#le drunken

[baldo-poster]

C'est la rentrée au DRUNKEN le vendredi 13 octobre 19h - minuit.

Une selection 100% vinyles de musiques de danses vintages

19 rue de Girard - Montreuil City Rocker

Bières artisanales a gogo !

[cleocatrablossy]

PIRATETIMEPIRATETIMEPIRATETIME

they are theatre kids your honor

[for-the-love-of-javert]

Silence in the auditorium, Monsieur Grantaire is performing

Please take your seats and ensure all mobile dvices are turned off (or at least have the semi decency to put them on silent so the show isn't disrupted by the sound of phones ringing). Grantaire will be delivering a perfomance of....................well............errm.......we're not quite sure what exactly because he's a little inebriated at the moment but we are certain it will be entertaining. That is, if he can manage to stay awake.

Shoujo Cosette 2007

[allegedlyblue]

the temptation to make the next chapter of my fic 5,000 words of enjolras and grantaire debating marx in the louvre ...

[paperandsong]

Le Moine des Étangs-Brisses

From Légendes rustiques, illustrated by Maurice Sand, written by George Sand, 1858

Original French at Project Gutenberg

English translation:

Passers-by who walk along the marshes under the sun’s last rays, beware that gigantic monk who suddenly rises up from amidst the reeds. Flee, and don't listen to his damnable talk!

- Maurice Sand

Jeanne and Pierre lingered one Sunday along the Étangs-Brisses (Broken Ponds). This is not a cheerful place, much less so at night. Once past the woods, one arrives on a large, barren plateau, where there are only rushes and sand and large puddles of water which run together in the rainy season to form a sort of lake, whose bed appears all black.

In times gone by, a wicked, wine-drunk monk drowned there along with his donkey, having tried to follow a very narrow little roadway covered over with water. The donkey had never done anything wrong, and was never even heard braying; but this libertine monk was doomed to feel the pangs of death and the agonies of his final hour for as long as there remained a single drop of water in the Étangs-Brisses. Now, although civilization encroaches on the edges of these little lakes, further with every passing year, they do not show any sign of drying up; therefore the monk’s torment continues on, and will last for God knows how much longer! 

Jeanne was well aware of the bad reputation of these ponds, but Pierre did not want to believe the stories, nor did he care about them. He prevented her from thinking about them, telling her all manner of things, lovely and agreeable to Jeanne’s ears. They were engaged to be married and were just returning from the city, where they had picked out their wedding livery, which is to say, new clothes, ribbons, and lace for their big day. They were out walking together, holding each other by the little finger as is customary for the betrothed, when their feet stepped into mud on the roadway. The day before, a large thunderstorm had swollen the pond, overflowing its banks a bit.

“You’ve gotten me lost,” Jeanne said to her lover. “I don’t think this is the right path.”

“Just wait and I’ll get my bearings,” Pierre replied. “It’s true, the sun has gone down and the reeds are all black, they all look the same. Stay here a little while, and I'll go see how to find our way out.” 

Jeanne was tired; she sat down in the reeds and looked up at the red sky, all speckled, which is to say, it was marbled with yellow and brown, and her thoughts turned sad, although she could not say why. “If it were really nighttime,” she thought, “I wouldn't want to be alone in this awful place where that monk died so long ago. Oh, I hope Pierre won’t make a wrong turn in all this wild grass!” She followed him with her eyes for as long as she could, but then she could not see him anymore, and her poor body began to tremble.

All of a sudden she saw a large flock of wild ducks fly up from one side, making such noise; and then, rising up on tiptoe, she saw Pierre returning, amusing himself by throwing pebbles into the water to rouse the other flocks of birds that filled the ponds as night came descending from the sky.

When Pierre reached her side, he said to her, “We are on the right path, and we’ll be fine except for a little mud. Let me catch my breath a minute; I walked pretty fast, and besides, this isn’t such a bad place to rest.”

“It’s funny you think it’s nice here, Pierre; I don’t like it, and it feels like I’ve been here a long time already. Rest up quickly, because I want to get out of here before nightfall.”

Once Pierre seated himself alongside Jeanne in the reeds, he said to her, 

“My God, Jeanne, time must have dragged on for me, too, while I was out there walking, because it feels like I haven’t kissed you for two years.”

“Don’t say that!” she replied. “You kissed me not even two quarters of an hour ago.”

“Well, then! My darling, where is the harm in that?”

“I’m not saying there is any, since we are getting married!”

“And so let me have one more little kiss now, or seven.”

Jeanne let herself be kissed just once, and said that that was enough. She didn’t see any mischief in it, but she knew that even if country people are permitted to kiss their betrothed while out walking, in front of passers-by, it is neither proper nor honest se dire ses amitiés in secret from the world, and to stay for too long in places where no one goes.

Pierre was a proper young man, just as he should be, which is to say that he knew how to behave in the right way, and was content to let Jeanne keep him at a safe distance, and he didn’t play that game of overstepping his rights little by little only to have the pleasure of receiving a good slap from her from time to time, which is, as everyone knows, the greatest mark of trust and friendship.

And after they bickered in this friendly fashion for a little while, they began to talk about the future, which is still a very exciting topic between two people who are about to spend the rest of their lives together. And there they were, counting and recounting their meagre assets, building themselves a new house and planting a pretty little garden, if only in their minds; for these poor children didn’t have much, and they had to work hard just to keep hold of what they did have.

But now a voice which Pierre could not hear began to speak to Jeanne as though it were Pierre’s, while a voice began to speak to Pierre as though it were Jeanne’s, and yet it was not, and Jeanne did not hear that either. And so they thought they were saying things to each other that they were not, and found themselves on bad terms without really knowing why. Jeanne reproached Pierre for being lazy and for loving the cabaret; Pierre reproached Jeanne for being a coquette and over-valuing gallantry. And so they both started to tear up and pout, not wanting to talk anymore.

The astonishing thing was that when they stopped speaking, and couldn’t even see one another’s lips moving, they both still heard a very muffled voice which sounded like that of a frog or a wild duck when it spoke, and which said the most wicked words in the world.

“What are you doing, you children, sulking instead of taking advantage of the night and your solitude? Are you foolishly waiting for the end of the week in order to love one another freely? What a load of nonsense marriage is! Don’t you know that marriage is just pain, misery, quarrels, worrying about children, and days without bread? Come on, come on, you innocents! You’ll cry the very next day after your wedding, if you don’t fight instead! Can’t you see that when you wanted to talk about your future and your household just now, you couldn’t get along?

Life is foolish and miserable, make no mistake; you’d do well to forget your duties and seek pleasure without constraint. Love each other now, for if you do not take advantage of the moment that presents itself, you will never find it again, and no one will know anything about your partnership except by its blows and its insults, those flowers of youth that sting, and those wild oats!”

Jeanne and Pierre were very afraid. They held hands and clasped each other tight without daring to breathe. Jeanne understood nothing of what the wicked voice said to them. The words passed right through her ears like those of some Devil's Mass spoken in defiance of reason; but Pierre, who knew more, listened despite his fear and understood almost everything.

“This voice is ugly, I agree,” he said. “But its words are not wrong, and if you trust me, Jeanne, you might listen to it too.”

“Whether its words are beastly or beautiful, I don't care,” she replied. “They scare me, although I don't understand them at all; someone is laughing at us because we are all alone, trapped in an unpleasant place. Let's go quickly, my Pierre. This person here, living or dead, wants to do us nothing but harm.”

“No, Jeanne, they wish us well, because they pity the fate that awaits us, and if you’d just understand what they are saying . . .”

And then Pierre, feeling himself possessed by the Devil, wanted to restrain Jeanne, as she wanted to leave, and that evil spirit believed itself for a moment to be the stronger of them.

But the spawn of evil isn’t able to do good Christians as much harm as it wishes. The libertine monk, seeing that Pierre’s conscience had stumbled, was in too much of a hurry to claim his soul. He sang out in his marshy voice, “Come, come, my dear children, there’s no need for candles nor witnesses here. If you need someone to declare you two wed, I can speak the right words. Get down on your knees before me, and you’ll have the blessing of Beelzebub!”

Saying this, the monk appeared, broaching the water with his huge head under its muddy cowl.

“Oh, help!” cried Jeanne. “There’s a big otter, and it’s coming to attack us!”

“No, it won’t,” said Pierre. “I’ll turn it back with my walking-stick.”

But as he leaned over the water to look, he saw the monk's fiery eyes, and then he saw his beard all stuffed full of leeches and frogs, and then his rotting body with its withered legs and its two long arms all dripping with moss and slime, which he was spreading out wide like two wings over the heads of the two lovers in order to consecrate them unto Satan.

But Pierre, although he wasn’t a great coward, was so shocked to see this monk arise and grow ever and ever upwards, as though he wanted to reach the very clouds, that he simply fled screeching like a rusty axle and running like a hare, pulling that poor Jeanne behind him, she who was now more dead than alive, and yet who did not need to be told to leap across those roadways with her feet wet and her hair blowing in the wind.

In fact, they ran so well that they reached their parents’ homes without once turning their heads, and without once taking the time to exchange a single word. They married in all sanctity eight days later, without having listened to the advice of that wicked monk who was, it is said, so embarrassed at having missed his catch that he stayed dormant for a long time before daring to reappear and attempt fishing for Christian souls once more.

The belief in some gruff monk who goes about both threatening and plaintive, knocking on the doors of houses at night and withdrawing at daybreak only with horrible howls, was once only proverbial.

This has long been maintained in almost every province of France. There are many legends of debauched monks, and of priests who broke their vows. There are few presbyteries never haunted by any tormented souls such as these, and, as of the last twenty years, there are few country churches where the spirit of some dead priest has never appeared at dawn to attempt to deliver a great expiatory Mass that he is never able to complete unless he can find a living person of good will who has the courage to answer him with an amen.

George SAND

[dirtychild]

[trashpidgeon48]

Currently obsessed with the idea of Grantaire as a protective older brother figure to Gavroche.

[laurawithslblues]

Into the Fairelands

“Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyesThey call me on and on across the universe“ We’ve waited with our eyes full of dreams and memories, we’ve counted the minutes and the seconds, and now it’s time: the portals are open once again and the magic from the Fairelands calls for us, the Fantasy Faire 2024 has begun. The Faire means many different things for us. For some,…

[incorrectlooneytunesquotes]

General Pandemonium (Yosemite Sam): What is your nationality? Drunken Stork: I'm a (hiccup) drunkard. Captain Louis (Pepe le Pew): Zat makes zees stork a ceeteezen of le world.

[whxrecruxxes]

RUFFLED SHEETS - cl16

pairing- charles leclec x fem!reader warning- smutttt ( wrap it before you tap it pooks) , dirty words (frenchie french) porn with no plot :) lowk reader's first time riding ??? idk yall does that count genre- established relationship summary- missing charles when he's away is a recurrent feeling. question is, what happens when he comes home to find you in his shirt ? this is not proofread sorry for any mistakes english is not my first language les copains :)

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · keep reading !! · • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

It was no surprise that you were alone for yet another weekend. Not that you minded it, it felt nice to be alone sometimes. But you had to admit, spending the weekend with Charles was always more fun than watching him spend his weekend without you on the TV.

You were sat on your couch, the blanket draped over your knees, your eyes heavy with sleep, Charles shirt heavy on your shoulders. Miami was always the toughest race for you to keep up with, seeing as though the time difference with Monaco was always so huge. But you stuck through, and in the end it was worth it, because you got to see Lando cross the line first for the first time in his career, and you got to see your boyfriend bring it home third. From the look on his face, you could tell he was happy for Lando, but that p3 was not the result he was expecting- nor hoping for. You shot Lando a quick congrats text, who responded with a flurry of misspelled, clearly drunken texts of different variations of the words "thank you, love you, wish you could've been there" instead reading "tjanl yio, lobe yiu, qisj yio xouldvr beem tjete". It took you a while to decipher it, but when you finally did, it brought a soft smile to your face. It was obvious the young boy you had gotten close to had not even waited a minute after that podium to go out with his friends and celebrate. Your phone buzzes by your side as you yawn, cracking your neck. You pick our phone up and squint your tired eyes at the screen.

"I'll be home by tomorrow night, ma chérie. Je t'aime, fait de beaux rèves." I love you, sweet dreams. You read out loud, rubbing your eyes. You got up from the couch and switched the tv off and ventured into your room, craving the comfort of your bed. Charles's shirt reached far enough down to the middle of your thighs, so you had assumed when you slipped it on hours ago (after remembering he had left his signature red shirt here as he didn't need it because of the blue shirts for miami) that you didn't need shorts, and now was no different, so you simply slid into bed and cuddled yourself into your pillow and letting yourself succumb into sleep.

When Charles walks in, almost twelve hours early because he was planning on surprising you by getting the first flight home, the sun hadn't even gone up yet. The apartment is quiet when he steps in, and he expected you to be asleep on the couch, still watching the TV. He's confused when he doesn't spot you, dropping his bags by the doorway and venturing further into the apartment, and when he finally reaches the room, he carefully pries it open. The moonlight is gushing in through the windows, illuminating your body. Your hair is sprawled over your back, your shoulders rising softly in sleep. Charles smiles at your sleeping state, quickly, ridding himself of any airport sullied clothes and slipping in next to you, his chest bare, sweatpants hanging low on his waist. At the sudden dip of the mattress beside you, you jolt awake, turning to face him.

The look on your face makes his heart melt.

You look so tired, but so happy to see him. Your eyes light up, and he practically melts into your touch as your hands find his cheeks and you sling a thigh over his middle, humming softly as his arms bunch up around your waist.

"Hi, mon amour. Surprise." He whispers, kissing his aw down your jaw. You push at his back with your heel, humming softly.

"Charlie ? I missed you." You mutter, burying your hands in those soft brown curls of his.

"I caught the first flight back. Needed to see my girl." He says, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He grimaces, his nose scrunching as he notices an odd smell on your body. His cologne, mixed with sweat and another mixture of things that you like about his scent. He frowns.

"Why do you smell like me ?" He asks, his voice soft against your ears. He softly pulls away from you, the darkness in the room making him squint. He turns on the bedside light, sending the slightest glow emmenating around the room, and finally illuminating your body. The sheets have bunched up near the apex of your thighs, revealing the soft black material of your lingerie and finally his shirt, resting on your shoulders. His number, splayed over your chest, the fabric stretching in a heavenly way around your breasts.

Charles heard his breath catch in the back of his throat. Sleepy and craving to hide your eyes from the light, you whimper and shift from side to side, the shirt hiking up to reveal he ruffled hem of the lingerie resting on your hips.

"I missed you." You repeat again as an answer, humming as you closed your eyes.

"Putain." Fuck. He mutters, gulping heavily. "Is that- Are you wearing my shirt ?" This makes your eyes open. There was so something to primal in his eyes. Seeing you in his shirt, proudly wearing his humber, knowing you were probably cheering him on and seeing the way the fabric of the shirt stretch over his favorite part of you- stroked something deep within him, ever ounce of blood leaving his head to rush between his legs.

"Do you not like it ? I can take it off." You whispered. The ferrari red brought out your flushed complexion, and Charles felt his pants grow uncomfortably tight.

"I'f i'd have known you were waiting for me here, like this.." His finger finds the apex of the your thighs, slipping his finger between the tiny gap, stroking the soft, subtle skin. "I would've come home earlier." He mutters, and you smile at him softly.

"If you hadn't left, you could've had seen me like this all weekend." You mutter, although you know he could never stop racing. He smiles teasingly at you, rolling his eyes. You sit up, the shirt falling down to your thighs, yawning.

"I need the bathroom. Be right back, baby." You breathe out, getting to your feet after pressing a soft kiss to his lips. His jaw almost drops, and the tightness in his pants grows. The number and red on your body seems to be made for you, and Charles has to bite back a primitive growl. When you emerge from the bathroom, the heavy lidded look of your eyes looks like you've been fucked out, and Charles sits up fully. You sit in front of him, kneeling at the foot of the bed as you tuck your hair behind your ears.

"You did really good today. P3." You say, smiling softly at him. He simply just nods, his chest heaving. You frown at his lack of answer, not noticing his eyes glue to your chest, to his number on your body. It's like he's finally staked his claim to you, and it makes his heart swell. You smile confusedly at his dazed expression.

"Charlie ? Are you okay ?" You ask, leaning forward, your arms pressing your breasts together. He gulps heavily, holding his hand out for you.

"Lemme look at you." You slide over, expecting him to be all soft and cute like he usually is when he's sleepy, but boy were you wrong. He guides you over his lap, forcing you down to straddle it as he inspects you.

"Fucking hell. You look hot in red. Why have you never worn this before ?" He asks, running his calloused hands over your thighs, the cold of his rings burning your skin.

"Because you're always wearing it ?" You reply teasingly, fingers mindlessly drawing out the sahpe of his abs and muscles.

"Ma belle fille.." My pretty girl. You blush furiously, smiling softly as he traces the apex of your thighs with his hands. You rub your eyes tiredly, craving to cuddle into him and sleep, but the way he's looking up at you, his hands grasping you tight, it makes a rumble start up in your stomach. He's looking at you like a man starved. I mean it's not as if he's never seen you wear red. But something about you, in his shirt, makes him hungry.

"Why ? Do you like it ?" You counter his question, giggling softly. His eyes almost bulge out of his head.

"Like it ? Amour, I love it. You are never taking this off. " You smile softly, cocking a questioning eyebrow.

"Never ? Don't you have to wear this in Imola ?" he shakes his head, licking his lips again.

"Were you wearing this when i crossed the finish line ?" He asks, softly swerving your question. You nod, smiling softly. He chuckles, his hands slipping up the shirt and caressing your ribs, his thumbs grazing right along side the underside of your breasts.

"Well then i'll tell Fred we're keeping the blue. You're wearing this at every race weekend from now on- My lucky charm." The words send a blush rising to your cheeks, and he laughs. "Really ? That's what gets you going ? I have worse i can say, bébé." He says, his eyes still trained on his number on the shirt, making you roll your eyes. Charles knew the effect his words had on you, and he was not afraid to use it. Wether in was to rile you up when you two were out with the rest of the grid, or when you were in the privacy of your home or his driver's room.

"And with you on top of me, looking like this.. I have a few ideas." He mutters, before his face dives down to bury itself in your neck, his lips nipping at the sot skin right below your jaw. You bite back a breathy moan as your hand comes flying up to grab his hair, the covers bunched up around both of you. Your hips roll instinctively against his as he continues to suck at your skin, inevitability leaving bright red marks along your jaw and collarbone, sure to mark you for everyone to see- And he was going to make sure everyone would see. You could already see the gears in his head turning, trying to figure out where to mark you so people would know you were his next time you even set foot in the paddock. His hands travel up to fully grasp your breasts, his thumps pinching the pebbled peaks, this time eliciting a whimper from the back of your throat. He smirks against your skin.

"There it is." He whispers, before pulling away from your neck, his hands leaving your breasts, slipping up to cup your cheeks. His lips smash down against yours, catching them in a rough dance, his hands blindly reaching down to push the fabric on your panties to the side, running his finger against your folds. When he's met with the obvious wetness and slick already coating you and spreading across your thighs, and audible groan is heard from your boyfriend, kissing you with a new fervour.

"T'est déjà prête pour moi, hein, ma belle ?" You're already ready for me, huh, pretty girl ? He teases, the accent rolling off his tongue as he pulls away to observe the way your eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his thumb pressing down on you clit as two of his fingers stretch you out with no warning. Your hands fly up to grip his bare shoulders at the sudden intrusion, a pained whimper leaving your lips as you bite your full bottom lip between your teeth.

"So wet f'me.. Only for me. Where do you want me, amour ?" He asks, slowly and teasingly kissing your breasts through the shirt. You whimper.

"L-Like this." You manage, gulping down the moans bubbling up your throat as his fingers brush against that spot he knows would make you come undone.

"You want to ride me, bébé ?" He asks, smiling against your skin. You nod frantically, unable to contain the shake in your thighs as his thumb continues to assault your clit.

"Tes mots, ma chérie. Utlise tes mots." Your words, darling. Use your words. He instructs, clearly not wanting to use your fucked out state to his own gain.

That's the thing about Charles.

He may be a huge fucking tease, but he will always double check before dong anything he thinks might hurt you in any way. Especially in these situations, when your need for him would be too overwhelming and your thoughts wouldn't process normally, and sometimes you would say thins you didn't mean just to get him to touch you. So when you notice that twinge of doubt in his eyes as he looks up at you, you gulp down whatever moan or cry of his name was about to emerge and lovingly kiss his cheek, trying your best to keep your orgasm at bay.

"I want to ride you, Charlie." You manage, before his thumb gives your clit another appreciative rub and you crumble, body going slack against his as your body convulses, your walls fluttering around his fingers. He kisses you through the high, letting you ride it out before your hips still and he takes that as his sign. He retracts his fingers from you, lapping them up with his tongue, and you gasp as he smiles.

"You ready for me, mon cœur ?" He asks, softly moving himself underneath you to tug down his sweats. Eagerly, you help him shimmy them off, watching as his cock slaps up against his abdomen. You practically drool, at the sight, and move to take the shirt off. Charles shakes his head, licking his lips.

"No. Don't. Keep it on." He says, a hungry glare in his eyes. Fucking you with his number on him seems to seem more appealing to him than touching your breasts- which is usually his favourite part. But there's something in his eyes that makes it so hard to deny him. So you simply nod and drop your hands back down, softly bunching the shirt up around your waist so he can see what he's doing. His hands find the lace of your underwear again, fully shoving it to the side before softly placing you right above his length. He pushes you down, stopping when your pained whimpers feel the air, your nails digging into his chest.

"Woah, you got it, baby." He breathes, reaching up to brush your hair out of your face. "We can stop if you want to, amour. I don't want you to get hurt." He's barely halfway inside you, and he's already worried about hurting you. You shake your head, letting yourself sink down a little more and wiggle your hips to try and let yourself adjust to his girth, stretching you out from a new angle. He pushes your underwear further to the side, his hands balled around the shirt. When you finally sink down fully, the room is met with synchronized moans from the both of you.

'Fuck, chérie. Taking me so good." He praises as your hips start to instinctively roll above his. HIs hands push up the shirt, so that your stomach is revealed, leaving only the number on your breasts exposed. He groans as the bounce with your every roll, the number jutting out as if to further shove it in his face, that you are his. Your hands are splayed on his chest, gasping as you feel him poke his way into your stomach. He smirks at your desperate whimpers.

"What's wrong, darling ?"

"S'not enough." You whine, your hips stuttering. His hands guide you along, but it doesn't seem enough to push you further towards your edge. His brows furrow in worry. You whimper again, your hands balling into fists above his bare chest.

"Please, Charlie." You whimper, your head thrown back, sweat covering your skin, his hands coming to a still around your hips. His hand reaches around your back and pins your hips down against him. He holds you still, earning a whine of protest from you. he kisses up your chest, shaking his head as you try to roll your hips again.

"Shhh, non mon amour. Bouge pas. Let me take care of you." No my love, don't move. He whispers against your skin, finally letting go of your shirt, the material dropping back down to bunch up around your waist. He holds you still, before thrusting his hips up to meet yours.

"Better ?" He asks, his chest caving with every heavy breath that fills his chest, the only thing edging him on are your desperate whimpers. Your own hips start rolling again, and his head is thrown back, a low groan leaving his lips.

"Ah, fuck. So pretty. So tight. Just f'me." His words bring heat up to your cheeks, feeling his cock brush against that knot of nerves that is yet to be untangled.

"God, Charles." You cry, his hands trailing up and past the shirt to grab your breasts underneath the rough material of his shirt. He palms them, smiling as you whimper once again, leaning into his touch. His hips keep on bucking up to meet your rolls, and he can tell you're already getting close. The urge to have you pinned under him, ready for him, is overwhelming,. With no warning, he twists the two of your around, splaying your thighs open onto the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders in shock. His hips meet yours at a furious, hungry pace.

"God, you drive me crazy." He groans as his lips find your neck and leaves marks atop the already present ones. "Sleeping in my shirt, wearing my number.. it's like you're trying to get me to fuck you." He groans, a slight chuckle leaving his lips. You whimper, your hands digging into his shoulder blades.

"Fuck, i missed you so much." You whimper, tears flying up to your eyes. His hips snap against yours harder at your words, stealing the whimpers from your lips.

"I missed you more, fuck you have no idea. Tu m'a tellemment manqué." I missed you so much. He moans, his hips stuttering. You bite back a moan, your head thrown back as he pushes your thighs further apart, making you whine.

"God, please. Please, Cha, i'm so close." You whimper, gasping for air, the shirt tight around you. He pull back only slightly, gripping your thighs and dragging him closer to you. His hand wraps around your neck to tilt your head up, licking his lips.

"Vas-y, amour." Go ahead, love. "Show me how good i make you feel." His words seem to be the only thing your body obliges to, and your body convulses under him as you come all over him, whimpering loudly as your back arches off the bed. His body falls forward, pushing up your shirt to wrap his full lips around one of your breasts, making you moan loudly as he continues to push himself in and out of you at a steady pace. HIs free hand is still pushing your thigh open and flat on the bed, and he tries to ignore how it shakes and how you cry out in overstimulation as he tries his best to push you to another limit, not wanting to hurt you in his selfish need for release.

"Charlie, please, i can't-" You beg, your body shaking as tears fall past your eyes. He shushes you, pain blooming in his chest at your cries.

"Shh, i know baby, i know. Just one more for me, okay ?" He groans as your walls flutter around him, clearly already primed and ready for another. You nod frantically, feeling the tension build up in you stomach again. You hands drift down to his waist, grabbing it and pushing him towards you.

"Putain de merde." Fucking hell. "You're going to be the death of me, baby." He praises, his hips stuttering.

"Fuck, i'm close, do you want me to-"

"Inside." You gasp, feeling your own orgasm reach you, the third one of the night. The breathy sound of your voice has his toppling and he empties himself inside of you, moaning your name loudly as his eyes flutter closed. You whine as he pushes his shirt back down your chest, the emptiness between your legs evident. He kisses your face, slipping his own boxers on before grabbing a towel from the chair near your bed and baling it up, softly dragging it along your thighs. You whimper, squeezing your thighs together. He brushes your hair away from your eyes, softly shushing you as he spreads your thighs open again and proceeds with cleaning you up.

“Shhh, it’s okay, mom cœur. It’s okay.” He whispers, kissing the tears away. When he finally pushed your underwear back into place, he slides next to you and pulls you into his arms. He kisses your forehead, sighing heavily as you sniffle into his chest.

“I really did miss you.” You mutter, running your hands along his muscles. He smiles, looking down at you.

“I know, bébé. I missed you too. I wish you could’ve been there, cheering for me.” You giggle.

“You know i had to work, Charlie. I would’ve dropped everything to be there if my boss had given me the days off. P3.. That’s a great result.” He grimaces at the praise. You frown.

“What ?”

“P3 is not a great result- it’s just a result.” You sit up, glaring down at him, trying to ignore the pain in your legs.

“Hey.. P3 is a good result. It’s just the beginning, you can only get better from here, and i’m sure you will. I mean P2 in the sprint is already amazing.” You praise, and he smiles.

“See, this is why i need you at races. You’re such a better pep talker than Xavi and all the others.” You roll your eyes and lower yourself down next to him, sighing as you rest your head on his chest.

“If you get me a job, maybe i could be there every weekend.” He laughs, the rumble making your heart soar.

“I’ll see what i can do, amour. Anything to have you there with me.”

The rest of the night is spent laughing and him telling you about his weekend, pure and unfiltered like the TV would show you- and you make a mental note.

If you ever have to spend the weekend away from him again- which wasn’t bound to happen often- you’d make sure to be wearing his shirt when he got home.

[russo-woso]

Omg pls if your taking requests maybe like Leah and y/n being best friends that are secretly in love with each other Leah is out of the closet but y/n is curious and asks Leah to kiss her drunk you can add smut if u feel comfortable if not it’s okay love your writing btw🫶🫶

Years || Leah Williamson

Summary: In which a drunken night out results in you finding the answers to all your questions

Warning questioning of sexuality

You knew you were in love with Leah.

After all, Leah was your best friend. She had been since you were both 14, both of you meeting at a youth England camp.

What you didn’t know, was whether you loved Leah as a friend or if you loved her in a romantic way.

You’d always have thoughts flowing through your mind.

Whether it be Leah kissing you, or you and Leah together as a couple, but you’d always shut them down.

You were confused about yourself.

You shut down them thoughts because you were straight. But were you?

You couldn’t help it though, you were at your happiest when you were with Leah.

She made you smile, she was kind, loving, compassionate, and she was sexy.

What was there not to love about Leah?

So, on a drunken night out celebrating the end of the season, you got the courage to ask something you never in a million year thought you would.

Obviously the alcohol had gotten to you and with the many advantages that came with it, confidence was a key one.

You and Leah had been joined at the hip all night, like you always were.

Wherever you were, Leah was there. Wherever Leah was, you were there.

Whilst on the dance floor, you couldn’t help but look at Leah.

She looked perfect.

“Leah, kiss me.” You blurted out, your confidence shining.

Leah didn’t need to be told twice, placing her lips on yours.

You felt Leah smile into the kiss before breaking away.

“What was that?” She asked, a smile on her face as she rested her hands on your hips.

“I don’t know. But I think I’m in love with you, Le.” You told her, avoiding eye contact with her, scared at what she would say.

“Hey, look at me. I think I’m in love with you too. I have been for years.”

And with that, you initiated another kiss, all emotions from the past years poured into the kiss.

“Be my girlfriend?” Leah questioned, her forehead resting against yours.

“Of course.”

[flemingology]

Loving the Leah blurbs! Would you do one where Leah and reader are very drunk, coming home from a night out, and Leah’s very very hungry

midnight munchies ─ leah williamson x reader

warnings: alcohol, quite suggestive at some point, but not too explicit, definitely not smut

wc: 594

a/n: thank you for the request! hope you enjoy it :)

You and Leah stumbled inside after she took way too long trying to find the right key – finally back home after a long night out, and admittedly way too many drinks. You'd gone out to celebrate Arsenal's UWCL qualification and what was supposed to be a couple drinks and some food, turned out into a wild night through the busy streets of London.

"I'm starving", Leah shouted as she plopped down on the couch. She slurred her words, clearly affected by the one too many gin and tonics she consumed tonight. "Turn it down, Le," you said nearly as loud as her.

You threw your bag on the counter and leaned your head down, the cold kitchen tile a welcome feeling against your already throbbing head. "We're gonna-," you got interrupted by a hiccup, much to your girlfriend's amusement. "We're gonna regret this tomorrow," you finally managed.

Leah mustered up nothing more than a hum, getting back up from the couch. She had to stabilize herself against the wall to make sure she didn't fall, before making her way over to the kitchen and circling her arms around your waist from behind.

You slowly turned in her grip – making sure not to move too quick to avoid the headache building quicker – and clasped your hands together behind her neck, pulling her in for a bruising kiss. Leah deepened the kiss right away, as you let out a soft moan when you tasted the alcohol that was still lingering on her tongue. Her hands roamed all over your back and she pulled you tight against her, steadying the both of you against the kitchen counter to make sure you couldn't cause any accidents – neither you nor her trusting your own legs to hold you up.

Leah broke the kiss with a tug at your bottom lip, dipping her head down before starting to kiss up and down your neck. She bit, licked and kissed – if you weren't dizzy yet from the alcohol, you sure would be now. You tangled your hands into her blonde locks, tugging harshly whenever she licked a particularly sensitive spot in your neck. You brought her head back up towards yours and pulled her into another kiss, moaning into her mouth when you felt her knee nudging itself between your legs, making contact with your core.

"Fuck, Leah. Let's go upstairs," you slurred, trying to push the two of you in the direction of the stairs.

The arousal that had been building up steadily suddenly washed away when Leah pulled away from you rather harshly, leaving you confused as to what you said wrong. Her eyes scanned your face and body, suddenly feeling very exposed under the gaze of your girlfriend.

"No. I'm starving," she said matter of factly. You sighed, slouching down against the kitchen wall as Leah opened the fridge, on the hunt for anything that would quell her midnight hunger. You pressed the palms of your hands against your eyes in an attempt to subdue the headache that was forming, already regretting the decisions you had been making that night.

Before long, Leah retreated from the fridge with a tub of ice cream in hand – accompanied with a spoon and a playful glint in her eye. Any suspense that had been building between the two of you now washed away, you grinned at your girlfriend and how silly she looked – clad in a very hot suit, hair sticking out everywhere, droopy eyes that completely gave away her drunken state, now with a goofy grin spread across her face.

"You're a dork." "Your dork, indeed."

[fairlyang]

dad!miguel headcanons 🕷️

dad!miguel who always prepared gabi’s lunch in a hello kitty thermo (if he made her sopa de letras, her fav) or a hello kitty sandwich box because he knew how excited his little girl would be when she’d see how her lunch was packaged

dad!miguel who would write cute little messages or corny dad jokes on little post it notes with whatever sweet treat he’d leave her

“How does a penguin build its house?” he wrote on one side then flips it over to write the answer

“Igloos it together.” he signs it with “te amo<3” then rereads his joke to laugh at it before sticking it to a rice krispie

dad!miguel would definitely know how to do gabi’s hair (because he would do absolutely anything for her) so when she asked if he could do elsa’s braid you can bet your ass he searched up easy tutorials on youtube

dad!miguel who will make or buy whatever snack gabi may crave, have it be chicharrones, brownies, or a popsicle de gansitos, he will make sure she gets whatever she asks for

dad!miguel who would sing gabi to sleep, songs ranging from lullabies to boleros to vicente fernadez’s whole discography

dad!miguel that signs her up to whatever her little heart desires. an art class? say less. ballet? he’ll sprint to buy the shoes

dad!miguel who accidentally falls asleep on the couch after watching barbie movies with gabi

extra points knowing he’d be sitting legs spread, head against the cushion with his mouth wide open letting out the loudest of snores imaginable which would just make gabi giggle in shock

dad!miguel who’d get drunk at the neighbor’s kid’s birthday party and be one of those mexican dads to be singing so obnoxiously but somehow sounding not so bad

“le dedicó esta para mi niña hermosa.”

cue piel canela playing and dad!miguel snatching the mic from one of the tios

he tries to find gabi through drunken eyes but once he spots her in her bright pink dress he sings to her, pointing to her when the lyrics say “me importas tu y tu y tu y solamente tu.”

gabi with wide, glossy eyes watching her papi give her yet another serenata because she was spoiled rotten in all aspects, this being one of them because she loved his singing

dad!miguel who would call up his friend’s mariachi early in the morning on gabi’s birthday but ask the favor that he can sing for her instead because he always wants her day to extra special

[permetutotheworld]

200 follower events!!

freakin crazy that i got here, i only got tumblr at the start of summer but ive made some wonderful friends here and im so glad i joined

TJE EVENT: same as last time, anyone can send in a poem/microfic request for these fandoms - les mis, marauders, good omens, TJ Klune books (any of them) and percy jackson, it can be based off of a song, a character or a scenario

eg: poem for regulus about when he got the mark, or microfic about lily based off of yoko by maisie oeters

FOR MOOTS ONLY:

🩷 - i will give you a colour, a song and a fictional character

💛 - i will assign you one of my ocs in the book im writing and explain why (very detailed also might not make much sense)

@choucon @demigod-jack-hearth @loulooser @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft @alittletoo-obsessed

@eden66633 @t3ss4xstar @wisteria-daydreams @watchtheprongss @alaskanskald

@niceofthenine @giantskeletonfan2008 @mezsygfs @moonandstarshangoutinbars @franknfurtersencephalitis

@thatisntverycombefair @teamtrisha @imananqar @yourfavouriteearthshaker @hazy-lilac-dream

@charliecow @the-official-failure @dyingordeadinside @fbkakebezijasenta @isthislasagna124

@riordanverseaddict @wretched-meadow @romanticismforyourinnerlife @lesbian-thesbian @indigoviolet311

@ellemeditdance

@drdarine

@mahny

@librarymouses

@rosegranger1315

@catcomediansblog

@ivyfurrieart

@sarahparcakalt

@miss-multi45

@thecrazyone0

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@furkurouonthesea

@reyna4ever

@izziehelper

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@lesttiel

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@im-on-crack-send-help

@pineapple-jackson

@doodlebugdpj

@chrisalismandtea

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@pbandjstudios

@h-h-h—and-someone

@saturnsconstellation

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@stars-and-leather

@ezkel

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@sk8erboy

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@nicolili

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@writers-ecstasy-and-pride

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@family-aya

@definitionoffuckup

@delinda24601

@baba-the-yagaa

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@darkarcademaker

@existential-life-crisis

@tragedy-and-delight-hand-in-hand

@jaydahsworld

@hermslore

@telugu-girl-13

@starcrossedmoony

@aroseinmisery1248

@thoughtsfromb4

@anything-for-my-moony-1971

@ravensandcrowsandowlsohmy

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@equippedtolove

@ryuusei-nui

@professor-green-berries

@themortalityofundyingstars

@aria-di-angelo

@lienspien

@mycelestial001

@ineffablequeermoony

@purple-phesh-and-cheps

@4ut1smmcr34tur3

@aesthetic-writer18

@justafanbutcurious

@angelgendered

@almostdecaffeinatedfun

@pyromaniacbibliophile

@surgicalpatient

@taleofapart-timepoet

@drunken-devotion

@nyx-1566

@maya-j-e

@looniesposts

@cloud-makers-make-pollution

@samaayyad15

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@fernandahd2023

@i-love-ulysses-butterflies

@theobutshark

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@delusional-with-mel

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@georgiaspeachy

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@my-castles-crumbling

@degrading-m0ss

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@thatonegirlineveryfandom

@guesswhojusttt

@princesspeachthefroggy

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@soupdeewoop

@bisexual-bat

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@stars-on-my-bedroom-ceiling

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@almost-emerald-eyes

@rafaelthesilly

@possessedanddepressed

@ciorran

[secretmellowblog]

Happy Julius Caesar gets stabbed day! Here’s a Les Mis take on the subject, courtesy of Grantaire’s Drunken Rambles:

Whom do you admire, the slain or the slayer, Cæsar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the slayer. Long live Brutus, he has slain! There lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but madness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who killed Cæsar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue was from the hand of the Greek sculptor Strongylion, who also carved that figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful Leg, Eucnemos, which Nero carried with him in his travels. This Strongylion left but two statues which placed Nero and Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with the one, Nero with the other. All history is nothing but wearisome repetition. One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of Marengo copies the battle of Pydna; the Tolbiac of Clovis and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are as like each other as two drops of water. I don’t attach much importance to victory. Nothing is so stupid as to conquer; true glory lies in convincing. But try to prove something! If you are content with success, what mediocrity, and with conquering, what wretchedness! Alas, vanity and cowardice everywhere. Everything obeys success, even grammar. Si volet usus, says Horace. Therefore I disdain the human race.

[chronicdisasterwrites]

alcohol isn’t for the weak gojo satoru

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader, geto suguru, shoko ieiri

genre + warnings: -underage alcohol consumption, a lot of swearing, reader slaps gojo around, pining, overall FLUFF!

word count: 3,380 (i was gonna write more but i’m lazy)

authors note: So this is the sequel of my fic “gotta keep these kids on leashes”. The dynamic quartet is back and up to no good yet again :3 There will for sure be a continuation and it just might end up being a series going through their lives. Also, this takes place before Riko and Toji, so basically their teenage days when everything was good and dandy :’)

enjoy this chaos <3

“You absolute, fucking lightweight.”

With tired bones, eyes, soul and mind, Geto’s glare remains steadily fixed on the drunken mess sprawled on the ground before him. Gojo Satoru was a complex human being. The strongest jujutsu sorcerer in the world; the first person in 400 years to possess both Limitless and the Six Eyes, his strength knew no bounds - except when it came to alcohol.

“Suuuguruuu~” Gojo slurred along with several incoherent words mushed in between giggles.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Geto leaned his head against his ajar door and shut his eyes, thinking of all the incredibly painful ways by which he could murder and then dispose of his best friend’s wasted body. His anger wasn’t uncalled for, of course. It was a long day for Geto and all he wanted to do after spending an entire day killing one particularly difficult curse followed by a couple extra (albeit easier to defeat) surprise curses was take a nice long shower, go into his dorm and sleep like a corpse. He had a feeling it was too good to be true when he didn’t get 30 calls from Gojo by the time the sun had set and he had stepped into campus. He was even more surprised when he got out of the shower and came back to 0 notifications from the “pain in everyone’s ass” sorcerer. Gojo always knew when Geto had missions, and more so he would always know when Geto would be gone for the entire day. On days such as this one, he would usually go and bother literally anyone else he could find around him; when desperate, Yaga, but that would never end well for him, so that would only be reserved for very special occasions.

“Satoru, just why…” Geto sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering what he did to deserve this torture.

“I had soooo much fun t’dayyy,” Gojo slurs and laughs much too loudly considering the time.

“Les go out, the night is youuung like you and me and Mochi and Shoko- but…” He pauses, sits up then looks directly at Geto, suddenly serious. Geto squints, expecting something stupid as per usual.

“...Not like…” Cracks appear on his half-assed poker face and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly as his lips twitch. “Not like…Yaga AHHAAHA-”

Laughter explodes from his chest as he falls back on the ground, rolling around clutching his stomach as if he just cracked the world’s funniest joke. Geto on the other hand, was not phased. In fact, he was preparing to be violent. Inhaling and then exhaling deeply, Geto stood straighter, thinking of ways he could make this night go his way. A few weeks prior to this moment in the present, Gojo along with his posse played an almost funny practical joke on Geto, which ended up costing him a date with a girl and 10 of his brain cells. Since then, Geto had been pondering day and night on exactly what he could do to get Gojo back. There were a few weaknesses the strongest sorcerer had which Geto knew of. One being, his obvious lack of alcohol tolerance, and two being his stupidly obvious crush on you. (not Shoko, although he definitely finds her hot).

Geto knows all about Gojo’s embarrassing feelings for you but he still has no solid evidence on whether the feelings are reciprocated or not.

Suddenly, his train of thought comes to a stop as his eyes glint with mischief. He grabs Gojo’s arm and starts to drag him along the hallway. Gojo doesn't even bother standing up to walk. Instead he lets his best friend drag him like a sack of potatoes, with no care in the world as to where he might be taking him.

“What the heck?! Suguru?! Where are we goin-”

They stop and Geto aggressively knocks on a door. Freshly painted, different from the rest. Immediately, he drops Gojo’s arm and sprints back to his dorm before Gojo’s little brain could even begin to process what had happened.

“Satoru…what the fuck?”

You rub your eyes and glare at the drunken mess sprawled before your dorm door and rub your eyes again, hoping he’d disappear the next time you look. He doesn’t. And you actually hear a mechanical click in your brain when the idiot starts grinning as if it wasn’t 3am and he didn’t just ruin your perfect slumber. Yet again.

“Mochi!!! You’re here! I missed yo- HEY! OUCH! WHY- STOP HITTIN ME-”

“I SHOULD KILL YOU-” slap

“IDIOT,” slap

“WHY CAN’T YOU EVER LET ME SLEEP IN PEACE?!” slap

You wanted to throttle him. But you figured 3 slaps were enough for now. You honestly felt kind of bad seeing him curled up in a ball on the floor and you worried whether you went too far or not.

“I’m sorry… I just missed you s’all,” His voice was soft, gentle even, and that made you feel even worse. Your shoulders slump and your head drops as an exasperated sigh escapes your mouth.

Why is he like this?

You crouch next to his curled up form and stare at his disheveled silver hair. He doesn’t look at you, in fact his eyes remain closed. His hands cover his ears and he literally looks like a kicked puppy and you feel so awful. You roll your eyes and sigh.

Ugh, damn him.

“Okay. Satoru, I’m sorry for hitting you.”

He doesn’t move.

You pinch your nose bridge and decide to take the high road. He is drunk after all, you think. Reaching out, you run your fingers through his soft hair. His shoulders relax at that and the corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly. You stifle a laugh at his childishness and grab his chin, tilting his head to face you. Finally, he opens his eyes and stares at you as a gradual, natural smile slowly takes over his face. You smile back and at the back of your mind, you think how stupid you two must look right now. In the middle of the night, your dorm door wide open, Satoru sprawled on the floor of the hallway, you crouched near his head while the two of you stared at each other like something straight out of Spiderman. Except, you won’t kiss him. That’s never going to happen.

You let go of his chin and flick his nose. He huffs a short laugh, rubbing the spot and attempting to return the favor. You grab his wrist before he could deliver the blow and say, “You still drunk?”

Satoru hums, eyes shiny, “A little?”

He grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks, snorting as you glare at him.

“Y’know… you don’t look as scary with your face like this,” He emphasizes his point with ‘awww’s’ and ‘you’re so cuteee’s’ and you can’t help but laugh at this blatant humiliation. You move his hand away and stand up, holding out your hand and expecting him to take it.

“Alright, c’mon. Get up.”

Satoru groans much too loudly and proceeds to throw his arms down and stretch his legs like a starfish.

“Noooo, just stay w’ meee,” He whines like a petulant child and you smile.

Damn him.

You consider bringing him into your dorm and spending the entire night with him doing nothing. Maybe talking, laughing. But you quickly discard that horrifying thought. He’s Gojo Satoru. Your best friend. Nothing romantic could ever happen between you two because he is Gojo Satoru and you are nobody. He is the one person who could even come close to changing the world. He holds the balance of the universe in the palm of his hands. He is everything, and you hate that. You hate how much he means to you, and you hate how much he has on his shoulders. You hate the fact that you can’t even help him ease those worries. You might be strong, but you’re not nearly as strong as him. He knows it, everyone knows it. So, you ignore these feelings. You bury any semblance of hope, of potential ‘maybe’s’ and ‘what if’s’ and you keep your guard up. After all, he is your best friend and you’re his. That’s it.

But then, why does he keep looking at me like this?

“Mochi?” He mutters, eyes suddenly clear and gaze fixed at you. You hum. He waits a while without saying anything and then sits up cross-legged and holds his hand out. You ponder for a moment and eventually you hold his hand and he attempts to pull himself up with your help. You steady your feet and help him up and… wow, he’s ridiculously tall.

You clear your throat and let go of his hand, to which he makes a little noise of protest. You roll your eyes and put his arm around your shoulder, ushering him towards his dorm, “Alright Satoru, let’s put you to bed.”

He nods his head one too many times and starts to walk with you, slowly but surely. You held onto him as he held onto you, and you walked at his pace. He smelled nothing like he usually did. The pungent odor of sake wafted off him in waves and it almost made you want to throw up. He was dozing off, eyes almost shutting. Those cerulean blues were almost a shiny navy color now. You wonder what made him want to drink so much tonight. So you asked.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?” He looks down at you and musters a tiny smile. You hold his waist a little tighter.

You rephrase the sentence a few times in your head before asking.

“Why’d you drink so much tonight? Is everything okay?”

He stares at you for a while, then purses his lips and tips his head down, exhaling loudly. You know something happened, but you don’t know what it could be. Satoru was always an enigma. He was always an open book, and yet so mysterious at the same time. He always kept a smile on his face and always did the stupidest shit. Yet sometimes, he would change completely. His eyes would look sad and distant, he wouldn’t talk as much, he’d look out the window like some kind of tortured main character in an indie movie. Satoru was never easy to understand. He has his vices.

Finally, he looks at you with hazy eyes and a soft smile. Using the arm slung over your shoulder, he holds you in a headlock and kisses your forehead. You can’t see your face but you can feel just how red it must have become. You struggle to try to get out of the headlock but to no avail. Even when drunk, Satoru was still stronger than you and you hated that with a passion. He laughs and releases you, returning his arm back over your shoulder as he leans against you, basically using you as a crutch to walk.

“Satoru?! What the fuck was that all about?!” You sputter. Angry? Not really, it was nice. You’re more confused and freaked out, and why do you feel drunk when you’re the one who’s completely sober?

“No reason, you’re just cute s’all,” He giggles and ruffles your hair. You glare at his stupid face and he laughs again.

“Plus, I had nothing to do all day. Suguru was gone, you were busy and Shoko was-” He pauses. “Well, wherever she was.”

You sigh and pick up your pace which makes Satoru look like Bambi trying to walk on ice for the first time. He giggles all the way there.

—

Fucking finally…

You open the door to his dorm while dragging Satoru’s half limp body inside.

“Alrighty, now lie down,” You say as you gracefully lay him down (more like unceremoniously drop him) on his bed and take his shoes off. Satoru groans and proceeds to almost slip off the side of the bed. Thankfully, you noticed and pushed him further away and more towards the center of the bed. You leave his clothes alone and stand up straight, turning to leave.

“No, wait,” His hand grabs your wrist, without any force whatsoever and you think you’re going to straight up melt when you turn back around to see him looking up at you with ridiculously childlike eyes it’s not even fair.

“Stay, please.”

Your breath hitches and you know you have to leave. You have to wake up early in the morning and also you are not going to spend a night with Gojo Satoru while he’s drunk. It's not a matter of safety; you know he would die before ever hurting you. It was more a matter of heart.

“Satoru…” You try to wrench your hand free from his grasp.

He lowers his hand and wraps it around your fingers. His voice is quiet as he says, “A lil’ bit. ‘M sorry…”

You quirk an eyebrow in confusion, “For what?”

Your question is met with only snores. You shove him and call his name to which he opens his eyes with a “huh?”.

“What are you sorry for?”

He looks bewildered, “Oh um…”

You wait.

He continues sleepily, “For ruining your sleep.”

You chuckle as his hand slowly falls to the bed and snores fill the emptiness.

“Idiot.”

You pat his head and leave.

—-

Satoru wakes up very cold. And wet. Not in a good way.

“Woah- what the fu-”

“Rise and shine, princess,” Suguru announces with a shit-eating grin on his pretty face. He keeps the empty glass on Satoru’s side table and crosses his arms.

Satoru rubs his drenched face and stares incredulously at his so-called best friend, confusion etching his hungover face, “What the hell was that for?”

Suguru snickers, “It was for ruining my sleep last night.” He sits on Satoru’s bed and crosses his legs, resting his head on his hand, enjoying Satoru’s discomfort.

Satoru groans and puts his pillow on his face. His muffled voice says something Suguru makes out to be, “My head is killing me.”

“Not surprised, you were completely wasted.”

Satoru moves the pillow and glares at Suguru, to which he only receives a grin.

Suguru asks liltingly, “So? What happened last night?”

Satoru gets up and makes his way to his bathroom, the sound of water and teeth brushing resonating around the room. Suguru waits for a reply that doesn't come.

Impatient, he asks again, “Did you get your ass kicked?” Satoru gets out while putting on a new uniform jacket. He glares at Suguru until realization hits.

His eyes widen and he points a finger and exclaims, “You took me to her room?!”

Suguru processed that light bulb moment with wide eyes and burst into a hearty laughter to which Satoru only gaped mouth open and eyes unbelieving.

“You- you didn't remember how you got there but you remembered being there?” More laughter, louder this time.

Satoru scoffs and picks up his sunglasses, “I can't believe you…”

Suguru’s laughter dies down and he receives a slap on the back of his head for his incompetence. He laughs and rubs the site of injury.

As Satoru makes his way out of the dorm, Suguru follows close behind. He asks with genuine curiosity, “Did you confess?”

Nothing.

“Did she confess?”

Silence, except for the birds chirping cheerfully and the metronomic footfalls of the two boys.

Suguru sighs, “Did anything happen?”

Satoru puts on his sunglasses and shoves his hands in his pockets, “Nothing happened, as far as I remember.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. Satoru rolls his eyes and says in a low voice, “Anyways, I'd remember if anything happened.”

Suguru smiles and ruffles Satoru’s already disheveled hair. He scoffs but laughs when Suguru laughs at his lovesick state of being.

“Forget it, Suguru. It’s never gonna happen,” Satoru mutters dejectedly, kicking a stone. Suguru stays silent.

“Like, she’s so… just- y’know?” His sparkling sapphire eyes glittering with admiration and so much love, Suguru can’t help but smile at his friend’s hopefulness. He continues rambling incoherently, hands waving around like it actually does anything to explain his feelings for her. In reality, nothing Satoru is saying makes any sense. Or more so, it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. Suguru, on the other hand, understands Satoru. So no words are required.

—-

“He’s such an idiot.”

You sigh and twirl your pen, “Tell me about it…”

Shoko knows all and sees all. She knows all about Gojo’s stupid crush on you and she knows all about your crush on him. She doesn’t approve of it, because she firmly believes you deserve better and Gojo is an immature idiot. But after countless sleepless nights of talking about life and love, she saw just how much you liked him, despite your lackluster denials to her allegations. You were adamant on hiding your feelings, even with Shoko. You don’t know why exactly you lied to her about this. Probably because it seems too out of reach, or maybe because you know she’d disapprove. But you know Shoko loves you with all her heart. She would support any decision you make, no matter how much she hates it. Your happiness is paramount and she will never make you feel less than or stupid for anything you tell her. You just can’t tell her about your crush yet, because it’s just too embarrassing and you can’t deal with Shoko’s side-eye.

Shoko closes the book she was reading staring at, kicks up her feet on the desk and crosses her arms across her chest. You look at her, then look at her neglected textbook and sigh, shifting your attention to your own textbook.

“Y’know you’ll never even pass at the rate at which you’re going…”

She says with a giggle, “Relax, will you? It’s just class tests.”

You muster your best side eye, to which she just snorts. She kicks back her chair and stands up, holding out her hand for you to take. You raise your eyebrows, silently questioning whether she’s serious or not.

“C’mon let’s take a break, we’ve been studying for hours.”

You put down your pen and cross your arms, properly facing her now, “You mean, I’ve been studying for hours.”

She shrugs, “That’s what I said.”

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan.

She actually laughs and tugs your sleeve, “Come onnnn.”

You sigh and hang your head. Shoko takes that as a sign to collect your items and pack them into your backpack and you know you’ve lost. You always lose to her arguments. She’s too quick and too laid back to ever lose an argument. Even when something really serious goes down, Shoko will be the last person to freak out. You can’t even argue with her because she’ll just come up with some random logic that you don’t even know how to counteract. You watch as she packs your stuff and you smile. She looks at you and smiles back, albeit in a confused manner.

“What?”

You shrug still smiling, “Nothin’.”

Shoko mutters a small “okay” and grabs your shoulders, hunching down to your eye-level and staring into your eyes with a kind of scary expression. Shoko has never been serious in her entire life, except for a few times when you made bad decisions.

“Listen to me, and listen well. I love you. I will always be here for you. Even if you and Gojo date and that doesn’t work out, you don’t have to worry about us, ever,” Shoko’s grip on your shoulders was ironclad.

Your eyes widen and face heats up furiously, “W-what? Where is this coming from?!”

“Because I am your best friend, you absolute braindead idiot! I know you. I don’t know why you’re not just coming clean with me but I’m here always, so come to me whenever,” she ends her monologue with a sweeter than sweet smile and stands up to her full height while you were down there stunned, touched and offended all at once.

You get up, put your bag over your shoulder and stare at Shoko concerningly, while she just grins.

What the actual fuck was that?

“Hey, let’s go get some food, I’m starving.”

You glare at her as she loops her arms through yours, “You’re paying.”

Shoko laughs, “No way. Gojo’s paying.”

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