#she looks nothing like before so I think this is a fail :(

[steddiehyperfixation]

@steddiebingo prompts: lecture + skull rock | 1.2k words | G/T |

Eddie closes his locker to find Nancy suddenly standing right beside him. “Jesus!” he startles, hand pressed to his chest. He hadn't even heard her approach.

“Sorry.” She has the decency to look apologetic. “I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I just wanted to talk to you for a sec. I hear you and Steve are...together?” She says it carefully, with the inflection of a question, and Eddie has a vague feeling like she's testing him but he has no idea what for.

“Um.” He doesn't know what the right answer is. “Well, I don't know exactly- I mean, kind of? It's not really anything, we've just...made out a couple times.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows. “You just...made out a couple times,” she repeats.

Eddie shrugs, getting a little nervous that he's failing her test. He really cannot get a read on her right now. “Yeah, um, I mean, it was probably just like a one time, two time thing…”

A tiny scrunch flickers across her face and she mutters to herself, “God, is that what I sounded like?”

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry, I just got major deja vu.” She shakes her head and then looks back up at him with those big, serious eyes. “Anyways. Look, you might not think it's anything, but I know Steve and I guarantee you he already thinks you guys are something. So if you only wanted it to be just a one time, two time thing, then you better tell him quick before he gets too deeply attached. He falls fast and he falls hard, don't let him get too serious if you're not.”

She reminds him vaguely of a teacher lecturing some clueless kid, but Eddie feels less chastised and more like he's just been punched in the chest. “Wait, you really think-?”

“He wants something real, he always has,” Nancy continues, “and if you guys haven't talked about it, he's just going to assume that's what you are. He's a hopelessly hopeful romantic, Eddie, he can't help it. He's all in already, I'm sure, so if that's not what you wanted out of whatever you two have got going on, then don't waste his time - don't waste your time. Don't play along and break his heart if you already know you don't feel the same.”

“No, I wouldn't-” Eddie finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, can't do much more than give her a sort of deer-in-headlights stare.

“I'm not judging you,” she reassures him in a slightly softer tone now, clearly misinterpreting something in his expression. “I'm not upset with you. I'm just trying to give a little advice, from my own experience. Just make sure you two are on the same page, alright? That's all I'm saying. For both of your sakes.”

“Right- yeah, thanks,” he stammers. He points his thumb awkwardly over his shoulder. “I, uh, I gotta go…”

He doesn't wait for a response before he turns and hurries down the hall to get outside. A deep breath of fresh air to shake off the weird suffocating feeling Nancy's lecture had given him, and then Eddie's heading straight for the nearest phone. He has to talk to Steve, has to see him.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says the second the other line picks up. “I'm ditching class right now, wanna hang out?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve agrees immediately, a smile in his voice. “I can meet you at our usual spot in, like, 20 minutes?”

'Our usual spot', aka Skull Rock, the make-out spot--their spot now apparently since that's where it started, since that's where they've met the last three times they've hung out alone, the last three times they've kissed and kissed and not talked. But Eddie can't think of anywhere else to suggest, so he says, “Yeah, sounds good. See you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and heads for Skull Rock.

A short drive and a longer hike and he's leaning against the side of that infamous skull-shaped boulder, watching the surrounding foliage for signs of Steve. He doesn't have to wait long before Steve steps out from the brush in all his gorgeous glory, face lit up in a beautiful smile just at the sight of Eddie.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Steve walks up to him and draws him straight into a kiss, because that's what they do here, at Skull Rock, the make-out spot, their spot. His lips are soft and warm and Eddie melts right into it, draping his arms over Steve's shoulders and kissing back before he remembers that he'd meant to use his mouth for talking instead.

“Wait, Steve.” It takes all Eddie’s willpower to break the kiss and pull back enough to speak. “Is this real to you?”

“Hmm, feels pretty real, but I don’t know, I could be dreaming. I never can tell around you,” Steve flirts easily, voice a smooth murmur as he brushes some of Eddie’s hair out of his face, caressing his cheek. “Might need to pinch me just to be sure.”

“No, I mean-” Eddie ducks out from between Steve and the rock, putting a little more space between them before he can give in to the ever-growing urge to give up on talking and go back to kissing. “Um, Nancy kind of ambushed me in the hall earlier, gave me this whole lecture about how you get attached really quick and how if I only wanted this to be something casual I should tell you fast before you get too serious, because she thinks you're probably already serious and that you want something real,” he provides context in an awkward, nervous rush, not even pausing for a breath, “and I just- I need to know, is that true?”

“Oh.” The previous playful flirtatiousness drains from Steve’s expression and his face falls. “Um.” He shakes his head, more like he's trying to clear his thoughts than anything. “Shit- I’m sorry if she freaked you out. She had absolutely no right to try to speak for me like that. I mean, I really am fine if you just want this to be casual...”

“I don't, I just thought that's what you wanted,” Eddie says. He hasn't been explaining this right. “Because that's all we've been doing - we come here and we make out and that’s it, casual, so this whole time I just assumed that's all it was to you. But then Nancy said all that stuff about you and it gave me this hope I hadn't let myself have before, so can you please just tell me if she was right?” He looks at Steve, eyes big and earnest. “Because I really, really want her to be right.”

Steve just stares at him for a moment, then softens with a sigh. “Yeah,” he admits, a tentative smile tugging at his lips, “she was right. I definitely don't just feel casual about you - it's real; I want real.”

Eddie’s face bursts into a grin. He throws his arms around Steve and pulls him into another kiss. “Then let’s get out of this casual fucking place.” He takes Steve by the hand and starts dragging him away from Skull Rock. “Come on, let me buy you some lunch.”

[shotmrmiller]

(Unnamed for now, 4.8k words of nothing but self indulgence because ex bf simon is king. just porn without plot, the usual filth. also i wrote myself into a hole with the smut but whatever.)

If your friends knew that you'd gone to great lengths to look presentable— less cave-dweller, more human— hoping to get lucky tonight only to end up waving off anyone of interest because you're too busy sulking about a relationship you willingly broke off, they'd kick you from the group chat.

(Or never let you live it down.)

But here you are, perched on a barstool, its cracked leather slightly sticky beneath your legs, the cocktail you'd ordered a while ago sitting mostly untouched on an even stickier bar top. Lamenting. Moping all over a guy who hasn't bothered to return a single phone call since you left him the voicemail. And it hadn't been his fault, really. He'd been upfront with you from the get-go; he's a busy man with a job you don't want to know about and are safer not knowing about.

You'd noticed the specific wording he'd used. Not better off but safer off, its implications perilous. The hardened look he'd given you when you'd pressed him on it, hoping for a slip of the truth, had been the first and only warning you'd needed.

Get off his case, understood.

You clench your teeth, irritation nipping at your nerves. You'd like to think that you've mourned this ex-relationship plenty and feeling an acute, smoldering ache again over a whisper of a memory (and not even a fond one at that)—

Time to douse these flames.

Waving the bartender down, you push away the watered-down drink and gesture for a shot. She eyes you warily, hesitating for a moment before sliding an empty glass over and reaching for some top-shelf bottle your bank account already feels the bite of. The fiery burn that courses down your throat resembles the one in your chest.

The alcohol swiftly does its job, offering a sense of relief, and you're grateful for it, even if fleeting. The room starts to blur a bit, the strobing lights overhead bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and you let yourself sink into the moment, the gentle ebb of intoxication pooling heat in your cheeks, warmth seeping into your limbs.

Things don't look so bad now; the world has taken a dreamlike quality to it, with softened edges and vibrant colors. With the liquid courage dulling the sharpness of your previous thoughts and easing the tension in your shoulders, you reckon that now you can start looking for your prey of the evening. It's why you even bothered to slink out of your comfort zone in the first place.

Mission directive: Get laid. Or plan B: go home with a new number saved in your contacts.

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes lazily scanning around the room, taking in the hazy but lively atmosphere. The dance floor is a whirl of energy, couples moving to the rhythm of the music, a group of friends huddling in a corner, hands gesturing animatedly as they chat each other up, and at the front—

If you swiveled away in your chair any faster, the courage you'd knocked back 10 minutes ago would come back up, spilling onto the bar top the barkeep gave up trying to keep clean. There have been numerous instances where your mind plays tricks on you, teasing you with glimpses of big and blonde in your peripheral while out running errands, the miserable lump in your throat only dislodging once you've made your grand escape.

(It's not running away; It's a tactical retreat. You'll face the music when it's less deafening.)

And in keeping with tradition, you settle your tab and scurry off to the bathroom, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A familiar shadow just walked in through the front door, once again haunting you. No matter how many times you whisper reassurances under your breath, dismissing it as a cruel joke your mind loves to play, the semblance of him never fails to arouse a bit of panic in you.

The trip to the bathroom feels like you're trekking across the country, weaving in and out and around crowds of people, dodging flailing limbs like an extreme sport. The inside is relatively small and cramped; three stalls for the entire bar. It's blessedly empty, so you beeline to the sink, hoping for a splash of cold water to settle your nerves.

The water is startlingly cold, or maybe it feels colder because you're flustered, and you're mid air-drying your hands when you hear it: that unforgettable gait, heavy and solid, like a tank rolling over rugged terrain. It's something that you can still hear echo in the small confines of your flat when the world is quiet. The mirror in front reflects your tense face, its edges cloudy with time and poor-quality cleaning solutions.

Get a grip, you're losing it.

Until the door swings wide, hinges screeching as it gives way with no resistance, and you realize that you're not losing it. But you just might.

"'Ello, poppet."

Incredulity forces a chuckle out of you because it's either you laugh or you cry.

"Nice," he eyes the cracked tile beneath your feet, "choice for a night out. Beer's more piss than ale, though." The door closes behind him.

The mockery in his voice is wildly unwarranted, especially for a man you haven't heard from for a better part of the year, and you finally gather your wits to bite back indignantly.

"What? It's not your cuppa? I always assumed you ratted out in seedy holes like this." The bruise-tight grip you've got around your bag makes your fingers ache. "I'll be sure to pick a more refined place for you next time."

He wastes no time closing the gap between you two, your three steps back negated by his single one with laughable ease, and the space around you seems to shrink, his presence swallowing it whole. You'd forgotten just how large a man he was— is.

A different beast altogether.

"No need. We won't be comin' back 'ere again." Your brows quirked at that. He's gone and learned French, apparently. Oui. You try to keep your personal bubble intact by taking another step back only to come in contact with a stall door, its chilly surface forcing your spine rigid. Cornered, caught in the crosshairs of the hunter's gaze, and the intensity of it makes you feel vulnerable, bare, as if you're staring up the barrel of a loaded gun.

"Easy, lovie, no need to look at me like tha', 'm jus' 'ere to talk," he says with a tone that's tinged with condescension, and his giant mitts are up and palms facing you like he's dealing with a skittish animal. There's a thought there, buried deep, that you refuse to acknowledge.

"Talk?" The question bursts out before you can stop it, followed by a sardonic laugh that feels unexpectedly cathartic as it leaves your mouth. Talk now, when you not only kept your line of communication open but also actively tried reaching out for weeks? Weeks spent waiting for a response, foolishly hoping he'd give a damn enough to at least put up a fight for you and what you had?

He tilts his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "Better late than never," he remarks, but that's the problem, isn't it? You were forced to come to terms with never, whether you liked it or not. And you had not liked it, but it had been necessary. To know there was a part of his life you weren't welcome to, regardless of reason, was something that shadowed your interactions. The realization that you were kept at arm's length due to the duality of his life was too bitter a pill to swallow.

It'd been a painful process making peace with the fact that maybe things just hadn't been meant to be. C'est la vie and all that tripe. But now, here he stands before you, having materialized out of thin air, a bloody intrusion upon the fragile peace you've built for yourself— it feels like a mockery of the emotional distress you've had to endure.

"Better late than—? You honestly fucking think you can just," you stumble over yourself in disbelief, "just corner me in a tiny bathroom of a dingy bar to talk?"

Simon raises one bulky shoulder, unconcerned. "You chose the place."

His piss poor attempt at a joke is like a slap in the face. "Right. Goodbye, Simon." You step around him briskly, your arm brushing against his. Just as your fingers graze the cold metal of the door handle, his encircle your wrist and gently pull you away. The span of his palm could easily engulf the entirety of your hand, and you can't help but wonder if you're as delicate and fragile as you feel in his grasp.

"Let me try that again," he murmurs tentatively, and you curse your good nature— the one that's always been too quick to soften even when you know better. You know just how clumsy he is with words, how his tongue ties itself in knots when emotions creep into the conversation. Simon gives your wrist a tender squeeze. "Ya can leave whenever you want."

Damn it. Damn it. Fine. This confrontation has been a long time coming anyway. "Then try again and make it fast," you snap, words short and clipped. "How we haven't been kicked out of here yet is a bloody wonder."

He steps away from you and leans his hips against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Here Simon stands, no longer a hazy apparition in the corner of your eye but fully here. Real. Uncomfortable so. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"Didn't mean to disappear on ya," his tone carries a note of something resembling regret. "Work took me across the world, couldn't reach out t'you even if I wanted to." And there it is, the crux of the problem. His job. Always his job. The one part of his life you've never been allowed to see, what had been the ever-constant shadow hanging over your relationship. What tore him away from you for weeks at a time only for those same gaps to start getting longer and longer while his stays grew shorter.

That's not good enough.

"So that's it?" Simon cannot honestly expect you to take his paltry excuse and run with it. As if it's enough to stitch together the wound his silence left behind. "Work? That's what you're going with?" It's the audacity that stings the most, the hope that you'd simply accept it and move past all of this heartache.

For all you know, he could be lying through his teeth, spinning enough truth to make it seem believable. You must have your suspicions plastered on your forehead because Simon peels himself off the sink with a sharp breath and narrowed eyes.

"'M many things, love, but a liar ain't one of 'em." His hand disappears into the front pocket of his worn denims, and when he pulls it free, you instantly recognize the tattered, frayed edges of his wallet. Still clinging to life, it seems. As stubborn as the man holding it. He opens it and extends it to you because it's imperative you see...?

"Work." And right there is an ID, not your plain old driver's license, which you're unsurprised to see absent. The man has no business being behind the wheel of any vehicle; he's a threat to all life and limb while on the road— but a military ID, the insignia emblazoned on the card unmistakable. You'd pieced together as much but never fully assumed, never formed a picture, just a blurred outline that left more questions than answers.

Name: Simon Riley. Rank: Lieutenant. Special Forces is right above the square where a photo is supposed to be. "There's no picture." You flash your eyes up at his in question.

"Never," he states.

You swallow thickly. An admission, this is. A roughly hewn olive branch tucked away in the ratty wallet you'd told him to toss ages ago. He snaps it shut with a practiced flick and then rucks up the right sleeve of his jacket up to the crook of his elbows, exposing his forearm, stark and freckled, the skin pale but then closer to his wrist, his flesh taking on a more golden hue— honeyed, sun-kissed.

Simon Riley does not tan.

"Sat on my arse out in a barren stretch o' land f'r months on end, cookin' under the blazin' sun while waitin' for orders tha' never came," he grumbles, voice weary. He doesn't flinch when your wandering fingers feather across the darkened strip of skin. "The only form o' communication was local." You flip his hand, the underside of his wrist startlingly pale like the underbelly of a fish. "Couldn't 'ave reached out even if I wanted to. No signal."

It hangs heavy, what he was willing to share, and you're wondering if he's only asking for understanding or something else. Your treacherous heart flutters in your chest, breath squeezing from your lungs. A tiny part of you hopes for he's asking for that something else.

There's a new scar on his palm, close to the hardened calluses on his knuckles, the deep, puckered groove still red and raw— fresh enough to make you wince— and you can't help the frown that pulls at your lips. You can bet he took care of this himself, the oaf. Probably spit it clean and wrapped it up with whatever he had on hand. He's lucky it didn't infect.

"Only when I came back did I receive the missed calls, the texts, the bloody voicemail," he gnarls, and while the sharpness of his tone isn't aimed at you, you feel the biting sting of it anyway. Simon cradles your hand in his much larger one, and he doesn't squeeze, doesn't hold too tight; he simply holds it, the choice to refuse him if you wanted.

You don't.

"And this isn't something you could've told me before? I know I pressed when I shouldn't have," chagrin pools in your cheeks, "but I worried for you. You were sometimes so unreachable, standing between two worlds at once. I couldn't help ease the weight of your responsibilities because I didn't know what I was dealing with." As you thread your fingers with his, they feel impossibly small, brittle— like the bones of a bird swallowed in the expanse of his hand. How unsettling.

(Yet you wouldn't have it any other way.)

Simon shakes his head, slow and deliberate, but his grip on your hand tightens. "I've more enemies than friends," he mutters, raising your hand to his masked lips, the gesture oddly tender as he presses a kiss on it even though it forces you to rise onto your tiptoes. You blow a puff of air, mildly exasperated. Big geezer.

"Every time I rid myself o' one, two take their place. I only did it t' keep ya safe. There's nothin' they'd love more than to exploit any o' my weaknesses." He says it as though the admission itself is dangerous, and maybe it is, but the risk, you believe, is one worth taking even if he won't.

Where he sees danger, you see trust. And that's all you ever wanted. Trust, because either you'll have all of him or none of him, so you tell him that.

His grip tightens imperceptibly. "Only wha' I feel is safe f'r you to know. Nothin' more." You know he means it. You've seen how far he's willing to go, how much he's willing to sacrifice, to keep you out of harm's reach.

Simon will shoulder just about anything alone if it means you'll be kept safe.

How lovely. He's taken it upon himself to play Batman when no one cast him into the role. Ah, well. A win is a win, and you've long learned some battles aren't worth the effort today, so you tuck this conversation into the back of your mind, a note to revisit at a later date. As for now, though...

"Alright, Si," the old nickname slips from you so easily, as if it never left, "We can continue this tomorrow, if you're able, but as for me," your gaze flickers to the faint ring of grime around the drain and the scribbles covering the peeling walls, "I've just about had it with this place."

But he's got no interest in letting you go now, not when you've given him the second chance he'd been desperate for. Instead, he jerks you to him, your shoulder colliding into his chest, his arms cinching tight around you. There is no grace, no soft pretense to it— just a raw, unfiltered need of a man clinging to what he's been too afraid to lose; your arsecheeks apparently because that's what he's currently pawing at.

Pervert. Honestly, you'd applaud him for holding back from groping you for this long. No shame in giving credit where it's due. You thought about letting him have his fill, indulging his starved-dog behavior until his hands started to wander beneath your clothes. You ought to make him stop this before it spirals into something completely out of your control.

Ah, but then he latches onto the sensitive spot on your neck, right below the ear, so close to your drumming pulse and your words snag in your throat like fishhooks when he suckles.

It's tragic how quickly you cave.

Simon's breath fans hot over your spit-slick throat, slow and composed while yours is sharp and shallow as if you can't quite catch it. He jerks his head toward the stall, and you freeze, disbelief rooting you in place.

"You're joking." He's gone and lost whatever scraps of sanity he had left back wherever he was because there's no way you're getting down and dirty in— your lip curls in distaste as you look at the industry-grade bottle of disinfectant that sits in the corner— here. But then he's dragging you toward the nearest stall anyway, your bag tumbling to the ground, not my bag, Simon, shit, you owe me another. The door is a pitiful excuse for privacy, barely clinging to the hinges and sporting a gap wide enough to make you grimace. You've hardly any time to register anything else before Simon is already at your feet, smoothly dropping to one knee, the crown of his head dipping slightly below your navel.

Simon's hands cup the back of your thighs, palms spread wide as they trail upward, the tips of his fingers finding lace and not your everyday cotton. With a deliberate slowness, he lifts the hem of your skirt, his neck craning just enough to bring his line of sight under the drape of fabric, and his gaze lingers.

Oh right. You've got on that set— the one he'd carefully chosen for your birthday, that one that fits you so perfectly it almost feels unfair. A little indulgence that'd been meant for his eyes only. Even as you'd slipped it on earlier tonight, it'd felt like you'd been breaking the rules.

It makes you wonder...

You hook a leg over his shoulder, the heel of your shoe digging into the straight plane of his back. "Well?" Your question is wrapped in feigned nonchalance. "Does it make you upset?" Simon shrugs, dismissive, his eyes steady as they lock onto yours. The dim light above buzzes faintly, its unkind glow spilling over his rugged face. It does nothing to soften the sharpness of his features.

And you notice a new scar, tiny, close to his hare's lip.

"Doesn't threaten me, sweet'eart."

A sharp laugh escapes you. How infuriatingly arrogant. Simon leans in, his nose brushing against your sex roughly before he takes a crude sniff, unrestrained, unapologetic. Nasty as always.

The faintest smirk curls the corners of his lips. "Can't blame me, my girl and I 'ave been apart f'r too long." Humming, you place a hand on his head, palming over the short bristles of his hair before curling around the back of his neck, and you grind down on him.

"If you're hungry, then eat." The smile you give him after your gracious offer is nothing short of salacious.

Simon thumbs your gusset to the side and slips his tongue through your folds, and it's electric, raw. Frissons ripple through you, starting from your nape, and it cascades down your arm and your legs, and the sensation is sharp, almost overwhelming, and you bow forward, nails digging into the dense muscle of his traps.

It's been so fucking long.

Hot, wet pressure circles around your swollen clit, purposefully shy of what you covet, enough to stir something within you but not enough to satisfy— nowhere near enough. It makes you testy. Impatient. It pushes you to lose control, feeling it slip from his grasp, only to land squarely in his.

It's the exact reaction Simon craves. You can grind down on the tip of his nose all you want, push and pull at his head every which way, but you don't come without his say so, and to earn that, there's something you have to do.

By the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip, bite-swollen and glossy with spit, peering down at him with bleary eyes after having rutted against his face without restraint, frantically seeking the friction you yearn for, you also know what to do.

Good.

Now he waits. Your pussy is dripping slick, dewy honey trailing down his chin and joining the sticky mess pooling near his knee, but he doesn't care— his focus is entirely on you. Simon knows exactly how this will end. You're as mulish as ever, he muses, but you'll break. You always do. It's not a question of if but when, and he's content to wait as long as it takes for the inevitable. After all, he's a patient man when he chooses to be.

Your chest heaves with every ragged draw of air to your lungs, your pretty lips quivering with need, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. If he had the skill, he'd pencil this very moment onto paper, immortalizing it. The desperation that clings to your features, the frustrated grunts you give when he laps at your— his— cunt, tongue skimming just shy of your pearl.

It's intoxicating. A heady visceral rush that courses through his veins and pools white-hot in his groin, stiffening his cock almost painfully.

And then, when a finger dips into your sopping entrance, the composure you'd been desperately clinging to begins to come apart. Simon watches it unfold through heavy-lidded eyes, the gentle part of your lips, the tremor in your breath— he drinks up every single second.

"Please," your voice is barely more than a breadth of a whisper. Your surrender is almost as sweet as you.

The kiss he plants on the inside of your thigh is searing as he hums. "What's it?" The prickly stubble of his jaw scratches against your skin. "Don't lose ya courage now," he murmurs, "you've already fought 'alf the battle.

Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, but you truck on, dignity long lost, in tatters next to your bag on the floor. "Please let me come." Your words come out in a half whine, half plea, and Simon's response is immediate; he cants your hips as two thick fingers enter you fully, and at this angle, it's more than he knows you can take, but you asked for it. Begged for it.

Simon takes it slow, not easy, the suction on your clit maddening; strong, fluttering pulses that seemingly beat in tandem with your heart and the world begins to tilt on its axis, his strong hands keeping you anchored lest your knees give way beneath you.

The world narrows down to the sound of your hiccups, the tension coiled spring tight below your navel, the feel of his shirt knotting in your fist— if he had hair long enough to tug, you would've ripped it out.

You knock your head back against the door almost violently, the dull throb stamped out by the livewire crackling beneath your skin when you finally do come, a scorching heat radiating from within your core out, leaving a raw, tingling sensation in its wake. It stings, you dazedly muse. The orgasm that was wrenched from you was so thunderous your pussy stings. It's short-lived but potent, and you can't help but wince, your lips curling, teeth slightly bared in discomfort.

Ouch.

Simon, on the other hand, is just peachy, unbothered as ever, leaned back on his haunches, chin glistening with slick, his thumb sweeping what's about to drip off his nose.

"Don't think for a second I'm returning the favor here. I've standards, Simon." He huffs in response but says nothing, expecting nothing less of you, instead opting to shrug his jacket off and place it over your drooping shoulders. Your limbs feel leaden as you exit the stall, Simon nimbly reaching for your health hazard of a bag before leading you toward the door.

Your fingers curl around the knob, and twist and pull—

and nothing. Confusion knots your brows together as you retrace your steps. Had you pushed or pulled it open? You can't quite recall, so you give it a firm push it instead—

and nothing. Again. The door stays closed.

"Need help there?" Irritation sparks within you, wishing your glare would eviscerate the obstinate door. Does Simon think himself funny? All you want is to go home, scrub yourself sparkling clean, and sleep until the late afternoon, but the door is conspiring against you. Good. Great, even.

"Bloody door," you grumble, "It won't open." Simon steps forward, unhurried, and twists the handle once, twice—

"Open sesame," he says, tone utterly flat and casual, and you snap your slackened jaw shut. "Oh for fuck's sake, Simon, keep your shit jokes," but the door opens with a click.

You're joking.

You're fucking joking.

It swings wide with a creak, and you glance around instinctively. Nothing out of place— just the usual drunken bodies flowing in and out, their laughter and slurred conversations blending into the background.

Simon drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing firm as he walks you out, and you trudge alongside, your gait sluggish, until a massive bulk stumbles into your path, and Simon quickly places himself between you and the drunken mass, both a protector and a threat.

The bloke is a guy with a row of thick hair that runs from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the sides clean shaven. "Sorry, bonnie, didnae mean ta-" limpid blue flashes to Simon, his thin-lipped smile stretches wide— too wide— flashing too many teeth for comfort, "bump into ye." He doesn't linger though, clodhopping his way back to the bar. There's a bold-lined tattoo on his nape, of a... revolver? A choice.

"Walk. I'll take ya home. Won't come in for a nightcap," the lines by his eyes becoming more pronounced. "Scouts 'onor." Simon pulls you along, and you're fighting off the sleep in your eyes when a man in a cap, his profile partially hidden by the brim, bumps his knuckles against Simon's shoulder, and curiosity outweighs your fatigue.

"Who's that?"

Simon grunts. "Security."

You don't remember having been frisked by security when you came in.

The crisp air outside bites your cheeks when you step out, and you're grateful for Simon's forethought as you tug the sides of his jacket closer to you, burying your nose into the collar— it smells of cigarette smoke and him, musky and woodsy— a quiet comfort. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, each step feeling heavier than the last as you make your way towards his vehicle.

The metal door groans as it opens, and he extends a hand, aiding you up when you squeeze it as you slur out a confession.

I missed you.

He doesn't falter in his movements as he guides both your feet inside, and his hands are steady as he adjusts the belt, buckle quietly clicking into place until he straightens, gaze dark and fluid as it lingers on you.

He runs the rough pad of his thumb along your bottom lip tenderly.

"I know, sweet'heart. Get some sleep."

The door closes with a firm but gentle push.

I know, he says. Exhaustion pulls at you, dragging you further away from consciousness. Bastard.

Simon doesn't wake you when he pulls up to your driveway, hooking an arm under your knees and the other around your waist to take you inside, your head lolling on his shoulder. Tomorrow, you'll ask him how he knows where you live, considering you moved for a new job months ago.

[solxamber]

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3

As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.

Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.

For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.

But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.

And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résumé is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"

Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."

Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.

By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.

This is getting pathetic.

You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."

Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?

You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.

For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.

But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.

And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.

You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."

His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.

And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.

This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.

Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.

This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.

A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.

However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.

You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.

Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"

The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.

"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"

You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.

The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.

He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.

He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.

This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.

And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.

Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”

But then Jamil arrives.

Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.

For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.

You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.

You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.

He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.

Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.

You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The numbers didn’t make sense.

You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.

Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.

Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.

“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”

You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”

Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.

You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.

Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.

But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.

Your brain connects the dots.

Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?

Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”

Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.

“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.

You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”

He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”

“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”

Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.

Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.

And then there’s you.

You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.

You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.

You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.

Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.

It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”

Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.

Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.

“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”

Jamil chokes on air.

You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.

When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.

Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”

You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.

Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.

But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.

Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.

Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.

Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.

So why does it feel so different this time?

Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.

And then there was you.

You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.

But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.

Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.

He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.

Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”

You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”

“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”

“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”

Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”

“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.

Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.

“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”

Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”

You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”

And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?

He almost believes you.

Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.

They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.

You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.

Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.

Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?

And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.

“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”

Silence.

Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.

You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.

And then, you smiled.

“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”

The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”

“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.

“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.

Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.

You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.

So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?

Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.

And there he is.

Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.

You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.

And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.

You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”

Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.

"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."

And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.

You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.

What just happened.

You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.

And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.

It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.

Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.

Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.

Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.

He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.

“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.

“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.

Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—

“…Oh.”

Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.

You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.

Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.

Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—

Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.

You are horrified.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.

Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.

He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.

He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.

By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.

So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.

You should not care this much.

And yet.

You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.

“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”

A pause.

Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.

The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.

The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.

The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.

But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.

Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.

So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.

And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.

Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”

Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.

You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.

Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.

Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”

You almost choke on your popcorn.

Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.

Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.

You sit there, stunned.

Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.

Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.

For you.

How flattering.

You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.

Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.

Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Oh, interesting.

Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.

So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”

Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.

Because Jamil blocked your path.

You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.

He looked wrecked.

Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.

You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.

“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.

“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”

You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”

Jamil broke.

Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.

His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”

“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”

Jamil freezes.

You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.

He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.

“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”

You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.

Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.

The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.

Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”

You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”

And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—

"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.

Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.

Masterlist

[cvnt4him]

I think tobios the kind of guy to really REALLY be in love with his first love. I mean this guy would be obsessed with whoever took his virginity, I solely believe that.

He literally would be so in love with you without even noticing. He would love being close to you, he'd get all smiley with you and y'know his smile isn't all that but when he's genuine with it, it's the prettiest thing to see on him.

Holding his face and peppering kisses on him in front of the team, Hinata and tsukishima teasing him for it. He groans but ultimately loves it. He loves you.

When you met his sister she was kind of scary. She had this unapproachable look about her, there was so much stress and pressure to be good and great for his family. But she was actually really sweet, really interesting and a genuinely great sister for the most part.

His grandfather was absolutely hilarious and tobio wouldn't admit it to you or anyone else, but it meant a lot to him that his grandfather actually took a liking toward you. The way you unintentionally made his grandfather crack up at your occasional mishaps on your words and the weird little sounds you made when you realized you fucked up your sentence, or when you sounded so robotic to remember the interesting things you told yourself you were interested in for the sake of his grandfather.

I like to think kageyama is REALLY emotionally constipated to the point he knows NOTHING....about love or even being interested/attracted to someone. He gains such a genuine attraction towards you, it physically hurts him. He can't help but to groan in some sort of annoyance when he sees you because he knows his body betrays him. It always makes it clear that he's happy to have you around.

Whether he becomes a flushed mess, his stupid cheeks filling with blood and getting all warm and red. His ear become impossibly warm as well, he swears he can't even hear you speaking to him. Or whether it be his eyes wandering down to your lips, his thoughts thinking about how he loves it when you kiss him. He prefers those quick kisses you give, to him those are more than enough. His eyes began to trail all over your body, his mind thinking about every part of your body they stop on

His eyes move to your hands, goodness does he love holding them. He really does. When he holds your hand I think he would often squeeze them for a little, like you could just be hiding hands and a for the most part gentle squeeze comes out of nowhere. He holds it in a tight grasp like that for a while before the tightness retreats.

It's so sweet really. You call his name and his blue eyes shoot right back up to yours, kageyama doesn't shy away from anyone but damn why did you have to look at him like that with those stupid fucking eyes of yours..

You offered him a genuine warm smile, your eyes creasing a bit as your smile met them a small chuckle leaving you as you watch him fail to keep eye contact with you. He had a silly little pout on his face as his brows furrowed and his cheeks warmed.

You sigh at your silly boy and pull him into a hug, it was mostly you hugging him. Wrapping your arms around his body as he stiffly stood in your grasp, you give him a long squeeze and groan slightly. You pull away and grab his face pulling his down, with his face in your hands he takes a moment to really feel your hands the softness of them on his cheeks and how he could smell perfume on your wrists.

You give him a couple of kisses on his face causing him to squeeze his eyes shut and groan lightly. He slowly fluttered his eyes open to leer down at you. He's so tall even when you pull him down to level with you.

“ I love you, tobio..”

You whisper to him, clearly not quiet enough because you can hear people snickering behind you. You kiss his nose one final time, you can see the way he's mentally cursing you with his mind. He hates that you had to do this in front of them. He loves you, he swears he does. He may have a funny way of showing it but he genuinely loves you.

“ ...mmn... love...you too..”

Tobio made damn sure he said it quiet enough. He refused to let them hear him say that.

Trust after being with you for a long time he gets out of that. He doesn't care who hears him say he loves you. He's so happy that he's had you for this long.

[transmcytshowdown]

Joel Smallishbeans^16:

Hermitcraft, Third Life, Last Life, Double Life, Limited Life, Secret Life, Wild Life, Empires SMP Season 1, Empires SMP Season 2

Transmasc, he/they; Trans man, he/him; Genderfluid, any pronouns; Trans masc, it/he/she; Transmasc Genderfluid, he/any; Identity not specified, they/he

“He’s just a silly little terracotta man with only a vague understanding of human gender he tries to impersonate but fails at.”

“Lizzie and Joel are a t4t bi4bi couple in [the submitter’s] heart. Lizzie transfem (she/her) Joel transmasc+gender fluid (he/any).”

“Basically anywhere you see him. Just like, the constant ‘Ooh i'm so manly, the manliest, I’m so tall and strong and handsome,’ and always insisting that he’s really tall despite being super short and the way his voice will sometimes get all high and squeaky these are all very transmasc coded things. He’s one of us, okay, he’s got the vibes, trust, he’s got our humor. Every time he goes mining on Hermitcraft there is always a caption that’s like ‘straight white male mining content’ which is more of his constant need to assert how macho and manly he is and in double life he says he’s not going to get in the pool cause he’s ‘ashamed of his Minecraft body’ which is very trans behavior. He’s got that confidence he can wear a dress for mcc and still know he’s a man which is very transmasc cause other men just got handed it, but we afab men have to look at masculinity and go ‘yeah that’s me’ and then make sure everyone knows it like that’s how you know being trans isn’t a choice because men kinda suck and I still went out and actively was like um guys I’m actually a man sorry. Some days he’s cool with just throwing gender norms out the window and some days he feels the need to yell for the whole world and the next couple galaxies as well to hear that he’s DeFiNiTeLy NoT WeArInG a CoRsEt GeM. Can you tell [the submitter’s] projecting? Cause [they’re] projecting. You can pry this headcanon out of [their] cold dead hands lol.”

“He has fluctuating chest dysphoria so sometimes he doesn't bind and sometimes he does. His bad dysphoria days are rare enough that he's not gonna bother with top surgery.”

“Transmasc Joel Smallishbeans is everything to [the submitter] and [the submitter] like[s] to think that forming the bad boys is what made him plug the tv back on and turn the brightness to the max, like he went ‘Oh we’re bad boys?? Guess I’m finally a boy now!”

“Nonbinary bad boy Joel except he is not a boy.”

“First, [the submitter] think[s] she was raised as a gender that just. doesn't exist here. She was raised in Mezalea where how gender works is just. different and, because she has a beard, everyone assumed she was a man but she's NOT and in recent years has been figuring out her own identity and pronouns in a way she hasn't ever thought about before and also she and Lizzie are butch4femme, amen. Or bi4bi. Both? She’s a masculine person and she likes stuff like the bad boys because it's more of a title separate from her gender. She’s just a masculine woman, amen.”

“He's a sopping wet tanooki (cat /j) and [jizzie] are t4t bi4bi coded.”

“Joel hasn't been called girlfriend/wife/girl by his friends for NOTHING. Bro’s the definition of gender and he slays in a dress no matter what (in Minecraft and in irl).”

Oli OrionSound^16:

Empires SMP Season 2, Pirates SMP, New Life SMP, Afterlife SMP

Trans man, he/they

“That freak is transfem, trust [the submitter]. [Their] source is divine knowledge and [their] ownership of the transfemoliorionsound url.”

“HIS PRONOUNS ARE SHE/HER.”

“[The submitter has] successfully cracked at least three eggs with the power of transfem Oli TheOrionSound, if she loses [they] will CRY.”

“Look at this cubito and then tell [the submitter] he doesn't participate in every type of gender shenanigans and tomfoolery. His pronouns are hee/hee.”

[captainkirkk]

✩ MONTHLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

The fics I’ve read and enjoyed for the month of February. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC (Batman)

Light A Match, Pull The Pin (You Are Not Who You've Been) by WakingNightmares

Part 2 of I've Given Every Piece Of Me (And I'm Breathing)

“Games,” Dick says softly. “He… he likes to play games. With your… with your head. He won’t…” He shakes his head a bit, some of the distance in his eyes fading. “He won’t come at you head on. That’s not… That’s not what he does. He wants you scared, first. Helpless. Knowing there’s nothing you can do. He… He calls it… softening up the target. So when he… when he actually shows up… they’re so afraid they… they panic.”

“And if he does…” Jason swallows. “If he does, you… there’s no way out. He won’t… If you fail, he doesn’t care. What you do. It doesn’t matter. He won’t stop no matter how much you…” Jason blinks a few times, and Roy’s fairly positive he’s trying to blink back memories. “He’s going to do what he’s going to do. You can’t stop him. He doesn’t care.”

Roy takes a deep breath. Let’s it out slowly, so it’s only an exhale, and not a sigh, because Jason looks haunted, and Dick looks blank.

Set immediately after Screaming In The Dark.

Captive Prince

Blood, Bones, Voice, Ghost by sunsmasher

Damen’s grip on his arm is painful. His face in Laurent’s is ashy and sheened with sweat.

He says, “There was something in my drink.”

(Damen is poisoned, Jokaste is framed, Laurent must find them an heir. He's put it off for so long already.)

Miraculous Ladybug

the art of living lies and a fine mingling of letting go by blueh

“Ms. Bustier,” Marinette says a little desperately. “I have been fighting akumas nonstop for the past twenty four hours, I’m running on seven expresso shots right now and I can barely read the words on the board. Can we please reschedule the test?”

Adrien doesn’t look up from where his head is buried in his arms but he waves a hand and says, “Agreed.”

Or: the world knows their identities, but life goes on.

Sewing Needles and Cat Paws by SailorChibi

Later, they agree that Hawkmoth did it on purpose.

But in the moment, Chat Noir can’t think that far. His head is pounding, possibly from a concussion, and he has just enough time to look into Ladybug’s scared blue eyes before the flash of light overtakes them both. Then, suddenly, he’s looking at Marinette Dupain-Cheng and the journalists around them are screaming. Their names, including Adrien’s real one, are so loud that it’s disorienting.

The Growing Pains Of Child Soldiers by BloodWolf13 (+ podfic)

What do the citizens of Paris do, when they realize that their heroes are literally growing up before their eyes? They freak the fuck out.

Or everybody realizes that the heroes of Paris are young teenagers and are a little (extremely) worried about children fighting a terrorist.

Yesterday was plain awful by zipadeea

"WHERE IS LADYBUG? The headlines scream Sunday morning, and Caline Bustier feels her stomach just drop."

After a terrifying akuma attack, Paris and its heroes are left reeling. All most people want is to know what has happened to their beloved Ladybug and Chat Noir.

Marinette and Adrien just want to be okay.

Alternatively: Plagg has a whole lot of feelings, Marinette lies and says she's fine every other paragraph, and Adrien cries more in two days than he has in two years.

Miraculous Ladybug x DC

Bad news, Paris by BlueTee

Part 1 of Paris vs Gotham

Tim: @notTHATtim Are you parisians all right??? #onlyinParis Nathaniel Kurtzberg: @nathanielkart Replying to @notTHATtim hahaha no.

In which Nathaniel only wanted to pass some information but shenanigans issues and he ends up starting a twitter war.

Severance

Lay Me Back Down by EightMinutesToSunrise

Mark S. escapes Lumon and finds himself alone in an unfamiliar house. Or, not quite alone--his outie's with him.

Click. Click. by EightMinutesToSunrise

A few days after the destruction of Lumon and the innies' escape, Mark S. requests that his outie take their consciousness, and not swap back for anything. Not even (especially not) for their rebellion's firecracker leader, Helly Riggs.

From Lightswitch AU--a separate but related continuation of my fic "Lay Me Back Down."

As the Elevator Dings by Sdove

Breaking company rules is a form of self care. OR a story about the revolutionary act that is choosing to love yourself. OR the aftermath of the party and Mark S.'s role in it-- part character study, part plot, all angst, baby!

A Light In The Storm by Alooxis

Ever since the court order requiring that Lumon employees be provided with co-neural switches - a modified version of the overtime contingency device - Mark's world had become so much larger than he’d ever imagined.

Unfortunately, with a world of new experiences comes a world of new fears.

I.e.: Mark S. experiences his first thunderstorm. It does not go well. Thankfully, Devon is there to help.

[rikosseen]

Lookism men reacting to their kids being disrespectful to you

Anon req | some kids call you mama (Goo and Jake) |ft. Gun, Goo, Jake, Samuel, Eli

Gun Park

It’s not that he never wanted kids— but rather he didn’t know how to deal with them or guide them as a father.

Watching his son shout a fuck you at you— well. He really feels like he failed as a parent. Perhaps, if Jonggun had used other methods to teach the kid— perhaps if he’d been more present, this wouldn’t have happened.

You stay silent and sit down, not bothering to deal with your son; feeling too overwhelmed and fearful you’ll snap or say something you’ll later regret. Gun silently picks up the child, walks into a room, and gently closes the door. He places the kid down until the tantrum ceases, and calls out to him when he’s calmed. His Son glares and spits at his father. To which Gun narrows his eyes. A stare down ensues before the grown man lectures the child on language, and respectful behaviour; ensuring the concept and importance of family is engraved in the kid’s head.

“Is that understood?”

A nod.

“If you’re going to be non verbal now, I’m going to take it that you didn’t listen to a word I said.”

“Yes sir,” is muttered guiltily.

“Go apologise to your mother and help us out for dinner.”

The little boy walks out, Jonggun following suit— and he hesitantly stands in front of you. A sorry is muttered, and the boy’s father gives a curt nod of approval upon seeing you hug your child.

Goo Kim

“Just say sorry,” the blonde hisses.

“I don’t need to!” a little girl snaps back. “Why’re you on mama’s side anyway?!”

“Cupcake…” Goo begins, bending down to level himself with his daughter. “I’m always on your side. But there are times where as a parent, I have to be like this. Don’t you think Mama’s hurt with what you said?”

The little girl scoffs and whips her head around. “

“Well, if mama could have JUST listened to me,” she says exasperated.

Goo sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“If daddy got angry at you for no reason, and started shouting some really mean things, wouldn’t you be upset?” he tries again.

The girl stays silent, but then quickly rolls her eyes with an, “Of course, duh.”

“Exactly. That’s how Ma’s feeling right now,” Goo picks up his daughter and carries her in his arms.

With a pout, she stays silent and furrows her eyebrows.

“I’ll be there when you apologise so it’s easier, ok?”

“No! I don’t wanna!” she screeches.

Where’d she get this attitude from? Goo scowls.

Jake Kim

“What’s up with you?” Jake gives his kid a poke.

The boy grumbles and picks at his food, ignoring your presence completely as you wash the dishes silently.

“What was that?” Jake whispers.

“I said something to Mama without meaning to.”

“Oh yeah?”

The kid nods slowly, but surely.

“Are you sorry?”

He nods again.

“Then why don’t you go ahead and say so?” Jake nudges the boy.

“I don’t—“ he hesitates.

“Come on,” the father stands up and takes his son’s hand, walking to you. “I’ll help.”

Samuel Seo

Thick air coats the house as Samuel enters through the door with a stern expression. Feet quickly scamper behind the kitchen counter in an attempt to hide from impending wrath. You walk out of your room calmly, phone in hand and take off Samuel’s coat.

“Where are they?” he frowns, looking around.

You tilt your head to where the twins are hiding and cross your arms.

“It’s not too late to own up,” you call out to the kids.

Silence.

“Suit yourselves,” you shrug, heading to the fridge to drink some juice.

Nervous muttering can be heard, but it’s quickly shut up when Samuel’s voice raises.

“My office. Now.”

Silence.

At this, your husband grunts and throws the twins over his shoulders.

“We’re sorry!” is screamed simultaneously, while you turn your head to ignore what’s happening.

“This is called consequences to your actions,” you singsong.

More screams and cries are heard.

What should we eat for dinner? you think.

Eli Jang

After a small outburst from Yenna, you can do nothing but give a tight lipped smile. Eli begins to stammer, and quickly runs up to his daughter in an attempt to reprimand her somehow.

“I’m so sorry— I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s not usually like this”

Yenna tries to wriggle out of her dad’s grip and cries.

“I know, Eli. It’s okay,” you back up a bit, observing your sleeves awkwardly.

“I swear, she absolutely adores you. And, and—“

“Eli,” you try again, this time looking at him. “It’s just kids being kids, don’t worry. Leave her alone right now. We can talk to her about her behaviour when she’s calmed.”

Reluctantly, he lets go of his daughter— who runs up to her room in a fit of sobs.

Warren and Sally walk in and give you two questioning looks.

“Is everything okay?”

[ssentimentals]

Hi Nini! Thank you for doing prompts again! I loved reading them and enjoyed getting notifications when you did the last one. 🩵

Can I please request Prompt 40: Arranged Marriage with Wonwoo x Reader. He absolutely hates the idea of marrying reader, his cold standoffish and doesn’t want to get to know her at all as he thinks she’s like all the other Chaebol daughters his encountered. (Snobby, high maintenance, just wants fame, etc..) but a situation happens and he finds out she’s the total opposite of what he thought she was.

Thank you!!!

hi lovely! ah, this is so nice, thank you so much 💜 of course you can request, thank you for doing so, hopefully you'll like it!

prompt: arranged marriage

wonwoo has no hope, sadly. future with arranged marriage never looked bright for him and the fact that he's supposed to meet his future bride in an hour makes him annoyed at best and angry at worst. he doesn't want to act all high and mighty, but he lived his whole life in the chaebol society and he knows exactly what kind of person his future wife is. she probably has a very nice smile but it's fake and there's nothing behind it. she probably is intelligent, snobby and has perfect manners. she probably spends money like there's no tomorrow and knows everything about new fashion trends and nothing about any economical/societal matter. she probably is ignorant and shallow - she probably is nothing wonwoo can possibly fall in love with. and yes, looking for love in an arranged marriage is a naive thing, but is it so bad to wish to at least not hate the person you're going to tie your life with?

there's a small playground not far from the designated place of meeting and wonwoo goes there. it's around noon on sunday, sun is shining bright and plenty of kids are there, but he finds himself a quiet corner on the nearby bench. annoyance swims in his mind and he tries to calm down, watching kids; their carefree spirits never failed to put him in a better mood. he tries not to think of his future bride, tries not to picture how miserable his life is about to get and instead focuses on looking around. some boys are building sand castles, others are playing tag and then he notices one little girl standing at the top of the slide. even from this distance wonwoo can see how tight she's holding the railings, can feel how nervous she is. before he knows it he's up on his feet with an aim to help little out but someone is quicker than him. wonwoo pauses, watches as girl who's probably around his age walks over. he comes closer and listens to the gentle conversation, smiling at sincere kindness display in front of him.

'it's alright, sweetheart, i'm going to be right here. i will catch you, you don't have to worry about it,' the girl says in a warm tone.

'i will help her catch you,' wonwoo steps closer, smiling to the little girl who still looks hesitant. 'so don't be scared.'

'or you can always turn back,' you offer after few seconds, when the girl doesn't reply. 'it's okay if you don't want to-'

'i want to,' little girl interrupts, puffing her cheeks in the cutest way.

wonwoo chuckles and turns to you right when you also turn to him. beautiful eyes, he thinks. beautiful smile. you take few steps back, standing now right at the end of the slide. wordlessly you reach out to wonwoo, who readily takes your offered hand and also moves to the end of the slide. you smile at wonwoo and then turn back to the girl: 'look, we are both here. we will catch you, darling. we will never let you fall.'

beautiful soul. in the end, you both cheer when you get an armful of a happy squealing girl. she does it again and again and all the times you both catch her, laughing along. it's the happiest wonwoo felt in months and when girl's mother comes to get her daughter, he's almost disappointed. time flew quickly too, he's got only ten minutes to not be late for the meeting and- he doesn't want to go. he also doesn't want to lose you just like that- 'um, sorry, wait,' he calls, when you turn to go. 'i just- i was wondering if we could maybe-'

'i'm so sorry but i can't,' you reply hurriedly, looking sad.

oh. of course someone like you is already taken, what was he thinking? wonwoo nods and wishes you well... only to walk in the same direction as you. when you enter the same building, he realizes that it looks like he's some freaking stalker. 'i promise i also need to be here,' he mutters, when you both enter the same elevator. 'i'm not, like, stalking you.'

you let out a nervous laugh. 'uh-huh. i hope so.'

god, you two are even going to the same floor. it's a rather popular business center so wonwoo doesn't think much off it but when you both turn in the same direction, he slowly realizes that-

'oh my god,' you pause, looking at him with wide eyes. 'you're- you are jeon wonwoo. the one i'm-'

'supposed to marry? yeah.' wonwoo finishes, knowing that he is smiling like a fool. 'that's me.'

it's crazy. feels like a dream or something straight out of the movies. you both laugh in disblief and when wonwoo opens the door and holds it for you, when you both enter the room with your lawyers already present, when you smile at him timidly and blush, looking away- wonwoo realizes that this is not a dream. it's all real. and maybe future with arranged marriage can be bright if it will have you in it.

a/n: this trope truly is my kryptonite.. hopefully you liked it! - nini

request your own here

my other seventeen work is here

[scary-grace]

Opposites Attract (Chapter 6) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your quirk lets you capture almost anyone with ease, and you can't believe you let Shigaraki Tomura escape. Shigaraki can't believe it, either, and according to the League, there's only one possible explanation -- you let him go because you've fallen in love with him. He decides to find out if it's true. You decide you won't fail to capture him again. You both get a lot more than you bargained for. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5

Chapter 6

The doctor marks your height, and you watch the number pop up on the computer screen. “Why do you always take my height?” you ask as you put your boots back on. “It never changes.”

“We’re measuring change over time. Now your weight.” The doctor watches you make your way to the scale. “Boots off.”

You take your boots off again, then step up. There’s a ping, and the doctor scoffs. “I know you didn’t gain three hundred pounds in six months, Skynet. Stop altering the readings.”

“It’s unnecessary to weigh me,” you say. You’ve talked to other participants in the study, and you know getting weighed and having their weight commented on makes them feel gross. “It’s got nothing to do with my quirk. Or anybody’s quirk.”

“We’re measuring change over time,” the doctor says again. “The point of the weigh-ins isn’t to embarrass you or anyone else. It’s to measure the effect of sixth-generation emitter-type quirks on the human body. We don’t know what changes may result from quirks like yours.”

“I get it,” you say. “You still don’t need my weight.”

“If you’re insecure, I can tell you that it doesn’t look as if you –”

“I’ll break this scale,” you say. The doctor looks shocked, then offended. “Either record my weight with the extra three hundred pounds or don’t record it at all.”

The doctor sighs and gestures for you to step off the scale. You start putting your boots back on for the second time, trying to suppress the weird surge of triumph you get from breaking a stupid rule and getting away with it. That’s not something you had before. You know where it came from.

The doctor continues on with the questionnaire. “Are you on birth control?”

“No.”

“Are you sexually active?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” The doctor gives you a look, which you return. Then she taps the side of her neck, and you cringe.

You aren’t sexually active. Making out doesn’t count as sexually active. Having a whole hickey on your neck, one which you thought you’d covered successfully, doesn’t even come close to counting. The doctor marks a yes anyway. “How many partners do you have?”

You could argue about it. “One.”

“Was that so hard?” The doctor clicks through to the next screen, or tries to. You tap your finger against the table and scramble her hard drive ever so slightly. She turns to look at you, already exasperated. “Was this you?”

“No,” you say, innocent as can be. She can’t prove it was you, and besides, it was her fault. If she hadn’t been so insistent on the sexual activity thing, you wouldn’t have had to crash her computer.

You aren’t sexually active, but that’s not for lack of opportunity. The Shigaraki thing has officially gotten out of control. You were going to end it, whatever it was, but then you kissed him, and now he thinks you’re his girlfriend. Ever since the confrontation where you stole the quirk-canceling bullets but let him escape, he’s been at your apartment more nights than not, and it’s – weird. Weird because he’s a villain. Weird because in spite of being a villain, and in spite of the fact that he’s not your boyfriend, Shigaraki is still somehow the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.

He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He tells you how he feels about things – if he doesn’t like something, you hear about it, but you hear about it when he likes things, too. And he likes you, a lot. Usually guys play hard to get, trying to keep you on your toes, seeking their approval, but Shigaraki doesn’t. He shows up often. He doesn’t want to leave once he does. He’d come by more often if he could get away with it. There are only three problems. First, that he’s a villain. Second, that he wants you to be a villain, too. And third, he’s just really, insatiably horny.

Part of the reason you’re not sexually active is the same reason he’s been staying so much later than he used to. When he’s with you, Shigaraki has a time-management problem. He wants to eat dinner. He wants to talk. He wants to watch something. And he also wants to make out, whenever one of the other three things isn’t happening. Getting him the gloves was a mistake, because Shigaraki’s now the handsiest person alive in more ways than one. Even when you’re both doing something else, he’s always touching you – your hand, your shoulder, your back, your foot, whatever’s in reach. And more often than not, it turns into making out at some point.

The handsiness is a big distraction for you. So much so that you didn’t notice he’d marked up your neck until after he left. Shigaraki is going to hear about that from you the next time he comes over. Or maybe you’ll just pay him back in kind and let the League of Villains do it for you. Failing that, you could move your relationship into sexually-active territory, then tell him it’s off the table if he chews up your neck again. The doctor is one thing, but you have friends, too, and none of them need to know anything about what’s happening in your apartment four or five nights a week.

The doctor finally reboots her computer and moves into the next part of the questionnaire. You’ve been doing these twice a year since you moved to Japan to attend UA – it’s one of the conditions of your presence here – and the interview’s never anything but uncomfortable. You know why they do it. They want to see if the presence of a sixth-generation quirk affects the way you think about your quirk, which means that they hook you up to an EEG and ask you to talk about the day your quirk awakened. You’d be perfectly happy never to talk about that day again.

You can’t read an EEG, but your results must be consistent at least, because they don’t try to stick you in an MRI. They do have follow-up questions, though. An unfair amount of them. “We’ve followed your professional activities since your last evaluation, and we’ve noticed a shift in your use of your quirk,” the psychologist says. “What’s the origin of that?”

“Uh –” You should have guessed that they’d ask this. You should have had a response ready. “I guess I always thought it was too dangerous to use on a broad scale. That’s what everyone always told me.”

The psychologist nods. “And recently?”

“I realized I needed to use it more. I tried to think of ways to make it safe, and I have,” you say. “My property damage figures have been reasonable.”

“They’ve been subthreshold,” the psychologist says. You blink. “In fact, the truck you flipped during the latest League of Villains incident required no repairs other than a windshield replacement. The damage caused when you stopped the Tohoku Shinkansen from derailing was similarly small. In your past evaluations, you’ve seemed almost afraid of your quirk – not unusual, for a sixth-generation wielder. It doesn’t seem like you’re afraid anymore.”

You don’t answer. “Why is that?” the psychologist prompts. “I’ve been evaluating you since you were fourteen, and it’s a significant shift in viewpoint. Did something happen?”

Yeah, something happened. Shigaraki happened. You might be justifiably wary of his quirk, but he’s never been scared of yours – he’s always commented on how strong it is and how well you use it, usually in an appreciative tone, although there have been a few times where he was visibly surprised. Nobody else has had that kind of confidence in your ability to handle your quirk, and it’s kind of rubbed off on you. If Shigaraki, who knows all about destructive quirks, thinks you can handle yours, maybe it’s true.

It goes further back, too – to your failure at Kamino, which led directly to your decision two weeks later to say screw the property damage and stop the Shinkansen anyway. Shigaraki might be trying to turn you into a villain, but he’s made you a stronger hero in the bargain.

“Well?” the psychologist prompts again.

“I don’t really know,” you say. “I was scared of it as a kid. Maybe I just grew up.”

That wasn’t the answer they wanted, but it gets you through the rest of the evaluation, and you really couldn’t ask for more than that. It’s late when you leave the building – you grabbed the last possible slot, coming here straight from patrol – and it’ll be even later when you get home. Shigaraki won’t stop by tonight, you don’t think. That’ll be a good thing. You always feel weird after the evaluations. Even though the research is theoretically going to enhance understanding of quirks and help sixth- and soon to be seventh-generation wielders cope with their abilities, it still makes you feel like there’s something wrong with you.

Because there is something wrong with you, just like there’s something wrong with a lot of sixth-generation wielders, apparently – your use of your quirks is too instinctual, too unconscious, and therefore too dangerous. Your metal sense, your awareness of the magnetic fields you manipulate, is something you have to consciously ignore if you don’t want it to distract you. It’s always there. You tap into it as you walk to the train station, scanning everything around you. The parked cars, the quiet streets, the infrastructure always humming just below the surface. And there’s something else, too – a human-shaped concentration of iron, barreling towards you at high speed.

You grab for it, latching onto the magnetic field, but your attacker’s too close. Momentum does the rest, and his fist strikes the side of your head with blinding force.

You feel like your head’s exploded. Everything whites out, then comes back spitting sparks, like an old-time desktop computer with an ax through the screen, as the person who struck you drags you into the alley and out of sight. “Got you,” he hisses, his voice low and rattling. He’s big. Big isn’t a problem for you, usually. You claw for your quirk, grasping his magnetic field again, only for him to backhand you across the face, scattering your concentration for good this time. “Nuh-uh. Try to freeze me again, you bitch. I’ll make this hurt even worse.”

You don’t freeze him. You drive your knee into his groin, and he slams you back against the wall with a snarl. Your head strikes with a hollow crack, and your vision goes white for longer this time, your head splitting with pain. The criminal drops you to the ground, aims a kick directly into your ribs. The air leaves your body in a harsh, painful gasp, and you slump sideways. Your quirk is straining to break free of every control mechanism you’ve placed on it, ready to pull the city down to save you, to bury this man under tons of rubble and steel and let you crawl away alive. You could do it.

But you can’t. You can’t risk killing other people, so the choice is brutally clear, obvious even to you with your aching head and bruised ribs. Someone is going to die tonight. If you don’t let go of your quirk, let it protect you, it’ll be you.

A blurry shadow appears at the head of the alleyway, blocking the light. A familiar voice rings out, jagged like you’ve never heard it before. “She’s mine.”

“Come and get her, then, runt.” The man turns away from you, towards the intruder, and you force yourself into motion, grabbing his foot and trying to yank him off balance. He kicks back in response and you throw yourself sideways, narrowly avoiding getting your face smashed in. “I told you, you fucking bitch. If you try to –”

His voice cuts off in an abrupt gurgle, and you look up to find him already crumbling, falling to pieces from the spot on his shoulder where Shigaraki grabbed him. Shigaraki throws him aside while he’s still disintegrating and gets right down on the ground next to you. “What happened?” he demands. “Are you –”

You shove him away, hard, and even so, you barely avoid throwing up on him. Your ears are ringing and your head hurts so badly that you almost wish someone would come along and kill you. Maybe Shigaraki will do the honors, since you almost puked all over him. The retching makes everything worse, but you can’t stop. Even getting dragged behind a train didn’t feel like this.

“Hey. Come on.” Shigaraki is pulling you backwards, away from the puddle of vomit and the pile of dust that used to be a human being. “Sit up. Let me see. How many times did you get hit?”

Three times. But it wasn’t until he threw you against the wall that you went down for the count. You hold up four fingers, you think, and Shigaraki’s voice sharpens. “You could have killed him,” he says. You shake your head. Big mistake. You find yourself retching again, and Shigaraki holds you upright, still snapping at you. “Bullshit. I know you could have. You can do anything with your quirk. Why didn’t you do it?”

“Hero,” you mumble. “Heroes don’t –”

“I don’t care what heroes do! If I hadn’t been here – fuck!”

What was he doing here? He’s mad at you – probably the exposure, because you’re in a populated area, and he’s Japan’s most wanted criminal, and right now he’s dealing with you. A stupid, injured hero. “You have a concussion,” he says. “You need a doctor. Where’s the nearest clinic?”

“My phone –” You fumble in your pocket, and Shigaraki lifts it out of your hand. Unlocks it, too. When did he learn your passcode? “You need to get out of here. If you get caught –”

“Shut up,” Shigaraki snaps. He consults the screen of your phone. “Three blocks that way. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t ask if you can walk, so you don’t have to lie and say that you can. If he lets go of you, you’re not sure you can stay upright. Shigaraki wraps one of your arms over his shoulder and one of his around your waist, and starts dragging you down the street. You mumble something about getting caught, and he ignores you. He has the hood of his coat up and his head ducked, and although you can see his face when you look up, you can’t read his expression even a little bit.

Finally you’re across the street from the urgent care, just outside the glow of the streetlight. “I can’t go in there. Can you get across the street?” Shigaraki asks. You give a thumbs-up. It’s safer than nodding. “Good. Go.”

He says that, but then he doesn’t let go. Your vision is still a little blurry, but you blink up at him, trying to clear it. He’s mad at you, you think. Sorry, you say, or mean to say. Something else comes out: “You saved me.”

“Shut up.” Shigaraki apparently doesn’t trust you to do that, because then he kisses you – even though you threw up ten minutes ago and haven’t done much more than spit a few times to clear things out. “I – just go.”

You get your feet under you and push away from him, getting upright under your own power. Then you turn away, step into the circle of light cast by the streetlamp, and start staggering across the street. You make it all the way to the clinic before the dizziness overwhelms you.

The nurses are really nice to you. You’re in costume, and you clearly got beat to shit, and when you tell them it was a criminal who attacked you, they get even more sympathetic. They do ask how you got away, though. You’re so out of it that you tell them someone saved you.

“Who?” the nurses ask, and you shake your head, even though it nearly blacks you out. Even if you told them, they wouldn’t believe you.

Your cheekbone is fractured, your ribs are bruised, and you have a concussion. But because you didn’t pass out, it’s not considered severe, and as a result, they release you to your own devices with some painkillers, prescription anti-nausea medication so you can keep food down, and instructions not to overwork your head. The nurse who goes over the discharge instructions with you hints strongly that you should call someone to sit with you. You tell her you’ll call somebody if you get worried, but you don’t need to be worried. You’re fine.

You’re fine, but the walk to the train station wears you out. You’re fine, but you get dizzy climbing the stairs to the platform. You’re fine, but you have to set an alarm on your phone to remind you of your stop, in case you fall asleep. You’re not supposed to fall asleep for long periods of time right now. You’re not supposed to read or look at your phone or listen to loud music or anything. Your injuries are bad enough that when the nurse logged them into the hero network, you were automatically removed from active status for a week. But you’re fine.

You’re telling yourself that – fine, fine, everything’s fine – when someone sits down right next to you on the train. There are dozens of empty seats, but they chose the one next to you, and people who do that rarely have good things in mind. You really hope they keep their hands to themselves. If your limbic system activates, it’ll take your quirk with it, and right now, your ability to control your quirk is at a low ebb.

A hand slides from within the sleeve of a black coat, clad in a black artist’s glove. It settles on your leg, palm turned upwards. You look over and up and find yourself looking into Shigaraki’s red eyes. His face is shrouded by the hood of his jacket. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you, but you lace your fingers with his and lean against him, your head falling onto his shoulder and staying there for the rest of the ride home.

No one speaks until you’re actually inside your apartment building, and Shigaraki’s the one to break the silence. “This place looks even worse from the inside. Which one is yours?”

“You don’t know?” Of course he wouldn’t – he only ever comes in through the window. “It’s 4B.”

“Right.” It’s quiet again as you climb the stairs. “Keys?”

You don’t need keys – at least not when your quirk’s under control. Right now you’re going to have to try hard not to blow up your doorknob. You move the tumblers with agonizing slowness until the latch clicks, and Shigaraki pushes it open, looking impressed. “You can pick locks now?”

“I just know how this one works.” You only thought as far ahead as getting to your apartment and getting inside. You’re out of ideas past this point. “Um, Shigaraki –”

“Quit acting surprised. I said I couldn’t go in with you. I never said I was going to leave.” Shigaraki is going through your fridge. He stops and looks up. “What is that?”

“Huh?” You’re holding a piece of paper. You don’t remember being handed one, but it’s easy to imagine it happening. “I think it’s discharge instructions.”

“Let me see.” Shigaraki snatches them out of your hand, scans them. “I’ll read them. You’re not supposed to read right now anyway. Go – do something.”

Do something. What do you usually do when you get home, right away? Get out of your costume. You make your way down the hall to your room, shedding costume pieces as you go. It occurs to you that it’s not nearly as safe as it usually is for you to have Shigaraki in your apartment – not just for you, but for him. You don’t have an insurance policy on him right now, and worse, your quirk is all the way out of your control. If he startles you, you could hurt him. It’s happened before. Maybe you should warn him, but what would you even say? You finish changing clothes and sit down on your bed to think about it.

You must think about it for longer than expected, because the next thing you know, you’re propped awkwardly on your pillows with an ice pack balanced on your face. Shigaraki’s never come back to your room before – whatever the two of you have been doing, you kept it on the couch – but he’s here now, stretched out on the bed next to you and playing a game on a phone. Your phone. “Um –”

“I don’t have one right now. And mine didn’t have any games,” Shigaraki says. You try to sit up for a look and he pushes you back down. “You’re not supposed to look at screens.”

“What are you playing?”

“The one where you make a disease and try to kill the world. Weird game for a hero to have on her phone.” Shigaraki’s wearing his gloves. “This virus one is tough.”

“Yeah, if you’re playing on Mega-Brutal,” you say. You glance at Shigaraki from under the ice pack and see him scowling. “You don’t have to do everything on hard mode, you know.”

“Neither do you,” Shigaraki says. He pauses the game and sets your phone down, and you can tell he’s not happy. “I’ll kill creeps for you. I don’t care about that. But I need to know. Is it that you can’t, or you won’t?”

“I don’t want to kill people,” you say. Shigaraki makes a skeptical face, and you realize that you’re lying – that you’re lying, and that he can tell. “I didn’t want to kill the people who would have died if I’d tried to kill that guy right then.”

“Collateral damage? Don’t lie. I watched you rip the guts out of one of Twice’s copies without hurting anybody else who was there,” Shigaraki says. “Level with me. Which is it?”

You don’t know how to explain. “I didn’t have control. I still don’t. I’d have just been protecting myself, not fighting back, and I couldn’t –”

“Why do you think that would kill somebody?” Shigaraki demands. He’s mad at you, like you thought ��� but not for the reason you thought, and as you watch, his expression shifts, contorts. “You’ve done it before. When?”

You don’t want to tell him. It’ll just make him try harder to turn you. But you don’t want to fight about this, and given how much exposure he risked helping you, you feel like you owe it to him. “When my quirk awakened,” you say. You already had to talk about it once today. What’s one more time? “Someone was shooting at me. I sent the bullets back at him, but I wasn’t thinking. I was just scared. And he wasn’t the only one I hit.”

Your quirk awakening definitively killed two people – the man who decided to shoot up your primary school, and a police officer who’d arrived too late to stop him – and one of the shots you returned was the final blow to an already critically-injured victim. You also damaged the building, pulled up every water pipe and buried fiber-optic cable on the school grounds, and distorted every radio broadcast going in and out of the police perimeter. Your quirk awoke in response to fear, and in protecting yourself, there’s no such thing as a proportional response. If you’d used your quirk tonight, facing a criminal who’d beaten you half to unconsciousness, he wouldn’t have been anything close to the only casualty. And you decided a long time ago that it was better to be hurt than to hurt others. Or it was decided for you. It was such a long time ago that you don’t remember which.

Shigaraki is staring at you. The silence is a heavy weight on your chest, so heavy that it forces words out of your mouth. “Say something. Please.”

“You were – a kid.” Shigaraki’s mouth distorts around the words. “Nobody came to save you, so you had to do it yourself.”

People were coming. They just weren’t coming fast enough. Shigaraki’s still talking. “When you were talking about the law the first time I came over – the intention thing – and premeditation – this is why. Right?”

You almost nod, then remember how badly nodding hurts. “Right.”

“So it wasn’t on you,” Shigaraki starts, then stops. Something’s happening to him. All the blood’s draining from his face, and his hands are trembling in his lap. “If it matters, what was happening before – then –”

“Hey.” Even through the pain in your head, you can see that Shigaraki’s in trouble. You sit up slowly, keeping the ice pack in place one-handed, and edge closer to him. It’s not just his hands shaking now. His whole body is shaking, too. “Shigaraki, hey. Hold it together, okay? Everything’s okay.”

“Not if you’re right.” He’s speaking through clenched teeth. “If you’re right about this, then that means he’s –”

“Who?” you ask. Shigaraki shakes his head. You’ve never seen him like this before, and if he wasn’t wearing his gloves, you’d be getting as far from him as possible. You know what it looks like when someone’s about to lose control. “Okay. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Um, should we –”

Your eyes fall on your phone. You pick it up and find that Shigaraki’s paused it midway through getting his ass kicked. When you look at the symptom clusters he’s evolved and the transmissions he’s selected, it’s not hard to see why he’s losing. “I’m just going to fix this,” you say. “Want to keep me company?”

For a moment you think he’s too far gone to respond. Then one shaky hand comes up and takes the phone from you. “You’re not supposed to look at screens.”

“Okay, so you can look,” you compromise. You’re glad he’s got it. The blue light from the screen was making your skull ache. “I’ll tell you what to do. You have to devolve some stuff.”

“I’ll lose DNA points.”

“Yeah, you will.” You roll so you’re lying on your side, raise your head slightly so it’s against Shigaraki’s shoulder. “But you have to get rid of Total Organ Failure right now, or it’s going to kill off everybody before they can transmit the disease.”

“Fine.” Shigaraki taps the screen with his thumb. He’s trying to free his arm from his side, and once it’s free, he wraps it around you. Then he curses. “Now it says I need higher-level symptoms again.”

“Evolve Necrosis,” you say. “It still kills people, but their bodies become transmission vectors after they’re dead. That should help.”

Shigaraki taps the screen again. “I didn’t know you liked games.”

“Only some games,” you say. He’s calming down. You can tell, even before you set one hand on his chest, just over his heart, and feel the movement of the iron concentration in his veins slowing down. “Did you pick any transmission or mutation genes when you were setting up your virus at the start of the game?”

“Don’t remember.” Shigaraki lifts one shoulder, then lets it fall. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts,” you say. “How are you?”

“I’m getting my ass kicked by a mobile game on my girlfriend’s phone. How do you think I feel?” Shigaraki’s voice sounds like his again, but his arm wraps more tightly around you, molding your body against his. “Next time, if I’m not there – kill whoever you have to, however you have to. You’re more important than they are.”

“It’s not going to happen again, Shigaraki,” you say. It won’t – not so long as you limit the number of headshots you take. “My life isn’t more important than anyone else’s.”

“It is. To me.” Shigaraki’s chest rises and falls beneath your hand in a deep, slow breath. “And you shouldn’t call me that anymore.”

“What?”

“Shigaraki,” he says. He’s looking away, tapping impatiently at the screen, and the words come out quieter than usual. “You should call me Tomura.”

A jolt runs through you – half excitement, half apprehension. Somehow it feels like a mistake, saying yes to this. More of a mistake than losing focus at Kamino, than letting him in that first night, than kissing him and letting yourself forget for longer and longer periods of time what he’s done and what he’s planning to do. Knowing it hasn’t stopped you yet, and it doesn’t stop you now. “Tomura,” you say, and you feel him relax completely at last. “Okay.”

tag list: @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @cryptidfuckerofficial @lvtuss @f3r4lfr0gg3r @minniessskiii @issaortiz @evilcookie5

[satinprose]

potter!ellie headcanons.

this came to me in a dream and gave me severe heart palpitations. these are headcanons in a story format, lots of yapping. enjoy this. i love ellie my baby ♡ mdni  as  usual.  cw  ;  this  is  mostly  fluff  but  with  some  suggestive  descriptions and a little smut (fingering)  (my  hand  kink  got  in  the  way  of  my  better  judgement)

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who works at an art studio. she specialises in pottery and painting, sells her own work and assists during her boss' public lessons.

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who you met at your friend's bachelorette party. one of those cliché 'paint n' sip' sessions, rich wine on your tongue and pre-made pots and plates to be glazed or painted. the throws of early autumn had the sun streaming through the studio's windows and warming the greenery, of which there was a lot—it was the most beautiful room you'd ever been in. shelves upon shelves of half-finished pieces, some glazed pieces waiting to be fired. paintings lining the wall, plants hanging from the ceiling and sitting atop each table.

you wish you could say differently, but she stole your attention from the moment you saw her. as the token single girl in your circle, you couldn't even tell if this was a genuine interest, pathetic loneliness, or the wine messing with your eyes.

her hair seemed to glow brighter in the sun, a reddish tinge to it. that day, red seemed to stand out. the wine, her hair, the exhaustion that flushed her cheeks. it was warm, after all, and ellie was on her feet giving whatever painting advice she could offer to your group.

it's definitely interest. that much, you could gather. you weren't just following her ever move with your eyes, you were seeking approval like a teacher's pet. your friends hadn't seen you so whipped in their lives—you looked lost if ellie wasn't speaking to you.

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who knew you were into her from the start. though, she was far from unimpressed with the designs you chose to paint on your ceramic. the energy within the group was nothing she hadn't seen from a bachelorette's party, a group of women chuckling over their shaky lines and poor artwork all born from tipsiness.

"well, look at that. one of you chicks is actually talented." "what, me?" you couldn't help laughing at yourself, yet the look on her face was so serious that your giggles trailed off into awkwardness. "yeah, duh. do you paint often?" simple questions felt like an interrogation, the fact worsened by your friends' laughter. ellie was so casual, but you felt anything but. her leaning against an empty chair, muscular arms flexing, and her gaze cutting into you... "not really, no... just random sketching every now and then." she nodded, and you, somehow, roped your way into meeting with her again. in fact, she was more eager than she initially seemed. "actually, i've been thinking about starting some kinda classes. a new hobby or something. pottery has been interesting to me—" "you let me know when you're free next."

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who gave you a one-on-one lesson in wheel throwing. it was an intimate lesson. she begged her boss to let her have the studio to herself late one night, which honestly isn't a rare occasion as she often stays late to work on pieces alone. but it was harder considering she was bringing you in this time around.

ellie was perfect. a little awkward, but she was teaching you what she does best, and every little thing had your heart pumping out of your chest. lots of time was wasted on failed creations—wheel throwing is hard for beginners. she was sat behind you, wide hands guiding yours. your forearms were muddy and all you could really focus on was the warmth of her breathing against the side of your neck.

when it came time to pay for your lesson and wrap things up, she pushed back your card. "no payment, darlin'. it was a date."

was it? she never said so before. but she was smug at the look on your face, lamely shrugging her shoulders and asking if a second date—a far less messy one—was on the cards.

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who was thoughtfulness-personified. each date she gifted you something handcrafted or painted. even a small sketch on a napkin on weeks that she couldn't catch a proper break. she was a passionate person, and couldn't help mixing her greatest passion with her newest—art, and you.

your very quickly started to run out of space to store everything. but as a girl who valued being of service to her lover, ellie happily volunteered to build you new shelving units just to keep her art in.

she'd make you things like this...

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who lets you chill at the studio even without permission from her boss. she treats you like her very own little assistant, helping her clean up and giving her your own artistic input on projects. you could sit and watch her for hours. hair in her face or thrown back into a little bun, an old wife-beater on and legs spread around the spinner. the look of concentration—brows furrowed, lips pursed, as she carefully shapes the clay. her hands one of your favourite parts; veiny, skilled. bony fingers working the clay effortlessly.

she had made it extremely clear that she doesn't mind a little mess, whether it be clay on her hands or your sticky essence dripping down her fingers like honey.

no, you aren't subtle. she knows how you get, watching her work. on the days she stays late, she'll get you to help her clean up before pushing you onto a table. ellie knows you're already wet from dreamy kisses you shared as she was working and sweet talking you.

"mhm, good girl, just like that, yeah? my patient girl." she'll coo to you as she works her fingers into your pussy, commending you for waiting so prettily and even at times being the perfect muse for a painting. but she won't stop until her fingers are glazed, and like a good girl indeed, you'll let her slip her digits into your mouth so you can suck 'em clean.

𝜗𝜚 ellie, who asked you to marry her two years later with a custom-made ring dish.

[sxprot]

Do a Vee x Reader where reader wins on her game show, and the prize is going on a date with her

ALL EYES ON ME!

Divider cred: animatedglittergraphics-n-more n cafekitsune

Note: Bro, yall are making my heart ache, cough cough a single person trynna write something romantic💔 failed miserably . I hope it makes sense for you, haha.

Tw: bad grammar, slight ooc

Vee x gn!reader

VEE:

Set up the prize. Besides, a date with the VEE isn't that bad; she knows how to make you smile and grin. So of course, when you won, her screen flashed a smile when she sees your eyes widen, surprised at the offer to go on a date with her.

Gloat to Astro about it. Of course, in Vee's eyes, you were nothing but nice, helping her whenever you spotted her form, scowling at any inconvenience errors.

Often seek bits of advice to impress you. Just some confidence there isn't that helpful, she needs more! Something that would make you go awe. A bit of a compliment would not do much, it's one of her weaknesses so far.

She doesn't like to see your smile twisting downward into a frown as a recoil to her backhanded compliment, the blunt of her words stab you through the chest.

But really, a simple date that needs so much thinking is a lot. To impress one another is already enough to make her screen buzz in annoyance, one wrong move could lead to another worse case scenario. Worst one is you ignoring her.

So Vee decided to make a small little gift, a lovely surprise box. With the help of the book club's members, she could only hope that you would like it.

"Hello." Vee greets "You look dazzling."

You stare at Vee as she gifts you the present, soon cupping your hands with her palms nervously. Who knows what's going on with her, the way she would lean back, straighten her bow before mimicking a cough.

But oh, the way Vee would sigh in relief when you smiled at her, thanking with such sincerity in your tone, such things overwhelm her to an extent. A bit of steam coming out of her head, but she would dismiss it when you show any concern about it.

Despite the date going well, the television worries about it. She isn't capable of human emotions, a lack of understanding of complex emotions. Behind a smile isn't always something positive, perhaps you took pity on her and went along with it.

Astro had to come to reassure her that she had done well for the first time.

But if you came back tomorrow, saying that the feeling is mutual. Who knows what awaits for you in the future?

Im sorry if its too ooc for your liking, you could request another if you aren't pleased with this;;;SIGHH Im worried

[lavender--fairy]

Hello Fairy, it‘s so good to hear from you again! I can‘t explain how grateful I am to know about the law of assumption. You and many others have helped me understand it and I‘m so happy to be one of those who know that I AM is the truth and there is no other that has control over my world.

Which makes it a little overwhelming sometime… I know about everything (LOA-wise), but even when applying (Living in imagination, focusing on my state, identifying with my inner self etc..) I question if I‘m doing it right.

But I quickly realize that a person who has what he wants would NEVER question it like I do. He just knows because he‘s living as THAT version of himself that has everything. And then it goes on: I become aware that I‘m not in the state anymore and I get frustrated. Then I remember a very meaningful quote: ”be angry, sin not". And I‘m restarting all over again. I push myself gently in my desired state or I think I‘m doing it but deep down I still think about the fact, that 2 secons ago, I was not in my desired state.

I still think about the the past years of failure regarding LOA. And then I remember that I‘m not this body, this human. I AM. I shouldn‘t have to suffer. I shouldn‘t have to crave. I‘m telling myself that I‘m having it in my imagination, but right after that I‘m asking myself "well what the heck is even that? Where does is start, where does it end. If Imagination creates reality, why everytime I fulfill myself in imagination, I get sad emotions as if I‘m imagining another person living my dream life?"

I kid you not, I get jealous of my own inner self?? Is that even possible? 😭

I don‘t know if that could be the problem but for the past 5/6 years, I‘m maladaptive daydreaming. I used imagination to escape my 3d because I hated it and know I don‘t really know what 4d/3d actually is. I remeber angels post on twitter saying that she herself used to daydream excessively because that was her escaping from her reality which was preventing her from being in the state of the wish fulfilled (I‘m not sure If I remember it correctly she later deleted it I think)

I‘m so sorry if I confuse you with my rambling but you are so wise and successful I wan‘t to know how you manage to get what you want. You know I don‘t even want to get things in the 3d anymore, that‘s not my point, I just want to end the cycle of starting then failing then starting again just to fail again. I want to stop wanting it in the 3d because if I fulfill my desires in imagination, I wouldn‘t look for it in the 3d. But that‘s not the case with me. I fulfill, get excited and then look around. That‘s how I know I‘m not in the wish fulfilled, because I‘m looking for a response, I‘m looking for validation. I want to see my 4d as the end/validation.

I just want to make my imagination my safe place but what exactly is imagination? Is Imagination the creator or do I have to create in imagination? And why do I feel so shitty when I imagine?

Thank you so much for your time. Thank you for sharing your knowledge with us.

I truly wish you nothing but the BEST Fairy!

Heyy butterbean!

From what I can tell, you have enough knowledge about the law. You know what to do, you even seem to school yourself a bit here and there. You do remind me alot of myself.

Now, here's what we're going to do. And I say we because I am with you throughout it. Let's manifest a rose together. I want you to close your eyes and feel an imaginary rose in your imaginary hand and see it with your imaginary eyes. Touch and feel the softness of the petals with the pad of your thumb, bring it to your nose and take a nice long sniff, touch along the lengths of the stem. And there you go, that's it. Repeat it everyday whenever preferably before bed and tell me when you encounter it in real life. The rules are simple, we're not allowed to complicate it, make it fun, don't go actively looking for it, don't be anxious or stressed just relax. This is just like Neville’s ladder experiment, It helps build faith. Right now, you can chill and know that I am too imagining the rose with you each night, It's like a fun activity. And when you do manifest it, I'll walk you through manifesting the rest of your desires just like this one. I'll have my pinky linked into yours when I say this, it's not supposed to be hectic quiet the contrary, I promise we'll make this work effortlessly just like it's supposed to be.

[noirsdoll]

I am LOVING your "Jimmy gets out of prison" AU, you capture him so well. Why do I have the feeling that Jimmy won't actually get a job just to spite Anya (he doesn't want to pay her child support). Also hearing that he isn't speaking to Curly, I can totally imagine it's Jimmy who refuses to speak to Curly because Curly told him he has to take responsibility of what he's done, Jimmy literally has 100+ missed calls from Curly ;_;

Ooh I can imagine the drama if Reader/Jimmy run into Curly and Anya somewhere (they're not together but Curly wants to help Anya and the baby)...

THANK YOUUU OMG its just a dumb idea that i cant stop thinking abt LMAO thinking abt babies a lot so this is like very baby centric IDK just anya as a mom cw for referenced abuse but like barely at all... enjoy!! not shipping curly and reader btw reader is loyal unlike jimmy... first part. second part.

You’re on baby duty today, and safe to say, you’re excited.

Anya has the cutest baby ever— a cheerful little monster that latches onto your finger and coos and makes all those adorable noises. It never fails to have your baby fever running high.

You’ve always wanted kids, but something’s always stopped you. You think it might be because of Jimmy— what he might say or do to them. And the way he gets with you, when he gets angry and nothing can console him.

You walk up to the door of her cozy little burnt-sienna house. The garden is overgrown with yellowing plants, and clusters of dandelions are sprinkled across the lawn. No time to garden with a toddler, unfortunately.

Knocking on it, you assume to see what you always do— Anya beaming at you with her kid balanced on her hip, warm earth tones and crisp silver jewellery.

Instead, your eyes drag up to a man you’ve never seen before— who looks equally as shocked to see you.

His frame is blocking most of the doorway, but you peek past it to the sliver of Anya you see in the living room. “I didn’t know you had company over,” you start, “I can come over another time.”

She smiles, “Oh, it’s no problem at all! Come on in!”

The man moves out of the way and lets you in. Your eyes lock onto the kid, who’s surrounded by an assortment of colourful blocks. You take a seat next to her and watch her tiny face light up at the sight of you.

“That’s just Grant,” Anya explains, “he helps out every once and a while.”

Grant? Like, Jimmy’s friend Grant? The guy that cut him off? “Oh, from your time on the Tulpar?” You glance over your shoulder as he moves to join you both.

“Yeah. Grant, this is—”

“You’re Jimmy’s girlfriend, right?” He’s staring like he has a problem with you. What’s his deal?

You just nod, trying to scope him out. “Yeah, I am.”

Both of you look at each other for a moment, all while Anya’s daughter suckles on a wooden block. Anya breaks the silence eventually, making a show of checking her watch and getting to her feet. “Looks like it’s feeding time for you, cutie.” She picks up her baby and smacks a big kiss on her head, who gurgles happily in return. She turns to you. “I’ll be a moment. You two should get to know each other.” 

As she disappears down the hall, you turn back to Grant. He frowns some more, before he finally says. “I heard Jimmy got out around a month ago— is everything going alright?”

You blink at him, shocked. Why does he care? Isn’t this the man that Jimmy claimed to have abandoned him? “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“He hasn’t… done anything to you, has he?” Grant steps forward and places a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to be soothing. The second you freeze, he pulls it right back.

“What are you saying?” You say, anger rising in your voice. You just met this guy like five minutes ago and he thinks he knows everything about you.

“Sometimes he… realizes what he’s doing only after he’s done it.” He glances down the hall. “With Anya... I just don’t want something like that to happen again. He frowns. “Let me know, okay? I can—”

“Our relationship is none of your business,” you snarl. This prick has the toughness of marshmallows— what could he ever do to affect Jimmy?

Finally seeming to sense your annoyance, he backs off. “Alright, alright. We don’t have to talk about it. Just tell the guy to pick up his phone every once and a while.”

“You’ve been calling him?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’ve been calling for the last two weeks. I tried to when he was in the compound, but he must’ve redirected them or something, ‘cause I couldn’t reach him.”

“He said that he…”.

Grant perks up at that. “What did he say?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

Anya comes back around the hall with a newly energized toddler in her arms. “Who’s ready to play?!”

Grant glances at you one last time. “I mean it, though. Call me, text me, anytime.”

You nod, off put by him just as much as you are endeared. You focus on Anya’s adorable baby girl, ignoring the buzzing of your phone in your back pocket as Jimmy realizes you aren’t home like you said you would be.

[livfastdieyoung69]

sighh thinking ab frank castle w a fellow vigilante who has similar vibes to black cat, deadpool, etc. (basically just a catty bitch with a tragic backstory, what’s new)

franks just enjoying his coffee at the same shitty diner he always goes to, watching the world go past for his ten minutes of daily peace when she plops down in the booth across from him.

he’s not really sure what’s going on, or who this lady (this smoking hot lady, holy shit) is, so he just takes another sip and raises his eyebrows at her.

a manicured nail, sharp and black, points at him.

“i know who you are.”

“‘scuse me?” he sets the ceramic cup on the table, leaning back against the sticky booth.

“you’re that, uh,” her finger is waving around at his chest and he can smell the mint of her gum. “that skull guy.” when she finally conjures her answer her hand falls flat on the table.

“listen, lady,” he’s trying to deflect, but he’s looking around the place in an urgency that could only mean she’s right. “i don’t know who the hell you are-“

her hand comes back up, palm to his face. “don’t worry. i totally stand for it. very overthrowing the government chic.”

now he’s even more confused, but before he can tell this lady to piss off, the place is raining with bullets and she’s diving under the table like she’s done this before. he’s next to the table, grumbling cuss words under his breath. seconds away from pulling himself together and dealing with this shit, she grabs his jacket and tugs herself forwards with it.

“are they here for you or me?” he stutters out an answer of how the hell is he supposed to know, because who the hell is this woman and why would anyone be after her? “i have every government agency you could possibly imagine on my ass, and then like, two more. been a crazy week!”

he pulls her up from under the table, and basically yells in her ear to get to the kitchen. she’s way too calm to be unexperienced in this, army crawling in a pair of heels.

“these pants were way too expensive for this,” she complains but when that absolute hunk of a man lands himself directly over top of her and wraps an arm around her, forcing her to go faster, all further complaints disappear.

he can feel her pulse on her wrist when he tugs her up again before they tumble out the back door, and thinks maybe the whole calm thing is a hoax. her heart is beating out of her chest, and she hasn’t even broke a sweat.

they book it to his shitty stolen car and frank drives as fast as he can without being too suspicious.

“you alright?” he asks her, finally breaking the silence half way out of the city.

“its whatever.” she rolls her eyes and diminishes it with a wave of her hand. “as long as i can get this scuff off my damn shoes. why, i seem new at this or somethin?”

“pulse felt like your heart was about to jump out your throat.”

“oh, yeah, its just like that all the time. i’m a failed science experiment, basically. that’s why the government wants me. well- not really, the people that experimented on me also made me kill a bunch of people, but like…same-difference.” she shrugs and continues picking at her nails like it means nothing.

this lady just keeps getting more and more baffling, so he just keeps his mouth shut and lets the radio play a little louder.

he’s been stuck with her ever since.

[sh0jun]

Hello... May I make a request?

When I watched some clips from FX Shogun, I discovered that most women in 16th Century Japan (especially the Noble Lady) was very reserved and demure.

So, instead a proper, Japanese lady at that time, what would the warlords think with a foreigner, confident and seductive MC ☺️?

(Nobunaga + the warlords of your choice)

Thank you 💜

Hello! ฅ(＾・ω・＾ฅ)

Welcome to my blog and thankyou for requesting!

Sorry this took so long

Foreigner MC

• Oda Forces

→ Nobunaga Oda

• Nobunaga was already intrigued with your choice of clothes when he first met you

• he had infact never seen those types of clothes before. So he deemed that you maybe were a tourist

• and he was right. Seeing how you didn't speak Japanese and knew absolutely nothing about proper etiquette

• you were eager to help around the castle but your movements were clumsy. Very clumsy. Nobunaga deemed it unsafe for you to help around the castle and stuck to teaching you proper Japanese culture first.

• in the meantime, he stuck to learning your language so he can communicate with you more smoothly

• his first questions for you were about your culture and traditions. And what sweets you have back from where you come from

• he may ask you to make some for him

→ Hideyoshi Toyotomi

• this man does not trust you one bit.

• but seeing how clumsy and reckless you were he had no choice but to stick by your side

• his first job was to teach you proper etiquette

• that included how to tie the obi of your kimono correctly. You can't just wear those same dirty clothes everyday afterall!

• once he warms up to you tho, he asks you to teach him your language so he can understand you better

→ Mitsuhide Akechi

• oh how fun. He's got some new entertainment

• things were getting rather dull around here anyways

• he tries to tease you to potentially get some information out of you however that quickly changes when all you do is smile and nod your head at his teasing before going on on your merry way

• seeing your clumsiness and cluelessness, he decides to be your teacher and teach you everything you need to learn to survive this era

• he throws in some tease every once in a while but you don't give him the reaction he wishes to see

• it's okay you're getting there 👌

→ Mitsunari Ishida

• oh how fun!

• The first thing he does is learn your language so you two can have a good long cultural exchange

• he would love to talk to you and assist you with your tasks (if you get any that is)

• or he would just like to chat in general

• he wants to know EVERYTHING there is to know about your culture and traditions. About where you come from, how you dress, what made you visit Japan etc.

Uesugi Takeda Forces

→ Sasuke Sarutobi

• when he first interacted with you near the monument, and when you both got swept through the wormhole, he knew he had to find you

• you won't survive for long on your own here

• after he finds you, he let's you in on your current situation and confiscates your translator. (He doesn't want you whipping it out casually to talk to the warlords because they would very NOT take is very causally)

• anyways he becomes your guide and helped through the sengoku era from that point

Thankyou for reading!

• Taglist: @bakersgrief @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @mollycoddle707 @bontu-the-l0ver @ludivineikewolf @rubia8

(If anyone would like to be added or removed just lemme know!)

PS: This took longer than i had originally intended to and I'm sorry if it isn't to your liking

Life isn't going as smoothly as I thought

If it helps I thought of a funny scenario regarding this request:

Imagine everytime MC tries to explain something to the warlords in the war council and they fail to, she just whips out her translator and as soon as they see that black box thing relay her message the whole council erupts in absolute chaos with Hideyoshi yelling "A WITCH! SHE'S A WITCH"

and the MC is just looking at him with a questioning smile because she doesn't understand shit

And that's how they found out she's from the future<3

[mxtxfanatic]

I would also like the mdzs fandom to stop inventing turmoil between Jiang Fengmian and Jiang Yanli just because Jiang Fengmian had a strained relationship with Jiang Cheng. There’s nothing to say that the father-daughter duo had issues, that Jiang Fengmian was neglectful (to either of them, tbh), or that he was indifferent to his daughter's presence. You feeling like Jiang Yanli is disappeared into the background of her family life because she, like her father, doesn't have a lot of scenes is not supported by the canon. While we don’t get a lot of interactions between them (because there is literally no plot or conflict to highlight), what we do get is Jiang Fengmian sticking up for his daughter and terminating a marriage contract that his abusive wife set up, something even Jin Guangshan was afraid to do:

[Jiang Fengmian] told Jin Guangshan, “The engagement was originally made at the insistence of Ah-Li’s mother. I never agreed with it. Given what happened today, it seems both sides aren’t very fond of each other, so it’s best not to force the issue.” Startled, Jin Guangshan hesitated a bit. Regardless of the situation, ending an engagement with a member of another Great Clan was never a good thing. “What do children understand? Let them fight. Fengmian-xiong, we need not take notice.” “Jin-xiong, though we can help them arrange a marriage, we can’t live the marriage for them. In the end, they are the ones who will spend their lives together.” This marriage business wasn’t Jin Guangshan’s idea in the first place either. From the perspective of consolidating power through a marriage alliance, the Yunmeng Jiang Clan would not be his first choice, nor was it the best choice. The engagement had happened only because he was perpetually afraid of opposing his wife. But in any case, since the Jiang Clan had brought it up of their own accord, and Jin Clan was on the male side of the arrangement and thus had fewer things to be concerned about, it was not necessary to remain entangled. Besides, he knew Jin Zixuan wasn’t happy with having Jiang Yanli as his fiancée. After giving it serious consideration, Jin Guangshan found his backbone and he agreed.

—Chapt. 18: Elegance VIII, fanyiyi

We get him hand-making kites with her to decorate for Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng, and the rest of the disciples to play with:

Back when Wei Wuxian lived at Lotus Pier, he had played the kite shooting game with the disciples of the Jiang Clan and had placed first many times. ... Jiang Fengmian had constructed the frame himself and Jiang Yanli had drawn the design. Thus, whenever Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng had taken their kites out to compete, they had felt a kind of pride.

—Chapt. 32: Morning Dew V, fanyiyi

We get them having family dinners often enough that Wei Wuxian seems worried that he would miss one right before the Wen show up to Lotus Pier:

Wei WuXian asked, “Uncle Jiang went out so early in the morning —why hasn’t he come back yet? Would he make it in time for dinner?”

—Chapt. 57: Poisons, exr

We get him having no qualms with Jiang Yanli's hobbies such as cooking, even seems eager to partake in her creations—if we assume he hasn't before:

With a smile, Jiang YanLi wiped Wei WuXian’s mouth and chin, and walked happily out with the bowl in her hands. Jiang FengMian sat down where she had been sitting. Glancing at the porcelain jar, he seemed as if he wanted to taste it as well, but the bowl had already been taken away by Jiang YanLi.

—Chapt. 56: Poisons, exr

The reason why Jiang Cheng thinks his father hates him is because he takes any whiff of disapproval from his father to mean hatred, a trait he picked up from and that is nourished by his mother's own insistence that Jiang Fengmian "must" hate her son for being like her:

The founder of the YunmengJiang Sect, Jiang Chi, was born a rogue cultivator. The ways of the sect were honest and unrestrained. Madam Yu’s manners were the exact opposite. And, both Jiang Cheng’s looks and personality took after his mother. He hadn’t ever been to Jiang FengMian’s liking. Since birth, he taught him in many ways, yet he still couldn’t change, which was why Jiang FengMian had always seemed as though he didn’t favor him too much.

—Chapt. 56: Poisons, exr

The founding father of the Jiang Clan of Yunmeng, Jiang Chi, came from a knight-errant background. The family was exuberant, honest, magnanimous, and carefree in its ways —all of which were in complete opposition to Madam Yu’s spirit. Jiang Cheng took after his mother in looks and personality, which had never been to Jiang Fengmian’s liking. He had tried to educate Jiang Cheng in a myriad of ways, but it had all been for naught. This was why it always appeared as though he didn’t favor his son.

—Volume 3, Chapt. 12: Sandu: The Three Poisons, 7seas

Notice how it doesn't say that Jiang Cheng, himself, was never to Jiang Fengmian's liking, but that Madam Yu and her personality type that Jiang Cheng inherited was never to his liking, and it only "seemed/appeared" that Jiang Fengmian did not favor his son because he spent a lot of time trying to correct Jiang Cheng's bad habits, something Jiang Cheng resented. Notice how it also does not say that Jiang Fengmian avoided or ignored his son. In fact, we are told that he tried different ways to teach Jiang Cheng, a futile action we see him still committed to even up to the fall of Lotus Pier. Jiang Fengmian never gave up on his son. Jiang Cheng gave up on himself as Jiang Fengmian's son. None of that has to do with how the Jiang Fengmian and Jiang Yanli interacted in life nor how Jiang Yanli felt about her parents in death, still visiting their tablets regularly to clean and talk to them:

Jiang YanLi was kneeling in the ancestral hall. She cleaned her parents’ memorial tablets as she whispered. Wei WuXian poked his head inside, “Shijie? Talking to Uncle Jiang and Madam Yu again?”

—Chapt. 71: Departure, exr

To say that Jiang Fengmian is a terrible father simply because Jiang Cheng is more comfortable believing his mother’s lies than understanding that unconditional love does not mean unconditional tolerance for poor behavior does Jiang Fengmian’s character a disservice. To say that Jiang Fengmian is a terrible father to Jiang Yanli based on Madam Yu and Jiang Cheng’s own fantasies of victimhood is just an extra unnecessary lie to give credence to an idea that the story proves untrue. At worst, Jiang Fengmian was a man reserved in physical displays of affection that could have stood to hug his son more if that was what Jiang Cheng truly wanted. But if we are being truthful, Jiang Fengmian's just a regular fucking guy juggling raising kids and leading a clan with deterring his abusive wife from turning his home into a battlefield any time she deigns to show her face. Whatever issue you think Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng should have with their upbringing, the locus of the problem is named Yu Ziyuan, not Jiang Fengmian.