiding your pussy from view. Your phone is covering your face, but there’s absolutely nothing covering your tits. Dick’s eyes zero in on them, just staring. Suddenly he’s imagining how your tits would feel in his hands, how you’d react if he squeezed them.

Why did you send him this? Was it meant for someone else? Who is Dick kidding, of course it was. There’s no other reason for you to have sent him a photo like this. He’d sent you a photo of Haley for- oh.

That is not a photo of Haley. Not at all.

You were replying to him. To the nude he’d sent instead of the photo of Haley.

Dick’s all too aware of the interest his cock is taking in this photo, so he promptly turns off his phone, throws it onto the couch and tells himself he’ll deal with it after patrol.

You’re half asleep when your phone buzzes on your pillow. You paw around for it lazily, fingers grasping the cool metal and pulling it to your face. The brightness makes you squint, blinking rapidly as you’re met with a shirtless selfie of Dick in bed.

“Just finished patrol.”

Your eyes trail down to the V of his hips, sheets bunched just below the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. His hair is damp, probably from the post patrol shower Dick claims he has to have. Your cheeks flush as you imagine running your fingers through the soft, damp strands, placing kisses down his toned abdomen, licking down that V line and to his cock.

Holy fucking shit.

You expected Dick to laugh, make a joke. You sent that photo to make it even, to make Dick feel better about sending you a photo of his, well… dick. Not that you’re going to complain about this turn of events. Not at all.

You ruck your sheets down your body, flick the bedside lamp on and lift your phone, trying to get a good angle. You hum once you’re satisfied with the end result, immediately sending it to Dick with no explanation.

This isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair. Dick swears his mouth is watering as you send a photo back. You’re laid on you messy bed (Dick’s always said you had too many pillows), sleep shirt pulled up so Dick gets a tiny peek of your tits. The best part? The blue panties- the Nightwing blue panties, his brain unhelpfully adds- on full display.

The miles between the two of you have never been more apparent. Dick is pretty sure there’s nothing he wouldn’t give up (maybe except Haley, but even then he’s so down bad he’s not even sure of that) to be able to fuck you right now. The need he’s feeling to press you into the mattress, fuck you until the only thing you remember is his name is overwhelming. It’s embarrassing how hard he is, and he hasn’t even laid eyes on your cunt yet.

Dick’s breathing is laboured as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself slowly to take the edge off. Is this wrong? Getting off to your best friend that Dick absolutely doesn’t have feelings for. With fumbling fingers, Dick reaches for his phone.

You’ve died. You’ve died and gone to heaven because there’s no way in hell this is real.

On your phone screen is a video of Dick Grayson, desperately jerking off, the camera shaking slightly due to the movements of his wrist. He’s staring up at the camera with big, pleading eyes, soft moans escaping his lips, flush on his cheekbones. He’s a vision. A dream.

A whine escapes Dick’s lips as you watch the video, completely mesmerized. He smears the precum leaking out of his slit over his cock.

“Please let me fuck you, dove,” Dick’s voice escapes your speakers. It’s too hot in your bed, your skin feels like it’s on fire. “Please, dove. You’d let me fuck you, right?”

Dick moans, eyes screwing shut as his hips buck into his hand.

“You’d let me fuck your pretty pussy, right? You’d let me ruin you?”

You’ve never pressed the call button so quick in your life.

“Hello?” Dick answers immediately, he’s breathless, the sound of his laboured breathing goes straight to your cunt.

“Yes.”

“What?” Dick sounds so confused, moaning softly. You can hear some rustling, he must still be touching yourself.

“Yes, I’ll let you fuck me.”

Dick keens into the phone, choking on a moan. “Oh, holy fuck.”

Your face feels too warm, your panties sticking to you, you’re so wet. You don’t think you’ve felt this aroused in your life. “Did you just…”

“Yeah,” Dick breathes.

Your phone buzzes, a photo.

There’s a pretty flush on Dick’s cheekbones, his lips parted due to breathlessness. His abdomen is streaked in pearly white cum, his cock softening against his abdomen. Dick’s never looked so pretty, he’s just so wrecked.

You’re still not sure what this means for your friendship, the lines are blurred. But that can wait, because you’re horny as fuck and your clit is aching for attention.

You prop your phone up on your pillows, making sure the angle is good, before grabbing your vibrator. It’s Dick’s turn for a show.

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aaaaa, holy shit this has been a long time coming (literally)

thank you so much kali for putting up with me rambling about this and helping beta read it and feed the downright sinful thoughts in my head. like, this is what she woke up to lol

don't worry, i'm already working on a part two

also my asks are open pls yap at me

[papayainsectorone]

Classified Bassline.

summary: what starts as playful jealousy simmers into something hotter, dirtier, and undeniably possessive. a little tension. a little show.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, post-race party setting, club bathroom sex, tension-filled banter, explicit sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, suggestive humor

word count: 2.4k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

a thought: gotta love a neon green lando moment walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

The bass thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat, and sweat clings to your skin as bodies sway all around you in a blur of sound and light. The post-race party has taken over the rooftop club, low lighting, flickering strobes, the scent of alcohol and perfume thick in the air. You’re leaning against the bar, one heel popped behind the other, your glass sweating in your hand and the pleasant fuzz of too many drinks warming your bloodstream.

From across the room, you catch Lando’s outline near the DJ booth, half-shrouded in shadows and strobes. He’s bobbing his head to the beat, fingers tapping the table beside the turntables like he might jump in and take over. Classic Lando. Half cool, half chaos. But you know him well enough to spot the way his gaze sometimes flickers over. Not at the music. At you.

Before you can raise your glass in a tease, a sharp pinch lands at your waist.

You jump slightly, heart jolting before you catch sight of Charles smug grin in place, eyes gleaming under the pulse of neon. He’s standing closer than necessary, the bass rattling through the floor, making everything feel just a bit unsteady.

He says something — you can’t hear it.

“What?” you call over the music, leaning in.

Charles smiles wider, then steps in so close you feel his breath against your ear. His voice is a low purr just audible beneath the thrum of the beat. “Didn’t expect you to be drinking alone.”

You turn your head slightly, your cheek brushing his. “I’m not alone. Just...selective.”

He chuckles, deep and slow and now it’s you who feels it down your spine. “Selective, hmm? Dodging the desperate masses?”

“Or the ones who think wandering hands are charming,” you shoot back, playful but pointed.

Charles lifts both hands in mock innocence, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in again, shoulder brushing yours, the music loud enough to make every word feel like a secret.

“I behave better after a few drinks,” he murmurs, close enough that it sends goosebumps skittering down your neck.

“You’ve had more than a few.”

He shrugs with a grin. “It’s a party. This is me behaving.”

You laugh unguarded now, a little buzzed, a little curious. And when he leans in once more, lips grazing your ear to say something else, you don’t pull back.

“You know what’s funny?” Charles leans in again, his lips brushing your ear under the pulse of the music. “I’m pretty sure I heard Lando fucking someone in his driver’s room on Friday.”

You freeze.

It’s just for a second, but your drink stalls halfway to your mouth, and your heart does a neat, vicious somersault in your chest. You glance sharply at Charles, throat suddenly dry.

His grin widens, wicked. He saw that.

“Thin walls,” he adds, dragging out the words like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Sounded... enthusiastic.”

You manage a laugh — too high, too quick. “Honestly, sounds like something he’d do.”

Charles tilts his head, watching you with open amusement. “You sound... amused.”

“I mean, who doesn’t love a bit of efficiency?” you shrug, lips twitching into a smirk, fighting to stay in control. Your cheeks are burning, your ears ringing and it’s not from the music.

He hums low in his throat. “So, is he with someone now? Or still leaving the party solo?”

Your fingers tighten around your glass. From across the room, you feel it — the unmistakable prickle of being watched. You don’t have to look to know Lando’s there, somewhere in the shadows, seeing you with Charles, seeing you pretend you weren’t the one moaning into his neck while the rest of the paddock went about their day.

You lift your chin and meet Charles’ eyes, steady now. “Hard to say,” you reply, swirling the melting ice at the bottom of your drink. “Lando’s full of surprises.”

He holds your gaze a moment longer, as if testing the weight of your words, then grins like the devil and clinks his glass against yours.

You smile back.

But your skin still prickles with heat, with nerves, with the unmistakable feeling of a line that’s already been crossed.

Just then, movement catches your eye — Lando, cutting through the crowd with a drink in hand, his expression unreadable but his focus razor-sharp. His pace is easy, casual, like he’s just wandering over for a chat but his eyes are locked on Charles. And you.

You straighten instinctively, barely catching the flicker of tension in your shoulders before smoothing it away. Lando reaches the bar, slides in beside you, and tosses an arm along the back of your stool — casual, practiced, like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it means nothing.

But the warmth of him is immediate, pressing against your spine.

Charles spots him, and of course decides to make everything worse.

“Hey!” he shouts over the thumping bass, grinning wickedly. “We were just talking about you. Specifically that girl you had in your room Friday.”

Your stomach flips so hard again you nearly miss your mouth with your drink.

Lando slows his step, eyes narrowing just slightly, and you catch the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. “Yeah?” he says smoothly, planting himself beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “It was actually a pretty great afternoon.”

You bite your lip, sipping hard from your glass to hide the grin threatening to give you away.

Charles arches a brow. “Oh? Who was it?”

Lando clicks his tongue, then winks. “Classified,” he says. “You don’t have clearance, mate.”

Charles groans, throwing his hands up. “Come on. Spill. I’ll trade you gossip.”

“I don’t gossip,” Lando says flatly, then immediately adds, “Okay, I do. But not about this.”

You feel the air shift something unspoken exchanged in the glance Lando throws your way. You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not without cracking wide open in front of Charles.

Charles watches the moment, lips twitching like he knows he’s poking at something volatile.

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets,” he concedes, reaching for his drink. “You’re both so boring, honestly.”

He scans the dancefloor with exaggerated drama, then perks up, attention snaring on someone across the room. “But I see someone else who might be more cooperative.”

He winks at you, gives Lando a cheeky salute, and disappears into the crowd, swallowed by flashing lights and bodies.

The second he’s gone, silence blooms between you and Lando thick, electric, absolutely charged.

You don’t move, but you feel him shift closer, lips brushing your ear, voice low and impossible to ignore.

“Think he knows?”

Your breath catches.

“Not yet,” you murmur, keeping your gaze fixed forward. “But you’re not exactly subtle.”

Lando’s chuckle is warm against your neck. “Neither were you.”

And god, you wish you could argue.

Then Lando pulls back, his grin returning. “C’mon. Dance with me before Charles comes back and tries to charm you into a Ferrari contract.”

You grab his hand, letting him tug you into the crowd. “He couldn’t afford me.”

“Exactly,” Lando says, spinning you into him. “He´s already over budget.”

The music pulses through your bones, the bass thudding like a second heartbeat as you and Lando spill onto the dancefloor. It starts simple, a shared rhythm, bodies moving side by side, eyes catching in flashes of strobes. His hand brushes your lower back once, then again, lingering just a second too long.

You spin away, laughing, letting the crowd swallow you for a moment but not too far. He stays in your periphery, now dancing with some girl in red, hands at her waist, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her back. You roll your eyes, turning into the arms of someone else. Tall. Handsy. Too eager. You don’t care.

You move with him anyway, grinding just enough to send a clear message — not to the guy, but to Lando.

When you glance over your shoulder, Lando’s already looking. Smirking. He tilts his head like he’s amused, like he’s winning something, even though you’re not sure what the game even is.

Eventually, the heat pushes you both back to the bar. He’s already there when you arrive, sweaty curls pushed off his forehead, eyes dark and glinting as he sips something sharp.

You slide up beside him, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Going to take her to the bathroom?” you tease, nodding toward the red dress girl still swaying near the speakers.

He snorts. “You gonna take him?” he shoots back with a grin.

You don’t answer and you don’t smile either. Your cheeks betray you first, flushing warm under the lights. You turn slightly, trying to hide it behind your drink.

Lando notices instantly.

His eyes widen, grin turning gleeful. “No fucking way,” he gasps. “Little Miss I-Fucked-Someone-in-a-Bush-at-a-Family-Picnic didn’t do it in a club bathroom yet?”

You shoot him a sharp look, biting back your smile. “Not everyone’s a whore like you, Lando.”

He throws his head back laughing, the sound rich and unbothered until he leans in, breath ghosting your cheek, the smile still wide but something hungrier underneath.

“I’m gonna show you,” he murmurs, grabbing his drink, draining the last of it and stepping away with a wink.

Toward the bathroom.

Leaving you standing there, pulse racing, torn between your pride and the undeniable pull in your gut.

You stare after him, lips parted, brain short-circuiting somewhere between don’t be obvious and fuck it. His figure disappears through the crowd, headed toward the back hallway, no hesitation in his step, like he already knows you’ll come.

You hesitate for all of three seconds.

Then you toss back the rest of your drink too, feel it burn down your throat, and follow. The music presses in from all sides, the thump of bass like a countdown in your ears. You slip through clusters of dancers, weaving between bodies, your skin tingling like it knows what’s waiting.

The hallway behind the club feels darker. Cooler. But your blood is warm.

You catch up to him just before the bathroom door swings shut behind him. He glances back and there it is. That fucking smile. The one that says I knew you would.

“Changed your mind?” he asks, one brow lifting.

You roll your eyes, but your breath hitches. “Just making sure you wash your hands, Norris.”

He laughs but it’s low, rough at the edges. “Come make sure then.”

The door shuts behind you with a click that sounds final in the small, dim space.

He’s still smiling. But it’s different now a little slower, a little more loaded. He doesn’t move. Just watches you. Waits.

Your pulse roars louder than the bass outside.

And then you move first, stepping into his space, closing the charged distance like gravity’s doing the work for you. Your hand lifts, deliberately slow, until your palm presses against the front of his jeans.

The hiss he lets out is sharp, quiet, like it’s been punched out of him. His eyes snap to yours, dark and burning.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Your smirk curves slow and satisfied. “Don’t play me like this, Norris,” you murmur, your fingers flexing just slightly. “You want this just as much.”

He laughs, if you can call it that. It’s breathless, stunned, a little reverent. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear, echoing his own earlier tone. “Prove it.”

And that’s all it takes.

His hands are on you in an instant heat and urgency, mouth crashing into yours like restraint was never even in the cards. He backs you up against the sink, hips pressing close, breath hot, fingers tugging at your clothes like they offend him.

The bass outside keeps thumping, distant and forgotten.

In here, there’s only the heat of him, the way you both know exactly how to pull each other apart and how much you’ve wanted to.

Lando kisses like he’s dared to reckless and grinning, a little sloppy from the alcohol, but it just makes it worse, makes it better. Your teeth clash once, twice, both of you laughing into it, breath hot and fast. His hands are wild, tugging your hips into his, fingers curling under your top like he’s forgotten what patience even is.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he mutters, voice rasped, drunk on you. His mouth is hot on your neck, biting down hard enough to make you whimper and buck against him.

“And you’re all talk,” you shoot back, already working at his belt, fumbling, rushed. “Thought you were gonna show me something?”

“Oh, I will,” he growls, shoving your skirt up as he walks you backwards into the counter. “I fucking will.”

Clothes aren’t removed just shoved, tugged, pushed out of the way like obstacles. He lifts you onto the sink and it squeaks beneath you. Your head tips back when he thrusts in fast and sudden, breath leaving you in a stuttering gasp.

You both freeze for half a second, dizzy, drunk, overwhelmed, then it’s frantic. Messy. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to brand you there. Your hands are in his hair, pulling, clawing, keeping him close.

“Fuck, fuck,” he mutters against your shoulder, pace rough and fast, and you swear he’s barely holding himself together.

“You’re loud,” you tease breathlessly, biting down on your own moan. “Someone’s gonna hear.”

His eyes flash as he grins. “Good. Let ‘em.”

You almost laugh but then he hits that spot again and you break, nails dragging down his back.

He doesn’t slow. “You gonna come for me right here?” he pants, forehead to yours now, sweat-slick and shaking.

Your only answer is a gasp, a shudder, your body clenching hard around him. That’s all it takes.

Lando swears, low and filthy, then comes with his face buried in your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he might fall without you.

For a few seconds, all you hear is panting and the low thump of bass outside the door.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, still dazed, lips brushing his temple.

He grins, pulling back slightly to kiss you again — soft this time, drunk and satisfied.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “but also fucking amazing.”

tag list:

@lifesass @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0

[theshipsong]

perona x f!reader, polyamory with heavy mihopero. canon au where thriller bark joins cross guild. reader is a navigator formerly of the hawkins pirates.

⸺

"This is pretty." Perona brushed your back with her fingertips, her breath landing on your shoulder from where she laid next to you on the plush rug. "Seems fated."

"I don't believe in fate."

(She wouldn't appreciate hearing that Mihawk said the same thing about the not-quite Maltese cross between your shoulder blades.)

"Funny you say that."

Perona was a bizarre contradiction of possessive over both of you, from each other. She simultaneously envied that Mihawk met you before she did, and that the sex you had with him was more varied than her time on Kuraigana.

If she actually deigned to talk to the swordsman, he'd confirm that you two were better described as friends.

But Perona was spoiled, and didn't want to share yet wanted so many things and people all at once. You found it mostly endearing, but sometimes you had to negotiate your way out of her tent to have a moment alone or with Crocodile. Last time you'd actually tricked her, leaving her tied with thick, velvet black ribbon and an extracted promise, through gritted teeth, that she'd stay still and good.

After that, you managed to sleep in your other lover's arms for the first time in a week, and Perona started creeping out to join you in the mess tent. She was growing fond of Buggy, or rather she enjoyed teasing the clown in a way that was only barely kinder than Crocodile's flavor of torment. Sadists, all of them.

Perona rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat and fighting a yawn, which brought her own tattoo to your line of sight: a pink bat, impressively saturated. You set your book down to return the gesture, poking at the ink.

"I got it when I didn't know whether Moria-sama was dead or alive," she offered freely.

Your brow furrowed. "Does he... like bats?"

She laughed her odd laugh. "You'll see him fight soon enough."

You didn't know if the man with the twin of your tattoo on his neck was alive, either. The remains of Thriller Bark joined Cross Guild just days after a Marine hospital ship dropped anchor in sight of Karai Bari, carrying an undercover captain who confessed to you he left Hawkins for dead in Wano Country. Ironically...

"Moria challenged Kaidou once," you said neutrally.

"Before I joined him," Perona confirmed. Her life was fascinating to you, really: she'd been a pirate longer than not, the doted-upon daughter of a Warlord of the Sea who patched her plush toys together with sutures. Cotton thread in recent years, though. Mihawk mended his own clothes.

"Does he talk about it at all?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare."

"Because it's a sore subject," you said understandingly.

"No." Perona sat up. "Because he's around Crocodile's age." You laughed, a full belly laugh that had you turning onto your side. "I'm serious," she said hotly, chucking a throw pillow at your back as she scrambled up onto her bed to sulk.

"Perona," you said, getting your breath back. "Even I have a size limit."

"Ew!"

You pulled yourself up beside her, and spotted your knitting you'd taken to walking around camp with, forgotten on her bed since your little tumble on the floor. "Look at this." You held up the sock you were knitting for Crocodile and his absurdly cold feet. "It's practically a baby sweater."

"I would prefer if you said you won't fuck my dad," Perona whined.

"That's really up to him."

She shrieked wordlessly, hiding her face in her yet-unidentified stuffed animal briefly before glaring at you over its head.

"You're really similar," Perona said eventually.

"Moria and I?"

"You and Mihawk."

Crocodile said the same thing, in fewer words. "Does he also threaten to fuck your dad?"

"You're both annoying."

"Hmm." You grabbed the forepaw of the stuffed animal closest to you gingerly, between your thumb and forefinger, like you were batting at one of her shiny curls. "You're easy to get a rise out of. Maybe Mihawk finds it adorable, too."

"Wish he'd say so," she mumbled.

"He's quieter than me, at least. Or," you mused, "I'm used to impassive men."

"Huh?" She didn't need to say that Crocodile had quite the repertoire of scowls that was comparatively easy to interpret.

"Don't you think you should try talking to him, at least?" you tried. Crocodile could not understand what Mihawk did to upset Perona so much without you breaching your girlfriend's, and really his boyfriend's privacy, so you spoke in hypotheticals.

"Say Cross Guild was being targeted by the Navy," you said, to which he snorted.

"They wouldn't dare."

"Say they did, and we were all scattered. Buggy took his men and fled."

"He wouldn't dare."

"If I found out my previous captain was miraculously alive, and you loved me, would you really let me run off to him instead?"

"Well, you wouldn't be safe with that twit."

Infuriating man.

"I already said everything," Perona sniffed.

"He's not the most confrontational. Which isn't fair," you conceded, "but he's probably afraid of hurting you more. Or getting hurt."

It was still unclear to you exactly what the nature of their relationship was, but Perona described sounded serious and almost idyllic in its domesticity, and without a lick of her usual exaggeration. If anything, she was embarrassed to share how vulnerable she'd become.

Now she was a hissing and furious and lonely. If Perona wasn't so greedy, you'd fear reconciliation meant her forgetting you, but you saw how she hoarded and took loving, if sometimes roughshod care of her toys. It was in Cross Guild's interests for Mihawk to get his head out of his ass, and soon.

[suliigwp]

PART ONE OF 'THAT ONE'

The Sainz Boy

Carlos Sainz x Reader

SULI: I cannot explain to you what me andy phone and my Tumblr have gone through to get you to this moment of reading this fic— This fic is fully finished but ummmmm it's 15k+ words so my phone nearly blew up that's ok— this is part one, mostly about how the bond started when they were kids and a little snippet for what's to come in future chapters- idk if it'll be two or three parts but I have a feeling it's gonna be three — also I completely BUTCHERED Carlos' mom's name I remembered it being something else I'll fix it tomorrow DW ignore it please🫶 love you

Based on This!

Warnings: started writing it with the 1920's in mind but I imagine it's not accurate so just — the past, this is set in the past

Nine and Ten

It was the kind of summer morning that clung.

Even before the sun was fully up, the tiles beneath her bare feet were warm — too warm. The shutters groaned as the breeze pushed through, carrying the smell of dry herbs, copper polish, and that particular sharpness of ripe apricots left too long in the bowl.

She sat on the edge of her bed, legs swinging. Her nightdress clung at the knees, and her ribbon had slipped in the night again. She didn’t bother fixing it. Let the maids fuss if they wanted.

From the hallway came the slow shuffle of slippers and the brush of skirts — the housemaids lighting lamps in the darker corners even though the sun had begun to bleed gold across the floors. Somewhere down below, the heavy rattle of kitchen pots echoed up through the stone.

She slipped quietly out, past the linen-draped parlor, through the long corridor of portraits whose eyes never blinked, and out into the courtyard where the fountain bubbled gently beneath its layer of fallen flower petals.

The adults were already at breakfast under the arbor. Her father’s voice — low and steady — met her first.

“—not a word to the neighbors yet. Let them arrive quietly, without fanfare.”

Her mother sniffed into her porcelain teacup, pale pink lipstick staining the rim.

“As if she ever arrives quietly. That woman hasn’t taken a discreet breath in twenty years.”

“It’s not the lady I’m concerned about.”

“Mm. The boy, then?”

“He was sick all winter. Something with the lungs. They say the air here will do him good.”

Her mother lowered her cup with a soft clink. “Poor thing. How old is he now?”

“About her age.”

That stopped her. The girl. Standing half in shadow near the courtyard steps, where the trellis hung heavy with wisteria.

“Who?” she asked.

Her father turned, just slightly. “The Sainz boy. They're arriving this afternoon.”

She blinked once. The name didn’t ring familiar — not exactly. But it echoed. Like a dream she’d overheard.

Her mother waved a hand.

“You were children together, years ago. Played in the orchard one summer. You wouldn't remember. Pale little thing with knobby wrists. Looked like he’d break if you touched him.”

“I think she bit him,” her father added drily.

She frowned. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“He must’ve deserved it.”

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh, dabbing her lips with a monogrammed napkin.

“Well, try not to do it again. The family is staying through the season. Their estate’s been opened up. There’ll be dinners. Appearances. It would be nice if you behaved like a young lady for once.”

She looked at the apricot jam glistening on the table. She had no appetite for it now.

“And what does he look like now?” she asked. Voice light, feigned indifference.

Her father exchanged a glance with her mother, then shrugged.

“God knows. Boys grow like weeds.”

Her cousin chimed in with a grin. “Maybe he’s handsome now. Wouldn’t that be funny.”

She kicked him under the table.

He yelped.

“Enough, both of you,” her mother snapped, folding her napkin neatly.

From somewhere inside, a clock began to chime.

No one said it aloud, but they all heard the same thing:

The Sainzs were coming back.

And things would not be quiet

Got it — here is a fully rewritten, more immersive version of the scene. The dialogue at the end is now subtler, truer to how cautious and proud kids would really behave in the 1920s. The tone leans literary, character-focused, and richly atmospheric.

By noon, the heat pressed in like wool.

The gravel drive had been raked twice. The maid dusted the same vase for the third time. Someone had even sent the stable boy out to watch the road, as if he might ward off lateness by sheer force of will.

She sat perched on the stone banister of the terrace, legs swinging just above her polished shoes. Her stockings itched. She was told not to scratch.

Below, the estate shimmered in the midday sun — olive trees trembling in the breeze, the path down to the orchards like a ribbon unraveling into dry grass and memory.

She remembered it only in pieces: one summer, years ago, when she was too small to sit at the adult table and too sharp-tongued for the nursery. There had been a boy. He cried too easily and wouldn’t climb trees, but he had soft hands and a way of watching things that made her uneasy. She’d pushed him. Maybe bitten. Maybe not. No one ever told the full truth in this house anyway.

A flutter of voices snapped her upright.

Her mother swept onto the terrace in a haze of lilac perfume, lifting her skirt slightly to keep it from the dust. A parasol snapped open. The sound made the girl flinch.

“Sit like a lady,” her mother hissed, barely glancing at her. “They’re almost here.”

“Who?” she asked, though she already knew.

“The Sainzs.”

The name tasted foreign in the heat, too sharp for the soft, sleepy morning.

“There will be a boy,” her mother added. “Your age. You remember him, don’t you?”

She shrugged.

“Be kind.”

She didn’t answer. She was already watching the road.

At first, it was only the distant hum of tires on gravel. Then the glint of black metal, long and gleaming, parting the heat haze like a mirage. The Hispano-Suiza came to a stop beneath the cypress trees, its engine sighing into silence.

The driver stepped out. The back door opened.

Señora Sainz emerged first — a tall woman with skin too pale for the southern sun and lips painted the red of crushed cherries. She wore a dress better suited for Paris than the countryside, and she didn’t smile as she stepped down, sweeping her eyes over the house as if deciding whether it was worth remembering.

Then came the boy.

He was thinner than she remembered — not frail, exactly, but spare. Neatly dressed, with the stiffness of someone who'd been taught early not to fidget. His hair was dark and combed flat; his hands stayed politely at his sides. And when he lifted his head—

His eyes met hers.

The world didn’t stop, not exactly. But something in her paused.

He didn’t smile. Neither did she.

Her mother stepped forward, voice bright as summer porcelain.

“Señora! It’s been far too long.”

The women embraced with the stiffness of people who disliked each other but knew how to hide it. Polite kisses were exchanged. Remarks about weather, travel, health.

She barely heard any of it.

Her eyes were still on the boy.

He looked at the terrace, at the archway, at the columns — and then finally back at her. When he did, he inclined his head, a fraction too formal.

“Hello,” he said.

His voice was low, hesitant but careful. The kind of voice that had been taught what not to say, but not quite what to say.

She stood, slowly.

“You remember her, don’t you?” his mother asked lightly. “You used to follow her like a shadow.”

His ears flushed pink. He didn’t look away.

“I remember the orchard,” he said.

That surprised her.

She almost said something. Almost made a joke, or teased, or bit like she used to.

But he looked too serious for it.

“We could walk there,” she offered instead. Not warmly. Not kindly. Just… neutrally. A gesture, more than a welcome.

He blinked.

Then, slowly, nodded.

“All right.”

Their mothers didn’t notice as the children slipped down the terrace steps, past the fountain, toward the trees.

Absolutely. Here’s the continuation in the orchard — detailed, immersive, full of the quiet tension that builds when two children from different worlds are trying to understand one another, especially under the 1920s pressures of appearance, pride, and silence.

The gravel path gave way to cracked earth and roots.

Down here, the estate opened up in ways the house never did—less polished, less watched. The olive trees leaned in over the narrow path, old and knotted like they remembered every secret ever whispered beneath them.

Neither of them spoke.

She walked slightly ahead, out of habit. Not out of confidence—never that—but because she’d learned long ago that if she didn’t move first, no one else would. Her fingers trailed against the tall grass, the smell of dust and sap thick in the heat.

Behind her, Carlos kept pace.

The orchard was older than both of them. Some trees grew at odd angles, leaning as though bored of standing upright. Green figs hung heavy on branches, their weight threatening to split their skins. Bees drifted lazily through the air.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he said, finally.

She turned. He stood beneath a fig tree, his hand hovering near one of the fruits but not touching it.

“You were smaller,” she replied.

Carlos raised an eyebrow—not insulted, just thoughtful. “You bit me once.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone says that. I don’t think I did.”

“I think you did.”

“You probably deserved it.”

That earned a pause. He nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

The word sat oddly between them—an admission, not quite forgiveness. She watched him as he stepped off the path, brushing a low-hanging branch aside. He was careful with the tree, like he thought it might bruise.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” she said, crossing her arms.

He glanced over. “My father doesn’t like noise.”

Something about the way he said it made her quiet too.

She dropped her gaze, toeing the dirt with her shoe. “Mine doesn’t like much of anything.”

They stood like that for a long moment. The wind stirred the grass. Somewhere in the trees, a cicada screamed like it had something to prove.

“Do you live in Madrid now?” she asked eventually.

“Mostly. Paris, sometimes.”

“Do you like it?”

Carlos considered. “It’s different.”

“From here?”

He nodded.

“Different can be better,” she said. “Or worse.”

“Or just different.”

There was a maturity in that answer that made her uneasy. Not because it was wrong—but because it was true. And she hated when people her age said true things like that. It made her feel behind. It made her feel seen.

They walked again, slower now, the distance between them less exact.

At the edge of the orchard, a rusted bench sat under an arch of honeysuckle. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, dust kicking up around her stockings. Carlos hesitated—then sat beside her.

Their shoulders didn’t touch. Not quite. But they could have.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“You never are,” he replied.

That startled a breath out of her—almost a laugh. Not quite. She looked down at her hands instead.

“They’ll make us be friends, you know,” she murmured.

“They’ll try,” he said.

And then, after a pause:

“We don’t have to make it easy.”

She looked up at him sharply.

He didn’t smile. But the glint in his eye was unmistakable.

Neither of them said another word.

But they didn’t go back inside, either.

Late June

The sun came in streaks through the lace curtains, making patterns on the parlor rug. Dust danced in the light like it had a life of its own, and the ceiling fan turned lazily above, stirring nothing. The air was heavy—one of those afternoons where the whole house seemed to sweat.

He was sitting stiffly on the velvet settee, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to read Ivanhoe. He held it like a shield. Every so often, he turned a page too quickly for someone who was truly reading it. His suit jacket was too formal for the weather, but he wore it anyway. Always did.

She watched him from the doorway, barefoot and bored and entirely unimpressed.

“You look like you’re dying,” she said flatly.

Carlos looked up without surprise. “I’m reading."

“You’re pretending,” she said. “You're ten, you can't read that well. And No one actually likes Ivanhoe.”

He didn’t argue, which meant she was right.

She stepped into the room, curls unruly, cheeks pink from the heat. In her hands, she held a stolen napkin filled with biscuits from the breakfast tray.

She tossed it on the table between them with a lazy thump.

“Peace offering,” she said. “Or maybe bribery.”

“For what?”

“For climbing the tower.”

Carlos blinked. “The watchtower?”

“Obviously. Unless you’ve found another ancient stone structure in the back garden?”

He glanced toward the window. “It’s not allowed.”

“That’s why it’s fun.”

She was already walking toward the back door, not waiting to see if he followed. Her bare feet slapped softly on the wood floor. She didn’t look back until she was outside, standing in the harsh, blinding light of summer.

He hesitated only a second before closing the book and rising to his feet.

The watchtower had been part of the estate for longer than either of their families. It stood at the far edge of the property, past the gardens, past the fig trees—half-choked by ivy and pride. No one used it. No one dared.

The climb was hot and rough. The stone steps were narrow, crumbling in places, and the air grew thicker with the scent of old dust and sunbaked lichen the farther they climbed. She went first, light on her feet, daring him with every look back over her shoulder.

He followed in silence, never asking for help.

At the top, the world stretched out before them—hills rolling toward a hazy blue horizon, trees casting long shadows that looked like arms reaching for home. Wind moved through her hair and pulled at his jacket like even the air wanted him to relax.

She dropped onto the cracked stone ledge and stretched out her legs.

“You can see everything from up here,” she said, shielding her eyes. “Even the orchard. Look—there’s your father. Talking to mine.”

Carlos stepped beside her, hands on the edge. “Looks like a duel.”

She smiled slightly, but it didn’t last.

He sat beside her, careful not to touch. A beat passed in the quiet.

Then she reached for the napkin between them, unwrapped it, and offered him the last biscuit.

“It’s the best one,” she said. “I saved it.”

“Are you being nice to me now?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He took it anyway.

Absolutely — here's the Orange Scene, written in rich, detailed fic style, following the mood and tension of their growing friendship that feels too deep for ten-year-olds, but unmistakably present.

Mid-July

The heat was different in the orchard.

It wasn't the dry, dusty heat that pressed against your back like a warning. It was thick here, fragrant — oranges and figs split open in the sun, sap running from broken bark, bees humming lazy hymns as they floated from fruit to fruit. The air felt gold. Sticky. Alive.

She walked with a half-limping sort of gait, barefoot again, a blister forming from where her sandal had rubbed raw the day before. The orchard was her escape — it was always empty around this hour, the adults inside sipping chilled vermouths and talking about how things used to be better, or worse, or something.

The trees arched over her like a church, quiet and full of ghosts.

And then she heard it — the soft, wet sound of teeth sinking into something ripe. A low grunt. A rustle of grass.

She turned the corner, and there he was.

Carlos sat with his back against the largest orange tree, legs stretched out in front of him, a sun-streaked book lying face-down beside him. There was juice on his chin, running down his hand, and in his lap was the guilty corpse of a peeled orange.

He looked up as if he’d been caught stealing gold.

“You’re not supposed to eat them,” she said coolly, folding her arms over her chest. “They’re for the house.”

Carlos didn’t move, except to wipe his wrist on his trousers.

“It fell,” he said. “Technically.”

“So did Eve’s apple.”

He blinked at her, then slowly brought another segment to his lips and bit down.

“Tell someone,” he said, not rudely, just plainly.

She hated that about him — that soft, unreadable calm. He never barked back, never cried. He just said things like facts, and you had to dig for the rest.

She marched over, dropped to her knees beside him with more force than necessary, and snatched a segment from the half-eaten orange before he could react.

She ate it in one bite, juice slicking her bottom lip. Her fingers brushed his — barely — but it felt like a spark regardless.

“That one was mine,” he said, glancing at her hand.

“You stole it first,” she said, licking her thumb. “This is redistribution.”

Carlos let out a low sound — something between a laugh and a scoff — and leaned his head back against the bark. The leaves above filtered the light, casting strange shapes across his face. His eyes had gone warm, half-lidded.

“It’s better than the ones in the bowl,” he admitted, after a pause.

“That’s because it’s forbidden,” she whispered, in mock-reverence.

They sat like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

Every so often, one of them would reach for another slice. They shared the rest without speaking.

When the orange was gone, she didn’t get up.

And neither did he.

Late July

It started raining sometime in the afternoon.

Not a soft, summer sprinkle either — but thick, pouring rain that turned the garden paths to mud and rattled the old window panes. The air smelled of stone and lavender soap, and the walls of the house felt closer than usual. Narrower. As if they were watching.

She wandered toward the room that connected the two estates, ancestors sharing a love for each other, having a room to celebrate together, the music room, because it was the only place no one ever looked for her.

The door was open just enough. The light inside was low — muted greys and the pale gold of storm light slipping through lace curtains. Dust motes swirled like tiny ghosts in the air. The piano sat untouched in the corner, as grand and unsmiling as always.

And he was there.

Carlos.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a book open beside him, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were half on the window, tracking the drops. His hair curled a little when it was humid. She’d noticed that before.

She hesitated.

He looked over without speaking. Just... looked.

“I didn’t know anyone else came here,” she murmured.

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice quiet.

She closed the door behind her. Tiptoed over like the rain might hear her. She sat down a few feet from him, mimicking his posture, legs crossed beneath her skirt.

The silence settled like a blanket.

Outside, thunder rolled.

“They’re fighting again,” she said, suddenly. “My parents.”

Carlos didn’t react right away. He didn’t ask what about. He didn’t offer a fix. He just nodded, like that was enough — like it made sense.

“They fight about things I don’t even understand,” she said. “I think sometimes I’m the thing they’re really angry at.”

She hadn’t meant to say that.

It came out like a secret slipping between her ribs.

Carlos turned toward her, slow and still, his expression unreadable in that familiar, maddening way.

“That’s not your fault,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t even looking for her eyes — just speaking the truth like he always did, like the truth was just something you picked up off the floor and handed over.

“Do your parents fight?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly... my father just doesn’t listen.”

She watched the rain trace patterns down the glass.

“Do you want to be like him?” she asked.

That one surprised him. He blinked, and for the first time, something uncertain flickered across his face.

“No,” he said, after a long breath. “I don’t think I do.”

“Good,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause.

And then, softly:

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She didn’t say it as a compliment. Not quite. It was just... true.

Carlos looked at her for a long time, as if memorising something. Then he reached over without a word and handed her one of the handkerchiefs he always carried in his breast pocket.

“Here,” he said. “You’re crying.”

She hadn’t noticed.

But she took it.

And she didn’t give it back.

August

It was a Sunday, hot and windless.

The kind of day where the sky looked painted on — too blue, too flat — like someone had forgotten to give it clouds.

The suitcases were already loaded into the boot of the car. Her mother was making a show of pretending not to cry, fluttering around the garden with a lace handkerchief and too many instructions for the maids. Her father was clapping Señor Sainz on the shoulder, talking in those low, rich tones that only grown men used when they wanted to sound important.

The children — if they could still be called that — stood near the stone wall, just out of earshot.

Carlos had his hands in his pockets. His shirt was pressed, and his shoes were too new. His hair looked brushed for once, but still curled slightly near the ears.

“You’ll come again next summer?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Carlos looked at her for a moment, then down at the grass.

“Maybe. Papa says we might spend it in Madrid next year.”

That hurt more than she thought it would.

“I see,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. “Madrid sounds nice.”

Carlos looked up, watching her carefully, like he didn’t want to miss a flicker of her expression.

“You could write,” he said.

“Girls don’t write boys,” she replied, chin lifting just slightly.

“Who says that?”

“Everyone.”

Carlos didn’t answer. He pulled something from his pocket — not the usual white handkerchief but a small, worn coin. It looked foreign, heavy. Bronze, maybe. He held it out.

“Here,” he said. “For good luck.”

She took it with both hands.

Their fingers touched — not the clumsy, accidental brushes of before, but a pause. A hold. The kind that said more than either of them could say out loud.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t smile, not really. But his lips curved slightly, like he was holding something back. She wondered — not for the first time — what kind of man he would grow up to be.

“Don’t forget me,” she said, as softly as a breath.

“I won’t,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

And then the car door slammed. A final noise. A punctuation mark.

He looked over his shoulder once as he was ushered inside. Just once.

But she’d remember it for the rest of her life.

The coin stayed in her pocket all day. She didn’t cry until nightfall, when the lights were out and the cicadas were too loud to blame the sound on anything else.

Sixteen and Seventeen

The brushes sat still for a moment in her hand, hovering just above the canvas.

She squinted slightly, assessing the blue she'd blended — it was almost right, but not quite. Too much ultramarine. Or perhaps not enough light. The morning sun filtering through the tall windows hit the parquet floors in warm streaks, brushing against her skirts and the edges of her easel like a visitor trying to make itself known.

The soft scratch of bristles on canvas filled the quiet room, accompanied by the steady and the whisper of autumn wind tapping at the windowpanes. The scent of oil paint clung to the air — linseed and turpentine and something faintly floral from the soap she’d used to scrub her hands earlier that morning.

Sunlight drifted in long golden bands across the floor, pooling at the base of her easel where an unfinished painting rested. Her strokes had grown slower lately. She wasn’t sure what she was painting anymore.

Behind her, the morning paper rustled.

Her father cleared his throat — not out of impatience, but in that careful way he always did when he wanted her to listen before she spoke.

"Your mother received a letter this morning."

She kept painting, eyes narrowed slightly. "From whom?"

"The Sainz family."

The brush hovered mid-air. Her hand stilled. She didn’t turn around.

"Oh."

She turned slowly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly — not in suspicion, but in preparation. "I thought they were still abroad. Italy, or Paris?"

He folded his paper and set it aside with a heavy sort of grace. "They’ve returned to Madrid. For good, this time. Lucía writes that the children have grown — as you both have — and that it's high time for proper introductions to be renewed."

"I don’t think we need introductions," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Her father smiled faintly, catching it anyway. "No. But circumstances are different now. You were what — ten? Eleven? You played in orchards and threw oranges at each other. That hardly counts as acquaintance in the eyes of society."

She frowned. Her hand tightened around the paintbrush.

"They’ve returned to Madrid — permanently, it seems," he said, standing now, unfolding the letter with the familiar crinkle of soft paper. "Lucía writes warmly. She hopes to see us again. Says she remembers you — and Carlos — quite fondly."

There was a beat of silence.

She set her brush down carefully on the palette’s edge.

"They’re inviting us for the autumn season," her father continued gently. "To stay with them for a time. It’s been long enough. Too long."

"And you want to go."

He didn’t answer at first. He moved toward the window instead, pulling aside the lace curtain with a thoughtful glance at the trees outside.

"I think," he said, "that it’s time you were seen. Properly."

She frowned. "Seen?"

He looked at her now — really looked — with that soft, furrowed expression that always made her feel small and known at the same time. "You’re nearly seventeen. The world’s going to look at you differently whether you like it or not. You’ve grown up in this house, among paintings and books, and we’ve let you be... free. But you’re a young woman now. And sooner or later, the world is going to notice."

She sat straighter, fingers curling against her lap.

"I don’t want to be noticed," she said softly.

"I know," he replied. "But it's not about being paraded, not truly. It's about being seen in the right light, by the right people. The kind of people who understand who you are. What you could be."

"Wealthy men," she said, sharper than she meant it.

His mouth quirked slightly. "Not just that."

He stepped closer, resting a hand gently on the back of her chair. His voice softened.

"I’m not trying to marry you off. Not yet. But... I want you to have choices, darling. Real ones. You’ve always seen more than you let on — the way you observe, the way you listen. You deserve to walk into a room and know you belong there."

She swallowed hard.

"And Carlos?" she asked, quieter now.

He hesitated — not out of discomfort, but with care.

"He’s grown too, I imagine. He was always a good boy. Polite. Clever. I think you two were rather fond of one another, once."

"That was a long time ago."

Her father nodded. "Yes. But some things remain."

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful, familiar.

He tapped the letter against his hand once before placing it neatly on the table.

"We leave in two weeks," he said. "We’ll stay through the season, perhaps longer if it suits us. You’ll need a few new gowns. Something light, perhaps in that soft green you favor. Your mother’s already written to Madame Eloise."

She said nothing, only reached for her brush again. Her hand moved almost instinctively, painting the gentle slope of a shoulder — fabric just beginning to take shape. She wasn’t even aware it resembled him until the stroke had dried.

Her father leaned down, kissed the top of her head — a quiet, habitual thing — and left the room without another word.

And though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, her heart had already started to beat a little faster.

Taglist, comment to be added;

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[soft4changbin]

More than jokes

Stray Kids Seungmin x reader

Summary: You and Seungmin start as sarcastic friends, but hidden feelings slowly surface. After weeks of tension and a quiet confession, your friendship turns into something deeper—real, honest love built on teasing, loyalty, and unspoken care.

Word count: 2,193

The first time you meet Seungmin, he insults your coffee order.

“Vanilla syrup? With oat milk?” he says, peering into your cup like you’d poured poison into it. “You trying to drink a dessert or stay awake?”

You blink at him, the new intern your friend dragged you into helping settle at the label building.

“That’s funny,” you reply, raising your cup. “I don’t remember asking the vocal line’s least adventurous member for a review.”

Seungmin grins—quick, crooked, and dangerous. “Touché.”

From then on, everything is like that.

Snarky comments. Close calls. Eye contact that lingers too long for either of you to fully admit. You’re not sure when it started turning into something else, but suddenly your mornings feel weird if he doesn’t pass by your desk with some stupid quip or you don’t tell him he dresses like a conservative grandpa in the middle of a heatwave.

You weren’t supposed to get close. It’s work, after all. But Seungmin has a habit of showing up when you least expect it.

Like on the third Thursday you stay late, staring at a stalled project for an artist you’re helping coordinate.

He tosses a bag of snacks on your desk.

“You’re still here?”

You don’t look up. “No, you’re hallucinating. I’m actually at home eating ramen and crying about it.”

“Good to know you multitask.” He slides into the empty chair beside you. “You want help?”

“You offering out of pity?”

“Absolutely.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “I’ll take it.”

And you do. Over and over. Until his presence becomes so familiar, you stop noticing when it becomes essential.

You don’t realize how used to him you’ve become until he starts acting weird.

Not weird weird, but quieter. Less teasing. His usual sarcastic remarks get replaced with polite nods and distant glances.

At first, you think it’s just a bad week. He’s an idol—there’s pressure, schedules, exhaustion. But when it stretches into two weeks, you can’t ignore it.

You finally catch him alone in the practice room one night, sitting cross-legged on the floor, head bent over his phone.

“You ghosted me,” you say simply, leaning against the wall.

He looks up, startled. “I didn’t.”

“You did. You texted me good luck with the showcase and then disappeared.”

“I’ve been busy.”

You cross your arms. “Bull.”

His eyes narrow, jaw tightening. “Okay, fine. Maybe I needed space.”

“From what?”

He hesitates. Then: “From you.”

The silence that follows cuts sharper than anything either of you has ever said.

“Oh.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Not because I don’t want to be around you. Because I do. That’s the problem.”

You’re still staring at him, heart skipping uneven beats, when he finally says it.

“I like you,” he mutters, eyes down. “And I didn’t want to. I thought if I kept it casual, joked around, it’d stay safe. But then it wasn’t. It’s not.”

You take a slow breath, trying to process.

“You… like me,” you repeat, softly.

He nods once. “Yeah. Kind of a lot.”

You don’t kiss him that night.

Instead, you sit down beside him, shoulder brushing his, and say, “I like you too, Kim Seungmin.”

And just like that, the lines you’d both tiptoed around begin to blur.

What follows is weeks of pretending nothing’s changed while everything has.

You still tease each other. You still argue over food and playlists and whether cats are better than dogs. (He insists dogs win, you say cats are independent icons, and he says you’re just wrong.)

But under it all, there’s this electric thread—unspoken, undeniable.

He texts you goodnight every night now.

You save the voice note he sends when you’re stressed out, the one where he hums your favorite song softly, almost shy.

You start writing little things in your notes app about the way he laughs—like he’s trying not to, like it sneaks up on him.

He catches you once, scrolling through it, and snorts. “You journaling about me? I’m flattered.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll change your name to ‘Coffee Hater’.”

He smiles, and it lingers too long. “Make sure you spell ‘boyfriend’ right, too.”

You both freeze.

He’s the one who breaks the tension.

“Too soon?” he says, rubbing his palms on his jeans.

You shake your head. “No. Just unexpected.”

He studies your face, serious now. “Then let me say it for real.”

He stands, reaching for your hand and gently pulling you up. He’s still holding it when he says, quietly:

“Be with me. Not in the background, not in-between. Just… us.”

You nod, heart pounding. “Yeah. Okay. Us.”

That night, you finally kiss.

It’s awkward at first—his nose bumps yours, your hands fumble—but then it settles into something soft and honest, like all the words you never had the courage to say.

Months pass

He’s busy. You’re busy. But he still brings you coffee, even if he won’t drink it himself.

He still roasts your playlist choices and makes fun of your hoodie collection.

But now he also holds your hand under the table at meetings and walks you home after long nights, telling you he’s proud of you even when you feel like you haven’t done enough.

And when you ask him one day—half-laughing, half-serious—“Why me?”

He just says, “Because you never treated me like I was anything but real. And because every version of me liked you.”

You kiss him again, coffee-flavored and familiar, and wonder how you ever thought he was just another sarcastic guy at the label.

He was always more than that.

And now—he’s yours.

[hoe-days]

How would the crew (five wise general and Tsukasa and Hyoga) react to their mini version chill in their s/o boobs, like they chill in the best spot whiling s/o fawning over them while feeding them grapes. Honestly be funny to see how jealous they be 🤣

Senku can’t help but respect the hustle. He suspects it won’t last long though and that’s what makes it funnier. Eventually Pocket Senku climbs out because he got over heated. And Senku is there watching with a shit eating smirk.

“Can’t handle the heat, huh?”

“Big oaf.”

——

Pocket Ryusui’s favorite thing to say is “I want it!”. He mostly stays on top of Ryusui’s S/O’s head and “gives orders”. It’s the cutest thing when he does his little snap and goes “Francois!”. Most of the time he’s not even talking to Francois, he can only say like 2 or 3 words so he refers to everyone as Francois. Except S/O. They go in the “Mine” category. Ryusui is at a loss for words for once when he walks in and sees his Mini just chilling in his S/O’s bra being fed chocolate.

“I want it!”

S/O gives him another piece and chuckles. Pocket Ryusui looks at his counter part and smirks.

“Mine.”

Ryusui blinks.

“Huh.”

“Am I wrong?”

Ryusui doesn’t know if he should be pissed or proud.

——

Pocket Gen likes to manipulate S/O into pampering him. He has a whole act and everything. 9/10 Gen’s S/O can see through it, but they like to play along cause he’s so damn cute.

He’d dramatically fall over and act famished in front of S/O so they’ll pick him up.

“For-eelray…”

He snickers when they finally give him what he wants and plays innocent when Gen catches him. Gen would look at the scene before him, his eyebrow twitching, and go,

“Wooow you’re quite the little actor, huh?”

“Aww Gen leave him alone.”

And the little shit will look Gen in his eye with that same snakey expression Gen has when manipulating people.

“Errible-tay.”

“DID IT LEARN A NEW WORD JUST TO SAY IT TO ME.”

“He’s said that before you’re being delusional.”

——

Ukyo gets along well with Pocket Uky actually, so he doesn’t pay it much mind. Pocket Uky is one of the few Minis that says his S/O’s name. He’s also one of the few that don’t talk much. Most of the time it’s S/O or Ukyo asking or saying something to him and him nodded or shaking his head.

He can be usually be found being carried by Ukyo or his S/O. He likes to sit on Ukyo’s hat or on S/O’s shoulder, but today Ukyo hasn’t seen him. When he stops in from patrolling to take Pocket Uky out with him he’s met with S/O working on wrapping more arrows for him with Pocket Uky tucked between their boobs.

“Well he looks comfortable.”

“He kept falling off my shoulder and head, so I put him in there.”

Poor Pocket Uky is so flustered it’s adorable. His face is red but he makes no move to get out. Ukyo chuckles picks up Pocket Uky’s little paper hat from the floor.

“Well do you want to go patrol with me, little guy?”

“S/O.”

“Hm?”

Pocket Uky shakes his head.

“S/O.”

“Oh. Well continue on then.”

Ukyo shakes his head and smiles before giving S/O a kiss and leaving.

——

Chrome is not having it. Pocket Chrome likes to point at things and go “BAD”. But you never know if he means good bad or bad bad. He’s adorable, he finds random things on the floor and hauls them to S/O. They’ll notice him bravely hauling a pebble to them and he’d go, “Resource!”.

Poor guy is tired after that and likes to rest on S/O. Since they’re busy they just sit him on their shoulder. He ends up accidentally sliding down into their shirt though. They just hear a muffled, “THIS IS BAD,” as he pokes his head out.

“Oh sorry little guy. You want to get down?”

They hold their hand up to him and he shakes his head.

“Resources.”

Chrome walks in to show S/O something and sees Pocket Chrome in S/O’s shirt and narrows his eyes.

“Whatcha doin little guy?”

Pocket Chrome looks at him before sinking down further.

“No you don’t!”

Chrome grabs him and squeezes him like a bobble head. Pocket Chrome reaches for S/O for help.

“BAD BAD BAD BAD”

“YOU’RE THE BAD ONE ACTING LIKE A LITTLE PERVERT IN S/O’S SHIRT.”

——

Pocket Tsu is the strong and silent type. He won’t talk much, but he acts like a little guard for S/O. He will happily fight any spiders and rodents for S/O. So it’s not a surprise when he squares up to a spider that comes into S/O’s tent from outside. S/O takes notice and quickly scoops him up.

“That one is venomous I think. You shouldn’t fight that one little guy.”

He raises his little butter knife sized weapon in protest but S/O takes it from him and puts him in their shirt while they walk outside. Pocket Tsu is immediately flustered and docile.

“We can go ask Senku if it is or not and what we should do.”

Pocket Tsu nods and holds on, still red in the face. S/O walks past where Tsukasa is training and decides to stop and say hi. When they walk up Tsukasa stops what he’s doing and approaches them.

“Hey. Out for a walk?”

Pocket Tsu looks up at him shyly, still flustered from being where he is.

“He tried to fight a spider that might be venomous, so I took his little butter knife. That’s why he looks like that.”

Tsukasa chuckles.

“Are you sure that’s why?”

S/O holds their hand up to their chest to offer him an out. Pocket Tsu climbs out slowly and stands on their hand. He looks down before taking a deep breath and regaining his confidence and bravado, putting his hands on his hips and holding his head high.

“It’s alright. I feel the same way when I touch them too.”

——

Hyoga will torment Pocket Hyoga and it will in turn, bite and stab his fingers. Pocket Hyo is incredibly possessive of Hyoga’s S/O too. He sits on their shoulder most of the time and just stares that anyone who approaches, ESPECIALLY Hyoga. He made himself a little spear out of twigs and pebbles and will poke Hyoga’s hand anytime he tries to touch S/O’s shoulder, which leads to Hyoga knocking him off.

S/O catches Pocket Hyo and shakes their head.

“Stop being mean to him.”

Pocket Hyo shakes his head.

“Improper.”

Hyoga looks at Pocket Hyo and reaches for him again , so S/O holds him closer to their chest. Pocket Hyo takes the opportunity to climb inside and make a hiding spot.

“You think that will keep me from getting to you, vermin?”

“You’re so mean to him.”

“Fine. Let’s see how long he stays in there while I get you naked.”

“Hyoga no!”

He smiles under his mask when S/O runs away with Pocket Hyo.

[chadobi]

I just thought of this funny scenario: The rise boys (or just Mikey and Leo separately)have been pining after reader for YEARS, and one of reader’s guy friends (who knows about the turtles) gets more touchy and affectionate towards her. Cue jealous turtle that leads to them confessing. BUT when the boys are officially dating their crush, and prolly try to rub it in, the friend admits that he never liked reader that way, and just wanted to get the guys to confess (secret wingman lol)

Operation: Confess or Die

Hi guys! I hope everything’s good with you! Sorry I haven’t been very active lately, but I’m on medication from the doctor and it’s causing a hormonal storm, so I’m basically in a constant PMS mood 😭

Rise!Leo x Reader

Summary: Leo’s been secretly in love with you for years, but it’s all been stolen glances and half-baked plans. When your best guy friend Eli suddenly starts getting… touchy? Affectionate? Flirty? Leo loses it. The twist? Eli’s doing it all on purpose.

The city was buzzing below, all soft golden streetlamps and distant car horns. The spring air was warm with that faint scent of subway steam and night jasmine from your fire escape planter. It would’ve been perfect for a quiet night in—if Leonardo Hamato wasn’t currently having an emotional crisis in your living room.

Leo sat stiffly on the armrest of your couch, arms crossed, trying to act like he wasn’t calculating how many punches it’d take to knock Eli’s smirking teeth out of his face.

Three. Maybe four. But that’d be rude.

“I’m just saying,” Eli said, leaning a little closer to you with that lazy smile of his, “you should’ve seen her trying to win that claw machine last week. Fourteen tries. Fourteen. I had to physically drag her away.”

You gasped, shoving him playfully. “That thing was rigged!”

Leo watched as your shoulder pressed into Eli’s side. Your laughter rang out like a damn bell, and something sour twisted in his stomach.

You didn’t even notice his glare. Why would you? You were too busy watching Eli like he hung the damn moon.

Leo tried to calm himself. He’s just a friend. He’s always been around. Nothing’s different.

Except now Eli was brushing hair behind your ear. And calling you nicknames like “sweetheart” and “doll.”

And the worst part?

You weren’t stopping him.

Two hours later, Leo was back in the lair, face down on the floor of the dojo while Donnie ran diagnostics on a busted drone.

“I’m done,” Leo muttered into the mat. “I’m just gonna lay here forever. Maybe if I stay still long enough, time will rewind and I can delete all of tonight.”

Mikey flopped beside him, propping his chin on his hands. “You still didn’t tell her?”

Leo groaned. “I couldn’t. She was with him again.”

Donnie didn’t look up from his tablet. “The statistically improbable friend who’s suddenly acting like a human Labrador retriever?”

Raph crossed his arms from the doorway. “Maybe he’s got a thing for her.”

Leo flipped onto his back, face pale. “Do not say that.”

“Then do something!” Mikey chirped, poking his plastron.

“I had a plan,” Leo grumbled. “Phase One was charm. Phase Two was rooftop dinner. Phase Three included ambient jazz and maybe sparklers—”

“Yeah?” Donnie interrupted. “What phase are we in now? Emotional self-destruction?”

Leo groaned again. This time louder.

The next time Leo visited you, it was worse.

It was so much worse.

He arrived just before sunset, perching outside your fire escape to wait for your usual “come in” knock—except he didn’t knock. He froze instead, listening to the laughter spilling out from your living room.

You and Eli were on the couch, curled close over a shared phone screen, watching some dumb TikTok compilation. You were laughing so hard you had to clutch his arm for support. He didn’t pull away. In fact, he put his hand over yours.

Leo’s hands clenched the railing. He swore his blood pressure hit critical.

He jumped down, stormed across the fire escape like a soldier entering enemy territory, and knocked. You answered with your usual warmth, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—and for a split second, Leo’s fury melted like ice.

But then Eli appeared behind you.

“Leo!” you said, smiling. “Come hang out with us!”

“Yeah, c’mon in,” Eli added with a casual wave. “We were just watching fail videos. You’d be surprised how funny goats can be.”

Leo stepped inside, every muscle tight. The apartment smelled like popcorn and vanilla candles, and the sounds of bleating goats and screaming skateboarders echoed from the TV.

He sat on the farthest edge of the couch, as physically distant from Eli as possible.

You didn’t notice his glare. You were too busy rewinding a goat parkour clip.

But Leo noticed everything.

The way Eli kept “accidentally” brushing your hand. The way he leaned toward you to whisper some joke. The way you leaned back without hesitation.

And then—just as the next video loaded—Eli said it.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice soft and just intimate enough, “I really love spending time with you lately.”

Leo blacked out for a second.

Then he stood up.

Fast.

“Okay—NOPE,” he snapped, pacing a tight line in front of your coffee table. “Nope nope nope nope—I can’t do this anymore, I’m gonna explode, I’m literally malfunctioning—”

“Leo?” you said, blinking. “Are you okay?”

Eli just sat back with a suspiciously neutral expression.

Leo whirled to face you, shoulders tense, eyes blazing.

“I like you,” he blurted. “Okay? I like you. Like—like like. Not just friendly ‘I’ll carry your groceries’ like, or ‘I’ll beat up a creep for you’ like—real, actual, romantic like. And I have for a long time.”

You stared at him, lips parting.

“I wanted to tell you ages ago, but then Eli was always around, and then he got weirdly touchy and then I panicked, and now I’m confessing in front of a goat video and this is not how I pictured this going—”

You stood slowly. Moved toward him.

“Leo.”

He stopped rambling.

You looked up at him—his cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide with panic.

And you smiled.

“About time,” you said softly.

His heart stopped.

You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’ve liked you forever, dumbass.”

He blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I figured you’d tell me eventually,” you said, laughing. “But watching you squirm was kind of fun.”

From the couch, Eli stretched, popped his knuckles, and casually said:

“Well, my job here’s done.”

Leo snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

Eli stood, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “I’ve known for like… years that you were in love with her. Figured if I upped the affection, you’d grow a spine.”

Leo’s jaw dropped. “You—you were faking it?!”

Eli winked. “You’re welcome, Blue Boy.”

Then he slung his hoodie over his shoulder and strolled toward the door.

You stifled a laugh behind your hand.

Leo turned back to you, flustered beyond belief.

“So… does this mean I get to kiss you now?”

You grinned. “Only if you swear you’re not gonna wait another three years to ask me out.”

[lochyratliffs]

Hey just curious about something, i really liked the brothers arc, but then at the end Saxon tells Lochlan that it’s ok to worship him but not “that” way. Are we not considering that as the end of the chapter from his side? Lochlan might have been interested for whatever reasons like teenage confusion, hero worship, sexual attraction, felt led on by Saxon. But it’s a big no from Saxon is what I felt. And then Saxon also asks to drop it, nail on the head. Saxon seems to keep Lochlan around to boost his ego since no one else admires him and that gets to fucked up levels. Still, that is possible. But there’s no attraction towards Lochlan, as per what Saxon said.

working on my lochlan magnum opus but i'm gonna answer this one real quick-- i have a response here for essentially this question, so you can read that, but i want to add here that saxon's words mean NOTHING.

saxon definitely does cling to lochlan in thailand as an ego boost and a pet project since he isn't allowed to work after their phones get taken-- he's clinging on to his "at-home" personality up to that point, still being strange and inappropriate with his brother in the way i detailed in that ask as well as using lochlan as a captive audience and grabbing his dick while he talks about horny women, but after their phones get taken away saxon turns from that into really, truly working to get lochlan laid. and with that comes a switch where saxon begins being handsy as hell and deeply strange with him:

(setting aside saxon's horrible word choice for now...)

saxon brings lochlan into the adult world ("young. fucking. come." "shut up and drink this. they don't care. it's fine. just take it."), then immediately going back to kids games with "follow the leader," just like he does so many times throughout the show, like tickling piper in their first scene and then talking about her genitals, talking about sex and then doing a funny walk while he tucks his dick between his legs before he smacks piper on the head, saxon is PREOCCUPIED with childish behaviour in adult contexts. i think a large part of his obsession with lochlan and piper's virginity and lochlan's youth in particular is a feeling of reliving his own, whether he regrets the way he lost it/how young he lost it or whether he regrets his choices from 18 to now, following blindly in timothy's footsteps, developing no real personality. his deranged childish/sexual act could be anxiety over getting older. maybe it's a desire to return to youth. maybe it's a fetish because he's seen too many "barely legal" porn shoots.

ANYWAY-- episode 6 is called denials. we open the episode with saxon remembering bits and pieces from the threesome, which you can see detailed here with analysis based on how he reacts to them, notably hitting his breaking point and throwing up when he realizes he got off while locking eyes with lochlan. he's definitely feeling violated, but there's a gradient to his reactions that we can observe-- and when you look at the shots, there's an argument to be made that those shots are following saxon's eyes and saxon's interest, since it's his memories from his point of view.

when saxon goes down to the beach and realizes chloe remembers the threesome, and worse, that chloe is going to drag all of it out in front of chelsea, he's LYING. we, the audience, already know he remembers enough of that night that he can't claim he blacked out completely. he says, "i don't remember that!" well after we see him remember the handjob, and he begins the conversation denying that it counts as a threesome because it was with his little brother.

subconsciously i think he does view lochlan as an extension of himself, which contributes to him being so floored that lochlan would reach out and touch him, but... that was a threesome. saxon made out with chloe (at least twice) after spending a whole night working to get her to fuck his brother. saxon stayed in the bedroom, took his shorts off at some point between lochlan kissing chloe and lochlan fucking chloe, and just kind of hung out watching his brother lose his virginity.

that conversation goes on, saxon trying out all the denials he rehearsed in his head all day, everything he's got to justify what happened, and the girls shoot down EVERYTHING until saxon has to leave before he starts crying. every single sentence saxon has said this entire conversation is a LIE, that he KNOWS IS A LIE, and then the conversation ends with him denying that hooking up with his brother/desiring his brother is "a thing, it's definitely not a thing!"

in the context of this whole discussion, where nothing saxon says is truthful, we know this is a lie.

title this "i don't think there's a drug in the world that could make me get with my brother." and put that bitch in the louvre!

all this to say that the gap between the truth vs. what saxon says is a canyon full of boundary-pushing sexual behaviour and teacher/student porn. you're correct that it IS a big no from saxon, but not necessarily because of a lack of desire. his identity is crumbling around him and he needs to cling to the pillars of his false personality, one of which is accepting lochlan's worship, now with a shiny new "NO-TOUCHING" sign added. unfortunately for him, that twink has had it!!!

[itadoraki]

Cotton-Colored Shrimpy

—————————————————————————

Floyd Leech x R.femele. ( Extremely kind and sweet )

—————————————————————————

.

.

The soft noise of the waves of the NRC lake echoed between Octavinelle's stone arches. It was late afternoon, and the orange sky was reflected in the waters like dyed glass. Azul had already closed the Monster Lounge, and Jade had disappeared with some weird plan to pick mushrooms. The dormitory was silent. Almost calm.

Floyd? He was lying on his stomach on the couch in the lobby, throwing a basketball up and taking it back... until he felt the presence.

"Hmm~ that sweet smell... Shrimpy~?"

You were there - long hair falling down your back, bright eyes and a smile so soft that it could heal a war. His presence was like a sun-filled candy: impossible to ignore.

- Hi, Floyd~! I brought melon juice! I made it for you, with a lot of ice, okay? - you offered the glass with enthusiasm, with flushed cheeks.

He smiled. Slow. Predatory. And he dropped the ball.

"Hee~? Are you trying to please me today, Shrimpy Cotton Color?"

"Tsc, now I'm going to have to squeeze you, right?"

You laughed, and he went to you in three wide steps, grabbing you by the waist with long arms and turning you in the air with ease. You screamed, laughing, hitting his back lightly.

- Floyd!! Put me on the floor, otherwise I'll... I'll... give you a forced kiss!

"Hi~? How scary you are, Shrimpy!" - he teased, eyes shining.

And then you really kissed him - a sweet and unexpected kiss, but so warm that it made Floyd literally stop moving for a few seconds.

"...Heh."

"You're so sweet today that I'm even going to get sick~"

But the truth? He had hot skin. Red ears. Look slightly lost. He didn't understand how someone could be so kind to him, so loving, without being afraid. He was unpredictable, intense, weird - and you... just smiled. You cried easily, praised everything about him, even when he was in a bad mood.

It was strange. And it was addictive.

————

That day, you walked around the campus. He held your hand tightly, his fingers intertwined, while you told about a student who praised your outfit.

"Who? Who was the funny guy?" - he asked, stopping walking.

"I'm kidding~... or not."

You laughed, stopping in front of him, and with that exaggerated affection that only you knew how to do, you touched his face with both hands.

- Floyd... I just look at you. I only have eyes for my Floydzão! Even when you have a sullen face and want to crush the world!

"...Shrimpy..."

"You're not afraid of me, are you?"

You denied with your head, firm, still with a smile on your lips.

- Never. I see your scary side, but also your affectionate side. You protect me, listen to me... And even when you pretend not to call, I know you care.

Floyd was silent for a few seconds. A rare silence. His look softened. The shoulders relaxed. And for the first time that day, he pulled you close, but not violently. It was careful.

"...Today I don't want to crush you."

"I just want to stay here... with you."

You laughed, moved, and hugged him tightly, head on his chest.

- So stay. Do you promise that you will always stay, even when I'm too silly?

"I promise, if you promise to keep calling me beautiful when I'm grumpy."

- Beautiful, cute, strong, smelly... - you answered quickly, like a machine gun of compliments.

Floyd laughed loudly, happy. It was the kind of laugh that only you could get from him.

————

Later, he took you to a secret place at the bottom of the Monster Lounge, where the light was blue, and the decorative corals seemed to float. He lay on the couch, with his head on your lap, watching you touch his hair with affection.

"You're strong like me, Shrimpy. But inside, it's like jelly... full of emotion."

- And you are like a deep sea: mysterious, dangerous... but full of beautiful life inside.

He closed his eyes. I was... at peace.

And for the first time, Floyd murmured softly:

"If you leave someday... I swear I'll get really mad."

You smiled, kissing his forehead sweetly.

- I'll never leave, Floyd. Even if you try to crush me.

"Heh~ so you'll have to put up with a sticky boyfriend forever, Cotton Color."

———— That night

The blue half-light of the secret aquarium in Octavinelle reflected on the curved walls, creating a slow dance of liquid shadows. It was almost dawn, and the world seemed to be suspended.

Floyd still had his head on his lap, but now, his eyes were fixed on his chest.

You wore a light shirt, open at the top, and your generous breasts seemed even more inviting to that magical light. The fabric barely disguised the high and firm curve that went up and down according to his calm breathing. They pressed against the fabric, heavy and sensitive, too hot for that cold place.

"...Heeeeeeh."

"Shrimpy... you're trying to provoke me, aren't you?"

Floyd's eyes, usually playful, were slow and dark now. He got up slowly, with his hands going directly to his waist. I need it. As if he was playing something that he believed belonged only to him.

You smiled, a little shy.

- Provoke you? Never... although you seem very interested in mine... - his voice decreased when he ran a slow finger through the curve of the neckline.

"They're so big... how do you walk with all this in your chest, huh, Shrimpy?"

"It's distracting me... I can't even think straight..."

He lowered his face until he almost touched his nose at you. The warm breath on the skin of your collarbone made you shudder. The breasts weighed so much that they seemed to pulsate, swollen with silent desire, almost painful with the slow attention he gave.

"They're so soft..." - he murmured, pressing one of them with one of his big hands, over the clothes.

"So... flashy. I think I'm going to bite."

- Floyd...!

But the sound of his voice failed when he slowly licked his skin just above the curve of a breast, his eyes fixed on his own like a predator.

You tried to laugh, but got goosebumps all over.

- You're a perverted eel...

"Heeh~? Did you just find out now?"

He pulled you to sit on his lap, with ease. The breasts were crushed against his chest, and Floyd let out a guttural sigh, his fingers running down his back.

"You know what's more fun, Shrimpy...?"

"It's just that you have such an indecent body, and yet you look at me with those innocent eyes..."

He lightly bit the exposed shoulder, and then pressed his lips on one of the soft mounds, right over the clothes, making a deep sound in the throat.

"I could spend hours just touching you here..."

"Squeezing, sucking, leaving your skin all marked just for no one else to dare to look..."

You gasped, holding his shoulders tightly. The heat rose from her womb to her breasts, which seemed to throb under the fabric.

Floyd was smiling, but it wasn't the joke smile. It was the smile of someone hungry for affection, for desire, and for total control over that body that he thought was too perfect to be real.

"You're going to let me play more, right?" - he asked with a deep voice, brushing his lips in the middle of his breasts.

"Will you let me prove you... everything?"

You nodded, red, shaking between his arms.

And Floyd, with pleasure and fascination, took you to the bottom of the secret room, where no one else would hear your low moans, or the wet sound of his hands loving every curve of yours - especially that part of your body

—————————————————————————

[forecast0ctopus]

[fumifooms]

Onis, cannibalism and the above-divine power of human conscience in Touge Oni

"It can only be referred to as the curse or by its ancient name, kidou (Way of the oni). It is the greatest, mightiest and most abominable power of all humankind. The source of the ??? selfish prosperity accomplished through the relentless reaping of the harvest that is the people. It [is] a be[???] formless concept but it is the foundation on which civilizations and t[he ???] kami are built. What must be done, I do not know. It will not suffice to merely kill and be rid of it, it must be taken." -Sansei Shounin Kozumi

Hello! Short opener because I want to get straight into it- Have you read Touge Oni? If you haven’t, stop right the fuck here and go read it!!!!!!!! Go read it go go go!!!!!!!!! With that said, I’ve been having this thought since vol 5~6 but I just did a full reread before going into reading volume 7 and I am only more confident now. Because of the nature of this analysis, word choices are very important, there is no official english translation currently and although I also read the manga in french, there is a high quality english translation by Penny Theater, thank you! The pages shown here are theirs.

There are 2 sections here to cover: what are onis and what is the power that be: what gives onis credence at all, what gives the oni curse power, what gives gods power. Going into these two things points us towards an answer to perhaps our current biggest question in the story— what the hell is the oni curse?

About Onis

So, first I think we have to acknowledge the real life counterparts to the beings and beliefs Touge Oni references. In our real world, En-no-Ozuna, or En-no-Gyoja, is a half-historical half-legendary person that is credited for the creation of Shugendō, a religion. With this knowledge there’s a lot of fun links that can be made with the story, like how its religious practice involves hiking through mountain ranges (Touge Oni: oni of the [mountain] pass). Or how, Zenki (Zen’s alias) and Goki (future-Miyo’s alias in the first chapters) in legends are (mountain) onis that En-no-Gyoja rallied to his side, they pledged to renounce their evil and follow him. Shugendō means "the path of training and testing", which is also very reminiscent of themes the story has been pointing towards. "Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate".

Ehem, all this to say, shugendō is a religion that’s very syncretic, which means it combines ideas a lot of different religions and schools of thought, including buddhism, taoism (remember that En-no-Ozuna in the story is referred to as an unaffiliated daoist monk), ainu beliefs and shintoism. For the purpose of this analysis, (including my lack of finding shugendō ressources about onis) that means it doesn’t narrow down what interpretations of onis may be relevant. In Touge Oni, many beliefs and religions similarly coexist pretty much seamlessly, and it even references several ancient texts on deities and whatnot, and the "canon" on the details of onis is pretty much unheard of from my research. I’m not a religious or Japan expert by any means but I know just enough to affirm that this sort of mix and mash is accurate to the era, beliefs coexist in ways that are sometimes not cut and clean. For this analysis I went diving into the wikipedia for onis and let me tell you that was an example of this, buddhism, shintoism, folktales, without mentioning non-japanese cultural equivalents subtypes and influences— there are so many variations of onis through time.

All this to say…! We can’t rely on historical depictions of onis to solve this, there’s no cheat code, we have to analyze through what Touge Oni gives us for the answers we seek. Even Touge Oni tells us how onis can refer to different things, oni not only being used for man-eating monsters but also for ‘eccentric people’, those who don’t fit in, those who people want to villify and dehumanize. Nevertheless, from the humble amount of research I did, I found a couple of real life examples that can give us something to work with:

— Akiko Baba classifies onis into five categories: 1: Folklore onis, associated with ancient ancestral spirits, especially earth spirits. 2: Onis associated with religions held by people living in mountainous areas, like the yamabushi (who follow shugendō!!! Yamabushi meaning, those who lie down in the mountain). (Baba-san please tell me your sources I need to find any sources on Shugendō-specific onis… Are you just talking about Zenki and Goki?!!) 3: Onis linked to buddhism, like evil demons (jakki) and devil figures from outside cultures like yakshas and rakshasas. 4: Human onis, bandits or violent people who became onis as divine punishment. 5: Onis from transformation stories, where someone transforms into an oni because of intense resentment or anger, especialy in nō theater.

You’ll notice here that many of these have interesting implications for Touge Oni onis, especially the human oni category! But also how Zen notably succumbs to his violent rage against Shounin has some similar implications to the transformation oni, and of course there’s the yamabushi oni, which as far as my research went mostly means onis who can be "tamed". Onis eating humans isn’t a constant, but it’s a very common (and often central) aspect of their presence as a myth.

— Lafcadio Hearn in his book Shokunjinki ("the man-eating oni") says that "those who have been greedy of their living are supposed to become gakis (starving spirits)" before falling into the Gakidō (the kingdom of starving spirits) after their death.

So here it’s greed that corrupts. This will be more topical in the conclusion section of my analysis, but for now let’s just piece all of this together and remember that there is half nature and half nurture to onis in most myths that are relevant to us here, half earned and half innate. In versions like in Touge Oni where onis were humans before being changed, they started out the same as anybody but through immoral actions or negative emotions have transformed into literal monsters, either as divine punishment or just the innate corrupting nature of their acts or feelings. Cannibalism is most definitely an immoral action haha, with or without the concept of sin, so this slots neatly into that. So that’s the earned half— But once you become an oni, something has been innately changed within your being, even if your actions were your own as a human— and like in Touge Oni, it’s not unheard of than an oni would want to reform themselves, but still quite uncommon for them to be able to or invited to, En-no-Ozuno’s act like in the legend to extend a helping hand to onis, offering to direct their life towards good, and for the onis to accept and join him… This is a big act of faith in these onis, these people, in that they haven’t been warped enough that they can’t enact any free will for good anymore.

Okay! Lastly for the only irl-historical section of this analysis… The onis in the oni village call themselves ayo-no-oni, or in its full name Ayo-no-Sato-no-Oni. It’s a one-eyed, man-eating oni that’s the oldest verifiable depiction of an oni in japanese literature (Izumo-no-Kuni Fudoki). Thank you Penny Theater! Fun fact, one of the irl origins for onis is thought to be miners and such, so the onis here being metal workers who have injured eyes from their work is a fun detail.

Okay, that’s all the obligatory context out of the way… Now, onto the mystery of the Touge Oni.

Cannibalism is the sole thing known to turn people into onis. Only humans become onis, and the only way to do so is eat human flesh. Like mister monk here, I think the oni curse being divine punishment in a strict sense is unlikely — and was disproven in the manga. But even then it doesn’t feel like the oni curse truly has morality attached to it, it seems like just a… Phenomenon. Uninterested in the circumstances around those it afflicts and impartial in how and who it develops and hounds.

And well… As we see soon enough, the kamis have no power over onis’ state. Like En-no-Ozuno points out it’s very unexpected, the extent to which kamis, especially ookamis and especially Hitokotonushi, should be unlimited, but it seems that this curse of the onis’ even has power over the kamis, is above them, something almost higher than gods in the hierarchy of the laws of the universe, maybe an innate energy or power of the world, like life.

Incidentally, there’s something that humans have and nothing else does, which could explain why the curse only affects humans, a power that becomes central to the story… Something like mantra.

Additional info would be that in Touge Oni, an oni’s horns have a huge focus on them. They’re often referred to as if they are what holds the curse, maybe are the origin of it, where the seed of the curse is planted, like if the horns fall from your head then the curse will just leave you as well. They’re the only visible trait of an oni in most cases, the first and most iconic one at least, and En-no-Ozuno has designed a way to "block" them from appearing through putting a hoop on blood vessels, to which Shounin points out that you can also block their "murderous urge" and "madness" in the same way, perhaps in a process akin to blocking chi flow, a concept that exists in some forms of medicine like acupuncture. The exact mental effects of being an oni are unknown, it’s implied that being an oni comes with side-effects of violent urges and a short temper, but we see with the village of onis that that’s not exactly… Relevant, or noticeable? A lot of this more fragile mental state could logically be attributed to what would push you to commit cannibalism in the first place, famine and horrible conditions that put you in a survival of the fittest mode, trauma and extreme circumstances. So in the end, the finer points of what it means to be an oni in-world are left vague. Different degrees of transformation exist, so to speak. Future-Zen in the capital chapter grows to an enormous size. The appearance of horns onto someone eating human flesh is immediate.

About mantra

From the very start, Touge Oni places a lot of emphasis on the power of language.

Even every chapter ends with records of the sacred treasures being made/shown, religious writings and information archiving. The story references older stories for its own era, and also it very much has a meta dimension to it (that it spells out at the camera with its diegetic fourth wall breaking and timetravel shenanigans-), Touge Oni is a story from the old past of our real world reaching us readers through a book.

The manga ends up talking about philosophy a LOT, and strives to teach a way to think of life where you become aware of the gigantic infinite cosmic scale of the universe and without forgetting or undermining the meaning in a life, the joy to be had in the small things and deciding your own fate. These two aspects of the story, the importance of communication and philosophy, make the entrance of the concept of "mantra" (呪) fitting, smoothens it with coherence and intuition both.

Mantras are thoughts, concepts, wants and will all wrapped into one word. Mantra is your conscience. Mantra is soul. Mantra is kidou.

Kamis see things like bonds between people, Sadera’s zenmiyo shipping goggles etc, and similarly Ookuninushi says that Miyo has a nice mantra after meeting her and it’s… Well, it’s vague, we’re unsure what to make of it, in meaning and measure. Most direct and substantiated theory imo is that she has nice willpower and life philosophy, like when she talks to Susanoo and he takes an immediate liking to her because of her words about life and joy and how to find happiness even in cosmic insignificance. But still! Vague as hell, in good part due to just how wide of a concept mantra is, even just hard to wrap your head around it and visualize it fully.

In the end it’s a pretty abstract concept, so there’s still much to finetune about how it acts and the philosophy around it. For example, Hitokotonushi says this about the nature of wishes and mantras.

The nature of wishes and the nature of mantra… Perhaps she means how Zen understanda how a want affects the whole of the world, that everything is give and take and that when taking balance doesn’t stay the same. Something gained somewhere is something lost elsewhere, like in the ukei, gaining ground and ressources are things enemy man-grass cannot have, and all these things that Miyo taught them and did for them are things for which they in turn attributed to her, it generated thoughts and emotions and worship and mantra, Miyo gave and they gave back.

Mantras can be seen as the power to grant wishes… Interesting indeed. In this way, mantra, like worship points in the ukei, could rather be seen as an unlimited ressource that humans generate. Then, maybe it’s more that Zen wishing for Miyo’s feelings to be changed would be suppressing her mantra, rather than taking, disrupting the flow of this mysterious, powerful energy… Like disrupting chi.

But let’s step back! Kamis are made of mantra, "humans brought them forth through mantras and gave them forth". And THIS is why when a kami has less worshippers and gets less worship, less reverence and thoughts from people, they become smaller and weaker, enough that now most kamis can’t step outside their shrines, enough that some become microscopic when completely forgotten— Wait why are kanjis making up atoms and the fabric of the universe?

Let’s remember that when Miyo got smaller than microscopic, smaller than atoms, the essence of matter and time was writing characters. The kanjis here move, they seem alive almost. There is something divine about human language, human thought, in its essence. Many times we see how important consciousness and thoughts and will are important within the world of Touge Oni, how the concept of them exists and lives as a force. This is a kami talking abotu what resides in a black hole- death and nothingness yet everything that is.

Who knows how much mantra truly has power over! Fascinating. But see, while having people’s indifference as a kami is bad, having their hate is worse. Like Hitokotonushi states, humans’ terror for kamis have turned into a plague over kamis. Hitokotonushi is an impossibly powerful kami that is by that virtue terrifying, and perhaps more importantly is a easy target for anger- with infinite power to grant wishes yet only grants wishes from people who successfully climb her mountain, even granting harmful wishes. The jealousy, the frustration, the injustice— there are so many reasons why Hitokotonushi would become a target for negative emotions, so many reasons she would have to flee to the moon to be far enough from humans, in fear of their sole mind’s will’s power.

So humans, their worship, mantra, people’s thoughts and feelings and conceptualization of a kami, are what gives kamis their status and power, and also what takes it away. Even more than simply taking what they have away, what they have given in the first place, mantra can curse.

Let’s remember the description of kidou by Shounin that I opened this analysis with. "It can only be referred to as the curse or by its ancient name, kidou (Way of the oni). It is the greatest, mightiest and most abominable power of all humankind. The source of the ??? selfish prosperity accomplished through the relentless reaping of the harvest that is the people. It [is] a be[???] formless concept but it is the foundation on which civilizations and t[he ???] kami are built. What must be done, I do not know. It will not suffice to merely kill and be rid of it, it must be taken."

Kidou is mantra. The foundation on which civilizations and kamis are built. The mightiest power of humankind. The reaping of the harvest that is the people like harvesting worship points from man-grass. Shounin wants to save Hitokotonushi from her current affliction, something that can only be done by countering human mantra somehow, something kamis and even sennins, who seem to operate through a lack of mantra rather than under it like kamis, cannot do. It will not suffice to be rid of it, it must be taken, it must be given to the kamis to be self-sufficient, it must be presented to the divine. The oni curse is mantra.

Shounin’s goal is saving Hitokotonushi by removing mantra. Although I think remove might be the wrong word— I theorized that removing mantra from humans could save Hitokotonushi either through directly removing the bind of human mantra upon kamis, or stopping the mantra from changing- deteriorating with time with less worship or turning to anger disrespect and terror, BUT his presentation to the divine consists in giving mantra to kamis- presenting it to them, hence my saying just earlier that this could instead be giving them the power of mantra, rather than just removing it from existence entirely. Instead of telling a fire it no longer needs fuel to keep going, you give it the power to feed itself wood and gasoline endlessly.

And just now I spoke of sennins in a way living without mantra- let’s get into that.

The final step to becoming a seinin is to walk through a town wracked by famine and misery without stopping or lifting a single finger. To offer no help and remain focused on the task to get through it above everything. It’s about leaving empathy behind and putting yourself above the situation, it’s about growing indifferent, as though the suffering of others even around you is inconsequential and doesn’t concern you.

To become a sennin is to leave the scale of thinking of humans, it’s to have learned as a human to think like kamis and see humans as small and meaningless within the cosmic design of the universe. Or rather, a type of transcending humanity that grows cynical, almost resentfully so, where emotions are worth less than nothing and cold logic reigns. But to what design, to what goal? The pursuit of spiritual ascendance is motivating and tempting enough for most, but we do see that some of what we see in Shounin are character flaws specific to him. The sennin mother was kind enough. Shounin talks like no one should care about anything if they are enlightened, but everything he does is ironically out of love for Hitokotonushi-sama.

This incoherence can probably be explained by the "reintegration" Shounin regularly does. We can look at the sacred treasure record of saiukou. "Regular disintegration and reintegration are necessary to keep personality-mantra coherence. Remember your heart." Something Shounin does to brute-force not fully leaving his feelings behind and remembering his goals? I hit the 30 pics per post limit so lemme just stitch the rest of the relevant sacred treasure record puzzle pieces together whike I’m here…

To ascend is to leave mantra behind. Somehow, to wield mantra is to be above-divine, it is incompatible with godhood or ascendance yet it influences and all is bound by it. It is a power that as a sennin you give up, a sacrifice instead of a granted wish, mantra is like the power to grant wishes and ascendance in true ascetism fashion is to, like Zen, refuse to use it and take.

Mantra, the human-exclusive level of thought and philosophy and communication and ability to visualize and build and want. The power of desires. The thing through which one can ascend or curse.

To become a divine being is to leave humanity behind, to leave humanity behind is to leave empathy and compassion and emotions behind. These things are however what makes us different from gods, what gives us powers over them, what makes life as insignificant man-grass worthy.

What is the oni curse?

Kidou, the curse of the oni, as per Shounin’s explanation what civilizations and kamis are built on, what he seeks to take to unchain kamis. Kidou is mantra.

Okay so… The curse of the oni is mantra, but how? What does that even mean?

Well, we’ve learned that most things are ruled by mantra, aka human will and imagination. Becoming a sennin has to do with transcending your own, mantras are what empower and disempower gods. The oni, too, in text, is said to be directly tied to the power of mantra, it is what shuts kamis’ mouths. But sennins, unlike kamis, are not created by human’s mantra, sennins do not rely on humans’ worship (mantra) for their powers and so their mouths aren’t shut, they are outside of mantras’ reach.

To remove an oni’s horns, their curse, by Hitokotonushi’s words is to rob them of their soul. To remove their oni curse is to remove the oni’s mantra. Which means the curse of the oni has tainted their mantra. The… mantra of the curse has tainted and fused with the person’s own mantra, the mantra involved in eating another human being has changed their own mantra innately forever until death. There’s a couple of different ways in which this could happen or for what reason, more precisely.

Human thoughts aka mantra, are what gives gods their forms, we are taught explicitly during the ukei that humans’ conceptualization of a kami dictates their appearance, wether they become a dragon or some other figure. Human mantra also has the power to curse gods- terror for a god becomes a plague that saps at their life and power.

A narrative then becomes clear, does it not? A koi that eats a koi remains a koi, a bear that eats human flesh does not become afflicted by an oni-like curse, the curse is human-bound. If it is the form-altering power of mantra that could curse onis into being, then… Human cannibalism is abhorred and demonized more than perhaps anything else, on a very innate and visceral level.

So by my favored theory, humans becoming monsters after doing cannibalism is that the intense judgement people who commit cannibalism face, this thought that immediately such an act makes them no longer human, takes form and manifests as a mantra that makes it true physically and spiritually— they not only become monsters but their very being is tainted, and since the stereotype of the average cannibal is a heartless emotionless bloodthirsty beast, that’s what onis are forced to become like on an intrinsic level. It is a more or less common myth worldwide, even just often a non-spiritual belief, that committing cannibalism saps at your humanity and turns you into something monstrous, like for example with the wendigo. Like we said earlier, onis are creatures of myth, and the biggest constant is that they are man-eating monsters. Mythical beings are somewhat like kamis, and since kamis can be of disaster or misfortune etc they can be believed in while still being negative in nature, so what’s to say committing an act that intrinsically changes so much about your spiritual state and your reputation in society, fitting the requirements for being an oni, turn you into one? A curse, placed on humans by humans, mantra, thought given form. It is no divine judge,ent, this is not Buddha’s doing, wether or not people can be "redempted" or wether they "deserve" it doesn’t matter, just the intense ostracization and dehumanization that the act inflicts upon you. Now anyone can see at a glance that you’ve committed such an heinous act, and the fear of onis continues on, as many are exiled ir isolated and encouraged to keep eating humans.

To commit cannibalism is to abandon your humanity. AbsoluteColor has an interesting theory centered on this. In their words, becoming an Oni might be something along the lines of transcendence, incomplete as it might be. In the Gabi trial, the aspiring sennin should shed his own emotions and go through a land devastated by war or famine without doing anything, and in a way the Oni who used other humans to feed himself had to shed his emotions, although they did so to gain something for themselves (food), making it a "stunted" transcendence...

My other theory is that since humans possess mantras, eating one breaks something/ fundamentally changes something in your being, either your spirit or body, because mantras are a power that can’t be consumed. So trying to consume it instead deflects it, channeling it in a way, and in this way becoming corrupted because something went wrong. But if it’s unrelated to the taboo as in theory 1 then it’d be weird that animals eating humans don’t become cursed- but the trouble could be that it’s a human eating mantra specifically, again that theme of a human’s special sentience being specially affected by things. Like, an animal doesn’t have the capacity to hold mantras so it slides off their back no trouble, but instead a human eating mantras is like trying to absorb or process it but it causes swelling past the bursting point. After all the process of becoming a god or something divine/above-human is a big topic, and we see how it changes someone and the strain that comes with it, the sacrifices, since by becoming a sennin you shed human emotions. In this reading human sentience itself is transcendant essentually, (and thus deeply affects the world,). Becoming a oni is to be chained by mantra, but the why exactly is up in the air, here it’s that eating another’s as a human, creature that generates mantra rather than being made of it like kamis and absorbing it within yourself messes you up, maybe because by digesting mantra you become made of mantra in some way, maybe the horns are pure mantra, part of them now. The other thing that makes this less likely is that the taboo theory offers some explanation as to why gods would be forbidden to speak about it despite knowing the details of it— it’s something so vile you cannot even speak of its origins, something sow oven into the laws of mantra and the universe that undoing it is unthinkable to even amatsus.

It could be a fusion of these. By consuming mantra you ascend to godhood in a way, and that is what allows one to become affected by mantra. Become bound by it. I’ve also entertained the idea that maybe it is their own mantra affecting their appearance, self-loathing and self-doubt and low self-esteem, your own consideration for your own humanity, after eating human flesh, that you no longer feel human or think you are monstrous. But it has low chances, because that can’t possibly be a phenomenon that always occurs impartially then, not everyone would think of themselves that way, especially with how out of it famine can make someone. This could be not unsimilar to this presentation of the divine deal, where you give the power of having mantra to a being only affected by mantra, onkt the other way around, where a being that generates mantra is now also commandeered by it, an essentialist tool of fate and the universe or something.

So,

to recap!

In my opinion either the oni mantra is strong because the taboo of it is strong, or because mantras are a tangible specially-corruptive thing when consumed.

Since the oni curse is mantra, removing it would have to be done through countering the mantra in some way, perhaps with a stronger positive one about how onis are humans like the rest of us or they can choose their own fate etc etc, or like what Shounin seeks to do to save Hitokotonushi from her curse, through removing mantra entirely.

The koi eats koi thing that the monk brought up is super interesting, any time a manga or japanese media touches on cannibalism it’s go-to example/case study to bring up, I regularly see it referenced even when I pick up a random manga. Asura by George Akiyama from 1970 is just one example. It seems koi eating koi is vey present in japanese consciousness… Which yeah is interesting— Kois are one popularized example but anytime we hear about animal species committing cannibalism we’re shocked by it, so it’s interesting how likely due to japanese exposure to kois it’s what sometimes haunts their stories. This sort of thing is visceral it feels like an innate wrong, so for talking about morality and nature and the innate status of things, yet the concept of higher sentience and how virtues are what makes humans special— it feels very emblematic and topical in many ways, and a very uniquely charged one.

I’m thinking that if they were to through with the Presentation of the Divine and the world became mantra-less Zen’s horns would fall. Which would be an interesting conflict because then Zen would have to consider "ok nice but is it worth trading for human sentience…", which ties back to the theme of wishes… Since human sentience is explicitly connected to mantras I feel like that supports the link I’m making here right, and how human emotions are something not below but rather above and inaccessible to the divine. Gods channel the power from their will through literal god powers that shape the world meanwhile humans can only channel their will through their actions, maybe it’s an inherent shift there that changes everything.

If onis have a strong mantra, and the kami, which are made of mantras, can’t undo the mantra of onis… Then perhaps, the same way that humans gave and take power of the kamis through mantras, humans are what made onis such a strong curse. Perhaps for the horns to fall, the devil’s mark as Ozuno said so fiercely once, the horns that are the mark of the oni, that give them their bloodlust and madness, then all it takes is for humans at large to stop fearing onis so— or rather, stop seeing cannibalism as an irredeemable act that strips your humanity from you forevermore. The power of thoughts is at the core of the story, and the intrigue with Shounin is baiting people to wonder, would it be so bad if that was taken away? Ozuno is tempted to go through with the Presentation to the supreme because it would cure his beloved, and if that were to cure Zen as well… Either from humans no longer being able to make mantras, or kamis becoming more powerful than the onis’ mantra, then that could be one more point of contention. I doubt Zen will be tempted, though, as someone who himself experienced it— survival at its rawest, mindless form. Hitokotonushi said it herself, that he understood the nature of wishes and thus mantras, with how he refused his second most important wish. Miyo herself is stated by people around her to have a fine mantra, a fine will and way to think, so I think that’s why our trio is the stuff of fate, the heroes of this tale. They have a bond so strong that the gods recognize it, and it’ll be because they’ll reach erudite knowledge on mantras and life without sacrificing their compassion or the perspective of a lowly human, baby!! Through shugendō, the path of training and testing, of trial and error and will to keep going!

Touge Oni is a lot about choice and willpower, carving your own path, the desires and ideologies and willpower and sentience of humans, how humans are both small vulnerable and insignificant on the scale of the cosmos and yet how such small beings can have so much impact and influence on the the world and their own fate— let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate. Miyo has changed the destiny the world thrusted upon her, herself bending time to change her own fate, Zen is determined to break his curse that’s stronger than gods and is already defying what should be dictating his life and behavior by acting upright and travelling with humans— humans are not divine but damn…… There’s something to us, isn’t there.

[dantent]

i love how he just throws us out of his room

[leviathanleva]

Neighbor! Simon who is sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor, a hand on his stubbly chin while he tries to figure out how your washing machine works.

Meanwhile you're stirring a pot on the stove and glancing down at him apologetically every now and then.

Funny that there's a pack of Marlboro on the windowsill of your balcony along with an ash tray you'd bought especially for him.

Simon's muddy shoes are in your hallway more often than not, and you decided to get him a pair of slippers since he spends so much time there.

He wears them religiously, you find it adorable.

When you finally hear a click and the washing machine whirrs to life, you're so overjoyed that you wrap your arms around his waist and stand on your toes to press a kiss to his jaw.

His expression barely changes except for the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight.

He rubs gentle circles into the small of your back. You insist he stays for dinner.

He ends up sleeping on your couch, just in case something else goes wrong in your new apartment.

[seven-thewanderer]

This is something I did not expect to actually achieve

…but I’m about to get Shrimpo’s vintage skin