#like there's triple meanings to everything

[thatnonameuser]

Ok y’all hear me out. I wouldn’t mind being a darling for Kalim, Leona and Malleus b/c they are rich. Maybe not Malleus b/c Lilia is like an annoying mother in law.

So what if a darling is high maintenance? (like wanting designer, having money to get their hair done and stuff)

I can see Lilia “beating” the high maintenance out of the darlings LOL

I also wouldn’t mind, the economy’s in shambles and being pampered and spoiled by the wealth of the rich boys for the rest of my life, I already think they’re hot so it’s not like it’ll be hard. (Though if I had to learn the fae language I would just combust)

So you’re high maintenance, wanting to enjoy only the finer things of life and nothing else. Well…..

Leona Kingscholar

Oh really? Well, if it’s that easy to buy your affection then expect his wallet to be in your lap before you finish your sentence. 

Leona’s a prince who doesn’t even keep an eye on his wallet. (Seriously, he just tosses it at Ruggie and goes about with his day), so if you ever bring up some money problem, he’ll just toss his wallet at you and just not ask for it back. Plus, his royal blood is actually good for something, so putting you in the lap of luxury others can’t access is easy for him. 

Expect to be his pillow for a while though, he’s not a nice guy so you gotta pay him back somehow….

Gift Preference - Doesn’t have one. He either gives you what you ask for or something that marks you as his. 

Kalim Al-Asim

Oh, you like expensive things and just expensive things? Here you go! 

Kalim already loves giving you gifts, and he never really bothers to look at the price tag when it comes to anything, and you could just say a word and he’ll get you the most expensive option of that word. Want a bag? Have one made with leather so expensive and rare, that this one is the only one in existence. Want a necklace? Have a jewelry store full of them with jewels so big, heavy and expensive they weigh a pound each! Want a new wardrobe. Et cetera, et cetera. 

Though you might learn about the fact he wants to have you fitted for some special jewelry for your wrists and ankles, but they’re solid gold and encrusted with rubies! That’s good enough for you, right?

Gift Preference - Anything and Everything. Just ask. Or don’t. Either way, He will still give it to you.

Vil Schoenheit

Oh, you’re high maintenance, so is he, so you’ll get along just fine.

You can’t tell me Vil doesn’t touch anything that could sully or damage the perfection he’s spent years cultivating. You want to be high-maintenance, perfect, that's his entire lifestyle. 

So, if you want to be spoiled. Fine, he knows exactly who to call and they’ll drop everything as soon as he calls them. You want to get your hair done, he has a hairstylist on speed dial that can turn straw-like hair into silk. You want a massage, he knows a very exclusive place that can make every limb of your body feel like a soft putty. You want designer clothes, all it takes is a phone call and you’ll be measured and fitted by the designers themselves. 

He might make a date out of all this with you, accompanying you on all these wonderful excursions. 

Gift Preference - High fashion and self-care. All his gifts make you all the more perfect. 

Neige LeBlanche

You like to buy expensive things?....Is 150,000 thaumarks a month okay or…?

Neige doesn’t notice the fact you’re probably only with him for his money. He doesn’t mind if he does because he doesn’t care. You like nice expensive things, he’ll make sure you can get those nice things. He’ll send you enough money to make sure you can keep up with your tastes without issue. If the money he sends isn’t enough he’ll double it, triple it even, all for you.

Just remember that if he ever ‘slips’ that you’re only really affectionate when he’s giving you something, you’ll be in some hot water. 

Gift Preference - While I personally believe that Neige prefers to make homemade gifts for you, you being high maintenance means that he’ll give you those alongside the hundreds of thousands of thaumarks for your allowance.

Idia Shroud

You just want him because he’s buying you stuff. That’s pretty shallow. Yes, he’ll still buy them for you.

Idia’s a little self aware that you would be bought solely on what the expensive luxuries he gives you. And is he going to be mad about that? No. If it keeps you close, it keeps you close so take what he can give. If anything’s wrong tell him so he can buy something better. He knows that you’re just here with him because he’s giving you stuff, but he’ll combust without your attention. 

Gift Preference - Tech-based gifts, top of the line and exclusive consoles and electronics. It’s his specialty and he can hide cameras in them to watch you when you’re away.

Malleus Draconia

You enjoy being surrounded by wealth and luxury? Then he’ll bury you in a mountain of it, you deserve all of it.

Malleus is so devoted to you, so no price is too great. To him, as the prized jewel of his hoard you deserve so much. So much he can’t even give you so he’ll give you as much as you’d like. All you have to do is ask, and if he can’t figure out how to get it, he’ll go to Lilia to ask for help on how to get it. 

In exchange he asks for nothing. All he wants is to bask in your radiance. But much like all the priceless treasures he’s given you, you are precious. And precious things need to be protected lest they be stolen. And he won’t allow you to be stolen. 

Gift Preference - Jewels, not just in jewelry, he’ll give them to you raw and polished and all of them are bigger and heavier than the last. Have a favorite gemstone? He’ll give you a mountain of those. Nothing’s too much for you. 

*                        *                        *                        *

Also about Lilia….. (did I make him a boy mom? I feel like I did)

Lilia is aware that your high maintenance behavior is exploiting the love your suitors have for you. But if that’s the price to buy your willingness, he’ll keep quiet. If you’re not being difficult in response, then he’ll keep out of it. 

But if you’re being a demanding little princess, denying them while they spoil you, then that behavior is getting beaten out of you.

Turns out the fae super hate greed. So even if Lilia doesn’t like it he’ll put up with it for the greater good, but if you plan on being difficult then you’ll be taught a wonderful lesson on selflessness. The Fae way. And that’s the least painless way. He’ll only let up on you, if one of his boys comes to him about him being too hard on you. 

*                        *                        *                        *

[darlingdaisyfarm]

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚 ˖° a day at the beach with the Pines twins headcanons 

author note: okay, this is kinda a “what if au” where Stan never got kicked out of home (Filbrick I hate you), meaning he and Ford stayed together in new jersey and grew there too

u can imagine Stan with his mullet and twins being like… i bet you seen those edited screenshots of them where they are young and look like cousins of Mabel and Dipper? IDK HOW TO EXPLAIN I’m so sorry

Stan x reader x Ford, nsfw? (mostly it’s just wholesome and intimate but there’s mentions of sex still)

✧ Stan’s got you perched on his shoulders for a fight in the water and he’s talking shit the entire time, calling Ford “the human string bean” and yelling, “ya better hold on, sweetheart, ‘cause i ain’t lettin’ this nerd win!” spoiler: Ford wins

✧ the three of you build a sandcastle, no, no really. because Stan and Ford argue over everything in the process. Ford wants it to have “structural integrity,” while Stan insists on making it look “badass.” somehow, it ends up being both, a tower with a moat and little seaweed flags that Stan claims are “pirate-approved!!!” you’re the judge, of course

✧ Stan steals your sun hat. just straight-up snatches it off your head and plops it on his, smirking at you. “whaddya think, doll? does it suit me?” and honestly it kinda does, but you’re not gonna tell him that. Ford’s the one who eventually grabs it back, muttering about “immature antics” while carefully placing it back on your head

✧ imagine playing with Ford’s hair as you lay next to him on the beach, getting your fingers tangled in his soft strands, the ocean breeze making it swirl a little. you’re leaning closer to his face next thing he does is pressing soft kisses to your wrist. Ford’s eyes are beautiful, so when he glances up at you, he looks like he’s asking for permission to take that next step. like he can’t wait to kiss you, but he’s waiting for you to make the first move

✧ sharing the towel with Stan and Ford after you’ve all been in the water. sand sticking to your skin, that salty taste all over your lips. Stan just drops his towel on top of yours, pulling you in close so you’re trapped between them. “ain’t no way I’m lettin’ ya get cold, pretty,” Stan’s hands are sliding up your legs, getting close to the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms. Ford’s fingers caress your skin, too, both of them deciding who gets to take you first. god, you could melt between them. it’s totally not because of the sun

✧ they challenge you to a volleyball match, and oh god, it’s a disaster. because Stan’s so competitive, diving for every ball and yelling, “yer gonna hafta do better than that, sixer!” while Ford tries to play by the actual rules. sadly, it ends with Stanley smacking ball right into Ford’s face with “oops”

✧ Ford’s got sunscreen smeared across his nose because he applied it so meticulously he missed the most obvious spot. Stan, being a little shit, doesn’t say a word until you point it out and that makes him die at his brother’s embarrassed reaction. Ford just says, “at least i won’t look like a lobster.”

✧ Stan teaches you how to skip stones. but “teaches” is a strong word because he mostly just shows off, throwing perfect skips and smirking at you every time yours plops straight into the water. “ain’t no shame in bein’ bad at it, sweetheart. not everyone can be as talented as me.” Ford, of course, chimes in with, “it’s all about the angle of release,” and then he decides to demonstrate, making it look annoyingly easy

✧ they both get weirdly protective when some random guy starts chatting you up. guess who’s first to speak and says “don’tcha got somewhere else to be, buddy?” ??? 

✧ IDK WHY BUT I JUST SEE IT HAPPENING. hear me out. Stan buys you ice cream from a cart on the boardwalk, but the bastard purposely gets himself the messiest one he can find, idk, like a triple scoop with chocolate drizzle and sprinkles AND GUESS WHAT? it’s melting faster than he can eat it, dripping all over his hands and chest. HAH SUCKER (sorry i love him sm) and if you’ll look at him, his chest especially, thinking he won’t notice, believe me he will, “whatcha lookin’ at, doll? ya wanna lick it off me or somethin’?”

✧ Ford’s way more methodical with his treat, carefully choosing something sensible like a popsicle. he tries to eat it while reading, holding his book with one hand and the other balancing the melting stick. but he’s a silly guy who doesn’t know what summer is, so his popsicle drips onto the page and Stan immediately makes fun of him for it 

✧ more bout ice cream thing: it becomes like some kind of foreplay. Stan insists on buying you the biggest cone they have, all drippy and sweet, just so he can watch you try to eat it before it melts. “careful, baby,” as he messily licks a stray drop off your wrist. Ford doesn’t stop himself from leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, tasting the sweetness. by the time you’re done, the three of you are a mess of sugar and salt and heat

✧ at one point, Stan flops onto your towel, shaking sand everywhere. “hope ya don’t mind sharin’ with yer favorite guy,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. however Ford tries to protest, pointing out that there are plenty of other towels, but his brother just smirks and says, “don’t be jealous, sixer. there’s room for you too.” and that’s how you three end up all squeezed together in a ridiculous pile

✧ Ford collects seashells. of course he does. hes a cutie. he’s walking along the shore, muttering to himself about “the fascinating variety of mollusk species” while carefully placing his finds into a small bag. Stan tries to look cool in front of you so he mocks his twin, calling it “nerd treasure,” or “typical nerds hobbies”, but later you catch him sneaking one of Ford’s shells into his pocket :)

✧ you challenge ford to a sand sculpting contest and he takes it so seriously because he’s sketching out blueprints in the sand, muttering about “load-bearing structures” while you’re just piling up sand with your hands. Stan joins your team, of course, and together you make the stupidest creation ever. Ford’s castle is a masterpiece, all detailed and structured, but when you ask the kids nearby to judge, they pick yours because it “looks funny!” 

✧ Stan’s sunglasses break because he sits on them and instead of admitting defeat, he just steals Ford’s

✧ it starts innocent, like most things do. Ford’s helping you tie the strings of your bikini top after a swim. but he’s not as composed and cool as he seems. Stan, being nearby, catches the whole thing. “aw, sixer, don’t be that nervous. want me to show ya how it’s done?”

✧ Stan’s teaching you how to body surf, him standing waist-deep in the water, his chest glistening from salt water and all golden from the sun. “so you just have to let the wave carry ya, toots,” he grins but he doesn’t let you go far, placing his big hands on your hips before squeezing your ass  

✧ they’ve set up a beach blanket, which is big enough for all three of you, and somehow you’ve ended up pinned between them. as always. not like you complaining though. Stan’s lying back, laying his arm around your shoulders. but Ford is more intimate, he’s talking about something you can’t even focus on because his hand is on your thigh as he brushes his fingers against the skin just beneath your bikini bottom. and then you both hear: “ya gotta share, sixer. can’t hog her all to yerself.”

✧ they both look at you like they’d devour you right there if they could

✧ Stan likes to tease, but he’s downright filthy when he gets you alone in the water. the sunlight makes your skin glisten beautifully and he can’t keep his hands off you. “ain’t nobody around, cmon,” he whispers in your ear as his fingers sneak beneath your bikini bottoms. “lemme feel ya, darlin’.” the saltwater does nothing to cool the burn as his fingers press in slowly and your body trembles, while his free hand holds you steady against him, his cock hard against your ass

✧ Ford acts all gentlemanly at first, adjusting your sun hat when the wind threatens to blow it off, complimenting how stunning you look with the ocean behind you. but you just have to tease him, so you lean into him and whisper something sweet and a little filthy in his ear. his reaction is immediate when he pulls you into the shade of a lifeguard tower, slipping his hand under your bikini as he kisses you and grinds his hips against you

✧ Stan cant help himself, he likes to watch your lips wrapped around the straw of your drink. it drives him wild. guess why

✧ Ford’s chest a little pink from the sunburn he’ll complain about later, but right now, he’s distracted by the way Stan’s fingers are trailing up your thigh as he applies sunscreen on you. he spreads the slick lotion higher, closer to where your thighs meet. Ford glares, but he doesn’t stop him; instead, he leans down and kisses your shoulder, saying something about needing to check for missed spots

✧ uh. . . imagine sneaking off to one of those little wooden beach huts which are meant for changing clothes, but it barely fits all three of you. but don’t be sad, the cramped space only makes things hotter!

✧ you’re dripping wet from a late afternoon swim and your bikini clings to your skin what makes Stan whistle and Ford fumble with his towel. the sun is setting behind you, turning everything in this golden, honey-like colour and you look like something out of a dream for both twins. “y-you’ll catch a cold,” Ford says as he wraps the towel around your shoulders. “nah, she’s burnin’ up already, don’t u see,” Stan is already behind you as he kisses your neck and the towel falls to the sand

✧ there’s something so funny but intimate about the way they take turns rubbing sunscreen onto your skin, even when you protest you’re fine on your own

[kentobb]

hiromi higuruma x female secretary (AU).

chapter 01 > chapter 03

chapter 02

The clock ticks past 6 PM, and the office gradually empties. Chairs roll back, murmured farewells echo through the room, and one by one, your coworkers head out for the evening. You glance at the documents you’ve been working on, triple-checking them for errors. You want to make sure Mr. Higuruma has everything ready for tomorrow.

You stack the papers neatly, take a deep breath, and knock softly on his door.

“Come in,” his deep, serious voice calls from the other side.

You step inside, clutching the documents like a lifeline. His office looks the same as it did this morning—imposing and orderly. He’s seated behind his desk, still focused on whatever he’s reading. Without looking up, he gestures to the corner of his desk, and you carefully place the documents there.

“I’ve prepared these for tomorrow’s meeting,” you say quietly, keeping your tone professional.

He finally looks up, nodding slightly. “Good. We’ll be meeting with three clients tomorrow morning at nine. Make sure you’re familiar with the case files. Punctuality is crucial.”

You nod, his words weighing heavily as always. “Understood, Mr. Higuruma.”

As he speaks, your eyes involuntarily drift toward the trash can by his desk. Your breath hitches as you see it: the coffee cup. The sticky note is still attached, crumpled at the edge. He hadn’t even touched it.

Your heart sinks. You snap your gaze back up, trying to mask your reaction, but you can feel the disappointment twisting in your chest. It wasn’t just the coffee—it was the thought, the effort, the last eight dollars on your card. Money you couldn’t really afford to spare.

Higuruma’s sharp gaze follows yours, and his eyes settle on the cup. He notices the shift in your expression, the sadness flickering in your eyes before you quickly look away. For a moment, he says nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line.

You nod curtly and step back. “Good evening, Mr. Higuruma.”

He watches you leave, the click of the door closing behind you louder than usual in the quiet room.

From his desk, he can see you gathering your things at your desk, preparing to leave. He doesn’t mean to watch, but his eyes linger as you shrug on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder. The faint slump in your posture as you walk out of the office sticks with him.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly. What is wrong with me? The coffee wasn’t just a gesture; it was an apology. And he’d thrown it away, letting his own rules and detachment dictate his actions.

“Great start,” he mutters to himself bitterly.

The evening is cold, and the streets are dimly lit as you walk home. Cars rush by, headlights casting fleeting shadows on the sidewalk. You shiver, clutching your bag tighter, your mind replaying the image of the coffee cup in his trash.

When you finally reach your apartment, you unlock the door and step inside. The small space is quiet, almost empty. You toss your bag onto a worn chair and head to the fridge. The cool air greets you as you open it, revealing its meager contents: a single apple.

You take it and sit down, biting into it slowly. It’s not much, but it’ll hold you over until payday. The thought of finally getting your first paycheck brings a small smile to your lips. You’ll make it. Somehow.

The next morning, you arrive on time, determined to focus on your work. You organize the files on your desk, aligning everything perfectly. The rhythm of your tasks soothes your nerves, and you fall into a steady pace.

At precisely 8:45, Higuruma enters the office, impeccably dressed as always. You don’t look up, too engrossed in arranging the materials for the meeting.

“Good morning,” he says, his tone professional but neutral.

“Good morning, Mr. Higuruma,” you reply politely, still focused on your work.

You don’t notice him approaching until he’s at your desk, setting a cup of coffee down beside your neatly arranged papers.

You blink, your gaze shifting to the cup and then to him.

“They accidentally gave me two coffees,” he says, his voice as composed as ever. “I didn’t have anyone else to give it to.”

You stare at him for a moment, your heart skipping a beat. It’s a blatant lie, and for a second, you’re almost touched that he’d try to cover his guilt with such a clumsy excuse.

But you shake your head gently, offering a soft smile. “Thank you, Mr. Higuruma, but I don’t like coffee.”

His expression doesn’t falter, though a flicker of something—embarrassment, maybe—passes over his face. He nods curtly. “I see.”

You turn back to your desk, pretending to return to work, and he walks back to his office without another word.

Once inside, he closes the door and leans against it for a moment. Of course, you don’t like coffee. What were the odds?

He glances at the cup still in his hand. His attempt to make things right had backfired spectacularly. Setting it down on his desk, he exhales, shaking his head.

But as he picks up his files for the morning meeting, his gaze lingers on the untouched coffee, and a faint twinge of guilt refuses to fade.

It’s still early morning as you enter his office, a neat stack of documents in your hands. You’ve been thorough, ensuring everything he needs for the client meetings is organized and ready. He glances up from his desk as you step in.

“These are the files for the meeting, Mr. Higuruma,” you say, your tone professional and steady.

He nods, his gaze sharp as always. “Thank you. Are you prepared for the questions they may ask regarding their case details?”

“Yes, Mr. Higuruma.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

He rises from his chair, every movement composed and deliberate, and you follow him down the hall to the building’s exit. Outside, his driver waits beside a sleek black car, opening the door for the two of you.

The ride starts in silence, the soft hum of the engine the only sound. He’s reading through the documents again, his brow furrowed as he analyzes the case. You sit beside him, adjusting the files whenever he finishes a page, ensuring everything is in order.

Just as he’s about to say something…

“Ms. Y/L/M—” he spoke softly.

the car swerves violently to the left.

A loud screech pierces the air, followed by the deafening crunch of metal against metal. Everything happens too fast.

The world spins as the car slams to a halt, the impact sending you forward. The airbags deploy with a jarring force, the white fabric slamming into your chest. There’s the sound of shattering glass, the high-pitched whine of bent steel, and muffled voices yelling in the distance.

Higuruma blinks, disoriented. His ears are ringing, and his hands instinctively press against the dashboard as he tries to steady himself. He turns his head, his vision swimming, and sees you slumped against the seat, glass scattered across your lap.

“Y/L/M?” he says, his voice sharp with worry.

Your head tilts slightly, and he notices the dark crimson streak trailing down the side of your forehead. His breath catches as he leans closer, gently grabbing your shoulder.

“Hey,” he calls again, his tone more urgent.

You blink slowly, confusion clouding your gaze as you try to focus on him. Your lips part to say something, but nothing comes out.

The driver stumbles out of the car, blood trickling down his temple, while the guard already has his phone out, frantically calling for help.

Higuruma turns back to you, his hands trembling slightly as he inspects you for injuries. There are deep scratches on your arms, red welts forming on your skin, and shards of glass embedded near your wrist. His heart pounds against his ribs as he assesses the damage, but it’s the dazed look in your eyes that terrifies him the most.

Then you look at him, your gaze locking onto his. For a moment, the chaos around you fades.

His cold, professional demeanor cracks as he stares into your eyes. There’s something fragile and unspoken in the way he looks at you—a flicker of emotion he hasn’t felt in years.

Your lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, and you open your mouth to say something, but your eyes flutter closed before you can get the words out.

“Y/N!” His voice is louder now, bordering on panic. He shakes your shoulder gently, but you don’t respond.

He presses his fingers to your neck, finding your pulse—it’s there, but faint. His jaw tightens as he glances at your injuries again.

The chaos outside barely registers as his focus remains on you. Glass crunches underfoot as the driver returns to the car, mumbling something about an ambulance being on its way.

Higuruma’s usual calm is gone. His hands hover over you, unsure of where to touch without causing more harm. He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Stay with me,” he says, the words trembling slightly.

For the first time in years, he feels fear. It grips his chest like a vice as he watches your still form.

The sharp wail of the ambulance siren fills the air as the paramedics work tirelessly to stabilize you. Higuruma sits stiffly in the back, his usual composure fractured into a thousand pieces. His gaze is fixed on you, lying on the stretcher with an oxygen mask strapped to your face, your pulse weak but present.

“She’s stable for now,” one paramedic says, but their words do little to calm him. His hands rest tensely on his knees, his blood-stained shirt a constant reminder of the chaos. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, only watches as they assess your vitals and ensure you’re alive.

When they arrive at the hospital, the paramedics rush you through the emergency entrance, wheeling your stretcher with urgency. Higuruma follows close behind, his long strides determined as he moves through the brightly lit halls.

“Sir, you can’t go in there,” a nurse says, blocking his path as they take you into the treatment room.

“I’m staying with her,” he insists, his voice low and firm, though it trembles slightly at the edges.

“I’m sorry, but only medical staff is allowed inside,” the nurse repeats, trying to keep her tone calm but firm.

He clenches his jaw, a flash of frustration breaking through his usual restraint. “Do you understand that she was just in a car accident? She’s alone in there!”

The nurse holds her ground, though there’s a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “I understand, sir, but we need to do our job. Please, wait in the waiting area. We’ll inform you as soon as there’s an update.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue further, but he exhales sharply, stepping back and letting his shoulders fall in defeat. He turns and walks to the waiting area, each step heavier than the last.

The chairs are cold and uncomfortable, but he sits down without complaint, his mind replaying the accident over and over again. The way the car swerved. The sound of the impact. The blood trickling down your face. The way your eyes met his for that brief, heart-wrenching moment before you closed them.

“Sir,” a nurse approaches, her tone gentle. “You’re injured too. Let me take a look.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Your shirt is covered in blood—yours and hers. Please, let me clean it up. It won’t take long.”

He hesitates but eventually nods, allowing her to attend to him. She cleans the cuts on his arms and forehead, her hands swift and practiced, but his thoughts remain elsewhere.

“You’re lucky,” the nurse says softly, breaking the silence. “It could’ve been much worse.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the floor as his mind continues to drift. When she finishes, she hands him a fresh bandage for his palm and walks away.

Moments later, the sound of approaching heels draws his attention. He glances up and sees Shoko Ieiri striding toward him, her lab coat flaring slightly as she walks. Her expression is a mix of exasperation and curiosity.

“I heard you were making a scene in my hospital’s waiting room,” she says, crossing her arms.

He rolls his eyes, clearly bothered. “I wasn’t making a scene. I was ensuring she wasn’t alone in there.”

Shoko arches a brow, leaning against the wall. “You know her?”

“She’s my new secretary,” he replies curtly, as if that explains everything.

“Interesting.” Shoko glances at the chart in her hand. “Her records say she has no family listed as emergency contacts. It’s… unusual. We usually recommend someone stay with the patient in cases like this.”

Without hesitation, he says, “I’ll stay.”

Shoko blinks, momentarily surprised, before nodding. “Alright then.”

“How is she?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“Stable,” Shoko answers. “She lost a good amount of blood, and it didn’t help that her glucose levels were low. She’s resting now. We’ll keep her for two days to monitor her, but she’ll recover.”

He exhales, relief washing over his features. “Good.”

Shoko hesitates for a moment before adding, “There’s something else. She doesn’t have health insurance. That could complicate things if there are further tests or follow-ups needed.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Higuruma says instantly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Shoko tilts her head, studying him curiously. “You’re awfully invested in your secretary,” she remarks, a teasing lilt in her voice.

He frowns, not appreciating her tone. “She was in an accident on my time. It’s my responsibility.”

“Right,” Shoko replies, smirking slightly. She doesn’t press further, shrugging it off as she stands.

As she turns to leave, he calls after her. “Can I see her?”

Shoko pauses, looking over her shoulder. A small, knowing smile crosses her face. “Sure. Just don’t wake her up.”

He nods, rising from his seat as she gestures toward the hallway leading to your room. His steps are deliberate as he walks, his mind racing with thoughts he can’t quite articulate. For now, he just needs to see you, to know you’re alright.

The curtain slides open with a faint rustle, and Higuruma steps inside the dimly lit room. His breath catches as he sees you lying there, your face pale against the stark white of the hospital bed. You’re sleeping, the steady rise and fall of your chest the only indication that you’re stable.

For a moment, the weight in his chest lightens, replaced by a quiet relief that he’s unaccustomed to.

Shoko lingers by the door, observing him with a knowing smile. “She’ll be fine. Just needs rest.”

He glances at her, offering the barest nod of acknowledgment. She smirks faintly before leaving, the click of her heels fading down the hall as she pulls the curtain closed behind her, granting him privacy.

Higuruma turns his attention back to you, slowly stepping closer until he’s beside your bed. His usually steady hands feel strangely unsure as he pulls the chair closer and sits down.

For a long time, he just looks at you.

Your arm is wrapped in fresh bandages, the scratches cleaned and dressed. There’s a small patch over the cut on your forehead, but even in this state, you look peaceful—far removed from the chaos and terror of earlier. He exhales deeply, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, watching the subtle movement of your breathing. The harsh fluorescent lighting overhead casts a sterile glow, but it does little to dim the warmth he feels slowly creeping into his chest.

His mind begins to wander.

How did this happen? Not the accident, not the blood or broken glass—but this feeling. This unshakable pull toward you, this need to make sure you’re alright. You were just supposed to be his secretary—a professional addition to his meticulously managed life. Yet somehow, in such a short span of time, you’ve become more than that.

He closes his eyes briefly, his usual stoicism crumbling under the weight of his thoughts. It’s unlike him to linger, to let emotions cloud his judgment, but sitting here now, he can’t bring himself to leave.

His gaze softens as he looks at you again. The memory of your sad eyes, the coffee in his trash can, flashes through his mind. He feels a pang of guilt, his chest tightening as he recalls your quiet apology and the way he brushed it off.

Maybe this time, he thinks, he could start with the right foot.

The thought lingers, surprising him with its weight. He’s never cared much about first impressions; results are what mattered to him. But with you, it feels different. The moments they’d shared—tense, awkward, and frustrating—suddenly feel like threads binding your lives together.

A faint sigh escapes his lips as he leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving you. For now, all he can do is wait. Wait for you to open your eyes and, perhaps, give him a second chance.

[raayllum]

Was just watching a very good video essay from one of my favourite channels (CJ the X) about trauma (specifically through the lens of the Max scene in Stranger Things season 4, a show I have not watched since S2) and wound up thinking about S4 Rayla because

Trauma as an event that disrupts your previous continuity / narrative of your own identity, as it contradicts your own view of yourself and your narrative of life, in such a way that it destroys your previous beliefs and removes possibility and capability to move forward

[rustedleopard]

Things that could've improved UTY:

Keeping the deja vu effect that Undertale had and have it influence how the main characters interact with Clover/Clover's flavor text in certain areas

Make Flowey operate as the Hint System, where almost all of his "helpful advice" are just thinly veiled insults directed at the other characters/are further attempts to isolate Clover from everyone else

[yakultii]

when I was 17 I made my own funeral playlist, time to resurrect that bitch

[hauntingjasper]

We are all afraid of something...

I wonder what Prince Gumball's biggest fear would be?

There's an episode (Five short tables I think) where it shows that he's afraid of dying alone/his own mortality to some extent. I imagine that because he's long-lived and most likely has watched many people die before him, he's scared that there won't be anyone else by *his* side when it's his turn. There's no way of knowing when or how, he wouldn't be ready for it, so that's probably double scarier for him. He's an anxious fella

[theflyingfeeling]

the love of my entire life

[gameyface46]

10/13/2023 Drizzle (yes we ARE going back in time!)

Maybe every lovely thing must have an end…

- If It All Goes South, Sammy Rae and the Friends

Okay, now I really like this one. This one… to be honest isn’t completely centered around the weather. This one would’ve fit the word “Memory” or “Regret” better, but I think the drizzle gives it a more weary mood. Probably one of my favorites. Very ok. Hopefully this didn’t mean “drizzle” as in a syrup drizzle, but they did not specify what type of drizzle.

Though… I do not know everything about Magolor. I only know the major story beats. He crashed his ship, asked for help, misled Kirby and friends then gained ultimate power. Did he feel remorse after his defeat? Is he regretful of his actions? I always thought he had a little bit of empathy… but I’m not entirely sure. Like, I have to assume he did not expect to lose control (at least, I think he lost control according to an article I read). So, he had to have been grateful? That Kirby set him free of the soul-eating parasite? I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t really wanna read the articles, on if there’s any more, but frankly I already know every twist because I passively consumed media like an onion without thinking about the repercussions.

Anyway, listen to Sammy Rae & the Friends. I like their music.

[whiskeyswifty]

.

[plagues-and-poisons]

welp I have now been screamed at for bringing my cane to school (folded in my bag)

mom really does SAY she’s inclusive but then will spout the most ableist or fatphobic shit you’ve ever heard

[james-stark-the-writer]

doomed by my hubris (turned in a paper that used an expression at the end that is antithetical to my point in the paper and i forgot to double check if it meant what i thought it did and now it seems like i'm insulting the book i worte the paper on)

[secondpersonpoetry]

you’ve probably already read it before, but the poem Party by Kim Addonizio really got me tonight. first thought was “oh man. yeah” and then my second thought was “how can i make this about my hockey guys somehow………..”anyway! have a good one! 

oh. oh.

​

[zazikels]

just because you follow someone doesn't obligate them towards you in any way. it wouldn't on any other hellsite but it especially doesn't on this fucking hellsite lmfao. no one on this fucking hellsite needs to walk around eggshells with you and stop expressing their opinions bc you follow them.

[kuromi-hoemie]

Suletta baby the world doesn't deserve you

[fingertipsmp3]

I love having Thursdays off because I can’t get a single goddamn thing done if I tried