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solxamber · 2 days ago
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Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola
You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).
Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.
Series Masterlist
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You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.
It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.
The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.
And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.
The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)
His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.
2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)
This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.
3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)
The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.
4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)
He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.
5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)
He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.
And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.
Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.
That was it. That was the ending.
You felt your soul leave your body.
Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.
You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.
It was time to go home.
As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.
A faint rumbling.
A presence.
And then—
“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”
A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.
For a split second, you locked eyes.
And in that moment, you knew.
You were not surviving this.
Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.
Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.
She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.
Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?
And then, everything went black.
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The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.
Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:
Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.
Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.
Oh God. The ambulance bill.
Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—
The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.
And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.
Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.
You knew that face.
You knew that godforsaken face.
This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.
Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.
Your will to live immediately evaporated.
This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”
And now? Now you were going to die in it.
While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.
“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.
You almost threw up in real time.
NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.
Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.
“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”
He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”
Your soul left your body.
The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.
You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.
Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.
“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”
And just like that, he walked out.
The door clicked shut.
And you were left alone.
You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.
Then at the overly luxurious furniture.
Then at the mirror across the room.
You knew what you would see before you even looked.
White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.
This was real. This was happening.
And worst of all—
You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.
Tears pricked at your eyes.
You needed a plan.
You needed a way out.
You needed to reject them.
You needed to survive.
With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.
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The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.
Step One: Gather Allies.
Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.
They were all staring at you expectantly.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.
“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”
There was a pause.
Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.
He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”
You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.
Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.
“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.
“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”
Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”
You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.
Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.
A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.
“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”
You stared at him. “Excuse me?”
Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”
“…Yes?”
He shrugged. “I could do it.”
The room went silent.
Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.
You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.
On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.
On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.
And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.
“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.
Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.
Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.
And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.
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The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.
He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.
It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.
Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.
The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.
On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.
But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.
You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.
You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.
You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.
At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.
Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.
You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.
He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.
Then he hand-fed you a pastry.
It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.
Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.
But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.
Time to twist the knife.
You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”
Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.
In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”
That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.
“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.
You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”
He ran away crying.
It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.
And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.
One down. Four to go.
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The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.
You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?
You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.
It did not.
You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.
Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.
Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.
Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.
Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.
His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.
Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.
Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.
Meanwhile, Trey suffered.
He suffered so much.
You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.
“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.
Ace twitched.
The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.
The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.
Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."
This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.
You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.
There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.
Dancing.
With a coat hanger.
He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.
You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.
You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.
So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.
“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”
Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.
He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.
“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.
“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.
“…You wanna practice together?”
And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.
It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.
And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.
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You had successfully survived the dance.
This was, by all accounts, a miracle.
There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.
You had defied fate.
And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"
You would rather perish.
So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.
And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.
You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.
One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—
He was there.
The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.
Oh, this was bad.
"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."
This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.
You had one option.
You fled.
You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.
Ace.
Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.
Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.
Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.
You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.
The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.
"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.
Ace did not remove his arm.
In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.
"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.
You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.
Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.
Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.
To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.
The plan was in motion.
Phase One
From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.
A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.
Trey took one fateful step.
Tripped (As planned)
And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.
Straight. Onto. The. Prince.
Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.
Smug. Smug. Smug.
Something in your stomach did something.
You ignored it.
The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.
And then came Phase Two
Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.
"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."
The entire ballroom went silent.
The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.
"What?"
"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.
The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.
Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.
He grabbed the prince’s jacket.
And pulled.
The ballroom collectively inhaled.
Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—
Was nothing.
Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.
The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.
His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.
Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.
The ballroom gasped.
The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.
He ran.
You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.
And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:
"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"
2 down. 3 to go.
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It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.
The universe had other plans.
One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—
Betrayal.
Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.
And then you hit the floor.
Hard.
Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.
And that was when he had completely lost it.
He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.
"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."
And that was how you had ended up here.
Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.
He carried you everywhere.
There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"
And he had not put you down since.
Which led to your current predicament.
You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.
The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—
And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.
Silence.
The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.
Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.
And you? You had given up.
"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.
Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."
You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"
Ace ignored you completely.
He dropped into a chair, still holding you.
This was your life now.
Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"
"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."
"You were laughing," you deadpanned.
"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.
Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.
Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.
"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.
And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.
"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."
Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.
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It had been a perfectly normal day.
Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.
You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.
Slowly, you turned your head.
A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.
You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."
"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."
As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.
Silence.
A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.
The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."
You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"
He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).
"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."
A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)
You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.
"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."
He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"
"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.
"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"
You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.
Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.
"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"
He took a bold step forward—
—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Then—THUMP.
He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.
Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.
But the Viscount?
He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.
"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."
You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."
His breath hitched. "You mean—?"
"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."
Fake gasps echoed through the hall.
The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"
"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"
You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.
Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.
Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.
Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.
You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"
Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.
"WHAT."
The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.
"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"
Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.
"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"
You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"
Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?
"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"
"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.
"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."
The grand hall erupted into chaos.
Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"
Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.
"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"
You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."
"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.
You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.
"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"
You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."
The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.
It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.
More silence.
Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"
Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"
You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."
Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.
Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.
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The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.
Then Ace Trappola happened.
He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."
You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.
And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.
"WAIT—NO—"
It was too late.
You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.
"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."
Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.
And he was losing it.
Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.
Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.
Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—
The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.
This was not a platonic feeling.
This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.
And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.
By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.
You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.
The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.
You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.
Oh no.
Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.
His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.
And the worst part?
It wasn’t even weird.
It felt… right.
And that was when it hit you.
Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.
You were in love with Ace Trappola.
You. Loved. Ace.
How unfortunate.
You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.
You stopped breathing.
The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.
You slowly raised a hand.
And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.
Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
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The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.
This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.
He did not take rejection well.
Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.
"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."
Pathetic.
And now, as expected, here he was again.
And as always, he came prepared.
This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.
A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”
An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."
A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.
Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.
Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.
You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.
Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”
Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”
And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.
Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:
"Oh, sorry, we already got married."
Riddle choked on air.
The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.
"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"
You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.
Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.
"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.
You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."
The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.
Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”
"WHAT?!"
Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."
The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.
"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"
Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.
"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.
The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.
There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.
One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.
The Duke completely lost his mind.
"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"
Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.
Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"
"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.
Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."
At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.
The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.
And then, without another word—he left.
Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."
Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.
Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.
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Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.
He’s always liked you. A little.
A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.
But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.
Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.
You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.
Because now?
Now he’s the one barely keeping up.
You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.
And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.
He’s so ruined.
And the thing is?
Ace has done this to himself.
Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.
He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.
Except now he’s holding your hand in public.
Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.
Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.
At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?
Ace thinks he might literally die.
No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.
Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.
The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.
You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.
One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.
You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.
And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.
He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.
How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.
How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."
Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:
"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."
And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"
And he almost chokes on his own tongue.
Because yes.
Yes, it would suit you.
So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.
But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."
And you laugh.
And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.
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The worst of the lot finally appears.
You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.
He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.
His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.
"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"
You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."
The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."
Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."
And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.
Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?
"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"
You blinked. "What."
"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"
Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.
Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."
You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.
You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.
"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."
The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"
You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."
Silence.
The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.
"A… a goose?" he repeated.
You solemnly nodded.
And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.
The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.
Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.
But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.
Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.
Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.
Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."
"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."
The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"
The goose honked.
"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."
A perfect beat of silence.
And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."
The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.
And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.
Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.
Terror of you.
Terror of your goose.
Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.
You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.
A long silence followed.
Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.
Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"
Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."
"You love us," you said.
"I do not."
Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."
Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.
But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.
A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
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Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.
No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.
You were free.
And yet—
As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.
Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.
So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?
And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.
Ace.
This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.
It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.
And now it was gone.
The realization hit like a carriage crash.
You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.
Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.
And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.
Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.
Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.
You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.
Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.
It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.
So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?
He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.
And now? Now it was over.
And he doesn’t know how to go back.
How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?
Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.
But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.
He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.
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You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.
Because Ace is running too.
You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.
You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.
You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.
So you kiss him.
And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.
And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.
You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.
This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.
When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.
“I love you.”
Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.
“What took you so long?”
And then he kisses you again.
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The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.
You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.
Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.
Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.
Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.
“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.
And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.
He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.
“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”
Ace shoves him.
And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.
And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.
You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.
She was a real one.
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Series Masterlist ; Masterlist
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luvashli · 20 hours ago
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MORE THEN FRIENDS
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Synopsis -> Heeseung has always been your best friend—but lately, the lingering touches and stolen glances feel different. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to realize he’s meant to be more.
Pairing -> best!friend!heeseung x fem!reader
Genre -> oneshot, best friends to lovers, suggestive
Status -> complete
Wc -> 3.4k
Note -> requestet by this ask :) hope you enjoy
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The first time you met Heeseung, he was the quiet new kid in your fourth-grade class, staring down at his desk while nervously tapping his pencil. You had been assigned as his seat partner, and while the rest of the class chattered around him, he stayed silent.
Ever the curious one, you nudged his arm with your elbow. “Wanna trade snacks?” you asked, holding up your peanut butter sandwich.
Heeseung hesitated, his eyes flickering up to meet yours for the first time. Then, without a word, he slid his pack of strawberry Pocky across the desk. You grinned, breaking your sandwich in half and handing it to him.
And just like that, you were inseparable.
___
Middle school was a blur of shared lunch trays, inside jokes, and whispered secrets. Heeseung wasn’t as shy anymore—not with you, at least. He still liked to keep to himself, but you were the exception to that rule.
You balanced each other out. Where you were loud and impulsive, he was calm and thoughtful. Where you rushed headfirst into things, he held back and thought things through.
When the other kids teased you for being “too much,” Heeseung was always there, rolling his eyes and telling you they were just jealous. And when Heeseung got called a nerd for acing every math test, you sat beside him at lunch and loudly declared that smart people were hot anyway.
Back then, everything was simple. Heeseung was your best friend, and you were his. No questions asked. No complicated feelings.
But then came high school. And suddenly, things weren’t so simple anymore.
___
Heeseung had always thought you were pretty. Even back in middle school, when you still had braces and a habit of tripping over your own feet, he knew there was something about you that pulled people in—pulled him in. But he never really understood what that feeling meant until sophomore year.
It happened at a school dance, of all places. You had dragged him there, even though he insisted he hated school events. You’d rolled your eyes and called him a grandpa, saying, “Come on, Hee, what’s the worst that could happen?”
The worst, apparently, was watching you slow dance with someone else.
He hadn’t realized he was gripping his soda can so tightly until Jake nudged him. “Dude, you look like you wanna kill someone.”
Heeseung forced a laugh. “What? No. I just…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on you—on the way you laughed at something your dance partner said, on the way they spun you around like you were weightless. And that’s when it hit him.
He was in love with you.
It was a terrifying realization, one that made his stomach twist into knots. Because the moment he understood his feelings, he also understood something else—you didn’t feel the same way.
After that night, Heeseung tried to ignore his feelings. He told himself it was just a phase, just a stupid crush that would go away if he stopped thinking about it.
He dated other girls. Not many, but enough to convince himself he was over you. But it never worked, because every time something good happened, you were the first person he wanted to tell. And every time something bad happened, you were the only person who could make it better.
So, he buried his feelings. He smiled when you talked about your latest crushes, pretended it didn’t sting when you called him your platonic soulmate, and kept being the best friend you needed him to be.
Because loving you was easy. It was having you that was impossible.
___
Now, standing on the edge of adulthood, you still saw Heeseung as your constant, your safe place. But Heeseung? He had spent years pretending not to love you.
And he was starting to wonder how much longer he could keep up the act.
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If someone had told Heeseung years ago that he’d still be hopelessly in love with you, he would’ve laughed it off. He had convinced himself—or at least tried to—that his feelings would fade with time. That someday, he’d wake up and you’d just be his best friend again, nothing more.
But here he was, sitting across from you in your favorite café, watching as you stirred sugar into your coffee with that same absentminded concentration you always had, and he knew—he had never stopped loving you.
“You’re staring,” you teased, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Heeseung scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “No, I’m not.”
“You totally are.” You smirked, taking a sip of your drink. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
Heeseung wanted to tell you the truth—that you had his whole heart on your face, that he couldn’t look at you without wanting to memorize every little detail. But instead, he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you have ‘annoying’ written all over it.”
You gasped dramatically. “Wow. Is this how you treat your best friend? Unbelievable.”
There it was. That word. Best friend.
Heeseung swallowed down the bitter taste that always followed when you said that. He knew it wasn’t your fault—you had no idea how he felt. How could you? He had spent years making sure you didn’t.
But lately, it was getting harder to pretend. Harder to keep smiling when you told him about your latest date, harder to act normal when you rested your head on his shoulder like it was the most casual thing in the world. Because to you, it was casual. But to Heeseung, every touch, every laugh, every moment with you felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have.
And it was slowly driving him insane.
“Hello? Earth to Heeseung?” Your voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized you were waving a hand in front of his face.
“Sorry, what?” He blinked.
“I was saying, do you wanna come over tonight? Movie night, just like old times.” You smiled, eyes bright with excitement.
It was an innocent offer. Just another normal night in your friendship. But to Heeseung, it was another reminder of how much he wanted but could never have.
Still, he nodded, forcing a grin. “Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Because no matter how much it hurt, being close to you—even as just a friend—was better than not having you at all.
___
Movie nights with Heeseung were nothing new. They had been a tradition since high school—just the two of you, a ridiculous amount of snacks, and an unspoken rule that you had to rewatch at least one childhood favorite before the night was over.
But tonight felt… different.
You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Maybe it was the way Heeseung seemed quieter than usual, his gaze lingering on you for a second too long when he thought you weren’t looking. Or maybe it was the way your heart kept skipping beats whenever his knee brushed against yours on the couch.
You shook the thought away, grabbing a handful of popcorn. It’s just Heeseung. Your best friend. Stop being weird.
“What do you wanna watch?” you asked, flipping through the streaming options.
Heeseung shrugged, leaning back against the couch. “You pick.”
“You always say that.”
“And yet, you always pick something terrible.” He smirked, reaching over to steal some of your popcorn.
You gasped, smacking his hand away. “Excuse you! I have excellent taste.”
He snorted. “Sure, if excellent taste means forcing me to sit through three-hour-long romance movies where nothing happens except people staring at each other.”
“You like those movies, don’t lie.”
“I like suffering through them for you—big difference,” he muttered under his breath.
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spread just a little. Heeseung always did that—acted like he was just tolerating the things you loved, when in reality, he indulged you more than anyone ever had.
You ended up picking a random movie, something lighthearted, but halfway through, you barely paid attention. Your focus kept drifting to Heeseung—his stupidly perfect side profile, the way his lips parted slightly when he was concentrating, the little crease in his brow when something in the movie confused him.
It wasn’t like you had never noticed before. You had eyes, after all. But tonight, it was like your brain refused to brush it off as nothing.
You shifted slightly, only to realize just how close the two of you were sitting. At some point, Heeseung had draped his arm across the back of the couch, and without thinking, you had leaned into his side. It wasn’t unusual. You’d done this a hundred times before.
So why did it feel like your whole body was hyper-aware of him?
A scene in the movie made you laugh, and without thinking, you turned to share the moment with him—only to find him already looking at you.
Your breath hitched.
He didn’t look away.
For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was the muffled dialogue from the movie, but everything else faded into the background. His gaze flickered down—to your lips, just for a split second—before returning to your eyes.
And suddenly, you knew.
You knew what had been different about tonight. You knew why your heart was racing, why his touches felt electric, why the way he looked at you sent heat rushing through your veins.
Because for the first time, you were seeing Heeseung in a way you had never let yourself before.
And maybe—just maybe—you were falling for your best friend.
Your heart pounded as you stared at Heeseung, the glow of the TV flickering against his face. He wasn’t looking away.
He always looked at you—watching, waiting, as if he had something to say but never quite found the words. But tonight, for the first time, you weren’t oblivious to it. You weren’t brushing off the way his eyes lingered, the way his fingers twitched against his thigh like he wanted to reach for you but held himself back.
And maybe, for the first time, you didn’t want him to hold back.
You swallowed, trying to play it off. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
Heeseung’s jaw clenched slightly, and his voice came out lower than usual. "You’re the one staring first."
You weren’t. Or maybe you were. It didn’t matter.
The tension between you felt thick, heavy, like a rubber band stretched too tight, on the verge of snapping.
And then it did.
You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, Heeseung’s lips were on yours, crashing into you like he had been waiting for this moment forever. Maybe he had. Maybe you had, too, without realizing it.
A small gasp left your lips, but Heeseung didn’t hesitate—his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you melted into him like you had been made to fit there.
The movie long forgotten, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between kisses, the quiet sighs you couldn’t hold back as Heeseung deepened the kiss. His hands roamed—one sliding up your back, the other gripping your thigh as he pulled you onto his lap.
You should’ve felt nervous. This was Heeseung, your best friend. The one who had always been by your side, the one you told everything to. But right now, nothing about this felt wrong. If anything, it felt like something that had been waiting to happen.
His lips trailed down, grazing the corner of your jaw, your neck—hot and unhurried, like he wanted to take his time memorizing every inch of you.
"Hee," you breathed, hands tangling in his hair.
His grip on you tightened, and a low groan rumbled from his chest, sending shivers down your spine. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he murmured against your skin.
The confession made your stomach flip. Because if he had wanted this for a long time… why did it take you so long to see it?
You pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. They were darker than usual, filled with something raw, something unspoken.
"Why didn’t you ever say anything?" you whispered.
Heeseung exhaled a shaky breath, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "Because I was scared you’d never look at me the way I look at you."
Your heart clenched. How had you been so blind?
You cupped his face, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. "I’m looking at you now."
And then, you kissed him again—slow, deep, like you were making up for all the lost time.
This wasn’t just a kiss. It was years of unsaid words, years of stolen glances, years of Heeseung loving you in silence.
And finally, finally, you were listening.
Heeseung’s lips moved against yours like he had been waiting forever—slow at first, savoring every second, but growing more desperate with each passing moment. His fingers dug into your waist as if he was afraid you might slip away, but there was no chance of that happening. Not anymore.
You were completely, hopelessly lost in him.
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and Heeseung let out a quiet groan against your lips. The sound sent heat rushing through you, making your whole body feel like it was on fire.
He pulled you even closer—if that was even possible—until there was no space left between you. His hands roamed, one gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your back, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
When he kissed you again, it was different—deeper, rougher, like he had finally let go of whatever restraint he’d been holding onto.
And you wanted more.
You shifted slightly in his lap, your fingers tracing down his jaw, his neck, the sharp lines of his collarbone. Heeseung sucked in a sharp breath, his hands tightening around you.
"Y/N," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, almost pleading.
It sent a shiver down your spine. You had never heard him sound like that before.
You leaned in, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. "What is it?" you teased softly, barely above a whisper.
Heeseung let out a shaky laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. "You’re actually going to kill me."
You grinned, feeling a rush of confidence. "Oh? Am I?"
His hands squeezed your hips, grounding himself. "You have no idea."
The air between you was thick, charged with something neither of you had dared to acknowledge before tonight. But now that the line had been crossed, there was no going back.
You stared at him—his swollen lips, the way his chest rose and fell as he tried to steady his breathing. Heeseung had always been beautiful, but right now? Right now, he looked absolutely wrecked.
Because of you.
Something about that realization made your heart pound even harder.
Slowly, you traced your fingers over his jaw, your touch featherlight. "Then maybe you should do something about it," you murmured.
Heeseung’s eyes darkened.
And in the next second, he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with a smirk that sent a fresh wave of heat through you.
"You don’t know what you’re asking for," he murmured, his voice lower now, sending shivers down your spine.
You bit your lip, fingers tangling in the fabric of his hoodie. "Show me."
Heeseung groaned softly before capturing your lips again, his hands gripping your waist as he deepened the kiss.
And this time, neither of you held back.
___
When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was warmth.
You were tangled in Heeseung—his arm draped over your waist, his face buried in your hair, his steady breathing fanning across your skin. The soft glow of early morning filtered through your curtains, casting everything in golden light.
And then it hit you.
Last night. The kisses, the way he touched you like he had been waiting forever, the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.
Your heart clenched.
What happens now?
You shifted slightly, and Heeseung groaned in protest, tightening his hold on you.
“Mm, don’t move,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
You bit your lip, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at how soft he sounded. “Heeseung, we have to get up.”
“No, we don’t.” He buried his face deeper into your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. “Five more minutes.”
You hesitated, staring at the ceiling. What were you supposed to say? Did last night change everything? Were you still just… friends? Did he regret it?
Heeseung must’ve felt the tension in your body because he finally lifted his head, his eyes barely open, but still filled with something softer when they met yours.
“You’re overthinking,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “I just… what does this mean?”
Heeseung blinked at you sleepily before a small smirk played at his lips. “You want me to confess again, don’t you?”
Your face heated. “That’s not—”
He cut you off by leaning in, brushing a slow, lazy kiss against your lips. It was barely a kiss at all, just a soft press of his mouth against yours, but it made your whole body melt.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispered. “I think I always have.”
Your breath hitched.
It was one thing to realize your feelings, to feel them creeping up on you like a slow-burning flame. But hearing him say it—knowing that he had felt this way for so long—made your chest ache.
“I…” You hesitated, but only for a second. Because deep down, you already knew the answer.
You cupped his face, running your thumb along his cheek. “I love you too, Hee.”
Heeseung let out a small, relieved laugh before kissing you again—slow and sweet, like he was savoring every second.
And this time, there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.
Just you and him, exactly where you were always meant to be.
Heeseung kissed you again, slow and deliberate, as if making sure you weren’t just a dream. His hands rested gently on your waist, his thumbs tracing soft circles against your skin, grounding himself in the moment.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured against your lips, his voice still thick with sleep.
You smiled, fingers brushing through his messy hair. “Waking up late?”
“No.” He pressed another lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Waking up with you.”
Your heart did an embarrassing little flip. “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you.” His smirk was lazy, teasing, but his eyes held nothing but warmth.
You rolled your eyes, but the truth was—you liked this side of him. The Heeseung who was completely unfiltered, who didn’t hold back anymore. And maybe, deep down, you always had.
A comfortable silence settled between you as Heeseung shifted, pulling you impossibly closer until your head was resting against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, and the warmth of his skin against yours made you wish you could stay here forever.
But reality was waiting.
Eventually, you sighed. “We really should get up.”
“No, we really shouldn’t.”
“Heeseung.”
“Y/N.” He mimicked your tone, grinning when you shot him a glare.
You tried to move, but he tightened his arms around you, effortlessly keeping you trapped against him. “Nope,” he said, voice muffled as he buried his face in your shoulder. “You’re staying right here.”
You huffed, but your resolve was crumbling. He was too warm. Too comfortable. And if you were being honest… you didn’t really want to move either.
“Fine,” you relented, nuzzling closer. “But only for five more minutes.”
Heeseung chuckled, his lips brushing against your temple. “You say that now.”
And, of course, five minutes turned into ten.
Then twenty.
And before you knew it, the two of you were still tangled together, lost in quiet laughter, whispered confessions, and soft, lingering touches.
Because for the first time, there was no rush. No reason to pretend.
For the first time, you weren’t just best friends anymore.
You were his. And he was yours.
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feyburner · 2 days ago
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hello, i hope you're doing well, the world keeps getting crazier which means that i'm spending more time on fanfictions and i've been thinking about your jaytim fics. particularly, jason and how human he is when you write him. his awkwardness bc he was dead for a while and then doing. not very good. and how he probably has to catch up on simple stuff like who even taught him how to shave??? sure he learnt how to wire bombs but that didn't leave much time for stuff like sexuality and romance? just some experiences that he was robbed off. also very much interested in your take on jason's morality re: killing and what it means to him. anyways i'll dive back into my jason comic marathon <3
God yeah I think about this all the time, it's one of the things that interests me most about his character. Like how fucked up to die at 15 and wake up at like 18 and immediately launch yourself into your big crazy revenge plot that you think it's going to make you feel less howling animal inside but all it does is destroy your chances at ever having like, a normal interaction. By the time you calm down a little you've basically skipped from 15 to like 20. And everyone around you is also a freak who will never live a normal life and some have even also died but you're the only one missing a huge chunk out of your formative years. (Don't care about conflicting canon timelines or retcons.) (I also like this on a meta level bc it mirrors the fact that Jason was For Real Dead from 1988-2005.)
Re: morality, killing: A lot of his character is about catharsis to me. He is hotheaded and impulsive and direct and unsubtle (see: heads in a duffel bag) in a way the other Bats aren't. Who among us hasn't seen a news story and thought "I don't believe in state-sanctioned violence but damn, someone should kill that guy"? He is the guy who kills that guy. And sometimes it's for "noble" reasons and sometimes it isn't, and sometimes he might like to think it is but it isn't, and sometimes it immediately backfires and makes things worse for the people he is trying to help, and it can and has made him a hypocrite. It is also, I believe, an understandable stance for someone who was murdered as a child by a guy famous for essentially walking around wearing a T-shirt that says "I Love Hurting and Killing People (and I'm Definitely Going to Do It Again)." Bruce doesn't kill people because senseless violence made him an orphan. Jason kills people because senseless violence made him dead. Of course a child who lived and a child who died would look at death from opposite sides. It destroyed both of them at a formative age in opposite ways. Bruce crystallized around the after, and Jason around the before. I think it makes perfect sense that for the rest of their lives they would keep seeing only the after, and only the before, and in doing so keep looking past each other.
I feel like a lot of Jason meta is either "The Bats are so naive, Jason is the only realist" OR "Here's why Batman is right and Jason is an irredeemable monster" or whatever. Neither of those readings are compelling to me. I don't care which character is "right" or "good." If I wanted to read about good people making morally airtight choices I would go read Goofus and Gallant but only the Gallant parts and then kill myself. None of the Bats act in a way that aligns with my real-life morals. I think the "killing question" is most interesting viewed in the context of an individual character's relationship with violence and justice and atonement and forgiveness and consequences and least interesting in the context of pitting characters against each other to determine Who's Right and Who's Wrong.
I wrote the following exchange a while back as an exercise to explore this very topic.
Warning for CSA mention below the cut.
-
“I mean, hell, what if he got hit by a bus? Anyone can die, any time. Think of me as a big angry red bus.” Tim’s eyes on him feel like burning, but not so immediate as fire. More like the warning heat of sunburn: for now a faint prickling, for weeks after an ache. “End of the day? I don’t think he should be alive. I don’t think the state should get to decide who lives and who dies, but I’m not the state. And I know people can be rehabilitated. I know there’s a chance he could change, and never do it again, and spend the rest of his days saving kittens and helping little old ladies cross the street. But from what I’ve seen, this kinda guy, we’re talking a puny fucking chance. There’s people the system fails and people who could be helped by a better system and then there’s people who aren’t gonna fucking change. They’re just gonna keep doing awful shit, because it gets them off. Hurting kids. Hurting anyone they think is less powerful, or less of a person. Fuck that. The thing is, I know they’re people. And I’m a person too. And I don’t have the fucking right. To be the arbiter of fucked-up justice or whatever. But you know what? I can’t find it in me to give a shit. If those scumbags wanna kill me back, they can have at it, that’s their prerogative. Until then, some fuck rapes a five-year-old? No, fuck that. What if he does it again? He’s already done it. Hurt that kid forever. Snuffed out that thing inside them, whatever it is that makes kids think the world isn’t a shitshow. Can’t unring that fucking bell. Why should he—once was too many! Don’t you get it? That kinda guy��once was already too many! Why should he get to do it twice? And so fucking many of ‘em do it twice. Can’t keep your hands off a little kid? Fuck you. Headshot. Problem solved. You can’t change my mind about this, Red. I didn’t make the choice to kill people on a fucking whim. I thought about Hell and decided I’m up for it. Alright? Fuck off.” 
“You don’t have to convince me.” 
“And another thing—” His mouth clicks shut. “I—what?” 
“I said you don’t have to convince me.” Tim examines his glass, tilting the last swallow of watery gin back and forth. “If I were going to argue with you, I suppose I’d quote a statistic about how something like 93% of childhood sexual abuse is perpetuated from within the immediate family, and killing the abuser could drastically destabilize the child’s living situation and potentially place them at risk for other types of harm—”
“There’s nothing stable about—!”
“—but I’m not going to argue with you, because I don’t want to, because frankly I don’t care. I should—some days I’m better, and I do—but I don’t at the moment. Not tonight.” 
Jason stares at him for long enough that Tim grows visibly uncomfortable, shoulders stiffening. 
“What,” he says, eyes darting up to Jason’s, then away. His long fingers never stop playing with the glass, rolling it slowly, tracing the same wet circle on the tabletop. Jason wishes he would just finish his drink. And hold still. 
“You don’t care,” Jason repeats. “Great. Namaste. So what’s with the interrogation?”
“Interr—?” Tim looks startled. “Jason, I was asking.”
-
So yeah.
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mochinomnoms · 2 days ago
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Hey there !
Hope you have a great day/afternoon/night. I was wondering if you could write how floyd, rook and jamil would react to a reader that is caring and playful but can be stubborn and impulsive when frustrated or angry, acting on her strong will without always thinking ahead.
You can add things if you feel like it too.
Thanks ❤️
Hi! Still not doing real big requests so I can write a little bit for each one!
I imagine that Floyd is a bit of an instigator upon noticing that you can be impuslive when pushed to your limit. He thinks it's nice that you can be so caring and like to play around with him, but having you be that way all the time is boring! Get a little mean, be a little wild! So what if he roughed up your friends a bit? He likes your cute, angry face!
While not an instigator like Floyd, Rook sees a beauty in both your kindness and impulsivity. It reminds him a bit of Epel, which just makes him think of all the possibilities of you blooming into the beauty that is you. However, he does worry about the situations you put yourself in without thinking. You'll always have a sense that someone is watching you, while Rook is hiding nearby, keeping an eye out on you.
Poor Jamil, he's got a Kalim 2.0. Good thing for him is that he isn't obligated to watch out and care for you, so you do whatever the hell you want as long as it doesn't involve him. Unfortunately for him, you tend to involve him. It takes some time, but since he doesn't actually have to chase after you like he does his ward, Jamil ends up finding you quiet sweet! He'll watch you get into your troubles on the sidelines, though he's not inclined to get involved...unless you were to get romantically involved of course...then his priorities shift a bit.
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supernotnatural2005 · 16 hours ago
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The Arrangement - Chapter Four
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Pairing: Dean x Reader
Summary: Things are growing tense between the you and Dean, buried feelings seemed to be bursting at the seems. How long until they finally burst? Is the real question.
Word Count: 4.1k
Warnings/Tags: Angst, the usual pinning idiots, fluff.
AN: Okay this chapter became way too long so I had to split it 😅 call it the first half to chapter 5, where we will continue on. As always I hope you enjoy! ☺️
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After your steamy shower escapades, you’d both decided to part ways for the night. As much as you wanted to bask in the aftermath, sleeping together—actually sleeping—felt like crossing an invisible line you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge.
Luckily, you had an easy excuse. You had work in the morning, and Dean had an even earlier start for his long drive out to Stanford. And after a day filled with very thorough extracurricular activities, the moment your head hit the pillow, you were out like a light.
By the time you woke up, Dean was already gone. A small part of you felt miffed that you hadn’t gotten to see him off—not just because of whatever this thing was between you, but because, at the end of the day, he was still your best friend. And you missed him when he wasn’t around.
That little pang of disappointment eased when you spotted the note on the coffee machine, still warm from where he must have made a fresh pot before leaving.
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You weren’t prepared for the wave of emotions that crashed into you at the sight of his familiar scrawl. Why did he have to be so…Dean?
Letting out a long sigh, you lightly slapped your own cheek. Snap out of it. It’s nothing new.
Dean had always been like this. A natural caretaker. Your friend. That was all.
You shoved those unwelcome feelings down, drowning them in bites of warm, buttery pancakes and strong coffee. The food did wonders for distracting your heart.
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By noon, you were about ready to throw in the towel. Your caseload was piling higher by the minute, the endless spreadsheets and budget reports turning into a blur of numbers. 
As the company’s-chartered accountant, you were used to the pressure—but Roman’s impulsive decision to buy into the Biggerson’s fast food chain had sent your workload into overdrive. You were now up to your eyeballs in audits and projections, making sure the company wasn’t about to haemorrhage money on a half-baked business venture.
A familiar teasing voice broke through your frazzled thoughts.
“Damn, I don’t know whether you need a drink or a cigarette.”
Spinning your chair around, you found yourself face-to-face with your favourite redhead, her signature smirk firmly in place.
“Can I have both?” you deadpanned, rubbing a hand over your already mussed-up hair. “Seriously, why couldn’t he wait until after the holidays for this manic decision? And why the hell Biggerson’s?”
Charlie plopped down onto your desk, crossing her legs as she shrugged. “Yeah, no clue. Although… Frank—”
You arched a brow. “Conspiracy-theory Frank?”
“The very one.”
Of course.
Charlie leaned in conspiratorially. “He’s convinced the company heads are actually cannibals, and this whole buyout is part of some elaborate scheme to fatten up Americans before they, and I quote, ‘chow down.’”
You burst out laughing, the stress momentarily melting away. “Wow. That’s a new one.”
“Right?” Charlie grinned before giving your arm a pat. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch. And then you can tell me why Gary looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon all morning.”
A few blocks away, you and Charlie found yourselves at Rufus’ Deli, home to some of Kansas’ finest sandwiches. Rufus himself was a legend—gruff, no-nonsense, and about as approachable as a guard dog, but no one could deny the man’s skills. His sandwiches were that good, drawing lines down the block every day.
Luckily, you and Charlie had managed to worm your way into his good graces over time. Whether it was your shared appreciation for his craftsmanship or the fact that you never tried to chat his ear off like other customers, he had developed a soft spot for you both. And that meant one very important perk—you got to skip the line.
So, when the lunch rush was in full swing and Rufus spotted you, a warm smile replacing his usual gruffness, jerking his head toward the counter. “What’ll it be today, ladies?”
You gave him your order with a grateful smile, and within minutes, you and Charlie were seated at your usual spot, tearing into your sandwiches.
“So,” Charlie mumbled around a bite of her chicken club, “wanna fill me in on the Gary sitch?”
You sighed, setting your sandwich down and swallowing before launching into the whole story. You kept the details light—omitting the drinking with Jo and the deeper parts of your frustration—but you didn’t hold back on the bare minimum effort Gary had put into your so-called relationship.
Charlie listened intently, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to full-on irritation. When you finished, she scoffed. “Damn. What a prick.”
She leaned back, crossing her arms before her lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “You know… you just gave me the incentive I needed to fill that douchebag’s computer with enough viruses to make it cry.”
You nearly choked on your drink, barely managing to cover your mouth as you laughed.
Charlie worked in the tech department and she was the company’s most valuable asset. The only one who came close to her level of expertise was Frank, and even he admitted she was the best. You’d met her in your second month on the job when she’d swooped in to fix a software issue you’d been struggling with. Not only had she solved it in minutes, but she’d also taken the time to teach you a few tricks that you still used to this day.
The two of you had hit it off immediately. She was a giant nerd at heart—quirky, sarcastic, and fiercely loyal. You’d bonded over your shared love of Harry Potter, both agreeing that Hermione was the real reason Harry even survived half his adventures.
“You know…” you smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I wouldn’t hate to see that.”
Charlie grinned, wiggling her fingers as if casting a spell. “Then consider it done.”
The two of you burst into laughter, the weight of your morning stress lifting—at least for now.
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After lunch, you and Charlie made your way back to the office, the brisk winter air nipping at your cheeks and turning the tip of your nose red. The cold was sharp, but in a way, it was refreshing—like it was clearing out the mental fog that had settled in after your morning of spreadsheets and stress.
As you neared the building, Charlie shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “You coming to the company Christmas party tomorrow night?”
You blinked, nearly having forgotten about the annual bash Roman Enterprises threw right before everyone was released for their so-called ‘Christmas break.’
“Shit, I completely forgot about that,” you admitted, your breath visible in the air. Your mind had been preoccupied with... well, other things.
“Well, I’m only going if you are. I can only tolerate these people when I’m getting paid for it.”
You laughed at that, shaking your head. “I mean, I guess it’d be the decent thing to show our faces, right?” You shrugged, considering it. “And I do have to admit—Dick throws a damn good party.”
“Right? And there’s always a chocolate fountain,” Charlie said, eyes lighting up.
You hummed in agreement. “Fuck it. Let’s go. I can grab a new dress on my way home later.”
Charlie grinned, clearly pleased. “Oh! You should invite Dean. It’s been a while since I saw that knucklehead.”
That made you hesitate.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to invite Dean, but an office Christmas party wasn’t exactly a casual setting. And inviting him made it feel a little too much like... a date.
But then again, Charlie would be there. It wasn’t like it would just be the two of you. Three friends hanging out. Totally normal.
“Sure,” you said after a beat, forcing nonchalance into your voice. “I’ll ask him. Though he’s not a suit-and-tie kinda guy.” You chuckled, already picturing his disgruntled expression. Getting Dean to wear anything remotely formal had always been a battle.
Charlie smirked. “Tell him there’s an open bar. I’m sure he’ll be persuaded.”
You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head as you pulled open the office door. “Yeah... you might be onto something there.”
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By the time you left the office, the sky had deepened into rich blues and purples, the last traces of daylight fading behind the city skyline. You made your way down to 9th Street, stopping in a few stores to find something to wear for the company Christmas party. Dick Roman always hosted black-tie events, and currently, your wardrobe leaned more toward casual attire, jeans, hoodies, sweatpants—not exactly gala material.
Luckily, it didn’t take long to find the dress. A deep red gown with delicate lace accents, an open back that dipped daringly low, and just enough side-boob to make going braless the only option. It was definitely more revealing than what you’d normally go for, but for some reason the thought of Dean seeing you in it, gave you enough incentive to buy it.
Once you got home, you decided it was finally time you got stuck into the gift wrapping. You slipped into your loungewear and set up in the living room, surrounded by wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows. 
Wrapping gifts had always been something you enjoyed—it wasn’t a chore but a ritual. You loved making each present look as perfect as possible, picturing the happiness on your loved ones' faces when they unwrapped them.
Dean’s gift was the last one left of the night, and it was by far the most meaningful.
You had managed to track down an original pressing of Led Zeppelin II—the very album he’d lost as a kid in the house fire. It had been bad, nearly costing Mary her life, the electrical damage so severe that renovations had taken years. They had lost so much—family photos, keepsakes, and among them, the vinyl his dad had given him on his 10th birthday. 
You could still remember the hours you spent in his room, the two of you lying on his bed, singing along to Ramble On, always a little off-key but never caring. Finding another copy had been next to impossible, but last month, Charlie had tracked one down in a tiny record store just outside of town. You had almost kissed her for it.
Now, as you carefully folded the wrapping paper around the record and tied a bow on top, you smiled to yourself. You hoped he liked it.
Just as you finished up, your phone buzzed. Dean. You ignored the flutter in your chest at the sight of his name and flipped open the screen.
“’Sup?”
“Why did I agree to this again?” Came Dean’s gruff voice.
“Because you’re a massive pushover?” you deadpanned.
“Do you know I’m currently parked out on a dirt road? No motels. Havin’ to rough it tonight.”
You bit your lip, picturing him scowling at his surroundings.
“I still don’t feel sorry for you.” You chuckled, and he let out a dramatic sigh.
“’Course you wouldn’t.”
You smiled into the receiver, adjusting the phone against your ear as you stacked the last wrapped gift onto the pile.
“You do realise Sam has a license and could’ve driven himself home, right?”
Dean groaned. “Yeah, but I kinda only got him some shaving foam and a razor for Christmas.”
Your mouth dropped. “WHAT?! That’s all you got him?” You screeched into the receiver. “No wonder you took, like, five minutes to shop. I thought they were your toiletries, not presents!”
“Yeah, well, now he’s got a road trip with his big bro to add to it.”
“You’re a nightmare,” you scoffed, shaking your head with an amused twitch of your lips despite yourself.
The line fell silent for a beat, the comfortable kind, before you remembered your conversation with Charlie.
“I, uh, had lunch with Charlie today,” you said.
“Yeah? How is the nerd?” he teased, though there was clear fondness in his tone.
“She’s good. She’s also plotting to destroy Gary’s computer with viruses.”
Dean let out a bark of laughter. “Brilliant.”
“She also reminded me about the company Christmas party tomorrow night.”
“Oh yeah? You goin’?”
You hesitated, trying to sound casual. “We agreed to go if the other did… but she also asked if you wanted to come.”
There was a pause. “Really?” Dean hummed. “Do you want me to go?”
Your heart thudded in your chest.
“I mean, I know they’re not really your thing. It’s a black-tie event, super formal,” you said quickly, then mentally facepalmed. Were you trying to talk him out of it?
“Sounds pretty terrible,” he agreed, and you panicked.
“There’s an open bar, though.”
Silence. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.
“Hmm. Now that does change things,” he mused. “I can come if you want me to?”
Your face flushed at the unintentional pun—although, knowing Dean, it was probably very intentional.
“More the merrier, right?” You shrugged it off, with a lame chuckle, wanting to smack yourself in the head.
Dean chuckled. “Yeah, that’s true.”
Another comfortable pause settled between you.
“I’ll, uh, let you get some rest,” you said, softer this time. “Don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.”
“Yeah, probably best.” He sighed, and you could almost picture him, all scrunched up in the backseat.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
“’Night, sweetheart.”
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The next day, you busied yourself tidying up around the apartment. You didn’t want Dean thinking you were completely incapable of living alone, so you straightened up, wiped down the counters, and even tested out a few cake recipes for Christmas. 
After a few failed attempts, you finally landed on a winner—a pecan upside-down cake. It was soft, sweet, and had just the right crunch from the pecans. For a first try, it wasn’t bad. And that was exactly what Dean walked into a few hours later, when he finally arrived.
“Whoa. What the hell smells so good?”
You turned at the sound of his voice, smiling, and for a second, Dean forgot how to breathe. It had only been a little over twenty-four hours since he’d last seen you, and somehow, he’d missed you way more than he was willing to admit.
“Hey. I was just trying out some recipes for Christmas. Think I found a winner.” You cut a slice of cake and slid it onto a plate before handing it to him.
He eyed it suspiciously, glancing between you and the dessert. “You made this?”
You scoffed, your hands settling on your hips in a defensive stance. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
Dean smirked at your reaction. He lived to rile you up. Still, he picked up the slice and took a big bite. The second the flavours hit his tongue, his eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a deep, satisfied moan.
“Shit, that’s good.”
You swallowed hard.
“Really?” you asked, voice a little breathier than you intended.
His eyes snapped open. “You kiddin’ me? I think I just found my new favourite dessert.”
Your face warmed. That was high praise coming from him. Dessert was practically Dean’s second language—specifically, the pie dialect—so for him to say that about your cake. That was a damn honour.
“Well, that’s that then. Dessert is sorted.” You dog-eared the page in the recipe book you’d picked up while dress shopping, mentally noting to make this again for Christmas.
Dean took a seat at the island as he finished his slice of cake, the two of you making idle chit chat about his trip, and how much LA traffic sucked, when you got onto the topic of Sam and his new lady friend. 
“So, Is he punching?” You asked rather bluntly, a teasing smirk on your lips as you gathered everything coated in cake batter and dumped it into the sink.
“Oh, massively. She’s way out of my brother’s league.” Dean laughed, the sound rich and amused, and you raised a brow.
“Sounds like you’re just as smitten,” you mused, a little sharper than you’d intended. What the hell is wrong with you?
You turned your back to him to cover your idiocy, arms buried in warm, soapy water as you busied yourself scrubbing utensils clean.
It was just an innocent comment. It wasn’t like you cared if Dean thought some girl was attractive. You weren’t overthinking, not at all. Not about how easy it would be for him to fall for someone else, someone uncomplicated, someone not you.
Jesus, girl!
You were broken from your spiralling thoughts when you felt him behind you. His presence was unmistakable heat radiating off of him in waves, his scent a lingering mix of soap, leather, and the faded remnants of his cologne. It made your head swim.
A dish clinked gently as he slipped his plate into the water beside you.
“Do I detect some jealousy in that tone of yours?” His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of it curling down your spine.
“Pfft, you’re joking, right?” You scoffed, but the slight crack in your voice gave you away.
Dean heard it too. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smirking. The self-satisfaction practically rolled off him.
You placed the last item on the drying rack and turned, only to find him closer than expected. Your breath hitched.
“No. I’m deadly serious.”
Your pulse pounded in your ears as his eyes locked onto yours, heavy-lidded and unreadable. The space between you shrank, an invisible force pulling you toward him. Like gravity, like inevitability.
Dean leaned in; his breath warm as it fanned across your lips. His hands braced against the counter on either side of you, caging you in. The heat between you was palpable, something crackling in the air, something that made your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.
Then—
His ringtone shattered the moment.
You jolted slightly, the haze lifting as quickly as it had settled. Dean sighed, raking a hand through his hair as he pulled his phone from his pocket. One glance at the screen and his expression soured.
“What?” he answered gruffly.
You took that as your cue to leave, slipping away down the hall and into your bedroom, pressing the door shut behind you.
You needed a breather. Badly.
What the hell was that?
He can’t be home for more than five minutes before you want to jump his bones.
And, seriously, “Sounds like you’re smitten?” What were you thinking?
You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face before shaking yourself out of your stupor. A shower. A cold one, preferably. Then you could focus on getting ready for tonight—because the last thing you needed was to be a flustered mess at a party where you were supposed to look put together.
The irony.
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By the time you stepped out of the shower, steam curling into the air, Dean had left again. Apparently, Sam had forgotten one of Jess’s bags, the one containing all of her clothes for the next couple of days, in Dean’s trunk, so he had to drive back to his parents’ house to drop It off.
That allowed you to take your time getting ready, without being rushed for ‘hogging’ the bathroom.
You pampered yourself—lotions, perfumes, careful grooming (not at all for a certain green-eyed man). You took your time with your hair and makeup, allowing the slow, methodical routine to settle your nerves.
You’d just finished curling your hair when Dean returned.
Still in your robe, you stepped out of your room to grab a drink, only to nearly collide with him in the hallway.
“Oof.”
Dean caught you, steadying you before you could fully crash into him. Your hands landed briefly against his chest, warm and firm beneath your palms.
He chuckled, the sound low and easy, but then his gaze flickered over you, taking in your appearance.
A slow smirk spread across his lips. “You know, when you said black tie, I didn’t realise you meant the robe kind.”
You glanced down at yourself—silk black robe, tied securely at the waist—and realised what he meant.
Unimpressed, you looked back up at him. “Wow. You’re freakin’ hilarious.”
Dean barked out a full-bodied laugh, clearly pleased with himself as you brushed past him toward the fridge, shaking your head. You twisted off the cap of a beer and took a sip.
“Any more jokes like that out of you tonight, and you can stay home,” you warned, levelling him with a serious stare.
Dean only grinned wider but raised a hand in surrender. “Don’t worry, I’ll be well-behaved.”
But the dark glint in his eye told a different story.
He left you there and headed for the shower, while you worked to calm the nerves still rattling in your chest.
Tonight was going to be… complicated.
Questions would be asked.
Is Dean your date? Are you two together?
And you’d have to say no.
Which meant leaving him wide open for the kill.
The women in HR were like sharks in bloodied water—desperate, predatory, and not the least bit subtle. They’d be all over him tonight. And you weren’t sure if you were equipped to handle seeing it. Because those were exactly the kind of women Dean would bed. And you were basically serving him up on a silver platter.
Lord, give me strength.
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By the time the clock neared 7 p.m., you were dressed and ready.
You stood in front of the mirror, taking in your reflection. You had to admit—you looked good. Hot, even.
The dress hugged every curves perfectly, the wide-open back revealing the delicate slope of your spine before stopping just above the curve of your ass. A bold red lip completed the look, matching the rich fabric of your gown. Your hair was swept up in a loose bun, soft curls framing your face.
Satisfied, you stepped out into the living room—only to stop short at the sight of Dean.
He was already dressed, waiting, phone in hand.
And he looked—
God.
A black suit, fitted just right, a crisp white dress shirt beneath. The same suit he’d worn for his parents’ anniversary dinner last year. It had looked good on him then. It looked even better now.
The broad set of his shoulders, the slim taper of his waist—it was unfair how well he filled it out. His hair was neatly gelled, but not too much. Just enough to keep that natural, tousled look in place. And he smelled… incredible.
He must’ve sensed your presence, because he looked up from his phone, and had to do a double take.
Holy. Mother of God.
Dean couldn’t breathe. It was as if you’d knocked the wind right out of his lungs just by existing in that dress.
You were stunning.
And that word didn’t even come close to doing you justice.
His gaze dragged over you, drinking in every detail. The way the dress clung to you, the deep red fabric a striking contrast against your skin. The soft glow of the light catching on the shade of your eyes, making them look brighter somehow. The way your lips—painted that same rich shade of red—parted slightly as you waited for him to say something.
Jesus.
He wanted to say something smooth, something that would make you smile, make you roll your eyes at him the way you always did when he teased you. But his mouth had gone dry, and his brain wasn’t quite catching up.
Dean cleared his throat, forcing his voice to work.
“You…” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, his lips twitching up at the corners. “Damn.”
Your brows lifted in amusement. “That bad, huh?”
Dean huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not even close.” His eyes met yours, more serious now. “You look incredible.”
Your breath hitched. He meant it—there was no teasing lilt in his voice, no smug grin. Just honesty, plain and simple.
You swallowed, feeling warmth rise in your cheeks. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”
Dean smirked, but it softened almost immediately. His gaze lingered, his expression shifting into something unreadable.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The air between you felt different—thicker, heavier. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you, in the way his fingers twitched at his side like he was stopping himself from reaching out.
For a brief second, you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself feel the weight of his attention, the warmth in his eyes.
But then, just as quickly, you snapped yourself out of it.
“Alright,” you said, exhaling sharply and breaking eye contact. “We should get going before we’re late.”
Dean blinked, like he was shaking off a daze. “Right.” He cleared his throat and followed you to the door, as you grabbed your coat.
Dean opened the door for you, placing a hand at the small of your back as he guided you out. The heat of his touch lingering long after.
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AN: I just want to bang their heads together! but at the same time, where would be the fun in that!? 😂 I hope you noticed I gave y'all a little break from all the spice in this chapter, but fear not, these too can never stay separated long 👀
(Also, if anyone reading this works in HR, it was just an idea I went with, I don't mean to offend or think HR is like that 😅)
If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊
Dean Winchester/series Tag List:
@bettystonewell @nancymcl @happyfxckinghorrors @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @fangirlingfromdownunder @cevansbaby-dove @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy @impala67stellawinchester @bonbonnie88 @youroldfashioned
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Next Time...
Your fingers tightened around your glass as you watched her laugh at something he said—too exaggerated, in your opinion. He wasn’t that funny. And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, her manicured hand squeezed his bicep. That was the last straw. Charlie had abandoned you to use the restroom, leaving you with no distractions other than to sit and watch Dean practically fall in love with another woman right in front of you. Okay, maybe you were being dramatic. But he looked interested, smitten even, and it made your stomach churn. Deciding you’d tortured yourself enough, you pushed to your feet and manoeuvred through the crowd toward the bar. More alcohol seemed like the only logical solution. Except, before you got there, you walked straight into someone solid.
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yanderes-galore · 1 day ago
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Hello! Could I please have an Eijiro Kirishima Yandere concept from MHA?
Sure! I hope I write him accurately ^^; Thanks for being patient! I kept losing my draft of this due to getting distracted so I am... frustrated with this a bit but oh well.
Yandere Eijiro Kirishima Concept
(Pro Hero AU)
Pairing: Romantic
Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Jealousy, Violence, Blood/Injury, Possessive behavior, Social isolation, Delusional behavior, Unhealthy power dynamic, Manipulation, Social pressure, Dubious relationship.
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Since he was young, Kirishima has wanted to be a hero.
He's always been motivated by Crimson Riot and his peers.
Nowadays as a Pro Hero, he's grown his confidence and still seems to be just as excited as he was in high school.
He's a selfless man who has learned how to be defensive and offensive with his hardening Quirk.
Ironically... I feel Kirishima would be a soft yandere at times.
He's dedicated to you, his obsession and partner.
He wants to always be around to protect you, to care for you.
Despite wanting to portray himself as a manly macho man...
He also gets all soft around you because he just loves his obsession.
He's this big intimidating Pro Hero, yet you manage to make him so calm.
Regardless if you're officially dating or not...
You have Red Riot wrapped around your finger.
Even if it's just a crush, Kirishima still happens to get flustered just by looking at you.
He probably even pledges to look out for you before you even know it.
I'm not saying he's sappy all the time though.
For example, during hero work or meetings he tends to be the usual confident fighter willing to take on the strongest fights villains have to offer.
Yet when he's alone with you... his gaze stays on you as he rambles about how much he loves you.
It's hard for him to hold back how he feels.
Even if it was just a crush, he's probably going to confess rather quickly.
He wants to be a gentleman, he wants to be a man...
He'd try so hard as your boyfriend or even a husband if you let him get that far.
Yes, he's already thinking that far, like it or not.
It's like he already wants to have a family with you, often getting too excited and rushing his obsession into things.
He's affectionate, yes, but he can be a bit too much.
He's like an impulsive and excited puppy, thinking of all sorts of fantasies and sharing them with you.
Even when you aren't dating.
Kirishima has many date plans and relationship goals in mind...
The issue is he tends to overlook things.
Yanderes like Midoriya can spend days or months planning out dates and ways to win you over.
While Kirishima has plans... He gets too impatient.
He may be a gentleman...
But he rushes things way too often.
He'd tell you date plans, plans for the future, everything...
It's all very heartfelt and flattering.
Yet there's one issue.
He'll say them even when you aren't dating, which can scare you a bit.
After all... Dating a Pro Hero can be a lot.
Especially one as overly excited as Kirishima.
There's a good chance if someone saw you in public and asked if you're dating, he'd say yes.
He isn't going to hide his feelings!
Even if you're just friends at the time... much to your horror.
While most yanderes would hide their obsession from the public for their safety...
Kirishima isn't scared.
Anyone who comes to pick on Red Riot's partner is honestly... close to dead.
Kirishima is a protector, after all.
He'd intimidate anyone who approached you to hurt you.
He can easily go from sweet boyfriend to being a wall of a human real quick.
He doesn't tolerate anything getting in between the relationship he's building with you.
Kirishima making your 'relationship' public may push you to accept his feelings.
Which may or may not have been his plan since the start.
You can try to decline... But what will his fans say?
They'd be livid.
This would create social pressure for you, making you play along with Kirishima's little date plans.
Does he know what he's doing is wrong? Probably.
Does he feel guilty? A little.
But in the end... He has you.
He can make you happy, can't he?
Just... Just give him a chance... He'll be a good and supportive man for you.
He'll give you both a big house, he'll protect you...
Doesn't that sound nice...?
I mean... The 'good' thing is he's trying?
Unfortunately... He still very much forced you to date him through social pressure though.
He apologizes about it, begging you not to hate him for doing what he did.
You may have been willing to talk a while ago...
Yet you're continuously overwhelmed with him talking of 'plans for the future'.
Before you would've found this behavior cute from a boyfriend.
But this relationship is far from normal.
Even if you've only been together for a couple months, he keeps talking about marriage or something similar.
You could run, but you just know he'll drag you back with a confused pout.
Then afterwards he may just lock the doors and windows to the house, confused why you don't like him anymore.
It's hard for me to say whether Kirishima would kill or not.
I know he'd do anything to protect you, no matter how bloody he gets.
Yet he also has a reputation to keep up.
You could tell the press about what Red Riot has done.
But who will believe you?
You'd think this is bad enough...
Yet Kirishima gets jealous too.
It's usually tame, just some glaring with him clinging to you.
Although there's rare times you try to escape from him... which Kirishima takes poorly...
The other person soon breaks a few bones, bleeding on the ground as Kirishima plays it off as them hurting you.
He's a bit delusional, believing deep down you do truly love him.
Maybe at one point you did...
That was until he forced the relationship on you...
Now you couldn't leave him even if you tried with his fans.
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kpop-cakepops · 21 hours ago
Text
Gold and Diamonds (KMG x AFAB!Reader)
Word Count: 1,342
He's been in my heaaaaaaaad. Get him out!!!!!
Warnings: Slightly suggestive if you REALLY squint, very mild cursing, mutual pining (seriously, mingyu is deliciously pathetic for you), insinuated fwb to lovers? Kinda?
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Head over heels, and he knew you knew. Mingyu wasn't shy about the way his piercing black eyes followed your every move no matter where you were... but something had changed. He could see it in the way your eyes would occasionally meet his while you conversed with another one of your guests. He could see it when you'd sneak a peek at him over the edge of your champagne flute. He could see it in the way your feet brought you closer and closer to him subconsciously between conversations until you finally stood before him.
"Hey," you greeted with a small mischievous smile that attempted to hide the time you'd spent together that morning, tangled in your sheets.
Mingyu couldn't help the smile that brightened his face, nor could he hide the way his eyes turned to honey the moment he heard your voice. "Hey," his chest felt like it would explode. It always did when you were around.
In a bold move, you took a step closer to him, who was sitting on a stool by the bar, thighs open and welcoming. It wasn't long before you had wedged yourself between his legs, earning yourself a few curious and nosy glances from the people around the two of you. Your eyes had a slight glaze to them, and Mingyu wondered if you were drunk.
"You good?" He asked almost breathlessly as he watched your fingers play with his on his lap. You stayed silent for a few seconds before looking up at him.
"Was it necessary for you to come to my birthday party looking so good?" You questioned with a slight pout. "I can't stop looking at you."
He took a swig of the drink in his hand and smiled teasingly, "Isn't that a good thing?"
"I don't know, I think it's a little scary," you admit in a soft voice, bearly audible.
With a raised brow, Mingyu leans closer to you, "Why scary?"
You look up to find Mingyu's face unbearably close to yours. So close it had your heart hammering against your chest, begging to be put out of its misery. "I missed you."
"We were together all morning"
"I know... and I started missing you the moment you left my apartment." Your hands were now holding his face tenderly, sending chills down his spine.
"And why is that?" Foreheads pressed against each other. It was as if the entire party around you both had disappeared. It was just you and Mingyu sharing each other's space.
"Are you really going to make me say it? On my birthday?" Your sweet breath fanned over his needy lips in a tempting way. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to take your hand and drag you away from everyone, have you all to himself.
"Would you rather I kissed you in front of all your frie-"
You didn't allow him to finish his sentence. Your lips were far too impatient to wait for him to finish teasing you. Mingyu all too expertly pulled you in closer. His large hands guide your own over his shoulders, making it easier for your body to nestle into the familiar shape of his torso. The one you'd been printing kisses on just hours before.
"You're an asshole" you mumbled against his lips, "fuck, you're such an asshole"
Unwillingly, Mingyu pulled away from the kiss, rubbing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. "You can't say that to me when you've known all along how fucking in love with you I am."
"I know," you tell him, "that's why I feel stupid... because you deserve better."
"I don't want better." He pecks your lips reassuringly, "there isn't better... so stop driving me crazy and marry me already"
You chortle at the suddenness of his proposal. You loved that about him. His impulsiveness. "Should we? I don't think Daddy dearest would like that too much."
The tips of his fingers pushed your hair out of your eyes, taking the chance to lift your chin and catch your hazy eyes in his intense ones. "Say the word, and I'll talk to your father myself... or better yet, I'll steal you away. We catch a flight to Vegas and elope in some random chapel. He can't undo what's been done, right?"
You peck his lips swiftly and shake your head, "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Kim, but I'm afraid it's too soon for you to be calling me your wife. Let's settle for officially calling me your girlfriend, how about that?"
His shoulders fell slightly, but his grip on your waist tightened and brought you closer once again. His warm lips finding your ear whispering secrets meant for only you to hear "Are you trying to imply that despite spending the better part of the past year tangled in my sheets, you're not my girlfriend? I'm hurt, Miss Y/L/N."
"I've always thought of myself to be more of your beloved, darling, sweetheart, and confidant... was I too forward in believing that much?" You ask him.
The soft smirk on his face lets you know he's aware that this is your way of finally admitting that he's just as much your world as you are his. After all, for a person who claimed not to care about titles, you certainly kept track of all the pretty ones he gave you.
"Too forward? I just asked you to marry me for the third time this week, Y/N"
A rush of warmth spreads through your body as you take in every detail of his face. The sincerity and honey in his eyes as he examines you right back. You take your time to drink in his face the same way you had that morning, and the morning before that, and the one before that. The truth was, you'd known it from the first time you saw him. From the first time he smiled your way, almost causing you to melt into your sleek Louboutin heels.
"I'm going to marry you, Kim Mingyu," you whispered back into his ear, causing him to tense up. "You'll get to put a ring on my finger and call me your wife someday... aren't you a lucky guy?"
You felt embarrassed at saying it so openly and to Mingyu, no less. Not embarrassed of your feelings but rather embarrassed of having hidden your own wish of being his, and yet Mingyu couldn't care less about that.
"When?" He asked, snapping you back to reality.
"When what?"
"When will you let me marry you?" The sparkle in his eyes did not go unnoticed. He meant the question, he wanted to know... but a little teasing never killed anyone. That is why you grin big at him, as you wiggle yourself free from his grip.
"I guess you'll just have to wait and find out" with a gentle and loving tap of his cheek, you start for yet another table of guests feeling that burn of Mingyu's hopeful gaze on your back. You hoped to greet as many guests as possible within the next 30 minutes.
After all, 30 minutes is as much as Mingyu's patience would allow before he inevitably finds you and drags you back home to show you how much he deserves to be the man to put the shiniest and prettiest mix of gold and diamonds on your left ring finger.
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crowsalvation · 12 hours ago
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“Oh you know me, impulsive and reckless.” Damon shrugged with one shoulder, eyes rolling playfully as he quickly thought back to all the unkind things she had said to him in the past about his behaviors, funny how things have turned. There was no real need for him to worry when she took hold of his phone, but that little sliver of doubt crept up  in his mind because he knew who it was. He knew how strong of a hold Stefan had on her for the longest time and there was always going to be that little bit of unease when it came to her and him. What he heard, however, was something he only dreamt of and Damon was left shocked, visibility, by what she was telling Stefan. Stefan would listen to her too, would do as he was told like a good boy but the witch, not so much. 
“I want to be selfish.”He took his phone from her, tossed it to the bed nearby and cupped her cheeks all in one swift motion. “I want to lock us up in this room-” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs before he slowly trailed them down her cheeks, over the curvature of her lips His thumbs followed her jawline, traced the length of her neck, and his eyes hungrily took her in. “-and not let anyone else in.” 
“Let’s order you something to eat first. I’m sure you’re starving by now.” After all, they were out the night before drinking and she’s gone hours at this point without eating. Damon tries to keep up with her human needs- the eating, drinking of the water, and sleeping. It was a lot to keep track of. “Then we can go out, explore the city together.” He couldn’t keep her locked up forever, it is not like they’re safer here where Bonnie could easily locate them than out there in the busy city. 
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her lips, and for a second, there was nothing else—no Stefan, no Bonnie, no looming consequences. Just them. But then, as always, reality found its way back in and he heard her stomach confirm what he was thinking. “Told you, “ He was smug about being right, and his kiss averted from her lips to her nose with a little peck. “You need food before I can properly ravish you.” Damon disappeared from in front of her, only to reappear on the bed with his inhuman speed, the menu for the hotel now in his hands as he reads on the listen what sounds good to them. “I’ll get… a steak, rare of course.”
Elena took a slow step into the suite, her breath hitching as she took it all in. The deep reds, the sheer opulence of it all—it was so undeniably Damon. Extravagant, indulgent, something that felt like a dream she wasn’t sure she should be having.
She trailed her fingers along the plush arm of the couch, glancing toward the grand bed that seemed to promise sleepless nights for all the right reasons. The reality of what they had done—what she had done—was finally sinking in, but for once, it wasn’t with regret.
“We really did this,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Damon’s voice pulled her back, his presence grounding her in the moment as he stood before her, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear. That simple touch sent warmth trickling down her spine, making her pulse stutter in a way it never should.
“No clothes, no plan, and an entire city outside that we could get lost in,” she mused, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Sounds like something you’d enjoy.”
Her eyes flickered down to where his phone was still buzzing in his pocket, the real world clawing at the edges of this escape. Bonnie would find them. Stefan would keep calling. The weight of Mystic Falls would eventually pull them back.
But not yet.
Elena reached up, her fingers grazing his wrist before slipping down to tangle with his. “So let’s not waste what little time we do have.” Her voice was quiet but sure. Breaking the hold, her fingers slipped down to take his phone, and this time, it was her picking up his phone. “Pick something—anything. Room service, a movie, a walk through the city… just, let’s not spend the night thinking about what happens when this ends.”
She sighed and finally answered the anxious voice on the other end of the line. "Stop calling, Stefan. I'm fine." He protested and began with his predictable line of questions that had her rolling her chestnut orbs in annoyance while tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. "No. Stefan. I want this, and I'm not coming home. I asked Damon t- Yes, I have my necklace on, and I don't like what you're implying. He wouldn't do that to me. A lot changed while you were busy tearing your way through NOLA with Rebekah Mikaelson. I'm where I want to be, that's all you need to know, and I swear to God, Stefan, if you have Bonnie do a locator spell on me? I'll never forgive you." Elena hung the phone up and gripped it between her curled knuckles and pad of her thumb before handing it back to him with a pressed expression. "So what did you pick, Baby?" The pet name slipped naturally off her tongue as she moved to close the small space between them before settling the end of the phone to his shoulder with a softened smile.
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bagsyy · 1 year ago
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thinking abt a trashy vegas wedding w atsumu... he proposes and both of you are like “i don’t wanna wait if you don’t wanna wait” and it’s like. eloping is sooo atsumu he’s so impulsive once he realizes that he wants to marry you that’s all he can think about. and everything always feels so much lighter when you’re with him he’s sunshine personified so why wouldn’t you drop everything and say i do. and even though atsumu’s a show off he feels like a big wedding would just be so stressful and annoying. when the two of you start wedding planning and ppl warn him about how they don’t remember anything from their weddings because they were too busy thanking everyone for coming, that they didn’t even get to sit down to eat together... and he’s like “...why the fuck would we do that?”
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dykedvonte · 11 months ago
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You wanna talk about House and Benny? Let’s talk about House and Benny. Let’s talk about how House says he saw Benny as a son figure ans a rightful successor to the strip. Let’s talk about how Benny was so charmed by House’s offer that he literally killed a man to get the position to agree to it. Let’s talk about how House was intentionally priming Benny and regrets not doing better, not for the wasted time but of Benny’s wasted potential, how it was misplaced. Let’s talk about how Benny didn’t question House’s leadership until the guy started going radio silent. Let’s talk about House and Benny:
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#cause realistically Benny had to be of an age house could project a parental view on when they first met and combined with how impulsive and#short sighted Benny is with his planning and way of operating makes me think he’s not as old as people headcanon cause he was the leader#the chairmen for 7 years so you have to subtract that from his current age meaning he was even younger and more impressionable to house cuz#how else would house see him as a good candidate if his backstabbing was already a thing seeing as house was aware of his plan from the#start so since house projects and acts like a man ranged late 40s to 50s I’d say Benny is max 25-27 by game start so they met when he was#still a teen cause a theme in the game surrounding older npcs ins a resistance to change and of course someone still young and okay with#change would take an offer such as Houses eagerly along with the fact Benny seems like okay with sudden change actually considering him#giving you the reigns when he thinks his goose is cooked#but this is all to say there was def an unhealthy projection on house part on the role he wanted Benny to play that was likely controlling#and the sudden silence as he tried to acquire the chip would only make Benny more inclined to rebel especially since he is still young and#impressionable if we take he’s only in his mid 20s#and before someone says he doesn’t look it he acts like that and some characters are supposed to be 26 and 37 and I bet you guessed wrong on#who the first time#fallout#fallout new vegas#mr house fnv#robert edwin house#benny fnv#benny gecko
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applepixls · 6 months ago
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please can we have more jimmy and impulse.
collabs, streams, heck even a life series team
i just really really want to call them jimpulse
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home-halone · 1 year ago
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a short rest
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muffinlance · 2 years ago
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Interest Check: Isopuppy Plushies
Anyone interested in buying isopuppy plushies?
Either as a pattern or actual sewn-by-me toys. Because I have crocheted So Many Toys over my children, and I am thinking it's time to go back to sewing for awhile, but I should also stop rampantly making toys without homes to send them to. So. Casual interest check. I am absolutely making one for myself; this just determines if I should go through the effort of making an actual pattern so I can replicate the process.
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nebulations · 6 months ago
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Fish, 7 (For your prompts! ❤️)
Hi, anon!! Thank you for the prompt, you were the very first one to send one in! 7 was, again, the wildcard, so I randomly generated a different number to land on Yue Qingyuan (from Scum Villain)! I have no choice but to dedicate this to @bytedykes, because I told her about this prompt and she said “yqy pet fish mental health speedrun” and we went, uh, a little insane about it. Enjoy some yuefang, folks!!!!
“Mu-xiong,” Yue Qingyuan says. “I’m sorry to bother you. Are you available?”
“Yue-xiong is never a bother,” Mu Qingfang says warmly. “And I am, actually, yes. Is everything okay, Yue-xiong?”
“I think I need help.” A bit dramatic, perhaps, and Yue Qingyuan hates to trouble Mu Qingfang on a rare day off, but Yue Qingyuan and impulse have never been the best combination, and he would appreciate a second opinion.
Mu Qingfang’s voice turns hard. “Where are you? I'll come right away.”
“What—?” Yue Qingyuan stares at his phone like the blank call screen will tell him why Mu Qingfang suddenly sounds so serious. “I'm at home, but—”
“I'll be right there,” Mu Qingfang says, and hangs up.
Yue Qingyuan stares at his phone for another second, then lifts his gaze to his sparkling new aquarium. His new betta, white and black and resplendent of fin, stares back. Was his crisis of faith about his viability as a fish owner really so deserving of such urgency…?
“So,” Mu Qingfang says. “This was your emergency?” He looks about as unimpressed by the betta as it does by the two of them.
Yue Qingyuan feels obscurely like he’s being scolded. Mu Qingfang is one of the nicest men he knows, but that just means that his censure takes the form of a blunt instrument of mass disappointment.
“In my defense,” he points out meekly, “I didn’t say there was an emergency. Mu-xiong just assumed.”
“That’ll teach me,” Mu Qingfang huffs, but at least he looks amused. “Yue-xiong should get used to asking for help more so this gege doesn’t have to panic every time he does ask.”
Yue Qingyuan’s mouth almost drops open. He can only hope his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “Er—well, I asked this time, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Mu Qingfang allows, looking something horribly close to fond. Yue Qingyuan swallows and tries to hurry on.
“So—not an emergency, but I do want your opinion,” he coughs out. “I’m having… doubts. About the fish.” Mu Qingfang’s eyebrows contract. Yue Qingyuan rushes it out. “Do you think I should keep it?”
“Yue-xiong…” Mu Qingfang looks politely incredulous. “Why does my opinion matter? The fish is already yours, isn’t it? If you don’t think maintaining its upkeep will be feasible, that’s one thing, but… Surely Yue-xiong did the research before getting it?”
He doesn’t sound judgemental, but Yue Qingyuan feels his cheeks warm. “I did, but I wasn’t planning on getting a fish; I was only admiring the tanks. There was a salesperson who was… very insistent.”
Mu Qingfang regards him doubtfully, which is fair. Yue Qingyuan towers over most people he meets, and his bulk only further adds to the impression of immovability. It’s only when he opens his mouth that it becomes clear how spineless he actually is.
Yue Qingyuan falters. “I had thought… I thought it might be nice.” The bettas had seemed so majestic in their tanks, iridescent monarchs of false grass and plastic coves, and Yue Qingyuan had thought, wildly, that one might be rewarding to keep, might breathe a touch of life into his immaculately sleek living room. The whole affair hadn’t even been expensive by his shiny new standards, forget difficult to physically arrange. It was only when installation and set-up for his new aquarium had finished and he was left to watch that jewel-bright being swim disaffectedly through its new home that doubt had seized him, all-consuming and black. He had, admittedly, panicked a little after that.
(Yue Qingyuan’s apartment is very large, and very clean, and very empty. It holds the barest amount of decoration and muss to qualify as lived-in rather than a snapshot from a magazine ad. The fish may, in fact, be the only thing in the entire place which really qualifies as his. No wonder Yue Qingyuan wanted to jettison it from his life as soon as he got it.)
Mu Qingfang’s expression hovers between concern and simple confusion. “I’m sure Yue-xiong will be a more than adequate caretaker,” he says, more gently than Yue Qingyuan and all his neuroses probably deserve. “What’s this really about, Yue-xiong?”
Ah. There it is. Being the mildest person of Yue Qingyuan’s admittedly sharp-tongued social circle doesn’t preclude Mu Qingfang’s wit from being as keen as the scalpels he works with.
“I don’t…” Yue Qingyuan falters. How to express to Mu Qingfang how manifestly unfit Yue Qingyuan is to care for any living creature at all? He changes tack. “I think he hates me,” he admits dolefully.
Mu Qingfang stares at him for a long time, long enough to imply that he’s reevaluating certain opinions about Yue Qingyuan’s intelligence. “Yue-xiong, with all due respect to your new pet—it’s a fish.”
“Fish have emotions!” Yue Qingyuan argues. He flushes at the volume at which it comes out, and at the way Mu Qingfang’s eyes go wide-eyed in startlement. But the salesperson had been very insistent about that, as well. “Bettas are intelligent animals. They dislike certain colors, apparently, and they’re very sensitive—ah, to environmental disruptions, that is. And—”
Mu Qingfang’s eyebrows are still high, but his face has relaxed into a smile. “It sounds to me like you like it quite a bit already. Isn’t that reason enough to keep it?” His tone curls with sudden mischief. “Have heart, Yue-xiong—you’ve hardly known each other for a day! Give it time to adjust to you, and I’m sure you’ll win it over as surely as you do everyone else.” And he grins, sure and easy in his trust that Yue Qingyuan won’t fumble and shatter something so small and monumental as a life that he could cup in his palms.
While Yue Qingyuan is still dazed by that, Mu Qingfang’s eyes alight with interest. “Ah, Yue-xiong—what have you named it?”
“...”
Mu Qingfang’s face falls as devastatingly as it had lit up. “Yue-xiong…”
“Mu-xiong is aware that I was unsure of whether or not I’d keep him!” Yue Qingyuan is terribly aware that his ears are now heating up to match his cheeks. Mu Qingfang’s ensuing laughter does not help with that matter.
Yue Qingyuan is not very good at holding onto things. More often than not, he makes a mess of whatever he’s set his clumsy hands to, lets it fall right through his scarred fingers. But Mu Qingfang’s words ring through his head: Isn’t that reason enough to keep it? And, well, isn’t it? Surely Yue Qingyuan is adult enough to follow through on this. Maybe happiness can be look like his new betta swimming up to the tank to observe the new colorful form moving in front of it, can come as easy as Mu Qingfang quipping that his knowledge about fish is clearly lacking and vowing casually to read up on bettas to be a better fish uncle.
Yue Qingyuan buries a smile and walks over to let Mu Qingfang know that bettas can be trained to follow fingers around. The betta’s clear preference for Mu Qingfang over Yue Qingyuan is as good a marker of intelligence as any fun fact the pet shop worker could have given him. Yes, Yue Qingyuan thinks with a smile—he thinks he’ll be keeping this after all.
#yqy in canon: i make impulsive decisions of a scale where they torpedo my entire life#me: got it. in a modern au he makes expensive impulse purchases and then returns them immediately after#bc he can't conceptualize doing things for himself and also has no idea how to spend all his money he doesn't know what to do with#(this is suchh a vague modern au lmao like mqf is obv still a doctor#but i didn't write yqy as his boss here and am not sure what he does in this world or why he's rich now#and i have no idea who the fucking pet shop salesperson was either. i think it's sqh though)#don't worry about it okay? just enjoy the yuefang and the fruits of my and nik's agenda to make all our fave sect leaders fish owners#i personally see mqf as older than yqy! in this au he thinks he could be really into yqy#but he respects that yqy doesn't seem to be looking for a relationship (and that he has some shit going on that he hasn't seen fit to share#with mqf yet)#so he's content to stick to some mild flirting while enjoying their friendship#meanwhile yqy is totally divorced from the concept of attraction (directed at or coming from him)#so he panics every time mqf flirts with him but has no fucking idea that that's actually what's happening on either end#they would be so good together :)) mqf is going to be such a good fish co-parent :)) this fish is going to get these two together okay :)))#the betta is a black dragon/orchid; i couldn't decide so it's up to you#writing this was kinda funny bc the fish could and probably should have been a metaphor for sj#but i wanted to write smth yqy-centric that didn't directly allude to him even once#and i succeeded!!!#the entire reason i wrote this as modern au was bc i thought of mqf calling yqy 'yue-xiong' and went insane btw#OKAY SHUTTING UP NOW. THANK YOU AGAIN ANON!!!!!#asks#anonymous#my writing#svsss#yue qingyuan#mu qingfang#yuefang#yqy tag#betta blues
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cherry-treelane · 6 months ago
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everytime i feel bad and stressed about my life i remember that i might be in a troubling situation and having a bad time but im not season 4 fiona gallagher in the clink after leaving crack on the counter which my 3 year old baby brother happened to ingest resulting in a fatal near-death experience thats wracked me with never-ending guilt and forever altered my life
#this storyline was stupid you expect me to believe two-apples-tall liam gallagher came close to the crack AND managed to ingest it?#the crack which is lined up on the kitchen counter?#Also i don't believe that fiona would be irresponsible enough for liam to have been able to be close to the crack#that was an ooc moment and not like “its ooc cause thats the point shes going thru a tough time”#morelike “so ooc that it seems like a discrepancy that was overlooked for the sake of drama and shock value#as an older sister i feel like being watchful of your younger sibling if crack is in their general vicinity is an unstoppable instinct#its just not a plausible situation sorry like this is coming from someone who wholeheartedly embraces the realistic idea#of fiona falling short sometimes and being very human by struggling to consistently maintain her doting attentiveness#but anyways it's complicated cause Fiona clearly put it somewhere he cant reach#so how did he get access to it????#its like getting mad at a parent for putting a glass of wine on the counter#not comparing that to literal cocaine obviously this whole situation was nonetheless messed up#but just for some perspective... the writers were clearly doing cocaine themselves if they thought that#liam was bungee-jumping onto the counter and showing off his skills as an apparent budding olympics gymnast#not justifying anything but. listen.#the fact that it was on the counter FOR A REASONNN shows that fiona was careful to keep it out of reach and NOT do something insane like#putting it on the table#liam somehow magically having access to it defeats the purpose of it being on the counter.#if they really wanted for it to be believable that liam managed to snort it they should've put it on the table#but we already know that situation wouldn't be believable in its entirety cause we know that fiona would literally never leave it there#WHICH IS MY POINT. LIKE THIS SITUATION IS JUST ANNOYINGLY UNBELIEVABLE. FIONA WOULD NOT DO THIS AND HOW DID LIAM EVEN GET TO IT??#theres like 39482939 overlooked discrepancies just for the sake of getting to the shock#just to circle back Fiona would literally never let liam go near crack no matter how far gone and fucked up she was#I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I AM AN OLDER SISTER.#its just so UGHHHHH anyways obviously i still think in canon yeah Fiona was at fault shouldve been more careful and watchful#no matter how you look at it its clear that a risk like this just cannot be taken and she had to be blamed to an extent#but me personally? i reject it because it didnt feel natural to me at all there were 394939 other ways to frame a Fiona downfall#And i loved all the other ways her spiral was shown like getting messed up and ending up in Sheboygan#all the shit she got into with robbie + the impulsive urge to ruin the good thing she had going with mike#so human and believable and deeply flawed unlike the liam situation which was horrifically OOC and unrealistic
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magnusmodig · 5 months ago
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ovo whispers menacingly abt his grandstanding .
#(you can grandstand and be impulsive and prone to violence and have a terrible temper without being arrogant thanks)#(the closest he ever gets to saying he's above anyone else is w/ the jotuns if you really squint at it and he only ever said-)#(- that he wanted to use /force/ aka /violence/ to get them to submit to his rule bc otherwise he views them as DANGEROUS)#(based not only on historical /fact/ but cultural differences boogeymanning and seeing firsthand how they-)#(-MURDERED SOME OF HIS PEOPLE???? AND BROKE INTO HIS HOME???? ON CORONATION DAY????)#(he doesn't act like heimdall or the warriors or sif or even loki is below him. he wouldn't /ask them/ for permission otherwise)#(he even asks the humans-he-just-met for permission a la jane and then respects their decisions and apologizes for being rude abt the mug)#(and the one time he says 'know your place' to loki is when loki is actively bUTTING INTO A CONVERSATION that thor is being ridiculous abou#(bc to thor it's about /winning/ the argument with laufey and he's totally losing track of his goal to try and figure out wtf the jotuns)#(were doing ///in asgard inside the palace IN THE VAULT on CORONATION DAY///.)#(arrogance is specifically thinking you are inherently better than anyone else bc you exist)#(thor very clearly demonstrates selfish desires that translate to poorly thought out deeds)#(eg: taking it directly to laufey instead of trying to take a step back and figure it out in OTHER WAYS before a direct confrontation)#(and he also demonstrates overblown self-confidence.)#(eg the “i have no plans to die today” / “none do.”)#(that's being overconfident in his own abilities that's still not arrogance.)#( ooc . ) — stories that leap from the page .#( salt to taste . ) — in this house we love the actual main character . crazy i know .#tbd#(thor expresses boastfulness and pride similarly to his whole culture of over-exaggerating ur war stories)#(his vice is letting that vanity get to his head and fueling increasingly impulsive and stubborn decisions)#(out of the sheer and desperate desire to prove he's good enough to take up such a heavy mantle as the crown of asgard + nine realms)#(but he doesn't just look at other people and go 'oh yeah i'm so totally better than you just because i exist')#(he's also not a lightning mcqueen who actually DOES see himself above the rustees cars and the route 66 cars)#(goes out of his way to make that abundantly clear and wants actually nothing to do with any of them in pursuit of his own gains)#(only to finally figure out he's not all hot shit and slows tf down to understand and enjoy life as part of society not above it)#(he literally flies of the handle because he fully believes the jotunar actually plotted an entire elaborate scheme)#(SPECIFICALLY in the effort to exploit him as the green thumb weak link as Newly Instated King who Doesn't Know What He's Doing)#(And therefore will OBVIOUSLY do a terrible job because he's not odin and can never be odin but he /needs/ to be like odin bc odin is stron#(HE doesn't know it was loki's plan. he doesn't know it was /loki/ who timed it to the coronation.)
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