#so much. i hate him i hate him!!!!! ... but also i really don't... BUT ALSO I HATE HIM! he's mean and so smug
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
trinity15 · 2 days ago
Text
CATWOMAN
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Lando Norris x fem!reader
word count: 1.5k
Summary: Lando's friends set him up on a blind date with a girl he apparently has nothing in common with until she starts talking about her four cats.
To my cat and Lando girlies (me ✋😔). Special mention to my cats Kimi and Max. I came up with this after recalling a conversation I had with my father about what drivers names you could give a cat.
masterlist
Tumblr media
The date couldn't be going any worse. Two months ago his friends had convinced him that they had the perfect girl for him, and now that she was in front of him and the date was almost over he wasn't so sure about it.
She was pretty, for sure, but they where the complete opposite and the situation was becoming more and more akward. Lando was beginning to wonder why he had accepted Max's idea.
On the other hand, Y/n was defenitelly calling Pietra once the date was over to tell her that she appreciates her effort but that the date had been an absotute dissaster.
Two months before the date, Y/n and Pietra had met after not having seen each other for a long time. Pietra had told her friend that she had something very important to tell her. They went to a café and just sat down to talk.
"Y/n I have an idea" Y/n's face changed. Pietra was the typical person who always thought of something that didn't make sense, but says it anyway. She was Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls in real life, but Y/n loved her anyway and she would always be one of her best friends.
"Tell me your idea Pietra" Y/n smiled at her and her friend's eyes lit up. She was excited to tell her her idea and she really hoped that Y/n would accept her proposal.
"Hear me out, a blind date" Y/n frowned, confused. A blind date? What did Pietra mean by that? She knew she had crazy ideas, but she'd expected anything but that.
"A blind date? But you're already dating Max!"
"No, silly, a blind date for you. Besides, I've got the perfect person for you" Y/n wasn't very convinced with the idea but she could only accept because her friend looked excited and deep down she was curious to know who was the person Pietra wanted to set her up with. "Ah, but don't talk about Formula 1, and don't mention your cats either".
Now, sitting in front of none other than Lando Norris, she understood why Pietra had said that. She knew perfectly well who he was. Y/n had loved Formula 1 since she was a child and still followed the sport. Nor was she surprised that her date was Lando. She knew perfectly well that Pietra's boyfriend, Max Fewtrell, was Lando's best friend. What she didn't expect was to be paired with him.
They were both equally silent. Y/n had been forbidden by Pietra to talk about the only thing she had in common with Lando: Formula 1. And on the other hand, to Lando, Max had warned him that if he mentioned his work, his date would get bored and leave, which he was very wrong about, but he didn't know it.
They had tried to talk about movies, she liked rom-coms, but he liked action movies. They had also mentioned their favourite food. She loved sushi, he hated fish. She had tried to tell him a couple of anecdotes, which Lando had listened to attentively as he searched his mind for some experience of his own that didn't involve Formula 1, but it was impossible. Formula 1 was his job, it was also part of his day to day life. It was his entire life. And it was also a forbidden topic of conversation on this date.
"Fuck it," Lando thought. If the date was already sucking he wasn't going to risk much if he mentioned the sport, after all, it couldn't get any worse. The girl had really charmed him physically and had a sweet way of talking, it annoyed him that he didn't have anything in common with her because he had liked her.
"Do you know what formula one is?" Lando threw out the question. He expected either a fake answer saying she didn't know anything so he would start talking to her about it or she would start telling him it was a boring sport and that it was just cars running around in circles. However, her answer surprised him.
"Yes, of course. I've been following the sport since I was a little girl." She did know what Formula 1 was and still watched it, which meant she knew who he was.
"So you know who I am?"
"Yes, I know who you are. Do I have to tell you your whole biography or is that enough?" She had said it as a joke, a sarcastic comment to lighten the mood, however it had sounded edgy and Lando had frowned. "Sorry Lando, I have a weird humour and sometimes it seems like I'm being very rude."
Lando shook his head downplaying it so Y/n wouldn't worry. "So you do like it? It's just that Max told me not to mention it because you'd get bored" Y/n laughed. A light, genuine laugh. It amazed her how Max and Pietra had been able to conclude that she and Lando would be a good match and not know one of the few things (or the only one) they had in common.
"Pietra just told me not to mention it, and not to talk about my cats either. I've lasted long enough, it's usually the first thing I mention." Now Lando was curious, he wanted to know more about her cats and why Pietra hadn't let her talk about them.
"What about your cats?" The question seemed to cheer her up, because when Lando looked at her her eyes had begun to sparkle with excitement. That brought a sincere smile to his lips.
"I have four cats and they're all named after Formula 1 drivers." Lando raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled even wider. The joy and enthusiasm in Y/n's words was infectious.
He was mentally thanking himself for bringing up that topic of conversation because, the once awkward date had now become very entertaining and he didn't want it to end.
Lando leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, attentive to what Y/n was saying. "It all started with my first cat. I adopted him when he was a kitten and since he was running everywhere I named him Kimi after Kimi Raikkonen."
"So you decided that since one was named after a driver the rest were too?" and as if Lando was inside her mind he formulated the next thing she was going to say in the form of a question. Y/n smiled and nodded before continuing.
"Yeah well, sort of. Then I adopted Max, he already had that name when I adopted him and I took it as a sign." Lando's smile didn't disappear, let alone Y/n's enthusiasm.
He had earlier planned to skip dessert to leave as soon as possible but now he was calling the waiter to bring them the menu and pick one. Anything to keep Y/n talking. "Wait, pick a dessert and then tell me more about it."
Y/n asked the waiter for a brownie and Lando ordered a cheesecake. The waiter returned almost immediately and left the plates on the table.
"As I was saying, then I found a kitten in a dumpster. She had just given birth and was malnourished. I took her and her kittens to the vet." Lando's face took on a worried expression. He had always loved animals, and it made him very sad to hear such stories. "The cubs didn't make it through the night, but the mother was recovering," Y/n continued as she ate her dessert.
"Did you adopt her?" It was a rhetorical question, she was telling him about her cats, of course she adopted her, but Lando just wanted Y/n to see that he was actually paying attention.
"Yes. She's the only girl cat I have. Her name is Senna, after Ayrton Senna."
"And the fourth one?"
"The fourth one, I adopted him because a friend's cat had kittens and she couldn't keep them. I called him Chilli." Lando frowned. Chilli? No one's called Chilli on the grid. Wasn't that a meal?
"Chilli?" he asked.
"Yes. Carlos Sainz is called Chilli, weren't you one of his best friends?" Y/n joked and Lando replied with a sarcastic laugh, but with a smile on his face.
"So they are called Kimi, Max, Senna and Chilli?" Y/n nodded. Lando could tell how happy it made her talk about her cats. "And why aren't any of them named Norris?"
"Okay I didn't know you were so self-centered" Y/n jokingly replied to him. "Maybe the next cat, who knows."
In the end the date ended well and they agreed to go on another one, maybe in the end they could be a good couple as Pietra and Max had thought. They both decided not to tell their friends anything, to tell them that the date had been a disaster and then, if they ended up being something, then tell them, to see their reaction.
5 months later
ynusername 🔒
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietrapilao and more
tagged: lando
caption: Norris and Norris (special appearnce of Max and Senna in the second slide and Chilli in the last one)
lando i know they're all missing me right now liked by author
pietrapilao excuse me??
maxfewtrell "the date was horrible" bullshit
pietrapilao when where you planing on saying anything??
pietrapilao where's my boy kimi?
ynusername you know he's camera shy
Tumblr media
I would appreciate it if you could leave me a comment saying if you liked it. 🧡
taglist: @anamiad00msday @op81s-sweethOe @scentedrosa @h-rtsnana @ilovemeni @n3versatisfied @linnygirl09 @imdyinghelpplease @jaydensluv @love4rami @halleest
895 notes · View notes
hearteyes4logan · 2 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
just being a drivers girlfriend — ob⁞⁷ oliver bearman x fem!reader requested by no one fluff + smau
Image by @jfclpiastri on Pinterest! Other images found on Pinterest also.
synopsis: you’re just being the supportive girlfriend to your formula one driver bf
note: noticed there’s not a lot of ollie oneshots or anything about him 💔 any of the instagrams mentioned apart from the drivers are fake!
instagram.post — yourinstagram just posted!
Tumblr media
caption: from building legos with him to finally seeing him on track đŸŽïžđŸ€Ž @olliebearman
#ausgp2025 #haasf1team
liked by hassf1team, olliebearman, alexandrasaintmleux and others
olliebearman: finally get to see the real things! yourusername: the legos are way better.. haha, kidding babe 💔 olliebearman: woow.. just say you hate seeing me in a car yourusername: noo that's not what i'm saying but you can't build real f1 cars like lego cars.. olliebearman: yeah.. yeah.. whatever you say babe..
hassf1team: lovely to see you in the paddock! yourusername: omg, thank you so much for having me! loved you guys.. olliebearman: yeah guys, next time keep her out of hospitality yourusername: IT WASN'T ME WHO ATE ALL THE COOKIES olliebearman: who was the last person in there? estabanocon: it was me.. 😂
alexandrasaintmleux: you guys are so cute 💗 yourusername: tysm, you and charles are even cuter georgerussellfan: ALEX? drei.g_: alex, we love you 😭
gabrielbortoleto_: you build legos ollie? olliebearman: forced against my own will by @yourusername gabrielbortoleto_: is this true @yourusername yourusername: what is this teamup on me 😭💔 olliebearman: not teaming up on you babe, we're just.. gabrielbortoleto_: we're so teaming up on you 😂
richard.kane: wowo, cuttest couple ever! user1: fr fr humumu_: ikr, they're so cuteá”ƒâżâżá”ƒá”‡á”‰ËĄËĄá”‰ ᔍᔉᔗ ᔗʰᔉᔐ fernlikesf1: BYE, NOT ANNABELLE 😭
erikajules: hot girls don't gatekeep where they got their shirts from yourusername: i got it from esty! viv.m: getting one rn! user3: omg really?? adding it to my cart
instagram.post — yourinstagram just posted!
Tumblr media
caption: okay this is a complete coincidence because why did estaban send me a photo of him wearing bear ears when this is what i'm wearing to quali tonight 😭 @estabanocon @olliebearman
liked by isackhadjar, estabanocon, olliebearman and others
estabanocon: he's never looked better đŸ€Ł olliebearman: count your days old man yourinstagram: woah guys, calm down..
alxsfry: aww this is so cute user98374982: ikr, the fact they didn't plan it is so cute
jansreadingcorner: may this love find me hilda.s: SAME AHAHAH
ivandon: good luck at qualifying! geraldinestinks_: gl! user8347020340: haas 🔛🔝
instagram.story — yourinstagram added to story!
Tumblr media
instagram.post — yourinstagram just posted!
Tumblr media
caption: congratulations on p10 ollie! words cannot describe how proud i am of you for scoring points!! i love you đŸ€Ž @olliebearman @estabanocon @haasf1team
#bahraingp2025
liked by estabanocon, olliebearman, haasf1team, lilyzneimer and others
yourinstagram: first bahrain gp! so fun @haasf1team olliebearman: sad to see you go in a couple days 😞 yourinstagram: i've got college to go back too.. i'll be there for the austria gp and silverstone gp đŸ«¶đŸŒ
user139348939: congratulations on points ollie! wen_yt: finally some more points for my man â€ŒïžđŸ‡ŹđŸ‡§
user793938023820: aww look how cute they look.. yassy_07: may this love find us both @gfdrb gfdrb: nah fr fr
haasf1team: can't wait to see you back with us when you can yourinstagram: omg tysm again guys for letting me come to aus and bahrain!
instagram.story — yourinstagram just added to story!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
© hearteyes4logan
175 notes · View notes
diamonddaze01 · 3 days ago
Text
UNTIL YOU KNOW ME
Tumblr media
PAIRING: lee seokmin x f!reader | WC: 5.7K GENRE: reincarnation au | soulmate(?) au | angst with a happy ending | time is non-linear and also not real don't read into it too much imo.... WARNINGS: major character death, discussions of blood and weapons, heartbreak x 10000, Seokmin Just Needs A Hug.... A/N: for the 100 collab! thank you to @gyubakeries, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, and @shinysobi for hosting such a wonderful collab! | first fic in over a month! sorry I've been gone so long work SUCKS! but writing this was actually so refreshing. I really do enjoy putting Seokmin in Situations (i'm sorry darling boy)
SUMMARY: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.
Tumblr media
On the 47th time Seokmin fell in love with you, he realized it would be the 47th time he lost you, too.
For the first 46 times, he had been foolishly optimistic. For the first 46 times, he still thought himself a king, like he was the first time, his first life. But here, in the 47th (or what could have been his thousandth at this point), Seokmin watched you drop his hand—king of nothing, loser of everything.
He had thought the 47th time would be different. But then again, he had thought that about the 46th. 
In the 46th, he first saw you at the market, laughing—loud, unabashed, bright enough that every head turned toward you. You were tucked between crates of peaches and dried herbs, a smear of pomegranate staining your bottom lip, the sunlight catching in your lashes. A leather satchel hung from your shoulder, worn at the edges, and you walked like someone with places to be and time to waste. You didn’t even glance at him.
That life, Seokmin had sold ink. Hand-ground, bottled in glass, sealed with wax. You visited his stall every week, even though you barely needed supplies. You’d spend long minutes just standing there, brushing your fingers over the shelves like they were familiar somehow. You never lingered on him—but you always lingered.
You asked questions you already knew the answers to. You always added a little extra money to the pile of coins. Once, you’d looked at him for a second too long and said, “It’s strange. You feel like a face I dreamed about.”
Then you’d smiled, tossed a coin onto the table, and left.
You weren’t his, not in that life. You married a cartographer—a good man, Seokmin remembered. He hadn’t hated him. Smelled like cedarwood and carried maps that curled at the edges like flower petals. He’d watch you walk back to the cartographer’s booth, the hem of your skirts catching the breeze, your satchel bouncing against your hip, and think—at least she’s happy.
You died giving birth to your second child. Seokmin found out from a friend of a friend. He didn’t go to the funeral.
And still, your absence gnawed at him in ways he never admitted aloud. He hated himself for thinking it stung a little less that time. Like grief was something you could grow used to.
He closed the stall early the next day. Burned every ledger with your name in it.
This time, in the 47th, you had been the one to say his name first. In this life, you were a singer. Jazz, mostly—low, smoky notes that curled through the air like perfume. He heard your voice before he saw you, carrying out the back of a bar he hadn’t meant to stop at. It had been years—lifetimes—since he last found you, and hearing you again hit him like a blow to the chest.
He’d stepped outside to clear his head. The alley behind the bar was quiet except for the scrape of a match. When he turned, you were already leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette balanced between your fingers.
“You got a light?” you asked.
He fumbled with his lighter. “Yeah. Here.”
Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Your touch felt exactly the same. You lit your cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and looked at him for a beat too long.
“What’s your name?” you asked.
“Seokmin.”
You smiled. “Seokmin,” you repeated, like it tasted good on your tongue. “I feel like I’ve said that before.”
Later that week, you sang for him alone. After the last show, after everyone else had gone. You stood barefoot in the dressing room, still in your stage makeup, and sang something soft and unhurried. He watched you from the chair, hands clasped between his knees, trying not to hold his breath.
In that life, you let him stay.
You fell asleep with your hand curled into the front of his shirt. You let him make you breakfast. You danced with him barefoot on cold tile floors, laughed at his terrible jokes, pulled him into bed when you were too tired to talk. You never once said the word soulmate, but some mornings you looked at him like you were starting to remember.
He almost believed the curse was lifting.
Three weeks later, he read in the paper that the bar had been raided. Police found illegal opium stashed under the floorboards. One casualty. Female. Unnamed. Mid-twenties.
He read the sentence again. And again. The words didn’t change.
He didn’t even finish the article. Just threw the paper into the fire and stood in front of it until the smoke made his eyes sting. He didn’t speak for days. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe without hearing your voice in his ears.
The worst part was that it was different, this time. You’d let him love you. You’d leaned into it. And for a moment—just long enough to hurt—he’d thought you might stay.
When the fire burned low in the hearth, and your scarf still hung on the back of the chair, Seokmin realized he was already mourning the 48th.
Tumblr media
The first time he had known you, truly known you, he had worn a crown made of thorns and gold.
The thorns were metaphor, at first: guilt threaded through power, a boy-king raised too fast, carved sharp by grief and coronation. But over time, the weight grew real. Heavy. Gilded. Cutting. On colder nights, he would remove it and find faint red grooves across his temples, like the memory of someone’s fingers pressing too tight.
You had never touched the crown. You never bowed, either, not when the court looked on, not when his voice carried over the fields and froze armies in their march. Your head only ever inclined out of habit, not reverence.
You were not a queen. You had never wanted to be. You had been his warhound. His iron nerve. His blade and the hand that steadied it. You walked three steps behind him in court: silent, precise, eyes ever-moving. But in battle, you rode so close your knees brushed. He had memorized the rhythm of your breathing beside him: steady as the northern wind, sure as thunderclouds in spring. He trusted you more than he trusted his gods.
You bled for him, once.
An assassin’s blade had found its mark, but not the one it sought. He remembered the scream—his own—and how it had barely broken free before you collapsed. Steel had kissed your ribs. You had grabbed the attacker by the hair and run them through before falling.
That night, he paced the length of the war tent, blood soaked through his hands, staining the floor in places the servants would scrub for hours. The physicians had whispered, muttered things about odds and infection and prayers.
But you had lived.
And he had never again worn his crown without hearing your ribs break beneath his fingers.
He never said thank you. You never asked him to.
After, something shifted.
He began reaching for your wrist before any decree. You no longer waited to be summoned. He told his advisors he did not dream. You knew he did. (You were the only one who stayed when he woke screaming.)
And then, the witch came. 
Not cloaked, not veiled, not smoke and shadow. No, she came clothed in grief. In mourning black, with a spine stiff from loss and a voice that broke on the names of her sons. She stood in chains before the court, and the king stood tall as justice was read to her face.
But he flinched when her eyes found you.
Because the witch saw it. The way his gaze darted to you first. Always first. The way he moved closer to you without realizing, even now, even here. The way his hand curled—not around his crown—but around the hilt of his sword, every time her voice rose.
“You strung my children in your gallows,” she said, voice dry as sand. “For every son I buried, you will live a life. And in each one, you will find her again.”
The court murmured. The king stilled.
“And in each one,” she whispered, “she will not know you.”
He tried to kill her then. Blade unsheathed, a scream tearing from his throat. But the magic had already rippled through the chamber, warping the air. By the time his steel reached her, she had turned to dust.
He fell to his knees in it. In her. In the curse that still trembled on the marble floor.
He had dreamed of you, every night before the curse. After, he dreamed only of losing you.
He never told you what the witch said. Maybe he should have. Maybe you would’ve believed him. But how could he? How could he say, I think I’m going to lose you for a hundred lifetimes, and still hold you like it wasn’t already happening?
He tried to make the most of it. He held your hand longer. He stole minutes, lingered in rooms just to watch you fasten your cloak or pull your hair back with a cord. He memorized the scar on your collarbone, the way your mouth curved when you were amused but trying not to show it.
And when the end came—when a blade meant for him found your heart instead—he didn’t scream.
He only whispered, “Please. Not yet.” And somewhere, in the distance, the witch laughed.
Tumblr media
The next time he woke, he was in a crib. Small hands. Weaker lungs. No crown.
But still, even as a child, he dreamed of you.
And he remembered everything.
Tumblr media
In the 19th life, you had been a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.
A quiet girl, born of fog and brine, made of solitude and wind-whipped cliffs. You spoke with your hands more than your mouth. You hummed sea shanties under your breath and slept in a narrow bed beneath a round window that framed the moon like a portrait.
The nights were long. You were used to ghosts.
That life, Seokmin came to you in a storm; not a man so much as a memory trying to remember itself. His ship had shattered itself against the rocks sometime before dawn. You found him tangled in a net of driftwood and broken oaths, sea-foam in his lashes, a gash on his forehead like something the ocean had kissed and bitten in the same breath.
You dragged him inland, breathless and barefoot, the hem of your nightgown soaking in salt. He coughed up seawater and a name you didn’t recognize.
When he woke, it was to the sound of your fire and the creak of old wood settling in your cottage walls. He bled on your sheets. He slept in your father’s clothes.
You fed him soup without asking questions. He answered them anyway.
“My brother,” he said, fingers twitching against the wool blanket. “The sea took him.”
You didn’t tell him the sea takes everyone, eventually.
He watched you when you weren’t looking. You always were—looking, that is. Out toward the rocks. Up at the sky. Across the slow breath of the sea. But never at him.
Still, you brought him what warmth you could: your silence, your bread, your presence. And he, in return, gave you stories of constellations; of stolen ports and stars that guided without mercy; of the ship he had sailed, black-flagged and silver-rigged, bearing the symbol of your father’s enemy.
He didn’t know you had kept the flag.
Your father did.
He found it three days later, soaked and tangled in the wreckage like a secret unraveling.
He came home with the wind behind him and blood already in his eyes. The storm had passed, but it howled still in the bones of your home.
You stood between them — the man you had nursed back into life, and the man who had given you yours.
“Please,” you said, your voice cracking like driftwood underfoot. “He didn’t come here to fight.”
But your father had known too many men like him. Men with soft eyes and hidden blades. Men who flew foreign flags and left entire villages burning in their wake.
Seokmin tried to stand. He was still weak. Still foolish. Still yours.
“I would never hurt her,” he said, voice hoarse, hands raised as if in prayer.
But prayers are no match for grief. And your father’s blade was already moving.
The hunting knife sank in just below the ribs. 
Small. Cruel. Inevitable.
Seokmin tasted iron. Then salt.
Then the press of your hand over the wound, trembling, desperate, too late.
You cradled his face like something fragile and fading. Like driftglass worn smooth by time.
“Why does it feel like we’ve done this before?” you whispered, tears carving salt lines down your cheeks. “Why does this feel like an ending I already know?”
He opened his mouth.
He wanted to tell you: Because it is. Because I’ve loved you this way before. Because I always lose you.But his lungs were filling, and your hands were shaking, and the candlelight was flickering like it knew what came next.
So instead, he closed his eyes and let the sea take him again.
Death came easy, the 19th time. Almost like falling asleep to your voice.
He never woke from that dream. Not until the 20th.
Tumblr media
In the third life, you had been a thief, laughing as you ran, skirts hiked, hair wild like a storm had fallen in love with you.
Seokmin had been a soldier then: duty-bound, spine straight, boots loud. He’d seen you first at the edge of the market square, slipping an apple into the folds of your shawl with a wink at the grocer. You’d moved like a secret, like the city itself was built to part for you. You were sunlight in the cracks of stone, mischief bottled in human form.
He hadn’t meant to follow you.
But that’s the thing about you. You happened to him. Like falling. Like gravity.
He chased you through alleyways for reasons even he didn’t understand—at first because it was his job, then because it was you.
You let him catch you once.
Once.
You turned around in the dark, lantern light catching the gold flecks in your eyes. “You’re not very good at this,” you told him, grinning as you pressed him to the wall. “A real guard would’ve cuffed me by now.”
“I forgot the cuffs,” he’d said, heart stuttering.
You laughed into his collarbone.
You were made of quick fingers and quicker stories. You never told him your real name.
You whistled as you walked. Stole buttons from his coat just to stitch them into your own. Called him “soldier boy” until he stopped asking you not to.
He kissed you like he didn’t know it would end. Like maybe it wouldn’t. And you let him. You let him want you.
The last time he saw you, your laugh echoed too far ahead.
You had stolen something you shouldn’t have—something political, or dangerous, or cursed. He couldn’t remember now. Only that you had turned and run, and he had followed.
You were already bleeding when he caught up.
A blade between your shoulder blades. A pool of red blooming at your spine like the worst kind of flower.
You collapsed in his arms, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go.
Even then, you looked up at him and smiled. Like he was the one who had stolen something. Like he was the lucky one.
“You almost had me,” you whispered, voice broken but bright.
He pressed his forehead to yours and lied. “I’ll find you next time.”
You died before he got the last word out.
In that life, he carved your name into the hilt of his blade. Even though you never gave it to him. Even though you never said it once. Even though he wasn’t sure it had been real.
Still, he wrote it in the steel.
Tumblr media
Seokmin thinks the lives where he doesn’t see you die are the worst of all.
When death comes suddenly—when he holds your body in his arms, when your final breath stutters against his skin—there is at least a shape to the grief. An ending, cruel and sharp, but certain.
But the lives where you just fade? Where you disappear in the blur of traffic, or laughter, or time? Where you leave without knowing him, without ever realizing what you meant, who you were—those are the ones that ruin him slowly.
There’s no body to mourn. No grave to kneel before. Only the ache of unfinished things. Unkissed mouths. Unspoken names. An entire love story dissolving like fog in morning sun.
He tells himself it’s mercy, that maybe not seeing the end means there wasn’t one. But deep down, he knows better.
Tumblr media
The 88th time, he’d been your professor.
He knew it the second you walked into his lecture hall: late, breathless, a pen tucked behind your ear, hair still damp from the rain. You slid into a seat near the back, opened your notebook with fingers that trembled from the cold. You didn’t look at him once that entire hour. Not when he stammered over a line of Yeats that reminded him of the 9th life, or when he dropped his chalk mid-sentence because you had tilted your head in the exact way you used to when you were a queen’s ghost in his bed.
He pretended not to notice you. Tried to be good. Tried to be just a man teaching literature to a room full of strangers. But you weren’t a stranger. Not to him. You were the poem.
You stayed after class one day, weeks in, to ask about a line in The Waste Land. You tapped your pen on the margin like you always did when you were thinking. He watched the ink smudge on your thumb, the same way it had when you'd written him battle reports by candlelight in your first life. You said, “It’s funny, this part—about memory being a kind of burden.” And you laughed.
He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Because for him, memory was everything. And it was crushing him.
He resigned two weeks later. Left behind a half-finished syllabus and a note to the department chair. You never saw him again. But he saw you, from a distance, months later, laughing in the courtyard with someone else, your copy of Eliot annotated to death. You had underlined the line "These fragments I have shored against my ruins."
So had he.
Tumblr media
The 72nd time, he was your neighbor. Third floor, two windows across.
You liked to play music late at night—old jazz, mostly. Sometimes rock. Sometimes nothing at all, just the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stirred your tea. He watched the glow of your lamp through the blinds, a moth to something warm and unreachable.
You passed each other in the hallway every morning. You wore headphones, always. He would nod. You’d smile, distracted, polite. Once, you left your laundry basket in the communal room and he guarded it like a temple, sitting cross-legged in front of it with his back against the dryer until you returned. You thanked him with a granola bar and said, “You’re sweet.”
He wanted to tell you that once you had sewn up the wound in his side with your bare hands. That once you had taught him how to peel mangoes with a knife curved like a crescent moon. That once you had died cradled in his lap, whispering a name he hadn’t used in that life—but it was his all the same.
But all he said was, “Anytime.”
You moved out six months later. He never saw where you went.
But for years after, he still left his window open at night, waiting for the sound of your record player.
Tumblr media
The 91st time was different.
You met in a secondhand bookstore. It was raining, the kind of rain that turned the city soft and slow. You were in the classics aisle, thumbing the cracked spine of a copy of Wuthering Heights like you couldn’t decide whether to take it home. You looked up when he reached for the same shelf.
He should’ve walked away.
Instead, he picked up the book and offered it to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. “You look like you’d like this.”
You tilted your head at him. “That obvious?”
He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the scent of the rain in your hair, or the shape of your mouth on a word like obvious—but he said, “You just remind me of someone who once loved tragic things.”
Your eyes narrowed. “And how’d that end for her?”
He could’ve said: with a sword through her chest in a burning chapel or: with your hand in mine on a battlefield, dying with your mouth full of my name or: you don’t want to know, not really.
But instead, he smiled and shrugged. “She loved anyway.”
You paid for the book. Wrote your number on the receipt. Said, “Just in case you have any other doomed recommendations.”
For three weeks, you met in quiet corners of the city. CafĂ©s, museums, bookstores with creaky floors. You kissed him in a park under a jacaranda tree, your hands in his hair, and he thought—please, this time. Just this once.
But the dreams came.
You woke up one night, tangled in his sheets, your breath short, a name you didn’t recognize on your lips. You stared at him like he was a ghost. And maybe he was.
The next morning, your number stopped working.
He never returned to that bookstore.
Tumblr media
Time no longer moved straight for him. It twisted, coiled like smoke in a sealed jar, writhing just out of his grasp. It folded in on itself, looped through seams he couldn’t stitch shut. Days became out-of-order photographs, blurred at the edges. Sometimes he woke with dirt beneath his fingernails and someone else’s name on his lips. Other times he woke mid-sentence, his voice hoarse, body trembling, your name already half-formed in his throat before he could stop it.
He’d come to in the middle of moments he hadn’t yet earned.
One time, he opened his eyes and your hand was in his. Candlelight flickered across your features, dancing shadows onto the wall, and you were laughing. Your smile was soft and wine-stained, and he thought, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t let this be the middle or the end. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let this be the beginning.
But then the world exhaled, and so did you. And just like that, you let go. The wax had melted too far. The moment was already behind him.
He was always late. Or far too early.
Once, he walked past a street performance in a rainy city, the smell of chestnuts thick in the air, and a violinist was playing your song. You were in the crowd, arms linked with someone else. You didn’t look his way. That was the 59th life. You’d been happy. He’d gone home alone and carved your name into the baseboard with a penknife.
There were lives where he found you on accident: caught in laughter in a passing car, your head tipped back, wind in your hair. He'd pull over. He’d get out. He’d run after you. By then, it was always too late. Always.
And then there were lives where he lived entire decades without knowing you were there. Lives where your name never passed his lips, but his dreams were full of you anyway. Your eyes in faces of strangers. Your laugh hiding behind glass storefronts and voices on the radio.
Once, he met you on the first day.
He had blinked into existence and there you were, leaning over a record store counter, your chin in your palm, chewing a pencil that had no eraser left.
You didn’t even look up as he entered. “New here?” you asked, thumbing through a crate of old CDs.
He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.
You turned then, slid him a mix tape in a clear case with handwritten words across the label: for the sad boys.
You raised an eyebrow. “You look like one of them.”
And then—God, then—you smiled.
Not the kind of smile made for anyone else. The kind he remembered from lifetimes ago, before curses, before loss. The kind you gave him when you’d collapse into a tent after battle, dirt on your cheek and blood on your blade, and he would press his forehead to yours and whisper, you made it. That smile.
He didn’t breathe until he was out the door.
In his 98th life, he kept that tape in the top drawer of his nightstand. Even when the store burned down. Even when you left before winter. He never played it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to know what songs you’d chosen. He didn’t want the sound of your past to be louder than your memory.
And still, some nights, when the silence stretched thin and the moonlight spilled like milk across the floor, he’d take it out of its case. Run his fingers over the letters, worn down by time and hope. He'd hold it to his chest and listen, not to the music, but to what was missing.
You always felt just out of reach. Like a word he once knew. A breath he hadn’t finished taking. A promise made on a night neither of you could remember.
And the worst part was this: You didn’t know he was waiting. You never did.
Tumblr media
By the 99th, he no longer prayed for you to remember.
He didn’t beg the stars, didn’t barter with fate, didn’t scream into the ocean the way he had in the 57th life. Didn’t offer up his name like a chant or a wound. No, by then, Seokmin asked for nothing more than time. A brief stay. A held breath. A quiet life, even if it flickered out too soon.
In the 99th, he found you behind a glass door painted with chipped celestial decals, a crescent moon flaking off the ‘o’ in “OPEN,” a trail of stars skimming the corner of the window like they were escaping. The bell chimed as he stepped in, sharp and unkind.
You looked up. You wore a threadbare tank top and boredom like armor, curled on a stool, a single earbud tucked under your hoodie’s drawstring. The whir of a needle hummed from the back room. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d walked into a dream stitched together from old memories. But no, it was you, older, sharper, your smile missing. You hadn’t seen him yet.
He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the ache in his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart clenched like it always did when it sensed you in the room.
“I don’t have an appointment,” he’d said, voice unsteady.
You glanced at the empty chairs, then at him — his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, his breath shallow.
“No one does anymore,” you replied, voice dry. “Sit.”
He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair like a man about to confess.
You set your gloves on with the kind of efficiency that told him you were good at this — careful hands, precise eyes, the kind of focus that once won wars in other lives. You didn’t ask many questions. Just raised a brow as you prepped the machine.
“What are we doing?”
“A sun,” he said. “Small. Over the heart.”
You didn’t laugh. Just nodded.
“Bold placement,” you murmured, your touch ghosting across his chest as you wiped the spot clean. Your fingers were cold. He felt his ribs shudder under them.
When the needle buzzed to life, he barely flinched. Pain was easy now. Familiar. It grounded him, steadied his breathing. He focused instead on your face: the soft crease between your brows, the way your mouth tugged slightly to one side in concentration. The same mouth that had once commanded armies. That had once kissed him behind a curtain of falling snow. That had once whispered his name as you drowned in the 34th life.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.
The silence between you was velvet-lined, thick with memory he could not share.
But then, when it was over—when the ink had settled beneath his skin, permanent and small like a secret—you lingered.
You stared at the sun, your thumb brushing gently around it, not quite touching.
You tilted your head.
“Feels familiar,” you said.
The words weren’t soft. They were hushed. Like they didn’t belong to the present at all. Like they’d spilled out from another life by accident.
Seokmin’s throat tightened.
He wanted to say, It’s because you’ve drawn it before. On my wrist, in the 18th life, when we were both seventeen and on the run. Or the 42nd, when you painted it in the sky for me with fireflies. Or the 65th, when you carved it into the bark of an apple tree and told me you’d always come back.
But he didn’t say any of that.
He just nodded. Quiet. Reverent. Grateful.
And you didn’t press.
He left with a bandage over his heart and the ghost of your fingers still clinging to his skin.
He didn’t ask for your number.
He didn’t need it.
You were always a life away.
And this one was almost over.
Tumblr media
When his 100th life comes, Seokmin almost forgets.
Time, by then, is waterlogged: bloated, heavy, slipping through his fingers before he can name it. He wakes sometimes and feels seventeen. Other days, he’s all of them at once: soldier, scholar, ghost, god. There are lifetimes he can no longer separate from dreams. Some where he knows he died before you. Others where you didn’t die at all, just vanished, like smoke trailing from the edge of a candle, leaving him in the dark.
But in this life—in his 100th—Seokmin finds himself with a crown on his head and your hand in his.
It startles him. The symmetry. The cruelty of it. Or maybe it’s mercy. He hasn’t decided yet.
The palace is quieter than he remembers. Not the gold-dripping empire of his first life, where bells tolled and sycophants bowed. This one is quieter. Older. Cracks in the stone. Ivy on the columns. A throne made of wood instead of war.
He looks down, and there you are: fingers woven between his, knuckles familiar.
You’re not in armor this time. No blood on your boots. You wear blue. The soft kind. The same blue as the ink that once stained your hands, satchel heavy with pomegranate. The same ink you dabbed on his trembling skin as he told you he wanted a sun on his chest. Permanent. Just above the heart. The fabric sways when you move, like you’ve never known a battlefield. 
But your gaze?
Your gaze is sharp as ever. It slices through the years. Finds him like it always does.
And this time—this time—it lingers.
There’s something different in your eyes. Not just fondness. Not just fate.
Recognition.
He swallows.
You smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’ve seen you,” he says, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to falling to his knees.
You smile at him as the court rises, as banners are unfurled above their heads.
He lifts his eyes to the crest on the silk.
A sun.
Gold and jagged and familiar, encrusted in diamonds atop your crown.
You wear it differently than he ever imagined. Not like royalty. Not like a symbol. You wear it like it’s always been yours. As if, somewhere in you, your hands remember what it was to trace its shape onto his skin. Onto tree bark. Onto war maps. Onto history.
He turns to you, and for a moment, you're no longer queen—you’re the daughter of the man who had once stood on a gallows, made martyr by the very flag Seokmin now rules under. You had screamed that day—not words, just grief. And even as they pulled you away, he had met your eyes. In that life, his 23rd, you never forgave him.
But in this one, your palm finds his. And stays.
You lean in, as the crowd dissolves around you, a blur of robes and oaths and rustling pageantry.
“I had a dream last night,” you say, soft and faraway. “We were in a forest. I had a sword. You were bleeding. I held your face and told you not to die.”
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Did I?”
“No,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist, where he swears the skin still remembers the kisses you pressed there 43 lives ago. “You came back.”
The throne behind you is carved wood. No gold. No fanfare. Ivy spills from its corners like it’s always been part of the earth. And maybe it has. Maybe this kingdom is a little quieter, a little humbler, shaped by all the lives he never got to finish. All the ones he watched you slip through like sand.
But here—in this 100th, his last—he thinks maybe it was all worth it.
Because when he looks at you now, all the pieces come together. You laugh with the same mouth that once kissed him behind a bookshop, that once shouted orders on horseback. You smile like a thief who never got caught. You hold his hand like a promise.
And when you kiss him,  it tastes like ink and salt and rain.
He feels it then: every life pooling into this one.
Every sun he ever wore.
Every name you ever said, even when you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.
Every version of love that wasn’t enough—until now.
Until you.
Until you knew him.
And this time, he doesn’t need to pray.
This time, he just stays.
Tumblr media
239 notes · View notes
nevereclipse · 3 days ago
Text
Still An Innocent
Pairing: fatws!Bucky Barnes x oblivious!fem!reader (pre relationship)
Word count: 1.9k
Summary: You're the barista at Bucky's local coffee shop. You become fast friends, and Bucky cherishes that you don't care about his past. Until he's assaulted for his crimes in front of you and he quickly realises that you don't know what he's done.
Warnings: innocent/ditzy/oblivious reader, discussions of bucky's time as the Winter Soldier, trauma, bucky hating himself, me pretending alpine exists, coffee shop au kinda, some asshat pours hot coffee on bucky for existing :(
Requested: yes, here by my love @fluentmoviequoter. i don't think i got the ditzyness quiet there but hope you like it <33
A/N: bonus points to anyone who figures out the taylor swift song this is based on and gets the references (its very obvious). also my first bucky fic so BE NICE.
---
“For the last time, ma’am, we don’t serve frappucinos here. If you want one of those, you’ll have to go to the Starbucks across the street.” You repressed the urge to roll your eyes as the woman across the counter from you started a tirade about how you really should be selling ‘basic drinks’ like Frappucinos and Strawberry Cobblers – whatever the hell that was. She ended her speech by storming out of the store and declaring you’d lost a costumer, to which you mouthed ‘good’ to yourself.
You took a moment, pinched the bridge of your nose, before plastering a smile across your face and looking up to the new costumer in front of you.
“Hi, sir,” you started, “I’m sorry about her.” Your eyes flicked over the man’s face, taking in his dark hair, shorn short, and icy blue eyes. He was
 wow. And in a leather jacket too? It seemed like God was making up for your shitty previous customer.
“It’s fine,” the man said, a dull smile tugging at his lips. “You probably weren’t mad to see her go, huh?”
You bit back a smile, trying to maintain some professionalism. “It wasn’t the worst part of my day, no,” you admitted. The man in front of you hummed, shifting slightly to pull down the sleeve of his jacket. You caught a glimpse of something dark and shiny beneath the leather but didn’t pay it much attention. “What can I get started for you?”
“A medium flat white, please,” He answered, and you almost sighed in relief at his normal order. You had too many bizarre, impossible ones already and you might’ve thrown him out if he’d tried to order something too crazy.
“No problem. What sort of milk?”
The customer frowned. “Are there
 different types?”
“Of course,” you chuckled gently, “We can do full cream, skim, lactose free, oat, almond, s-.”
“Just milk from a cow, please.” He cut you off, but it wasn’t aggressive, more
 confused. Not that you minded, of course. Though you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter to himself about there only being one type of milk in the forties.
“Perfect!” You smiled, “That’ll be $5.40. Can I grab a name for that one?” You looked up at the man in front of you, meeting his eyes over the till. God, they really were the most startling, icy blue.
“Uh, Bucky,” replied the costumer. Where had you heard that name before? Bucky
 holy shit. You glanced back down and realised that the black shiny thing you’d seen was a hand. A metal hand.
Your jaw dropped. “As in Bucky Barnes?”
Bucky’s shoulders tensed, if metal could really tense, and his jaw set into a hard line like he was expecting confrontation. “Yes, that Bucky,” he said dully, waiting for the fight. What he wasn’t expecting you to say was:
“Holy shit, you’re a hero!”
“I, uh,
” Bucky floundered, thrown off by your words. When was the last time someone, let alone a beautiful woman, had called him a hero? Never, surely. But the tension slowly released from his shoulders and, slightly unsure what to say in response, he stuttered out, “Um. Where- where do I pay?”
“Oh, no, please,” You waved away his hand, clicking a button to push through his order, “It’s on the house.”
The frown was back, a perfect crease between two blue eyes, “I can pay, miss, it’s-.”
“I insist.” You cut him off. “Your coffee will be out soon.”
“I-.” Bucky paused, nodded, swallowed. “Thank you.”  
As he walked away, coffee in hand, Bucky couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to you. The way your eyes had sparkled as you handed him his coffee, the way your smile lit up your whole face. The awe in your eyes when you realised who he was. Awe, not fear. Admiration, even.
He started going to the cafĂ© every day, just for the chance to talk to you. To feel like- like something other than a monster. You started having actual conversations with him. You learnt that he had a tiny white kitten one day when you accidentally saw his phone lockscreen. He learnt that you were the eldest of three children, and that you grew up in Chicago before you moved out to Brooklyn. He quickly became your favourite costumer, though your hero worship of him dissolved quickly as he became less Avenger and more human to you. Once, you asked him if he’d ever met Frank Sinatra.
He laughed and rolled his eyes.
“Is it heavy?” You asked once, nodding at Bucky’s arm. You were sitting with him on your break, drinking a coffee of your own across the table from him. “It looks heavy.”
Bucky always got awkward when you talked about the arm. You didn’t get it, really. The black vibranium was, frankly, gorgeous, and he’d only ever used it to help people. This one, anyway.
“Um
 not really. I’m used to it, and vibranium’s a pretty light metal, so
” Bucky looked down, focusing intently on the sandwich you’d dropped in front of him.
“Hmm,” you hummed in consideration, “Does it make fighting easier? Saving people? Surely, right? Cause you can do all this extra stuff.”
Bucky shifted uncomfortably as you rattled off questions, and when you looked back at him, your smile dropped instantly.
“I- I’m sorry, I’m pushing. You don’t have to tell me-.” You scrambled for an apology, hating the way tension sat in Bucky’s whole frame at your questions.
“No, it’s fine, doll. It’s, uh, not the easiest thing to talk about.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. But the real, full truth was that Bucky simply couldn’t comprehend you talking about the arm like it was- it was a power of something. Something he used for good. Not all the things he didn’t that he could barely speak about but revisited him every night in his dreams.
You didn’t ask Bucky about the arm again after that. But you didn’t understand his shame around it. Not really, anyway. Sure, he’d done bad things with the one Hydra had given him, but that wasn’t him, not in any way that mattered. And it wasn’t the arm he wore – wore? – anymore. Still, you dropped it. In fact, you dropped anything even related to Bucky-the-soldier, instead focusing on Bucky-the-person that you were quickly falling for.
That was, until, someone else brought it up for you.
It was September 27th when it happened. Bucky had been visiting you for months, and you’d started spending nearly all your breaks with him. If he didn’t hurry up and ask you out soon, you’d do it for him.
Anyway. It was the middle of a rush, and Bucky was waiting patiently for you to be free in the table he always sat in. He’d pulled off his glove to better turn the pages of his newspaper (he’s such an old man, you thought to yourself whenever you saw him flicking through the pages), and his metal hand sat visible on the edge of the table. His dog tags had slipped out from under his shirt.
You hadn’t even noticed it happen, not until you heard him curse. Someone had walked straight over to him and poured their freshly ordered espresso onto his chest while giving him a dirty look.  You didn’t hear what he said, too busy trying to drown out the ringing in your ears that had suddenly started, but from the way Bucky’s face flickered then shut down, you could guess.
You excused yourself from serving your customer, called over a coworker and raced to Bucky, grabbing a handful of napkins on your way. In an instant, you were seated beside him and patting at his chest.
“Hi,” you said, concern lacing your words, “Are you okay? What the fuck was that about?” You pat Bucky’s chest gently, sopping up the remaining coffee.
Bucky shook his head, “’S nothing, doll. Don’t worry about it.”
You pulled back, “The fuck do you mean ‘it’s nothing?’ He just assaulted you!”
“It’s okay. Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Bucky murmured.
“Bucky.” You deadpanned, “Are you kidding? What could you possibly have done to deserve that? What did he say to you?”
A dull shrug, “The usual. Called me ‘Soldier,’ said I should’ve been, uh, ‘put down.’”
Called him Soldier? If you weren’t focused on comforting Bucky – though he seemed insistent on denying you – you would’ve chased down his attacker and punched him. Instead, you focused on “’The usual?’ What do you mean – Buck, does this happen often?”
He nodded slowly, unable to meet your eyes. “There’s a lotta people angry at me, doll.”
You frowned, confused, “What on Earth for?”
Bucky looked at you then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I am- was the Winter Soldier.” He forced the name out like it was glass in his throat, like he deserved every bit of coffee spilt on him and anything else anyone wanted to give him.
It didn’t help.
“So what? You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore, right? Right. So why does it matter?”
Bucky continued to stare. “I’m a murderer.”
You chuckled, “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous.” You swiped at his chest again before setting down the napkin.
And then he frowned. And a fear overwhelmed him as he realised that you didn’t know. You didn’t know what he’d done, that’s why you’d never been scared of him. He considered lying – of course he considered it. But, God, he was falling for you, and he couldn’t be with someone who didn’t
 who didn’t know. So he took your hand, with his flesh hand and held it. “What do you think I did, as the Winter Soldier?” He asked slowly.
You shrugged, “I didn’t really think about it. Spy shit, I assumed.”
Something shattered in Bucky. God, he was really going to have to do this, huh? He said your name gently. “I was an assassin. I killed- God, I killed hundreds of people. That’s why that man – why so many people – hate me. Why I deserve their hatred. It wasn’t me who did it, Hydra brainwashed me, but I still did it. I was the Winter Soldier, even if I’m
 not now.”
You paused, digesting the information. What did you say to that? Eventually, you settled on, “So?”
Bucky did a visible double take. “What do you mean ‘so?’ I killed people, doll.”
You shook your head. “No, the Winter Soldier killed people. Bucky, you aren’t
 who you are is not what you did back then. What they made you do.” You frowned, “People shouldn’t hate you for something you couldn’t control. That’s dumb.”
Bucky just stared at you like you were something holy. “You don’t care?” He asked softly, reverently.
“Why would I care? I care about you, Buck. The real you. No one should hate you; you don’t deserve it. Anyone who does is an idiot.” With a soft smile on his face, Bucky squeezed your hand. He opened his mouth to thank you, but nothing came out. He couldn’t find the words to express the relief he felt at your forgiveness, if he could even call it that. You smiled back, squeezed his hand in return, and despite his coffee-stained shirt and his attacker’s words still ringing in his ears, on that Wednesday afternoon in a softly lit coffee shop, he felt safe. And more to than safe, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he was good.
fin
feedback is fuel my loves!! hope you enjoyed
271 notes · View notes
bkghq · 1 day ago
Text
ᝰ GRWM ft. y/n & bakugo
— INCLUDES pro hero! bakugo katsuki x pro hero fem! reader
— CONTENT WARNING ⋼ v wholesome bkg, lwk ooc i think, y/n being a woman of taste
— BONUS ARYA ⋼ i absolutely love this sm!! i think im gonna turn this pro hero yn/ tiktoker thingie into a series hehe
Tumblr media
"Hey guys get ready with me for work while i tell you 10 facts about me and my boyfriend!" Y/n spoke to the camera, getting ready for her patrol, already wearing her hero suit.
"So me and my boyfriend— Katsuki, we met back in highschool. We were classmates and started dating around our second year." She said using toner pads on her face and neck.
She then moved on to the next step in her skincare routine, "Next i'm using this COSRX vitamin c serum— which by the way my very amazing boyfriend got me! i swear this guy does not, and i mean does not let me run out of anything—" She applied the serum on her face with the dropper, "— it's like he has this magical power of knowing when my essentials are almost finish and he'll just get it for me, UNasked!"
"In our relationship, Katsuki does all the cooking." She continues, now using the Milk makeup cooling water under eye gel but not before showing it to the camera. "And yes he definitely is the better cook— I try to cook from time to time, and he really appreciates when i do, but it is as clear as day that his cooking is wayyyy better than mine."
"Oh and he does the dishes too!" She adds smiling at the camera.
"When me and Kats met, we absolutely hated each other." She said putting emphasis on the word hated. "I used to call him potty mouth, and he used to call me spoilt brat, so it was quite shocking when he told me he liked me!" The girl chuckled putting on her moisturiser from clinique.
"Even though I am a pro hero myself and earn hefty, 'suki pays all our bills—" she said next putting on her sunscreen. "— He insists that it's his job since he's the 'man in our relationship, and it's a man's responsibility to provide for his girl' girls, take tips, don't settle for less!" She added acting like an older sister.
"Okay I'm done with my skincare, so moving on to the minimal makeup i do everyday." She said, while showing her too faced concealer.
"Even though he comes off as extremely mean and rude on camera, 'Ki is one of the most thoughtful people you will ever come across, he will not think twice before doing something for the people he loves." She spoke to the camera, unaware of the new company of the said man, who now stood at the door watching her, his figure also coming in the frame.
"Now im using this sacheu lip stain, this is literally my holy grail! it lasts me all day. I could be fighting like 10 villains and it will stay intact." She remarked, applying the lip stain.
"Fact number seven, we never go to bed mad at each other. It's a rule Kats made. No matter how big the fight we always resolve it before hitting the bed, and honestly it's such a healthy way to deal with fights and arguments." She said as a smile made her way to her aswell as Katsuki's face. A soft look in his eyes, as he watched her, arms crossed over his chest.
Y/N moves on to her blush. "Even though we've been dating for a long time now, we never stop going on dates!" She says putting blush on the apple of her cheeks. "This is a great way to keep your relationship interesting i feel like, since due to our work there are times when we are unable to see each for weeks at times."
"On that note— when either of us get assigned any mission overseas, we make sure to facetime atleast once a day even if it's just for 10 minutes. time differences suck, but we pick a time which is suitable for us both." The girl says as she puts her hair down from her messy bun.
"Last but not the least—"
"Is that i love this dummy here s'fuckin' much." Katsuki grumbles, finally making his presence known as he makes his way towards the girl, kissing her forehead. Y/n chuckles at his sudden appearance, because he wasn't one to make constant presence in her tiktok videos.
"You'll be late for patrol now ge'ddup dumbass." He says with no bite behind his words, giving her another kiss this time on her lips.
"Yeah!—" She smiles up at him, and looks back at the camera again, "See you guys soon, b-bye stay safe!" She concludes, hitting pause on the record button on her phone.
"You look cute today." Katsuki hums, as Y/n gets up from her chair, interlocking her hands around Katsuki's neck, his hands instinctively grabbing her waist.
"Thanks ki." She replies with a smile, standing on her tiptoes and kissing the blond man deeply.
Later that day, after patrol when Y/N posted that video. Not expecting it to blowup as much as it did, getting around ten million views, 2.5 million likes and a few hundred thousand comments.
@/ynsluvr : LOOK AT THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER !!!! @/greatexplosionmurdermypussy : if he ain't like this I DONT WANT HIM @/dekusillegitimatechild : omg queen drop links for the products @/pinky : ugh! get married already! @/chargeboltofficial : mama e papa MAMA E PAPA @/redriot : bakubro this all is so manly! proud of you @/serophane : @/chargeboltofficial he's so whipped LOL @/deku : I'm so glad kacchan treats you well y/n san â˜ș
She sure was having a field day reading all these comments.
Tumblr media
THNX 4 READING <3 RBS + COMMENTS APPRECIATED àœČàŸ€
199 notes · View notes
iamactuallysocute · 2 hours ago
Note
I absolutely LOVED your Saja boys x assistant for your writing is honestly amazing 🙏
Sooo I wanted to know if I can ask for another one 🙏
If you don't mind can you do a scenario or story (not actually sure what it's called) for kpop demon hunters, the Saja boys when your secretly dating one of their members like Abby or Romance or baby (you can pick, or do 2 or both of them) and your apart of Huntrix and they find out and their reaction isn't good.
THANK YOU đŸ€đŸ’œ
HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY
cw: mentions of sex and rewinds of sex so we can technically say nsfw, secret relationships, arguments, cursing—and tell me if I missed something
PLOT: Three hunters? History says four! At least in this universe it sure does, because you’re a member of HUNTR/X, a beautiful sweetheart, the dream girl actually. That’s the exact reason a Saja Boy had interest in you. And that Saja Boy is

JINU
It started like a joke. Like the dumb kind of thing you whisper to yourself when you’re three drinks deep after a long night of demon slaying, bruised, blood-splattered, and sore in all the wrong places, “Wouldn’t it be so stupid if I let that cocky little shit Jinu kiss me?”
Except you did. And you let him do a lot more than that.
You know damn well this is wrong.
You’re supposed to hate the Saja Boys.
But then there’s Jinu.
Oh, Jinu.
You know better. You do. But you also know how he kissed you the first time, like he was starving for it, like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, that you’ve been driving him crazy.
Every time you sneak off, telling Mira you’ve got to “clear your head”, lying to Zoey about meeting friends, making up some bullshit mission Rumi would definitely sniff out if she wasn’t so busy being ten times the badass you pretend to be, you end up in Jinu’s room. Usually on his lap. Sometimes against a wall. Once in the backseat of a staff car, which, honestly, was way too cramped for the kind of shit he wanted to try. (But did you complain? No. You just bit his shoulder to muffle the sounds.)
You keep saying it’ll be the last time. Every single time, you tell yourself:
This is it. I’m cutting it off. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon. I’ll kill him when we’re done.
And every single time, you end up under him again, hips rolling, nails dragging down his back while he whispers filth.
You shouldn’t be doing this. Every second with him is a risk. If Zoey finds out? She’ll be furious. If Rumi finds out? You’re dead. If Mira finds out? You might wish you were.
But fuck
 it feels good to be wanted like that.
So no. You’re not telling the girls. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because that boy is a demon, still.
You can see it in the yellow flickers in his eyes when too much happens to his body. The way his voice changes when he’s angry, the shadow under his skin when his temper spikes, like there’s something inside him, snarling.
Because there is. Gwi-Ma.
You hate that freak. You really, truly do.
He’s not always loud, but when he is, you feel so bad for Jinu.
Sometimes, you’ll catch Jinu zoning out—just for a second—and when he blinks back into himself, there’s this
 weight. A bitter taste in the air. You know it’s Gwi-Ma.
You’ll be tangled in Jinu’s sheets, your mouth on his throat, your nails digging into his ribs while he gasps, and then suddenly he’ll choke out a laugh. You’ll ask, “What?” thinking you did something good, and he’ll groan, cover his face and mutter, “Ignore him.”
Like??? Fuck off, Gwi-Ma. (He also once called you “delicious,” which Jinu immediately apologized for by dropping to his knees and staying there for a long time. It helped.)
There was also that one time you were straddling Jinu on the couch in his dressing room, and he went real still, eyes distant, and then just groaned, “Shut the fuck up.” into your neck.
But here’s the thing. Gwi-Ma’s always there—always. Jinu can’t shake him, can’t silence him, not completely. And yet
 you don’t feel the urge to pull a blade on him. Not like you would with anything else that dark and dangerous.
You should. You know that. Every instinct in your hunter-trained, scar-hardened body should scream put it down before it turns on you.
But you don’t.
Because the truth is? The demon’s a parasite. But Jinu? Jinu’s not the demon. He’s the boy fighting it. Every single day. You see it when his eyes flash for just a second and he has to swallow it down. You see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s scared you’ll see it, too. The rot inside. The crack in the mirror.
But you already do.
And you love him anyway.
No, wait, you didn’t mean to say that. Not even in your own head. But it’s out here now.
You love him.
He hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But you know. You know by the way he touches you when he thinks you’re asleep. Soft fingertips, trailing your spine, memorizing the shape of you. You know by how he always lets you go first when you argue, even if he hates it. By the way he flinches when you joke about your death like it’s just another occupational hazard.
And sometimes? When you least expect it, he says shit that almost counts.
Like, “I’d burn the world down if anything happened to you.”
Or, “I like who I am when I’m around you. I don’t hear him as much when you’re close.”
And maybe that’s what really fucks you up.
You thought you were just in it for the heat. For the adrenaline. For the sex and the secrecy and the thrill of knowing you were doing something very bad with someone very pretty.
But now? You’re in deeper.
Worse, so is he.
You’re full on dating. Dating dating.
You should be enemies.
Instead, you’re in his bed.
Heart beating fast.
Shirt already half-off.
And he’s looking at you like you’re the last light he can still see in the dark.
You don’t trust this.
You don’t trust yourself.
But when he kisses you, slow and scared and wanting, the demon in him quiet for just a second?
You let him have you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You also like the tiger. Or cat. Or tiger-cat. Whatever. You still don’t even know what to call it.
You remember the first time you saw it, you thought it was some kind of hellbeast and went for your blade, and Jinu was like, “Waitwaitwait, he’s chill.”
And now? You’ll be at Jinu’s place, half-naked, trying to sneak in a post-mission quickie, and suddenly there’s a 600-pound animal flopping on your legs like it’s a house cat.
Like, sir. Please.
Your vibe is adorable but your mass is inconvenient.
It loves to curl around the both of you like some kind of living, purring barrier. It’d be cozy if it didn’t also come with the crushing weight of “You move, you die.”
And then there’s the crow that hates everyone. Except Jinu. And sometimes, very begrudgingly, you. But only if you bring food. Or if you’re crying, which you hate that he knows. The crow is weirdly intelligent like that.
Sometimes he lands on your shoulder and just sits there while you and Jinu are talking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t squawk. Just watches. It’s unsettling, but Jinu swears it’s a sign of affection. (You’re not totally convinced it’s not reconnaissance.)
Then, you got caught, babe.
Now, you’re wearing a little shirt that barely reaches your navel and a little black thong. You’re barefoot on your balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching a soda you don’t even really want. Your legs are sore, your back hurts, your lip’s still split from earlier, and the last thing you need is—
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You jolt. Turn.
“What the fuck, Jinu?” you hiss, slamming your soda down and rushing to him. “What are you—how did you even get up here?!”
He’s grinning. Soft, smug, absolutely useless in his very kissable way.
“Teleported.” he says. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”
“Jinu. They’re home.”
“And?”
He says it so easy. So breezy. Like your heart isn’t trying to hammer through your ribs. You grab him by the arm and drag him fully onto the balcony, pressing him into the wall so he’s out of sight from the windows. Your face is close to his now, too close.
His eyes flick down your body, lazy but appreciative. “You’re not exactly dressed for company.”
You slap his chest. “Don’t make me push you off this building.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Your hand’s still on his chest, and he’s warm under your palm. Steady. Calm. Like nothing can touch him, not even the hurricane that’s about to slam into your life when this secret finally gets out.
“You’re insane for coming here.” you murmur, quieter now. “What if they see you?”
“I missed you.”
That’s it. No drama. No poetic nonsense. Just those three words, spoken so plainly you feel the ground shift under you.
You swallow. Your throat’s dry. Your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw. “You couldn’t just text? Send a letter with your cat?”
“I needed to see you.”
He leans in, just a little, and you follow because of course you do. His lips brush yours once, just a ghost of a kiss, and it’s enough to turn your knees to—
Gasp.
You freeze.
The sound comes from inside the room.
Both of you turn your heads just in time to see the door swing open, Zoey standing there, eyes wide, mouth fully agape.
“
oh my god.” she breathes.
Then the door slams shut again.
“Oh my god.” you echo, gripping the balcony railing like it’s going to save your soul. “Oh my god. Jinu. She saw you. She saw us.”
“She didn’t knock.” Jinu says, baffled.
“WHY WOULD SHE KNOCK? IT’S MY ROOM.”
You whirl on him, panic spiking like adrenaline in your veins. Your whole face is on fire. Your body’s moving already, ushering him toward the edge of the balcony, trying to think, to fix, to stop the bleeding of this moment from leaking into the rest of your life.
“She’s going to tell Rumi. Mira. Bobby. She’s going to tell everyone. Oh my god.”
“Okay.” Jinu says, still infuriatingly relaxed. “And?”
“And?!”
He’s smiling again, like this is funny, like you’re just being dramatic. He has no idea how bad this is. You shove him toward the railing with a hand to the back of his head, not hard, just enough to make him stumble.
“Go.” you hiss. “Go, now. I’ll fix it.”
“You’re gonna ‘fix’ getting caught half naked with me on your balcony?” he laughs, holding the ledge like he’s deciding whether to leap or wait for you to calm down.
You swat the back of his head again.
He laughs harder.
And somehow
 somehow, that helps.
Because he’s not scared. He’s not shaking like you are, imagining Rumi’s furious stare or Mira’s disappointment or Zoey’s lethal level gossip abilities. He’s just
 there. Present. Unbothered.
You exhale hard. Press your forehead to his chest for just a second. He lets you. His hands come up, hold your waist gently, swaying with you.
“Go.” you whisper again. “Please.”
He nods. Serious now. The playfulness fades, just a little. He cups your cheek, presses one last kiss to your lips, then steps back over the balcony’s edge.
And disappears.
You’re left standing there. Heart racing. Lips tingling. Whole body humming like you’ve been plugged into an outlet.
Inside, you hear footsteps.
Voices.
Loud ones.
Zoey’s already telling them.
“Shit.” you breathe, dragging a hand through your hair. “Shit shit shit.”
But even with the panic creeping up again, you can’t stop the small, ridiculous smile that curls onto your face.
Because that dumb, beautiful demon boy came here just to see you.
You don’t even bother throwing on shorts. Just storm out of your room in the tiny shirt and thong you were already wearing, not because you’re trying to prove a point, but because fuck it, the point already proved itself.
You race down the hallway, barefoot, still breathless from the sheer velocity of your panic. The walls feel like they’re closing in with every step. And as you reach the living room, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Zoey’s perched on the arm of the couch. Her popcorn is real. You knew she’d have popcorn.
Mira’s sitting, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed. Her expression isn’t angry. Not yet. Worse, it’s disappointed.
Rumi’s standing. Her arms are crossed too, and her face is blank in that terrifying way that says: I haven’t decided whether to scream or murder someone.
You stop cold in the doorway.
“
hi.”
No one answers.
You laugh. Short. Nervous. “Okay. So. Surprise?”
Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Surprise? GIRL.”
Rumi’s voice cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Sit down.”
You glance around. “I’m, uh, I’m not really dressed for a—”
“SIT.”
You sit.
“Zoey saw Jinu.” Mira says, voice like ice water down your back. “On your balcony. With you. And not in a friendly way.”
“Wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, hun.” Zoey adds, tossing popcorn in her mouth.
“Zoey.” Rumi scolds gently.
Zoey zips it. Barely. She’s vibrating with drama high. Her foot’s tapping. She’s dying to see how this plays out.
Mira leans forward. “How long.”
You blink. “What?”
Mira’s eyes are lasers. “How. Long. Has this been going on.”
You swallow. “
A while.”
“A while?” Rumi explodes, stepping forward. “Define ‘a while,’ because ‘a while’ sounds like weeks, and if this has been going on while we were out risking our asses, while we were fighting off demons and you were texting your little boyfriend under the table, I need to know that before I go to prison for launching a sword through the next Saja concert.”
You flinch. “Okay, whoa, let’s not—”
“WAS HE AT THE CEMETERY FIGHT?” Zoey blurts, her eyes wide. “Because you said you were on break that day and he was also conveniently there! Oh my god—were you hooking up behind the mausoleum while I was getting bit by that demon?”
“That was one time.” you snap.
“You just admitted it!” Zoey screams, victorious.
“Okay, enough.” Rumi says, holding up a hand. She turns back to you. “Is it serious?”
And you freeze.
Because there’s the real question.
They’re not just mad about the secret. They’re mad because they know what this means. You don’t sneak around for fun. You lie to protect. So if you were protecting him

Then you weren’t protecting them.
“I care about him.” you say softly. “It wasn’t just sex. It isn’t. He’s not—”
“He’s a demon.” Mira says, flat. Cold. “End of sentence.”
“He’s not—” you start, then stop. Because okay. Yes. He is. But not the way they mean. “There’s something inside him, yes. Gwi-Ma. But Jinu’s fighting it. Every day. He’s—he’s not evil. He’s not one of the monsters we hunt.”
“And what if he loses that fight?” Rumi asks, quiet again. “What if the thing inside him gets stronger? What if you become the liability?”
Your throat closes. Because that’s the worst part, you’ve already thought about all of that. And it still wasn’t enough to stop you.
“I know what I’m doing.” you whisper. “I know.”
“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Because it looks like you’re playing house with a demon.”
“Rumi, stop—”
“No. You lied to us.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You chose him.”
Yeah. You did. Over and over again. Every night you crept out, every time you let him touch you, every second you looked at his face and thought, maybe this could last, you were choosing him.
Even if it meant eventually losing them.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” you say, finally.
“Too late.” Mira mutters.
“Wait.” Zoey says. “Did you say Gwi-Ma? Like the actual Gwi-Ma?”
“Yeah.” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Lives in his head. Won’t shut up. Kind of an asshole.”
Everyone’s silent again.
And then, Zoey: “
Does he also do the tongue thing when he kisses you? Like he looks like he does the tongue thing.”
You close your eyes. “Zoey.”
Rumi sighs. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room starts to loosen. Not dissolve. Not disappear. But
 loosen. There’s still tension in the air. Still betrayal.
“You know we’re supposed to kill them. Right?” Rumi says, loud and clear so you hear it.
You have heard it. You’ve heard it a hundred times. In debriefs, in Zoey’s snide jokes, in the way Mira files her knives after watching Saja Boys interviews with a dead stare. You’ve said it yourself. Weeks ago.
You knew what they were. You knew they weren’t human. And your girls have been tracking, prepping, moving toward this for weeks.
And meanwhile?
You’ve been sleeping with the mark.
“I know.” you say, barely above a whisper.
“You knew.” Mira corrects, her voice a blade.
“I know.” you repeat, louder now. “And I didn’t—I didn’t plan for this. It wasn’t some operation gone rogue. It wasn’t a trick. It just—”
“You tripped and fell onto his dick, huh?” Zoey says, sharp and bitter.
You shut your eyes. “Zoey, not now.”
“No, I really wanna know.” she goes on. “Did you just accidentally fall in love with a guy who’s literally got a demon whispering murder in his ear while we’ve been training to put his head on a spike? Because that’s wild.”
“What was your plan?” Rumi asks, not looking at you. “What was the endgame here? That we’d kill his bandmates but leave him alone because you like his face?”
“No.” you snap, the sharpness surprising even you. “God, no. You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I haven’t been ripping myself apart every night over this? I know what we’re doing. I know what he is. But you don’t know him. Not like I do.”
“Enlighten us.” Mira says, icily. “Please.”
You blink fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes. You weren’t gonna cry, you swore you wouldn’t, but the pressure’s building.
Silence.
Rumi closes her eyes like she’s trying not to hit something. Mira sits back. Her face has gone to that scary-silent-assassin look that means her brain is moving three steps ahead of everyone else. Finally, she says: “So when it’s time to take them out
 what happens then?”
You stare at her. You hate how cold she sounds. You hate how reasonable it is.
Because that is the question, isn’t it?
What do you do when it’s your sword, and his neck, and no one else to make the call but you?
“I don’t know.” you admit, soft. “I don’t know yet.”
“That’s not good enough.” Rumi says, voice rising. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re putting us at risk. What if he turns on us mid-mission? What if he uses you to get ahead of us? What if this whole time—”
“He wouldn’t.” you say quickly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt any of you.”
“You can’t know that.” Mira says.
“I do.”
And you do. Deep down. Where all the fear and doubt and guilt live, even under all of that, you know.
He wouldn’t let them touch you.
And he wouldn’t touch them.
Not unless they tried to kill him.
Which they
 will.
Soon.
Zoey stands again and walks across the room, pacing now. “So what, we’re just supposed to ignore this? Let you keep cuddling up with your demon boyfriend while we finish the job?”
“No.” you say. “I get it. I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m not even asking you to like me right now. I just
 I just need you to understand. I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing truth. Jinu’s not a monster. Not yet. And I don’t think he ever will be.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, softly, Mira asks: “But what if you’re wrong?”
You look at her. Look at all of them.
And you don’t have an answer.
ABBY
Look. You’re supposed to kill him. Let’s be very clear about that. The Saja Boys are your target. You’ve watched them on stage, off-stage.
The first time you saw him, shirtless and grinning, was some training clip Rumi pulled up on the mission table, purely for recon (allegedly), and even then, you felt your spine short-circuit.
He looked like a human weapon.
Except he wasn’t human.
And you weren’t supposed to want the weapon.
But, you know. Whoops.
He’s huge (like, throw-you-around-the-room, bench-press-you-during-foreplay huge). Arms like steel, voice like “what’s up, babe?” and a smile so cocky it should be registered as an actual threat.
You hated him at first.
You hated him
 until you didn’t.
Until one night after a bad mission, your ribs aching, pride worse, your blood still up and nothing in the world feeling good. And then you saw him. Leaning against a wall, flexing like he didn’t know he was doing it and voice dropping into that stupid low register like, “Hey. You okay?”
Game over.
Brain fried.
Panties? Gone.
And then, somehow, you were... kissing. In a stairwell. Covered in blood. Your blood. His blood. Something's blood. Messy. Wrong. And absolutely addictive.
Now it’s
 a thing. A secret thing.
Because Abby? He makes you laugh, first of all. He says dumb shit in bed. He says dumb shit all the time. And he’s so proud of it.
And yeah. He’s a demon. You see it. He doesn’t even hide it.
There’s something in him that pulses dark. Wild. Primal. The heat in his body burns wrong sometimes. The shadows cling to him longer than they should. And there are moments, fleeting but undeniable, where he looks at you like he wants to eat you.
Not in the fun way. (Though, to be clear, he definitely wants that too.)
But in the demonic, soul-thirsty kind of way.
And yet. Somehow. You’re not afraid of it. You should be. You’re trained to be. You’ve put down lesser demons without blinking. You know what he is. But something in you doesn’t flinch.
Because under all of that darkness
 you know he likes you.
He really, actually likes you. In his dumbass, show-off way.
The first time he said it, he was inside you—of course he was—panting, all flushed and cocky, and he muttered, “shit, I like you too much.” Then he tried to play it off with a kiss to your neck, followed by something heinous you don’t even remember, too busy feeling all of him.
You laughed. And then whispered, “me too.”
He knows you’re a hunter. He knows who you are, what you do. But he keeps showing up anyway. Still winks. Still pulls you into dark corners and picks you up like you weigh nothing. Still teases you like none of this is real.
He trusts you. And that terrifies you more than anything.
Because when the time comes

When the blades are drawn

He’s not going to fight you.
And you don’t know what you’re going to do when that moment comes.
But for now? You let him pin you to the wall and mutter, “what, you gonna slay me, hunter?” against your jaw.
Because the worst part isn’t that you’re supposed to kill him.
It’s that a small, aching part of you knows you won’t.
He does shit like carrying your bag when it’s heavy, but doesn’t make it weird. He just grabs it and then slings it over those stupid big shoulders like it weighs nothing. Flexes a little, maybe, but you let him. You even look on purpose. He likes it.
He memorizes what you order from that little noodle shop you go to after late-night sweeps. The first time he brought it to you unasked, still hot, you didn’t even know what to say. He just handed it over with a lopsided grin and went, “See? I got a brain in here.” and then tapped his temple with the chopsticks he’d stolen from the shop.
He warms his hands before touching your face. Doesn’t even think about it. Just always runs them over his neck or into his sleeves first, and then cups your cheeks.
And then there's how he watches you. Not like prey. Not like the demon in him is looking for an opening. But like... you're the funniest, hottest, most precious thing in his world and he can't believe you're even talking to him, let alone letting him see you naked on the regular.
And oh my god, he tied your shoe once. One time. You’re mid-arguing, mid-huffing about something completely irrelevant, and this man bends down, wraps those huge hands around your ankle, ties your shoe with all the careful attention of someone untangling a bomb, then slaps your thigh and stands up.
You were silent for, like, ten minutes.
You hate how much you like it. Hate it. Hate it.
But not enough to stop.
Not when he’s currently got you pressed up against cold tile, his breath warm against your throat, your thigh hiked high around his hip in the almost empty bathhouse the three of you ducked into after a hunt.
You don’t even know how it happened.
One minute, you were soaking in the women’s bathhouse while Mira and Zoey argued over whose blade got the final hit, and the next, you were in the showers and Abby was there. Shirtless. He must’ve snuck in through the back.
You didn’t even try to stop him. You should’ve.
But he’d walked up to you, dripping from a quick rinse-off, and grinned. “Damn. You clean up nice.”
And that was it. That was the moment your common sense packed her bags and left.
Now? Now you’re sandwiched between Abby and the cold wall of the bathhouse’s back corridor. Your towel’s half off, your thigh’s fully up, and Abby’s mouthing your neck like this isn’t a public facility.
“Abby.” you whisper, half-laughing, half-moaning, trying to push him back even though you’re very much not trying that hard. “They’re still here. They could come back any second.”
He just kisses lower. “Then we better make it fast, huh?”
“You’re the one taking your damn time.” you snap, trying not to laugh, and he grins against your skin.
“What can I say?” he murmurs. “My girl’s distracting.”
You shove his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of warm concrete. “I swear, if they catch us—”
Footsteps.
Voices.
You both freeze.
You don’t see them at first. But you hear them. Zoey’s laughing about something and Mira’s voice is lower, casual, annoyed maybe, like she’s mid-eye roll. They’re just coming back from the sauna. They’ll be rounding this corridor in seconds.
You shove at Abby, harder. “Go. Go now.”
But he’s LAUGHING. The fuckass is laughing, muffling it behind that dumb smug smirk like this is the funniest shit ever.
You smack the back of his head, panicked. “Are you trying to get me killed?!”
He grins harder. “If we die like this, honestly? Worth it.”
“Abby!”
Zoey’s voice: “Wait
 why’s the floor wet back here? Was someone—”
She turns the corner.
She sees you.
Sees him.
Sees you, basically naked, thigh still up, Abby shirtless and pressed into you, steam rising off both of you.
Zoey screams.
Mira slams in behind her a half-second later, silent, deadly, her eyes going wide.
Abby, still shirtless, just waves. “Hey.”
You are going to die.
“YOU.” Zoey shrieks, pointing. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”
Mira? Mira’s face is stone. Pissed. Her arms are folded. Her jaw is clenched. And she’s staring directly at Abby’s glistening chest.
You, meanwhile, are red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red. Half-wrapped in a towel. Half-tangled in him. All of you exposed, literally and emotionally, in the worst way possible. You’ve barely had time to stumble back and yank your towel up around your chest when he decides to speak.
“Yo.” Abby says with the most unbothered, dumbass charm in the world. “Heeeeeeey girls.”
He actually lifts a hand. Like he didn’t just get caught shoving his demon tongue down your throat in a public women’s bathhouse.
Zoey looks like she’s about to scream a second time. Possibly kill you. Possibly him first.
And what does this stupid man say next?
“You know what,” he continues, glancing between them and then at you. “I feel like
 you guys got some things to work out. Real important girl talk. Imma
 just.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit, completely unapologetic. “Slide out. Give you all some space. Respectfully.”
You gape. “Abby—”
He turns, halfway out the door, then glances back at you, slow, like he’s throwing a whole-ass grenade at your friendship. And then, he calls:
“Catch you later, babe.”
Babe.
In front of them.
AND THEN THE BASTARD WINKS.
Winks, flexes without flexing, and vanishes.
You are.
So.
Fucked.
You’re clutching your towel to your chest, dripping water, heart hammering so loud it might as well be a war drum. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. Just a stupid, guilty sound like, “Uh—”
“How long.” Mira says, deadly quiet,
You blink. “I—”
“HOW LONG?!” Zoey practically screams, her arms thrown up like she might start flinging bath sandals at you. “You’ve been sneaking off to tongue wrestle with a Saja Boy?!”
“It’s not like that—”
“Oh, it’s not?” she snaps. “Because from where I was standing? It looked exactly like that. Unless ‘chest licking in a sacred women’s bathhouse’ means something different in demon-speak.”
“Zoey.” Mira says again, voice low. “Let her talk.”
“Why?! So she can lie again?”
You feel it. The shame. The guilt. The sting of it.
Because you didn’t tell them. Not when you should’ve. Not when it started. Not after the first time. Not after the sixth. Not even after you knew it was something real, something that wasn’t going to just go away if you pretended hard enough. You stayed quiet. Let them think you were just normal. Still loyal. Still on-mission.
But you weren’t. You’d fallen into bed with the enemy, and now it’s your best friends staring at you like you’re the monster.
“Okay.” you say, quietly. “Okay. Look.” You take a breath. It comes out shaky. “Yes. It’s been going on. And yes. I know how it looks.”
“You lied to us.”
“I didn’t lie—”
“Bullshit.” Zoey hisses. “You snuck around behind our backs with the very thing we’ve sworn to eliminate. You let one of them turn you into his little secret side piece—”
“Stop.” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Don’t talk about me like that.”
Silence again.
“I’m not a side piece.” you say, quieter. “And he’s not just
 whatever you think he is.”
Zoey’s expression warps into something like heartbreak. “You’re in love with him.”
You look away.
“Oh my god.” She covers her face.
“I didn’t plan for this.” you try, pleading now. “It just—it happened. And I know it’s wrong. I know what he is. But I also know what he’s not. He’s not—” You gesture weakly toward the steam he vanished into. “He’s not hurting people. Not the way we thought.”
Mira steps forward, eyes sharp. “And what happens when he does? When we take him out? What then?”
You swallow. You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. And they see that.
After the bathhouse blowout, the tension clung to your skin worse than the towel.
Mira and Zoey walked ahead of you the whole way home, Mira silent, Zoey muttering to herself in rage, still trying to process the abomination of seeing you with Abby’s abs all up in your personal space. You trailed behind, wrapped in shame, hair dripping, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with impending doom.
“Let me tell her.” you said, the second the elevator doors opened to the penthouse. “Let me tell Rumi myself.”
Mira turned to you, her jaw clenched. “You sure?”
“No.” you said. “But I’m going to.”
They just exchanged a look, silent agreement, and then headed to the kitchen like they weren’t absolutely going to lurk by the hallway to hear every single word.
You find Rumi in her room. She’s standing by the window. You almost leave. Almost. But then she turns. “You need something?”
Your throat closes.
Yeah. Just your life exploding.
“Can I talk to you?” you ask, voice trembling. “It’s
 personal.”
She gestures toward the chair. You don’t sit. You can’t. You’re vibrating with nerves, practically bouncing out of your skin. You pace instead, like if you move enough, the words will come easier. They don’t.
“Okay, so—so.” you start, hands waving like you’re trying to draw the sentence into existence. “So, you’re gonna be mad. Just—please, can you let me finish first before you say anything? Just let me get it out all at once, because if I stop, I won’t say it, and I have to say it because it’s already—happened, and Zoey and Mira know, and you’re going to find out anyway, and I need it to come from me.”
Rumi’s arms cross slowly. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m dating Abby.” you blurt.
Silence.
You say it again, just to fill the space. “I’m dating Abby. From Saja. The one with the abs and the arms and the—yeah. Him.”
Still no reaction.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t, like, some weird betrayal thing. I didn’t go into this planning to screw around with the enemy, I swear. It just—he was there, and he’s funny, and stupid, and sweet, and he’s not like what we thought. And yeah, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I know it’s dangerous, and I know we’re supposed to be hunting them, and it’s all wrong, but it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with him. It just feels like
 mine. Like something I chose. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
You finally stop.
You wait.
“
You’re joking.”
Your heart drops. “I’m not.”
You’ve never seen Rumi this mad without even raising her voice.
“You’re sleeping with a demon.” she says, cold. “A Saja Boy. One of the five. Our primary targets.”
You flinch. “It’s not like that—”
“Did he charm you? Manipulate you? Feed off you?”
“No! Rumi, he hasn’t even—he hasn’t taken anything from me.”
“Oh, but he took you, huh?” Her voice cuts like glass. “He gets the girl, the inside scoop, the trust, and we get what? A betrayal?”
You step forward. “I didn’t betray you.”
“You didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. You let this go on while we’ve been risking our lives—my life—hunting down his kind. You don’t think that’s betrayal?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you did. You did lie. Maybe not in words, but in silence.
“You’ve compromised our entire mission.” she hisses, turning her back on you. “You think this is just about sex or feelings or whatever he gave you to keep you quiet? It’s bigger than that. He’s dangerous. And you let him in.”
“I didn’t let him in.” you snap, suddenly defensive. “He got in because he wanted me. Because he likes me. Because I like him.”
“And when the time comes,” she says, turning back around, eyes locked on yours. “and you have to choose between us and him, what’s your play?”
You’re shaking.
You can’t answer.
And Rumi sees it.
“
Get out.”
“Rumi—”
“Get. Out. Before I say something we both regret.”
You stagger back. One step. Then another.
And as you open the door—Zoey and Mira. Absolutely planted on the other side. Zoey straightens so fast she almost falls into a lamp. Mira just steps back, arms crossed, deadpan. Neither of them says a word.
You don’t say anything either.
You just walk away.
ROMANCE
Ohhh baby. You’ve just opened Pandora’s box with Romance.
The first time you and Romance crossed paths just the two of you, it was bloody. And violent. And frankly, stupid hot in hindsight.
You were rooftop hunting, your blade humming with enchanted energy, adrenaline in your teeth. The Saja Boys were slippery—always were—but he showed up like he’d been waiting for you.
You fought.
He was strong, too strong. Slippery. Every move came with a smirk, a breathy compliment, some infuriating “ooh, I like it when you’re rough.” You were sweating, pissed, cornered on the edge of a skylight.
But you didn’t back down.
You clocked him, hard, elbow to the jaw, leg sweep, blade to his throat, and he went down. Fell like a sack of demons with a ridiculous grunt and a flutter of his pretty shirt.
You stood there panting, blade raised.
Victory. Yours.
You even kicked him, toe of your boot to his ribs. “Dead?” you muttered.
He grabbed your ankle, fast as lightning, yanked, and dragged you straight to the ground with him. The breath left your lungs. Your body slammed to his. And suddenly? You were chest-to-chest with him, both breathing hard. His smile was bloody and filthy.
“Now this,” he purred. “is foreplay.”
You tied him up after that. You had to. Found rope in the storage unit of the building, tied his wrists behind his back, looped around the support beam. He didn’t fight it, no, of course not. He just watched you. Smirked. Made comments.
“That grip.” he said. “Ever thought of moonlighting in bondage? You’ve got talent.”
You should’ve killed him. Should’ve. He was just lying there, helpless, caked in blood.
But something in you faltered.
So you left him. Said it was a warning.
Before you left, he looked at you with those bedroom eyes and said, “Next time, bring better rope. You’ll be the one staying.”
And you did.
You came back. In the dead of night, alone.
And he wasn’t tied up anymore.
No, that time you were the one in knots.
Literal ones. Spread out, mouth covered in tape, eyes wide while he knelt between your legs, chin lifted and so fucking pleased with himself.
He whispered things you still feel heat up your spine when you’re alone in the shower.
That was the real beginning.
You’re not blameless. You like it. You like the chase, the secrets, the tension in every stolen second.
Romance doesn’t ask. He offers. He tempts. He brushes his fingers along your collarbone in passing, whispers filth into your ear just to see you shiver. He invites you to meet with him night after night. You go. Every time.
You’d call him a slut, except he only ever wants you.
He’s also attentive. Not the good boy kind, no. He’s too much of a tease for that. But he knows when you’re stressed, when you’re insecure, when you need to be fucked out of your head or just held while he brushes your hair. Super senses like he has do wonders in him getting your little feelings. Romance also has a memory like a thief. Remembers everything you say, down to the way you phrased it.
He’s obsessed with you. Openly.
But he also won’t stop flirting with other people in front of you just to rile you up.
(You’ve slapped him for it. He moaned. It didn’t help.)
He knows exactly what you are. A killer. A blade. Something sacred and trained and dangerous.
And he adores it.
“God, baby,” he’ll murmur while trailing his mouth down your thigh. “do you know how hot it is that you could murder me and choose not to?”
You don’t tell the girls. Obviously. They’d lose their minds.
Because you’re supposed to be on a mission to exorcise his ass from the planet—not get your back blown out on rooftops between hunts.
For an example, you let him tie you up again last night. He read you poetry while he did it. From memory. Filthy, ancient verses in a demon tongue you didn’t know—but understood perfectly from his eyes alone.
And when he made you scream his name, you think the whole street heard it.
Even when he’s being a tease—pulling your panties to the side in an alley or teasing you with promises he has no intention of letting you walk away from—his hands are always reverent. Worshipful.
He runs his fingers down your back when you’re not even paying attention. Laces your fingers together when you’re not touching him.
Then, it started with a bra strap.
Well, a glimpse of it, really, something delicate, lacy, red, peeking just above your sports tank when you bent down to pick up your dagger from the training mat. You didn’t even notice. But Zoey did. She always does.
Zoey squinted. “Since when do you wear matching sets for patrol?”
Mira glanced up from her weights, brow cocked.
You just shrugged. Played it off. “Self-care.”
They didn’t buy it.
And then it happened again.
The next night. And the next.
A different set this time, satin, black, barely-there. They weren’t judging you for it. Please. You’re hot, you’re allowed to feel yourself. But there was a pattern emerging, and it had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with how you were always glowing when you came back from “walks.”
Your cheeks flushed. Your lips bitten. The scent of perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to your jacket.
And the final straw? Rumi walked into your room to grab something and saw an empty condom wrapper on your nightstand. You weren’t even home.
That night, the three of them made a decision.
They were going to follow you.
It’s late.
You thought you were slick—slipping out the back stairwell in your “casual clothes” (which just so happen to include a barely-buttoned blouse and lace-trimmed thigh harness under a trench coat). Hair glossy. Lip gloss glossier.
You head toward a park a few blocks away. A little bench nestled between two massive trees. Always quiet. Always shadowed.
And sitting there, legs crossed, coat open over a shirt unbuttoned just enough is Romance.
He looks up, sees you, and grins. That slow, wolfish, I’m-gonna-undress-you-without-touching-you kind of smile.
“You’re late.” he says.
“You’re early.”
“I’m always early. It gives me more time to think about you.” He says it like a whisper. You bite back a smile, step closer, the night air curling around your ankles like it knows this is wrong and wants in.
He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at your dagger strapped to your thigh.
You lean in, eyes half-lidded. “What if I was here to kill you this time?”
“Then tie me up first. You know how I like it.”
You laugh. It’s soft. Intimate. Familiar.
That’s the sound that does it.
Zoey’s voice, “Whaaaaaaaat.”
You whirl around.
Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Standing just behind the tree line, like they’d been parked there for ten whole minutes, watching your little forbidden lovers’ reunion.
Your blood goes cold.
Romance just sits back, arm along the bench like this is hilarious.
Zoey’s eyes are bulging. “Are you seriously making out with Romance?! As in Saja Boy, Romance?! Mister demon dick himself?!”
Mira’s arms are crossed, her voice dry. “So that’s what all the lace was about.”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
Romance, unbothered, lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Ladies.”
“Don’t you ladies me.” Zoey snaps, stomping forward. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”
You stumble over your words. “I—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—okay, not like this. I wasn’t using him or betraying anyone or—”
“Oh my god, are you in love with him?!” Zoey howls.
Romance leans closer to you, whispers, “Say yes.”
You elbow him in the ribs so hard he wheezes. But he’s laughing. This fucker is laughing. And that laugh? It seals your fate.
Rumi steps forward, voice cold as glass. “Go home. Now.”
You look at Romance. He gives you a wink. A wink. He’s enjoying this. He is.
You turn to leave.
And you know they’re right behind you. Their silence is heavier than their words. Zoey’s arms are flailing in disbelief. Mira’s jaw is tight. Rumi says nothing, but you can feel her disappointment.
Back at the penthouse, everything feels louder. The walls feel tighter. Every footstep echoes like judgment.
You try not to flinch as the elevator closes behind you, sealing you inside with three of the people you love the most, and who now all look at you like you’re a stranger.
No one speaks.
You want to say something, break the silence, offer an explanation, but your throat’s tight, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape before Rumi cuts it out herself.
When the elevator dings open at your floor, it’s Zoey who moves first. Quiet. Shoulders tense. Mira walks out after her. Rumi walks last, slow and composed, her silence ten times more dangerous than if she’d yelled.
You don’t even make it to the living room before Mira turns on you. “What the actual fuck, Y/N?”
You swallow. “I was going to tell you—”
“When?!” Mira snaps. “After you fucked all of them? Or just after the Saja Boys rip our hearts out?! Which was it?!”
“I didn’t—” You exhale, hands up, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to fall into something with him.” You’ve gone over it a thousand times in your head. Every rule you broke. Every kill order you ignored. Every night you slipped away when your best friends were asleep, trusting you to be one of them, not one of the fucking enemy’s bedwarmers. “I know what I did.” you say, quieter. “I know it’s wrong.”
Zoey finally speaks, voice soft. “Then why did you keep doing it?”
You look at her. And she looks like she’s not angry like Mira, not composed like Rumi. Just
 hurt. Her arms are folded across her chest.
“I don’t know.” you admit. “He’s a demon. He’s everything we’re trained to kill. But—”
“But you let him charm his way between your legs and now suddenly that makes it okay?” Mira’s voice is sharp. “You endangered us. All of us.”
“No.” you snap, louder now. “I would never let anything happen to you. I’m not stupid. I’m not just lying there letting him feed off my soul—he hasn’t even touched that part of me. I wouldn’t let him. I’m not a liability, Mira.”
“You are.” Mira spits.
Silence again.
You feel it in your stomach, a cold pit of shame. But beneath it, there’s something else. Something like defiance. Because yes, maybe you’re making a mistake. Maybe you crossed every line. Maybe you’re betraying the oath, the cause, the sisterhood.
But it wasn’t just sex. Not with Romance.
He sees you. Wants you. Not your blade, not your strength, not your usefulness to the mission.
Just
 you.
“He cares about me.” you say, quietly.
“That doesn’t matter.” Rumi says. Her voice is so soft. “You’re a hunter. You don’t get to fall for the monsters. You kill them. Or you compromise everything we’ve built.”
Oh Rumi, we know why you think that.
Zoey bites her lip, voice shaking. “Are you in love with him?”
You hesitate.
And that’s the answer.
Mira throws up her hands. “Un-fucking-believable.”
Rumi looks at you like she’s assessing whether or not to kick you off the team. “We’re here to stop them, Y/N. All of them. We don’t get to make exceptions because they kiss nice or talk pretty.”
You nod slowly. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Rumi steps closer. “Because the second he snaps his fingers, and decides he’s hungry, you’re the first soul he’s going to devour.”
Do you really think that Rumi, or you’re just making shit up to stop your beloved Y/N from making the same mistake your mother did?
You want to scream that it’s not like that. That Romance—for all his bullshit, his flirting, his filthy mouth—has never once made you feel prey. You’ve never seen him lose control. Never once doubted he would stop if you told him to.
But even you know that doesn’t make it safe.
You glance between them, the three people you’ve fought with, bled with, survived with, and it feels like you’re in the wrong. You are.
Zoey steps forward finally, hand brushing yours. “If you really love him
 then please be careful. Don’t make us bury you because you thought he was different.”
Her voice breaks at the end.
And Mira won’t even look at you.
Rumi just turns and walks toward her room. Before she disappears down the hall, she says one last thing:
“You have one chance to fix this. Or next time, it’s me that puts a blade in his chest.”
The door slams.
Your pretty underwear under your clothes feels stupid now.
But even through all that, you know, deep down?
You’re not going to stop seeing him.
And that’s the problem.
BABY
Oh, Baby.
You hate(d) his name.
Baby.
You don’t even know when it started.
Just that one second you were fighting, and the next?
You were
 not.
It was supposed to be a quick hunt. You’d gotten separated from the girls for like five minutes—five whole damn minutes—and then bam. He was there.
Backstage, right behind the curtains at some underground venue, blinking at you like you were the surprise, not him.
Did he say anything?
No.
Just smirked.
And you knew it was a smirk, even if his mouth barely moved. Something about the way his eyes narrowed, chin tilted. The unbothered little lean against the wall, arms crossed. Hair too shiny. Mouth too glossy. Pretty in a way that made you want to scratch it up.
So you drew your blade.
He didn’t move. Just blinked again. Like you were the one being ridiculous. Then you lunged. He blocked you, lazy, like your movements were predictable. A joke. Your blade barely missed his throat, and he laughed. Not even like a proper laugh. Just this airy “heh” with his head tilted like, Is that all?
And you? Furious. Mortified. Already picturing the way Mira would roast you for getting played by the baby demon.
So you kicked his leg out from under him. Hard.
The fight got into close combat from there, your blade dropped to the floor. And the two of you just
 went at it. Not even fighting anymore, just grappling, rolling across concrete with all the force and heat of a catfight.
His fingers in your hair. Your hand around his throat. Neither of you speaking, just panting, growling, gritting teeth. And his face?
Still blank. Still bratty. Still beautiful.
Until your knee landed in a very strategic place and he grunted—actually made a sound—and somehow that flipped a switch.
Next thing you knew?
You were on your back, shirt pushed up, his mouth on your tits, sharp little teeth teasing your skin as you hissed at him to fucking go.
“The girls are almost on. I have to go.” You hissed.
His response? A slow blink. Like you’re so loud and he was busy. Then he kissed a bite-mark over your nipple like it was his fucking signature and pulled back, shirt half untucked, his lips all red, and not a care in the world.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wink. Didn’t flirt. Just looked at you like he expected you to come back later. Like he knew you would.
You did.
Because Baby is
 different.
He doesn’t do the “Oh, I want you so bad” stuff. That’s Romance’s thing. Doesn’t do the “I’ll protect you, angel” softness. That’s Jinu. Doesn’t even do the “Come here, babe, sit on my lap” gym rat boyfriend vibes. That’s Abby. Doesn’t let you control him like Mystery does.
Baby ignores your ass half the time.
You text him that you’re downstairs? He doesn’t even buzz you up. You have to break in. You say something flirty and he shrugs. You try to make plans and he answers with a yawn.
But when you’re alone? When you’re in the dark corners of club basements or dressing rooms or the stairwell no one uses between the 6th and 7th floors of the broadcast building?
He’s all teeth and tongue and whispers against your throat. Biting. Mouthing. Slouching against you like he doesn’t care but always pulling you closer.
He talks more with his mouth on your body than he ever does out loud.
His affection comes in weird little ways. Like slipping your favorite drink into your bag without saying anything, which he clearly stole from someone. Like swiping the exact eyeshadow palette you complimented on a make up staff member.
Like blowing off fan meetings just to sit in the dark and watch you stretch, head tilted.
And every time you call him out on it?
He gaslights you. Fully.
“What palette?”
“You bought it, didn’t you?”
“You said I could come in.”
“You didn’t say stop.”
Smug. Rude. Hot as fuck.
And for all his demon blood and dead-eyed stares, there are moments—tiny, barely-there glimpses—where you think he might actually care about you. Like really care.
He is the worst, but underneath that generally insufferable personality, he actually kinda likes you.
He still ignores the fuck out of you.
Deadass. You’ll walk into a room and Baby won’t even glance up. You’ll say hi and he won’t say anything back. Doesn’t even nod. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him to move. He never moves. Just slowly looks at you like you’re interrupting.
But the second you’re smiling on your phone, texting?
Laughing too hard?
Not paying attention to him?
He’s right there. Doesn’t say a word. Just drapes himself over you like a cat and sighs against your neck like this is what I had to resort to?—then nips at your collarbone.
You tell him to go away. He doesn’t.
You shove at him. He goes heavier.
You call him annoying.
His answer:
“Mhm.”
You’ll be pouring tea, being the sweet, functional human being you are, and he’ll just
 slide his mug over. No eye contact. No “please.” Not even a “yo.” He just tugs on your sleeve once and you already know.
You always say the same thing: “I’m not your maid.”
To which he always responds by
 waiting.
Not moving.
Just standing there like 
so?
So you pour the tea.
Every. Damn. Time.
(And then he takes a tiny sip and says, “Too hot.” And you fantasize about kicking him in the shins.)
He has the nerve to walk around with that adorable, sweet little face. Wide eyes. Lashes for days. Little nose. Pink lips. He blinks at people and they melt.
“Oh my god, is he shy?”
“He’s so precious!”
“Aww, he’s like a little bunny!”
LIES.
Baby is a demon.
A predator.
A horrible little shit who absolutely uses his face as a weapon.
Don’t even get me STARTED on his voice. It does not match him. At all. It’s low and slow and filthy, like it’s meant for whispering horrible things directly into your ear. And he knows it. He uses it. He’ll say your name in that voice, right behind you, when he wants something. And every time it works, you hate yourself a little more.
You hate him.
You want to climb him like a tree.
You’re the problem.
He likes you though. He really does.
He doesn’t say it. Obviously. But you know.
He shows up at your window at 2 a.m. and does not leave you alone, that’s his love language. You wonder what Gwi-Ma thinks about that. Does he insult the poor boy in his head? Leaves the topic alone? A wonder, really.
He doesn’t care about people. Not really. Not like you do.
He’s selfish. Bratty. Condescending.
He never says “I love you.” Never writes sweet notes. Never says “I miss you” or calls you beautiful.
But he stays. He lingers. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s tired. He lets you sleep on his chest when you both sneak off after dark. He lets you see the version of him no one else gets to.
You’re not sure if this is love, or madness, or both. But you keep crawling back. Keep letting him tug you close. Keep pretending it’s not dangerous, even though it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.
Yeah.
He’s terrible.
But you like him that way.
Anyways, your room is big. Like, stupidly big. The girls fought tooth and nail for this penthouse, and somehow, you ended up with the one room that had its own damn sitting area, fireplace, and balcony. Probably because you “never bring people over.”
Ha.
Right now, you’re sitting on your bed, one leg bent, your hair damp from a shower, some oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder. You’re glowing, content, the kind of comfort that only comes when your secret demon boyfriend is stretched out across your silk sheets.
Baby, flat on his back, hoodie pushed up just enough to expose his stomach. He’s got one arm under his head, and the other lazily dragging over your thigh.
And you’re telling him a story. Some stupid one from earlier. About Zoey trying to cook eggs and somehow setting off the fire suppression system, and Mira slipping in the foam and cussing in three different languages, and Rumi trying to keep everyone calm.
He doesn’t say much—he never does—but every once in a while, he makes this little “hn” sound that means he’s listening. His eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and you gently run your fingers across the curve of his bare stomach as you speak.
Just light touches. Lazy, mindless. Your thumb sweeping around his navel. Tracing the faint v-line that disappears under his waistband. And he just takes it. Like he deserves to be pet.
His hips shift just slightly, subtle little rolls into your hand. His lips twitch. He hums.
“You’re distracting.” you mutter, dragging your fingers down his side.
“Mhm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just tugs on the hem of your shirt like he wants it off but can’t be bothered to do it himself.
You laugh a little and lean over him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He lets you. He always does. Touchy and spoiled and acting like he’s the one doing you a favor by being here.
His fingers brush the back of your knee. Slide higher. God, he is so touchy. Not in a Romance kind of way, not in a flirty, dirty whisper way. Just clingy. Needy in a wordless, bratty little way. Always tugging at you. Always reaching. Not because he wanted attention, but because he expected it.
You’re just about to crawl into his lap when he suddenly opens his eyes—not startled, not alarmed, just blank. “Behind you.”
You blink. “What?”
“Door.”
You frown, confused. Turn to look, and your soul leaves your body.
Zoey. Mira. Rumi. Peeking through your bedroom door, all crammed into the tiny sliver they must’ve pushed open while you were distracted. All of them with their mouths slightly open. Eyes wide.
They must’ve been watching you for minutes.
Baby waves to them lazily.
The second your eyes meet theirs, they jerk back like they’d been slapped and slam the door shut.
SLAM.
Silence.
You stare at the door.
Baby stretches behind you, unfazed.
“You forgot to lock it.” he says, yawning like this is the most boring turn of events that’s ever happened to him.
“You watched them watch us!” you hiss, slapping his chest.
He shrugs. “You looked cute. Figured they’d agree.”
You launch a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him and doesn’t even blink.
You shoot to your feet like you’ve been lit on fire. You’re not even fully dressed, just the shirt, some thin little shorts, no bra, and your heart is thrashing in your chest because oh my god they saw. They saw everything. “You couldn’t have warned me earlier?!”
He gives a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think they’d stay.”
You smack him in the chest, hard.
“OW—what?!” he complains, still not even bothering to sit up. “You were telling a story.”
“Get out.” you whisper-yell, frantically waving your hands. “Go, go, GO!”
He groans dramatically, sitting up like it physically pains him. “You’re so loud.” he mutters.
But he stands anyway, tugging his hoodie down and making zero effort to look guilty. His hair’s a little messy, lips pink, eyes smug. He’s glowing like a man who’s very satisfied with his life choices. He is casually stretching his arms over his head. Right before he leaves, he pauses, looks at you, and then? Then he raises his voice just enough for the hallway to hear: “BYE GIIIIIRLS.”
He snorts to himself, satisfied with how he fucked up this for you even more, and leaves you there. Alone. Staring at the spot he just vanished from.
Okay, yeah, alright. You take a deep deep breath and walk over to your door to open it.
Rumi. Zoey. Mira. All standing in the hallway, backlit by the soft pendant lights. Their expressions? Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of tears but holding it together with sheer willpower. Mira’s pacing, fists clenched so hard her knuckles are white. Rumi is just staring at you, arms crossed, completely still. That’s the scariest part.
“Okay,” you say, voice cracking like the ice you’re walking on. “that was—”
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.” Mira explodes. Her hands fling up like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing them at you. “You had him in your room?! While we were home?!”
“It’s not like I—”
“Don’t.” Rumi says. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous. “Don’t say it’s not what it looked like.”
It was what it looked like.
Zoey finally speaks. Her voice is so small it hurts. “You
 you’re with him?”
“I didn’t—” you start, stepping forward instinctively, “I wasn’t gonna— I mean, I was, I just—” You sigh and rake both hands through your hair. “Yeah. I’m with him.”
Silence.
Rumi’s brows lift slightly. “For how long?”
You look at the ceiling. “A while.”
“Did he brainwash you?” Mira snaps. “Are you cursed? Are you fucking STUPID—”
“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cuts like a blade.
“No, I wanna hear her say it.” Mira hisses, rounding on you. “Do you even care that he’s a demon? That he’s probably feeding off you? That he’s probably laughing with the rest of those Saja freaks about how easy it was to get a Hunter to spread her legs—”
“Shut the fuck up, Mira.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it lands.
Mira steps back.
“
I know what he is.”you say softly. “I know what we are. I’m not confused. I’m not cursed. I’m not being controlled. I know what I’m doing.”
Zoey’s lip trembles. “Then why?”
You glance away. Chew your lip. Feel your chest ache. “Because he’s not what I thought demons were. Not all the time. Not with me.”
Mira scoffs. “Oh, my God.”
Rumi stares at you, then she says, “Go to your room.”
“I—what?”
“Go. To your room. Now.”
You pause for half a second, wanting to argue. Wanting to stand your ground. But you’ve already shredded the ground beneath your feet. So you do as you’re told. You walk back in. Close the door. Sit down on the bed.
The sheets still smell like Baby.
MYSTERY
You like him. God help you, you really do.
It started during one of their meet-and-greets. A crowd full of obsessed fans screaming over them, while you stood in line like a regular human, hair tucked under a cap and sunglasses on your face, just scoping the scene.
That’s when you noticed him in the back. Standing off to the side like he wasn’t even part of the group. His mic wasn’t on. He wasn’t smiling. Just kind of
 existing.
You don’t know what possessed you, maybe it was the odd way his hands were twitching around the prop mic, or the slight crease in his brows as he watched the crowd, but you stepped toward him. Just a little. Close enough that he looked up. Or at least, lifted his chin.
He was holding a lightstick upside down.
And god, something about that made your heart ache. Because he looked so confused. So detached. So alien in that moment. Like he didn’t get what any of this was for.
So you’d whispered, “Turn it around. Other way.”
He blinked. Glanced at it. Turned it slowly, obediently.
You reached out and twisted his fingers to hold it right. “There. Like that.”
He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he watched you. All of you. Your hands, your mouth, your face.
And when you turned to go?
“
Thanks.” he said. So small. So low. Barely audible.
After that, he kept noticing you. You’d catch him watching from across rooftops during a hunt, or from the shadows of backstage areas. Silent. Unmoving. A presence. He never approached you directly—you had to do that—but he let you. Which, coming from him, was kind of massive.
You started sneaking around. Sitting next to him when you knew the other Saja boys wouldn’t be around. Leaving stupid little notes for him where you knew he’d find them. One time you brought him a chocolate bar and he ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Then murmured, “Too sweet.” and handed the wrapper back.
You’ve learned to read his silences. Every little shrug or pause or twitch is a language now. One you understand. But he also talks, like:
“You smell good.”
“Don’t go yet.”
“You looked sad today.”
He didn’t have to be sweet with you. Or quiet. Or gentle.
He just chose to be.
Once you were in the alley behind a club where both your crews had performed. The others were still inside fighting. But he had slipped out. And so had you. Not nice, you know, but it felt right.
He had his back against the wall, shoulders relaxed.
You had asked him, “Why are you always so quiet?”
He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”
You rolled your eyes. “There’s always something to say.” And then you turned toward him, shoulder brushing his, and whispered, “Like
 if you wanted to kiss me.”
His breath stilled.
You watched his lashes lower behind his heavy hair. You could barely see his eyes, but you could feel them.
And then, softly:
“
Can I?”
You nodded.
He kissed you. No tongue, no hands, no hunger—not at first. Just lips.
Then you leaned in harder. Slid your hand up his chest.
Then he moved.
And after that? It was on.
It was a relationship—even if the word felt too loud, too bright, too human. You didn’t label it. You didn’t talk about it. But you felt it every time he waited for you. Every time he slipped into your space. Every time he murmured your name.
Don’t even get me started on the patterns on his dick. It’s weirdly attractive.
WHO SAID THAT?!
And then you got caught.
It had been weeks. The girls were suspicious, but they hadn’t figured him out yet. The others? Sure. But Mystery? Who could tell what he was even thinking, let alone who he was touching?
So that night, you got bold.
It was late. Everyone else was asleep. You were in the upstairs sunroom, one of your favorite places because it overlooked the whole city. Mystery was curled up with you on the wide window ledge.
Your hand was in his hair. His breath was on your neck. You had just whispered something—you don’t even remember what. Something dumb and soft and sweet.
He turns his face to you and said, “I like it when you talk.”
You blink. Smile. “That so?”
He nods once. “Your voice is warm.”
And you arw about to say something else when Zoey’s voice rang out behind you:
“
You’re kidding me.”
Your whole body jerks.
You turn so fast you almost knock Mystery out the window.
Zoey stands in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw slack. Mira right behind her, looking like she was about to throw up. And Rumi is staring at Mystery.
And he—fucking audacious—is just sitting there. Calm. Not moving. One arm still around you.
He’s kinda evil so he’s definitely doing that on purpose.
“Okay—okay, listen—”
But Mira is already marching forward, murder in her eyes. “You’re sleeping with him?!”
“He’s not what you think—!”
“He’s a DEMON!”
Zoey looks betrayed. Like it physically hurts her to see you like this.
Rumi just says: “Leave. Both of you.”
Mystery doesn’t move until you move first. He stands slowly, brushing off his shirt. Then he reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear, and whispers: “I’ll wait.”
Then he vanishes.
You walk back into your room, listening to Rumi. Like your best friends didn’t just see you wrapped up in one of the five you’ve all sworn—sworn—to destroy.
You don’t cry. You don’t know if you can. It’s just this huge, pulsing silence in your chest, like someone rang a bell inside you and then walked away.
To Rumi, this was personal.
We know why.
And she just saw you—her best friend—wrapped up in the arms of something she sees as rot.
Of him.
It’s not even about him being a Saja Boy. Not completely. It’s the idea that you’re letting something like that close to your heart. That you’re flirting with what her bloodline forced on her.
And she’s scared.
You sit there for what feels like forever.
Mystery’s scent still clings to your collar. You wonder if he’s out there waiting like he said. You wonder if the girls will ever look at you the same again.
You wonder if you even deserve it.
170 notes · View notes
no1blacksapphirefan · 2 days ago
Note
Hi! I really love your self aware AU. I was wondering, how do you think the cookies would react to the player/reader trying hard to get their outfits? For me, I love Pure Vanilla’s Truthless Recluse and Pastel Blue outfits (used the cubes for the first and stars/crystals for the second). And Shadow Milk’s Sage of Truth one is pretty too. And similarly, how do cookies that don’t have any (yet) feel? I don’t think Black Sapphire has any (that I’ve seen) which shocked me. The only other outfits I adore are Milky Way’s, Stardust’s and Capsaicin’s, so there’s very few I try and get. But feel free to talk about any other character!
I made one for the wedding costumes here if you’d like to give it a read ^^
Here’s one down for the others though hehe
(Not proof read, I'll fix any mistakes when I can ^^)
Shadow Milk Oh how he loves how concentrated you look, how you press that pull button and pray, hope that little Mont Blanc Cookie does that special animation, getting your hopes up until it's just an epic. Oh don't get him wrong, he is going to love seeing you get his costume and he loves it more knowing how much you want it, but it's exactly that reason why he hopes it takes longer.
Just seeing your desperation as you farm, collect, do anything you can for more rainbow cubes just to even get a chance at seeing that special outfit is enough for him, it truly shows him how much you like him, so call him cruel, but he wants to watch just a bit longer, it'll make watching your face light up more worth it.
Pure Vanilla Oh if he could, he'd love to just give you the outfit outright, he's glad you enjoy his other fits. Though he will admit that the Truthless Recluse outfit of his does make him a tad bit iffy, nothing bad enough to make him look away, it just feels odd to see himself acting rather differently. He watches as you try everything to get his outfit, seeing if he can find someone to up your luck.
And when you finally do? Oh he's overjoyed, he'll happily wear the outfit if you so want him too, seeing you so giddy and happy over finally getting it warms his heart to no end, perhaps he should get another costume. He will admit, seeing you're happy face over getting it is quite lovely.
Eternal Sugar She only has one outfit, and at first she was a bit mad. You're telling her this outfit would be what she wore if she won? She could've won?? Witches dammit, she swears she was so close, though...seeing you want it so much, she pushes that thought away. Not that it's gone completely, she's still annoyed but she's willing to hold back on those feelings if it meant being able to concentrate on you pulling for it.
Oh how sweet her darling was, doing everything in their ability to get more. She'll giggle so much if you decide to even use money to get more (don't do this guys) She'll consider it a win once you manage to finally get it and put it on her. Sure it never happened, she never truly won but she's wearing the outfit of a timeline when she did. Plus as a bonus, she got to see your smile.
Black Sapphire He preferred the outfit he wore, if he wanted to wear something else I think he'd make it himself, while he doesn't really hate the idea he also doesn't want anyone else to make him one, preferring his own handiwork when it comes to outfits. But he'd be lying if he said that he doesn't want to see your face light up when you manage to obtain a new one. And as a deceit follower, that's exactly what he tells everyone anyways.
Oh but he's so willing to compromise, maybe if he made a new outfit and bribed Mont Blanc Cookie he'd be able to have his own gacha. It'll be a win win...everyone's happy, he'll still be wearing his own work but you'll be pulling for it. It'll make you happy, he's sure of it. He'll make sure to make an outfit so pretty you'll practically be swooning when you see him wear it.
Mystic Flour She doesn't mind not having an outfit and sure, many times have you been the exception to her apathy, things she usually wouldn't care about suddenly she cares if you show an interested but I don't think it'll be this way when it comes to outfits. Besides, it seems as though she's forgotten in the game she seems to be in. She'd be surprised if she even got a costume.
That's not to say she won't be looking forward to you pulling on her outfit if she even gets one, more so that she won't mind whether or not she got an outfit or not. All she really wants is for you to still like her, if you find her current outfit pretty than she'll wear it, if she gets a new one and you prefer it? She'll wear it for you. She will admit, she does get why everyone enjoys seeing your smile when you manage to obtain an outfit, you've done it before though so she's content with how things are.
152 notes · View notes
breadwithpoprocks-fandom · 2 days ago
Text
replies;
@skyeventide : no it's real tho. the manipulation especially. elthina substituting herself as a mother to him and filling the void of seb's actual mother in terms of praise and love
like if you think about it sebastian and leliana go through the same kind of arc in that sense except that sebastian has no chance to escape the trauma even a little bit and has direct targets to blame
tags;
@periwinkle-warden : #if only he got more screentime for those interesting elements to get fleshed out#he feels like an afterthought from beginning to end
@numerous-knives : #I quite like him actually#I want to break him out of his self-imposed prison of repression#like sir if you were truly so against unleashed mages and promiscuity you would not be hanging with this crew#you’re here cause vicariously you’re having a good time for once#I love pestering the poor guy with male mage Hawke
@kossithmercar : #despite andrastianism being so prevalent we get few and non mages that have been involved with the chantry in a highly suspect way#but Sebastian handled it soooo well#he has been manipulated has been left alone without family there is only one person he could trust#how could he see behind the mask if the mask is the only comfort he has had for years?
@kaldurrr : #the man is closeted but also no he’s not 💕#he knows what he’s about and has no idea what he’s doing
#i said what i said before#stop fucking that cop cullen and get with a real freak#he laughs at all my terrible jokes and has strange and violent ideas about revenge
@zoneofsmites : #sebestian is a very interesting character fr#i also just. do not like him on a personal level but man
 objectively he should have everything going for him
@feralkwe : #don't get me started on how he would have been a beautiful narrative foil to anders#if bioware wasn't cowards#wasted opportunity#instead of making him a dlc
@faerun : #unfortunately it is all under the surface and implied bc bioware doesnt give a shit about him either#but if people put even half the work into humanizing and deepening his character that they do for other similarly shallow companions#than he ends up being a very complex and compelling character#idk idk i just love him and he was given so little to work with in canon that its easy to eexpand him in#literally any direction. i esp love darker takes on his character
@red-wardens : #i still wont let him kill anders in my canon but#i get it
@dungeons-and-dragon-age : #mmh i think a lot of people really sleep on his fucked up ness#he is just as messy and conflicted as all the others in the crew and i love him for it#i love listening to his dialogue its soooo.#he contradicts himself all the time he tries to convince himself of ''his'' values so so much and is in denial so bad and it is delightful
@curiouslavellan : #one of my favorite things about him is how he clearly wants to be a peace and love pacifist#but he REALLY enjoys all the fighting and daredevil shit Hawke brings him into
@deedeemactir : #there’s this comment that Sebastian can make to Hawke about disappointing his parents being the only way he’d know it was really them#that just UGH#he was a throw away child who rebelled for attention and originally hated the idea of going to the chantry#but then he found meaning and belonging there and while religion isn’t for everyone#and the chantry is deeply flawed#it gave him peace the same way that Leliana found peace there#I could also go on for ages about his relationship with Isabela#and Fenris for that matter#love him
Sebastian Vael is actually a very nuanced and complex character if you chew on him for more than five fucking seconds especially when considering his rakish behavior the family pressures and survivor’s guilt all culminating under the religious manipulation of the chantry in this essay I will—
727 notes · View notes
crow-quilll · 2 days ago
Note
CROW WHAT DO YOU THINK ABT THE S3 ENDING?
Well. Hello all that submitted asks asking about my thoughts on Squid Game season 3 + its ending. I needed a day to. Register. What I just watched. So here are my thoughts, get ready for a rant! WARNING FOR MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SG3 UNDER CUT
Long story short: I hated it -- and justifiably so. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't hate it because it didn't get a happy ending-- we all know I love me some tragedy. BUT. Gi-hun's death was just so.. empty? There was no mention to sae-byeok or sang-woo in the end, or even JUNG-BAE who died like the day before? Nothing to pay homage to how Gi-hun suffered and what he sacrificed. Honestly, his whole role in the season felt so passive. Those first two episodes I enjoyed his more manic side, but then he just becomes a background character. And then he gets stuck with the baby, and that is just a trope that I absolutely despise because it feels so very lazy: You take a main character who has lost the will to live, hand them a baby/kid, and suddenly they've got something to fight for again. Gi-hun's goal was no longer ending the games, it was saving this one kid (which yes, is symbolic of fighting the system, but I hated it). It's just so whatever, you know? All of that fight in him that we saw in s2 was completely disregarded. We never saw him take down the system he vowed vengeance again. He didn't accomplish anything, he never fought In-ho again, never got any sort of victory. He lost. And lost again. And again. And finally, one last time. He failed and sacrificed himself to save a kid that isn't his own (which is admittedly in character for him, but is still so lazy and unsatisfying).
AND we never got the Gi-hun x In-ho confrontation we needed. When In-ho revealed himself, Gi-hun said nothing. Nothing. No big ideological verbal fight between them, no hurt words of betrayal, no "... young-il?" or ".. why?" We got NOTHING. Nothing. And the season was marketed as the big finale to their feud -- we got one scene with them together, nothing was concluded and that was it.
And don't even get me started on what they did to In-ho's character too, who was just as passive as Gi-hun the whole time. Also, the fact that he gets to walk away alive from the island after all he did?? And Gi-hun dies?? And don't give me that "in real life, bad guys get away with everything" spiel - he was too complex a character for that to be a satisfying conclusion to his entire arc. He should've never made it off that island alive - he should've died there, surrounded by the ruins of a system he built and was built by.
There's so much else to say about how bad this season was. The pacing, the finalist choices (Player 100... really?), the arcs of the other characters (im looking at you, Dae-ho), the VIPs (again?). But honestly, I just don't want to lmao. I'm not gonna sit here and tear apart the season because I hated it enough that I don't even care to.
There is a silver lining in the end (and no, it's not that the kid lives, I don't care that was stupid and I saw it coming from a mile away). The silver lining is that we are still here: the artists, the writers, the readers, the animators - all of us. We still hold these characters, we can still write the stories they deserved and never got.
To anyone who enjoyed the season, I am glad you did! Just because I didn't doesn't mean you can't. I'm glad you found a satisfying conclusion to the story. But as a lover of stories myself, I was sorely and completely disappointed -- and that's okay too.
With all of that said, Nobody's Soldier will certainly have a better ending than what we got (although, that doesn't say much considering how bad the canon ending was). I will finish it and it will be more satisfying and truer to Gi-hun and In-ho's characters.
I can't say when the fic will be updated next, but it's coming. Until then, brandish your fanart, your fanfictions, edits, and everything in between. These characters deserve better, and we're going to give them better <33
Tumblr media
90 notes · View notes
thesoftboiledegg · 18 hours ago
Text
Tumblr media
The writers' choice to stray away from B-plots in recent seasons has been controversial. Some people have criticized this decision because it means we spend less time with the other characters. Personally, I've enjoyed it because it gives us more time to focus on the main story--and man, as far as B-plots go, I REALLY wish this episode didn't have one.
The Earth World subplot was creative enough, and I'll admit that it was nice to see the whole Smith family in an episode for a change. But every time the story veered away from the Beths, I couldn't wait to return to their adventures. We've only got 20 minutes to spare, and their story is so much more interesting than a goofy subplot that doesn't reveal anything new about the characters.
Well, maybe it revealed a little about Morty. "I'm not gonna shit on it too hard because I know you'd punish me." Ouch. No matter how much Rick changes, the memory of his past abuse still lingers.
And the Beths have a lot of complicated memories, too. "The CuRicksous Case of Bethjamin Button" is a solid episode, but I wish we had time to really dive into their sadness, grief, frustration and contradictory feelings toward their father and each other. Without it, the happier scenes at the end don't completely feel "earned."
In any case, I hope this is the start of something bigger. This show has underutilized Beth for far too long.
Tumblr media
I was glad to see two women credited as the head writers for this episode (Heather Anne Campbell and Jess Lacher) because they'd truly understand the weirdness of girlhood. As a former weird girl myself, this episode nailed it. Little girls are loud, rowdy, creative, daring and ambitious, but despite it all, we crave our parents' love and approval.
Beth, of course, is a little rowdier than most girls. I wish we'd learned more about her childhood because it's still fairly muddy. She's violent like her father, but the show keeps implying that he was kinder when he was younger, so was Beth just vicious on her own? Or are we getting the wrong impression about Rick? Or did something else happen? It's still a mystery.
Beth and Space Beth's dynamic is intriguing because they respect and care for each other, but they also see each other's worst traits in themselves, so they often end up at each other's throats. Still, they always end up reconciling because nobody understands them as well as they do. They have such different lives, and yet they ended up in the exact same mental state.
At the start, it was nice to see them acknowledge that they can't keep blaming Rick for everything. He fucked up, but they're adults who make their own decisions--well, until they get into the de-aging machine, I guess. After Rick happily lived as a child in "Cryo Mort a Rickver," we've had two episodes in a row about age regression. Don't let Rick de-age himself, because he might not want to change back.
When the Beths started raising hell in a seemingly aimless A-plot and the B-plot kept Rick away from the house, I figured we'd miss our chance to see Rick interact with his little girl. But nope, the writers had a pleasant surprise in store: Rick leaving the trip early to confront his daughters alone.
That decision resulted in some juicy character scenes. The Beths take advantage of Rick's genuine fatherly concern to trap him in the machine and turn him into a 360-year-old geezer, then proceed to kick his ass. Inevitably, their glee melts into tears. And finally, the show addresses something that's driven me crazy for ages: Rick tells the Beths that he never left them.
I've always hated how Rick apparently told them off-screen, and it didn't seem to affect the way the family treated him. The Smiths insulted him for YEARS, thinking he abandoned his daughter, and we just...never find out how they reacted to the truth? This episode doesn't totally rectify that, but at least we see Beth admit that she needs to blame somebody, and he's the only Rick available.
Beth tries to protect herself with an icy exterior, but in the end, she's just a lonely little girl who wants her father's love. Her biological father is gone, but after all these years, the Rick who stayed is finally ready to give it to her.
Tumblr media
I would've preferred this episode without a B-plot, but I'll admit that Summer and Jerry loudly ruining Rick's moment with the Beths was hilarious. This is still the Sanchez/Smith family, after all. They might be changing, but they're always up for wacky sci-fi hijinks--and poor Gene keeps getting caught in the way.
97 notes · View notes
daylightmidnights · 6 hours ago
Text
It's been ages since this was posted and I got time to read it today. Finally!
I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am that they're married now. My babies!!!! I love them so much. Kingrry has turned into such a pookie bear for her I can't help but love him. Can I have him please? I need someone who'd fight everyone for me like he did for his Queen đŸ„ș
Those people are so disgusting and real pos. The audacity of Lord Mayor, Mrs Mable and the doctor!!! They all should rot in hell. And they don't even have any respect for harry as their king and what he wishes. Fuck all of them. Especially Mrs Mable because why the fuck would you want your daughter to be a mistress and then you are offended when he calls her ugly? That bothers you? And you're fine with using your daughter as your golden ticket to secure a spot at the palace? Disgusting!! I kinda feel bad for Pearl because that girl is also a victim of the system. Yn is 20 so I'm guessing Pearl is younger than her. That girl's brain is not fully developed yet and she's being fed all this bs by her mother and the people around her and the society. Just a horrible time for women to live in. That being said, i absolutely loved the way harry insulted her looks. I lost it at the bug comparison. Especially loved when yn said "I heard her tell this one..." Imagine being referred to as this one! Poor pearl, but deserved 😂
I have to mention the words you used tho. Bedswerver, i never heard of it. Gutter-waif, I don't even no what that means. There's so many words you use that are so fascinating. Must take so much time researching for all that. Thanks for doing that.
Love her friendship with Phoebe so much. She even kisses her when tucking her in? That's so so sweet it made me emotional. I love them. Everyone deserves a friend like Phoebe. When yn said "I'm not queen yet" and Phoebe replied "You are to me" aahhhhhh i love her so much. Supportive bestie!!!!
And I was so glad when the new dressmaker treated yn so nicely and with respect. And I found this hilarious for some reason "She wasn't sure if he'd said leave this dress to me, or leave the stress to me
" my sleepy confused queen.
Lastly their wedding was beautiful. I know no one in attendance was actually interested or happy but it was still beautiful solely because harry was super happy and excited for her to be his wife. He's just so in love. He even kissed her properly. I love him more than i hated him in the beginning. That says a lot about how the story has progressed and how well you wrote him.
This chapter was so eventful and action packed. A rollercoaster really. Made me angry on so many instances but also soothed me with the little bit of wholesomeness in between. You did so good wrapping it up nicely and leaving the spicy part to the next chapter.
I just cannot thank you enough for this story. You don't understand how much this means to me. It has become my favourite and i look forward to it so impatiently. I appreciate you for taking your time researching for this and making time out of your home life and busy patreon schedule to write this for free. Just know that you make me and many of us happy and we are so thankful to you for everything you put out on here. I love you so much and I'm so proud of you for pulling this story off so perfectly. Can't wait for the next chapter ❀
[5] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry
Tumblr media
MAIN MASTERLIST | It's Good to Be King Masterlist
Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.
Tumblr media
Ch. 5 Word Count: 8,476
Ch. 5 Warning: Discrimination, bullying, slight angst and miscommunication, jealousy, hurt feelings, wedding scene -> smut will be in ch. 6, for those anticipating it
. .
The Duke remained quiet and sat in the comfortable feather-down cushioned chair near the fire as he watched Harry and Virgil go back and forth. He'd been meant to mediate the discussion, but Harry overrode that decision and told him to sit before he was removed from the castle. The king didn't need someone there to arbitrate anything. Harry would be the one with the final say, no matter what the Duke's opinion.
It started, on the surface, amicably. But quickly spiraled when Virgil told him he'd regret his choices as king (stripping the Lord Mayor of his title for one, and marrying Y/n for another). Harry'd expected to hear the Lord Mayor bemoan his decisions again. It was no surprise to him, but it was quite galling to listen once again to the same justifications.
Harry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I thought you came here to accuse me of theft. You are a sad, tiresome man, Virgil. I'm bored listening to this drivel."
Niall watched from the door, letting his eyes rove the three gentlemen slowly. He was only there to protect Harry, should he have needed to. But more than that, he found their little tiff to be quite amusing, though he'd never let on to it.
The Lord Mayor continued, dismissing Harry's comments. "And furthermore, it's clear to everyone that you do not have Thornekeep's best interest in mind. Marrying a gutter-waif? Setting her up in the castle like she's been bred for the crown? Why
 It's preposterous!"
Harry bristled at gutter-waif, but decided to hold his tongue (and his anger) in front of the Duke. "Bred for the crown? What are you? A husbandry worker now? You breed animals and ready them for royalty?"
A quiet breath fell from the Duke as he turned his head away from the pair arguing. Even he was amused.
A sputtered noise of disbelief fell from the Lord Mayor as he shook his head. "Quite vulgar! Once again!"
The king laughed sardonically and stepped around the edge of the table, glancing at Niall as he ticked his fingers, tapping his nails together slowly. "Are we done here?"
"Before we make our leave, I want to discuss the young woman again. Pearl."
"And what would you like to tell me about the young woman with whom you are infatuated?"
"Your Highness! I am not infatuated!" Virgil pushed himself up from the chair and stepped near to Harry, but not close enough that the king could get his hands on him. "I'm trying to offer you a better choice of wife. Pearl will not disappoint you. She is happy to serve you as a good wife and queen should, and she learns quickly. She will see to it that you are well taken care of."
"I do not want Pearl. I've already made my choice. If you want her so badly, you can have her. Your wife seems quite meek. She wouldn't mind you taking a lover, I'm sure. Most men of your ilk do."
Virgil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring how Harry had once again suggested that he wanted Pearl for himself. "My Lord, we can attest to and confirm that Pearl is a virgin, which is required of the queen consort. I have my doubts that Y/n is pure and virginal."
Harry laughed darkly, without a single drop of humor. "I suggest you make your leave before I become violent with you. My future wife is not up for discussion. I will not have you speak her name again."
"Then a mistress! Pearl would make a lovely mistress for you. She's fine to take on the role as long as you keep her and take care of her and her family in return."
Clenching his jaw, he shook his head and looked at the Duke. "Is he deaf? Dumb? Were you able to understand my orders just now, or am I the mad one here?"
"My Lord, I understood well your desires," the Duke said, not daring to look the Lord Mayor in the eye as he sided with the king.
"You cannot expect to be satisfied with just one woman. Surely you have plans in place to accommodate a mistress, if you haven't already," the Lord Mayor added.
Harry sighed and looked toward Niall again before stepping closer to the old man. "I think I can infer what's going on here. You and Mrs. Mable were quite close at one time, weren't you? The rumors were true then. She was your house-fed lamb, and you're a bedswerver. Your poor wife. Is Mrs. Mable threatening to let the cat out of the bag if you don't secure her virgin daughter a place in the castle?"
Virgil's mouth dropped open as his eyes nearly bulged from his head. "I
 Why that's not even—"
The king moved closer, and the old man backed up to keep his distance. "That is what this is all about, isn't it? Most would wonder if Pearl was your daughter and not Mr. Mable's, but I'm convinced you're all dried up, impotent. And you, being like every other fleece-monger in Thornekeep, took Mrs. Mable as your secret, fancy piece."
"This is outrageous! I take umbrage at your accusations!"
Calmly, Harry looked at the Duke with a pleased grin. "Our old billygoat here takes umbrage. What do you say to that, Duke?"
Duke Hughes looked from the King to the Lord Mayor and stood up from his seat. "I say that it's time for us to make our leave."
"Now that is a smart answer. You could learn a lot from the Duke, Virgil."
"Just one meeting with Pearl, my Lord. She is ready to serve and would make a beautiful Queen, if not a kept mistress
"
"I said, get out! I'm quite finished with you, worm. Niall, remove him from the lounge
"
The old man raised his hands in surrender as Niall stepped forward. "We're leaving. No need for intervention. But please, consider meeting with the girl once. You will not be disappointed."
Tumblr media
The dress was exquisite. Y/n glanced at Phoebe, who had covered her mouth with her hands after seeing all the pieces put together. She grinned at her friend and looked back at her reflection and couldn't help but focus on the young woman who Mrs. Mable had brought along for the final fitting. She had not been introduced to her, but Y/n could see that the girl was dissatisfied and annoyed.
"It's a shame this wedding and everything to do with the king's selection was rushed," the dressmaker said as she pulled at the fabric and tightened the bust, making Y/n gasp.
"Mama
 When can I meet King Styles? I'm bored, and the stench in here is unbearable."
The young woman looked directly at Y/n as she mentioned the stench but Y/n was more worried about the girl's request to see the king. She'd become accustomed to insinuitive remarks and had learned to brush them off. But she did not like the idea of this pretty, young, blonde asking about her husband-to-be.
"Soon. He's been summoned. I imagine he'll be coming in any minute."
Y/n quickly grabbed her skirts and lifted them as she stepped down from the platform and looked at Phoebe. "He can't come in here! I'm in my bridal gown. It's bad luck—"
"It won't matter anyway. There's nothing customary about any of this. No one is so deceived as to think you're a virgin anyway
"
"It's so vulgar to think of it!" The pretty blonde said as she stood up and stepped in front of the mirror, smoothing out the silk panel in her dress. "The king deserves purity and beauty above all."
"Who is this? Why is she here? What business has she with the king?" Y/n pointed at the blonde as she stepped in behind her.
"There's the stench," Pearl said as she turned to look at Y/n, a smug expression drawn on her face.
Just then, the door opened and Harry barreled in with Niall and his assistant Fred trailing behind him. "Y/n
 Is—what is this?"
He looked at Pearl, her mother, and the other women in the room, his brows pinched together dubiously. Y/n tried to hide the fabric of her skirts and duck behind a wooden table, but it had all been too late. He'd seen her gown.
"This is my dress fitting. You're not supposed to see me like this!" Y/n was almost in tears, and she knew it was a trivial thing to be so worked up over, but she had envisioned the surprised look on his face when she walked down the aisle toward the altar. She'd been so excited for that moment, and now that would be taken from her. He'd already seen her beautiful dress and it would no longer be a surprise.
Harry let his eyes sweep over her gown and back up to her face. "I was told that I was needed urgently. Who sent for me?"
The room fell quiet as Y/n narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Mable and then Pearl. "They did." She pointed. "I heard her tell this one that you'd been summoned but I did not call for you."
Harry could see the dismay on her face. To him, it was all the same. It didn't matter if he saw the dress now or on the day of their ceremony. But it was clear that it meant a lot more to Y/n and so for that he was livid.
"You're the dressmaker. Mrs. Mable
" Harry said and then he set his eyes on the pretty young blonde who was blushing softly and lowering her gaze in respect. "And you must be Pearl. Virgil has spoken highly of you, but unfortunately, you're wasting your time here."
Mrs. Mable rushed toward Harry and pointed at her daughter. "She is ready, Your Highness. She's been trained for this and she will do anything you ask of her. Give her a chance. You may take her into your chambers if you'd like to make a more informed choice."
Harry sniffed and looked at Y/n before he shot a look of disdain at Mrs. Mable. "Are you dull in the head? Your conniving with the Lord Mayor is pathetic. I know what you two have done and I care not if you expose him and yourself for the bedswervers you are. But do not pull my bride-to-be into this ratbag scheme."
"Is she not more lovely, not more fit to your tastes and to the kingdom's? You will require a virgin—"
"Pish! You and Virgil seem to think I hold virgins in high regard when that is the least of my concerns. Take her away. I don't wish to look at your daughter or to have her near Y/n. I can tell by just a glance that she's jealous."
Pearl let out a frustrated laugh. "I would never be jealous of her! She's akin to the filthy swine at the entry of the rookeries from where she came!"
Harry calmly stepped in front of the blonde, a rage boiling beneath the surface that he had to tame. She had to crane her neck back to look up at him. "I pity people like you," he said in a dark, spiteful tone. "Wrapped up in silk with pink lace bows and a turned-up nose. You haven't a single original thought in that tiny brain of yours and that's the most unattractive thing about you. Moreover, I can't find a solitary redeeming quality that you possess. I do not find you to be pretty. On the contrary
 Your face is too wide and pasty, your wrists like a hollowed sprig, and your eyes are set too close, reminiscent of those fat bugs that like to feed off dung in the farmyards. I would never take you as my wife, much less a mistress. You are no better than anyone in this room, and you never will be."
Pearl stepped back and turned her face downward as tears threatened to burst from her eyes. Y/n felt a spike of satisfaction course up the knobs of her spine. She had been blind sided by their little trick to get the king to walk into her room for her fitting, so to hear Harry speak his mind to the young girl in that way had her holding her head a little higher, despite the devastation she felt at him seeing her dress before he was meant to.
"You bootjack! Do not speak to my daughter that way!" Mrs. Mable wrapped her arms around Pearl protectively.
Harry laughed. "Brave soul you are to mock the king and your queen-to-be. What did you expect of this disgraceful, desperate exhibit? That I'd look at her
" He gestured toward Pearl, who still had her face downcast. "And find myself smitten by her pastel garments and curled locks? She is nothing more than the dressmaker's daughter. She does not interest me in the least."
Mrs. Mable scoffed and looked at Y/n, Phoebe next to her, holding her arm. "She's a regular street beggar turned flag-hopper. Who knows how many men she's done the business with and if you want to marry into that kind of rubbish, then you dishonor your father's legacy. You are an embarrassment to the kingdom."
Letting his eyes flicker over his bride-to-be, he clenched his jaw. "If you were a man I'd have you tossed from the window down to your painful demise for speaking that way about her. Does she look rubbish to you? And who do you see standing before you as King? Not my father. He's dead, buried in the ground where he belongs."
One of the seamstresses gasped and turned away quickly in surprise at Harry's rough words for the beloved, deceased King Augustus. He shook his head and pointed toward the door. "Niall, take Mrs. Mable and her daughter down to the study and wait with them until I arrive. The rest of you are dismissed. Phoebe, you may stay with Y/n and help her out of this dress."
Niall motioned to the pair and Mrs. Mable scowled at the king on her way out of the room. Pearl kept her head down in shame with cheeks wetted by tears. Y/n watched with cautious delight, her eyes shifting from Mrs. Mable and Pearl, and then the workers as they all filed out of the Rose Room.
Then, before she even realized he'd made his way to her side, she felt his hand wrap around hers, and she turned to look up at him. "We'll have a new dress made for you. A better one. You will never have to see Mrs. Mable and her insufferable, hideous daughter ever again." He thumbed at her cheek as she nodded, a small smile working up on her lips.
"But the wedding is in two days. I don't know that that's possible. There is no better dressmaker in the kingdom than Mrs. Mable."
"I will find you a better dressmaker even if I have to bring them in from another province. Fred," Harry said, his sight still on his bride-to-be, "go find Luther and have him send for that Parisian man in Bethel. Find out who he uses and have them brought here at any cost."
The door closed behind Fred, and Phoebe stood to the side, watching as Harry and Y/n stared at one another. "You are not upset by them, are you?"
She blinked and looked toward the door. "I'm unsure how I feel. I found Pearl to be very pretty, and I imagined you would like the looks of her." She turned her gaze back to him. "Is it true you find her to be hideous?"
Harry continued running his thumb along her cheek as he lifted his other hand to the opposite side of her face. "Compared to you? She's repulsive and boring."
"But you wouldn't even take her as your mistress?"
"I won't be taking a mistress."
Y/n shook her head. "Isn't it customary for the king to have mistresses to keep him satisfied? What if I cannot make you happy?"
"Do not worry about that, little mouse. Now, I need to go and sort out the hatchet-faced sows who await me."
She giggled quietly as he stepped away from her, a cheeky grin on his face.
The moment he closed the door, Phoebe stepped in behind her and began helping her untie the corset. "She's not pretty. Not at all."
"Who? Pearl? I believe she was very pretty."
"Her attitude was ugly. I can't believe he compared her to a dung bug!"
The girls laughed together. "I wonder what he's going to say to them in his study."
"He's already love-stricken. It's so romantic," Phoebe said as she laid the corset down on the dressing table.
"Love-stricken? I don't believe so."
"Oh, but he is. I have a secret. Something I've wanted to say but didn't know if I should
 But now I can't hold it in any longer
"
Y/n looked at Phoebe. "Well, what is it?"
"He's telling you the truth that he doesn't want a lover. I overheard him with his assistant and the castle steward telling them to clear the room that was meant to be kept for a mistress, but he didn't want it. He had changed his mind. Mr. Fred told him to leave it just in case, but the King insisted they give the room another use. He said it was no longer necessary, and I think it's because he can't imagine having anyone but you."
Y/n smiled and looked toward the window as her heart thumped in her chest. It was becoming quite common for her heart to patter harder every time she thought about Harry. He made her skin heat and her fingertips tingle. And she even indulged in touching herself as she imagined his eyes and his lips and his fingers
 She knew her feelings about him were different than anything she'd felt before.
She had never belonged anywhere before, begging in alleyways, sleeping on the floor in her family's cramped tenement, ignored by carriages that splashed muddy water on her skirts. And now, she stood in there in castle with a little more meat on her bones and a relaxed smile on her face. The king had not only chosen her but defended her with the kind of fury only true feelings could ignite. Her feelings of being an impostor still bubbled to the surface at times, but she couldn't deny that Harry soothed the rising simmer with each passing day.
Tumblr media
When the new dressmaker, EugĂšne Louise Lafitte, arrived the following evening, he had brought with him a whole caravan of helpers. Three covered carts filled with dresses, designs, supplies, and materials; two hairdressers, three seamstresses, a milliner, and two of his own assistants; as well as all of his personal belongings, as he was going to replace Mrs. Mable as the official royal dressmaker.
Y/n found the whole ordeal to be chaotic, but if she insisted on a new gown (she didn't really), then this was the only way. EugĂšne had set up everything in the Rose Room, and he began to measure and fit her right away. And despite the fact that there were a dozen people milling about in the room, jumping at every command EugĂšne spat, she found this fitting to be much better than with Mrs. Mable. For one, he never "accidentally" poked her with the pins the way Mrs. Mable had. For another, he treated her with appropriate respect. As if she were the queen already.
"Bring me the white silk Lanvin bodice
" Eugùne said as he waved an arm toward his assistant, his other hand clutched at the middle of Y/n's back as he held fabric in place, and then snapped his fingers. "And check the third trunk for the custom silk skirt with cream lace. And those silk flourettes I've got in my leather satchel. I need them here."
And it went like that until Y/n could barely hold her eyes open. The buzz in the room continued for hours until EugĂšne was pleased with the look. Of course, he checked in with Y/n, often asking her opinion, of which she had none.
It embarrassed her, in a way, that she had no clue about what looked pretty and what did not. She didn't know fashion, but she did love the little silk flowers that were pinned along her outer skirt between bunched lace and smooth satin. The dress was lovely, Y/n could tell that much. And the finished product (which needed to be ready by midday) would be stunning. It would be paired with the original Turkish diamond necklace she'd been gifted and the finished veil that Mrs. Mable had made.
"Now, you rest," EugĂšne said to Y/n after Phoebe had helped her out of the delicate material and tucked a robe around her chemise. "The most important part of any outfit is the person wearing it and her disposition. Your beautiful smile will be the star of the ceremony, and you need your sleep. I will take care of the rest for you, madam. Leave the stress to me."
She paused and squinted at the odd man (he was quite odd, but she rather liked him). She wasn't sure if he'd said leave this dress to me, or leave the stress to me
 Either way, she was too exhausted to think of much else than her comfortable bed as all of the workers left the room and Phoebe tucked her in and kissed her cheek.
"Goodnight, Queen." Phoebe smiled.
Y/n fluttered her eyes closed with a small, quiet laugh and whispered tiredly, "I'm not Queen yet."
"You are to me."
Tumblr media
Despite the pre-wedding spiky nerves Harry was feeling, he was pleased and maybe even a little excited. The ceremony was only a couple of hours away and the castle was abuzz with activity all over. His suit was ready. He'd hidden in his study in hopes of a bit of peace and quiet before the doctor had forced his way in and begun talking nonsense.
"She has not yet had her physical examination, My Lord. It would require, at minimum, a quick and simple two-finger test, which is very run-of-the-mill."
Harry pinched his brows together and nodded with a sneer, his leg draped over his knee as he listened to the castle doctor. Sucking at his teeth he narrowed his gaze. "That will not be happening."
"Excuse me?" The doctor looked surprised.
"I said
 That .. will not .. be happening."
"I don't understand. It's customary to check that the bride of the king is a virgin. How will we determine her virginal status if she doesn't have an examination?"
"I am sorry you're confused, but I believe I made myself clear. She will not be needing an examination. She's already told me she's a virgin." Not that it mattered to him in the first place.
"Please accept my sincerest apologies, My Lord, but how do you know she's telling you the truth? That is why we have protocol for this kind of thing. We cannot trust her to be honest about that. Of course, she'd tell you she's a virgin in order to procure her spot as Queen."
Harry sighed and placed his foot down on the floor, as if her were about to stand, his posture only slightly threatening as he leaned forward and kept his eyes hard on the doctor. "When I first picked her, I sought a woman who was not a virgin on purpose. I had hoped to enjoy some wick-dipping with her right off, but she was quite unsettled by the idea, worried about God and purity and all that. She's a virgin."
"My Lord, this is a—"
"This is a discussion that has come to an end. I won't hear of it anymore. You may take your leave. I'm busy. If you hadn't already realized it, I'm getting married today. I don't have time for your nonsense."
The doctor seemed rather vexed but he left the king's study without another word. Harry understood the usual traditions. He knew that it was expected that Y/n be a virgin. He was also not under any illusion that the people would demand proof and want to see their bedsheets the following morning to check for her blood.
He shook his head and gulped down the last of his gin. He hadn't even wanted a virgin. Mostly for selfish reasons but also because he'd never been with a virgin before. The very first time he saw her up close outside the castle gates, he found her features to be very pleasing and he made the mistake of assuming she was not a virgin. Though even after learning she was, he didn't regret his choice after getting acquainted with her.
He smiled as he stood from the chair. That's what she did to him when he thought of her. She made him smile. The kind of drowsy, sappy smile that told the world he was done for.
He wished he could see her right then. Ask her how she was doing, make sure she was being treated well
 and perhaps to soothe his own nerves as well. What if she ran off? What if the foul treatment she'd been subjected to had finally gotten to her and she was on the run? Not many would stop her from running because they didn't like her anyway.
With a heavy sigh, he looked out the window to find the day overcast in soft pewters, clouds hanging low as if reluctant to bear witness to the scandal of the century. He was looking forward to making Y/n the Queen, but even more than that, he was looking forward to having her as his wife.
Tumblr media
Y/n tried to stop the tears from escaping her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, the final product of her hair, the dress, her jewelry... The gown was even more luxurious than the previous. It had a fuller silk skirt with ribbons of cream lace and soft pink, green, and yellow satin flowers delicately sewn in. The bodice gave everything structure and form at the top, and the thin lace sleeves fitted over her arms like a second skin.
She grazed her fingers over the diamond necklace and inhaled a wobbly breath. "I can't believe it. I've never seen anything so beautiful."
EugĂšne stood behind her with a smile on his face. "I've never seen a more beautiful bride. You wear this dress well, my dear. I know it's not in keeping with tradition but I've been told that you and Harry are not a traditional royal couple. I hope it's just scandalous enough to make everyone turn heads and talk. If anyone can pull this off, it's you."
"And all in less than 12 hours! It's magnificent!" Pheobe exclaimed.
"Thank you, sir. I didn't believe it would be possible, but you've proven me wrong. I'm overwhelmed with happiness."
"Then I've done my job. Now, I believe your carriage awaits to bring you to the cathedral. I will be riding with you and your family, should anything come loose and need fastening."
.
The bells of Thornekeep Cathedral tolled with a heavy, ceremonial rhythm, each echo rolling over the gray-tipped rooftops of the town center like a reluctant proclamation. Inside, sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, coloring the polished stone floor with fragments of ruby, emerald, and sapphire light. It was beautiful, solemn, and grand.
The nave was lined with nobles, foreign dignitaries, and members of the peerage, each clad in their finest silks, lace, and tailored uniforms. Rows of powdered wigs and jeweled collars bobbed stiffly above tight lips and narrowed eyes. They did not applaud. They did not smile. But they did watch carefully. Judging as if they were qualified.
A hush settled as the great organ began to play, a stately, thunderous processional. In the vestibule, Y/n stood just beyond the threshold, her hands trembling against the folds of her gown. The dress was nothing like the ones she used to imagine when watching brides pass in the street. It was better. Phoebe stood at her side, fussing with the long veil that trailed like mist behind her, whispering encouragement.
“You look divine,” Phoebe said, adjusting the fabric atop Y/n’s head. “Now, chin up. If they’re going to hate you, let them hate a queen, not a beggar.”
At the front of the cathedral, King Harry stood waiting beneath the high stone arch of the altar, dressed in a black frock coat with gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar. His ceremonial sword hung from his hip—a nod to tradition he’d allowed begrudgingly—but his cravat was loosened ever so slightly in subtle rebellion. Fred stood just behind him, rigid as he watched on.
Harry’s expression, however, was anything but restrained. He grinned brightly when he saw her appear at the end of the aisle, arm looped with her father's. Gasps rippled through the crowd, not at the gown, not at the diamond necklace, but at the girl wearing them. A commoner. A beggar, soon to be their queen.
Y/n walked slowly down the aisle, trying not to falter under the weight of stares that clung to her like sticky brambles. Her breath caught when she met Harry’s eyes, mischievous, proud, and tender. There was something grounding in his gaze, like a rope cast to a woman who was still learning to stand on marble floors.
At the altar, the Archbishop cleared his throat and began the ceremony, reading from the Book of Common Prayer, as was custom. The vows were traditional, spoken clearly before God and court:
“Will you, Harry, take this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I will.”
“Will you, Y/n, take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance—”
“I will,” she said, quietly but firmly, not letting her voice sound weak in front of the staring spectators.
There were no whispers of love, no passionate declarations. But when Harry slid the ornate ring, a band of twisted gold and sapphire, onto her finger, his thumb brushed hers with lingering affection. A touch that said more than their vows ever could.
When they were pronounced husband and wife, the organ swelled. Tradition usually dictated a polite kiss on the cheek before turning to face the congregation. But Harry, never one for subtlety, leaned in and kissed her full on the lips, dipping her ever so slightly, and Y/n grabbed onto his coat to steady herself. Gasps rose, half in horror, half in delight. He pulled back with a wink only she could see.
Then, side by side, they faced the court. Stone faces stared back. Y/n straightened her spine.
"Let them glare," he said under his breath as they smiled.
The cathedral bells rang again as the newly crowned Queen Y/n emerged from the grand oak doors on Harry’s arm. A scattering of cheers broke out in the crowd gathered beyond the palace gates, though they were thin and uncertain, peppered with scowls, taciturn nobles, and commoners caught between fascination and suspicion.
The royal carriage stood gleaming in the late afternoon light, a glossy black and gold coach pulled by six white horses adorned in crested harnesses. Its polished sides mirrored the anxious faces that lined the route, and the royal seal glinted on the carriage doors.
Y/n climbed in first, the veil like a cloud behind her. Harry followed, waving once to the crowd with an exaggerated flourish, as if daring them to boo. Fred closed the door after them with a look of quiet resignation, before hopping into the carriage behind with the footmen.
Inside, the carriage was warm and velvet-lined, the heavy scent of roses clinging to the seats. Y/n stared out the window as they began to move, flanked by guards on horseback.
“They hate me,” she whispered.
Harry leaned against the cushion and smiled as he pulled her hand into his. “You shouldn't worry about what a bunch of thick-headed sardines think of you. They'er blind.”
She looked up at him and smiled. "I woke up thinking that you'd come to your senses and call it off. That I'd be waiting, all dressed and ready, and you'd be locked in your chambers and have me removed."
He shook his head, soft green irises sliding over her frame and up to her face. “I’ve come to my senses, all right. That’s why you’re sitting here now.”
Y/n looked down at their joined hands—his thumb gently stroking over her knuckles—and for a moment, the heavy world outside the carriage fell away.
“I don’t know how to be a queen,” she admitted, voice barely audible over the rhythmic clatter of wheels on cobblestone.
Harry leaned closer, his voice lower, softer now. “Good.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, and he smiled at the sound, genuine and unguarded. Then he brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against her fingers. “You don’t have to be perfect, Y/n. You just have to be real.”
Outside, the crowd grew louder as the palace gates loomed ahead, but inside the carriage, it was warm and still. She shifted closer to him, their shoulders touching now, the lace of her sleeve brushing the brocade of his coat.
And though the kingdom buzzed with scandal, and the court plotted behind polished smiles, in that quiet stretch of space before the next curtain rose, King Harry and Queen Y/n simply breathed, side by side.
.
The Great Hall of Thornekeep Palace was transformed for the occasion—hundreds of beeswax candles glittered from chandeliers high above, and polished mirrors doubled the light across the walls. Tapestries were drawn back to reveal the grand stonework of the castle’s bones, lending an air of both splendor and severity. Long banquet tables were laid out in rows, gleaming with silverware, crystal goblets, and floral arrangements that spilled over with wildflowers and white roses.
Music floated through the room, an ensemble of violinists and harpists near the hearth played a series of traditional waltzes, though the tempo felt more funereal than festive. No one danced yet. The air was too tight.
At the head table, Y/n sat beside Harry beneath a carved wooden canopy bearing the royal crest. Her plate was filled, but her appetite lagged behind her nerves. The food was elaborate: roast venison with plum glaze, lemon-rosemary quail, bowls of minted peas and white asparagus, and trenchers of honeyed bread and soft cheeses. There was wine from the southern vineyards and towering sugar confections shaped like swans and crowns.
Phoebe stood nearby, ever watchful, whispering quiet instructions on what to do with each fork, when to dab her mouth, when to rise. Y/n nodded gratefully.
The murmurs never stopped.
“She curtsied too shallow.”
“She speaks like she’s from the gutter.”
“Can’t even hold a wineglass properly
”
Harry heard them. Y/n could see it in the tick of his jaw. At one point, a nobleman seated halfway down the table made a thinly veiled comment about the "peculiar scent of fishmongers at court." Harry stood, clinked his glass, and with all the weight of his crown and grin declared:
“I rather like the smell of a woman who knows how to survive.”
The room went silent. Then, reluctantly—awkwardly—a few polite claps began. Phoebe stifled a laugh. Fred looked like he’d aged ten years.
As the night wore on, the air grew looser. Jugglers and acrobats entered, performing near the rear hearth to entertain the children and lower nobility. A small group of traveling actors performed a dramatic retelling of King Augustus the Wise, a none-too-subtle dig at Harry’s late father, much to Harry’s delight.
Y/n watched it all in a dreamlike haze, the velvet of her seat warm beneath her and her crown tugging gently at her temples. She caught Harry looking at her between sips of wine. He reached across the table, not for her hand, but to slide a sugared fig onto her plate.
Y/n picked it up and bit into the fig. Sweet. Sharp. Decadent.
She looked at him with gratitude, holding his gaze a beat longer than proper, feeling something settle in her chest, something warm, steady, and terrifyingly real. Before she could say anything, Fred appeared beside the table with the stiff posture of a man who’d tried to interrupt twice already and failed.
“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, bowing slightly toward Harry. “Lord Chancellor Whitely requests a word regarding the foreign trade representatives. He says it won’t wait.”
Harry groaned under his breath, tilting his head back like a man being dragged to the gallows. “Of course it won’t.” He gave Y/n’s hand a final squeeze under the table. “This is important. I will return as quickly as possible.”
As Fred guided him away, a soft voice called Y/n’s name from just behind her. She turned to find Phoebe leaning in with that same practiced smile she wore whenever navigating nobility like thorns.
“Your mother’s asking for you. I told her you’d come as soon as you’d had a moment and now that the king has been called off
”
Y/n blinked, surprised, rising carefully, nodding her thanks as Phoebe adjusted the fall of her gown behind her. The palace loomed vast and glittering, but with Harry’s warmth still clinging to her skin. Y/n lifted her chin and walked toward where her mother and sisters were standing.
Her mother let out a dramatic sob and pulled Y/n's hands into her warm ones. "You are the Queen. I hear the whispers of everyone around me, but I know you and you are worthy. Even if he already has his mistress up in his room waiting, we all know who his wife is. Whom he has chosen as his queen."
"His mistress?" Y/n looked over her shoulder at Phoebe, who shook her head in confusion, eyes flitting between the mother and daughter.
"Yes. I heard some people talking about a woman named Pearl. She's waiting for him in his chambers right now. Did you not know?"
Y/n swallowed, the back of her throat hollow as she shook her head in disbelief. Her head swirled, making her dizzy, and her sight suddenly shaded in red. Had that been the real reason why he was called off so suddenly? Had he lied to her about what he thought of Pearl? But why?
"I did not know. Thank you, mother. I need to sit."
Y/n tried not to let the dismay that clenched at her heart show on her face. Phoebe was speaking, but Y/n couldn't put together the sentences or make sense of anything. If he'd just been honest the first time around, she wouldn't have so suddenly been caught off guard. She had expected him to take a mistress but when he told her he wouldn't be

Sitting back in her place, she looked around at the lingering gazes and then at her plate in silence. The food she hadn't finished staring back up at her in a taunt. She couldn't believe that she'd been deceived by him. But she refused to let tears stain her cheeks. She was already the butt of the joke and now she knew it to be true. She'd been so stupid.
Even though the room was full of wealth and opulence, no one danced to the music, and very few applauded the children's entertainment on the other side of the Great Hall. The longer she sat in her fancy chair, in her beautiful dress, without Harry by her side, the more she became certain that he was with Pearl. Why would he be rushed away on the evening of his wedding if not to secretly see his new lover? Would he really allow a business meeting to take precedence? None of it made sense anymore.
Y/n drank down her glass of wine and motioned to have another filled. If she was going to be ignored by her new husband while he played with his mistress behind her back, she was going to try and get on with things, and a bit of drink couldn't hurt. Phoebe had tried to offer her comforting words but it didn't help.
"He's off with her. How long has he already been gone? It's been an hour? I know better than to trust him again."
"Please, madam
 I think your mother was mistaken. The king only has eyes for you—"
"My mother knew her name. Someone was speaking about it right in front of her, and she learned a secret that was not meant to be exposed. I'm happy to be armed with the truth. At least I know now."
The chatter in the room softened as heads turned toward the hall's arched entry when Harry and Fred stepped back inside. Y/n looked away. It wasn't fair that he was so handsome after having come back from wherever he'd been. His bed with Pearl likely.
When he sat back down, he reached his hand under the table to place over her skirt but she scooted herself away as much as possible and turned sharply to look anywhere but at him.
"What's wrong, mouse?"
She lifted her glass to her lips and took a long pull of her drink before setting it back down with a loud clunk onto the table. She refused to look at his face. "Do not call me mouse ever again."
Harry glanced up at Phoebe, who was standing near Y/n's chair and then back at his bride's side profile, speaking louder that time. "What is wrong? Tell me what has happened?"
Those who sat closest to the king and queen watched on curiously.
"Did you have fun while you were away? Was it necessary to take an hour to do it?"
"The Lord Chancellor had very important news, and I needed to settle an issue. I did not intend for it to take as long as it did. I apologize. Is that why you're angry?"
She felt her heart thudding in her chest as anger rose up her spine. "Liar."
"Liar? Do you think I am lying right now? Why would I lie to you about something like this? I did not
 Will you turn and look at me?"
Y/n turned away further stubbornly, into an uncomfortable position in her seat as she kept her gaze set away from him. Harry groaned and a few seconds later, Y/n felt her chair being pulled back and a hand grasping at the top of her arm, pulling her up to stand. She huffed as Harry brought her with him away from the table and toward the servant's door out of earshot of the guests.
"Look at me right now, Y/n. I will not tolerate your cryptic anger. Tell me what's wrong at once."
She clenched her jaw and slowly, ever so slowly, let her eyes land on his. "I know what you did. You don't need to lie to me and make a fool of me. At least have the respect to be honest with me!"
Harry wanted to laugh, but he was beginning to get angry himself. He hadn't the slightest idea of what she was on about. "Okay. Then tell me what you think I did."
Y/n tried to maintain a stern, defiant expression and not let her emotions rise to the surface but the longer she looked at his pretty face the harder it was. "Pearl."
He raised his brows and blinked. "What about Pearl? The Mables were all disinvited from the wedding. They are not here. What of Pearl?"
"She was waiting for you in your chambers, and you just went to her. Everyone already knows that's what you did. Your secret got out, and now I know."
He couldn't help it when he a laugh fell from his mouth, and Y/n scowled. "You think that I was with Pearl? Are you serious? Have you not learned yet that believing the whispers of the overly pampered people in this room are as good as fiction?"
She blinked at him, her lips turning downward as her conviction faltered. "My mother told me."
He shook his head. "I don't care who told you. You were lied to. I was with Fred, the Lord Chancellor, and two of his men
" Harry pointed behind Y/n. "Look. There they are now. Taking their seats."
She turned to see three men sitting down, smiles on their faces. And as she let her eyes wander the room, she noticed that many people were not paying much attention to her at that moment. A few were staring, but most were drinking their wine and talking to the people around them.
She looked back up at him. "Do you have a mistress? You might as well tell me now, Harry. At least be honest with me. It's not like I'm going to end the courtship or anything. Too late for that."
"I told you I wasn't taking a mistress, and I meant it."
Y/n searched his face, eyes flitting between his irises and the anger, and the sharp ache of betrayal slowly dissolved when she found nothing but honesty in his eyes. She realized that someone had purposely said those things about Pearl in front of her mother for this very outcome. She'd fallen for the lies.
"You need to trust me. No one else here can be trusted. No one cares about you like I do, so you can't listen to them. They are lying to put a wall between us but it won't work because you're smarter than that. Look who I married?" He ran his knuckles along her jaw. "You're all I want. Why would I ever go with Opal when I have you, here, looking like this
" he said as he looked down over her gown.
"Pearl."
"Who?" He grinned playfully.
She smiled, finally, and Harry let out a breath. "There's that smile. Beautiful."
Y/n looked down, feeling embarrassed by her behavior.
Harry ran his hand down her arm and pulled her closer. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She breathed out a soft laugh. "And you're the devil."
"A handsome one?"
Nodding, she grinned wider, unable to stifle it any longer.
"Let's go back and take our seats before we politely make leave."
The great hall had grown quieter. The candlelight, though still plentiful, seemed to flicker more lazily now, wax dripping down to silver trays as though the evening itself were beginning to loosen its corset. The musicians had shifted to slower, gentler melodies, less formal, less performative. A lull had settled in.
Guests were beginning to drift away in pairs and small clusters, offering final bows and well-wishes to chamberlains and assistants rather than seeking out the king or queen directly. No one had announced the end, but the message was clear: the night was folding itself closed, and that was more than fine with Harry and Y/n.
Y/n's back ached faintly beneath the weight of her new crown as they took their seats again. Across the room, Phoebe stood watchfully near the far wall with Niall next to her, whispering, while the kitchen staff had begun clearing away the final courses with quiet precision.
Harry slid his hand against hers under the table, and quiet chatter surrounded them. She was ready to leave the Great Hall and be done with the theatrics of the day. Her emotions had been quite volatile all day, and the quiet of Harry's bedchambers was beginning to sound like a dream right then.
Fred appeared at Harry’s side and said something in his ear. Harry gave a faint nod, then turned to Y/n with that same roguish smile he’d worn at the altar, but softer, laced with something she couldn’t quite name.
He leaned toward her, close enough that only she could hear. “It's time for us to depart.”
She rose with him, and though no formal announcement followed, the shift was immediate. Some of the guests turned their eyes away in practiced discretion. A few nobles bowed as they passed. Some merely watched with disapproving eyes.
They exited through a smaller side corridor, footsteps muffled on hand-woven rugs. The hall behind them continued to hum, but it was like walking away from a fever dream, something ornate and strange, but already fading.
Once they were alone, past the eyes and expectations, Harry reached for her hand again as he led her up to his room. The corridors of the royal wing were hushed, dimly lit by flickering sconces.
Neither of them spoke. There had been enough of the show. Enough talking and forced smiles. As their footsteps echoed down the long hallway, Harry’s thumb traced idle circles against her knuckles, and Y/n held onto his hand like it was the first real thing she’d touched all day.
At the doors to his chambers, he paused only briefly before pushing them open. The room had been set up for the wedding night, warm with candlelight and perfumed faintly with cedar as the fireplace crackled. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, something inside the silence softened. The weight of the crown, the stifling eyes of the court, the perfect stillness she’d worn like armor
 it all began to peel away.
Harry turned to her and reached for her waist to pull her close, his touch gentle and secure. Her hands slid over the lapels of his coat, anchoring herself in the solid warmth of him.
"My Queen," he spoke just above a whisper as he palmed at her cheek softly.
Y/n smiled shyly. "My King."
He leaned down, slowly, unhurried, and pressed his forehead to hers as they both closed their eyes. There was no rush to move away from the quiet moment; in fact, it had been necessary, vital. The sound of their breaths, the feel of closeness between them
 Y/n trailed her fingers up his arm and tilted her face toward his lips, before pressing them to his in a kiss that was sweet and filled with quiet relief.
. .
Chapter 6 is where we'll finally be getting the smut. I'll be dedicating the entire next part to their wedding night đŸ€­ xoxo
. .
Feedback/Thoughts | Patreon
Thank you for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like 💕
. .
Tags: @matildasatellite @stylesftcher @hinnyrx @eversincehs1 @sunshinemoonsposts
@whoreonmondays @archerxnn @daphnesutton @spinninc @haliastyless
@multiplefandomstan @bruhk @sassamanda77 @cherryshouse @montgomery-929496
@cherriesncupcakes @practistyles @matildalittlefreak @imaginexxharry @oifukinloser
@hoolabalooba @jaebeomsblackgf @wildcstdrexms @gilwm @yousunshineyoutempter
@tenaciousperfectionunknown @swiftmendeshoran @tiaamberxx @closureesny @angelbabyyy99
@malwtilda @itjustkindahappenedreally @onlyangellucifer @harryistheonlyoneforme @butdaddyilovehim-hs
@lc-fics @hannahdressedasabanana @babegoalsreads @harrrrystylesslut @elidoho
@gotdrxnkonu @cathy-1997 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @angeldavis777 @lillefroe
@monicaalexandraaa @hsonlyangelxo @brittanyzelazno @caynonmoondreams @mellamolayla
@ladscarlett @heartateasee @littlenatilda @michellekstyles @harrysredroom
@harrydeary @mrs-anna-styles211994 @bananabk9756 @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @idkkkkkkk123lgb
@fruity-harry @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @mema10 @gmikaelson @vanteguccir
@fangirl509east @virgopr1ncess @hoolabalooba
606 notes · View notes
rory-multifandom-mess · 2 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
As an apology for the lack of Exitor Coiny AU art, have the first part of my Song Doodles! and I’ll throw explanations under the cut.
(Note: these song doodles will not include Let Down by Radiohead and Would You Fall In Love With Me Again from Epic the Musical because I’ve already drawn those lyrics)
The Fall - Half‱Alive: Very first song in the playlist. Pretty much illustrates his distrust and how he’s still stuck in the EXIT. Some of the lyrics also say "I'm just tryin' to introduce you / to this idea that I’ve grown used to" like he's trying to show Pin and Pen and the others on his team what he's doing and why he's doing it, while the others just. Don't get it. Why is he self sabotaging (will get into that later.) Also immediately after the lyrics I drew here, the song goes on to say "Take my voice / I'm givin' it though / I don't feel safe at all." He's out of the exit. He's free. But he still doesn't feel safe.
Just - Radiohead: This is all about the self-sabotage. At first, in the EXIT, he was getting on Four's nerves for a purpose. To protect everyone else. To keep them safe. We all know this I've talked about it 80 bazillion times. But when he's out and free from the EXIT, he still continues to purposefully get on Four's nerves when Four has already moved on. He doesn't have to get hurt for other people anymore, he doesn't have to distract Four because now it's part of the game. But he just can't get out of that mentality that he has to draw them away. He does it to HIMSELF.
Placing The Blame - sElf: Now originally my thought for this song was the same as Just but then I thought about it a little harder and realized. No. This is the guilt that Coiny holds over Pencil- and maybe even the other EXITors. The drawing I did pretty much spells it out, but it's like. He thinks he didn't do enough, he blames himself for her intense fear because he brought out the worst in Four in front of everyone else. His arms getting ripped off, the permanent nerve damage Four inflicted on him, the deprivation of basic needs from specifically Coiny just because he hated the guy. He did that. He caused that. He caused that fear. At least he thinks so.
Sarcasm - Get Scared: This song entirely just represents how much Coiny DESPISES that fuckass blue number. "You've got me shaking from the way you're talking / My heart is breaking but there's no use talking" This part though, aside from the rest of the song being pure hatred, is like. The pipeline. It's hard to describe but like, this is awful for him, terrible, but he grew more cynical, so what's the point in showing the sadness? He grew bitter and angry, granted he still has vulnerable moments like when thinking about Pin. Another lyric from this song that's really good, especially for showing the pure HATRED he holds for Four is "You pollute the room with a filthy tongue / watch me choke it down so I can throw it up." Also, the lines "Failure find me / to tie me up now / 'cause I'm as bad, as bad as it gets / Failure find me / to hang me up now / by my neck, 'cause I'm a fate worse than death" is like. him acting out way worse than before so Four hates him more and more.
Kill The Lights - Set It Off: Much like Placing The Blame, the original thought for this song was the same as Sarcasm. Pure hatred and anger, which is shown pretty well in the first few lines "You reside in grand disguises / just to get, get away from it all / falsify the life you're hiding / just to get, get away from it all" and the lines I illustrated. But then I started thinking about the rest of the song. The chorus is like all the EXITors begging to just be let out already, basically, with a mix of the anger. "Kill the lights / kill the actor / kill the actress / I'm afraid / that the spotlight dried you up." So like yeah, the song is about their collective hatred for Four lead by Coiny, and how they want to escape. But then we get to the bridge. "Stop there and peer inside of me / You'll see a man once lost at sea / But all the while I would think to myself / it's not the end / it's not the end at all" COINY GETS VULNERABLE! To me this is like. His determination to get through it all, to not give up even though he really really wants to, and this is perpetuated by the tone of this section. And then the song goes on; "So sick of nothing going right / sail on along into the night / Not even death could stand in the way / you never even tried in the first place!" He is sick of this place. But Four isn't gonna stand in his way of escaping. And the last line is a slight against Four- kind of like a You aren't good enough FUCK YOU.
Chop Suey! - System Of A Down: Hang in there, we're almost there. This song kind of hops between themes in this au. From, once again, showing anger towards Four, to mentioning his self-sacrifice to Pencil (which, fun fact, the drawing here is based on the talk they had in the hallway that I wrote out a while ago,) and finally. To how he feels being faced with this punishment; "Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit / Father, into your hands / Why have you forsaken me? / In your eyes, forsaken me / In your heart, forsaken me, oh." He feels like not only is this punishment from Four for losing in the competition, it's also just. Punishment from the universe, or some other higher being. Like he did something wrong, some kind of moral failing. Like he's an awful person. But he doesn't know what. He doesn't deserve this. Why have they forsaken him? What did he do?
Cuphead Rap - JT music: This song was suggested by my beloved partner @wildlionva (HAAAAI). This is basically how everyone sees Coiny and how he wants to be seen. As a chaotic, mischievous, energetic guy who does not give a Damn about your stupid rules. That's it for this song really HAHHA.
This playlist has Way more songs in it than this, but this is all I could fit on the canvas. More of this soon! Maybe. If my motivation upholds LMFAOO
58 notes · View notes
hazard-haze · 20 hours ago
Text
I have more Eddie and Volt headcanons. I can't stop thinking about them.
Mild TW for brief mentions of Self Hatred and Harassment. Nothing major or explicit but just thought it was worth a mention.
-----
-Their bar is incredible accessible. You cannot tell me they did not build that place with the comfort of any object or person with any level of accessibility needs in mind.
-Volt has given Eddie compression gloves. He doesn't wear em' (even though he should) but they are around here somewhere.
-Eddie's favorite color is orange.
-Ooooh we actually have some player ones this time, the homeowner is definitely welcome to hang out before opening and after closing (assuming the friendship or love ending)
-eventually they'd probably give them a key so, as Eddie puts it, they can "make themself useful by locking up for us" but in reality it's just so they can get in even when the 2 are in the back.
-They have all the fixings in the back or at the bar for injuries/disabilities/emergencies. Including but not limited to epi-pens, narcan, good first aid kits, juice/snacks for blood sugar, a fold up wheel chair, free earplugs/noise cancelling headphones, and cots.
-Homeowner will not be served alcohol if Eddie thinks something is up with them. Or at least they will be cut off before they can even get tipsy. Bro is not letting them drown and ignore their problems, usually Volt will end up doing most of the talking to them about whatever is bothering them.
-It's kind of obvious but the hallway closet is very much the hub of the upstairs. And honestly? Most objects hold Eddie and Volt to the same level of respect that they do the mayor, neither of them really realize it but they are pretty integral to the community
-Not a headcanon but I just thought of the funniest shit: Breaker Box Hallmark Movie AU. Featuring the Breaker Box getting shutdown for some reason and through the power of winter holiday magic and love probably it is saved lol. Would anyone read this?
-Eddie inadvertently gets so much tea working the bar. Bathsheba has been begging him to give her some gossip. Eddie refuses every single time.
-Volt cries when he see's cute animal/inanimal videos
-If they got a cat people would assume its name is like Sparky or something but no, Volt is gonna want to name it something really pretty like Eleanor or Anastasia, and Eddie is gonna take one look at it and go: "Uhhhh... Todd." "Eddie she's a girl." "So? Girls can be named Todd!" "..." "Stop assuming our cat's gender Volt!"
-I don't know if he actually would in canon, but I think it would be so fucking funny if Volt just loved calling minor inconveniences homophobic. This includes Eddie. Eddie won't stop working? "Eddie if you don't go to bed your homophobic!" "Wha? I'm ga-!" "HOMOPHOBIA!"
-Self deprecation? In my breaker box? I think not! And by that I mean Volt holds the very strong conviction that no one in his club is allowed to be self hating except for him. I mean he is a flirt, but he is also a sweetheart. He see's someone crying? Absolutely not. Gives you a tissue, tells you your too hot to be crying over anyone and then reapplies your mascara for you.
-Eddie does not play when it comes to patron safety. He will cut you off if he thinks you've drank too much. He is making sure everyone leaving at the end of the night has a designated driver (I don't know if any of them NEED designated drivers seeing as they all live in a house, but its the principal okay?). Harassment of any kind you are gone and banned so fast you won't even know what happened.
----
God this hyperfixation hit me like a truck.
I noticed most of these ones focused more on how they actually run the club. Idk why it just kind of ended up like that. Anyways I'm having so much fun with these let me know if ya'll want more or if anyone has specific hc requests because I CAN cook up more! Hope you enjoyed!
55 notes · View notes
tennessoui · 1 day ago
Note
I love how in foolproof Obiwan is like “the prude I’m going to seduce is Anakin Skywalker” and then when they hook up on the ship when Anakin is accompanying him on his mission Anakin is everything but a prude, like the dirty talk is insane. That man knows what he wants.
imagining foolproof foolhardy from master anakin's pov will never not be funny to me cause like.
pov after your marriage ends in public disaster that sort of ruins your life and severely damages your plans for the future and connections to the light side of the force, you isolate yourself and slowly recover emotionally while keeping an eye on this kid you care about in a very platonic little brother way. then the galaxy breaks out into war and you're given another padawan and so now you have to worry about this padawan's wellbeing as well as continuing to worry about the well-being of the padawan you didn't take because you were told you couldn't so now that padawan hates you but you still worry about him and who has time for sex in conditions like those??
only then you see your almost-padawan-who-now-hates-you for the first time in a few years and now you're having a morality crisis cause he's. like. he's hot and pretty and needy and apparently also all the other padawans apparently tease him about how much he gets around and he's cocky about it because apparently it's true and he does get around so now despite your best not to think about it, you're thinking about what that looks like and what it would be like if he didn't hate you and actually trusted you and let you care for his wellbeing the way you're chomping at the bit to
and then circumstances outside of your control allow you to care for him a few times during the war and he needs you and he clings to you and you can help him and he's so beautiful and this is not the sort of love you signed up for and this is the sort of desire that is familiar but the last time you gave into that sort of desire and that sort of love, you almost ruined your life and the life of your wife and you love him way too much to even attempt to do something like that to him, even though you're also pretty sure he still doesn't like you because of what happened when he was a kid
so you're holding yourself back from sex completely because the only person you really want to have sex with is this one person who doesn't want you and all other sex will be absolutely meaningless, and you're fine with that because it's not like you've ever really needed sex to get by and you're pretty busy anyway so all that you really need is a hand every now and then and yours works fine. really it's all good so long as you don't break and try to fuck the guy who isn't your padawan but is your siren up against the nearest temple wall to show him how much better you could make him feel than anyone else who has ever held him
and then something changes like a switch being flicked and now he's running into you all over the place being a little fucking cocktease and it's getting so fucking hard not to snap, especially when he looks up at you with wide and trusting eyes, like you've never done anything to hurt him, like he wants you back, like he loves you back even though he must not and you must be going crazy, reading too much into nothing and you have to hold the line you have to not break you have to be respectful and polite because it's what he deserves
and then after everything else, after you break and like. try to ravish him in public right in front of the acting chancellor of the republic, he confesses that like. this whole time you've been trying not fuck him dirty enough to stain both your souls, he's been thinking you're a prude.
like. poor master skywalker. he deserves to go apeshit. nobody has ever deserved to spank padawan obi-wan more tbh
58 notes · View notes
call-me-copycat · 3 days ago
Text
I find it really interesting.
I've noticed that Aizawa's normally drawn with a lot of Attraction Bias, ie he's drawn noticeably different depending on what's considered attractive in different regions!
This doesn't go for everyone (obviously), but these are the basics (typically pushed by the media as well):
In Japan:
Sharp jawline and distinctive facial features
Tall stature
Lean body type. Slender is preferred with it
Going with that. Long legs
While some muscle is appreciated, it's not about being overly bulky like a bodybuilder
Clean looking (not a lot of hair in general) (especially facial hair) (Aizawa's exempt from that tho)
Paler skin
In the West:
Strong preferences for a toned, muscular build, particularly in the upper body
Broad shoulders
Hair (body hair + facial hair) (?)
Height
Veins on muscular parts (arms particularly... Shudder, I hate veins)
Tan (ish) skin
Just... Bigger. Bulkier
For example: I started off on the Japanese side of the Internet, and was introduced to Aizawa fanart with the focus being on him looking tall, slender, sometimes a bit of muscle but not too much, and really just like -
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Then, you've got the Western world of fanart! Where people draw Aizawa with their definition of attraction: Manliness. Essentially the usual stuff; body hair, facial hair, large muscles, and just an overall largeness that highlights physical strength
(I'm saying all this as an attraction adverse AceAro, bias free! 'Cause I have no preference for attraction :> I will be honest though, I don't like Buff Aizawa but that's probably because it's still foreign to me)
Which is why you get stuff like this:
Tumblr media
Unfortunately. I hate this photo (â ïżŁâ ăƒ˜â ïżŁâ ;⁠)
It's perfectly fine to be attracted to that, but these are incorrect!
First photo: A fan made edit. There are some very talented people out there! So it's hard to keep up sometimes ( â‚Șïč â‚Ș ïŒ‰Őž ՞
Second photo: Officially made yes, but it was for the comedy spin off, MHA SMASH! It's also the only non canon spinoff out of every single MHA spinoff made!
Aizawa was drawn to look weird, because he was swapped with All Might in the photo! Bodies and quirks were swapped around here (⁠^⁠⁠^⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ
Tumblr media
You see All Might in the top? He was swapped with Aizawa here. It was for laughs, as it's a comedy spinoff (⁠⁠^⁠ω⁠^⁠ Certainly Nezu's true form doesn't have the AFO arm! Nor is Bakugo's brain on the outside of his skull!
Anyways
Sorry for the mini rant! I can't seem to disagree with the tweet (? Is it?) without people getting upset... Ahh, Attraction Bias, it can be strong (â â•Żâ ïž”â â•°â ,⁠) Makes me feel so isolated sometimes as an aromantic
I just find it so interesting! I've definitely noticed a lot of the other characters drawn like this too, but Aizawa's always been the most to stick out to me -⁠ᄒ⁠ᎄ⁠ᄒ⁠- On the Japanese side, he's typically drawn very similar to Mic in terms of body shape - they both, when drawn together, mirror each other in lots of fanart
Are there exceptions? Certainly! I try to not use words such as "always" , "every", "all" etc (⁠⇀⁠„⁠↌⁠‶⁠)
 ⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̀⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ
Thanks for reading I suppose!
(Please I'm not up for debate please I don't feel like setting up an argument with people, please, every time I've stated I don't like the photo someone tends to get upset with me, if you disagree please! I'm not trying to be offensive, but please don't interact... I'm not a conflict type person, it makes me sad and scared ... )
66 notes · View notes
deanocasgirlie0511 · 3 days ago
Text
Thoughts about what destiel seasons I like more.
I'm on my spn rewatch again *sigh* and I noticed to myself that I like later season destiel way more than early destiel.
S4—7
S4 literally started with intense eye-fuckin.
U can see how fast their relationship to each other changes. From sort of enemies to knowing each other.
Cas started to have feelings and got lobotomized, Dean that didn't believe in angels and didn't pray much, started pray only to Cas. They changed each other's stories here. Not my fav, but definitely good as Base.
S5 I liked a bit more, sexual tension and eye-fucking still here. The relationship changed a bit. From knowing each other they become friends.
Dean started to worry about Cas a little more, and in 5x18, when Cas said that he doesn't have much faith in Dean like Sam does, u can see how these words hurted Dean. Good season, like it.
S6 I like, Destiel becomes more angst. And here from friends/besties they became something more in my opinion.
They started bickering a lot, Dean got mad that Cas is not around. Cas literally cheated on Dean with Crowley, the Betrayal scene (6x20). Should I say more? Definitely like it, love some angst.
S7... can't say that I like it, but don't hate it.
And here, from something more to feel something and even fall in love, especially from Dean' side.
Cas became God, Dean's big mad about it, started drinking a lot, didn't want to do anything, then Cas appears all in blood asking for help, they bring the Leviathans back to purgatory, but Cas "dies".
Dean is still angry, but he is sad that his friend died, when the second death happens.... Dean already looks like a widower here, he takes the coat with him, carries it everywhere, he has nightmares, he just can't forget about what happened, he literally says this when he meets Emmanuel!Cas and Dean's look when he saw Emanuel!Cas....And of course Crazy!Cas/Dean bickering. The "Nobody cares that you broken Cas", and the "I'd rather have you, cursed or not", "I could go with you". So idk, 50/50.
S8—10
S8 is my fucking favorite and most rewatched season. Yeah, there's not much Cas in it. He literally disappears for 7 episodes after episode 10, but god, that makes it even more awesome.
Here Dean's already love Cas.
He ripped apart the whole Purgatory just to find The Angel. First hug and "Cas, buddy, I need you. I'm not leaving here without you. Understand?". The fucking cript and "Cas, Cas...we need you... I need you" .THE CAS' HEALING DEAN BY TOUCHING HIS CHEEK AND DEAN'S HAND CLENCHING ON CAS' COAT. Then Dean got big mad on him about Naomi stuff. "You didn't trust me..Me?". The bar scene and "ET goes home, huh?". So, definitely my fav season, always start my rewatch from it.
S9...well, not my fave, but it had some good destiel. Still lovers.
The MOC separated them. U can see that Dean care about Cas way more. When he kicked him out of the bunker i was really mad at him. But throughout the episodes I saw how Dean apologizes a lot for it, i can tell he regrets it. Plus Cain/Collet—Dean/Cas thing. And that's all I guess...? Also 50/50.
S10 is the same as s9. Not that much destiel.
Here they're already a married couple with a kid (Claire).
Also their relationship is growing. Dean opens up to Cas about the mark on the date (10x09), taking care of Claire(10x20), gives the first blade to Cas, not Crowley. Plus Cain's line "And then you'd kill the Angel, Castiel. Now, that one...that, I suspect would hurt something awful."(10x14). And of course The Prisoner's Cain/Collette—Dean/Cas reference, how Collette stoped Cain, and Cas did the same (10x22). Kinda love it.
S11—15
S11, Ooof, my second favorite rewatchable season. Still married.
In (11x01) he literally wanted to leave the police girl with the kid (Amara) just to go and find Cas, when he saw what happened to Cas, he took the opportunity of caring for him freaking hard (11x03). The whole ep, he just couldn't stop touching him. And wrapped him in blankie. Didn't want Cas to heal him cause of what he did in 10x22.
Then when he acknowledged that Cas is Lucifer (11x14) he just couldn't stop thinking about how to save him. No jokes, from 11x14 to 11x23 he can't stop talking about how to save Cas. Even Amara felt it through Cas' heart in 11x21...The whole 11x18, where Lucifer mocked Dean, and he looked offended.... Where Amara was around, but the only thing Dean thinking about is Cas. Lucifer and Amara are both confused by it. Delicious.
S12—15
S12 and 13 faves, mostly s12
Married, got a second kid.
I don't think I need to say anything here.
The Hug (12x01)
Acting like an old married couple + they are each other's weakness (12x10)
Cas confesses his love to Winchesters Winchester (12x12)
The fucking Led-Zeppelin mixtape (12x19)
Cas' death and how Dean grieved him. Drinked a lot, was depressed, lost his faith, wanted to die...(12x23—13x05)
Brokebacknatural (13x06)
Cas' grief cause of Dean's yes to Michael (13x23). Good seasons.
S14 is just pure depression, mostly Dean's.
Human hubby is depressed.
Dean is back. Yippie. (14x03)
Kid died, depression. Oh wait, he's alive, no depression.(14x08)
Nihilism (14x10)
Doctor kink, don't want to be buried in MB, have faith (14x12)
Angel hubby doesn't recognize his human hubby (14x13)
Depressed couple on date, Dean openly talks about Michael with Cas (14x14)
Started signing the divorce agreement (14x18—15x02). Love it, depression is tasty.
S15... Favorite, Love it and hate it.
Married, but then became a widower.
Signed the divorce agreement, but human hubby still cares. Angel hubby doesn't want to talk (15x03—15x08)
The Trap, no need to explain (15x09)
Decided to cancel the divorce agreement, husbands again, son returned, everything is fine, but going to the end (15x10—15x17)
Beautiful declaration of love, Death and widower...(15x18—15x19). Just pain...
In conclusion, my favorite seasons are: 5, 6, 8, 10 (only 10x09, 10x20 and 10x22), 11 and 12—15
40 notes · View notes