#speaker squad

[tabieeee]

what do u do if your new teammates are charming af technically a prequel to this? song: All The Right Moves - OneRepublic

[thistlesissel]

https://x.com/jul1zzz/status/1699718263607841178?s=61 translated this tweet’s image with starlit-miasma >:)

The question asked next to each unit logo is, “This years aspirations.” Everybody’s handwriting really reflects who they are lolll Mafuyu has the JP textbook/book writing

Niigo

Yoisaki Kanade　作る

To Make

Asahina Mafuyu 　知る

To Know

Shinonome Ena　描く

To Draw

Akiyama Mizuki　楽しむ

To Look Forward to

More More Jump

Hanasato Minori　希望

Hope, Aspiration

Kiritani Haruka　共に

Together

Momoi Airi　愛

Love

Hinomori Shizuku　私らしく

Be myself

Wonderland x Showtime

Tenma Tsukasa　笑顔

Laughing face/face of laughter/smiling

Ootori Emu　わんだほい！

WONDERHOY!

Kusanagi Nene　歌たう

To sing

Kamishiro Rui　魅

Can be used in the context of evil spirits in demons (contains the character for demon, 鬼) but with context it's to charm/entrance [the audience] A word that depends on context, but since with Rui’s character I’d say it’s charm/entrance.

Leo/Need

Hoshino Ichika　未来

Future. Fun kanji fact: 未 means “not yet”, 未 means “come”, so the future is what has yet to come

Tenma Saki　青春

Literally read as blue/green spring, but it’s youth; adolescence. Springtime is used to describe youth, the blue green color referring to spring green leaves

Mochizuki Honami　真心

True feelings/sincerity, the character 真 is used in grammar to express genuine feelings instead of absolute statements like 正, the former is subjective and the latter is objective

Hinomori Shiho　真剣

Literal reading is true blade, but read as true determination, like when you need to fully focus when sword fighting

Vivid Bad Squad

Azusawa Kohane　信じる

To believe

Shiraishi An　前へ

前 means before, へ is a particle that indicates destination, so could be read as “for before”

Shinonome Akito　突破

Breakthrough the impossible

Aoyagi Touya　経験

Experience, in the context of gaining experience in skill or work. You’d use 経験 to tell someone you have experience in rock climbing or computer science.

[wolfgang1097]

In case anybody isn't aware, there's a brief backstory about a certain Spy vs. Spy short

Good evening, folks. The Spy vs. Spy short that had to do with ventriloquism from MADtv is basically another fan favorite besides Defection. Not to mention that it's also the only short where anybody has spoken a single word at all.

I will admit, I do find the raspy voices, and the incomprehensible babble, the spies were given (especially White Spy) pretty interesting and, just like the suppressed snickering they had throughout most of the shorts, it suits them very well to some degree.

I've heard rumors that the spies were probably voiced by Bryan Callen right up until he left the show right after season two. Is this true? I dunno, but it may be possible.

Anyhow, in case anybody isn't aware, this whole incident was actually provoked when Black taunted White by shouting profanities at the latter whilst he was minding his own business, as seen at the very beginning of the original paperback strip.

See?

Geesh, as much I like Black Spy and all, he can be such a huge wise-ass (I kinda did want to slug Black in the gut for straight up taunting White like that, I will admit). Well, it all came back to bite him on the ass when White retaliated by inventing a mini speaker and a mini microphone so that..well I'd see the events unfold in the video if I were you (and/or check out the original paperback strip, too; if y'all happen to have that paperback book with this strip), and the rest is history.

Hope y'all enjoyed finding out about this. Peace.

I do not claim ownership of any content. Spy vs. Spy belongs to the defunct MAD magazine and Antonio Prohias.

[lens-guy-art]

Lmao if I switch the characters from their universes

Alliance members: *vibing being silly smol robot guys at a Mall*

Meanwhile..

Technotic Sonic, Loudsy, Telly, Tv Cop, Blindspot, Yule B. Bored, and Critically Complained aka GADGET GUILD: *getting the soul-crushing trauma from war*

[ask-john-laruens]

John mumbled to himself.

"¿Por qué la gente me habla de Hércules? No quiero tener nada que ver con él en este momento, especialmente hablar de él. ¿Por qué querría hablar de él?"

[kaydub80]

"Madam Speaker, you have not brought floor votes on Medicare For All, extending the eviction moratorium or canceling student debt as you previously promised. You are out of compliance."

Imagine if the shoe were on the other foot and progressives weren't such cowards.

[shojoboy]

Bocchi the Rock rules but when the manga/anime fully wraps up can u all prmoise me we can collectively get into Beck Mongolian Chop Squad 

[ghostenluvs]

i want ctommy to go bowling and be awful at it. i want ctubbo to destroy him at the bowling alley arcade shooter games.

cranboo is eating bowling alley fries in teh background and has rolled three consecutive strikes on pure looney toons luck alone.

jack is a worker there and has never needed a smoke break so bad in his life. hes so tired.

the syndicate are also there bowling on the other end of the lanes and cranboo keeps sneakily walking over between both groups and playing with them at once.

techno is overcomplicating every single shot and quoting ancient chinese history as usual.

phil is in the arcade whenever he has a moment playing space invaders or tetris or smth and hes on level 200.

niki is trying desperately to win the rigged plushy drop game by the entrance. she succeeds. she has a very large jigglypuff now.

the bowling alley speakers are playing take on me.

everything is right in the world.

---

ADDITIONS FROM LATER UNDER READMORE [ART]

here's the incident:tm: of the outing.

everyone thank @xerith-42

JUST DANCE COMPETITION BETWEEN THE WHOLE SQUAD.

i just wanna see that.

[amirasainz]

So after the whole Brazil GP weekend, I have to say that the drivers were so funny to watch during the whole "will there be a qualifying or not".

What about driver!reader that does something crazy during the whole thing. And afterwards she is sleeping by the tyres, because it's the warmest place to be.

Thank you <3333333

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

- xoxo babygirl 💙

Umbrella

It was Saturday afternoon at the Interlagos circuit, and the rain was relentless. The paddock was a mess of puddles, drenched engineers, and soaked fans who clung to their umbrellas, hoping for qualifying to start. The drivers waited in their motorhomes or huddled up in the pit garage, bantering, snacking, and desperately trying to stay warm. Every few minutes, the announcement would come over the speakers, postponing the start of qualifying yet again due to the downpour.

Max stretched his legs, leaning against the wall in the Red Bull garage. "You know, maybe they should let us race with jet skis at this point," he muttered, making a few of the mechanics chuckle.

Across the pit lane, Charles threw his head back with a laugh. "I’d like to see you try, Max!"

Just then, a slow, familiar beat started to play over the speakers. Boom, boom, ka… boom, boom, ka.

The drivers paused, exchanging confused glances as the unmistakable opening notes of Rihanna’s Umbrella played over the loudspeakers. But what really caught their attention was a ripple of excitement that surged through the crowd in the grandstands. The fans had all started pointing at something—someone—approaching from the back of the pit lane.

George squinted, “Is that…?”

Walking down the pit lane in a Red Bull jacket, drenched but looking determined, was Y/N, Red Bull’s first female racer, only 18 years old but with a spark and style that had everyone buzzing this season. She strutted through the puddles, the rain bouncing off her cap, her Red Bull mechanics flanking her like a squad, all clearly in on whatever she was planning.

The beat dropped, and as Rihanna’s voice filled the air, Y/N tossed her jacket off dramatically. With a grin, she and her mechanics began to move in sync to the music, just like Tom Holland’s legendary performance on Lip Sync Battle.

Carlos’ jaw dropped. “Are they—? No way!”

“Yep,” said Lando, unable to contain his laughter. “They’re doing the performance. Full send!”

As the first verse kicked in, Y/N spun, stepping through puddles with dramatic flourishes, her mechanics adding spins and claps that matched her every move. Fans cheered from the grandstands, chanting her name and holding up phones to capture every second.

Pierre and Esteban, usually rivals on and off the track, were both doubled over with laughter, cheering her on. “This is the best thing that’s happened all weekend,” Esteban said, wiping away a tear.

Max crossed his arms, nodding approvingly, “Respect. That’s commitment right there.”

Meanwhile, the Ferrari team leaned over the pit wall, watching in awe as Y/N absolutely nailed every move, the raindrops flying around her as if the storm itself was in on the performance. When she did the famous spin-and-drop move that Tom Holland had made famous, the entire pit lane erupted in applause and whistles.

“Look at her go!” Lewis called from Mercedes’ side, genuinely entertained. “She’s got the whole crowd captivated!”

Charles shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Forget racing, maybe she should go into show business.”

Y/N laughed, locking eyes with the crowd as she sang along to the chorus: “Under my umbrella, ella, ella…” The fans joined in, their voices echoing around the pit lane. Her mechanics, committed to the bit, twirled their umbrellas above her as if choreographed for the rain.

After the song finished, Y/N and her mechanics took an exaggerated bow, soaking wet but absolutely buzzing with energy and laughter. She waved at the crowd, blowing kisses, as her team threw their arms around her, cheering and laughing.

When Y/N returned to the Red Bull garage, dripping wet and grinning ear-to-ear, Max extended a hug. “That was epic, Y/N. Never thought I’d see someone pull that off here.”

“Thanks, Max,” she said, hugging him tightly back. “Thought I’d keep everyone entertained since, well, looks like we’re stuck here.”

Lando wandered over from McLaren, still laughing. “You know, if F1 ever falls through for you, there’s a career in musical theatre waiting.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Y/N said, laughing. “I’ll just have to be a part-time singer and full-time driver.”

The rain continued to pour down, and with no sign of qualifying starting soon, the energy in the paddock started to wind down. After the performance, most of the drivers and team members settled back, some checking the radar, others chatting and relaxing.

About an hour later, Carlos spotted something odd. “Uh…guys?”

Everyone turned to see Y/N curled up beside a stack of tires in the Red Bull garage, fast asleep. She had her arms wrapped around one of the tires, using it as a pillow, completely oblivious to the rain and noise around her.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s hugging the tires. Guess they’re warmer than the rain.”

Max grinned, whispering, “She really is something, huh?”

Y/N’s mechanic, Luke, covered her with a spare Red Bull jacket, careful not to wake her. “Let her rest. She earned it after that show.”

Back in the grandstands, fans were still buzzing, sharing clips and photos of Y/N’s impromptu performance all over social media. The whole weekend might have been wet and chaotic, but for one afternoon, everyone—drivers, fans, and teams alike—had found a moment of pure, unexpected joy in the storm.

[notsogreatdion]

✶ INTERACTIVE FICTION RECS 3.0 ✶

✶ Mind Blind - @mindblindbard (wip)

✶ God-cursed - @wings-of-ink (wip)

✶ Aquarii - @aquarii-if (wip)

✶ Slaughter squad - @harlequinoccult (wip)

✶ Summer of Love - @summeroflove-if (wip)

✶ The Second Sight: Death Reckoning - @spoiledblogif (wip)

✶ Speaker - @speakergame (wip)

✶ Defiled Hearts: The Barbarian - @defiledheartsblog (wip)

✶ Shepherds of Haven - @shepherds-of-haven (wip)

✶ Apartment 502 - @apt502-if (wip)

✶ Grey Swan I - Birds of a Rose - @reinekes-fox (wip)

✶ In the Cards - @inthecards (wip)

✶ Bad Witch + au demo - @badwitch-if (wip)

✶ Saturnine - @satur9-if (wip)

✶ Prismatic - @prismaticif (wip)

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ✶

VN'S

✶ LyteLove (wip)

✶ Touchstarved (wip)

✶ Cupid Chatroom (wip)

✶ Adopt a Boyfriend

✶ seekL

✶ my friend is a ghost (super short but super cute)

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ✶

if recs 1.0 & if recs 2.0 & new projects recs

[tabieeee]

what do u do if ur boyfriend casually takes his head on and off

[theuntoldstorythatneedsawriter]

Chaos in the Changing Room 👟🏟

Ingrid Engen x Reader

warning : fluffy 💭 💗

summary :

You go into the changing room to give Ingrid her shoes she forgot in your bag. You never expect the level of caos that was happening between these walls.

It had been a typical match day, and you were always there, supporting Ingrid from the stands. The energy at the stadium was electric, and the team was buzzing with excitement after their win. As you made your way out of the stadium, you realized something. Ingrid had left her shoes in your bag. With a sigh and a small smile, you decided to drop them off in the locker room before heading to the parking lot.

Making your way through the hallways of the stadium, you could hear faint laughter and chatter from the changing room as you approached. The door was slightly open, and you hesitated for a moment before knocking.

"Come in!" a voice yelled from inside.

You pushed open the door cautiously, shoes in hand, only to be greeted by utter chaos. Clothes were scattered everywhere, music was blasting from a speaker in the corner, and players were either dancing, shouting, or draping themselves across the benches in various states of post-match exhaustion.

"Uh… hi?" you called out, trying to spot Ingrid in the madness.

"Oh hey, you’re Ingrid’s girl, right?" A cheerful voice piped up from across the room. It was Mapi, grinning at you as she pointed. "She’s over there. Probably forgot something again, huh?"

You nodded, smiling awkwardly as you stepped further into the room. "Yeah, her shoes. She always leaves them behind."

Mapi laughed, and just as you were about to hand the shoes over to her, you felt a friendly arm wrap around your shoulder.

"Look who we have here!" someone announced loudly.

You turned to see Lucy Bronze, a wide smile on her face as she guided you further into the heart of the changing room. "You’ve made it to the chaos zone now, no turning back!"

"Lucy, leave her alone," Ingrid’s voice called out from across the room, sounding both amused and slightly exasperated. She was sitting on the bench, tying her hair back, clearly having just come out of the shower.

Your heart skipped a beat seeing her, even in the midst of this chaos. Her eyes caught yours, and she smiled softly as you approached.

"Hey, you forgot these," you said, holding out her shoes.

Ingrid groaned playfully. "I swear, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached."

As you handed them over, Ingrid leaned in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek, but before you could even respond, another voice chimed in.

"Wait, wait, wait! Is this the Ingrid’s mysterious partner we’ve heard so much about?" Alexia, the captain herself, stood up from the bench, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks as suddenly all eyes were on you. "I—uh…"

"Relax, we’re only teasing," Alexia said, laughing as she gave you a friendly pat on the back. "We’ve been dying to meet the person who keeps Engen grounded."

"Grounded?" Ingrid repeated with mock offense, standing up now. "Am I that bad?"

The rest of the team burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help but laugh along with them. Suddenly, you were enveloped in the friendly chaos of the squad. Being teased by Mapi, roped into a joke by Lucy, and even pulled into a celebratory dance circle by Keira.

For a moment, you forgot why you had even been nervous about coming into the locker room in the first place. This wasn’t just a team; this was a family, and they had welcomed you with open arms.

Eventually, Ingrid made her way back over to you, sliding an arm around your waist as the squad slowly started to wind down from their post-match high.

"Thanks for bringing these," she murmured, holding up the shoes with a sheepish grin.

"Anytime," you replied softly, leaning into her warmth.

As you looked around at the lively, spirited squad around you, you realized just how lucky you were. Not just to be with Ingrid, but to be embraced by the people she called her second family.

"Ready to head out?" Ingrid asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Yeah, let’s get out of this chaos before they rope us into something else," you joked, glancing over at Mapi, who was now challenging Lucy to some kind of ridiculous dance-off.

Hand in hand, you both made your way toward the door, leaving behind the whirlwind that was the changing room, your heart full from the laughter and love shared in that chaotic but wonderful space.

[charliemwrites]

Part 6 of SpecGru (former 141) reader; Simon’s perspective again.

Content: brief implication/mention of reader having idle suicidal ideation. In the way of “I don’t care if something happens to me” kind of way. Happens during a phone call between Price and reader’s new captain.

Please be careful and safe. If someone needs this part summarized, let me know. I love you all very much <3

Here’s the truth of it: Simon never meant for you to leave.

You were too close, that was true. He did everything short of actually hurting you to drive you away. Treated you like a plaything, took your kindness and patience and feelings for him for granted. Left you cold and alone in a hospital bed — unable to see you pale and half-dead all because you were so goddamn headstrong…

That had put it all in vicious perspective. That he couldn’t keep you safe; knowing him, following him, would surely end with you on a metal table rather than a clean hospital bed.

In hindsight, he knows it was as much for his own sake as yours, trying to force that emotional distance between you two. But he just… he can’t do it. Not again. Not you. You’d break him.

But he never meant for you to leave. Not really.

Maybe take an extended solo mission. Or just break off the romance of it all. Maybe you’d stay away for a while, give him time to sort out his feelings and shove the useless ones back into the pit they belong in.

He didn’t expect you to be gone as soon as you could stand.

“You said yourself, Simon, she’s too young and reckless. The 141 can’t afford to babysit her,” Price explained.

“She nearly got you killed, LT,” Soap pointed out. That was before he found out that you were gone for good, not just on disciplinary leave.

And when he did…

“No. No, she dinnae…” he wiped a hand down his face, eyes going a bit glassy. “Why? Why would she… didn’t we mean anythin’ to her? I know we were all a bit on the rocks but ‘s just cos she gave us a scare…”

Gaz took it the hardest, showing up most morning with red-rimmed, puffy eyes. He tried texting you a hundred times; they never went through.

He and Soap begged Price to reconsider, saying that he had no right to kick you out without consulting the rest of the squad.

“I just told her that she should consider transfer,” Price corrected, steely.

“Same fuckin’ thing, ain’t it?” Soap raged. “What else ‘s she gonna do when it’s her captain sayin’ it?”

And Price had finally crumbled, his stubbornness giving way to a clearer head and regret in the aftermath. Simon knew how he felt; had been haunted with the same gut-wrenching feeling for two weeks by that point.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have…” he wiped a hand down his face. “I’ll call Laswell, see if she can put us through.”

As it turned out, your new team had deployed you almost immediately. You were gone, relying on teammates you barely knew, and there was no guarantee when (or even if) you’d be reachable again.

When Laswell put Price through to your new captain instead, he scoffed down the line.

“That how the great John Price sends off his own?” He gruffed.

“I take care of my own,” Price replied, narrow-eyed.

“That’s explains it then, doesn’t it?” A shifting on the other end. “Well, she’s one of mine now, at least; better off that way I think.”

He was on speaker phone with the SpecGru captain. Shouldn’t have been, but it wasn’t a confidential call. So the rest of the 141 was there, vibrating with the effort to stay quiet.

Simon balled his hands into fists, arms crossed. He didn’t trust anyone with one of theirs. No, you belonged right there with the rest of the 141. They could keep you safe, keep you alive.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Price growled.

“Let me just ask you this, Price. And only because I need to know how to take care of her.” A pause, shuffling of papers. Something heavy and almost… hesitant in the silence before- “Did she always have this DNR order?”

Price’s office turned to ice. Simon’s entire shuddered, cored out. The arm of the chair Soap was occupying cracked. Gaz’s hand was covering his mouth, blood draining from his face.

“No,” Price answered, voice little more than rust.

A grunt on the other end.

“Thanks for the insight,” your new captain replied, sounding nonplussed. “At least you were good for something.”

The line droned, dead.

—

You’re standing with the rest of SpecGru, beaming like each and every one of them hung a star just for you. They orbit like you’re the sun, even Nikto, holding you in his arms, letting you lean back against him.

(You used to look at Simon like that. Used to let him hug you like that on the occasion he was weak and gave into the temptation to hold you.)

Every time he looks at you, it’s like a stranger with your face all over again.

You hold your shoulders differently. Tilt your head different. Have a certain control over your facial features better than any mask Simon’s donned.

Today you’re dressed down from your tac uniform. Specifically, your long-sleeve thermal has been replaced by a sleeveless gym shirt. It reveals that tattoo he caught only a glimpse of before — a big, intricate thing from your shoulder down your wrist.

(He and Johnny were going to go with you for your first tattoo. You asked them for all sort of recommendations. Enjoyed tracing Simon’s sleeve when he let you.)

There are more scars too. Burns, bullet grazes, jagged knife marks and patches from bad scrapes.

Nova is finishing up the wrapping on your hand, the other already done. You’re listening to something Russ is spouting off about, whatever it is making you laugh loud enough to be heard where Simon is lurking.

“C’mon,” Johnny says, bumping shoulders with Simon. “Know we fucked up yesterday, but we can try again. Maybe letting her beat the shite out of us will help clear the air, aye?”

Simon forces himself to look away. He already knows you won’t be glancing over.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Maybe.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[heartkaji]

2O WOMEN VS 1 EGOIST !

bllk boys if they were in the videos by the sidemen + beta squad

includes: michael kaiser, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae

MICHAEL KAISER !

“kaiser, ask her if she’d let you put your balls in her jaw.”

isagi’s voice is only a static crackle through the ear piece speaker, but it’s more than enough to have kaiser gnashing teeth & wrinkling nose. it was taking everything in his power not to snap the headset between his fingers. kaiser wasn’t even sure why he had to do this ; fuck yoichi and fuck bastard münchen’s publicity team.

he tries for an exhale but his dignity accompanies it, “would you let me put my balls in your jaw ?”

you’re the third girl who’s sat with kaiser so far & fuck his heart is aching— you’re far too pretty for this, blood drenched cheeks & freckled nose & silver draped around your neck like rings of vined ivy. kaiser can’t help but wonder why a pretty thing like you is here seeking male validation in thigh highs & skimpy bralette. surely someone of your beauty would know better, no ?

“what ?”

you ask so sweetly, lashes fluttering as you blink hurriedly as if it’ll help you hear better. if you were actually somebody, michael kaiser would be almost embarrassed by now, but you’re only pink painted lips & syrupy sweet voice so kaiser clears his throat & swallows his pride. he parts his lips to repeat the query but a hiss in his ear interrupts him, “she didn’t hear you, say it a—“

kaiser snaps the headset between his fingers & tosses it somewhere behind him. “i said, can i take you out sometime ?”

ISAGI YOICHI !

“try to sit on her lap while she’s talking.”

“you lot can’t be serious.”

unfortunately for yoichi, hiori & kurona were dead serious. he picked at the earpiece as you babbled on about your ideal first date, teeth kissing as he plotted on how he’d sit himself between your thighs.

“— and i’m not trying to be different or anything, but i think dinner dates are rather boring. i’d rather go to an amusement park or—“

“same, honestly,” yoichi was a charmer with a voice heavier than tree sap. his baritone alone had your guts knotting & spilling. “rides are way more exciting, really get your adrenaline going huh ? and then at the end of the date you share a kiss on the ferris wheel. i fuck with that.”

you blink, flesh pinkening & blush crawling up your throat as your fingers play with your bag strap. yoichi thinks you’re cute. you’re a fucking doll really, a pretty little thing isagi has decided he likes staring at.

yoichi can’t help but tease your further, “you wouldn’t mind if i kissed you on a ferris wheel, right ?”

you bite your inner cheek & yoichi swears you’re the cutest thing in the world. as if rehearsed, you cross your legs, shoulders tucking as you straighten your spine,

“on the first date, isagi ? quite the manwhore aren’t you ?”

it catches him by surprise but also pulls him back to earth. he bites his tongue, “oh ? when would you let me kiss you then ?”

he gets off his seat as he speaks, striding towards you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. you choke on your tongue, “um, me ? on the first date is a bit too— isagi ? what are you—?”

he positions himself on your lap. “you were saying ?”

yoichi’s ear piece blares with booms of laughter. “nah this man’s not real ! man said—“

NAGI SEISHIRO !

“are you a magician ? because when i look at you, everyone else disappears.”

“next.”

this was the eighth girl nagi had rejected. each girl came in with a new pick up line, and to nagi, each one seemed to be worse than the last.

“nagi, you have to say yes to someone already. you’ve rejected almost every— don’t listen to chigiri, nagi ! you don’t have to say yes to any of these bitches—“

nagi was about mid eye roll when you walked in.

you were rose dappled cheeks & fluffy jacket upon crème tee. your eyes met the room before his, scanning the seemingly infinite white walls & high ceiling. you even did a little wave to the camera before taking your seat. cute

even then, your eyes settled everywhere except him.

“hi,” he broke you out of your trance.

“ah— hello !” you flash him a shy grin, dimpled cheeks & freckled nose. “i was supposed to say a pick up line, right ? are you french, because—“

“no, no, please don’t,” nagi interrupts. you’re a pretty thing, red bruised knee bouncing over the other as you tuck away a strand of hair. fuck, you’re like candy for the eye.

“you get a pass.”

“huh ? but my pick up line—“

“no need, it’s a yes from me.”

pretty pink lips bend into a pout & nagi is almost tempted to let you say your line, but he shudders at the thought of your incomplete statement. you nod a bow & show yourself out with another tiny wave to the camera. perhaps this game isn’t all that bad after all.

mid thought, nagi’s earpiece crackles to life. “nagi, why’d you say yes ?! what’s she got that—“

ITOSHI SAE !

“ask her if she’d get with a bisexual dude.”

“what ? stop it shidou he doesn’t like dudes. ask her if she—“

“how about i ask her to shut the fuck up?”

sae says it a bit too loudly so your eyes widen a bit before you seemingly shrink in on yourself. sae hadn’t actually meant it—he was only trying to put a stop to the squabbling in his ears but now your nose is red & you’re biting your lip like you’re about to cry.

truthfully, he doesn’t give a fuck.

but his PR team sure does. sae was live right now & his public image already wasn’t the prettiest. he’d also rather not receive yet another lecture from his manager.

“um, girl number nine ?”

the sound of a facepalm rattles in his earpiece. “isn’t she like, the fourth girl ?”

sae bites his bottom lip. you’re fidgeting with your nails & your breathing seems heavy & your eyes seem to be everywhere but his. you don’t even respond to his call. he sighs.

“that wasn’t meant for you, sorry.” he swallows. “you were talking about red flags in a relationship, right ?”

you seem to perk up—perhaps you thought he wasn’t listening ? you were going on & on but how could sae not pay you any mind when your voice seemed smoother than redwine & myrrh ?

“yes—yes i was ! um, what about you ? any red flags ?”

“when they’re too horny.” a damn-it ! blares through his ear piece.

you nod, “i get that. though honestly, i’m a bit of a freak myself.”

you say it like you didn’t just admit to being a professional dick sucker. “sae, ask her for her number—“

he taps a button & the humming in his ear ceases. “a freak, you say ? do elaborate.”

© ─ heartkaji ; do not steal, edit, translate or reupload

[disgustingtwitches]

A Rose In Harlem

You're stuck in a romcom with your new asshole neighbor, Simon Riley

Masterlist

PART 1

A rose in Harlem starts to bloom…

***

Simon despises New York. But, truth be told, he hates every big city; they're all too loud, too crowded, and too filthy. Too prone to tragedy and attacks. He much preferred the solitude of the countryside, miles of quiet stretching in every direction. As long as he had one of his squad mates snoring close by and the soft chirp of crickets, he could sleep far better than he ever did now.

Because right now, someone decided that playing Shakira at nine in the morning on a Sunday was acceptable. The ceiling shook with every kick of the bass. Simon stared up at the ceiling, frustration gnawing at his patience. He considered himself a patient man, but his sleep was sacred. He barely got any as is; nightmares he refused to acknowledge, waking up in cold sweats, insomnia from irregular missions. He’d fallen asleep just as the sun rose. And now it was… 9:01 AM. He groaned while he rolled off his mattress on the floor and stretched, muscles tight as ever.

Throwing on some sweatpants and a hoodie, he headed next door, ignoring the little doorbell with a camera on it.

He pounded on the door, adjusting his mask. Nine bangs and the music finally stopped. A feminine voice came through the speaker,

“Can I help you?”

“Your music’s too loud.”

There was a pause.

“Welcome to Harlem,”

That was all he heard before the music up again-louder than before. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath in. Go to your happy place, his mandated therapist told him. He doesn't have a fucking happy place. His childhood home? His shitty flat back in London? In his new, somehow shittier apartment in New York? He thinks that the back of his eyelids are the happiest place he knows of, just blank and dark. On some days he wishes that he'd stay in that darkness for good.

He clears his throat and opens his eyes, looking at the stupid little camera in front of him. He pounds on the door again, harder this time. The door seemed to flinch under his fist. The music didn’t stop this time, just lowered.

“Jesus, you knock like a cop.”

The voice on the other end sighed, annoyed. The fucking audacity.

“Lower your music. Surprised no one else has complained.”

“Because they know how to mind their business. Keep banging on my door, and we’ll have an issue.”

Simon laughed internally. Did she really just say that? He was big enough to make any threat against him ridiculous. Or maybe the camera makes him look smaller than he is. He leaned in towards the camera, finally acknowledging it.

“We’ll have a real issue if this keeps up.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

“You’re real bold, you know that? Coming in here, smoking those nasty-ass cigarettes, stinking up the place. Then banging on my door, telling me what to do? Go fuck yourself.”

Simon’s fist clenches as the music turns back up to full volume. He has half a mind to kick down the door and throw those speakers out the window. Maybe the listener too. But he was working on his temper, so as he walked out of the building, he looked up where the nearest hardware store was.

•

It was nearly 3 AM when the drilling started. Right on the wall behind your headboard. What the fuck? You groan and cover your head with your pillow. Who the fuck is drilling at this time? You think for a moment, then remember that big fucker who was pounding at your door earlier. Of course, it's him; of course, he'd be the type of asshole to do some shit like this.

Ten minutes passed, and the drilling stopped. Thank God. Just as you were about to drift off to sleep again, it started back up. You bang on the wall repeatedly out of frustration. There is a moment of silence. Then you hear a few bangs back, mirroring your own before continuing to drill.

You feel like screaming.

“Piece of shit. Wanna wake me up in the middle of the night? Act like you don't have any fucking sense?”

You mumble to yourself, throwing on your slippers and a hoodie. The drilling keeps going as you walk out your door and head to his. You repeatedly press the doorbell indignantly. The whir of the drill stops. You brace yourself to face that hulking mass that you stared at through your doorbell app earlier. Fists clenched in your hoodie pocket and chest tight, breathing hard and fast, still worked up. You think of the right words to call him, something that would cut deep. But after a moment, you realize he's not going to answer the door. Pussy. You say to yourself before turning and storming back to your place.

It was quiet for the rest of the night.

***

You're disoriented when your alarm goes off, eyes blearily looking at the screen, trying to read the time. You drop your face into the pillow, groaning in exhaustion. Ishta wanted to meet you for coffee before work today, which means she wants to talk for at least thirty minutes. You contemplate texting her and calling off the rendezvous, but she gets in a mood when you do that. And you are not in the mood to deal with that today. You roll out of bed and get ready for work.

As if the day couldn't get any worse, the elevator's broken, so you have to use the stairs. Your mood sours with every step down, thinking of all the bullshit that's happened in less than 24 hours. Fucker knocking on your door, talking crazy to you, then waking you up in the middle of the night? Acting like he can do whatever the hell he wants. The hallway reeks of cigarettes.

You bump into someone while walking out of the foyer, distracted by your thoughts and phone, checking to see what time the train is coming. You almost apologize then stop yourself when you look up. It's him.

You're pretty sure he's wearing the same clothes as yesterday: a black hoodie and sweatpants with a face mask. Does he wear that because it's flu season or because he wants to hide his face? Probably the latter.

“You're gonna make people nervous running around like that.”

You don't try to hide your face of displeasure. He is unaffected, catching his breath slowly and deeply. His dark eyes lock with yours.

“Am I making you nervous?”

He asks in a tone that's almost taunting. You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath.

“No.”

“Then why do you care?”

His question upsets you a little.

“Because I'm a decent person,”

Is what you settle on. His eyebrow twitches. You don't like how heavy the air suddenly gets. You adjust your bag and step around him, rushing to the subway.

***

Ishta giggles zooming in on the man on your screen.

“He looks tall. And strong.”

You sigh, taking your phone back and tucking it into your bag.

“He's an asshole.”

“He's hot.”

“You can't even see his face!”

You groan, exasperated. This is the first time you actually get to lead the conversation, and the topic isn't even about you.

“I knew it was only a matter of time when I saw that stupid Chick-fil-A open up here. Now we have him running around like he owns the place.”

You sigh into your tea, trying to calm down. Ishta is enjoying this much more than you.

“They opened another one up at 181st too,”

Ishta smirks, leaning back into her chair.

“Do you think I'll be seeing any big, strong, mysterious men in my neighborhood anytime soon?”

She laughs when you make a face. Putting your cup down, you groan.

“He's British.”

Ishta waves her hand around, gold jewelry catching the light of the rising sun.

“Oh babe, he can't help it. You know, I heard it's a genetic thing.”

Her smirk turns into a wide smile when you chuckle at that. Maybe today won't be so bad.

Wrong.

You are blindsided coming into work, forgetting your very important presentation with the museum's benefactors. It takes ten minutes just to pull up the slideshow and they all seem unimpressed and bored. Halfway through, your manager calls for a quick break and meets you outside in the hallway.

“What is going on in there?”

She whispers in a harsh tone, leaning so close you can smell her ridiculously overpriced perfume. You bite your lip, avoiding eye contact.

“I'm sorry, my neigh-”

She pinched the air, manicured fingernails held up to your face.

“I don't care what you got going on, just don't embarrass me like that again.”

It takes all of your strength not to smack her hand away. She stares at you, waiting for a response. But you keep your mouth shut, knowing that if you open it you'll likely lose your job. She pulls back, straightening out her skirt.

“Try to be more engaging. And you look like hell.”

The rest of the presentation goes without a hitch, the benefactors perk up when you start spouting some technolect bullshit about the newest artifacts your department has been working on procuring. Your manager soaks in all the praise like she had anything to do with the newest developments in your department.

The lack of sleep is catching up to you when you're sitting at your desk, staring at the same email for twenty minutes, trying to remember how to tell someone to jump off a bridge professionally.

As per my last email,

You hold the backspace, erasing and writing the same sentence over and over again.

“RISD giving you a hard time with the Hiroshige prints?”

Ishta’s voice startles you, her tall frame hovers over your shoulder. You feel a headache forming right between your eyebrows.

“I don't know what they want from me, they seemed so eager to work with us before.”

“Their board of trustees got a new member, total cunt. The Met is having a hard time too.”

“What the fuck is her deal?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, nearing a total meltdown. Ishta places her hands on your shoulders, taking deep breaths.

“Just close your eyes and think happy thoughts,”

You roll your eyes but humor her, mimicking her breathing.

“Think of getting more grant money. Chocolate cake from the bakery down the street. And your hot neighbor's barrel chest-”

“Knock it off, he's so insufferable.”

You smile, playfully knocking her hand away and waving her off.

“I need to focus now, so go.”

She blew kisses at you while walking away and you turned back to your computer, a small line blinking on a blank screen.

Just following up on my email below. Let me know if I should be talking to someone else about this…

After spending too much time writing your email, you leaned back in your seat, checking your phone absentmindedly, opening your doorbell app and playing the videos of whoever walked by. Miss Dowdy with her miniature pinscher, Nina bringing her groceries, a masked figure donned in all black tucking a cigarette behind his ear.

“Am I making you nervous?”

His words replay in your head, uninvited and relentless. You don’t like the way his voice makes you feel. It crawls under your skin, makes your stomach twist.

***

Your bed feels softer than usual when you flop down on it with a groan, slipping into deep sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. You jump when you hear a bang. Groan when you hear another. Grit your teeth at the third bang.

Hammering. This jackass is hammering in the middle of the night. Blood boiling, it takes all of your strength to not scream and bang your fists on the wall like a madman. Your head hurts from clenching your jaw while you slip into your slides and storm next door.

You press the doorbell rabidly. It takes a solid minute before the locks click and the door swings open. You stare at the tattoo sleeve that peeks out from under the hoodie he rolled up to his elbow before looking past him and into his bare apartment. It's clean but empty and cold; there is a mattress and a huge TV on the floor, a single chair at a small table, some weights, and a milk crate. He leans against the doorframe, blocking your view.

“Evening.”

He’s insouciant, lighting a cigarette as he addresses you, his calm cutting deeper than any words. Your vision blurs with red, fists trembling at your sides, shaking with the force of your restraint. He catches it, and the corners of his lips twitch upward, like he’s savoring the storm he’s pulled from you. It takes everything in you not to lunge at him, but the bitter knowledge of how futile it would be keeps you rooted in place.

“You're an asshole.”

The words make him hum in acknowledgment, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke into his apartment.

“Don't know what you mean. You're being very hostile to me right now, angel.”

The disparaging pet name sends you over the edge, you snap.

“Don't act stupid. You keep doing that shit and I'll take that dumbass hammer and…”

You keep going like this until your anger subsides, blood no longer molten, just under a simmer for now. His face is stony, eyes unnervingly dark and devoid of any emotion. You wait for his response, the silence stretches for longer than you're comfortable with. He looks down at your chest briefly.

“Chilly out here, huh?”

He finally says, twisting his body to grab an ashtray from the countertop next to him. You furrow your eyebrows, confused.

“What?”

Then you glance down-and your stomach drops. You forgot to put on a bra before coming out. Mortified, you cross your arms in a desperate, clumsy motion. The shame burns hot, but it’s fleeting, quickly overtaken by a rage that feels twice as strong now. If that’s even possible. He cuts you off before you cuss him out (again).

“Start the music later and I'll stop.”

You want to argue. Be stubborn. Lie just to spite him and wake him up bright and early next weekend. But you’re too damn tired. And he’s too damn good at making your life miserable when he wants to. So you sigh, rolling your eyes with the kind of exasperation that feels like defeat.

“Fine. Yes. Whatever. Just stop banging on the fucking wall.”

He stubs out his cigarette, shoving the ashtray aside like it’s an afterthought. He turns, stretching lazily, his arms braced against the doorframe, looking every bit the smug bastard he is.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Fuck you.”

That gets him. His split lip twists into a crooked grin, sharp and mean, but somehow entertained all the same. For a moment, it throws you off, and you realize this is the first time you’ve actually seen his face. All of it. Every nasty scar and shadow he hid underneath that mask.

He snaps his fingers and points at you amusedly.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Night, angel.”

And with that, he shuts his door, leaving you in the hallway alone to stew in your frustration.

You tuck your annoyance away while lying down to sleep, you've spent enough time stressing over that man and you'll be damned if he messes with your sleep anymore than he already has.

***

"A mattress on the floor and some weights? That's it?"

Ishta's voice crackles through the phone, entirely too enthusiastic about the details you're sharing. It's clear her concern lies more with Mr. Asshole than with you. She's already connecting dots you wish she wouldn't.

"You know guys like that always have good dick,"

She says, tone smug.

"All they need is a bed and a pull-up bar or something. The rest takes care of itself."

You sigh, leaning on the windowsill and opening the bedroom window, letting the cool air hit your face.

"Is dick all you think about?"

"Maybe if you got some decent dick in your life, you'd be less stressed. How do you think I keep so calm?”

“You said it was kickboxing last week.”

You wedge the phone between your shoulder and ear, twisting the cap off a bottle of rosé. She continues,

"Well, that too,"

Her voice is light and breezy, like this is just common knowledge.

"But it's all about balance—therapy, exercise, and, you know, some mind-blowing se-ex."

She drags the last word out, sing-songy and teasing, the grin in her voice unmistakable. You can picture her lounging somewhere, phone in hand, not a care in the world. You roll your eyes and take a sip, the tart sweetness of the wine softening your irritation.

"Dick is more trouble than it's worth."

That sets her off, laughter bubbling through the phone. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you soften; it’s contagious, disarming, and you hate how it pulls the corners of your mouth up despite yourself. She catches her breath,

“Oh, please. You just never got good dick.”

“I've gotten good dick!”

“Not recently!”

You finally give in, a reluctant laugh slipping out, satiating her smug amusement before you bid her a quick adieu and hang up.

Putting on something soft and slow, you hum along, the melody wrapping around you as you sip your wine. The night feels calm, city heat radiating from the sidewalks finally cooling down, loud music being played a block over. Leaning out the window, you take in the cool air, only to startle when you spot him sitting on the fire escape, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette.

“Jesus fuck! ”

You jump, heart pounding as you clutch your wine glass.

He looks at you, unbothered, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes a slow drag. You’ve seen his scarred face before, but now you really take it in: the crooked nose, proof of who knows how many fights; the slit through his eyebrow, jagged and uneven; the deep-set eyes that seem to pierce right through you; and a jawline that looks like it could cut glass.

He shifts, catching you staring, and for a moment his brow furrows, like he doesn’t like it. But then, he talks, voice low and calm, smoke puffing out between his words.

“That true?”

He asks, breaking the silence as he exhales a plume of smoke.

You blink, caught off guard.

“Is what true?”

He flashes a smile, like he just thought of a joke.

“You never got good dick?”

Your face gets hot,

“Do you usually listen to people's conversations?”

“Only when it pertains to me.”

“How do you know I was talking about you?”

“You familiar with a lot of men who sleep on the floor?”

You twist your face, disbelief etched in every feature.

"No. I am not."

"Yeah, didn't take you for an easy lay."

He tilts his head, a flicker of smugness dancing in his dark eyes.

"Need some good dick?"

You cringe, the audacity hitting like a slap to the face. He shrugs, unapologetic, like he's just offered you a drink instead of an indecent proposal.

"Offer stands. You know where I am."

"Unfortunately."

You mutter, disgust laced in the single word. He drinks up your venom, savoring the bite in your tone. He places a hand on his chest, feigning hurt.

“You wound me, angel.”

Does he ever take anything seriously?

“Are you always such a jerk off?”

He points at you, cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You know, you like calling me every name under the sun, don't you wanna know what it actually is?”

“What? Your actual name? Thought you preferred ‘asshole’.”

He snorts,

“Might as well, seeing as you've got that down pat.”

He cocks his head, shadows cutting across his face, deepening the scars and crooked edges of him. His face was rough, but you always liked character—distinct features that tell a story.

You don't say anything, trying to hide your flicker of curiosity by sipping your wine, but he sees right through you.

“Simon. Be sure not to wear it out. Yet.”

“I like ‘asshole’ better.”

“Does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

He stands, towering from your perspective as you perch on the windowsill. He stretches, a casual movement that feels anything but. Your eyes betray you, catching on the faint trail of hair that starts at his belly button and disappears under his waistband. He’s definitely doing this on purpose.

“Night, angel.”

He winks, self-satisfied.

“Bye, asshole.”

Your voice has softened, more playful than biting. He flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the street below before looking down at you.

“Good girl.”

The words are tossed down like a gauntlet, casual and deliberate, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. Your stomach twists, warmth spreading before you can clamp it down. You frown, annoyed—at him, at yourself, at how easily he gets under your skin. You sit back, swirling the last drops of wine in your glass as you watch him slip through his own window, vanishing into the dark. You hate the way his words echo in your head.

You're not gonna fuck your neighbor. Don't fuck your neighbor.

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