#what coping mechanism can i use now!! damn it!!

[yua0ra]

𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞™

(𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲-𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐳𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

WARNINGS: downbad!mattheo x slytherin!fem!reader, SFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | fluff ☏

SUMMARY: Mattheo Riddle has a full-system shutdown when you shyly wave at him in the Three Broomsticks. After mumbling something about the weather (??), the Slytherin boys decide intervention is absolutely necessary. Thus, Operation: Matty Falls in Love™ is born.

Spoiler: it’s already working. Spoiler 2: Mattheo wants to vanish into his scarf.

WC: 1.4K AN: Just a silly little draft of an idea I had a few months ago. sorry for the super late post! I've been extremely busy with uni.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, the kind that practically begged for butterbeer and questionable decisions. The Three Broomsticks was packed with Hogwarts students trying to escape the miserable February wind, their chatter clashing with the clink of mugs and the occasional crash from behind the bar.

Mattheo Riddle was crammed into a booth with Enzo, Theo, Blaise, and Draco, and for once, he wasn’t scowling at the world. He had this far-off, half-smile thing going on—cheeks faintly flushed, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the rim of his mug.

And that was all the invitation Enzo needed.

“You’ve got that look again,” Enzo said, stretching his legs out under the table and smirking. “Like you're composing love poetry in your head. Something tragic. Probably rhymes with her name.”

Mattheo didn’t even bother glaring. He just took a long sip of his butterbeer and muttered, “Piss off.”

“Oh no, no—don’t go shy now,” Theo jumped in, eyes gleaming. “Our brooding prince has fallen. Hard. Honestly, at this point I’m expecting you to carve her name into the desk in the Slytherin common room like some medieval madman.”

“Swear he was humming in the shower yesterday,” Blaise added, grinning wide. “Humming. We’re witnessing history.”

Draco leaned in like he was about to deliver the final blow. “He flinched when she said hi last week. And then stared at the spot she stood in for a full minute like it owed him rent.”

Mattheo’s ears betrayed him. Flaming. Absolutely on fire. The kind of red that made it look like they’d been hexed. “You lot are all insufferable,” he muttered, sinking deeper into his seat.

And then—just to prove the universe had no chill—the bell over the door jingled. You walked in with your Slytherin girl gang, all laughing like you owned the damn world. The wind tugged at your scarf, your cheeks were rosy from the cold, and your smile? Devastating. Mattheo tried to pretend he wasn’t looking, but everyone at the table could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

Blaise leaned out of the booth and squinted toward the door. “Merlin. She really is so fit, though.”

“Ridiculously fit,” Enzo agreed.

Draco let out a low whistle. “Unfair, honestly.”

Mattheo’s smile vanished. Completely gone. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Can you not?” he muttered, voice low and tense.

Theo smirked. “What? You don’t like us noticing that your little crush is objectively hot?”

Mattheo didn’t answer—his glare kind of said it all.

You, meanwhile, had spotted their table and gave a small, hesitant wave, a little shy but still sweet. Mattheo blinked like he couldn’t believe you were actually waving at him. His heart thumped. Hard.

Astoria winked at you. “Go on. Say hi. They’re all here.”

“I don’t know…” you murmured. “They’re probably busy—”

“They’re never busy,” Pansy cut in. “They just sit there being dramatic and drinking warm butterbeer like it’s a coping mechanism.”

“They are dramatic,” Daphne agreed, already nudging you forward.

With an encouraging nudge from Daphne, you walked over, your fingers fidgeting slightly with your scarf. “Hi, boys,” you said, soft but clear.

The effect was instant.

Theo grinned so wide it looked borderline painful and Blaise—because Blaise always had to be that guy—winked slowly like you were starring in your own dramatic black-and-white romance film.

Mattheo looked like someone had hit pause on his entire body.

“Hi,” he finally said, voice rough. “You look... uh. Cold. I mean—you’re here. Hello.”

You giggled quietly. “Hi, Mattheo.”

Enzo leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “You joining us, love?”

You looked at Mattheo, just briefly, before glancing away again. “Oh—no. Just saying hi.”

Theo tilted his head. “Did you know Mattheo writes sonnets about you in his sleep?”

Mattheo groaned audibly. “I do not.”

“Oh, come on,” Blaise said. “We were just talking about how—”

Mattheo cut him off with a sharp look, something dark flickering in his eyes. “Don’t.”

The table went quiet for a beat.

You blinked, clearly sensing the shift. “Is… everything alright?”

“Fine,” Mattheo said a bit too quickly. Then softer, glancing at you: “You look really nice today.”

You ducked your head, hiding the smile blooming on your lips. “Thanks, Matty.”

His ears burned again. Bright red. You didn’t see it, but the rest of the table absolutely did.

As you walked away, practically glowing with shyness and the cutest little smile on your lips, Mattheo sat there—utterly motionless, hands still covering half his face like he could physically hide from the moment that just happened.

No one spoke for a full five seconds. And then—

“I have never,” Enzo said, slamming his mug down, “seen a man malfunction so violently over a single word.”

Theo leaned in, eyes wide. “She called you Matty, mate. Matty. That’s endgame-level intimacy.”

Draco pointed his spoon at him like a wand. “You can’t come back from that. That’s a nickname you get married under.”

Blaise drummed his fingers against the table thoughtfully. “Gentlemen,” he said, voice low and scheming, “I propose a mission.”

Mattheo finally peeked through his fingers. “No. Whatever it is. Absolutely not.”

“Operation: Matty Falls in Love,” Blaise continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Phase one: awareness. You’re already smitten. Step one, complete. Congrats.”

“I hate you all,” Mattheo muttered.

Theo nodded solemnly. “Step two: contact. We increase natural exposure. Sit closer in class. Walk next to her in the corridors. Offer to carry her books.”

Enzo perked up. “Leave little gifts! Like, a chocolate frog on her desk. Maybe a note. Something simple and mysterious. But not creepy. We’re flirting, not hexing.”

Draco snapped his fingers. “Or! Casual compliments. Subtle. Like, ‘That’s a nice ink color.’ Boom. Romantic and scholarly.”

Mattheo was just staring at the ceiling now. “I’m begging you to stop.”

“Step three,” Theo said, now narrating with his butterbeer like it was a microphone. “The accidental study session. You, her, one quiet corner of the library. You pretend to struggle with a concept you’ve already mastered. Boom. Bonding.”

“Step four,” Blaise added, “emotional vulnerability. Get her to talk about her family, childhood dreams, favorite sweets. Then tell her a story about your tragic, misunderstood past.”

“You want me to trauma dump in the library?” Mattheo asked flatly.

Enzo shrugged. “It works on me.”

Theo clapped his hands. “Step five: The Grand Gesture.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Mattheo groaned.

“Nothing crazy,” Theo said. “Just like… serenade her under the Astronomy Tower. Or enchant the hallway to rain rose petals. Maybe a confession in the middle of breakfast? That’s dramatic and unforgettable.”

Draco tapped his quill against the table like a general approving war strategy. “You know, we could do a slow burn angle. Play the long game. Make her fall in love with the idea of you before she even realizes it’s happening.”

“I’m already in love with the idea of him,” Blaise mockingly said, sipping his drink. “And I live with him.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Mattheo said, finally dragging his hands down his face. His entire neck was still pink. “I’m not doing any of that. I’ll just… talk to her. Like a normal person.”

All four of them stared.

“You?” Enzo said slowly. “Talk to her?”

“You just said ‘you’re here, it’s cold’ like you were casting a memory charm with your mouth full,” Theo pointed out.

Mattheo reached for his butterbeer. “I panicked.”

“And now you need structure,” Blaise said. “A plan. A mission.”

“A team,” Draco added.

“Please stop—”

“Operation: Matty Falls in Love is officially a go,” Theo declared, raising his mug like a toast. “By the end of term, you’ll be holding her hand, stargazing, maybe even—dare I say—kissing.”

“I hate every single one of you,” Mattheo mumbled into his drink.

“That's the spirit,” Enzo grinned. “Now. Do you think she likes owls? Because I have a quill set and no self-control.”

And somewhere across the pub, you laughed at something Pansy said—and Mattheo couldn’t help it. He looked over.

Yeah. He was doomed.

And Operation: Matty Falls in Love? Already working.

[writesvani]

down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

[luffyszoo]

i want soft dom reader with sanji. i just wanna call him pet names and give him compliments so he believes it for once, all while hes destroying my insides ofc

Sanji x Reader 🔞 (smutt with plot)

Part 1 Part 2 (wip)

A/N: HII i’m back! For some reason i have a lot of ideas for this fanfic. so i decided to split this into 2 parts. because it was already 19k words until i had to shorten it LMAO please note this is the first part. so things will start spurring up in part 2 which i already have a good chunk of it done, just please be patient! <3

word count: 16K

CW, this fic will contain nsfw mixed with angst… (also the use of “y/n” i try my best not to use it but i had to.)

Sanji’s back on the ship now. You and the Strawhats are heading to Wano. But something’s wrong with Sanji. He hides it well from the others, but it’s clear that you and Luffy can tell something’s off. He’s more distant. I mean, who can blame him? Having to go back to your abusive family after years of trying to forget the horrible things that happened to you? That’s a kind of pain you couldn’t even imagine.

But still it hurt you to see Sanji so depressed.

Once a cook who was happy and always ready for anything, he’s turned into someone who seems chained to the kitchen. Cooking being one of his coping mechanisms, of course he’ll give the crew random dishes, even though none of them asked for dinner yet…

“Thanks, Sanji!” the others will cheer, seeing the delicious plate in front of them. So many different dishes, ones that originated from all over. A lot of them looked rich, complicated, and honestly, it was kind of clear he was going through something. The harder the dish, the more his heart must have ached over what happened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the words his father spat at him before he left that island. Wounds he thought were healed, buried—just seemed to rip open again the moment he was forced to face the truth about his past.

“Useless.”

“Disgusting.”

Every time Sanji closed his eyes, all he could see were his brothers laughing at him. Bound in that cage. That damn metal helmet forced on his head. The hopelessness he felt when they said he was weaker than them. Not like he didn’t know that already. Of course he knew.

It’s all they ever said to him, every day, just to break him.

He was cooking all day. He’s tired. His hands feel kind of weak now. It’s like he’s made every dish you could possibly think of for his friends. The sink had a couple of plates, forks, butter knives in it. When he turned around, he saw the mess he made himself. Pots. Bigger spoons. Tools scattered everywhere. He sighed at the sight. Rolling up his sleeves, his hands moved numbly grabbing the sponge and soap. He picked up a plate and started scrubbing the leftover sauce or food that stuck to it. His mind was blank. He tried not to think of what happened. Because if he isn’t thinking about that, he’s thinking of nothing. His eyes were empty, just staring at the plate, his reflection faint in the center. His fingers shifted slightly with each new utensil he cleaned.

Once Sanji finished, it was time for a smoke break. The apron he wore was now off and hung on the wall by a hook.

Grabbing his pack of cigarettes, he opened it only to see one left.

Damn.

There’s no way he smoked that much, right?

He scratched the back of his head, trying to replay the day and count how many he actually had. Didn’t really help much.

But he knew that one cigarette wasn’t enough, not for the shitty few days he was having.

He sighed, taking the last one and stepping outside. The sun was just going down, a soft red and orange glow casting across his face—and the Thousand Sunny. Looking out at the water was… something he could stare at forever. The ocean matched the sky’s color. Sparkles of light danced on the surface, and down below, little fish swam close to the Sunny, as if they were following it. Gentle waves hit the bottom of the ship, making a soft whssp sound each time water met wood. He enjoyed the view. The weather was nice, too.

A soft but cold breeze brushed across his face, making his hair blow gently with the wind. From behind him, he could hear soft, slow familiar footsteps. But he couldn’t tell who it was He narrowed his eyes at the thought of having to talk to someone but he didn’t mind it, either.

God, these emotions he had were so mixed. Can’t he just be a normal fucking person—?

“Hey…”

voice was soft, followed with a casual small smile. You leaned gently on the railings of the ship, only your fingertips gripping the flat, white painted wood. You were nervous. You’d noticed Sanji’s behavior ever since you all left the island. The change in his energy. The way he’d isolate in the kitchen, pouring too much of himself into meals no one even asked for. You’d wanted to talk to him about it for so long, you had so many things you wanted to say. But now, standing beside him in the orange-pink light of the dying sun, your mind felt blank.

Nervousness? Definitely.But not because you were scared of Sanji’s reaction. It was more the fear that maybe, nothing you said would comfort him in the way he needed. Sanji wanted to seem like he was as happy as he could be. But he definitely didn’t have the energy to keep up the act he’d been putting on all day.

“Hey, Y/n,” he said, offering a seemingly genuine smile. “What brings you here?”

You saw through it immediately. That smile wasn’t real. And you were determined to get the truth out of him.

“Nothing,” you replied, trying to sound casual as possible. “Just noticed you here. Thought I’d say hi. You’ve been in the kitchen for a while, no? Cooking so many meals for us lately.” You fake-chuckled, pretending like the conversation hadn’t been rehearsed in your head over and over again. You knew how you wanted to start. The hard part would be seeing if you could keep up with him and his emotions, if he’d actually did open up.

Sanji snorted softly. “Well, yeah. Can’t leave my crewmates going unfed. What kind of cook would that make me?” He avoided eye contact. His gaze stayed fixed on the waves below. He started to lightly ruffle his hair with one hand—a habit you’d noticed before. You weren’t quite sure if he even realized he did it when he was nervous. Maybe it was just instinct. He ruffled it with the same hand holding his cigarette. The tip burned slowly down. A small pile of ash had formed on the railing in front of him, scattered where he kept flicking it without much thought.

“I suppose that’s true,” you murmured, resting a finger gently to your chin. “You sure you’re not going through something right now?” Your eyes narrowed slightly as you looked at him. He could feel it, that weight of your concern hovering over him like a shadow. He knew what you were trying to get at.

But he didn’t want to talk about it. Not really.

“Why would I be going through something?” he replied, shrugging a little as he flicked the cigarette again. Another bit of ash fell lazily down to the small pile. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to, he already knew you weren’t buying it.

“Well, that thing with your parents, and the wedding.” His face looked relaxed like you’d just brought up something as casual as the weather. Sanji exhaled a small stream of smoke. “Your point being?” He finally glanced at you. But it wasn’t full eye contact, his head stayed facing forward, his eyes just shifting halfway toward you. “As much as I love you for the fact that you care about me, and that you’re worrying… you’re overthinking this.” He turned his body a bit, finally facing you. His expression unreadable, tone still calm. Detached.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Yeah. Right.

Like you were gonna fall for that.

You crossed your arms, “Riiight…” you dragged out the word, especially the middle syllable, just to make it very clear you weren’t buying anything he was selling. “And I’m not supposed to believe those five-star meals are just you being a ‘good cook,’ huh?”

You finger-quoted that last part for emphasis.

Blunt? Yeah, maybe.

But pretending everything was okay wasn’t your style. Never has been. And honestly? You didn’t think it should be anyone’s. Watching Sanji throw himself into this exhausting act putting up smiles, serving meals like clockwork, burying his pain in butter and saffron, it was starting to wear on you.

It irritated you. Because you knew. You both knew. This wasn’t fine. And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

Not yet, at least.

His body flinched by your words, just barely. but you saw it. “What are you trying to say?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Sanji?”

“No.”

His expression wasn’t angry. Just tired.

“I knew. Ever since the day after we left the island.” You added, voice softer but firmer now. “The dishes. The overly used smile you’ve been wearing all day. it doesn’t feel like you.”

He avoided your eyes again. That same move. That subtle withdrawal. You knew how hard it must be for him, someone so used to hiding pain behind charm to be confronted like this. But he’d left you no choice. What if no one ever talked to him about it? Leaving him to carry the weight he’d been dragging since Whole Cake Island? He would’ve drowned in it. And that thought alone made your chest ache. You didn’t even want to imagine what kind of dark place he would’ve ended up in, how much more depressed he might be by now if no one reached out. His jaw clenched a little. The cigarette burned too low for another drag, but he didn’t flick it away. Just held it there.

“I told you… I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly near the end.

You didn’t interrupt. You waited. Watched him as he seemed to wrestle with the words in his throat.

“I..” a big exhale from his mouth, making his chest move up, and down slowly. “I talked to Luffy,” he insisted. “We already had this conversation. I told him everything I needed to say. He understood. So, yeah—I’m fine now.”

He nodded like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But you could see it.

That was only half the truth. He did talk to Luffy. You could see the impact it had on him. But there was something he still hadn’t said out loud. Something still gnawing at him.

“So you talked to Luffy, and that magically made your problems go away?” you shot back, your tone sharper now. “That’s it? All better? Wow, I should just talk to Luffy about all of my problems if it’s so easy.”

Sanji stiffened.

“Why can’t you just accept the fact that I’m fine now?” finally looking at you “Can I not talk about my family? I’m getting irritated.” He snaps his head toward the ocean.

You took a step closer. You weren’t angry, not really. But the way he kept trying to brush everything under the rug like it didn’t matter, it was maddening.

“No, Sanji. I’m not looking for anything. I see it. In your face, in your hands, and face when you give out food. The way you can’t even finish a sentence about yourself without having to switch it to the other person.”

He turned his head sharply, jaw tightening again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence between you both felt heavy He looked away again. His voice came softer this time. Almost like a whisper. “I want to be okay…” he said. “I want to be okay. That talking with Luffy really did fix it. But..” His voice broke completely then, cracking in the middle like something inside finally gave way.

“But it didn’t.”

“It’s hot,” he exhaled through his mouth, pulling at his collar, his fingers shaking. “The heat is pissing me off… Why did it get so hot all of a sudden out here?!” But it hadn’t. The weather hadn’t changed. The breeze was still cool, the sunset still soft on both of your skins. He was overwhelmed. He didn’t want to say any of that. Words came out like they were pulled straight from the pit of his stomach. You could see it in his face, he was upset at himself for letting it slip. Furious that he has to feel this again for the same reason. His shoulders were tense, his hands trembling.

He still hadn’t looked at you again. “Sanji,” you said softly but firm enough to break through whatever storm he had spinning in his head. He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched again, his chest rising and falling too fast. You could hear how uneven his breathing had gotten, like he was stuck between wanting to talk and cry.

So you reached out, slowly pressing a hand to his chest. Right over his heart. His breath caught, it’s gotten just a little slower by your touch. You could feel it beneath your hand, his heartbeat, fast and uncontrollable… As you stood there, it started to slow down. And strangely, your own breath began to match his. Like your presence alone was helping him find steady ground again. That’s when you leaned in, arms sliding around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

Tucking your chin over his shoulder, wrapping your arms snug around his neck, your fingertips lightly brushing against his hair at the nape. The way you held him. You weren’t letting him slip through the cracks again. Sanji froze. Like the warmth of you against him stunned him more than anything else could’ve. Then slowly, awkwardly, his arms came up around your waist. His hands hesitated, hovering for a moment before they landed fully, fingertips flinching at every new place they touched, like he didn’t trust himself to hold you right. But eventually they settled.

He melted into your hug slowly, like it was something he didn’t realize he needed until his body gave in to it. The ship creaked faintly in the background, the distant waves and the sky. In this moment, everything else faded into a kind of quiet that pressed gently around you both. His chest rose and fell against yours fast at first, then easing.

“…Do you wanna talk about it?”

Your voice barely rose above the sea breeze. Like you were afraid too much volume might shatter the moment. There was a pause. Not stiff. Just long, Sanji was replaying what you said in his head. Did he really want to talk about it? If he did, would you see him as weak? With the time he had to think about it. He agreed, sighing deeply but slow of relief. “Yeah.” His voice cracked just a little. But there was no shame in it.

You pulled back gently, just enough to see his face, but you didn’t let go of him. His eyes didn’t meet yours, not yet. But his hand found yours as if on instinct. Fingers brushing, testing… then curling around yours with quiet need Hand in hand, you started walking across the deck, your footsteps light on the wood beneath you. Sanji led you toward his room. For the first time since these past few days, he finally had someone to be honest with.

The silence in Sanjis room was very bothersome, you both didn’t know where to start. During the silence, you examined his room. You’d been in Sanji’s room before. Dropped off spices he asked for, borrowed a deck of cards once. Stood awkwardly in the doorway while he scolded Luffy for sneaking snacks. So you knew how he usually kept it. Tidy, and practical. A little stylish without trying too hard.

But now? It wasn’t a mess. Not completely. But it wasn’t like him. The desk in the corner had two books stacked neatly, but another one sat open next to them pages creased, like he meant to finish the paragraph and never came back. A pen rolled to the edge, dangerously close to falling. His drawers weren’t closed all the way. One of them hung halfway open, and inside you could see clothes that looked like they’d been folded once and then shoved in quickly, half of them sticking out like he lost the energy halfway through.

Even his scent usually sharp and warm, like cloves with a mix of tobacco and the faintest trace of cologne. It felt duller in here. Lingering in the corners like it hadn’t been refreshed in a while.

“I thought…” he hesitated, breath catching and scratching his blonde wavy hair at the top of his head. “I thought if I just gave them what they wanted, if I let them use me, marry me off, then it would stop. All of it. And no one else would have to get dragged into it.”

He let out a shaky breath, brow furrowing.

“And I know it was stupid. I know that now. But back then?” He shook his head. “It made sense. Giving up on myself made sense.” You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed on Sanji jas be poured out his heart.

“I felt horrible,” he muttered. “For leaving. For not saying anything. For the way I looked at all of you when you showed up to bring me back.”rubbing at his jaw, eyes still on the floor like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze, he can’t believe he’s really saying everything. His voice cracked again. “But instead I got put on blast. Everything, everything I ever tried to forget about myself, just thrown out in front of them. Nami, Brook, and Chopper…” His voice trailed off. He sucked in a breath, like it physically hurt to name them.

“I saw the way they looked at me,” he whispered. “Not in disgust. Not pity, either. Worse. It was shock. Like they couldn’t even imagine the version of me that came from such a family. And for a second, I hated that. I hated that they had to see it.” His hands curled tighter in his lap.

“I wanted to keep everyone safe. Leaving was the only way out, especially with the circumstances we were in. And then,” He scoffed suddenly.

“Luffy.” He spat the name with a frustrated smile tugging at his lips, like it made him feel pathetic just to say it aloud. “That idiot had to come find me.“ He shook his head, biting back the next sentence. “I still pushed him away. Hit him. Told him to go home.”

His voice dropped to a whisper again, low and splintered. “He stood there and took it. And then he waited. Didn’t leave. Didn’t fight back. Just said he wouldn’t eat unless it was from me.” There was a silence that stretched long between you. Sanji’s shoulders had sunk now, like the weight of it all had finally dropped fully onto him.

“…I don’t know if I deserve any of you,” he murmured, barely audible.

You let the silence sit for a moment, not out of hesitation, but to make sure you both heard what he just said. Every word. Every broken, twisted thought he’d turned into truth in his head.

“Don’t say that.”

His head lifted slightly. He didn’t look at you. Just the wall. The floor. Anything but your face.

“I mean it, Sanji. Don’t ever say that again.” You cupped the side of his face for you to meet eyes.

“You think what you did was wrong, and yeah, it was reckless. It hurt us. It hurt me. But you did what you thought you had to do to protect the people you love.” You shifted, turning your body more towards him, your knee brushing his. His hands were still clenched in his lap. You reached for his hand, carefully. Your fingers brushing his knuckles first, then curling gently around them.

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve us.”He looked at you now. His eyes were wet, his jaw tense. “You’re not some burden we’re dragging behind us, Sanji,” you whispered. “You’re… you, You don’t understand just how enough that is.”

Rubbing your thumb slowly along his hand. “I missed you.” your face burned up a bit. “I was so worried about you. I missed you because this ship doesn’t feel the same without you, I loved waking up to your scent of love. walking through the halls smelling like smoked goods and burning toast in the mornings.”That got the smallest, most cracked half-laugh out of him. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him.

“So yeah. You messed up. You’re not perfect. But none of us are. And if you ever say again that you don’t deserve us, or me, I’m gonna get Nami in here.” That made him laugh more, a little more louder than before. His shoulders loosened just a bit.

“Okay?” softly giggling softly. He nodded. Slowly. His hand gripped yours tighter

“…Okay.”

[enchantressiren]

❝𝐏𝐀𝐂: 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲.. 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭.. 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮.❞

Which sex position is your future lover’s favorite and why? (Detailed)

Masterlist

Author's note,

It's been a while since I last posted, hi everyone. I hope you enjoy your Christmas coming up!

Divider

Pile I.

“I want to devour the sweet nectar of the sin that lies beneath me. To feel it dripping on the sin of my fingertips, the graze that will melt us into ecstasy burning in the brain of our subconscious, such a beauty that I only get to see—for how lucky I am.. a lucky bastard.. that I am.”

Your future lover’s energy puts me in a calm trance, the calmest one could be. I feel like I am sleeping or walking on a path of water that will lead me to paradise. They are so soft with you, their love, or shall I say devotion, to you is something they cherished tremendously, and they could not bear losing that with you. To lose you would simply be their death, and they cannot have that done, and that is why their favorite sex position is all over the place. They do not have one and could never dare; they want to feel you everywhere, in every position, and want to see your beautiful face move and show pure pleasure as they please you with the utmost respect. “That is something you deserve, you deserve the utmost respect one could bear, and that is the one thing you never have to ask or prove with me—it will be with you the minute you are my lover, though I am sorry it was not done when we were fighting.”

Enemies to lovers, or rivals to lovers, is your trope with them. You honestly made them want to fall in love, and made them understand what it was to actually love. Their ex, (or multiple, energies are flying around like crazy), were nasty. That’s really it, so awful, but they used that to improve on what they wanted, which was building walls around until you had the audacity to break them and make them fall for you, “shame on you!’’

(I can feel them next to me, they are so animated, so damn loving, it’s like they want to grab you right here and right now and pull you to their future).

Aside from your “audacity,” they are very happy that you did because they were spiraling into something darker and started to use something dangerous, not illegal or self-harming (it’s not my place to tell you), as a coping mechanism, yet now.. you are their drug. Not literally, but you basically saved them from this impending doom of shame and guilt. I believe you should get ready to heal your inner child (even if you have) with them because they will be spoiling you .. like crazy, maybe a bit too much? I see a vision with an insane amount of gifts, teddy bears, jewelry, sports gear, food, or something to do with your religion. Also art supplies or crystals that are insanely expensive, but if it is for you, then “fuck it, right?” That is how their attitude is with you.

Ten of wands.

I took a break because something was missing from them, and they could not tell me. Meaning they kept focusing on the positive aspects when it comes to your relationship and sex with you. However, with the ten of wands, they actually do not know how to have a favorite sexual position. In a way, they thought it was off-putting that others always picked a favorite; if you picked a favorite, then you lost the chance to explore around and make your lover feel sexual pleasure. So, intuition tells me they feel overburdened and overwhelmed picking a favorite, but at the same time, they feel pressured to pick one.

They know that you would not give a damn whether or not they had one, but their colleagues, co-workers, a boss, or some type of group pops up with how they think about sex, and it is affecting your future lover right now, and when you meet; they will feel insecure throughout your sexual journey with you thus why the relationship with them will be enemies or rivals to lovers. I believe it's peer pressure with them. My intuition tells me this is the reason why you saved them and why they would do anything for you.

I feel a lot of anxious energy with them, a part of me wants to hug them and tell them they are okay, okay to love and show their pleasure in their own way, but I already know this is how you feel with them and what you will tell them. And when you do, they will confess you saved them.

As I was editing, I had to give you a message and also saw 777. Listen here. You are absolutely allowed to love whoever you want, you are allowed to be spoiled and pampered, you are allowed to be kissed in the most romantic ways, and you are allowed to have someone help you take showers. No, this person will not treat you in a bad way because you struggle with mental health problems. And no, they will not let anyone laugh at you even when you guys are not together because you do not deserve that, and they also think someone who does that is a "fucking asshole.'' You are so so so .. and many so worthy of love and I hope each day you tell yourself that, because it is true or else I would not have said it nor left this message, understood? Allow yourself to have the happiness you deserve and stop being your own blockage because, at the end of the day, it is not worth it, and seeing you struggle to have your happiness, do you think your kid self would like that? Would that be okay with them or is that okay—to have yourself struggling to make amends with your past, forcefully giving yourself guilt for something that should have been forgiven a long time ago? Let it go, it is seriously okay, let it go. Yes, what you did was awful, and should not have happened with them, but let it go and do and become better for the mistakes you caused and for yourself so it does not happen again. So as I said before, if I didn't mean it, I would not have mentioned it in your pile, so let it go.

Masterlist

Pile II.

Your future lover's favorite sex position is face sitting. They love, and I mean this very heavily, love eating you out, giving you oral, sucking you off, whatever the case is, they are very addicted to your private parts. “All you, all you, and .. all you, you are so fucking delicious baby, fuckkkkk.” I see a scene where they are covered in your juices, your cum, everything about you, and they are still eating you out as you grab their arms, body parts, or hair. Gripping for dear life, begging for relief, but nothing happens other than using their tongue in or on you faster, swirling it until it hits that sensitive spot of yours and, as well, as they are filled to the brim with your essence. The whole idea of eating dessert does not appeal to them UNTIL it is yours.

I hope you are ready for a very smutty scene since I cannot channel anymore other than their fantasies.. for you. I will address you as Y/N (your name), and them as F/L (future lover).

Scene A)

Your F/L will grab your leg and flip you over as they crawl towards your body, grabbing your skin to feel your skin. To feel the heat of your body because of how aroused you are. They will crawl towards your lips and greedily suck your top lips, nibbling the bottom to feel the taste from the last meal you ate, and chew softly. Then they will roughly thrust their tongue into your lips, sucking and grazing their tongue on yours and your teeth; they want to feel everything about you. Then they will pull out, grope your jaw and spit into your mouth as they crawl down and then sensually drag their tongue down to your chest area, sucking on them, and then to your private part as they blow air on it, seeing you twitch, whimper, groan, moan, etc. They will lean down and then give you oral.

Scene B)

Y/N is focused on doing their work, finishing up a coming project, and their deadline is coming within a week or two. F/L comes waltzing in as if they own the place and gazes at Y/N, smirking at their inconvenience. Though it would have been better if they could have helped Y/N, but no, it did not fit their shenanigans or their agenda. They stride over to Y/N as they massaged Y/N's shoulder, building trust with them. Once gaining their trust, they forcefully kiss Y/N, tasting their sweet nectar and feeling their tension dropping down until they remember their work as they push away F/L. But no, you would assume F/L will hold back and respect that push, yet they will not (still consent here). F/L will pick Y/N over their shoulder despite the weight of Y/N, and walk towards a countertop or over a table and bend them over. F/L will look at Y/N, and undress them as they crouch down and tease Y/N’s undergarment until they see a wet spot and then take it off only to tease Y/N with a toy, waiting for them to release but not cum since it is not allowed.

It will last for 2 hours straight, and once Y/N has had enough, they will face Y/N over their shoulders, similar to someone sitting on someone’s shoulder, only in this case, Y/N is sitting in front of F/L. F/L will suck or eat out Y/N until they are cumming over.. and over again and sobbing for F/L to stop. But it will not happen until Y/N uses their safe word(s) and once that does happen, pampering aftercare will erupt and leave Y/N comforted to the highest degree possible. With an insane amount of kisses, "because you deserve that and you deserve me to eat you out more!''

Masterlist

[alchemistc]

Everything's so damn dark when the blindfold slips off that for a second she can't see a thing.

Don't panic. Don't scream. Don't hurt the baby.

Something groans at her feet and she startles straight into the pipe behind her head.

"'lo?" A voice asks, familiar enough to give her pause, and she wonders for a moment if this is a joke, if this is a trick, if this - "s'there?"

His words are slurred. A concussion, maybe, then. Great. Biggest man she knows and he's gonna be a useless pile of puke to her.

Don't panic, Maddie reminds herself, and then she starts giggling.

"Tommy?"

He groans an affirmative.

"Oh good. I feel a lot better about getting overpowered, now."

A hand grabs for her ankle and Maddie bites back a scream. It's Tommy's hand, big and warm and - fully unbound, which feels a little unfair. "Cunt drugged me," he says, then pauses. Squeezes her ankle. "Sorry for the language."

"No, it's, uh - I think it's warranted this time."

Maddie can't remember exactly how it'd happened to her. Had she been hit? Is she injured? She does a mental tally. Her lip feels swollen. Nose and eyes feel fine, though, so maybe she bit it? Neck, shoulders, all good. She's been bending her elbows and wrists just fine, she just doesn't have the leverage to do anything about the zip ties keeping her affixed to the probably pipe behind her. Hips, legs, knees. She wiggles her toes and in the darkness Tommy chuckles. "Everything accounted for?"

He must have done his own check while she was working through hers. She can hear him rustling around. "I'm still incredibly mad at you, but it's nice to hear your voice," she says, and Tommy goes still. "Tommy? All good?"

"...why are you mad at me?"

"Like you don't know?" Oh. Actually maybe she is more mad than she is glad. "You broke my brother's heart, idiot. I don't have any more room in my entire house for the coping mechanism he's come up with." She kicks, a little. Tommy grunts and shifts. "I hope that hit something painful and non-essential to our escape."

"He's - he'll be fine."

"What exactly is your definition of fine? Because it's been a few months and he's still bringing me baked goods on a bi-weekly basis."

"Bi-weekly like -."

"Do not get pedantic on me, Kinard. Two times a week. What's your status? Moving parts all still moving?"

"I think my balls have taken a vacation, but that's more a reflection on how terrifying you are than on this current situation."

Flippant. Sarcasm in the face of Maddie trying to get a full picture. Buck had called him funny and charming. Maddie's second kick doesn't land, but only because he's got a hand wrapped around her foot. "Once we're out of here, I'm gonna punch you in the face."

He hums. "For the balls comment, or the cunt thing?"

Maddie shrugs. Remembers that he can't see it. "Which part of 'broke my brother's heart' are you not getting?"

He sounds like he's moving gingerly. She can hear heavy bulky fabric rustle and she wonders if he's in three layers like usual. She could use something warm. "I - figured he'd be over it by now."

Maddie snorts. If she had to make a guess, Tommy glowers at the noise. "Dumbass."

And then it hits her. "The cunt? Skinny, brunette, pretty? Kind of...angular face?"

Tommy hums and takes her weight as she tries to kick again. "Sounds like her."

"Oh, Buck's gonna be pissed and embarrassed. She's rebound attempt number two."

Tommy's silent long enough that Maddie has to check in. He hums, and goes back to silence. "Rebound attempt?"

"If you hadn't noticed, we've actually been kidnapped, so maybe I can save your relationship afterwards?"

"I think she was trying to kill me," Tommy admits. "Otherwise why am I unbound in this shitty Saw knockoff?"

Maddie feels some extra pieces dropping into place. Oh, Buck is never gonna live this down actually.

"Can you overpower her if she comes in?"

"If she's not quick to try to drug me again. If I can figure out where the fucking door is. If -."

"A yes or no is fine. Pretty sure she's the Bay Butcher, if that helps you answer."

His pause is long. "...maybe," he says, and accepts the kick this time without block or protest.

[luveline]

hi honey, i love you so so much!!

what about stripper!reader with derek morgan?? he's on a case where strippers are being murdered, and while hotch is driving morgan calls you and tells you not to go into work because of what's going on, and emily is listening in on the conversation from the backseat and they tease him

thank youu!! love you!

ty for requesting lovely!! ilysm ♡

"I know you don't like listening to me, but could you do me a favour? Just this once?" 

Emily leans over in her seat so Spencer can see her side eye. "Who's Morgan talking to?" 

"Stay home tonight. No, this isn't a jealousy thing, you vixen–" 

Spencer shrugs. "No idea. But–" 

"But," Emily agrees. They've just left a crime scene with a specific victim, and now Morgan's on the phone asking someone to stay home. That someone would have reason to visit said crime scene's location, and the word vixen suggests female rather than male, which means, "Morgan has a secret stripper girlfriend." 

Spencer's entire face takes his frown, eyebrows pinched, mouth quirked into a telling line. "I like the implausible," he murmurs, "but that feels illogical. Where would they have met?"

"Uh," Emily says, widening her eyes at him. "Where do you think, Spence?" 

"Morgan doesn't need to go to a strip club." 

Emily understands what Spencer's saying. There are lots of reasons that people frequent strip clubs or gentlemen's clubs and none of those reasons apply to Derek. It's possible he could go socially, but it's just so unlike him, it doesn't add up. 

"I'm telling you the truth. I can't give you more detail than that, I just need you to stay home tonight." Derek pauses, laughs. "Alright," —his voice takes on a mechanical rendition, clearly having been fed a line he has to repeat aloud— "I, Derek Morgan, am an ignorant, jealous man, who can't cope with the fact that you don't want me, and am making up sad and childish lies to get you to stay home from your job. Is that what you wanted? Yeah, laugh it up." 

Emily laughs and grabs the headrest as he hangs up on you, pulling herself forward to taunt him as is required. "Care to explain yourself?" 

Derek sighs. "This is why I didn't tell you guys." 

"What!" Spencer says, though his smile is more audible than his incredulity. 

"So you have something to tell us?" Emily asks. 

Derek knows he can't weasel his way out of telling them, and he doesn't really want to. "I don't have a secret stripper girlfriend," he says, rolling his eyes, "she's not my girlfriend. She is an exotic dancer at one of the clubs downtown, and I met her at Home Depot." 

Emily isn't perturbed that Derek heard their gossiping. She's shameless. She doesn't even care that Hotch is frowning behind the wheel. "What was an exotic dancer doing at Home Depot?"

"Weirdly, Emily, she has a home. She wanted help finding renter friendly flooring." 

"Can we meet her?" 

"Never," Derek says with a smile. Emily couldn't know this, but he really likes you. You're sweet, super funny, and yes, you're a stripper. You work hard. Pole dancing is as physically demanding as any manual labour and you're damn good at it. "Ever." 

Spencer interjects the ensuing argument with a statistical analysis of strippers who are homeowners (unfairly few), but Morgan doesn't answer, trying to read a new text from you discretely. 

Sorry if I embarrassed you at work :( is it really not safe to go ?? Maybe u can come and be my bodyguard. I won't even make u tip me 4:10PM

He sends back, Really not safe. Stay home for me, relax for a few days. Call you tonight even if nothing changes 4:11PM

My hero <3 I trust u, but be careful OK ? and pls if it isn't too much trouble can u bring back some of those weird candies again? thank u thank u <3<3<3 4:14PM

Hotch makes a quiet sound of approval, eyes on the road. "The same girl you were with at Docklands? Rossi said she was cute." 

"She is." 

"Rossi met her?" Emily asks. "Oh, you're the worst."

[artytaeh]

hello. hi! 🌷 do i have your attention now? nice. ♡

because let me tell you something, reader; if you were to date theodore nott, your spot— yours and theo's, the corner of hogwarts that belongs to you, where he doesn't take any other girl and you better not take any other boy, is the astronomy tower.

♡ : SMOKING UNDER THE STARS, as the smoke joins the fog and few clouds seen in the night sky, is a time of the day that theodore enthusiastically awaits— from the moment he wakes up, to the time he falls asleep, tolerating classes with the hope of night arriving at a faster pace. sometimes, theo even uses those classes to sleep; a slumber over the wooden surface of those desks, all for the sake of being able to be fully awake for a few more hours, later when he's with you.

initially, theodore feels somewhat guilty to indulge a new bad habit of yours; constantly fighting with his conscience and that selfishness of his, because theodore longs for the companionship— for a woman that embraces his whole being. not just the attractive part, not just the pleasant lust; to have someone accepting his problems that have those nasty, bad habits as a coping mechanism, a consequence.

when you share a cigarette with him, theodore doesn't know whether he finds it terribly attractive (the sight of your lipstick lingering on the cigarette, where he puts his lips too, an indirect kiss [how childish of him, to think that!]) or if theodore nott should melt in front of you.

a drag from that cigarette you share, is perceived as a gentle try to take a weight from his shoulders. someone willing to listen. to know, to show interest about what breaks his heart, even though theodore is a challenging person to get any kind of personal information from.

theo runs up those stairs as if the dark lord himself was chasing him— he runs with a huge grin on his face, like a bloody child in christmas' morning; however, theodore takes a deep breath, brushes his long fingers through his hair, regains his stoic posture; as if he had taken his sweet time getting there.

as if that hand of his doesn't twitch in excitement to open this damn door, that is keeping you and him at a room of distance.

and when you smile at him, waving with your lighter in hand, one that he has put on stickers and silly doodles for each smoking session together?

theodore nott accepts the fate of his broken heart; pieces melting like butter in a pan, mushing together with hope as glue, daring to slowly put the pieces back together— if someone is capable of mending theo's heart and belief of being a lost cause, it's you.

and all you had to do was listen and smile at him.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

♡ : STARGAZING WITH THEODORE NOTT is a must; an unofficial date of yours, even before you started dating. at first, blankets are brought to lay on top of them; because the night wasn't chilly yet. however, when winter approaches hogwarts with snowy days and cold nights, the chance to share a blanket isn't wasted by theo— who nonchalantly wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing the blanket with him, so your backs and arms are warm with the soft, warm fabric. this nonchalance, this smooth movements of theodore; they're all a facade, because his mind races with prayers that you're not able to hear his heart beating so loudly inside his ribcage.

theodore used to think that winter is a bothersome season; having to wear more layers of clothes, waking up in the middle of the night from the cold breeze (blaise has this irritating habit of leaving windows open to ventilate the bedroom) or because he, unconsciously, kicked the sheets away only to wake up freezing cold.

now, winter is a prayer, is a pleading to the gods or whoever deity brings the snow, the cold, the fog, the rain, the cold wind: "Dio mio, per favore, rendilo freddo come l'Antartide, così posso coccolare la mia ragazza con una scusa!" (God of mine, please, make it as cold as Antarctica, so I can cuddle my girl with an excuse!)

he brings a blanket. why not two? you'd ask one fateful night; theo was thankful for his wit, for that quick tongue of his, because the excuse he found was believable enough.

apparently, mattheo riddle is easily cold; and impolite, too, since he steals some of theodore's rightful blankets to warm himself up.

huh, who'd say that about the dark lord's son. thankfully, hopefully, this white lie will never reach mattheo's ears.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

♡ : DEEP CONVERSATIONS ABOUT everything and anything, shouldn't be a surprise for you either. after all, despite his group of friends being constituted by a doberman willing to fight any moving student, a womanizer with a pretty face, mama's boy from the quidditch team and nepo baby gone wrong— theodore nott is an intelligent young man.

and truthfully, as much as theo adores his friends and having a laugh with them... nothing beats these conversations between you two. where theodore has asked you about your philosophy; what do you believe? in your perspective, deities exist? what happens after you die? how are your dreams like? where would you go, if you could go to anywhere in the world? after hogwarts, what will you do— he wants to know your idealistic and realistic plans!

the more he learns about you, the deeper he falls for you, he thinks.

even when you tell him about some silly fear of yours. despite that embarrassment moment that you retold him, making the two of you laugh and almost cough amidst the smoke. those little quirks, even things you'd be ashamed to tell anyone else, your deepest, most secret thoughts...

theodore nott loves them all.

his blue eyes, unfeeling and void of any happiness, soften at the sight of you. theo perceives you as the most perfect being in the world— his Dea.

Dea mia, he calls you in his own thoughts. theodore discovers that he admires your flaws, more than he ever tolerated anyone else's— qualities and good traits can be shared among many people.

but flaws? thoughts, ideologies, habits? that makes you, well, you.

that's what makes his Dea different from other girls of your house. that mole that you find silly, that insecurity that you wished to remove from your body, that habit of yours when you're nervous or when you have to lie— those are so charming to him.

it's charming because it's you, theodore admits to himself one day, when he's smoking alone, already missing you by his side. such a realization makes him sigh.

wasn't love the most terrifying emotion, for a boy who only knew pain and devastation?

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

♡ : HOWEVER, YOU MUST KNOW THAT when something is wrong— be it a stressful day for theodore, a letter from his father, a wave of depression, a fight between you two; he'll be there. on the spot you share, that little secret of yours: the astronomy tower.

he'll be there; be it because he finds a shade of comfort to be there where you've spent time with him once, or because some silly part of him hopes that you'll notice his missing presence, that somehow, you'll read his thoughts and know that he needs you.

even if theodore is angry with you, he'll wait there. unconsciously, of course! i doubt that theo himself rationalizes this habit, of seeking refuge on the place that "belongs" to you and him, as a way to await for the moment where you'll find him, to talk things over.

even if he'll be smoking his lungs out of stress, out of anger, out of sadness, out of hope that maybe if he smokes enough, he'll drop dead with his sorrow.

depending on what he's feeling and the reason why he's there, waiting for you . . .

theo hugs you tightly. of course, such a thing requires a closer relationship with him; even as a friend, theodore will find comfort on you. to have your body inside his arms, to feel your warmth, your scent; suddenly, that hopelessness inside his heart, that void, is filled with love for you. theodore nott doesn't cry; it's weak to do so. what the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel— so if he buries his face on your shoulder and you feel your clothes getting wet from tears... well, that might be your imagination. for the sake of his sanity and peace, please, don't comment about it. just hug him back. theo doesn't feel the kindness of comfort ever since his mother died.

theo averts his gaze, taking a drag of his cigarette before opening his heart. this would be a consequence of a stressful day. usually where anger for himself and hatred towards his father subsides to melancholy. an anguished cry of his heart, where theo isn't sure if he's allowed to pity himself or to scream at the world for what he lacked, what he deserved to have during his childhood and teenage years. he'll take to you, eventually— maybe after a cigarette or two. because theodore knows that whatever you talk there, won't leave those four walls. that's how much he trusts you.

theo leans against the window frame, smoking, pretending as if he didn't see you entering the tower and walking towards him. letting you lead the conversation, introducing the topic of that fight between the two of you. as intelligent and witty as he is, theodore couldn't start a sincere conversation about feelings, honesty and vulnerability even if his life depends on it.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

BUT PLEASE, FOR THE SAKE OF EVERYTHING, don't bring another boy there. not to the astronomy tower— to yours and theo's secret place, a silent agreement between you two, that this is a spot, a moment, a deal that is special and exclusive to the other.

after all, before theo can feel sadness, anger will consume him like a vicious virus. fury boils on his blood, spreads through his veins, as jealousy burns on that aching (and fragile) heart of theodore nott's at the sight of his ragazza with someone else.

the silent threat of someone being on his rightful place— oh, that drives him insane.

so, like a child, like an immature and impulsive guy, theodore returns the favor: bringing another girl there. anyone, really; the first one that falls to his feet.

and he'll kiss her there, too. theo's lips show no mercy, roughly kissing that girl that he barely remembers the name, imagining that it's you on his lap— as if he's taking revenge on you for breaking his heart, diminishing the value that theo thought he had. out of spite, he'll bite that girl's lip; making it hurt, almost bleed, when his mind cruelly invades his thoughts with the image of you and that bastard smiling in the astronomy tower.

a place that should be reserved for him.

soon, theo regrets this. as awful as it sounds, he's not particularly worried about that girl's feelings— he's worried about yours. theodore panics at the idea of you finding out, as if he hadn't done this to get some sick sense of revenge, of having his feelings avenged in some kind of way.

and you betrayed this silent agreement first!

nevermind that. theo is terrified that if you find out he did this, then any chance he build up with you, with such effort and daydreams, is crushed by his stupid, impulsive hot-headed behavior of his.

theo genuinely despises the idea of having another woman by his side, on that window frame, touching his pack of cigarettes; lighting them up with a lighter that isn't yours. engage conversation with someone that isn't you, on those nights spent talking and smoking together.

it doesn't matter if you find out or not— theodore shows up at your door, with flowers on his hands; picked by himself, stolen from professor pomfrey's garden. his abandonment issues, the terror of the idea of being alone as he was before he had a glimpse of you, makes the prideful slytherin beg.

and he does. no more games. no more longing gazes that wonder if the feelings are mutual or not.

he wants to be yours. please, be mine. his blue eyes gaze into yours, seeking for the truth of your soul, pleading for a sign that you were meant to be. sii la mia ragazza, non riesco a respirare quando non sei vicino. soffocherò senza di te.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

the next time you enter the astronomy tower, you'd find that the place had a different tranquility to it. something like little lamps, with a blanket on the floor— facing the window, where the stars shine so bright, as if the universe required such a beautiful starry sky for you and theo only; nevermind the students who are already sleeping, exhausted from the day full of classes.

theo didn't have the time to buy you something; at his command, there were only food and snacks in the castle's kitchen, warm blankets, pillows and two willing best friends to help.

( while lorenzo kept giving suggestions to further increase the romance of this surprise date between the two of you, looking more excited about it than theo himself— well, mattheo riddle lends more than a hand, to make sure that he'd stop hearing such nonsenses about you. every. single. day. from the moment when theo wakes up sighing because of you, eats as he steals glances at your table, rambles about you and dares to avert each topic to your existence. mattheo might sympathize with you— but god, theo is so in love with you, that mattheo's eye starts twitching at the mention of your name. )

it's for the best if you don't make him wait; in those five minutes that he spent waiting for you, theo fixed the blanket to be an inch straighter. two minutes in, and theodore considers changing the position of the blanket and those snacks perfectly pilled up, his mind playing tricks that this blanket is crooked.

and he stresses. as if he'd lose the love of his life because he couldn't put a blanket on a perfect straight position. thirty seconds later, he's fixing the places he put the lamps; checking with an attentive eye if they're symmetrical.

maybe he should have brought a ruler.

because there's nothing else he can fix, theo's critical eye stares at the snacks. some he likes, most of them food that he knows you like.

however, theo is panicking. what if you're suddenly allergic to a food he brought?

does he know how to deal with a person having an allergic reaction?

thankfully, this paranoia spiraling on that genius mind of his reaches its end— the door opens, and you enter the astronomy tower; eyes shining at the sight of that familiar room, now decorated. beautifully decorated. the cherry on top is theodore nott standing there: smiling at you, looking somewhat shy, because theo never really put such an effort for someone.

never cared this much. never loved this much. never craved the approval, never needed the praise from someone of his age.

you spend hours there. if theo was nervous at first, such anxiety dissipates into thin air— the familiarity of being alone with you here, in the astronomy tower, calming his senses, subsiding such a silly nervousness with the happiness of being with you.

you definitely cuddle. and if you two fall asleep there, in each other's arms, probably holding hands, warm between blankets and pillows— well, that's a secret shared between you two.

morning arrives with the interruption of such peaceful slumber; the sunrise bringing too much light for you both. of course, theo walks you to your dorm, even to your room if you let him; saying goodbye with a tender, soft kiss that displays the vulnerability of his stolen heart.

heart that is on your hands. heart that remains with you, as he walks away to his own dorm, already missing you. your scent. your voice. your touch, your warmth.

and even though you'd have to wake up in a few hours for breakfast at the great hall— well, theo still misses you, anyways.

unable to sleep, theo spends those three hours looking at the ceiling. a silly smile on his face, that makes mattheo riddle groan at the sight of this.

god. theodore nott would NOT shut the fuck up for a whole month.

౨ৎ you know where to find me, ♡ ͡

and i know where to look . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— by far, my weakest work. but it was written in fifteen minutes, so why not post it! as always, you're more than welcome to interact with me + send messages. tysm for the feedback!

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[kazumist]

TAKE CARE .ᐟ

✩ — in which you feel haunted by someone who you know is alive out there.

✩ — includes: caleb x gn!reader. uhh mc!reader too. SPOILERS FOR TAINTED CUTS "MIGRANT BIRDS" ENDING !!!! and a bit of tainted cuts in general haha uhm... yeah read at ur own risk pls. bittersweet. not much dialogue (literally only one line and the rest is just word vom). wc: 605. inspired by 4 songs in total, two being from niki :)

“pipsqueak? are you okay—”

your eyes suddenly shot open as you suddenly sat up from your bed. glancing at the digital clock on your bedside table, the digits for 13:06 were displayed on it. it’s almost as if life was mocking you right now.

13:06. 13/06. june 13.

june 13 was caleb’s birthday.

ever since... that day, distant memories had started haunting you. every step you take somewhat makes your mind trail towards the times you were with caleb. the way you laid on his arm as you slept together, masking up your personal relationship you had with him being the councilman...

how can a few weeks possibly make those memories so out of reach when it feels like they just happened yesterday?

sweat trickles down your neck as you take a deep breath, calming yourself down from the peculiar dream you just had. it’s all strange—every single damn thing about this is strange and frustrating. you knew you were alone in this watchtower; you knew that only you and caleb knew about this place.

you knew this, and that’s why you chose to stay here—to find peace. but the isolated echo of caleb’s voice echoes through the walls.

acceptance was done long ago; you knew caleb had to leave because if he didn’t, you would be in danger of his frenzied state as a praedator. yet as the night cuts into the day, his presence lingers in your surroundings, leaving you no way to escape. recalling the times you both promised each other home—the kind you’d never known—leaves an ironic taste on your tongue as to how things are now.

you missed him. that was inevitable. and even though you weren’t really the individual who’s used to praying, you found yourself praying to whatever god is out there to make it stop.

because how can you even live in tranquility when every glance you make, you see his face hidden in the crowd? when everywhere you go, you could feel the same pressure of his hands holding yours? 

it’s almost as if you were being buried alive—being haunted by someone who is still alive.

on nights like these where he’d haunt you in your dreams, you couldn’t escape. and all of those dreams end in the same way: he leaves. he always leaves you to wait. he always leaves with you, promising him that you’d still be there when he returns.

just how many unrealistic promises do you have to make in your dreams just for him to be in your arms again?

even when you can’t see anything due to the dim light lit in the room, the faint feeling of his touch could still be felt as a ghost on your skin. maybe it was some sort of coping mechanism you unintentionally got into to deal with caleb’s absence.

you promised to wait; of course you did; it’s caleb. but just how paradoxical it is that you’re here, left to wait for him again? caleb can't even provide a speck of reassurance that he’ll return, as this promise to wait for him is solely built on trust. 

time wasn’t a concern as you continued on hoping that he’d once again meet your wait that’s waiting for him. real love is a verb—it isn’t just a feeling. love calls for initiative, development, and commitment. so you wait for him anyway. because it doesn’t matter how or when, caleb will always come back to you.

you’ll take it and he’ll take his time—after all, it’s only fair. you both take the cake for a love so rare.

so you take care.

a/n: overall this is just my take on a more uhm. inner monologue version? of what mc's thoughts could be with how tainted cuts ended in migrant bird :) literally no one hmu that card made me scream WHY IS CALEB SOOOO JDHSFJHSDFHJSDFJF. i love him sm u guys don't get it!!!! no one gets it!!!

i just thought it would be really painful to be haunted by someone who you know is alive (dismissed the idea that caleb could be dead since AGAIN it seems more painful that way if it was implied that he's alive). the actual ending in the card's story is a bit similar to the one i wrote but i obviously love the other ending more since they were so cute in that

icb my lads debut on tumblr is this. i couldve wrote something happier but hey! where is the fun in that

[meepmrop]

Hi guys!! Just a little PSA I feel the need to say, especially given how many people I see self diagnose with autism or ADHD (this post may be continuously updated, so please see the original post if you're seeing a reblog of this)

Please do your research. I'm serious. The media has downplayed both of these disorders to simply autism being passionate about something and ADHD as having a low attention span or being insanely hyper

These are just common traits. You can have traits of a disorder without actually having it. I repeat, you can have traits of something without actually having it.

All forms of neurodivergency (yes, autism/adhd aren't the only ones. Get it through your damn head.) are disabilities. It needs to disable you from being a fully functional human being. I understand there's people with low support needs, but this is directed towards the people who claim to have medium/high support needs.

A special interest isn't just something you're super passionate about, it's a coping mechanism that can take over your life. I hate to admit that I have spent hundreds of dollars on useless things that have made me think of any of my special interests.

Hyperfixations are the same where they take over your entire thought process. For many, their hyperfixes come to mind even in situations it shouldn't. Some people have said that it happens during tests, essays, funerals even. I've had trouble sleeping often because of my own hyperfixations.

If you're 16 or older, I highly recommend that you take the RAADS-R test since it's widely accepted by many psychologists world wide. If you're under 16, I recommend you still take it and then take it again when you're 16 to see if you get the same score. I also highly recommend talking to people who are diagnosed and listing to them your symptoms. I have 3 friends who have been diagnosed tell me that I cover more than enough symptoms to qualify for a diagnosis.

Addition to this (because i got a bit of feedback): No online test will be completely reliable. I highly recommend keeping all of your symptoms somewhere to show a psychiatrist. The main reason I recommend the RAADS-R test is because you can download a PDF that shows not only your score but also your answer to all 80 questions. Psychiatrists are a lot more likely to believe you if you can give a list of your symptoms and how long they've been occurring. I keep a notebook for every time I show an autistic trait (since I struggle most with social situations as an autist, many of mine are moments where I can't tell apart the tone in what people say and I take things way too literally...)

Also, if you mask or used to mask, jotting down your experience with masking is important. Keeping a journal of how things affected you when masking, writing down how things affected you when you started to unmask. I started to mask (quite horribly...) when I was 13 and had a bunch of social norms shoved on me. Due to heavy burnout, I'm 17 now and don't mask anymore because I can't take it any longer. Since unmasking, I've noticed how much my autistic traits have hightened. It's like I've been bottling everything up for so long, and the river doesn't stop flowing.

Also, another thing to add on top of all of that, OCD isn't the same as being super neat either. Compulsive disorders like OCD are consuming. As someone with a compulsive disorder, in my experience, basically the thought does not leave your mind until you act out the thought. It's like having a huge pile of intrusive thoughts that only get bigger the longer you hold them back. It causes immense distress that will constantly bother you until something is done about it.

I also feel the need to point out some ableist language that has somehow become normalized.

1) using "narcissist" to describe someone who's egotistical and selfish. Also, the term "narc abuse" to describe a person with NPD traits who are abusive. Go talk to people with NPD. Go to blogs that educate on NPD. Seriously. You will find that NPD isn't just appearing selfish and egotistical. Sometimes it's the complete opposite.

My partner has NPD, and they actually get their validation often from being nice. (this post they reblogged can help clarify a bit more)

NPD (or any disorder for that matter), aren't inheritly abusive. I had to snap at one of my friends for calling her brother a narcissist when he's just a little asshole.

2) the terms "sociopath" and "psychopath". These terms have typically been used against people with ASPD/ASPD traits. My partner also has ASPD and reclaimed the term "sociopath".

3) "yandere". There are many mixed feelings about this term in the BPD community, ranging from people saying they have no issue with it, some considering it a slur (key word: consider. It's not an actual slur, but some people consider it one. I've had some asshole harass me for saying this, and I don't want any more drama about it.) because it romanticizes the trait in BPD and OLD (Obsessive Love Disorder) of having unhealthy relationships, some saying the term gives them comfort because it describes their symptoms as someone with BPD (which would be like reclaiming the term).

I personally fall under the group of people who consider it a slur, and I will be blocking people who use the term who aren't reclaiming it for their personal selves. I am heavily uncomfortable with the term and ask that anyone who uses the term on any character or person (unless it's someone with bpd headcannoning a character with bpd) a big fat serious DNI.

4) "psychotic", "delusional"/"delulu", and "schizo". I hate that I feel the need to say this, but schizophrenia and psychosis are serious mental disorders. Can we stop using fucking mental disorders as insults or as some quirky label. I experience psychosis, and it has ruined my life. As a hellenic polytheist, I often struggle to tell the difference between psychosis or one of my deities talking to me. As a DID system, I sometimes struggle to tell the difference between psychosis and an alter talking to me. As an enjoyer of EPIC: The Musical, psychosis makes it hard to tell if we have a new fictive, if it's psychosis, or a deity.

I'm going to add the stuff said in this reblog since I find it really important:

Stop with lobotomy jokes people. It's a tragic case of medical abuse, and was used many many times on vulnerable people (they'd lobotomize psychotic/schizophrenic people to make them more docile and easier to handle. It's horrific. If they didn't like what a woman was doing, they'd label her psychotic and do it to her too.) The jokes I see are all so tasteless and almost feel mocking to me about it. You didn't go through lobotomies, why are you making it so quirky and downplaying how horrible it is? Schizophrenic and psychotic people (among others but I'm focusing on the group I'm apart of) are still not being taken seriously and left in the dust even after disability activism is on the rise. I don't understand why people will be so understanding with some but then just completely turn off that empathy whenever someone has psychosis. Stop joking about lobotomies, they're not even funny and your sanism is showing.

Taking a bit of another system's post (link) for this lengthy ass post (but I still find it really important to add)

plus, it seems to be entirely ignoring the fact that you can have a symptom of a disorder without having the disorder / being disordered... lets use ADHD as an example here since its the first thing to come to mind LOL, someone can have a short attention span or be distracted easily without inherently having ADHD. it would depend on the presence of other symptoms as well as degree of life impairment. this logic also applies to any other disorder ever... so why dont we apply the same logic to DID / OSDD-1?

I completely agree with this, and it's a big reason why I support endogenic systems (like in the linked post, I'm using endogenic as an umbrella term). The brain is complex. It's as simple as that. So what if a system or alter formed from some other silly way? Who are you to dictate how somebody's brain works? Even before we found out our system was more than just traumagenic, we still got fakeclaimed over the dumbest shit ever and well... for a 13 year old body and newly discovered system, that fakeclaiming was actually really harmful and worsened our trauma. Because of that, we'll always support all systems under the endogenic umbrella or any system that's been deemed "different than others". We don't need to understand how your system works to know that fakeclaiming is harmful and wouldn't wish it on anybody else.

If anyone would like to pitch in, I highly encourage it. I would also appreciate it if anyone could give us some blogs to tag that help educate people on disorders that are downplayed or aren't talked about enough. Some YouTube channels that are informative will be appreciated, too!!

I'm gonna tag my partner's blog ( @zerasocial )if anyone wants to ask them about their experience with ASPD or NPD.

I'd prefer no discourse in any of the notes of this post. If you feel the need to correct me on anything, you're free to DM me and I'll fix anything if needed.

[loreic]

The True Face: In-depth analysis

Okay now that I had a few hours to process all... that, I think I can analyze this objectively without crashing tf out 

Heavy, heavy analysis, speculation & theories ahead 

[Spoilers for the insane new Mizi comic obviously]

So the comic opens exactly where we left off after Weige right after Round 7 (the fact that Round 7, Weige, Arise and Walk, and now this happens in like the span of a few minutes is absolutely diabolical btw). Mizi is crashing tf out and just staring at Till’s blood literally on her hands, which immediately just shouts GUILT in all caps. 

We are then immediately jump scared by this.

Which is gonna give me nightmares for a whole week (thanks for that Vivinos), and sets the tone of this whole situation, giving us a glimpse at Mizi’s incredibly fragile mental state. Keep in mind that she had just had her life completely thrown upside down, witnessed Till get shot, then Hyuna two seconds later, all while still coming to terms with the fact Sua is gone. 

Girl is literally two seconds away from cracking. 

We then cut to a flashback set during their ANAKT Garden days. Considering how old they look and Sua later mentioning that they were running out of time and will have to take the stage soon, I’m suspecting this probably happened fairly recently, possibly within the year and not long before their graduation. 

The following sequence starts off tame enough, starting with this Luka-knockoff-looking ex-classmate cornering Mizi about her relationship with Till, which Mizi mistakenly assumed that he was asking about Sua. 

We come to find out Sua hasn’t been around much (god is anyone else kinda extremely creeped out by Neigh?), and that they have apparently been fighting. Which is rather interesting to me considering that mizisua has so far been portrayed like the perfect yuri couple doomed by the narrative (or at least slightly less convoluted and toxic when compared to ivantill and hyuluka anyway, ain’t nothing healthy in alnst). I do wonder what they were fighting about.

Then we get the whole heteronormality spiel from the Luka knockoff (which damn I could totally do a whole nother post on with how much lore that gave on life in general in the ANAKT Garden). Dude tries to confess, gets cut off, and things just immediately escalate from 1 to 10000. Like fking hell just look at this image: 

Luka knockoff goes on to accuse Mizi of being willingly oblivious to how half the boys have been crushing on her (keep in mind these kids raised by aliens with zero functional social cues or an accurate concept of how relationships are supposed to work), and Mizi absolutely loses it. 

I mean look at this face. 

Girl is Hyuna-grade levels of mentally unwell (I like how this seems to be a trend with vivinos, feeding us information about a character, lulling us into a false sense of security and then doing a complete 180 in their comics and giving them twenty different dimensions we never considered). She is literally having a mental breakdown and still trying to keep the friendly, innocent mask and smiling through it all, which just ends up coming off as slightly deranged.

Mizi ends up running to Sua (cue obvious unhealthy coping mechanism and codependency), and then she makes the mistake of using the exact same words Luka knockoff did 

It must be nice. 

Nice to remain willingly oblivious to it all, nice to be pretty enough to make others love you, nice to be loved by so many. That obviously wasn’t what Sua meant in her own context (it was also interesting to learn that Sua does envy Mizi to some degree, which I I think is a nice add that just makes her more human on a whole), and Mizi just reacts.

Considering how she immediately catches herself, I genuinely don’t think she meant it, but holy shit was that fked up. 

We’ve seen IvanTill fighting as kids and the whole thing with Luka and Hyunwoo that ended in tragedy but considering this and what the Luka knockoff did earlier, I’m getting the vibe that physical violence in the ANAKT Garden may be way more common than what we initially thought (or it could be that these poor kids have just never really properly grew out of that play-fighting-as-a-child phase, and it just escalated as they grew into young adults since corporal punishment from the aliens is normal and their humanity’s all kinds of screwed up) 

We then cut back to the present where we have apparition Sua accusing Mizi of being cunning, and ditching all of them. Now this took me a hot second to understand, because as far as we are concerned Sua was the one who left. She chose to die to save Mizi (and probably so that she didn’t have to deal with the pain of being the one left behind if we’re really going for that toxic angle). But then I realized I’m an idiot and that this was being written in Mizi’s pov and this version of Sua is literally a figment of her imagination and a personification of her guilt. 

Mizi still thinks she is responsible for Sua’s death. In that sense she did discard her for her own survival (unintentional or no) and on top of that she did leave the others. She did let herself be reduced by the rebels, she left Till and Ivan, all while knowing that they would most likely die. Is it her fault for being rescued? Hell no. But she definitely still feels guilty for leaving them. You could argue that she also, quite literally, ditched Hyuna in order to rush of to rescue Till, which indirectly ended up causing her death (It was Hyuna’s choice but Mizi sure as hell didn’t know that). 

We then cut to a flashback with Till (TILL IS ALIVE TRUST) and Mizi ends up confronting him, telling him that she loves Sua and asking if it is that hard to not like her. She asks him why he like her and Till (bro why) ends up responding with 

I mean, valid, but I think this properly confirms just how shallow Till’s love for Mizi is. He likes the idea of her, and though it doesn’t mean his feelings aren’t pure or true, it’s more of a crush really. Cute but almost entirely superficial, and just look how Mizi reacts: 

Her collar is RED. She knows people care and are attracted to her on a superficial level, that the Luka knockoff was right, but seems to decide to just ultimately let it be, to remain purposely oblivious. 

We cut back to the present and there we see apparition Sua has now become Mizi, the version of her from Round 1, the version of her that ‘killed’ Sua, which really just solidifies the fact that all that blue dialog is literally just her guilt taking.

This entire comic is basically centered around Mizi battling her survivor’s guilt, but honestly, as much as I hate to admit I think the Luka knockoff/evil Mizi were also right about her being purposely oblivious (to both her classmate’s affections and their situation on a whole). All the facts point to the fact that she was much more aware about everything than we were initially led to believe. I think she did have a vague inkling of what was going to happen, but ultimately decided to look away/remain in denial (I mean in hindsight how tf does one live 15-ish years in the Garden and not eventually find out the truth even by accident?). 

Evidence 1:  

First we have this with the Luka knockoff.

What a shame.

Shame she had to kill him? (lmao no, but am really frikin hoping she didn’t Hyunwoo him with how this guy pops up again with the back of his head broken in the subsequent art lol)

Not sure if I’m interpreting this one right, but I do think what she meant by it being a shame was the fact that he had to see her broken down this way. I do think this is the first time anyone actually noticed and called her out for her habit of remaining purposefully ignorant, hence the mental breakdown (also cause she got, you know, slapped in the face while she was at it). 

Also with how her collar light was green when talking about Sua but immediately turns red when Till is mentioned... yeah she's definitely not clueless about any of it.

Evidence 2: 

And then of course we have this whole sequence with Till. Hardly any explanation needed.

Basically both flashbacks imply that she is not nearly as ignorant and naive as she lets on (and what we as the audience were led to believe), but she puts on a harmless, innocent front. 

As for why she does it is pretty debatable, but I suspect that it was simply easier to remain blissfully ignorant, and it was just her way of coping with their less than ideal reality. I highly doubt she spent all that time taking advantage of being likable and playing dumb just so she could survive (again the one praising her for it is literally her guilt personified). Maybe a tiny part of her did subconsciously want to survive and decided to roll with it, but I think it’s pretty obvious she does genuinely care about the rest of her classmates and wasn’t actively trying to get them killed (unlike say Luka). 

What happened to Sua, Ivan, Till, and Hyuna definitely wasn’t her fault, but she isn’t entirely guiltless either. 

Honestly, I’m not too sure what to make of it, considering on one hand we have been led to believe that Mizi was this sole innocent girl who knew nothing about truth behind Alien Stage until Sua literally died in front of her, but on the other hand man do I love how we are getting more of layers to her character. 

[avocado-writing]

Hey there, if you’re still doing requests for BG3... I'm terribly angry about something big and outside of my control at the moment. Could you let me know what you'd think the BG3 companions do if Tav started self destructing? Like Tav passing harsher judgments, snapping at neutral NPCs, or fighting more dangerously and recklessly with bad guys?

Oooo the angst possibilities! Fun! Going to write like you’re self destructing due to stress, and you’re picking unhealthy coping mechanisms. Here we go:

Astarion

at first probably thinks that it’s quite funny. We know he enjoys seeing a little bit of suffering.

but, the more it goes on, the more worried you can see him become.

this isn’t like you. He knows you by now. You’re… kinder than this, damn it.

he takes you to the side one day after he’s seen you be short with a friend.

“whats the matter?” “Nothing, Astarion.” “If you’re going to lie to me, darling, you’d better do a better job of it than that.”

you go to snap at him, fire on your tongue, and then something inside you breaks. You just start sobbing. Everything which has been weighing on your mind has finally become too much.

he isn’t good at comforting words, but he does hold you. Runs his hand up and down your back, and lets you know you he’s here for you whenever you’re ready to speak.

helps you centre yourself again, eventually. He loves you. He’ll do what he can to make things better.

Gale

Makes a couple of snide remarks about how you’re acting, suggesting maybe you be a bit kinder, but then he stops to reassess how you’re acting.

there’s something wrong. You’re pent up. Furious, but not with the people you talk to. They just happen to be the ones bearing the brunt of it.

he sees the injuries you nurse on yourself after battles too. You used to be a clever fighter. Now you are a reckless one.

takes you aside one night at camp and presents his findings very matter-of-factly, concluding that there must be something the matter. When he puts it so astutely, you know you have no chance of hiding from him.

tears slip down your face and he is there in an instant drying your eyes. Telling you there’s nothing to worry about. Reassuring you that “the great Gale of Waterdeep is on your side, we’ll find a way to work things out.”

he puffs his chest out, you chuckle and bury your face in the crook of his neck. Yes. You will find a way to work things out.

Wyll

When he first sees you acting out, as it were, he immediately intervenes.

he knows what it’s like to be under great levels of stress. He made his contact when he was a teenager, after all, and had to deal with all the fallout that happened consequently.

he takes you to the side, holds your hand tightly in his, gets you to look at him.

“i love you, you know that, yes? If there’s something the matter, you need only tell me.”

you begin to crack immediately. Damn this sweet man and his emotional intelligence. Why is he perfect.

you let him know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. You agree you’re not coping with it very well. He says he’ll help you however he can, but you need to stop being so unkind to yourself.

“you matter, my love. You deserve sweetness.”

holds you close, and you just stand there for a while, together. From then on whenever something is wrong, he is the first one you go to.

Karlach

Sees you snapping at a friend, jumps in.

“whoa, whoa, whoa! Soldier, where is all this coming from?”

you snap to tell her it’s none of her business, she wouldn’t understand… but then you see the hurt in her eyes and immediately feel awful.

“Oh gods, Karlach, I’m sorry…” your voice is wobbly, cracking a bit, and she cups your face in her warm hands.

“hey, hey. it’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

you blurt out all your feelings to her in one, long, run-on sentence. She can’t help with a lot of the personal stuff, but she can listen, and she holds you to her chest and rocks you a little. Being engulfed by her embrace is very comforting.

”I’ve got you, babe, eh?” You know she does. For better or for worse.

Lae’zel

She sees the vicious way that you’ve been acting in battle. Strange, usually it’s her attempting to take the big hit, not you. She can take it, you can’t.

She finds you when you’re tending to your battle wounds. Sits down. Stares at you until you instigate conversation.

“what?” “You are not acting like yourself.” “Oh? And how would you know what that is?”

you’re just saying these things to be hurtful, but she’s stalwart. You’re deflecting.

She tells you she’s been enamoured with you long enough to see how you usually are. That you’re kinder, smarter. You’re lapsing into these feelings out of some sort of self-preservation, but you don’t need to.

”if there is something weighing on your mind, share it. I am here to help ease your burdens.”

you don’t love to cry in front of her but that is remarkably… sweet. It breaks you a bit.

You promise to stop being so foolhardy, especially in battle. She says that must be for the best, lest you get rended in half.

“Hey!” but she’s smiling. Your heart swells as you realise she’s trying to make you laugh.

Shadowheart

Lets you get quite far down the burrow of self-destruction before she does anything.

once again, she’s loyal to the lady of loss. Nothing you’re doing is exactly alarming to her.

but it does get worse and worse… she sees you snapping at friends, being harsher to passers-by, and she’s constantly having to patch you up after battle due to your wounds.

eventually one day you snap at her, and that’s her limit.

“I know something’s causing you stress but it isn’t me. I’m trying to help. So you can either pull your head out of your arse or I’m leaving this tent.”

the two of you have a little squabble, but it quickly becomes obvious your heart isn’t in it. Your anger turns to sadness. You collapse in tears and she pulls you to her without a second thought, holding you close.

despite her sharran devotion, she starts whispering how things can get better, how they will change. How the first step is letting people in.

her hand wound throbs as she comforts you. But in this moment she knows she’d pick you every time.

things are easier from then on, knowing she is with you.

[puppycoughf]

Tw ; cuss words, ranting, triggering. Don't read when little.

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okay, I'm extremely pissed off right now.

So, @/aconcernedageregressor is back at their bs again. They made a new account just so they can go back to painting every other Regressor as a bad guy because they "don't fit their idea image" or whatever the fuck they're trying to accomplish. Sure isn't to "spread awareness". Because everyone is getting called out. They're a padded regressor? Called out! Furry? Called out? Agere artist? Called out! If you're an adult regressor? CALLED. OUT.

if I get called out, I want to make one thing very clear:

I am NOT nsfw. I was introduced to age regression by an ex of mine who desperately needed a caregiver in his life. When I became extremely stressed out one day he coaxed me to try regressing myself. I tried, and now I'm here.

I am NOT AB/DL. I am a PADDED REGRESSOR. I HAVE TO BE, BECAUSE I AM DISABLED. I CAN'T FUCKING WALK, I NEED A WHEELCHAIR, I CAN'T CONTROL NY BLATTER AND I HAVE BRAIN DAMAGE. So don't start this BULLSHIT that I'm "icky" and "ab/dl" why? Because I'm disabled? You think my disability causes me to be NSFW? YOU THINK, ME NOT WALKING, CANT FUCKING USE THE BATHROOM IS "KINKY"? what the actual fuck is wrong with you. I am a minor, I'm 16, soon to be 17. I am not afraid to say shit to you, aconcernedageregressor. You went after not only my friends and moots, but you went after my little. @hesperiacove Who I love, and care for with all my being. Who I want to protect and help heal from the trauma they've been through. And you try to snatch that away from them. It isn't your right to do so. It isn't your damn right. I am not a mean person, I am never the type to lose my temper. But when you accuse my little? Respectfully, go fuck yourself. I don't know who you are, I don't know if you're actually who you are behind your avatar. But don't come after my little again. Or friends. Do all of a favor and leave the community and Tumblr. Stop poisoning our community. You know damn well what you're doing is wrong but you keep doing it. Grow up. I get you're just a minor, but Im a minor and somehow more mature.

Do better.

If I end up on this account blocklist, I'll probably be labeled as "nsfw" because I'm disabled. Whatever I get accused of, it's not true. I am a MINOR, with trauma with CSA + family CSA. I have to regress because it's my remaining and only healthy coping mechanism. I'm not letting some person on the Internet ruin it for me.

Remember to block @/aconcernedageregressor.

[syrma-sensei]

→ Godless.

Pairing: William “Billy” Butcher x Fem!reader.

Summary: In his godless world, he yearns for something divine.

Rating: Mature.

Setting: Season 4.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Angst, angst, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional agnst.

The night shift at Starlight House is supposed to be quiet. Kids are already asleep, the halls dimly lit, and the only sounds are the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You are just finishing up—shutting off lights, making sure everything is locked up—when a familiar knock echoed through the front doors. Hard. Impatient.

You already know who it is before you open it.

Billy Butcher stands there, looking every bit the man who doesn't belong in a place like this. He smells like whiskey and gunpowder, his knuckles bruised, his jaw clenched tight like he’d just come from a fight. And, as always, Terror is right beside him, wagging his tail.

You crossed your arms. “Jesus, Butcher. You could’ve just texted.”

“Ain’t got the patience for that.” His eyes flicked over you, taking in the soft Starlight House sweatshirt you wore over your tank top, the hint of warmth and comfort he probably can't stand. “Terror needed a walk. Figured I’d let ‘im see his favorite bird.”

You roll your eyes but reach down to scratch behind the dog’s ears anyway. “You mean I’m your free dog sitter.”

Butcher smirks, stepping inside without asking. “That too.”

You shake your head with a small smile.

You've known Billy for almost five months now. You met him at the Filtatron Building when you had to drop by to give Annie some paperwork for the shelter’s funding. He was standing off to the side, arms crossed, looking about five seconds away from bashing someone's head. You hadn’t thought much of him at first. Just another gruff asshole with a chip on his shoulder. But you're nothing if not curious. So, you asked Annie who the hell he was when she visited the House the other day, and she told you his miserable story.

You still get sick in the stomach when you your mind puts you in his shoes.

You sigh. “You wanna tell me why you’re really here?”

You know why he is here.

Butcher gives you a look—half amusement, half something else you couldn’t quite place. “What, a bloke can’t drop by for a friendly visit?”

You snort. “You don’t do friendly visits. Are you here to help?”

Terror woofs at you, demanding more headpats which you give him. Butcher, meanwhile, scans the quiet, dimly lit space from his spot.

“Still reckon this place is a waste of time,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, already used to his shit. “Because helping kids is such a terrible thing?”

He does answer right away. Just shrugs, stepping closer. “World’s fucked, luv. You can’t save ‘em all.”

“Maybe not,” you shoot back. “But I can damn well try.” Like how you're trying to save Ryan. You think but you bite your tongue. You learnt to. It gets ugly when someone reminds him that his wife's son prefers Homelander over him. The boy is oblivious to his father's true nature, and Billy wasn't really kind to him the last two times he saw him. The first he told him to fuck off for killing Becca, and the second he literally was going to kill his fucking dad in front of his eyes. Which didn't settle well with the kid.

“Be that as it may…” Billy clicks his tongue, “Can we skip to the part where we fuck eachother’s brains out, luv?”

In another time, his crass words would've made you flinch. But not anymore. You’ve grown accustomed to his rough edges, even found a strange comfort in them. There’s something about the way he says it, something in his voice that makes your pulse pick up, makes your skin tingle with that mixture of irritation and desire you can never quite shake when he’s around.

So, you comply. You check on everything before you're off with him to your place.

Sex with Billy Butcher is never sweet. He fucks you with raw, desperate, almost angry need. When he manhandles you, his touch is rough and bruising and demanding like he's taking it out on you as if you're the one who killed his wife.

Why do we do this if you love her so much? You want to ask him, but you never do. Because you know that would screw it up on you.

Afterwards, Billy lays on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to the shitstorm in his head. You can still feel his heartbeat slowing beneath your palm, his skin warm from the afterglow.

For once, he isn't in a hurry to leave. He doesn't usually stay after sex. But you won't complain.

Billy keeps his gaze on the ceiling, his mind drifting away from the intimacy of the moment though he grows to love it.

God, the fucking cunt. Did He really place you in his way to discourage him from pursuing his path of vengeance any further?

He scoffs, well He’s doing a shitty job of it. Because he doesn't, by any chance, harbour any ounce of emotions for you. Aside from your sex appeal, he has nothing to do with you.

Then why do you keep wanting to see her?

A voice akin to Becca's taunts him.

Well, I'm fucking dying anyway. He tries to justify. Might as well fuckin’ enjoy the hell road.

But a knife of guilt stabs his chest. He uses you for pleasure but he knows you're more than that. He finds serenity within his soul when he's with you. For brief, fleeting moments, the searing fire in his heart that urges him for a revenge smoulders away when you beam at him and he hates you for that.

He gazes down at you while you trace lazy circles over his chest.

Such a sweet little thing, he thinks. But sweet things break easily in this world. Like it did his brother. Like it did his wife. Like it did him.

He doesn't deserve you. He isn't worthy of an angel, a goddess like you.

Then why am I here? He asks himself.

“Do you ever think the big cunt is somewhere up there?” He mutters absentmindedly.

You chuckle, looking up at him, “I don't know…”

He snickers, “You don't believe in the invisible cunt, I take it?”

You snort, “I don't really care if He or She or They exist.”

“Then why do you have a kind heart and do what you do?”

You prop yourself up on your arm, “I do it because I believe it is the right thing to do, not because some bearded old daddy in the sky says what I should do.”

He raises a brow, “Well, here's what I think, luv—”

You silence him with a finger on his lips, “I know that the world is cruel and meaningless, but it is also…” You smile, eyes holding his, “A beautiful place…”

Mine was beautiful when I had Becca. He muses, and an inner voice adds, Is beautiful when I have you.

He shakes his head.

“Might as well you enjoy the ride, Billy.” You pat his chest gently.

Before he can push the subject, a wet, sloppy sound fills the air, followed by a familiar snuffling noise.

You both turn your heads toward the bedroom door—where Terror is sitting, watching you with his big, dumb dog grin, happily licking his own balls.

Butcher groaned. “Christ, mate, bit of fuckin’ privacy?”

Terror, completely unbothered, lets out a contented huff and plops onto the floor, still going at it.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a laugh. "You sure know how to ruin a moment, huh?"

Butcher grumbles something under his breath, shoving a pillow over his face. "Next time, we’re locking the bloody door."

Unable to withhold it, a roaring chortle bursts out of your lungs. Your lilt sound caresses Billy’s ear like a feather.

You sigh against his chest, your body warm and relaxed, but he feels anything but.

He should leave. Should throw on his clothes, mutter some half-assed excuse, and get the fuck out before this turns into something it shouldn’t.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets his fingers trail absentmindedly down your back, feeling the slow rise and fall of your breath.

“You always this cuddly after sex?” you murmur, voice teasing but laced with genuine curiosity.

Butcher snorts. “Yeah, ‘m a real softie.”

You hum, tracing lazy patterns over his chest. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence settles between you, heavy with unspoken things. He can feel you watching him, waiting for something he can’t give.

So he does what he does best. He deflects.

“Reckon Terror’s traumatized now,” he grumbles, jerking his chin toward the dog, who has finally abandoned his self-care and curled up on the floor.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You think this is the worst thing he’s seen? He lives with you.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You notice. Of course, you do. You always fucking notice.

“Billy…” you start, voice softer now, like you’re stepping carefully around whatever mess is inside his head. “Why do you keep coming back?”

He stiffens.

Because it’s easy? Because you’re good at what you do? Because he likes the way you feel, warm and alive beneath him?

All bullshit.

The real answer sits heavy on his tongue, bitter and unspoken.

Because when he’s with you, the fire in his gut—the one that’s been burning ever since Becca died—dims just enough for him to breathe.

And that scares the fuck out of him.

You let the silence stretch between you, waiting, hoping he’ll say something. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you closer, his breath warm against your temple, his arms a little too tight, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.

Your fingers skim lightly over his side. “You never answer the hard questions, do you?”

Butcher huffs, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Don’t see the point, luv. Ain’t gonna change a damn thing.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your chin resting on his chest. “You sure about that?”

His jaw clenches. He hates when you do this—when you peel back the layers he’s spent years building, exposing the raw, ugly things underneath. But he can’t bring himself to push you away.

Instead, he sighs, his fingers trailing up your spine, slow and deliberate. “What d’you want me to say, huh? That I like this?” His voice drops, something dangerous curling at the edges. “That I like you?”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting him to say it, not out loud, not like this.

And for a second, you see it—the truth he’s been trying so hard to bury.

But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. His expression shutters, that familiar guardedness slipping back into place.

He shakes his head, scoffing at himself. “Don’t mean a bloody thing.”

You exhale sharply, rolling onto your back beside him, staring at the ceiling. “If it doesn’t mean anything, then why are you still here?”

Because you're a good fuck and I'm much of an arsehole to take advantage of it. He wants to crudely tell you, to convince you, to convince himself that you're nothing but that.

But the words don’t come out.

Instead, Billy lies there, jaw tight, staring at the ceiling as if it holds all the answers he doesn’t have. He wants to say it—wants to be cruel, to shut this down before it turns into something he can’t control. But when he glances at you, at the way your brows pinch together, at the soft rise and fall of your breath, something in his chest pulls tight.

He swallows hard, lets out a low, bitter chuckle. “Fuck if I know.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s humorless. “Bullshit.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smirk, but the weight in his chest is too heavy. He shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, watching you. “You really wanna have this chat right now?”

Your eyes flick toward him, searching, challenging. “I just wanna know why you keep coming back.”

Billy looks at you for a long moment, like he’s trying to piece together an answer that won’t make him feel like a fucking idiot. He could lie. He should lie. But something about the way you’re looking at him makes it impossible.

Finally, he sighs, running a rough hand over his face. “You make me forget.” His voice is quieter now, like he hates admitting it. “For a little while, anyway.”

You hold his gaze. “Forget what?”

His throat bobs, his expression unreadable. And then, finally, he mutters, “Everything.”

The weight of that single word settles between you like a heavy fog. You should say something, maybe press him for more, but you don’t. Because you get it. Maybe more than he realizes.

So instead, you shift closer, resting a hand against his chest. His heart beats strong beneath your palm, steady but guarded, just like him.

“You don’t have to forget,” you say softly. “You just have to stop running.”

Billy scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what happens when I stop?”

You give him a small, sad smile. “Maybe you finally start living.”

He exhales sharply, his hand coming up to wrap around your wrist, holding you there against him. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, the way his fingers tighten just slightly—it says enough.

He’s not ready. Maybe he never will be. But for now, he stays.

By morning, the world outside is just as godless and fucked as ever. And yet, you both step back into it, knowing full well that Billy will find his way back to you—sooner rather than later.

Read more:

⚜ Main Masterlist

⚜ The Boys Masterlist

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[itsmarsss]

Scandalous (Blitzø x Fem!Succubus!Reader x Stolas) [Helluva Boss] pt. 8 - Catharsis

How the mighty do fall. (Getting into a weird three-way situation with an imp and a succubus isn't exactly considered classy, Stolas)

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | 1st bonus | pt. 6 | pt. 7 | pt. 8 | pt. 9 | 2nd bonus | pt. 10

Word count: 4,900

Warnings: self-deprecating thoughts, thoughts of death, heavy drinking, use of alcohol and sexual behavior as coping mechanisms. you know it's what you can expect from a blitzo-centered chapter. this happens right after the ozzie's chapter.

dividers by @cafekitsune | art (you’ll see) by @sweetadonisbutbetter <3

Blitzø is going to die alone. 

He’s going to die alone and no one will attend his funeral or even visit his grave other than to spit on it and his gravestone will read ‘Here Lies Blitzo Buckzo’ and nothing more because no one will be there to tell them to cross out the O and he most certainly won’t be a beloved anything. He'll just stay Blitzo Buckzo, forever.

And Blitzo Buckzo fucking sucks. 

Sometimes he wishes he was able to think before he spoke. He never does much of that and he’s aware he’d probably have refrained from hurting half the people he’s hurt if he could just keep his damn mouth shut. He didn’t think about this all that much… except for when he did. 

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

Her voice rings in his head non-stop, like one of those annoying fucking church bells he’d come across once in the living world that ring every single hour, making it unable for its existence to be forgotten.

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

It rings over and over again, stubborn, and it just won’t fucking go away.

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

Blitzø drives home on his own, but not in silence. He turns the radio on and the volume up until he figures it must be loud enough that he’ll have trouble hearing his own thoughts. It doesn’t work. The shit thing about thoughts is that they’re not something you can just turn off when you get sick of them. They follow you everywhere, all the time, inconvenient and impossible to get rid of. He proceeds to ignore the songs that come on in favor of mumbling incoherent things under his breath in a desperate attempt to reassure himself that he’s not bothered by everything that just happened.  Things like I can think about people’s fuckin’ feelings and think you’re so much better than me, well fuck you and rich fuckin’ asshole thinks he’s hot shit and probably suckin’ face right now. 

You know, things that prove he doesn’t care one bit. 

Whatever.

He parks the van without a care, still too busy mumbling to himself, leaving it askew, taking up almost half of the parking spot next to his own. The old lady from 22 is gonna be pissed at the inconvenience. Well fuck her too. He doesn’t spare another thought on that. 

He dreads the walk up the stairs to the apartment, wishing he lived somewhere with an elevator, or in a house, or in a super sick fancy mansion where he used money as toilet paper when he took a shit because he was just that rich. Actually, scratch that, that sounds uncomfortable. At least his shitty apartment with limited hot water and four flights of stairs before it had real toilet paper, and it was the nice kind even, he always made sure of it even if it was a little more expensive. 

His little luxuries start to sound stupid when he’s been spending so much time around Stolas and all his fancy stuff.

When he opens the door and enters the apartment, his first immediate thought is to knock on Loona’s door. He groans once as he walks towards it and then once again when he spots the note she left taped to it. ‘Tex invited me to a party. Don’t wait up.’ Yeah of course he fucking did.

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

Does he? 

He does. He thinks he does, at least. Maybe not all the time, but why else would he have said those things to her other than to protect her feelings? It’s not his fault if she was setting herself up for heartbreak. She needed to kill those feelings and if she wouldn’t then he would, fuck being the bad guy. In fact, fuck her too! He could so think about other people’s feelings.

He groans a third time at the thought of spending the night all alone, because he already knows what being alone makes out of him, and he doesn't like it one bit. If he could, he’d never be alone, not even for a single second, ever. Maybe that way he wouldn’t be so pathetic and so sad, because that’s what being alone made of him: pathetic and sad. 

It’s why Blitzø used to hate weekends. 

Satan, he fucking hated them. Why couldn’t every day be a work day? Why would they need a break? If it were up to him, there would be no such thing as a weekend. Because on weekends he had nothing to distract him from the ever-growing nothing in the pit of his chest and that wasn’t much fun at all.

Until Y/N accepted the job at I.M.P.

Before that, they used to speak almost exclusively through text, extremely inconsistently. He’s never really been the greatest at texting, but he could spam her with stupid memes and pictures of him doing random things throughout his day and horse doodles that she didn’t seem mad about receiving. They spent a whole year like that, only meeting in person a few times here and there.

When he offered her the job he promised himself not to have any expectations because, well shit, why would she trade in an obviously well-paying job, with her best friend as her boss, where she’d been working for years on end without having to hurt or kill anybody, for whatever it was he was asking her to do? 

But then she said yes.

It wasn’t long until he figured out they weren’t all that different from each other. Apparently, as much as she liked to complain about needing a break, just to annoy him, she dreaded weekends too. Not that she’d just admit that point-blank, but they did go out on on a Friday night after work and she did drink one too many and she sighed and complained about having to go home and it was all so much like him. ‘I don’t wanna be alone, Blitz,’ she’d told him. 

He didn't wanna be alone either.

And so he took her back home and he slept on her couch and he stayed there the next day, keeping her company and, honestly, enjoying hers. 

That’s how their tradition started. Almost every single weekend, the two will find themselves in either of their apartments, in the ugliest clothes they own, to cook or order something extremely greasy and unhealthy and marathon a shit-ton of movies, staying in on Saturday after going out somewhere on Friday. Loona would routinely call it ‘patheticville’ and ‘loser day’ and things like that. 

He doesn't hate weekends anymore. 

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

And now he’d fucking gone and done this. 

He still wanted to fight, then. To argue, to scream, to yell. He wanted them to do it too. To get down and dirty and scream back at him. He wanted a reason to react.

Blitzø has always been very good at reacting. 

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than you own?

But how was he supposed to react to that? The thought of grabbing his phone and texting her something along the lines of ‘fuck you and your pet bird too’ crosses his mind for a moment and, shit, maybe he is a prick, and he was gonna die alone wasn’t he? He was sure to if he kept doing this kind of thing. 

And maybe he fucking deserves it. 

Sometimes he wonders just how he’s going to die. Will it be peaceful? He hopes not. He sure as shit does not deserve peaceful. Maybe it could at least be cool. Maybe he could go down in a super badass shootout in the human world or a cool-as-fuck sword fight or something. Or maybe he’ll die in some dumbass way like tripping on the sidewalk and cracking his head open on the pavement. Maybe it’ll be in one of those days when he’ll be climbing up Stolas’ balcony and then he’ll slip and fall and break all his bones only to be found dead on the grass surrounded by ball gags and anal plugs. A stupid send-off for a stupid motherfucker. 

He throws himself on the couch instead and curls up into a ball, wishing he had a big royal-size bed with soft sheets and like three or four fluffy pillows, or even a simple twin-sized one, or at least that the couch was a pull-out. 

He grabs his phone and inevitably goes where he always goes when he feels like this- his ‘people I care about’ folder. He swipes through the various pictures. The ones of himself with I.M.P. in the living world, the one he made Moxxie pose with him for with them pointing their guns at each other, the one with Millie when she still had her long hair. The one from the day of Loona’s adoption, the one he took of Stolas sleeping next to him. The selfie with Verosika, the one he secretly took of Y/N watching the screen when he first showed ‘Spirit’ to her. 

And then he lands on the one. The one with Barbie and his mom. 

Blitzø is a 35 years old single father who kills people for a living. He’s been handling his own shit for almost two decades now. But in this moment… he just wants his mama.

Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? 

What would she have thought of that?

Yeah, he should have known it would be a ‘cry himself to sleep’ kind of night.

Blitzø doesn’t know for how long he’s been passed out when he wakes up disoriented. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and that probably explains why his body ached so much with how uncomfortable the position he’d slept in was. He wakes up with the barking sounds of Loona’s special ringtone and scrambles to pick it up. 

“Loonie baby? You alright? Did something happen to you, are you hurt?”

“No, Blitz. I just- can you just come pick me up?” She sounds like she’s been crying. Fuck, no, his baby needs him. No time to be sad.

He’s up in a second. “On my way. Send me the address.” He hangs up, searching for his car keys (which he found between the couch seats) and running down the stairs.

Loona went two rings down to Gluttony for this party. It makes sense, he supposes. He’s more of a Lust Ring party kind of guy himself, but he’s heard Gluttony parties got crazy. He accelerates as fast as the shitty van will let him and gets there pretty quickly, only to find her outside, still crying.

He rolls down the window before he even stops the car completely. “Hey, Loonie. How ya doin’, you alright?”

She wipes a tear with the back of her hand and enters the car with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah, I’m fine! I just wanna go.” She sounds anything but fine.

He’s about to ask her what happened when some fuckface he definitely doesn’t remember calls him by name. The wrong one. “Hey! That sounds like Blitzo!”

“The ‘O’ is silent, asshole!”

“Hey, I knew it was you! Fuck, man, where you been? You here for the party?”

“No, I’m just here picking up my daughter.”

The guy walks up to Loona’s window, and she hides her face from him with her hands, embarrassed. “Oh, shit, you have a daughter now?”

“Adopted!” She yells out, and it stings a bit, regardless of being objectively true. 

“Oh, man, you’re already leaving? Things just got started! Come in and show us all up again.”

Blitzø groans, annoyed by the insistence. “No, no, thank you, but I think Loonie wants to head back now.” 

Some other weirdo approaches the van, leaning on the passenger’s window. “Huh, the hottie wants to leave?” Come on, right in front of him? 

He instinctively starts to growl. “Watch it.”

“I mean, we could stay a little longer,” Loona tells him.

He sighs. He’s not normally one to turn down a party, especially one with free booze, but he feels that’s probably what he should do.. “I think we need to go, ‘kay? I think it’s been a long night.”

“Well, these people seem to know you. Come on! I think I wanna give this another try. Pleeeeaaase?” She gives him the goddamn puppy dog eyes and she knows he can already hardly resist fulfilling her requests.

Well, if she insists. He could definitely use a drink…

“Okay, fine. Maybe one drink.”

… Or a good old night of drinking to forget.

Blitzø downs two tequila shots before he’s even made it into the house. He downs four beers at rapid speed as soon as he does manage to get inside, crushing the cans and cheering loudly when he was done, and then suddenly he finds himself saying yes to a keg stand. It’s so easy he can do it in his sleep. Fuck being too old for this, he’d never be too old to have fun. And he can handle so much more than a keg stand. “Ha-ha! That was nothing, bitch! Give me a real challenge!”

Beelzebub herself appears in front of him, seemingly materializing out of nowhere (or maybe he’s just drunk), all cheers and neon colors and psychedelic paraphernalia floating around her, and she does challenge him. “Oh yeah? Wanna fucks with the big bitch, imp boy? I got a challenge for ya.” 

Someone somewhere murmurs “He’s gonna die.”

Now that sounds like a challenge he can get behind.

Vortex walks up to them, carrying two huge gallons of something and placing them on the floor between him and the Sin. “Aaaaight, let’s do this! From Bee’s personal supply, the hardest shit there is.” He crouches down to Blitzø’s height. “You ready, my man?” 

Fuck, this better fucking kill him alright. “Bring it, barky! I will drink you under this fucking table, you have no idea what kind of night I’ve had.” He struggles trying to pry the gallon open, and Bee uses her magic or whatever to make them levitate, extending a straw from it. Of course she’d flaunt her magical powers and her easy fucking life to him.

“Alright, shit-talker, but there hasn’t been a soul yet who can beat me at my own game, so you better bring the fire, baby!.” 

“Ohh, is Queen Bee too scawed to lose to a widdle imp like me?” He bets she is. And he bets she’ll be embarrassed when she loses to him (because she is going to lose). Fucking big names like her always are. 

“Oh, okay. Let’s get it on, you little bastard!”

Vortex signs for them to begin and it takes about two seconds for Blitzø to have downed about a fourth of it already, but why stop there? He pulls the straw out and pours the drink straight into his mouth, downing the entirety of it at light speed. He’s so quick Beelzebub even stops chugging her own, amused… Concerned? Noo, no way. Amused. 

He climbs on top of the huge gallon to be at face level with her and properly rub it on her face, high on the adrenaline of it all (and perhaps a little bit on the buzz from the extremely strong drink too). “Yeah, who’s the queen now?”

Loona cheers for him loudly, and it fills him with joy when she proudly yells out “yeah! That’s my dad!” Yeah. That’s damn right. 

Bee lets her own unfinished gallon fall down to the floor and crosses her arms over her chest. Yeah, definitely impressed. “Well, fuck me. That’s a first. I haven’t had a first in a while. That was magical, seriously. Impressive. I tip my crown to you, imp boy. Respect.” Fuck her still calling him imp boy, but she’s actually admitting his victory and shes bowing to him, as she fucking should. 

She howls, every hellhound around following suit, and Blitzø feels on top of the world. 

Why does the world start spinning when you get yourself on top of it? 

He almost falls to the ground, but then he’s getting held up by a bunch of strangers like a cool-as-fuck goddamn rockstar and, shit, why had he stopped getting wasted and doing this kind of thing every night again?

He doesn’t exactly remember when people started doing body shots off of him but he does remember getting freaky with a few of them, which did very little to make him feel good and honestly felt a little gross with the amounts of drinks getting spilled all over and making things rather… sticky, but it was doing wonders to his thought problem. 

Who would have known having four strangers’ tongues inside of you at once could be a great way to muffle the unsolicited thoughts in his head?

The second those people fuck off somewhere else the thoughts come in again, though. Stolas hiding his face in shame behind the menu. Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings other than your own? Y/n unable to look him in the eye. Are you worried someday I may have enough of it as well? Fizz is gonna hate him forever. You’re not my real dad! Verosika will always regret him. We could just… talk. Or… watch a movie? Or maybe… cuddle? Y/n’s crying face, Stolas’ disappointed one. Oh, they both had such fuckable faces didn’t they? Which reminded him: he really wanted to fuck someone.

He’s making out with a guy whose name he doesn’t know and whose face he doesn’t even remember when Loona pulls him off of him. “Oh, piss on a dick! What the fuck are you doing, Blitz?”

“This guy,” he grins, pointing to the unnamed man, who now stands still behind him. Wasn’t it obvious?

“It looks like you’re in the middle of a goddamn orgy. Stop!” Oh shit. Loona saw all that? An orgy does sound like some real fucking fun right now. Wait, focus, Loona. Fuck.

“Look, I didn’t expect you to come here and see any of this, Loonie, I’m so sorry, but it’s a party! I’m just having fun with uh… uh…” he turns back around to the man Loona pulled him off of. “The fuck is your name again?”

“Dennis.”

Ew. “Christ on a stick, you would be a Dennis. Get the fuck away from me! I’m not fucking a Dennis tonight. I need a Monica or an Alejandro here, stat.” He’s genuinely surprised that works when some hunky dude pulls him into his huuuge chest. Fuck yeah. “Better.”

Loona punches his Alejandro in the face, and he sincerely doesn’t give a fuck about it, because the world is spinning again, which is weird because this time he does not feel like he’s on top of it at all. In fact, it feels like the world is the meanest dom top ever and he’s a whiny, whiny bottom just sore all over from getting spanked ‘till his ass hurt. Not in a good way.

He falls back on Loona, and she catches him. “You don’t need anyone else sucking your face, freaky weirdo.” She throws him over her shoulder. “You need to drink something other than beelzejuice.”

She pulls him into the van, and she doesn’t rush to get home, because, according to her, she can see he’s already about to throw up. No he’s not, no sir! Ma’am. Loonie. 

Whatever. 

His mind clears a little as they make their way back home, and he pulls out his phone from his back pocket. Thankfully it’s still there.

“The fuck are you doing, dumbass? That’s gonna make you dizzy.”

“Gotta… gotta draw a thing.”

“You gotta draw a thing?”

“Yeah,” he affirms, as if that was enough information for everything to be self-explanatory, even nodding his head yes for emphasis. He surprisingly manages to take his time and put real effort into doodling it, showing it to Loona before sending it.

“Does it look like I did it drunk?” He slurs, letting out an unintentional burp.

“It actually looks pretty good, Blitz.”

“Okay.” 

“So. Who’d you call stupid?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Can you call me dad again?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

He presses send and clicks on Stolas’ contact next, only to see there’s an unread message in their chat.

Stols:  I’m sorry if anything I said or did offended you tonight. 

Ha. Bet you really fucking are. 

Still, he’s not Stolas’ fucking boyfriend. What was there to expect from him? Why would he expect anything? 

Blitzy: ITZ WUTEVS

To Blitzø’s surprise, Stolas begins typing immediately, as if he’d been waiting obsessively for his reply.

Stols: Next time you come over, maybe we can talk about what happened at Ozzie’s?

Talk about it? What was there to talk about? Blitzø wanted nothing more than to bury the memories of tonight the deepest under the ground he possibly could. But of course Stolas would want to talk about it.

He always wants to fucking talk about shit.

Blitzy: Y?

Stolas types for what feels like forever, and it must have been, seen that they’re now only one street from the apartment complex, before he sends in a huge-ass paragraph. 

Stols: I’m sorry! Nevermind, it’s not a big deal. I was just worried about you. You seemed very upset and you took off so fast. I’m sure things will be fine with Y/N, she likes you very much, I can see it. Maybe I read too much into everything, though. Not everything is about me, haha. I’m  glad that’s not the case. I wasn’t upset either I just wanted to make sure you weren’t and obviously you can handle a stupid joke a clown can make. Asmodeus can be very invasive in his humor, and Y/N says she’ll talk to him about it, but I thought it was funny myself. What he said about me at least. I enjoy being the subject of jest. Maybe you can say mean things to me too next time you come over. 

Now that is too much to fucking deal with right now. Which means he won’t. 

Blitzy: SHUR.

He clicks out of Stolas’ chat, taking one last glance at Y/N’s before turning his phone off. She hasn’t seen what he sent yet, and that’s actually okay. 

Loona parks the van messily, doing the same thing he’d done earlier and letting the car occupy some space from the neighbour’s spot. He doesn’t even think before asking her to fix it.  “Sweetie, could you just park it a little more to the right?”

“Why?”

Yeah, Blitzø, why do you even care? “Well I don’t want that freaky cat lady to be up my ass about it tomorrow.” Yeah, that. Sure.

She doesn’t seem to find it in her to argue or even as much as groan, simply readjusting the car. She has to carry him over her shoulder again and all he wishes on the way up this time around is that he were a little more sober. She plops him down on the couch and he curls into himself once again while she grabs him a glass of water. 

Nothing to distract him from his thoughts now. 

“I had a really shitty day,” he tells her.

“Oh, yeah? Is that why you drank like five gallons of who-knows-what?”

“I don’t want her to hate me.”

“The person you called stupid?” 

He nods, hiding his face from her when the tears start coming in. “Fuck, Fizz was right. I’m gonna die alone, aren’t I? Just a wrinkly, old, withered waste. Will you be there, Loonie?” Blitzø feels whatever consciousness he’d gained back slipping away again by the second, this time from the need to sleep rather than the alcohol. At what point did he get so tired?

“Be where?” Loona asks, and he’s too out of it to respond properly, only mumbling half-coherent things like lonely and die alone over and over. “I’ll be there, dad," she tells him anyway, and covers him with a blanket, the softest one they own. “Now go the fuck to sleep,” she orders, and he does hear it, he just doesn’t have the strength to say anything in response as he feels himself drifting off to sleep, his last thoughts being that at least he can’t think about anything while asleep and that… 

He vomits all over the living room floor. 

“Oh, fuck, I did need to throw up.”

[. . .]

You feel stupid when it’s Fizzarolli who finds you crying in Ozzie’s waiting area. He skips his way to the room, humming along to some song you can’t quite make out, and he almost doesn’t see you on his way into the office. He hears you sniffling, though, and turns to face you. It takes him a couple seconds to process that it’s you.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? Um. You okay there?”

You look up at him, but it doesn’t feel like you can say anything yet. 

“I-” He motions behind him with his thumb. “I’m gonna- I’m gonna get Ozzie. Stay here, yeah?”

You don’t even know why exactly you’d asked Stolas to send you here when you were still mad at Ozzie. Or maybe not mad. Just… sad about everything that spiraled out of what he did. 

Then again, did you even have anywhere else to go? You could absolutely not make the night worse for Millie and Moxxie by showing up at their place, thinking of Blitzø made you sad and Stolas was not an option. You had Ozzie, though. And you know you always will, despite whatever stupid shit one of you might do. 

And it honestly beats going home to a big pile of nothing. 

Ozzie appears shortly, Fizz having done as promised and fetched him. Fizz doesn’t come back, though, letting you and Ozzie have a moment to talk on your own, which is nice of him.  

“Hey, pretty babe. Fizz said you were here.” He looks you up and down, worried. “Are you crying?”

“Why did you do that?” 

“What?”

“Why did you fucking sing about all that, why did you- it was so humiliating, Oz, fuck!”

“Oh. I am so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. It got out of control. I didn’t even know you would be here tonight. You didn’t call me.”

“I didn’t know I was coming either.”

“You wanna tell me what that means?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Alright. That’s okay. I am sorry, though. We took the joke too far and I realized too late that it wasn’t funny.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t. So please don’t fucking do that again. It’s humiliating enough to… fuck... and everybody saw it, and- I…” You groan in frustration, struggling to get your words out. 

“No more about Stolas or any of you. Okay? Promise.” He sits down next to you on the fancy couch and he lets you lean on him. “Did something happen between you?”

You hesitate before speaking. “I didn’t- I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I am stupid. Of course he’s ashamed to be seen with us.”

“Stolas?”

You nod. 

“Did he… tell you that?”

“Well he didn’t deny it.”

“Okay." He takes a deep breath, probably trying to think of how to handle the situation. "You’ll have time to think about all of this. Alright? Now you’re coming with me, you’re taking a bath and you’re sleeping over, and we’ll talk about everything tomorrow. There’s no need to hurt yourself more thinking about it right now.”

He stands up and turns to leave the room, but looks back when he doesn’t hear you do the same. You’re still sat sit still on the couch.

You look up at him. “Oz?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” You repeat yourself.

“What- of course not. Did somebody say that to you?”

You don’t reply. 

He purses his lips together, thinking. “Are they worth feeling stupid for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve gone through this before.”

“It’s different, you know that.”

“Yeah, it’s worse. They’re not hurting you back this time around, they’re just hurting you.”

You decide he was right. You don't want to talk about this right now. “Can we please not talk about it?”

He hesitates before nodding in agreement. “Yeah. ‘Course, babe.” He grabs your hands and pulls you up. “Come on.”

All the crying makes you so tired you’re almost passed out the second you lie down on the soft, silky bedsheets of Ozzie's guest room bed. Taking a look through your texts before you let yourself fall asleep, you click on Stolas’ contact once you see a notification for an unread text. 

Stolas: I am truly sorry if I did something to hurt you or make you uncomfortable with me tonight. It’s not your obligation to talk Asmodeus  out of doing anything and I did not feel embarrassed because of you or Blitz. If you need space from me I will understand, but I want you to know that is not how I feel. And, for the record, I don’t care what that Verosika person said about you. I hope you’re alright. 

It is way too late and you are way too tired to process or deal with all of that, and honestly? You still do feel stupid, and don’t want to further that feeling by replying to him immediately. That feels too pathetic- it feels like proving Blitzø right.

You’ll reply tomorrow.

You click on Blitzø’s contact next, which also had a notification signaling an unseen message, and you brace yourself for a 'fuck you’ text or something of the sorts. 

You can't keep yourself from smiling when you open the text, turning the phone off and just waiting for sleep come to you, and things feel a lot less shitty than just a second before.

Having friends is pretty fucking okay.

A/N: everybody say thank you Adonis for the cutest doodle ever and also wish them a happy birthday!! the adorable little doodle blitzo drew is theirs and they did it especially so i could put it in this chapter which is so nice of them and so fucking cool!!

[signanothername]

I know next to nothing about Delta Sans lol... what are some of his main traits and characteristics? /nf

I GET TO RAMBLE ABOUT DELTA LETS GOOOOO

Funny enough, Delta’s canon material isn’t very vast, considering most his canon story is animated, so you can imagine how long it takes to animate and how few animations there are, despite that i just can’t help but love this bitch

Let’s start with basics since you don’t know much, you might see Delta’s Au with 3 names: Ultratale, Vitaltale, and Delta’s tale, which are all canon as they’re all used by Delta’s creator Animated Zorox

Ultratale is the Au’s series old name when it was first animated (and is now cancelled), Vitaltale is the Au’s current name which refers to the new repooted series, Delta’s tale use is honestly unclear for me, but i like to believe it’s more of a general name for the Au

Kay so with that out of the way, Delta is a sans that fused with the human soul of bravery, that’s why he has his signature orange gloves, (and Delta can talk and communicate with the bravery soul inside his head)

Delta is from a Genocide timeline and is the only survivor, so after he defeats Chara (who’s called “Omega Chara” in the Au) Delta takes it upon himself to become a protector of Aus (imagine it as his coping mechanism for losing his own Au fused with Bravery’s sense of protection) but he’s not a protector in the same sense that is Ink, Delta travels from Au to Au pretty much looking for a fight, looking to see if the Au he’s in is in trouble and fighting whoever causes it to save it from the same fate his own Au faced

So he’s kind, brave, righteous and honest… too honest chchchch

But he’s also egotistical, super hot headed, and can easily rage, and despite deeming himself a protector, he’s only a protector to those who need protection, so the poor bitches who threaten the Au? Yeah Delta isn’t above tainting his hands with someone else’s blood (ma boi is passionate about murdering fr fr) in his defense tho he tries listening and talking to them and convincing them (for roughly 10 seconds) if it doesn’t work then he goes for the kill

Look at him telling Cross he’ll kill him (god I love him)

But he’s also willing to put himself in danger if it meant protecting someone else (basically putting the life of others above his own)

What’s also fun is the fact Delta can easily give up like a normal Sans would, It’s Bravery that keeps him going

But what I also really love is his way of fighting/using his powers, Delta tends to use his own blaster’s jaws as a super speed jet pack, and his fighting style tends to mostly be up close and personal, like this bitch will break bones with his bare hands, and believe me, this bitch sure got stamina cause DAMN

He can even fully fuse with Bravery, like he becomes a glowing orange lamp hcchchchch

he’s a bit reckless but still smart to know when to stay a safe distance or change tactics

One of my fave things is him using his gloves as armored shoes cause why the fuck not y’know?

Delta is also semi canonically friends with Color and Epic (semi-canon as in the creators of these three drew them together as the “Epic Sanses Trio” but are not necessarily part of their own respective timeline’s stories chchhcch) but it’s fully canon in my heart <3333

If you’d like to see the actual canon content for Delta, I recommend checking this doc made by @howlsofbloodhounds they’ve done an amazing job at collecting as much as they can <3

[lalalychee-x]

"1x1— I think I'm okay"

Angst! Rodrick Heffley x reader pt 1

"Hush your mouth, you talk too much..." romantic. + platonic

♡ Um! This whole series is SLIGHTLY a vent thing! But it's still an x reader! It's sfw unless labelled otherwise, but read the CW carefully!! I used the doawk fanfic "Dysfunctional Perspective" to help build around this story to give it some depth. Please check it out on r/loadeddiper on reddit! We have to establish some things first, though! So welcome to part 1 of "Think I'm okay!" CW: self harm (sh), weed/drug use, smoking, child-abuse, scars, healing scars, implied sexual assault (sa), obssessive disorders, classic crude teenage humour, skin-peeling metaphors?!, conflicted relationships, suicide attempts, suicide jokes, OCs or characters from Dysf. Perspective are included (even if they don't have the same plot-devices). masterlist of all parts: word count: 5223 song4this: 1x1" by Bring me the Horizon

This whole series is kinda to depict Rodrick closer to his cannon and less tiktok-ified version! It's also to convey two very different struggles of teenagers with similar coping mechanisms. Enjoy!!

♡ Rodrick and reader, School's fuck-up/Loser x School's Valedictorian/Popular Princess.

♡ Reader is depicted as popular, feminine, having a lot of friends.

♡ Rodrick is not depicted as popular but as well-known...but with few actual friends

♡ Reader is afab, female-dressing anyway, wearing skirts to fit a stereotype (it is a plot-relevant thing, I promise)

-------story starts here-------

It started as just another teacher’s errand.

You were used to them by now—the way your name always came up when someone needed a favour. Trusted. Organized. Sweet. Of course she’ll do it. She always does.

“Can you bring these up to Rodrick Heffley?” your teacher asked like it was nothing. Just a stack of notes and an excuse scribbled for his absence.

You paused. A little too long. “Sure,” you said, with that perfect little smile. The one you’d perfected to keep people from looking too closely. Too long.

You stared at the name on the top of the notes.

Rodrick Heffley.

The loser. The burnout. The guy who never showed up and when he did, never gave a shit. You didn’t run in the same circles—if anything, you existed in opposite galaxies. You were pink pens, honour roll, friends who planned everything two weeks in advance. He was torn denim, smelling like weed and rage, and scribbling band names on desks in black Sharpie. Everyone knew he was a mess.

And yet. You're sacrificing your hard-earned reputation, chipping away at it by rushing around and asking if anyone knew where the Heffley's even lived. Because fuck, what are other people going to think? You? Asking where his HOUSE is, running around like a neek with a stack of catch-up work in your hands. It was pissing you off.

Eventually, you did follow badly scribbled directions from a punk behind the school who knew his brother Greg, apparently from some disaster party that you didn't attend many months ago.

You sighed, walking up past the driveaway, up the pavement, knocking on the door. To your surprise, it creaked its way open under the force of your fist. It was open. You deadpan, cursing under your breath,

"Mrs, um, Mr. Heffley?" You think it's rude to intrude, god is this trespassing? Isn't it a crime—

You overthink for a bit longer when you realise it's been a bit too long... and there was no response. You peek in, the smell of Enigma Alexandra de Markoff perfume... do all white moms wear the same damn fragrance when they go out?

You scrunch your nose, then deduct that his parents were out. And you didn't know Rodrick very well but you were expecting some sort of sound from a noisy teenage boy... music or crude TV shows...

When passing him in the Music room in school, he was never quiet. He made his presence known, either by smashing drums like his life depended on it or yelling about some shit band no one else liked. But now? Silence. Eerie, suffocating silence.

You stood outside the cracked door, fingers curling tighter around the paper folder.

Then you heard it.

A noise—low, choked. Gurgled?

You spiralled up the stairs, pushing the front door to the Heffley house loosely shut and navigating across the upstairs hall.

And there he was.

Not sprawled on the couch with a smirk or blasting music so loud it’d rattle the drywall. Not throwing a dumb smirk at you like he always did when you passed him in the halls. No. He was slouched over the bathroom sink—in an unknown-band t-shirt, trembling, shoulders taut with some horrible tension. A single flickering bathroom light above him buzzed softly, and that was all you could hear for a moment, besides your own breath stuttering in her chest. The rest of the house had gone silent, like it, too, was holding its breath.

The sink was speckled red.

Bright, wet, and fresh.

His knuckles were clenched around the porcelain edge, his body swaying slightly like his legs weren’t even holding him up properly. Blood dripped from the underside of his arm, from angry, shallow cuts that hadn’t even stopped bleeding yet. His jeans hung loose on his hips, unbelted, and his hair was messy in a way that meant he hadn’t even tried to style it—it hung in his face, casting jagged shadows under his eyes.

He looked like a shadow. A ghost.

And when he blinked, slowly, blearily, then turned his head over his shoulder to look at you—you knew.

He wasn’t fully there. Was he high or something?

Eyes red-rimmed and distant. He looked at you like he couldn’t quite remember who you were. Like he’d forgotten how to process anything. A joint sat extinguished near the windowsill. The air was heavy with the stale tang of smoke and iron.

“Oh my god…” you whispered, and your voice cracked hard in the middle of it. It wasn’t pretty or elegant or composed like how you usually sounded at school—it was raw. It hurt to hear yourself sound like that. A way you knew all too well.

Rodrick blinked again. His brows furrowed, barely. He didn't even know you at first glance, only recognising you from your clothes, dolled out in glitter like a bad Regina George fashion trend.

“...What are you doing here?” His voice was gravel, slurred and slow, like he had to drag each syllable through his throat. Like his mouth couldn’t keep up with the rest of him. “You’re not supposed to—shit, go away.”

You didn't. Who would? Who could?

You chucked the manila folder of notes and handouts behind you, scattered across the carpet in the hall. Your heels clicked once—twice—as you stepped inside the bathroom and kicked them off so fast one hit the doorframe.

You would've whined usually, if anything happened to your precious shoes and outfit, but you couldn't care less. You were slipping on the tiled floor in your tights, hurriedly stepping in.

He was bleeding.

And you were the only one who gave a damn.

Your jacket soon followed, flung onto the counter before you even realized you were unzipping it. He looked alarmed, staggering back only to let more blood flow out of the cuts with the added pressure. Okay, maybe lunging at him out of panic wasn't the best approach, but what else could you expect a teenager to do?

“Rodrick,” you hissed, hands reaching for him, voice too high-pitched and breathless, “What the fuck—what the fuck are you doing?!”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, eyes rolling back as he tried to push her away with one limp hand, but his knees buckled, and you barely caught him before he hit the tiles. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, something hot and ugly building in your throat; was it tears? Or rage or irritance? “Just—fuck—shut up!” Your hands trembled as they caught his bleeding forearm, flipping it gently over to see the damage. Your fingers hovered just above his skin, scared to touch him but even more terrified not to. “You’re not fine, you asshole—you’re fucking bleeding.”

Rodrick didn’t answer, with a slurred expression that said "No shit."

He didn’t need to say it.

Not when his body leaned heavily against the sink, head tilted down, breaths coming in shallow, embarrassed gasps like he was suddenly realizing how exposed he was. His skin felt cold—clammy—and you hated that you knew exactly how that felt. You'd been here before. Not in a bathroom with someone else, but in your own room, your own quiet hell that was ironic because your whole room was pink and covered in pop-band posters. It was so different to this, but it made the white lines on your legs throb.

Until now.

Now you were here, looking.

He turned slightly, just enough for the fluorescent light to catch the raw red slashes across his forearm. Still fresh. Still wet. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown too wide. Either high—or so out of it he still hasn't registered who you are and what you're doing.

And he looked so fucking tired.

“Come here,” you whispered, voice suddenly soft and shaking as you tried to guide him down to the closed toilet seat. You pulled paper towels from the holder with frantic, jerky movements, biting your tongue to keep it steady. “Let me—just let me help, okay? Please. Don’t be stubborn.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

And that scared you more than anything.

Rodrick Heffley, king of eye rolls and snide remarks, didn’t argue.

You swiped around the cuts, hands gentle and practised, the air too quiet now, too heavy with everything left unsaid. You pressed the clean cloths firmly against the bleeding gashes, and your eyes burned.

“God, you’re such an idiot,” You mumbled under her breath, voice breaking again.

"What'd I do—"

His voice sounded slow, hurt and it pissed you off. "Are you stupid?! Do you think I'm stupid, Rodrick?! What do you think you've done?"

It came off harsher than it should have and you realised after you'd said it; you had horrible communication skills.

Your voice cracked against the walls and in his ears, louder than you expected it to be. It echoed over the tense, suffocating silence between you, and for a moment, everything stood still—except for the blood running in slow trails down his forearm.

Rodrick flinched. Visibly. Like your words physically slapped him across the face.

His expression shifted instantly. From distant and dazed to bitter and defensive.

“Oh, of course, you’re not stupid,” he scoffed, attempting to pull away, his free hand clenching around itself in a tight fist... like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Why would you be? You’re perfect. You’re everyone’s fucking favorite.”

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his tone, the way his voice twisted the word perfect like it burned his tongue to say it. Speechless. What do you even say to that?

He laughed under his breath, low and humourless, a sound that didn't belong on someone like him, a face like his... “Must be nice. Being the pretty little princess with straight A’s and clean wrists and people who actually give a shit.”

You look up at him from the floor, angry. So fucking angry but you can't speak.

"You—” he gestured vaguely at you with a slightly bloody finger, and it smeared against the underside of the sink with his clumsy motions—“don’t fucking get it. You’ve never had to lie about where you’ve been, why your hands are shaking, or why you can’t stop fucking up everything you touch!”

You stood up off the floor, finding the words but no less furious. “Don’t pull that edgy bullshit with me. What RIGHT did you have to say that? But I’m still alive. And so are you.”

His eyes widened, lips parting just slightly. Like maybe—for the first time—he wasn’t sure what to say. You both paused, looking at each other like some sort of stand-off. He wouldn't take you seriously, usually, especially in that outfit that looked like everything pink from Hillary Duff. But for some reason, whether it was the light or the fact he's had one too many blunts today, the pink dulled out and you looked furious.

He looked away, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. His hands flexed at his sides. He was still bleeding.

And you couldn’t let him sit there and rot in it.

Not even as your knees hit the cold tile with a soft thud, your skirt bunching around your thighs and your palms stinging from the fall. You were right there, sitting on his bathroom floor, breath unsteady, heart in your throat.

The sink was still running, the water pink with diluted blood swirling down the drain. But it smelled stronger of bleach in that corner of the bathroom since you chucked whatever cleaning product you could find into it to get the blood off.

Rodrick just stared forward, jaw clenched like a vice, as you reached for his arm. You didn’t flinch, even though your hands were shaking. Even though your stomach flipped at the sight of the fresh gashes and the way his skin burned red around them.

“God,” you whispered, fumbling with the sleeve of your jacket to press against his arm. “You’re such a fucking idiot. Looks like someone ran a cheese grater across your arms.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here,” he snapped, voice rough and tight. But he did crack a slight smile at the comparison. But again—he didn’t move. Didn’t rip his arm away from your grip.

“You think I give a shit?” Your voice cracked, fingers pressing into the bandage as blood soaked through it. “You’re bleeding all over the place, Rodrick, and you’re still trying to act like none of this matters?”

He scoffed, looking down at you with tired, red eyes and an absolute shit-eating grin. “What, you think you’re saving me? Is that what this is? Poor little princess comes to fix the fuck-up? Do you think you'll get extra credit for this?”

“I’m not trying to save you, because I frankly don't fucking care,” you snapped, trembling as your hands worked, your breaths shaky and fast. “I’m trying to stop you from dying in a bathroom next to a blunt, in a stupid band tee because that's a stupid way to die!”

That shut him up.

For a second, the only sounds were the faucet still running, the wind rattling the windowpane as evening fell, and your ragged breathing.

You looked up at him, tears burning your waterline, fingers still pressing down on his arm as if keeping him here—on Earth—with you, even if the cuts weren't that bad. Your whole body was cold from the tiles, knees numb, lips chapped. But you didn’t care. Not when he looked like that. Pale and distant, like he’d already floated a few feet above his own body.

Rodrick’s mouth moved like he had something to say, but all that came out was a low, choked breath. Like the fight in him had cracked somewhere invisible, and all that anger was just a shield for the real thing underneath.

“No one can just ignore...that,” you whispered, referring to how you found him. “What was I meant to do?”

He let out a bitter laugh. He thought you were unusually nice. “You are annoying.”

You bit your lip to keep it from quivering. “I know.”

“I still hate you.”

“You’re allowed to.”

"Do you want me to?"

"I'd rather you did, actually."

The air did settle eventually with dry chuckles and crude insults—but barely.

It wasn’t calm, not really. Just a different kind of heavy. The kind that followed the storm of yelling and blood and shaking hands. The bathroom was still freezing. You could feel the tile digging into your knees, cold biting through the fabric of your skirt. Your jacket was ruined—streaked with red, crumpled on the floor beside you.

Rodrick joined you on the floor, sat against the side of the tub now, slouched low with his arm outstretched as you carefully swiped antiseptic over the cuts. It stung like hell, based on the way his jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead, chest rising and falling like he was still coming down from something—rage, maybe. Or a high. Or both.

You kept your hand steady, even though your fingers were still trembling.

“I need to let this dry before I bandage it,” you muttered, voice quieter now. Worn out. “Otherwise it’ll trap the bacteria and—”

“I’m not a dumbass,” Rodrick cut in flatly.

You glanced at him, rolling your eyes and standing back up. “I never said you were.”

He looked at you then—really looked. His eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in two days, dark circles bruised beneath them. His hair was a mess, falling into his face. Blood stained his hoodie sleeve and the hem of his jeans. But even now, like this, he looked defiant. Angry.

Or maybe just ashamed.

You turned away, hastily busying yourself with scrubbing the sink to avoid looking too long. Well, that's when you really clocked that there was a joint on the window sill.

"Well, there goes any idea of letting some fresh air into here." You mumble, setting the rag down with a wet slap against the sink.

"Huh?" Rodrick perked up.

"It's suffocating in here. But as soon as I open that window, the smell of weed gets out, the neighbours know then we're busted." You cock one hip, staring at him.

Rodrick scoffed, furrowing his eyebrows and putting the implication of your words together, "Why the hell do you care if I get busted for some indo?"

"Because I'm in here too, dumbass." You pause, looking away like you were hiding something, "...I wouldn't tell. Then you know... everyone would find out about all this."

Rodrick doesn't reply, silently noting your consideration for him.

"Don't get funny ideas." You felt the need to clarify as your cheeks burned. Then, without turning to him, you asked, “Is that why your eyes are red though, or is that just the part where you almost passed out in front of me?”

He gave a small, bitter laugh. “Does it matter?”

You turned your head to look at him again, brows drawn tight. “Yeah. Kinda does.”

Rodrick rolled his head back against the bathtub, letting it thud lightly as he sighed. “It was just a hit,” he muttered. “Helps me stop thinking about… stuff.”

You sighed.

Rodrick glanced sideways, catching the expression you were trying not to show—disappointment maybe, or maybe just that hollow, too-familiar look. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t give me that face. You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your lips twitched. Not into a smile—god, no. But something colder. Something tired. “You think I don’t know what it’s like?”

He blinked at that. Like he hadn’t expected you to sound like that.

You wipe your hands on your skirt, half-heartedly since your fingers were already pruning up.

"The fuck does that mean? You know I'm stupid." Rodrick scoffs, staring at you in disbelief, like he's challenging you.

You froze.

The bandage in your hand suddenly felt like it weighed ten pounds. Like every heartbeat thudded directly in your palms. You stared at it for a second. Then let out a sharp sigh, your whole body tensing as you shoved the gauze roll into the sink cabinet with a dull thump.

“Fuck’s sake,” you muttered, rubbing your face with both hands.

Rodrick blinked at the sudden shift. “What?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just took a step back from him. Toward the mirror, where you could see your own reflection—frazzled, stained, still looking too perfect in all the wrong ways.

"Never planned on telling anyone."

Then Rodrick snorted lightly, like he couldn’t help himself. “Why the hell are you telling me, then?”

You let out a short breath—half-laugh, half-pain. “Because you’re bleeding in your bathroom sink, and I’m scared you’re gonna die.”

That shut him up. Again.

You didn’t look at him when you reached down to unzip your skirt. You just did it, stripping down to the sheer black tights clinging to your legs. And then, carefully—slowly—you hooked your fingers under the waistband and began to peel them down.

Rodrick sat up a little straighter. His eyes flicked down, brows furrowing in immediate confusion.

Because there they were.

Scars. Thin, faded, some pink, some darker. A few recent, irritated. And burns—scattered, angry little circles on your thighs. Like tiny ghosts of every time you'd lost focus, lost control. Like years of “accidents” that were never really accidents.

You stood there in your underwear, half-shivering, arms crossed over your stomach—but it wasn’t about modesty. It was about baring something else entirely.

"Um, yeah, it was like... punishment for myself, rather than trying to feel something."

He was flushed.

His mouth was slightly open, like he wasn’t sure how to react—still sitting there against the tub, shirt stained with blood, but now watching you like you weren’t someone he knew at all. Like you’d just peeled back your skin and shown him something holy and fragile and fucked up all at once.

You just stood there, exposed, breathing in the antiseptic air and waiting for something—anything.

And then he finally spoke, voice hoarse:

“…You did that while studying and with your friends and stuff?”

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah.”

He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, eyes flicking back to your legs, then up to your face. “That’s like… really fucked up.”

You genuinely let out a loud laugh. “You think?”

You sat back down on the cold tiled floor with a sigh, pressing your skirt into your lap like it would make this any less awkward. It didn’t. The silence felt like a thick fog between you. Still wearing your blouse and nothing else on your legs, your thighs out and marked, your expression deadpan.

Rodrick shifted where he sat. His knee bumped yours. You didn’t move.

The antiseptic on his arms was drying now. The sharp, sterile scent was losing its sting.

“You ever think about just… ending it?” he asked suddenly. Voice low. Almost thoughtful. Like he was wondering what it’d sound like out loud.

You didn’t even flinch. “You mean like… before or after I force myself to study derivatives for three hours a night?”

Rodrick snorted. “Okay, damn.”

You looked down at the bandages. “But yeah. All the time.”

He blinked. Then muttered, “Cool, cool, that’s normal, right? Like, ‘Oh, I got a D-minus on a quiz, guess I’ll swan dive into traffic.’”

You coughed a laugh that was definitely more like a sob. “Or when you walk into your room and see a curling wand and just start thinking about not curling your hair.”

“Shit, that's out of the box...” he muttered under his breath, eyes widening slightly. “You win.”

“I’m not competing with you for most suicidal, dumbass,” you muttered, pressing your forehead to your knees for a second.

He nudged you lightly with his elbow. “Yeah, well. If I die first, you owe me a funeral playlist.”

You lifted your head. Stared at him, completely straight-faced, referring to his clothing style. ��You want your funeral to sound like a Hot Topic in 2007?”

“Hell yeah.”

“…What the hell.”

Another silence passed. You fiddled with a loose string on your skirt.

He looked down at his arms again. The blood was dry now. Scabs already crusting where the antiseptic had done its job. But he still looked hollowed out, like the inside of him was somewhere a hundred miles from here.

Then he looked back at you. At your exposed thighs, marked and silent.

And finally, a question, quiet: “Why the legs?”

You shrugged, voice dry. “Because people don’t usually check there. My skirt covers it and no one really stares there... you know? My mom doesn’t do laundry.”

He nodded slowly, like that made awful, perfect sense. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. Most people wouldn't risk getting called a pervert.”

A few more seconds of quiet.

You shifted, groaning as your back hit the tub with a thud, "Fuck, this floor is cold."

"Well, sorry, I don't really hold mental breakdowns in style." He retorts back, not even looking at you as you scowl.

This back and forth went on for a while. The silence is deafening in that too-bright bathroom—white tiles, beige towels, that fake marble countertop that looks like every white-family suburban house ever. You’re sitting on the edge of the tub now, arms wrapped around yourself because you’re still kind of in shock, Rodrick perched on the toilet lid with his head down, bandages hugging his forearms, still damp with antiseptic.

You glance over at him, unsure what the next move is, and your mouth twitches.

“This is so fucking weird,” you say, breathless with disbelief.

Rodrick looks up, eyes red—not from crying, but from the leftover high, lids half-lowered. “You think?”

“I was supposed to be doing chem homework,” you mutter, then laugh. Really laugh. Head tilting back, the kind of breathless laugh that borders on manic. “Now I’m half-naked in your bathroom and I’ve seen your blood and your scars and you’ve seen mine. Like. What the fuck.”

Rodrick snorts. “Kinda romantic.”

You throw a balled-up, bloody tissue at him.

There’s a pause again, but it’s not the tense kind anymore. It’s… weirdly peaceful. Intimate. Almost like after a storm, when the world’s gone still.

You glance at the tub, then at him. “Y’know what would wake you up faster than that blunt?”

“What?”

“A cold bath. Like chuck a few ice cubes from the freezer in there.”

His head whips toward you like you just said the most evil shit imaginable. “Are you outta your damn mind?”

You’re already standing up. “Maybe. But you’re the one who said it was romantic in here.”

“I take it back.”

“You’re such a baby,” you smirk, turning the blue faucet handle hard until the water blasts out, freezing cold. “C’mon. We’ll scream together.”

He watches, dumbfounded, then lets out a breathy chuckle that he tries to hide. But he doesn't protest, swinging the door open and making his way to nip downstairs. To the freezer.

And somehow—somehow—the night ends with both of you screaming out your frustration into the echoey walls of his bathroom as ice water pours over your heads, both shivering and alive and messy and laughing at god knows what, because for once… you’re not alone in the weird, horrible way your brain works. You swear at some point you tried to see how many ice cubes you could stack on Rodrick's usually-hidden forehead like a deck of cards.

Soaked through and shaking, your skirt on this time, tights tossed across the room like shed skin. Because skin was a running theme apparently, cutting off layers of shame in the same way you both cut layers of skin.

Eventually, you both down as you sit opposite each other in the tub. Dripping. Shivering. You’re in your bra and skirt, which is plastered to your thighs and basically translucent now. Rodrick’s shirt is half off his shoulder, hair dripping into his eyes, lips slightly blue. You’re pretty sure this is how people catch pneumonia.

And then—then—it hits you.

You slap the side of the tub. “Shit!”

Rodrick flinches, wide-eyed. “What?!”

“The maths notes.”

“What maths notes?”

“The reason I came here, dumbass!” You throw your hands up, looking around like the notes might still be floating somewhere in the air. “I was supposed to give you the equations for Thursday’s test! You think Mr. Beaumont’s gonna believe this as an excuse?!”

Rodrick blinks, then breaks into a cackle. “Oh my god. You still care about school right now?”

You glare. “Yes? Some of us have reputations to uphold?”

“You just showed me your scars and helped me bandage my arms, then dragged me into a cold bath in your bra,” he wheezes. “I think ‘reputation’ left the building twenty minutes ago.”

You slap your wet hand over your face. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re already in my bathroom. Half naked. In my tub. You’re basically already in hell.”

You throw one of the thicker ice cubes that didn't melt yet straight at him, and he yelps as it knocks him square between the eyes.

The two of you stare at each other for a second—then start laughing again. Breathless. Tired. Shaky. But real.

And when you two finally get out? The bathroom is quiet now—just the dripping of water from your clothes and the sharp sound of your own breathing filling the space. Cold tiles against bare feet. Clothes stuck to wet skin. Neither of you speak, not really knowing how to shift from whatever the fuck that just was into something resembling normalcy.

You keep your eyes glued to the wall tiles as you change, tracing the cracks in the grout like they matter, like they’re not just old and chipped but deliberate. You can hear him moving behind you—zipper, shuffle, that little groan he makes under his breath like putting on clothes is somehow a personal attack.

“I should ask when your parents are getting home,” you mutter, voice flat but testing the waters.

There's a pause. One that lasts too long.

Rodrick snorts. “Why? So you can rat me out like the perfect little fucking narc you are?”

You roll your eyes, still not turning around. “Jesus, I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t wanna get caught soaked and half-naked in your bathroom, dumbass.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not really. Just lets out this low, bitter chuckle like it scraped its way out of his chest.

You pull your skirt over your thighs, still damp and clinging. It’s awkward, weird, way too intimate for two people who still hate each other.

“I mean... they won’t be back till late.” He sounds far away. “Probably.” Then quieter: “Hopefully.”

Something about the way he says it makes you freeze. You turn your head slightly, eyes catching his reflection in the mirror. He’s tugging his shirt over his head, jaw clenched, eyes low. That same tension from earlier. Like he’s bracing for something.

You chew the inside of your cheek. “They hit you?”

The silence that answers you is enough. Not a yes. Not a no. Just silence.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

“For what?”

“For... I dunno. Asking. Assuming. Existing.”

He huffs, then finally turns to look at you. His hair’s still wet, dripping onto the stained collar of his shirt, and his eyeliner’s smudged—not like he meant to wear it, but like it’s just always kind of there, from two days ago or something. He probably doesn't have his own eyeliner, much less make-up remover.

“My dad thinks hitting me builds character,” he says finally. “Greg just—Greg doesn’t care. He’s got his own shit. And Mom... Mom just makes casseroles like every white American mom ever and tells us to stop yelling. Classic fucking sitcom family.”

You swallow. The air in the bathroom feels thick. You sit back down on the edge of the tub, wet and miserable and weirdly heartbroken.

He leans against the door, arms crossed. “What about you? Gotta be exhausting. Must suck when people find out you’re actually... kinda fucked up too.”

You glance up at him. “It’s not a competition.”

“No, but I’m winning,” he smirks, and for a second you wanna throw the empty antiseptic bottle at his face.

But instead, you laugh. Just a little. Just enough for your chest to shake and your throat to loosen.

Rodrick looks at you like he doesn’t understand why he likes that sound so much.

You both sit there for a second—just two messed up kids with blood on their hands, wet socks, and secrets sticking to their ribs.

“Okay,” you say, standing up. “We need to get out of this house before I start trauma bonding and make out with you or something.”

He blinks, surprised. “You wish.”

You grab the math notes still crumpled outside the bathroom. “No, you wish, you loser. I’m still delivering these. Like the good little girl I am.”

Rodrick watches you leave, eyes on your back, your calves, the little limp from your cold feet in wet shoes.

He doesn’t say it—but he’s already thinking about the next time he’ll see you, even if he knows it's going to go back to seeing your dolly-curly hair bobbing in the corridors from afar... and nothing else. But at least he’s not dreading that fact anymore.

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