#whatever man. WHAT. EVER. it’s so fine it’s so totally cool.

[dadsbongos]

one must imagine violet happy...

14 k words / warnings - cunnilingus, fingering, choking, strap on (vi giving), drinking your feelings, emotional detachment and flip-flopping, reader's ex is an offscreen 'Her', fem reader

summary - despite vi's (and yours) red flags, you like her so much you can't let go. you think you two can graduate from casual fling to dedicated relationship despite still grieving your exes...

it started out as being vi’s little rebound fuck:

After another win she's drinking and masquerading it as a celebration when there's a meek tap on her shoulder. Vi can barely feel the sheepish, fleeting contact through her thick jacket; but she can make out the sight of a figure right beside her. It's a little wiggly and fuzzy, melting into the background as the warm washes of alcohol begin buzzing beneath her skin.

Vi twirls on the stool, frowning at you, "Yeah?"

Her tone is vicious, full of snot and ridicule, eyes narrowed. Black shade smearing over her cheekbones from the influence of sweat. Similarly, her hair is sweat-slicked, unevenly dyed strands dewy against her temples.

"Uhm, Vi, right?" you clear your throat, leaning close because you're petrified she won't hear you.

"What?" she spits again, though cants toward you -unbalanced.

"Hey, so," your hands knot behind your back, forcing your chest to jut out. Gnawing your bottom lip and eyelashes batting up at her, "I'm kinda like your biggest fan..."

"Hah?" her jaw hangs open, an eye squinting at you in disbelief, "You fuckin' serious?"

"Super serious," you giggle in earnest, hoping maybe a bit more charm will make her hard exterior crack, "I think you're crazy out there."

Vi sighs, surely about to reject you when a hand lands on her shoulder -a brunette man shrugs at her, giving a tiny smile- and she visibly loosens. Shoulders slacking and creased brows smoothing. She turns toward you again.

Heart hammering between your ribs, you catch her gray eyes drifting from your pert face and over your chest and down your hips along your thighs. All sleazy like.

The man murmurs into her ear as she blatantly leers at you. Barely do you catch his advice over the thrumming music: have a little fun.

Vi nods against his tilted head and pats the stool beside her, "Alright, fangirl, hop on."

You've got to clench your bottom lip in razor teeth to withhold a squeal, nodding excitedly and bouncing up onto the seat. Swiveled to face her. Vi reaches boldly between your legs, grasping the chilled metal underside to yank your stool flush against hers. The sides clack, vibrating you in place.

“You drunk?” she slurs at you.

“Uh, no…”

“You want a drink?” she tosses a thumb over her shoulder, toward the shiny shelves of liquor jugs.

“Uh, sure!”

“You picky? What do you want?”

“Uh, whatever you’re having is fine!”

Vi’s brows raise, lips quirking in amusement, “Do you ever start a sentence without some moaning, sweetheart?”

Pushing your lips tight, you have to swallow down the ditzy ‘uhm’ rushing up your throat to refuse, “No! I’m normally super good at speaking.”

“Are you?”

You shrug, “I think so.”

Vi laughs -well more like a loose snicker but still!- and shakes her head at you, combing a wrapped hand through her patchy hair, “You that starstruck?”

“Are you kidding? You’re so cool,” you gush, hands falling to your knees. Squeezing around bone nervously, “I’m totally obsessed with watching you out there.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ooh,” Vi’s fingers, calloused and bruising, so tenderly draw beneath the strap of your bra. Thumbing the extra frills along each edge and pausing at the bow nestled just above the cups, she pushes the minuscule ribbons up with a blunt nail. Bottom lip trapped between her teeth, “This is cute, cupcake.”

“Yeah!”

.

.

.

“Cupcake?” you giggle, a bit ditzy with confusion swirling with anticipation -clogging your throat.

“Uh-huh,” she hums, blinking stiffly. Steely eyes flocking up from your chest to your face before tumbling back down. Fat spilling over the thin fabric, jiggling with your every labored breath. Vi wraps her other arm around your back, swiftly unweaving the hook, “I gotta get this off you.”

Bending into her grasp, you let Vi greedily peel your bra off; eyes tearing into the way your breasts drop free. One hand cinching the loose lace and the other eagerly pawing at your chest. Pinching a nipple solely to hear you gasp.

“So cute,” her eyes have some faraway film over them regardless of how active her hands are at your bosom as if acting out instinctually, like how she’d brush her teeth or breathe without thought.

“Vi,” you whine, raising your hands toward her arms and burning your prints into her forearm. Searing over her joints and up her bicep before wringing around her neck. Tangling fingers into her hair, “You seem distracted…”

“A little,” she admits, looking up at you so dejectedly you’re almost compelled to avoid eye contact. It’s wrong to see her so welpy and limp in spirit; goes against everything you’ve sifted of her personality through watching her fights.

“Should I go?”

“Don’t…”

“Vi, I’m worried-!”

You yelp then as she wrangles you forward by the hips, plying the flesh carelessly. She surges forward, chapped lips against yours with heat -- chaste pecks a ruse of affection before she’s licking into your mouth. Sour beer invades your senses as she cups your cheek and brings you closer. The brush of her thumb along your cheekbone is jarringly tender.

“Don’t talk,” she grunts, flipping and backing you into her makeshift mattress.

The hand not hovering your face massages your bare thigh. She punches up onto her knees, gasping openly against your mouth before rushing a thigh into the gap. Spreading you open while grinding her knee on your mound. Her palm rounds the top of your thigh to dig the warm inside. Merely squeezing her way down, closer and closer toward the crease where leg meets pelvis until her thumb slips beneath the gusset of your panties. Gliding over where you’re hottest to circle your clit with the pooling juices.

Bucking into her digit makes her laugh openly into your mouth.

Hand fluttering down from your face, Vi draws clipped nails over your neck and traces the swell of your breast -traversing your ribs and stomach before she meets the band of your underwear. Another bow greets her and she laughs again, twiddling the velveteen ornament.

“Dressed up just for me, cupcake?”

When her eyes are shut, she can’t see you preparing to speak but she can feel it -- must be able to because before you can confirm that yes, yes, Vi, I did and I wanted you to see me and notice how the set matches it’s my only one she kisses you again. But somehow, someway you need her to know the truth; you moan as you return the wet smooch.

Frantically humping her palm, anxious to dip her long fingers inside you, with a swooning wordless mewl. Vi purposefully ignores the mindless need, ‘tsk’ vibrating through your lips -she leisurely snags and drags your panties down your thighs. Dark fabric wrinkling between her knuckles, which blister white while following the planes of your legs. Her patience lasts until your ankles, where she finally and appropriately rips the cloth free. Tossing it aside. Then pinning your knee aside with the freshly spare hand.

Vi’s lips leave yours, she sighs and leans back to watch herself fan your cunt open, “You even realize you’re clenching right now? Or are you so desperate I’m all you’re thinking about?”

“I just want you,” you wail, back bending up to jam your tits in her face.

“‘Course you do,” she tucks her face into the junction of your neck. Digging canines into your pulse and sucking a welt as unavoidable evidence you had her between your thighs.

You’d let her vacuum hickies all down your body -- she doesn’t even have to ask.

A ragged gasp barbs your lungs as Vi slips her middle finger into you, curling toward the pouch of your stomach. Crescending from slow drawls into solid pistons, pushing out whines and curses between your teeth. She slides a second finger in, thumb sloppily drawing up to your clit.

Suddenly she’s braced overhead, studying your pinched face with intent. Heaving like she’s the one getting fucked. Gray eyes nonstop racing between your sploshing cunt wrapped around her fingers up to your chest and into your teary lashes. The rough pad of her thumb slides distinct characters along your bud.

You could be delusional, or she could be carving her name into you.

The thought she is makes you seize-- then a hard shot through your gut forces your head back. Lips crowning an ‘o’-shape.

“Breathe, baby,” she coos, pushing against your tummy as she continues fingering you through each spasm, “Breathe for me.”

You do as she says, reaping a big deep breath just for her -- with padded air, you sing, “Oh, Vi!” whole body jittering.

“Good job, cupcake,” she lays an overly sentimental kiss on your forehead as you pant back to normality.

Eyes low, you fling hands out to greedily caress her firm stomach careening toward her chunky belt. Rough hands pause you, Vi shakes her head and cups your face again to kiss you hard, pressing you onto the stiff bed with her weight over yours.

“Just wanna fuck you, cupcake,” she groans, taking a snip from your bottom lip. It stings faintly but she’s pleased with herself so you just run your tongue over the sore.

Then, she slinks away. Shortly, only as far as her nightstand, but you're worming down the bed to sap up her heat again. Vi unleashes something jarring, though not unwelcomed. You watch in stunned silence while she unveils it: a shadowy magenta-hued dildo rigged into black leather. She locks eyes, raising a brow: you get it, this is your chance. If you don't want to get fucked, you should leave. Good for Vi, getting fucked was exactly what you were wanting when you approached her.

Vi presses your hips down on the bed flat. Every fluid thrust into you ends with a deep electric pop. Her fingers stretch out until the silky head of her strap taps her skin and then she speeds up until that tapping is a battering. Her back straightens as you wheeze a sweet sigh; leaning upright. Arm stiffening to cuff your throat, thumb affectionately scrubbing along your pulse. Spare hand grappling beneath your knee to widen the gap between your thighs.

Drilling into you, Vi manages to jolt you across her bed mat. And like a fly to honey, she chases -in a flurry to not leave your cunt too long before returning with a slam. Genuine groans and hums singe her throat: heat spiraling down her arm until your hips hop up toward her pelvis.

“Beautiful, baby,” she grunts, eyes fluttering back in her skull.

Skin slapping skin merges with the music of your wetness wailing around Vi. Firework displays of arousal beget more arousal -- watching her crinkle and fall over you makes you clench around her. Something about her borderline manic moans and drooling makes you feel like she somehow feels it.

Vi squeezes your throat before releasing your windpipe: now using both hands to swerve and press your thighs against your bouncing chest. Cock reaching mysteriously deeper. She folds your torso in half, squatting over you so there’s no escape from her dick. Every twitch away is easily overpowered. Her entire weight crashing into your soaked cunt.

Curses flicking between Vi’s clenched teeth when she finally pulses hard, hard into you. Sitting base deep and grinding, swishing back and forth as her eyes widen and glisten.

“Aw, fuck, baby,” she sounds a bit pathetic but the sounds more intoxicating than what you drank tonight, “Baby, baby, cupcake, so good!”

She lowers to kiss you. Once. Then twice. Then she pulls back to smile down at you. Sleepy and lopsided and hazed with serenity.

After precisely one second, she slowly pulls out. Very kindly massaging your thighs as she lowers both legs before rising from the bed.

Vi meanders toward the bathroom -- kitchen sink hissing to life soon after.

Hands unwound by your head and legs smeared across her bed, your chest thunders with each heave for air. Soft padded steps veer closer before pausing completely at the foot of the bedroom.

“Need a walk down?” Vi’s shoulder burdens the doorway, head tipped toward the frame.

Oh, were you being rude?

Maybe so…

“Yes,” you grunt, hips uncooperative as you slide off her lackluster bed. Vi does not rush over to cradle you off but watches with a satisfied smear. Fighting on your clothing, sans the bra flung somewhere over her shoulder, you eventually crash into Vi’s side.

“Trouble walking?”

“Shut up…”

Vi snorts, sympathetic enough to wring an arm around you. Brunting your weight as you both shuffle toward the door, cracking it open to an uncaring brisk wind. Shivering deeper into the burrow of her side, the cold emboldens you enough to wrap both arms around her waist. Borderline snuggling as she hefts you toward the stairs.

“Cold?” a question, you think. Vi says it with plain confidence. Not that she needed that confidence to declare something bare before her eyes. Sometimes when the sky is dark and a dog is barking, you just have to call them as they are.

You’re fucking freezing.

Wordlessly, Vi shrugs off her jacket -- red leather squeaking along her arms and over yours. Her eyes pounce over you, it could be predatory if you didn’t like it so much- before she ‘hmph’s, “You should keep that. I like it on you,” she jumbles you around easily, “Besides, you should start dressing warmer.”

“Are you telling me to cover up?”

She croons over your pout, blatantly looking down your low top -- nipples cutting through the thin fabric and soon-swelling lovebites on display, “Nope. Maybe a long-sleeve couldn’t hurt, though.”

“Oh?” a sudden stroke of genius (and desperation) lathes you, “And would you come give a second opinion?”

Tone lilting just enough to be casual, you could absolutely play this off as a joke! …but you’re not joking.

“If you want me to,” she shrugs.

No fucking way it worked.

“Yeah, really?” your entire point of cool and casual melts without restraint, an audibly nervous, bumpy chuckle flipping through your throat, “I’d -yeah- I’d like that.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“For sure,” you giggle, positively lightheaded.

“You got it from here?”

“Oh, yeah, I can get home…” when you glance her way, Vi’s eyes are over your shoulder. Her knuckles blistering around the banister, “I don’t live far, really.”

“Yeah?” her foot taps anxiously. You nod with a quiet ‘yeah, vi, promise’ and she returns the gesture. Then pats your padded shoulders, fingers tightening around familiar leather, “Jacket should be enough warning, anyway.”

“You’re just that big and bad?”

“Oh, yeah,” she mimics you, shooting a wink before turning up toward the steps, “Find me tomorrow if you’re serious about that little shopping trip.”

Oh God she’s turning away, she’s about to waltz right out and you know yourself. You know you’ll lose this spontaneous courage as soon as her back has faded up the stairs, so you blurt out:

“Uhm, actually!”

“Huh?”

“...do you want to stay the night at mine?”

Vi blinks herself from her stupor, tackling a single step down with the most conflicted confusion lashing her cheekbones. Rolling the proposal from one tooth, around the ring of her jaw, and finally swallowing, “You want me in your house?”

“I can make you breakfast,” you add, to avoid the accusation of being overtly domestic you then throw in a softening, “I have bread and eggs.”

Unthinkingly, she snubs a hand over her stomach -- merely mentioning food has her guts flipping. Phantom curls of toast twist into her nose, saliva gushing freshening her palette. Vi takes another step down, then another, and another, and she grabs your hand -yoinking you forward silently until you’re guiding her toward your apartment.

***

Wet heat. Feathered scratches. Someone’s mewling.

Oh, oh, oh God -it’s you.

Fingers are already knotting into sheets, hips quirking. Gut clenching.

Startling awake with a gasp, your back’s already sharpened upward. Head thrown back into the pillows and legs tossed over Vi’s shoulders. Thighs shaking around her ears. Instinctually, you try raising your hips from her maw- squirming up the thin mattress for relief- but Vi easily rakes you back down. Blunt nails shoveling into your hips, pushing down to keep you still.

Tongue parting your folds crudely, Vi revels in your apparent distress; blinking up at you slowly as you grapple a fistful of hair. She even has the gall to chuckle at you. Vibrations spiraling and fizzing out in the balls of your hips, but still just knowing it’s her makes your chest tighten. Another squeal tumbles out, tongue fighting its way into your cheek to no avail. Every attempt is halted swiftly with Vi lewdly, loudly, and unabashedly sucking syrupy cum from your hole.

Moaning for more, she swivels her face into your cunt before pulling back to flay a broad stroke over your clit. Circling the bud precisely just to hear your staggered huffs. Frustrated tears well in the corners of your eyes.

Palming her flushed forehead, your shuddering arm tries in vain to shove her away. Vi shakes her head into you again, scolding you with her eyes as she suckles your clit -- pulling away just to ‘tsk’,

“I’m trying to clean you up here, you know?”

An uneven puff of breath leaves you, chest jittering and head flinging limply, “‘s too much, Vi…”

“Too much?” she leans upon her elbows, wrapping an arm around your leg to push two fingers across your cunt, spreading you open and watching you clench around nothing, “But you’re still so wet, baby.”

“Yeah, you’re too much,” you manage to pant out, fractionally grateful for the break and partially wondering if it’d be too hypocritical to hump her shiny face now.

Vi mimics a frown, way dramatically downturning her lips, “Am I?” you nod, “So, should I stop?”

You bite your lip.

You shake your head.

“Aw, okay then,” she slaps your thigh, “Stop whining so much, yeah?”

Vi really is so mean to you.

***

First stop on your mental list is also the sole stop, so ideally, this trip would not last long. Of course, before you two make it far, you’re distracted:

“Nice comb, probably expensive,” Vi gruffs from over your shoulder. She saw and fully knew you were going the wrong way and said nothing, only followed with hunched shoulders and hands in her pockets. Mean glares passed onto leering men.

Squeaking in shock, you cradle the comb to your chest and pray it calms the rapid beating of your heart. Flipping the smooth darkwood in your hand, skimming your fingers along the teeth just to feel each fine spike.

“I can afford it,” you insist.

“You got a job?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Vi’s almost startled by your offense, raising her hands in surrender with a small shrug, “How am I supposed to know? You’re always on me.”

“What?” you pout dejectedly, “You got a problem with that?”

“Nah,” Vi snatches the comb from your hand before twining your fingers together, “I like having a pretty thing around,” she holds the tool up over your head before you can grab it, snickering as you try stretching over her to grab it back, “What do you do anyway?”

“Huh?”

“For work,” she kindly elbows you flat onto your feet, squeezing your hand as she guides you through the coagulated market, “What do you do?”

“I’m a waitress, kinda,” you quiet, leaning your face against her thick bicep. It’s warm against your face, skin soft regardless of her own career, “I open at Bombshells…”

“Didn’t know that place was open before night.”

“Our dancers don’t show up until then, yeah.”

“Slow, huh?”

“I mostly clean with the other girl.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“Says you.”

“I’m fine as long as I win,” she grins wolfishly, canines glinting in the sunlight leaking from above. A honeyed glow cast over her faded dye, “Which I always do.”

Cheeks heating at the dichotomy between jagged danger and her big eyes and pretty face, your gaze darts away. Vi ghosts her lips over your temple, it could’ve been a kiss but you mostly just felt her smirking against you. Whenever an unfortunate head turns your way she fastens you deeper into her side, undoubtedly possessive. Terrible a trait as that is, especially given how the two of you aren’t official, you’re bewitched by the showmanship.

You assume it's a good thing: that she wants you.

When she leads you up to the vendor and uses her own coin to pay for your comb, your assumptions only sink deeper. You pray not into delusion, but you’re sure that possibility isn’t off the table.

“Take care of that thing,” she says with finality, as if you need the warning.

A wood so dark it burns red, strips of yellowish discolor vining diagonally along the middle. Shining in your palm with searing polish. You had a prettier comb when you were little -- a gold spine and black veneer, you carried it everywhere. Until you lost it. Losing that comb was hardly the worst thing in your life, especially at the time, although it was very beautiful and so pricey. This comb, if you lost this comb, you can only guess that the world itself would end.

Again cradling the comb against your chest, now with sincerity, you squeeze the hand Vi has wrapped around yours, “I think it’s my favorite.”

Vi laughs at you. Good-natured, you think. You hope.

She takes your hand in hers back on the way toward shirts all the same.

Vi occasionally has to redirect your sights back onto long-sleeves from tiny cut tops. You manage to pluck two that caught your eye and Vi’s little smirk and nod as she says, “you’ll have to model for me.” makes you weak in the knees.

And the downright perverse way her eyes crawl down your torso doesn’t help. She’s slouched back onto the bed, one thigh bouncing in frenzy.

“C’mere,” Vi slurs, raking you between her spread legs with hands on your hips.

“Vi!” you giggle, maybe a little more vapid than necessary, and try to balance yourself against her shoulders.

Without much concern or forethought, Vi is prying the shirt over your head. Mumbling to herself, just loud enough for you to catch snippets, desperate claws to see your skin. How much she misses it already. Calloused hands scar up from your sides to cradle your back while her lips tease down the swell of your breasts. Laving your nipples in broad tongue-strokes before softly tucking one in her mouth, cheeks hollowing. She croons around the bud as if it’s doing anything for her.

As she pops off, you catch the rouge caked into her cheeks. Webs of slobber stitching her swollen lips to your stiff nipple. Shining with saliva.

Then she’s pushing you away, a non-committed attempt at a kiss ghosts your lips before Vi is turning away. She clears her throat and pets through her hair.

“I’ve gotta get to the bar,” as if she can sense the wild request gushing up your gullet, she adds, “You should stay home and get some rest,” she must feel bad because she turns again to give you another chance at a kiss. Chaste and speedy before she’s darting out, “See you around, babe.”

Baffled as you are by her sudden disappearance, you’re equally -maybe even more- flattered by the pet name.

And in the quiet of her distance, you abruptly and sharply realize:

Oh, I didn’t go to work.

Oops.

Well, it’s too late now.

And the thought of finishing off what Vi started between your thighs sounds rich right about now. Your fingers may not be as satisfying but they’ve finished the job before, they can do it again.

Three sharp taps quake the door. Shrieking hinges shooting you alert. What are those odds? They must be good, right? Who else could be coming to your residence?

Did she forget something?

Does she miss you, too?

Skidding along the flat floor, a shirt hanging over your shoulders with skimpy panties beneath, you fling the door wide. Arms speared on either side, eager to wrap around the disheveled woman. You’re about to pile over her when your eyes hone on the face at your stoop.

Avont.

A grizzled man with wiry black hair curling around his jaw, bridging over his top lip, and connected to the slick-black ‘do of a proper undercity businessman.

“What happened?” oak eyes scrutinize you, scanning from your mussed hair to your bare legs, “Are you okay? You didn’t show.”

Ohhhhh maybe the boss you flaked on. That’s someone who might show up late at night, duh. Completely normal.

Well, fairly: it is normal when it’s Avont.

A faux sniffle schlucks up your nose easier than the throat-stabbing cough you force. Stumbling into the doorway with a very sudden, very apparent light-headedness, “I got- !” you silence yourself with another cough, forcing your voice down into the base of your chest, “Caught something… at that bar…”

Scoffing, Avont nods, “Big surprise. That place is nasty as shit. I keep tellin’ you stop going there,” here he goes again -you mentally retreat, planning the next ploy to aid your virus story, while he spiels, “You’re too nice for a gross ass place like that. No little crush is worth that black-eye waiting to happen! You need to listen to me, I was right about that girl and I’m right about that bar!”

Clearing your throat and shaking off both his lecture and the subtle jab at your dating history, you apologize softly and assure him, “I’ll be back on my feet soon…”

“Get rest, kid. I better not see your ass prancing in the lanes…”

Ugh, no faith. Like he thinks you’re a liar or something!

You feign a pained swallow and show a ‘thumbs up’. Nodding curtly. Shutting the door as he turns away. Returning to bed orgasm-less, and now dulled of all carnal heat upon the sight of your boss ]

***

Rising from bed provides a fresh ache, unrelated to the -still recovering- fingerprints scorched along your hips or the bite marks on your chest. This one curdles inside: above the vagina and below your throat. Acting more as a realization than a concrete feeling, one you think is meant to be stifled instead of acted upon. Not that self-awareness helps any.

Because whether it’s embarrassing or not, you’re itching to see Vi again. No amount of maturity or hindsight can pin that into a designated place. It rattles around, bowling one end of your stomach to the other like a wild hog until you’re shuffling out of bed. Intent on somehow finding those slate eyes on you again.

Skimping on work is something you’d be scolded for at home, which makes you thankful you’re not: you get to flee your house without a lecture on the importance of career dedication.

You planned on waiting before seeing Vi, you could picture it so well: you, posted at the bar by yourself in a cute little number with a drink you took one sip from. Lipstick around the rim. Lashes thick and batting over your shoulder as she approaches you for once.

All of that daydreaming is dashed as soon as you step foot inside.

Vi is already there. Black face paint thick around the eyes, strewn down her cheeks nearing the corners of her mouth -- black lipstick around there, too. Outgrown strands flattening out around her neck like oiled feathers. Individual pieces compiling to craft this perfect ego, some mask to make herself unattainable.

Always there. Always lingering. Always looking despite the danger ahead.

It makes you wonder what she serves. You want to know more. You need her to tell you, whisper it against your lips with her tongue in your mouth.

But she’s always there.

Does she live here or something?

Between strobing lights and swamped bodies, you manage to make out Vi’s stained silhouette. Ear cuffs shining back into your retinas.

Now you struggle with how to approach… should you be upfront? Should you tease from the sidelines and pray she notices?

Before you can formulate the most immaculate lie, Vi spots you in the faded crowd. Her eyebrows raise a smidge, a smoke visibly clearing from her gaze upon the sight of you. As if you could have no other prerogative than her (you don’t), she beckons you forward with two flicks of her middlemost fingers -- effectively eliminating the most awkward part of approaching her. Good!

Bounding toward the woman, you shyly tuck your hands at your hip and give a coy, “Hey, Vi…”

“What’re you doing here?”

Fuck!

“I’m here all the time,” not really a lie, just strategically subtracting the part where you come solely to catch glimpses of her beneath floodlights.

“Sure,” she pushes off the crackled counter, sliding back toward the door.

“I was just bored…” you admit glumly, reduced to a miserable, truthful goop beneath her glittering eyes, “Couldn’t think of anything but this place.”

Vi, naturally, chooses to pick on you, “You thinking of me?”

“Wha- ! Ugh, uh, no. Not really. Not even,” again, your bluffs disperse as simply as smoke with a mere flick of her eyes, “Just super bored.”

“Uh-huh,” she shrugs, jerking her head toward the back of the room, “You bored enough for a quickie in the bathroom? I gotta go out in ten for my first fight, need something to get my heart started.”

“First fight?”

“I get double-booked most nights, sweetpea.”

Your automatic reaction is to squeeze your thighs, feeling that slight nudge of fat ripe against your clit -- the friction. The resounding echo of your heartbeat against each rib bone. A dodgy snort racketing through your sinus, “You need to work on your nicknames.”

Vi’s initial response is to roll her eyes as if she could read the arousal off you like text -- her second response is to quietly mumble, “Forget that one from last night.”

Out of respect, you singularly nod and say nothing else, no matter how oddly the request strikes you.

And when Vi links an arm through yours, out of respect, you let her drag you into the bathroom. Spiked jacket collars dig into you as she crushes you toward the back wall -- rigging a janky lock last-minute; you’re not sure it ever clicked, and you’re also not sure that you care.

She keeps you pinned against the tile wall when you try slinking down her body. Vi ‘tsk’s in your face, nipping your neck, black fingernails already dipping beneath your waistband. Fluttering your bottoms down your thighs before whirling you around yet again. She slides onto the lidded toilet, legs spread wide. One thigh braised, muscle tense. She sits you on that thigh.

“Come on, baby,” she viciously swipes your cunt along her thumping thigh, swerving your hips by force. Rudely mimicking your pathetic whimpers back to you, airy, echoed “ah, ah, ah”s passing between sloppy kisses, “You gonna cum for me?”

Hard pressure and stroke against your clit has a ragged gasp raking through your chest, you spread your legs and wrangle hands into her jacket.

Then twisting those hands up toward her blackened hair. Vi has no sympathy, only pushing down harder and sliding you wetly over her skin.

“Come on, girl,” she moans quietly, “Give it to me. I need to watch you cum.”

Your gut twists at the desperate husk in her voice. Thighs quaking around hers. Nails snagging the nape of her neck.

She nudges up into you on each stroke, pressing her lips to yours.

“Uh- !” you gasp, knot blistering apart in your stomach.

“Yeah?”

“Hah…!”

“Uh-huh, baby,” she slowly releases your hips, allowing you to rut at your own pace while you come down from your orgasm.

“Oh, Vi…”

“Good girl,” she pecks your cheeks. Papping the black lipstick stains away kindly, “I needed that.”

Vi has enough decorum to help you yank up your clothes before shuffling you back out into the crowd.

Her thick jacket is laid over you. She pats the two-headed hound over your back with a playful shrug and chooses to not acknowledge the way you solely gaze at her chest beneath the wrap top. What a merciful and kind woman.

You slide your arms through the sleeves of the heavy jacket, letting Vi guide you via a hand just above your ass. Until you’re squishing through raised pews, not mumbling apologies quick enough for all the shoes you’re trampling. Too fast you’re moving in a space too dark.

“Here, baby,” Vi gruffs from behind you, shoving you as politely as possible onto the stone seat beside a man over thrice your size. She pats your padded shoulder and beams at the man while saying your name, then turns to you amongst the cheering crowd and says, “This is my friend! Just stick with him and nobody’ll fuck with you while I’m down there!”

Eagerly nodding along, you perk up as Vi leans down. One hand on your cheek and the other darting between the open drawls of her jacket -- not-so-subtly copping a squeeze of your tit -- pressing you with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. Then she hops down the pews vertically, carelessly shoving aside viewers. People scream after her in outrage but don’t change their bets on her win.

An elbow jutting into your side knocks you violently into Vi’s friend. Rather than become as upset as the patrons, he smiles down at you softly and slinks an arm around your back to keep you away from the rowdiness.

Lights dim, then shoot alive. Flashing down into the pit. Circling and circling like scavenger birds as a man rippling with black ink enters directly across from Vi.

You sit up seeing her. Eyes widening as if that could provide some higher definition sight of her.

The man keeps you upright among the thrashing throng. He has no room to say it, but the lovestruck haze on your face both terrifies and moves him. He prays for both yours and Vi’s sake that Vi is big enough with those muscles to dwarf her past. He’d love to put the idea of caution in your head, of a safe distance. But for one: the mob is shrieking, and two: your eyes are soaking wet with infatuation.

Even when Vi is making a man even bigger than himself spit out teeth and blood, you look down at her like she’s gifting a ribboned bouquet.

Post win, reveling in the coins freshly lining her pockets, Vi has you on her arm while her friend repeatedly gathers the bartender’s attention with his broader, taller stature.

Stares linger. Regular betters spotting this man with Vi is not unusual, but you are. A glaring lime green dot in the center of this portrait. Girls stray, syrupy voices sultry to lure Vi from her seat; yet it never works.

Her arm hooked around your waist tightens every time, screwing you into her side until your skin is basically glued against hers. If, at any point, you could be worried about her taking a different girl home: she quickly remedies that by how sparingly she diverts her attention from you.

It was always going to be you she takes home, and you were always going to say yes.

“This is cute,” Vi holds, between two fingers, your absolute embarrassment, “You carry this wherever you go?”

“Why are you riffling through my things?!”

You launch forward to rip your bag out of her lap and try snatching the comb from her fingers but she tosses it aside to wrench you forward. Both arms wrapping around your waist; wrapped hands with dried blood around the knuckles securing you against her.

“I trusted you…” you seethe, albeit non-seriously, and slap her shoulder, “I leave you alone for two seconds and you try teasing me.”

“It’s cute! You got a little reminder charm in your purse, it’s adorable,” when you only pout harder, Vi relents, “Sorry for betraying your trust while you pissed.”

“Ew, don’t say it like that…”

“So sensitive,” she lulls onto her back, bringing you with her so you’re fully nestled on her chest.

Grumbling protests into her bosom, you squeeze yourself around her. Throwing a leg over both of hers. Her blunt nails barely make an indent against your back as she draws lines and circles -and hearts you think?- along your spine. Despite her heavy-handedness and rough pads, the ministrations are incredibly soothing. So gentle and sweet that you find your lids drooping.

Heavy lashes beating down onto your cheeks. Breaths evening and slowing. A fragile yawn escapes your parted lips.

Just as your mind is leaking blank, you’re jostled.

“Alright,” she coughs awkwardly, clapping the fat of your ass until you’re shuffling upward, leaning upon your elbows. Lashes clumped by black dye beat up at you, she presses her lips with furrowed brows, “Let’s get you home.”

“At this hour?” you yawn.

Slipping out from beneath you, Vi is already stuffing her shoes back on. Carding long fingers through her tangled hair as she murmurs, “I’ll walk you.”

You don’t suppose that’s the warmest invitation, and so slink off Vi’s board of a bed.

Much of the creep towards your apartment is as silent as it is prolonged. Her silence could speak volumes if she wasn't so flagrantly dragging her feet, pointing into the smokey, unclear sky to attract your attention or pausing you at each sketchy corner to 'scope' rounding dangers. Patiently, you wait for her to tell you any of the multitude of thoughts she's withholding, but that doesn't come before she's clomping outside your door. "Well, sweets, looks like it's goodnight. Keep those bugs away, huh?" lame, yet charming. You wouldn't have imagined someone as made-up and scenic as Vi would have a shamelessly cringe bone in their body and yet she surprises you. You're desperate to see more.

She’s turning, she’s getting away. For some odd reason no matter how much time you siphon from her it is never enough.

“Wait, Vi!” you clap a hand over your mouth as soon as the call has left your mouth.

She quirks a brow at you silently.

“Uhm,” now you can’t retract it. Commit or die of embarrassment, “Are you hungry?”

Vi’s lips raise in disbelief, disbelief that suffocates itself with a confused smile, “I haven’t eaten.”

“Do you want to come in? I’ll make you something good.”

Vi, for an unbearable few seconds of stunted silence, contemplates the offer before shrugging. Face elongating in pure why not energy -- skimming your side as she slides into your apartment. Saddling your stove impatiently with big puppy eyes, just waiting until you follow in.

“I wanna have a special nickname for you…”

“Give me one, then.”

“How about…” you hum thoughtfully, “Red? Like the jacket?”

Vi tenses, then shakes her head wildly, “Too close to one I don’t like.”

“Uh, okay, then… uhm… ughhh, there’s not enough to work with… I don’t wanna just call you ‘V’, that feels so cheap.”

“Full name’s Violet, if you really want more ammo.”

“Violet,” you sing it so sweetly that it makes heat swoon to her cheeks -she almost clutches her palms over her face like a child at the realization- “What if I just call you that? Is that okay?”

The blush is immediately overwritten by a heinous cackle, “That’s the exact opposite of a nickname.”

“Yeah, but it’s just as special because only I’ll call you that. It’s a name-extender, or something.”

“Uh-huh, or something,” when you don’t retort, instead just blinking up at her bashfully, Vi tilts her head sardonically, “Yes?”

“Do I get a nickname, too?”

“Oh, yeah, let’s go. How about ‘princess’?”

“No! It has to be related to me!”

“You don’t see how ‘princess’ is related to you?” brattishly, you shake your head and Vi rolls her eyes (albeit not with any malintent), “Alright, then… Pumpkin? Candy lady? Sweet girl?”

The last one makes you clench and rub your thighs, but you press that down, down, down and pretend to be normal.

“Why are all my nicknames so ‘sweets’ related?”

She answers, or instead dodges, your question with another one, “How can you sit there and be so nice all the time anyway?”

“I don’t know, it just feels better than being spiteful.”

“Okay, well. Sometimes you have to be.”

“Yeah! I didn’t mean anything by it… just, for me. Right? I didn’t mean anything.”

Vi doesn’t seem to buy it, which is confusing because you don’t think you ever gave her a reason to think you would lie.

“Where are you from?” her gaze narrows.

“Huh? How does that matter?”

“Where were you born?”

“Vi, if you just want someone to be mad at you then why are you with me?” sensing she won’t drop the topic anytime soon, you sigh and answer with great hesitance, “Piltover. I moved here when I was sixteen.”

“Why?”

Her questioning makes your skin crawl. You don’t like her sneer. You don’t like thinking about your past. And you don’t want to explain yourself to someone you thought would understand.

“A girlfriend,” you try to wave the answer away beneath the pan’s sizzle, but Vi catches it.

“You moved down here?” you hum and nod passively, praying she’d only drop the subject, but instead she scoffs, “She was stupid to not move over.”

“She had a family to take care of…”

“She could’ve moved them all.”

“Why does it matter?” you move the pan and swing around after stifling the stove, hands clutching your counter and sights rounding with juicy globs of upset. You already know why it matters. You heard it two years ago and you’re reading it in the displeased lines of Vi’s scowl.

“You don’t belong down here,” she speaks so casually.

“I belong wherever I want.”

“Not down here.”

“Not with you?”

Vi inhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut and arms folding, “Come on, you know that’s-!“

“No, you come on! That’s what you’re saying!” you wail, pushing into the rusting stove when Vi steps closer, “That’s what you’re thinking. That’s why you’re saying all this, right? Why else would you care so much about shit I don’t even think about.”

Vi approaches, hands uncomfortably stuffed into her pockets, “I just can’t understand not being angry about anything.”

“That’s not because you’re from Zaun, that’s because your life was hard.”

“My life is hard because I’m from Zaun,” she bites, “I had a little stay topside, and it was still shit for me.”

Again, you can read what she’s thinking. The sudden crease between her brows says it all -- that vengeful twinge and aggravated quirk of her lips. And again, your heart tells you with fiery anguish that you must hear her confirm it verbally,

“Why were you in Piltover?”

Vi looks down at you over the bridge of her nose, “For a girlfriend.”

Staring each other down with only the rocking of your unsteady body against the stove droning through your apartment. You frown while Vi smiles cruelly. She wants you to say it back. You didn’t belong there. She wants you to bang the pan in her face.

“I’m sorry it was so shit for you,” you cough between bulbing sobs, and the urge to spit them out only grows when Vi is visibly disappointed in your response, “If you’re looking for a fight then you should go back to your own place.”

Vi leans back into the counter opposite you. Arms coming up to fold across her chest. She burns thumb and forefinger into her eyes, then massages her brow and trails across to her temple, “You’re so sweet.”

A mirthless laugh scatters from your deflated self, “Like sugar?”

“Yeah…” she sniffs and clears her throat, “Like sugar.”

Foolishly, you allow the disagreement to settle over her stunted compliment(?), “I still don’t like that. You sound like some hounding drunk.”

“It’s all I got.”

“We should work on your nicknaming skills, Violet.”

“Yeah, whatever ‘name-extender’.”

***

Waking up hours earlier than your routine calls for does not suit you finely. But, alas, you do it for Violet. Violet.

Gorgeous name for such a rugged girl. Her scarred lip and gnarly dye-job don’t scream ‘fragile lavender flowers’. Sometimes there are things you can connect Violet to violets over: soft, round eyes and flushing skin and the taste of her lips. Violet. You roll the name between your brain-folds -- like a marble through grout, contemplating the history behind it. Has she always preferred Vi? When did that nickname sprout? Why is it tattooed on her cheek? Would she let you kiss her tattoo? Would she let you moan Violet when she’s inside you?

For the tenth time this morning, you shoot the clock a deadly scathe. Half past ten.

No longer satiated passing time examining her name, you stand to swing the door and survey your floor. Clean of any body, let alone the significant profile Vi provides.

Vi never struck you as a punctual person, definitely seeming the type to be fashionably late even to her own party, but this was grating. Surely she didn’t choke on vomit in the middle of the night, right?

Momentarily, you feel inspired to burst out and give chase: rush to her studio and cradle whatever hungover pieces remain. Then comes the concern: what if she comes here, and you’re out trying to hunt her down?

To avoid creating a complicated circle, you stay plopped on your couch with your elbows stabbed into your knees and your face hanging into your palms. Every time sleepiness creeps over you, dizzying your head or yanking your lids, you’re shocked awake with anxiety: what if she knocks and you don’t hear it?

To avoid inconveniencing Vi, you stay wide awake on your couch. For uninterrupted hours.

Until you’re forced to rise upon the realization that the sun has crashed beneath the horizon. Indigo glows of nighttime bruise your carpet through dusty windows. Slowly waking, the moon yawns behind a veil of thick smoke. Discoloring it to a vague yellow-ish-green-ish.

You’re a very punctual person. Vi tells you a time, and you find a way to be there two minutes early. So ideally, when she said she’d be showing off at 21:00- you would’ve caught her in the ring.

After elbowing toward the front, hands clasped around the top rail to haul you up high above the fighting -eyes wide to peek at Vi’s rough physique and soft face up close. Only to find two burly men duking in the center. Teeth and blood splattered across the chipped floor.

Bathroom, perhaps?

Shuffling around the edge of the room, you budge toward the back where a single light flickers above the sign with missing letters spelling: RE R O

All you find in the bathroom is another hot couple sweating and moaning in a broken-lock stall. Too caught in their rambunctious whirl of passion, neither pays you any mind before you gather the wherewithal to duck out and slam the door.

Between flashes of light and thumping music, you make out that none of the faces in the crowd are Vi.

Outside, then?

Maybe?

You dash outside, cutting between sweat-slick bodies until the cold air greets you. Music muffled behind steel walls and cigarette smoke curdling around unfamiliar faces. Kiramman banners reflect sickly green beneath the street lamps. They don’t swing in the faint billowing wind; stiff material snaking in jagged lines that hide trashed gutters. A girl with long hair stands in the center, shouting and hugging a boy shorter than her -- you would bet she reeks of Zaun’s finest.

Outside was no luck, you twirl vapidly in the street -as if Vi is standing just out of sight to tease you. Then you find the flight up to her apartment: if Vi’s nowhere, she must be up there.

Bracing the trek two steps at a time, you find a conflicting hint to Vi’s whereabouts.

Coming down the same stairs is the big man Vi usually slinks around with, brushing off his hands with an unbuttoned coat and flushed cheeks. You typically think so kindly of this stranger, but whether it's the swollen concern or aching longing you’re quickly assuming the worst of him. Marching up and pushing him back (rather, he’s polite enough to pretend you forced him back).

He stares down at you with lidded eyes. Bloodshot with heavy bags. He’s frowning.

“What’d you do with her?” despite the comically obvious size difference, you shove at the man’s broad chest with both hands. Face twisted up at him and teeth bared, “I thought you were her friend!”

He merely throws a hand toward the stairs, moving aside for you to fly up the steps and throw yourself into her door. Roughly jerking the knob, finding it unlocked for any passerby, and flinging yourself inside with a panicked call,

“Vi?!”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the sullen strange man stalks away.

“Shhh!”

On her side -eyes clenched and legs twisted around one another with both arms flopped out on opposite sides- Vi is thrown into bed. She looks like she got dumped off by a truck and decided moving wasn’t worth the struggle. You imagine she’s feeling that way, too, if the clattering bottles you kick over when trying to enter are any indication. Her teeth bared with the dangerous shush.

An empty brown glass rolls into an empty green one and the dying orange sun makes them glitter into each other. Cautious to not make too much noise, you step over the two bottles and creak her door shut. A black bucket is beside her bed, angled beneath her face (for easy puking, you imagine). Several more emptied bottles marble the floor, and with the new vantage point inside her room, you spot a bottle on its side spewing bubbly beer. No doubt already soaking into the floorboards.

“Oh, Vi…” you husk, ambling through her maze to pick up the abandoned glass. Setting it on her side table and searching for anything to mop up the impending stain.

Your attention is speedily diverted.

“Don’t,” she spits, eyes still crinkled shut.

“Hmm?” you hum, inching forward to gently card hair from her face. It’s a tad too pliant, not so much soft as it is greasy, “‘Don’t’ what?”

“Say that… my name,” you could’ve laughed if she didn’t sound so deadly serious, “‘Oh, Vi’ like you give a shit…”

“I do,” you hope that regardless of your hushed tone, the firmness behind it is all the assurance she needs, “Vi, I care,” she doesn’t reply to that, instead groaning and leaning her head further off the edge of the bed. You silently adjust the puke bucket so it’s closer to her gaping mouth, “Vi, we should shower.”

“‘m fucked up, babe.”

“I can see the alcohol, Vi.”

“Sure…”

“Are you okay to stand?”

“You’re serious about a bath?”

“Super,” you comb through her fringe, “You’ll feel better afterward. All nice and clean, and then you can pass out all you want.”

“I don’t wanna stand,” she huffs.

“Then I’ll wash you.”

She snorts. Then shrugs, “Pick me up, then.”

Standing, you preemptively remove your thin shirt and shorts before cautiously hauling Vi into a sit. Looping one of her arms around your shoulder and dragging her into the bathroom. Vi silently lets you lay her in her itty bitty tub and twist on the water.

“Is it too cold?”

She remains silent. So you assume she’s fine.

As you tip her head, scaling water over matted black knots and scrubbing pigment straight off her neck with gentle ministrations -Vi is leering through the corner of her eye.

“You stripped,” she notices.

“I did,” you scratch soap into her discolored hair, “Should I throw on a towel or something?”

“No,” Vi leans back into your hands, a soft moan escaping as you massage her scalp, “Bath and a show. I like it.”

“I just didn’t want you ruining my clothes. You look like a splasher.”

“It’s water.”

“Yeah, bathwater.”

Vi laughs quietly, proving your point with a flick of her wrist and sending a small sploosh of water up into your chest. Powder blue eyes locked on the way your breasts bounce in your bra as you flinch away, then how they jiggle when you try scolding her,

“Vi!”

“You should walk around like this more often,” she grins up at you.

“Whatever,” you try hiding your face in your arm.

“Yeah,” one of her hands dips out of the water to flip your tit, giggling maniacally as you screech and retch back, “Whatever, huh? Listen when I talk, babe.”

Standing abruptly at the new title of ‘babe’, you shudder and shake out the nerves bottling in your gut, “I might as well join you if you’re gonna soak me.”

“You should,” Vi spreads her legs while leaning back, making an obvious gap for you to fill. Rapping her knuckles against the side of the cramped tub, “I’ll treat you real nice in here.”

“Liar,” you smother your humiliation beneath indignation, then a thin spread of frustration, “You’re getting pruney, let me finish washing you.”

“What if I wanna wash you?”

“Do you? Or do you just want me in the water?”

Vi shrugs playfully, a drunken smile on her face, “Never tell.”

“Okay, Vi,” you roll your eyes, rinsing suds from her hair and watching as the water browns beneath her.

Her skin gleams beneath the shoddy yellow lights now, and you can clearly make out each intricate line in the tattoo going down her spine. Branching off either arm and licking up her neck. Outgrown hair hides some of the neck detail.

“When’s the last time you got a cut?” you wonder aloud. Not really expecting a response.

Vi stiffens, arms locking around her bent knees, eyes unfocused and breath heavy as she answers, “Couple months now.”

Patting Vi’s shoulder into a rise, you unplug the tub before assisting Vi out. She trips over herself and just snickers as you scramble to keep her upright. Vi yawns while you lead her toward her makeshift bed with both hands. Kicking aside empty liquor bottles as you do.

“Wanna get dressed for bed? Or total commando?”

“Naked,” she stumbles up, caught by diligent hands and escorted back onto her stiff, patchwork mats, “Thanks.”

“Hm? Uh, oh, sure. I don’t mind.”

“Okay…”

Despite technically fulfilling her request: you feel guilty leaving Vi there, bare to the sprawling draft on a thin mosaic of lumpy cots. She curls tightly, spiraling around herself with her clasped hands as a pillow. Heart drowning in stomach acid, you sigh and drop onto your knees,

“Vi, don’t you have a blanket around here somewhere?”

She mumbles something and flings an arm straight out, a single finger pointed straight toward the boarded floor. Crouching beneath the bed frame, you reach out blindly into the dark undercarriage; fully unaware there was even enough space down here to fit something. After uncarefully scrounging for all of two seconds, you find bundled fabric. Absolutely not soft enough to be a genuine thread blanket, even from the fissures.

The material itself is… off. Thin, sure, but almost plastic-esque. Not vinyl. Not a sheet.

Yanking the cloth out and flattening it across your lap. No matter how dark Vi’s room grew with the sunlight’s decline, you could make out that boorish symbol anywhere. Hard lines stacked into the most offensive polygon you’ve ever seen;

A Kiramman crest flag.

Did she just rip it from a post? Surely with all she wins, she could’ve gotten something more… well, like a blanket.

“Vi, you can’t wear this, it won’t keep you warm…”

She snores and twists away from you. Jet-black ink staring you in the face, now. Swaying with her breath, but otherwise motionless: perfect opportunity to scan down her spine. Because that’s where her tattoo sits, of course.

Hard rectangular blocks, exceptionally round, screw-like joints and gear types at either shoulder. Never before could you conflate Vi with mechanics because everything about her is so hot.

Blood and skin. Layered hair. Bloodshot eyes. Pink lips. A heartbeat. Flaying lashes.

Perhaps that’s an old part of her. Locked away behind the years since she got the tattoo done. Maybe she doesn’t even remember what the meaning is.

What if it just looks cool?

Slammed out of your thoughts, Vi rolls around again with a strung-out huff. Now a silvering scar denting her top lip stares you in the face. A nose ring glints just to the left, teasing you to stick around. You see both so much better without those black shades she packs on before each rumble. For as much as you adore the hardened painting, you think she’s prettier like this. You catch the roundness of her cheeks better. The wideness of her eyes. Her collarbones.

You inhale slowly and stumble back into a stand. Hands shaking at the sudden, frightening swell of affection.

You should probably go.

Vi shivers, big eyes clenching tight and burly arms roping around herself for cover.

Dropping into a speedy squat, you snatch the Kiramman flag and splay it across her although it does your heart no favors. Still unpleasantly contracting.

She could get sick…

She’s doused by moldy colors. Surely the material is scratchy, too.

“At least I know what’s watching me…” rouses you from the fresh concern.

“Huh?”

“Can’t sleep like this,” Vi laughs, stifling it in the hull of her throat before rolling to sit up. Staring up at you tiredly, “Felt like I was being watched.”

“Oh, I guess I was… I wasn’t, I mean- not like that,” you groan, scrubbing exasperation from your tense eyes, “I don’t wanna hurt you, Vi.”

“Comforting.”

“Just worried… you’ll get sick, you know?”

Vi pushes off to stand, smirking when your eyes momentarily sink toward her chest -- she pinches your cheek, “Cute.”

Shirking a stringy black top and boxers on, Vi snags the flag -and kicks it back beneath her bed before assuring you, “I’ll find something else, okay?”

“Okay…”

Striding past you, Vi opens her door and knocks her head into the frame before gesturing you through, “Ladies first.”

You chuckle, good-naturedly rolling your eyes and flouncing out of her apartment, “You’re a lady, too.”

“Mhmm,” she shuts it behind you both -impulsively going to jam her hands in pockets until she realizes there are none there. She says nothing but leads you toward the wide staircase, “Not like you, though. Coming all this way for me… Undercity’s finest.”

“Not even,” you’re glowing beneath the praise. Goofy smiling and cheeks heated. So you intentionally stray a few steps behind, so she cannot see you.

As you dust the final step, looking out into the narrow alleys -flaying Kiramman flags mystifying the space, so crowded together you can no longer see between them as the wind raises each flap- you realize you have a longer way to go.

Vi must come to the same conclusion simultaneously. Already staring down at you when you peek toward her.

Her mouth opens, lips faintly stained blue around the ridges and smears of black lingering beneath her lashes. Vi’s eyes trace you, hands shaking at her sides. Then she sighs, eyes blinking half a second apart, “I might be too drunk to walk you home, sugar.”

Knowing she’s inebriated gives you an edge -knowing that perhaps tomorrow her head will pound so hard she won’t remember this conversation- you straighten your shoulders, “Then why don’t I stay the night?”

Blinking down at you, drowsy lashes hanging for a moment, Vi hums thoughtfully even though you can see the rejection already in her face, “You shouldn’t…” eyes sliding away from you, “You won’t get much sleep…” she laughs at herself before bumbling out, “the mattress is uncomfortable.”

“Huh,” you twist uncomfortably, an overbearing and embarrassing tension rising as you battle uphill to get back into that apartment, “I’ll miss you then.”

“Stay safe, sugar,” she soothes a hand up your arm before slinking away. Overly cool and completely unbothered, she has to white-knuckle the rail as she climbs back toward her lonely studio apartment.

A biting wind slithers up your back.

You forgot Vi’s jacket at home.

***

Technically, there was no plan to see each other again.

That doesn’t mean you want to any less.

Work is disinteresting and despite living here for coming to eight years, you have yet to establish a social circle independent of work or… Her. Who shall not be named.

The most social stimulation you’ve had today was another knock-switcharoo incident. Flurrying toward the sound, expecting Vi to be leaning there with her muscles and soft lips, you opened the door to find your next-door neighbor with a crooked smile. She held out a silver key and asked you to keep it because it’s a new copy and I don’t trust myself with the duplicate….

That was two hours after you woke up. Many more have passed since then.

A momentary pass of awareness scoops you up: is everyone right? That you don’t belong here? Should you go back home? Would that help you re-grow your spine, would that re-inspire your social battery? Would that alleviate the doubts still gnawing at you with Her teeth?

But then you wouldn’t get to see Vi if you moved back home…

Maybe you shouldn’t.

You sit at home. You don’t know what to do with yourself alone except for craving Violet.

Antsy for something to do, you resolve to rid yourself of the last fossil from two years ago: throwing apart the cabinets above your speckled stove, nearly tearing one door from its hinges. Sparkling from the back, unhidden, is a bottle you haven’t touched since She stormed out of your apartment. Leaving you with a two-bedroom to hemorrhage money over while her things slowly disappeared overnight. Its waxy red neck shivers for warmth, and your palm is awfully sweaty -- it needs something cold to wrap around.

Thrilled spines pierce along your spine and into the arm you’re extending for the bottle. Amber liquid swirls kindly at you, calling your name with such foreign affection that you have no choice but to politely reciprocate. Unscrewing the cap and abandoning it into the garbage. Swigging like water until your throat burns, then you drink more to pacify the sting.

Once your belly is buzzing and hot, and any thought past breathing is too hard for your head to compute: you decide you’re in perfect condition to get out of your stuffy apartment.

After all, don’t you deserve it?

You’ve been locked away too long, you should get out. You should dress up. You should keep the bottle with you as you get dolled up. And you should roam deep into the inner city. For no specific reason except that’s usually where the excitement thrives. Your ex taught you that.

Deep in a cardboard box buried in the back of your closet is a matching set. Your only one. You only wore it twice.

Black thread is thickest in the outline: straps and cups, then a sheer mesh. Wine tinted over your flesh and purple bows on either bra strap, right at the pit of your arm, and over the front of your panties. Vi loved it the first time, she’ll have to love it again. It’ll remind her of that first night: the heat, the passion, she could’ve eaten you alive and it was enchanting.

Over that, you tug a pink dress. Short to let your legs breathe. Hugging around your hips and chest. Simple enough to be unassuming as a slip dress, but undoubtedly tempting for someone like Vi.

When did this abrupt outing become about Vi?

…you don’t remember…

You don’t care too much, either.

A dangerous walk to the pit is nothing to your drunken mind. Determined with nothing but soot in your hands, dust blowing out of your fists without you realizing.

Vi doesn’t notice you with her back turned. She’s alone and hunched over the counter with a vice grip around a glass bottle. Her cheeks are rosy and the glass has only been dug into a fifth of the way. You approach, and she must catch your glinting smile in her peripherals because her head glides your way.

Releasing the bottle, Vi tilts her head onto her newly spare hand while reaching out for you with the other. Fondly, she massages the back of your hand with her thumb -- settling you onto the stool beside her and tugging you flush into her side. She pats your thigh and cups your cheek.

Vi snickers, drawing a thumb beneath your bottom lip and swiping up-away from the corner. Only once you see the crimson smear on her skin do you realize she was cleaning up drooping lipstick. What a romantic…

“You look like me, sugar,” she says strangely. Not happy. Not sad. Just quiet. And her face betrays nothing at all.

“Are you happy to see me?”

“You drink before showing up?”

Her question flies out so quickly it doesn’t occur to you that she completely dodged your own.

“Can you tell?”

She nods, “Hard not to when I can smell it.”

“Augh…”

“You’re still cute,” she promises and swings back her next drink. Dragging the back of her hand across her jaw to catch sour dribbles, “I just have to catch up now.”

Before she can poke even a little, you’re clawing an open hole through your stomach. Guts piling onto the counter in front of her. An earnest glow overtaking your face, and a desperate rag choking your sweet tone, “Vi, I missed you.”

“Did you?” she swallows another shot from the bottle.

“I want you totally, Vi.”

“Do you?”

Now she looks at you again. Your face is spared two seconds before her steely eyes drop toward your cleavage. Elated with having her stare on you again, you don’t catch the pure carnality electrifying her. Raw desire infects her sloppy judgment when she nods.

“I want you too, sugar.”

“Seriously?” despite all your dreams, you hadn’t thought she would agree. Preparing yourself for the utter worst, now you don’t know what to do as she hops down (stealing the whole bottle with her, you notice).

“What else would you be doing here?” she grins up at you from your perch on the stool, “Now come on, are you gonna sit here and make me go home alone?”

She already knows, you can tell by that smarmy lilt in her voice, she must know that isn’t what you came here for.

Taking her offered hand is natural. Medical wrap comfortably fitting into the grooves of your clasp. When you trip over the first step, she dramatically sweeps you up into her arms. Barking a laugh when you scream and curl both arms around her neck in panic, legs tightening and smacking against her clavicle. Regardless of her not being winded or in any detectable pain, you rush to kiss her cheek and spew apologies.

“I’m tough, sugar, don’t be sorry,” she carries you up the steps, “Feel free to keep kissing me though.”

So you do.

Red lip print after red lip print, overlapping and staining her pale cheek. Mingling and murkying with her long-drawn eye makeup. And when you sear your lips against her jaw you see that black shades over some of the red.

As a test, you kiss down her neck and again: black in red. She stained you, too.

It makes you giddier than it should, but you blame it on the alcohol and not your festering obsession.

Vi lets you off after kicking her door open, finding plenty of joy in how you -again- squeal in shock and cling tighter to her. Bonking your forehead against her. Her laugh is so full of fluff, delighted by your dread -she still sounds so pretty. She kneels to unclasp your shoes and slips you out of them with black tar kisses on your knees and shins.

Unlooping the straps of your slip until it bleeds onto the floor: pooling around your ankles. You hop out of it without a second thought.

Kicking off her own shoes, Vi slides her hands over your neck and smooches both cheeks -- grinning broadly with bloodshot eyes at the sight of her lips printed on your skin.

With the door open, you feel free. Unhidden. A bottle about to be chugged. Her hands on your neck, so warm and so gentle. You feel buzzy in your belly and overwhelmed by endearment, you pry your ribs back to expose a still-beating heart. Vi can take it. She should take it.

“I think I love you, Vi.”

Hands tighten around your throat before snaking off, fastening at her sides. Red eyes come alight like she didn’t just carry you up the stairs and kiss your legs, “What?”

“I’m - I mean, uh… I… I want you, I want us…” your shoulders slump, brows furrowing, “I thought…”

“You thought?” she prods, eyes wide and chest erratically pumping. Each breath a gunshot.

“I just thought…”

“Thought what?” she spits, glare spearing you against her bedroom wall, the radiating chill washing your back keeps you stiff, “What could you possibly have thought this was?”

“Uh,” you lull, shoulders rising toward your ears and eyes drooping onto the floor, “uh,” you hesitate and let your arms flop out on both sides, “uh…”

“God!” she scoffs, and it teeters off into a snaking laugh by the end, “Do you ever start a thought without moaning?” Vi shakes her head, eyes cutting aside -toward her cracked mirror, “What did you think I was gonna be for you? What you were for me?” she looks back onto you, low and angry. She’s never looked at you like that, “You can’t be that dumb.”

“Oh,” your chin falls into your collarbones, eyes pointed onto your socked feet and beginning to sting. Hands come up belatedly and curl around yourself, “...oh…”

Vi steps back and collapses on her bed. It creaks beneath her. She isn’t looking at you. You’re not looking at her.

Instead, you’re focused on your clothes strewn over her floor. A baby pink slip you ripped from the lanes -a thin film of soot caked into the fabric- and Vi’s old red jacket. A toppled pair of flats with the soles beginning to poke through the bottom kicked by her door. An unfortunate glance cast toward her mirror confirms the lipstick you wore is now smudged sideways. Hair mussed and whole body constricting to hide itself.

Vi stares at the floor. You feel so stupid.

“Was I actually just sex to you?” you finally ask. A whisper into the buzzing coffin.

Like a nail beneath the hammer, Vi answers, “What else could you have been?”

Maybe her girlfriend.

You don’t suggest that. You just nod. You step back into your dress, pulling each thin strap slowly around the curve of your shoulders. She says nothing. It’s so quiet you can hear the extra step it takes for you to skip over her old jacket and slip each shoe back on.

Fingers tighten around the brass knob, twisting until it squeaks and pops out of frame.

“It’s weird to leave your place without you walking me down,” you whisper, gaze hooking back just to see if she’ll flinch. Vi remains static, bent over herself on the bed.

“You’re still upright,” she mutters, voice low and strapped with razor wire.

“I tried really hard to look nice, Vi.”

She shivers as her name crawls off your tongue, tucking her head down and away from sight. You’re not sure what else you expected. She obviously wants you out, yet you stand just to delay the inevitable. You’ve never spent the night before, that won’t change because you confess how pathetic you are for her.

Leaving feels wrong, staying is wrong.

You step out slowly, as if to taunt Vi into grabbing your hips and yanking you into her chest. As if she would.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

A stiff, low nod is all you get. And the only evidence that’s what you even got was the rustle of tarred hair flapping.

Sliding the door shut behind you, you pull the knob hard to ensure it surely shut. Silently stepping back, you coil around yourself upon a sweeping breeze; peeled eyes set on that dilapidated door. No shuffling, no screaming, no banging. Vi sits on her bed, then, and quietly forgets you were ever there. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Feet dragging down each step and an unsteady hand clutching the rail. Sniffling. Reconsidering everything you said, every spot in her room you looked too closely at, how you didn’t rush to touch her -hug her, hold her, soothe her. Wondering if maybe had you kept your mouth shut tonight then she could’ve fallen for you, that maybe all she needed was more time. After tonight, she could’ve been yours, right? She just needed time, now she wants nothing to do with you.

But you keep hoping she’ll run down after you. She should be tripping over herself, racing the wind, and skipping three steps at a time to scoop you into her big arms.

A nasty, soaked hiccup chokes you. Cupping a hand over your mouth stifles nothing, but it does make you light-headed with the sudden lack of oxygen. Maybe if you pass out now she’ll find you and feel so bad she just takes you with her anyway.

Or maybe someone else will find you and feel so much pity they stomp you out right there.

Either way, you would have been saved from the humiliating task of blubbering all the way home by yourself.

Only once you’ve stripped and kicked off your shoes do you realize -you left a comb on Vi’s bedside table. Your favorite one. And your favorite bra, too, was thrown somewhere across her bedroom. With much hesitation and more regret, you swallow the fact you’re never seeing either again and climb into bed.

Steely cold sheets slither over your skin, flatly covering with no comfort -- and surely no softness. Despite the conditions, your eyes close and you clasp your hands over your chest, rolled up tight on your side. Never before has your breathing sounded so lonely, ravaged by a swelling throat with lungs knotting around your heart. Slowly unballing your fists, smushing them flat over your eyes just to catch the dripping wetness.

Maybe if you collect it all, and show the swirling cups to Vi she’ll let you stay and cry for her a little bit more.

Or maybe she’d just shut the door in your face.

***

Nights are long. You sleep to get to morning and sleep some more to ignore the day. Tempting is the bottle, but then you'd be flat broke and with all those sick days recently you doubt your boss will be thrilled to keep you around on tough times.

Rolling out of bed for a shift feels how you'd imagine a glass blade dragging over your face feels. Dramatic, possibly, but if someone could bare their palms around your every thought then they'd know the comparison was real. Much dread fills you, so full and so bloated with trepidation that you could spew it out unto neighbors as you walk.

A blinking red sign awaits overhead. Few letters are stubborn enough to remain lit the four minutes you spend procrastinating outside. The rest flicker without remorse, spelling a stuttered and ill-aged: BOM S

Deciding to brave a striding entrance rather than being dragged in by your glaring coworker, you finally push open the cracked glass door. Fingerprints and blood smears of varying degrees of dryness paint the exterior. No new faces decorate the floor: a promise that you still have a position. After all, not many are bustling to work at the poorly managed, poorly budgeted titty bar.

Skidding past the curious and agitated faces of coworkers, you veer into the back room. Pleased to find your locker intact and untouched.

Your name plated across a dinky silver tag with a crooked back pin is still stitched into place over the heart of your black apron. Which smells as clean as you left it. Same with your tiny black shorts and low-cut top. Shucking on the minimalist uniform, you speedily whip out onto the floor and ignore the incredulous stare of your fellow opening girl.

Levaya storms your way while the floor is still empty, an uneasy morning dust still coating each table. Sticky beer clicking your heels into place on the floor. Monte is still at the bar area, wiping the counter before getting to any part of the restaurant used at this time of day - which makes total sense, of course.

Her red lips are twisted furiously, though the pinch in her eyebrows unveils deep concern, “Where have you been? We thought you died!”

“I was sick. Really out of it.”

Scoffing, she rolls her eyes, “You’re always out of it. Just tell Avont before your story changes, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you watch her storm off, “whatever.”

Mornings at Bombshells are never, ever busy enough to justify having two servers on staff -- you doubt there was a sudden influx of patrons before afternoon that has Levaya salty. If anything she must have just been so concerned she gave herself a stress headache, as if that’s your fault.

In any case, you end up outside Avont’s office before the first hour of your shift ends. His name is seared into a rusty board, too thin to be the plaque he insists it is. You knock out of courtesy before simply opening the door, which is never locked because there is no lock. He blew that budget on the front door, a smarter venture given the location.

Avont sighs when he sees you, “Where’ve you been?”

“I was sick, real loopy. Couldn’t tell time, kept falling in and out of sleep.”

“Right, m’kay,” he scrawls -you assume that excuse- in the corner of a paper before waving a hand to shoo you out. As you’re trying to exit, you swear he mutters, “Hope it was worth it…”

The wish makes you swallow hard, and gaze upon the hollow chairs -ghostly tables. Were you better off here than out in the pits?

Levaya palms your shoulder, warm skin on warm skin, she tilts her head, “Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re usually spacey, but not this bad.”

“Uh,” you clear your throat -you should start thinking without moaning, apparently it’s scathing- “Fine. I'm fine.”

Snapping catches both of your attention, Monte holding out a bucket and two rags. A silent prod if you got time to lean, you got time to clean -- which usually doesn’t bother you, after all, you could’ve moved to the night shift when people actually show up if cleaning bothered you. But right now you’re almost too devastated just standing, let alone scrubbing and soaping.

“Technically,” Levaya seethes, “One of us should be at the host stand,” she snatches the harder job up right in front of your eyes and waves the rag at you like you’re a child, “And you owe me, so you have to take it! No arguing!”

You don’t get to open your mouth before she’s whipping you in the ass with the rag.

So you quietly meander to the so-called ‘host stand’ which is just leaning against the peeling wallpaper and waving at bypassing citizens. Nobody stops in. Nobody ever does since Avont axed the cheap lunch specials. Why would anybody stop into a place like this without dancers otherwise?

Why would someone go where they aren’t fulfilled?

Why do you stay in the undercity?

Levaya swears at a chunk of dried gum beneath a table. Monte laughs. Avont waves papers in his office.

Your name is shot from Avont’s cracked doorway, he flaps a clipboard at you, “You have to sign these!” when you don’t jump up from the wall, he grumbles, “For your sick days, kid, let’s go!”

Waltzing out of Avon’t office provides the kind of show you’ve missed at Bombshells since moving to the morning crew. Shouting. Angry shouting.

.

.

.

Levaya is wringing her grayed rag with fury, mouth similarly twisted as she glares upward, “Get out! I don’t know who you think you are, but she’s not here! And if you don’t get out now, I’ll make you!”

Rarely do you see the dark-haired woman so enraged. So you eagerly round the corner to peek at her opponent to find-

Violet.

Completely pliant to the person screaming in her face. Dormant in a corpse way. Eyes low and fingers knotted kindly although she doesn’t seem to be listening at all.

“Get! Out!” Levaya whacks Vi in the arm.

The woman flinches, glaring down at your coworker but otherwise still. Pale gaze warping around the floor just to find you.

“Vi…?”

She finds you.

Levaya scoffs your name, “Come on!”

You wonder how she knows you so well.

“We should talk outside,” you rush over, pushing Vi around and forward by the shoulder. She moves easier than water, entirely soft beneath your fingertips. Nothing like the stonewall woman you’ve known.

“Good friend,” Vi mutters as soon as the glass doors clink shut.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was drunk last night…”

“You were drunk a lot of nights.”

Vi sighs through her nose. Eyes scrunching shut. Her hands are tight in her pockets.

“But last night, I wasn’t. I didn’t,” she groans, “I wasn’t thinking last night. I got scared.”

“You got scared?”

“I got scared,” she confirms, “And it wasn’t you, it’s everything behind you. It’s topside.”

“I don’t live there, there’s nothing for me up there,” or down here, but you don’t say that, “I can’t be loyal to a place I left.”

“It’s not about loyalty,” Vi lets the statement linger so long you almost start a refusal when she bursts out with, “Last time I had a topside girl, my spirit was crushed. I just don’t want to be that way again. Blinded and unsure, it’s not good,” she gestures to herself as if to add humor but it truly just makes you sad, “You’ve seen the results.”

“I like you, Vi, I like what I see. You treat yourself like a chore forced onto me, but if I didn’t want to be with you then I wouldn’t be,” such generic statements make you nauseous, but it’s the single truest thing you could think to say. The most honest you can be is in those blanket statements.

Vi’s eyes soften, self-loathing dissolving into something much more passionate. She looks down at you sweetly, though her thoughts are anything but: you’re so pretty she wants to choke herself and so kind she wants to pluck out her own eye. You’re terrifying because she knows she could fall for you, and you don’t belong with her.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Vi.”

And yet you’re so concerned with how she feels.

“I don’t wanna hurt you either,” she lets out her pocketed hands just to ball them at her sides, shaky with frustration and red hot need, “I just want you around. Everything’s boring when you’re gone. And your apartment is more comfortable than mine now,” frantically, she cards a hand through her hair and wets her lips, “Or maybe it’s just you because I swear the one time I could lay on my shitty bed without a backache was when you were in it.”

“Why push me away, then?”

“I was scared. But I’m more scared of never seeing you again,” she palms the back of her neck, almost shyly, and nudges her head toward the glass doors, “So, can I see you again?”

“You wanna watch me work for the next six hours? Nothing happens on mornings…”

“But you’ll be here, sugar,” she beams, you can tell she’s trying to be suave but it all cracks into unadulterated glee as you nod.

“Well, I guess you’ll be my first customer…”

“What an honor, I’m sure the service will be great.”

“The best.”

“For some reason, I doubt that,” Vi entwines a shaky hand with yours, dragging you toward Bombshells. Re-entering, but now, you think- you plainly assume- as a couple.

If not, then at this point, what the fuck else could you possibly be?

tagging people i thought would be interested:

@wowcatboys + @ch6douin + @deathrose36 + @opoyend + @fortheharbingers ? *metal on metal screeching sound* maybe y'all?

[cream-and-tea]

Chapter 43: One Last Song of Revelations/ Chapter 44: Of Prophet’s Dark Deceptions/ Chapter 45: Of Love, And Gods’ Defeat

listen i know shrues speech was definitely not the only thing that led to val’s final lie, it was just one of the final dominos to fall in her arc for her to come to the conclusion she did, but all that said i think. i just think. i just.

[peapod20001]

LMAO QUICK. WIPE YOUR TEARS BEFORE SOMEONE SEEEESSS YOUUU

[afro-hispwriter]

MILF

Satoru Gojo x reader, Megumi Fushiguro x reader(platonic), 

Summary- “Fushiguro, you didn’t tell me your mom is a total milf.”

Warnings- Yuji being a teenage boy Megumi is a mommas boy

Wc- 900+

-

Ever since Yuji heard the man he would come to know as Satoru Gojo said the words to Fushiguro at the school.

“I got an earful from the higher-ups ‘cause the special grade cursed object’s still missing, then your mother found out and I got an earful from her.” 

Then when he was tied up Gojo kept mentioning his wife and how she helped him suspend his execution for the time being. 

Yuji was even more interested in this woman who was Fushiguros mom and Satoru Gojo’s wife. I mean that would mean Fushiguro is Gojo’s son but he looks nothing like Gojo(besides maybe the hairstyle) and he doesn’t call him Dad. Hmm, maybe he looked more like his mom? 

He walked onto the school grounds with Satoru next to him. Sukuna made an appearance on his cheek then his hand. But as Satoru explained Sukuna, Yuji’s eyes landed on a woman at the top of the stairs. She was talking on the phone and staring at her nails. She wore dark expensive-looking sunglasses, a pair of jeans, sandals, and a tank top. He could also tell she was foreign.

“WIFEY!” Satoru yelled out beside him and ran towards the woman. The woman hung up her phone and opened her arms out for Satoru. He spun her around in the air and then smashed their lips together. He placed her on the ground and she pushed against his chest gently to pull away. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t going to be back for another day.” 

She scoffed and crossed her arms and Yuji watched the sorcerer in front of her pout.

“My son got sent on a mission to retrieve the finger of Ryomen Sukuna and got badly hurt in the process. Of course, I had to come.”

So this is his mom. She looks nothing like him either but I gotta say, she is one hot piece-

“So this is Sukunas vessel?” They had turned their attention to him and Yuji was staring directly at Gojo’s wife.

“Before we start talking, Yuji, this is my wife Y/n L/n. She's a special-grade sorcerer just like me!”

Whatever that means, nobody’s explained this grading stuff to me yet

“Yuji Itadori. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave him a bow and he did the same back. “How do you feel?” Her face softened and she took two steps down to inspect him. 

“Um fine, I guess, considering everything.” 

“Good, good. And you can control Sukuna at will?” 

“Mhmm.” 

She’s so hot

“I'm flattered Itadori.” She says with amusement and the boy looks at her horrified.

“Huh!?” He blushed heavily and shook his head. “I'm so sorry! Wait, how did you know that!?” 

“Oh yeah, Y/n’s technique is telepathy. So my girl can read your mind, control your mind, mess with your mind, and destroy it.” He said and kissed her cheek. 

“Cool! Sorry about that though.” He scratched the back of his head and laughed awkwardly. 

“It's okay, Itadori.” Yuji’s blush hadn’t gone away and just burnt harder. “Well I'm going to go check on Megumi, I’ll see you two later.” Both guys watched her go. 

“Whoah,” Yuji says and Satoru nods.

“I know right.”

-

“Megumi?” You knocked on his door and received no answer. You opened the door and saw him curled up in deep sleep. You smiled softly and approached his bed. You leaned over him and kissed his cheek, making him twitch but he relaxed. You sat in the chair in the corner and brought your feet up. 

Megumi slept for another solid 10 minutes before waking up. You set your phone down and smiled.

“Hey Gumi, how are you feeling?” You sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his shoulder.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” He asks, sounding extremely tired. 

“I had to come check on you.” 

“Mmph.” He sat up and groaned. 

“You should keep resting.”

“My head hurts.” 

“All the more reason to.”

The loud voices of Yuji and Satoru cut you off. Megumi's face hardened and he threw the sheets off his body. He opened the door and at the same time, Yuji and Satoru walked out of Yuji's new room. 

“You’re next door?” 

“Hey, Fushiguro!” You slipped past Megumi and walked to stand by Satoru. “Wow. You look all better now!”

“There are lots of other rooms, you know?” Megumi says with a scowl.

“Don’t be like that Gumi’, this can be good for you.” You say trying to convince him but he crosses his arms. Yuji walked up to Megumi and leaned towards him.

“Fushiguro, you didn’t tell me your mom is a total milf.” Yuji whispers to him. Megumi's eyes widened and left eye twitched.

“Huh!? Wh-Why would you say something like that!” Megumi whacked Yuji on the back. 

“Ow! I mean it's true, and that ass though. She could put Jennifer Lawernce to shame.” 

“STOP IT!” 

“Boys, everything okay?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Gojo!” Itadori says with a bright smile. While Megumi looked like he was going to blow a fuse. You look at them in confusion but turn back to Satoru. 

“That's my mom Itadori.”

“Hey, Mrs. Gojo. Are you a teacher here?” Yuji asks you and you shake your head. 

“No, but I'll be sticking around.” 

“Great!” Yuji thumbs up’s you. 

“Hmph.” Megumi grunts and glares. 

Sorry J Law but my type is Fushiguros mom now

-

More on the reader technique by risingblackstar 

[steddie-island]

Risky Business

Written for @steddie-week day 2 | Prompt: Hands Rating: M | WC: 2,027 | Tags: Pre-Steddie, season 2, shotgunning, dry humping, coming in pants, cheating (if you squint) Find full list of tags on ao3 | Divider credit

“Watch it, Harrington!”

Steve didn't even turn around to see who was yelling at him. He needed to get the fuck out of there.

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

The words reverberated in his head, echoed in the empty hollow of his chest where his heart used to be.

"Like we're in love?"

It was too fucking much. There were monsters, and Barb was dead, and Nancy wasn't in love with him, and—

“Harrington!”

“What!” Steve spun around and came face to face with one Eddie Munson. He definitely didn't need this shit right now, either, whatever Eddie was trying to do.

“Jesus, who pissed in your cheerios?” Eddie held his hand out, where Steve's keyring dangled from one finger. “I was giving these back, but if that's how it's gonna be.”

Steve swiped for them, but Eddie already had them folded back into the palm of his hand and was walking towards the house again.

“Just— hand them over.” Steve tried to make another grab for them, but Eddie was too fast, the shithead. “Munson, I'm in a really bad goddamn mood, okay?”

Eddie lifted his free hand to his head, rubbed at the back of his neck. “How much have you had to drink?”

Steve blinked at him. “I'm fine to drive.”

“That's not an answer, big boy, and I'm afraid it would be against the Munson code to let you do something stupid like that.” Steve swiped for his keys again, but then Eddie was turning, rearing his arm back— and Steve watched as his keys went flying.

“What the fuck !” Steve wanted to shove him, wanted to wipe the stupid smile right off of his stupid fucking face.

“I'll help you find them later,” Eddie said. “C'mon, man. You're clearly not in any shape to drive. Let me take you home.”

Steve wanted to say no. He wanted to kick and scream and argue but how the fuck else was he supposed to get home now? Just the thought of sticking around long enough to see Jonathan pour Nancy into his car made his stomach twist.

He could walk, but he was so tired . It washed over him all at once, and Steve's entire body sort of slumped. “Fine. You're paying if we don't find them, though.”

Eddie looked surprised, like he hadn't expected Steve to give in so fast. Still he bowed, gestured ahead of them. “Right this way, sir.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Steve shook his head, bringing his cheek to rest against the window. “Not really.”

”Okay.” Eddie reached over and turned the radio on. The music was heavier than what Steve usually listened to, but that actually helped get him out of his head. There was going to be a breakdown, and a big one, but he needed it to not happen here, in Eddie Munson's van.

Eddie fidgeted. Steve could tell he wanted to talk, to say somthing, anything , to get rid of the silence between them.

“Does... Wheeler have a way to get home?”

Steve wished Eddie would've kept his big mouth shut.

“She's fine,” he said flatly. Emotionless. He couldn't think about Nancy, about bullshit, bullshit, bullshit .

“Shit— hey, I'm sorry, man.” Eddie was really fidgeting now, and— fuck.

Steve wiped away traitorous tears and cleared the lump out of his throat. “I'm fine,” he said, snappier than he meant to. It wasn't Eddie's fault he was losing his cool.

“Clearly. Totally fine,” Eddie said, nodding. He seemed to think about it, fingers drumming against his steering wheel again— did he ever sit still? Then they were turning away from Steve's house, towards the edge of town.

“C'mon, man, I'm fine, just—”

“Trust me,” Eddie said. His eyes flicked over to Steve again. “This is better than going home.“

Steve had been to Lover's Lake before, but never in the back of Eddie Munson's van. They'd parked, and Eddie had lit up a preroll. Whatever was in it, Steve wasn't feeling any pain anymore.

They were floating together, weightless in the back of the van on the pile of blankets Eddie had spread out for them. Steve's hair hung away from his face as he watched the way the night sky reflected in the water.

There were no dead girls here, no alternate universes with monsters ready to rip them to shreds.

There wasn't a bat driven through with nails that looked rusty with old monster blood rotting away in his trunk.

There were just stars, and the music pouring softly through the speakers now. And Eddie, warm and sturdy by his side, with their pinkies barely touching.

"Fuckin' love this song," Eddie said. Steve didn't recognize it, though the thrum of the guitar made his already fuzzy brain vibrate pleasantly.

"Think you've said that about every song we've listened to," Steve murmured. His tongue was heavy and thick in his mouth. He reached for the joint, giggled when his fingers didn't want to work and he nearly dropped it.

"Lemme help you." Eddie rolled over, pressed the butt of if it to Steve's lips. His fingers were dry and warm. Steve's eyes nearly crossed as he tried to watch those fingertips. He was so distracted he almost forgot to actually inhale.

"Never woulda taken King Steve for a lightweight," Eddie teased. His voice was giggly, too, as he leaned back, brought the joint to his own mouth and took a long pull.

Steve couldn't stop watching his fingers, the glint of the light on his rings as he lifted a hand to tuck his hair behind his ear.

"You still with me?" Eddie asked. He lightly bumped his foot against Steve's and gave him a teasing smile.

"Yeah, 'm with you," Steve said. He reached up to touch one of Eddie's rings without really thinking about it. "You have nice hands." His fingers were long, slender. Musician's hands, complete with callouses that Steve had the odd desire to get his lips on.

Maybe the bitten nails weren't a musician thing, just an Eddie thing, but that didn't change the fact that Steve kind of wanted to kiss those fingertips.

"Yeah? You like, big boy?" Normally Eddie wouldn't have risked flirting with the straight jock high off his ass in the back of the van but Harrington didn't feel like a threat. He waved his hand lazily and watched Steve's gaze follow along like there was a slight delay between what Eddie was doing and Steve brain processing it.

"Yeah." Steve reached up to catch Eddie's wrist, to stop him from moving his hand around. "I do." He trailed his fingertips over Eddie's palm then outlined one finger at a time.

If anyone had told Eddie that morning that he would end the day holding hands with a stoned Steve Harrington at Lover's Lake he would've laughed in their face and asked if they needed a ride to the hospital. Here he was, though, with the ex king threading their fingers together, pressing palm flush against palm.

A shaky breath slipped out of Steve's chest. He pulled their hands closer so he could run his fingers over Eddie's rings, then up along his knuckles.

Eddie watched Steve with heavy lidded eyes. They were just holding hands— at least, he thought this weird thing Steve was doing where he followed the lines where their hands touched counted as holding hands— but there was something about it that felt intimate.

Maybe it was the way Steve's lips were parted, and the peek of pink as his tongue wet his lower lip. Maybe it was the way Steve was eyeing their clasped hands like he wanted to fucking bite them.

Or like he was holding Eddie's hand to keep from doing just that.

"Harrington." Eddie nudged Steve with his foot again. "Sure you're with me?"

Those warm eyes met Eddie's again. Steve didn't answer, he just watched Eddie's face in a way that made the other boy feel cut open and exposed. It was a feeling Eddie didn't get often, a feeling he really didn't know how to be comfortable with.

So Eddie did the first thing that came to mind that wasn't just staring right back. He took a hit off of the joint, never taking his eyes off of Steve's. He didn't let the smoke out and instead leaned in to almost press their lips together, and once Steve opened his mouth, he let the smoke pass between them.

Steve made an injured sound. Before Eddie could pull back to check on him a hand was in his hair, and then they were kissing. It was desperate, tongues and teeth meeting and clashing.

"Eddie," Steve panted before tipping his head back so Eddie's mouth could be on his throat instead.

Eddie wanted to mark him. He wanted to bite and suck and leave traces of himself all over this ridiculous jock. He had just enough mind left to not let himself do that, and instead he dragged his tongue over Steve's pulsepoint before giving his earlobe a gentle tug.

"Oh fuck —" Steve pulled him in, licked into Eddie's mouth again and ground against the thigh now settled between his own legs.

There was an urgency in the way Steve's hips moved, in the way he kissed at Eddie's neck before biting down, unafraid to mark the way Eddie had been.

Eddie cursed and rocked down, meeting those hungry little movements. They were going to come together, ruin their clothes together. He should stop it, should remind Steve that he was drunk and there was maybe a girlfriend waiting for him when the sun came up.

Then Steve tugged down the collar of his shirt and those perfect fucking teeth were digging into his collar bone. Eddie cried out at the flash of pain and pleasure as he spilled into his boxers.

Steve anchored a hand into Eddie's hair and pulled him in to kiss him again. His movements picked up, became something more firm against Eddie's thigh.

Eddie was going to remember the sound Steve made as he was coming for the rest of his life.

They settled together on their nest of blankets, with the come drying into the fabric of their clothes and in their pubic hair. Eddie barely dared to breathe, in case Steve decided to kick his ass once he'd come back to himself more. Steve didn't do that, though. Instead he took Eddie's wrist and brought his hand to his mouth, to kiss the underside of each of his three chunky rings before resting Eddie's hand on his chest.

"I should get home."

They cleaned up as much as they could with the napkins fished out of the glovebox. The blankets were left in a pile in the back to be dealt with later.

Steve seemed more calm on the drive back to the Harrington house. Some of the edge Eddie had noticed when they'd first ran into each other seemed to have been smoothed out, whether by the weed or the orgasm or a mix of the two he wasn't sure.

Only once they were parked did Steve remember— "Fuck." He looked up at his house, with all the dark windows staring down at him. "I don't have my keys."

"Actually…" Eddie reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and came up holding Steve's keys.

"You sneaky bastard." Steve took the keys and turned them over as if inspecting that they really were his.

"I really didn't feel like sneaking around Tina's house and having her call the cops on me. Just had to make you think I'd thrown them."

Steve watched Eddie's face in the dashboard light. Tomorrow he would have to talk to Nancy, he knew. It was going to hurt— already his chest ached with what they had to do, what he'd been refusing to accept had been coming for a while now.

But maybe it didn't have to hurt forever. Maybe he didn't have to hurt forever.

"Good night, sneaky bastard." Steve reached over and squeezed Eddie's knee before slipping out of the van.

"Night, Steve," Eddie said. He sat there watching until Steve was safely inside.

[norman-fucking-reedus]

More childish Daryl because we all love his big little shit self and his little shit attitude

and more of Rick being a victim as well as a little piece of shit

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

There weren’t many things life that you were afraid of anymore besides dying. or your loved ones dying. Oh and every form of insect left on the planet.

“Daryl Dixon take that thing back outside and the fuck out of my house!” You yell in horror when your husband comes sprinting into the house with a large and exotic bug cupped in his hands, holding it out to you excitedly. “Look at it though!”

“Very, very nice my love… Uhh,” Your eyes dart nervously around. “Here! Put it in here for safe keeping” You grab a jar and push it towards Daryl, staying as far away from him as he would let you, which wasn’t very far. “He’s gon die in there” Daryl mumbled, shifting on his feet.

You sigh. “He won’t outside. Y’know, where he lives?”

“But I ain’t ever seen this bug ‘fore” Daryl pouted slightly.

“Daryl. Please.” You give a soft but stern look.

The man frowned, dropping his gaze down to his new friend as he walked him back out the door. “Fine.”

You sighed in relief watching the archers wings disappear behind the creaky slam of your front door, out onto the Alexandria streets to terrorize the community. But you didn’t know that part.

Over at Carol’s house, she lounges comfortably on her porch swing, a real good and captivating book in one hand, a cooling, untouched cup of coffee in the other. She’s so invested in the story that she doesn’t even feel Daryl’s presence behind her, totally not coaxing his new friend off his palm and onto her shoulder, watching as the strange bug crawled down her arm slowly.

At first she didn’t feel it, finally taking her first sip out the mug after hovering it for so long. When she moves to place the cup down, glints of iridescent purples and blues catches her eye, and she glances at her sleeve.

“Jesus! What the fuck!? What the fuck!?” She hollers, tossing her book and shooting to her feet, flailing to get the bug off of her. When she pauses to glance around, in search of the little pest so that she could squish the fucker, she finds it crawling on another, much larger pest. “When I get my hands on you, you are so dead” Carol fires daggers at Daryl, who holds the insect with a victorious smile. “Don’ threaten him”

“I’m threatening you. Also ‘him’?” Carol rolled her eyes, and moved further when Daryl took a few steps towards the porch. “I found him by the wall but Y/n ain’t let me keep it”

“I applaud her for dealing with you, now shoo. You’ve completely ruined my reading time” The woman sighs and sits back down on the swing, picking her book off the floor. “Where’s Rick?” Daryl quipped, turning and scanning the area. Carol watched him quietly, a smile tugging her lips. It felt like only yesterday that the hunter was nothing but a locked box, never opening up or showing any form of emotion. Now, he was practically bouncing off the walls, more of a rowdy kid than anything else. It made Carol a little sad, knowing that Daryl never got to chance to be the rambunctious kid he was born to be.

She watched as he walked away, bug in hand and wings on his back. There was a first time for everything, she supposes.

Of course, this saying is true, because this is the first time Daryl is really putting his ass on the line. He bit back the evil smile creeping on his face as his eyes landed on his victim, who shamelessly flirting with his wife, totally oblivious to everyone else around him. Rick was rambling and yapping to Michonne, not taking his eyes off hers for a second as he spoke.

She smiled and nodded, listening and digesting whatever he was saying, occasionally adding commentary of her own. It was a casual conversation, and Michonne had started to move to kiss Rick, him doing the same and shutting his eyes in anticipation-

“Fuck! Fuck! The fuck?!” He yelled, jerking away from his wife and reaching a hand to his back, patting aimlessly around for the strange crawling sensation on him. “What’s on me?!” Rick spun around, and Michonne screamed. “Oh hell no! Nope! Nope!” The woman backed away, and as she did she spotted Daryl, as did Rick.

“Dixon!” Rick’s voice rang out through the community, followed by heavy running feet mere seconds later.

Daryl cackled as he ran from Rick, taunting him and mocking the mans angry shouts and insults. Also threats.

“You are so fucking dead Daryl!” Rick yelled from behind him, trying to increase his speed to get closer behind Daryl, who had no reason being as fucking fast as he was. “Please don’ shoot meh officer!” Daryl fake cooed, laughing but it was cut short by Rick ultimately deciding to take a leap of faith, crashing right into the hunterman, who almost instantly tightened all his limbs around Rick.

The men grunted and squabbled in the middle of the street, yelling and screaming at each other. “Stop it you dicksucker tha’ hurts!” Daryl wailed and kicked at Rick, who was twisting his leg. “Dicksucker? Must be missin’ the countryside huh Dixon?” Rick grumbled, releasing the kicking limb and latching onto Daryl’s arm, punching it when holding it down didn’t work. “Ain’t nothin miss ‘bout it, except ya wasn’t there” The man grunted, bringing his other arm up and grabbing onto a fist full of Rick’s curly hair, pulling on the strands. The man let out a pained yell, reflexively reaching his hand up to pry Daryl’s hand off, but that just let his other arm free.

When Daryl had slung his arm around Rick’s neck, bicep already tightly wrapped and flexed around it, the familiar creaking of a door caught his attention, turning his head to take in the house that they were fighting in front of. Your house.

Rick gasped for air when Daryl dropped him, coughing and about to take a swing at him when he also turned his head, both males now being stared down by you. Daryl more than ever.

“When I told you to take the bug outside, I meant back to where you got it, not on a tour around the fucking community.” You spat, arms folded over your chest. Daryl hung his head embarassedly, heat rising to his cheeks at the scolding. “Sorry mama”

“And you,” You looked at Rick, “You need to stop further provoking him because look how it ends each time” Rick furrowed his brows, “But he came to me first!” Pointing at the archer next to him. “Rick I don’t give a damn if chicken or egg came to you first” You rolled your eyes. “But-“ “No. This? This is very much over. You? You are very much in trouble.” You cut Rick off, descending the short steps and tugging Daryl off the ground by his vest, pushing him to go up the porch and into the house. “You? I’ll be letting Michonne know to keep you attached to her hip. Let’s go, Grimes”

Once you promptly delivered Michonne her loose dog, you made your way back to your house to deal with your own, sighing when the door shut behind you. Your eyes flickered over to Daryl, who was nervously sat on the couch.

“M’really sorry” He mumbled when you moved to stand over him, hands on your hips. “I didn’t wanna put him back”

“Daryl, you can’t just go around harassing people with bugs.” You shake your head at him, biting down on the inside of your cheek when Daryl shamefully looked away, face turning a shade of red. “But it was funny”

You sigh, “For you. Daryl, baby, some people are really afraid of bugs. I’m some people. Those things freak me the fuck out” reaching your hand down to lift his head up, brushing hair out his face. There were hints of guilt written on it, and you smiled softly.

“Hey, nobody’s mad at you, okay? You just have to be a little more aware of the small things” You kissed his forehead, once, twice, thrice, still smiling down at his flushed face. “Mama loves you” You whisper, and it cracks a small smile on Daryl’s lips, heart doing somersaults. “Love ya too” You kiss his head one more time, giving him a final on his lips before standing straight again. “Now that that’s over, I’m making something I think you’ll like” Your voice fades into the kitchen, Daryl following you. “Let m’guess; steak” He joked, but blinked when he peered over your shoulder. “I remember a very skilled hunter once telling me that ‘deer asses are tha’ best’”

“They are, ‘nd tha’s ‘bout to be tha’ best fuckin’ steak of m’life” Daryl bumped his hip against yours, playful smile tugging his lips. “Alright now. Don’t get rowdy in my kitchen” You eye him from the side, bumping his hip back as you lit the stove, using makeshift oil to butter the pan. Daryl slid a hand around your waist, kissing your shoulder before dropping his head there, mumbling a tiny “Sorry mama” next to your ear. You can’t help the smile the spreads on your lips, placing just one more kiss to the top of Daryl’s head.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I think that ‘baby’ and ‘mama’ are like really cute for outside of the bedroom, it’s intimate while not being too explicit if that makes sense

me fighting my urge to explain how Daryls mommy kink spews much deeper than you guys think

each time i typed mama i kept imagining a furby saying it

anways your honor my babyboy is innocent

[rovingotter]

I started writing my own version of the Honda Odyssey scene from Deadpool & Wolverine but I probably won't develop into an entire story so I'm just putting it up here. Canon-typical violence/gore.

Logan had just jammed his claws straight through Wade’s skull, into his brain, and out the other side.  Which was rude.  Wade’s vision went fuzzy and then totally dark, and half his body went limp—it was temporary, he knew, but it was always a little unnerving.  Logan had also decided to be extra rude and entirely miss his frontal lobe, so he could still think about how hurt he was by Logan’s mean-spirited rant.

Couldn’t even save a relationship with a goddamn stripper.

Also, he was dragging Vanessa into this? Hello? Not cool.

They were probably getting a lot of blood on the seats.  Whatever.  It wasn’t his car.

Wade’s right arm still worked, so he fumbled for Baby Knife, yanked it out, and plunged it in what he hoped was the direction of Logan’s face, though it probably wouldn’t make it through his stupid adamantium-enhanced skull.  To his pleasant surprise, however, the knife encountered very little resistance.  There was a roaring scream and then a rubbery pop which let him know he’d gotten Logan right through the eye.

Ha! 

He angled it upward, making it harder for Logan to pull away, and Logan jerked.

Logan went still, panting.  Wade was on his back, on the backseat, and Logan was on top of him, crushingly heavy, damp with sweat, chest heaving.  He spoke slowly, through clenched teeth, every word a strain:  “Get—your knife—out—my fuckin’ head.”

“You first, honeypie.”  Wade was kind of impressed that either one of them could still talk.  Though he was kind of having trouble remembering how they’d gotten into this situation.  They were in a car, and Logan was mean.  That was all he could say for sure.

Logan’s claws were still stuck through Wade’s head, Wade’s movements still jerky and uncoordinated, his vision still absent due to the two-inch-thick wedge of adamantium which was very rudely skewering his visual cortex, but he had a good grip on the knife, most of which was now inside Logan’s skull.  And he wasn’t feeling very charitable.  So he wiggled it around.

Logan gasped.  He tried to pull back, jerked again, and went limp, grunting.  “Uh—fuck—hngh…”

Wade knew it was just pain, but those little grunts sounded distractingly porn-like.  But his anger was still strong enough to overpower his spasm of confused arousal.  “Apologize.”  Wade squeezed the word between clenched teeth.

Logan didn’t answer.

Wade wiggled the knife harder, up and down and side to side, feeling its edges scrape against Logan’s eye socket.  “Say it!”

Still no response.  Logan had gone worryingly limp on top of him, and Wade was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake.  Logan’s brain regenerated just like Wade’s, sure, but brain regeneration wasn’t always as neat or clean as the rest of the body.  Sometimes memories would be fuzzy or missing afterward.  Also, he didn’t fully understand how well Logan’s brain regenerated.  And he’d just pureed Logan’s whole left frontal lobe.  It probably looked like a meat smoothie now.  It was probably leaking out. What if he didn't get better? What if he turned into a feral beast-man and ran off into the woods to live in harmony with nature? Or started shitting his pants? What if Wade had just broken the Wolverine and he couldn't ever move or talk again? No, no, he was fine. This was fine.

Wade groaned.  “Fuck.”

Logan’s claws were still in Wade’s skull, and Wade still couldn’t move his other arm.  Or either of his legs.  Or see.

“Logan…”  He gulped.  “Logan.  We’ll both pull out on three, okay?”  No response.  “Okay?”

Logan made a weird, whimpery little noise. 

“Peanut.  Hey. Can you hear me?  Can you understand me?”

“N-not…good.”

“Pull out.  Just pull out.  Okay? One—two—three!”

Logan’s claws slid out of Wade’s skull with a shhhk. 

“Agh!  Fuck!” he panted.

Wade tried to pull out the knife, but it was in pretty deep, and trying to remove it was more awkward than he’d anticipated, especially without the use of his own vision, which was returning more slowly than he'd hoped.  Logan growled and jerked back before Wade could manage to maneuver the blade free.

“Logan…”  Wade tried to sit up and flopped back down.  His body felt like a bag of mashed potatoes and his vision—though now returning—was foggy.  He reached out, groping at empty air.

Where was Logan?

Wade paused to catch his breath and give his neurons a chance to knit back together.  His head throbbed, dull hammer-blows in the back of his skull. Nausea rolled over him, then faded.

Slowly, he sat up.  This time, his limbs obeyed him and held.

The car was drenched in blood, the seats stained beyond any hope of cleaning, there were little chunks of pink stuff here and there, and Logan was nowhere to be seen.

Wade, still shaky and uncoordinated, climbed out of the car, landing in a heap on the ground.  Logan was sitting a short distance away, on the dirt, staring blankly into space, Wade's knife still jutting out of his ruined eye. He was breathing heavily.  Blood, dirt and sweat stained his suit.

“You know you can just pull the knife out yourself,” Wade said.

Logan didn’t react.  His remaining eye was wide open, glassy.  He was drooling a little.

Wade crept toward him.  He started to reach out.  Logan flinched back.

“Whoa.  Hey.  It’s okay.  I’m just gonna take this out.  It’ll only hurt for a sec.”  He could already see Logan’s squished eye trying to regenerate, but it was healing around the blade—which would, of course, make it extra unpleasant to remove, but such was life.

He gripped the hilt. Then, bracing himself, he yanked the knife out.  Fast, like pulling off a band-aid.  Logan roared loud enough to startle a nearby flock of crows out of a tree. They flew off into the sky, cawing.

Wade started to wipe the blade off on Logan’s suit, then changed his mind and wiped it off on his own. It was red, anyway.  Logan blinked at him, breathing heavily, as his eye slowly knitted itself back together.

"Do you know your name?" Wade said.

After a pause, he muttered, "Logan." He swallowed. "I...I'm Logan."

"Do you know my name?"

"Wade."

"Good. Now count backwards from ten," Wade said. "And then list every prime minister in reverse alphabetical order. And tell me the square root of pi divided by nine."

"Fuck off."

"You're gonna be fine."

[badchoicesworld]

Can I request headcanons of Hobie Brown reacting to his gn s/o being startled when he kisses them whether it's on the lips or even on the cheek or forehead? Not only do they never kiss anyone because they never dated anyone before him, the slightly cold feeling of his lip piercing surprises them! Does this makes sense XD *Cough* totally not me about his lip piercing * Cough*

hobie notices how startled you get when he kisses you (gn!)

hobie brown x gn! reader

established relationship

hello i’m here to be ur bad influence, get a lip piercing if u want one, become the hobie brown in this scenario

warnings: none

pairing: hobie brown x gn! reader

requests: open, i wont be caught lacking

it was a moment of weakness

★⋆ ⋆☆⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆☆⋆⋆★✧

ok so i think that we all agree on hobie being very into physical contact and touchy feely

it’s nice to have a reminder that someone’s there for you physically, things like leaning on each other of just linking a finger while walking are super significant to him cause it shows you’re not afraid of being close together, y’know ? i image that’s pretty crucial to him if he’s ever in a relationship

at the same time, if it’s not present from the start, i think he’d be more than willing to teach someone what it’s liked to be physically loved and appreciated

he doesn’t know what’s gone off in your life, if your lack of experience is due to some sort of trauma or it’s as simple as you’ve never had the chance to be close to someone in that way, he won’t hold it against you

maybe tease and taunt you a bit

he’s definitely respectful and drops topics like a pin if prompted, and will easily respect personal space if anyone ever seems a uncomfortable by his closeness

no questions asked, he’s unbothered and keeps his hands to himself

if you seem a lil peeved more than anything he’s probably a bit more persistent cause he’s a cocky bastard at times

but if you express that you wanna be close to him but just aren’t used to it, man’s all over it

not all over you though, he won’t rush you

this shit boutta be GRADUAL and LOVING

ANYWAY to the actual scenario

there’s no way you’ve managed to avoid the magnet of affection that is hobie brown, but if things like arms around your shoulder and waist, hugs and cuddles don’t bother you then he’s unsuspecting for now

but if one day you’re just chilling, doing your own thing

maybe in spider society if you hang there, perhaps at either of ur cribs

and hobie just passively walks by or maybe you two have been hanging out all day

he sees you busy, wants to remind you he’s there

gives you the quickest little muah ever on ur temple or smthn

it’s casual to him, but he sees how ur expression immediately changes to a slightly started one, mixed with whatever else you’re feeling in that moment

it crosses his mind that you two have literally never kissed which is wild, now he’s amused by this revelation and is like “what?” (whot) while scheming and plotting in his head

you have your own reaction (or lack of) and hobie’s mildly entertained depending on it

just mad flustered ? he will weaponise this

if you seem genuinely uncomfortable by it then hobie’s gonna apologise and just wait for you to bring it up again before tryna kiss you again, he’s unbothered

if you explain that it’s just the piercing that caught you off guard and how cold it was, he’s laughing

like yeah, valid

likely knows he’s your first s/o or whatever you call yourselves, but you’ll tell him again that he’s your first

grins at all the innuendos he could make but voices none of them

you’re fine with it ? the coldness just caught you off guard ?

cue him wrapping both of his lanky ass arms tightly around your shoulders and just smothering the side of your face in kisses, really making sure that his cool lip piercing is making contact each time

he loves to be a fucking nuisance

irrelevant but i think hobie has a tongue piercing, anyway

even if you eventually get used to kisses, he still loves to see your reaction to the sudden freezing cold piercing

especially in the mornings, cackles when he watches you try to withdraw from him in the morning because of how cold his piercings are

imagine what it’s like when he fuckin nuzzles his face into you

two eyebrow piercings, one nose ring, lip ring- personally i would cease to a exist if i’m in that groggy state and that cold ass metal even grazes me, i’m gone and never coming back

he’ll sometimes kiss you just for your reactions, you aren’t safe

easily his favourite spot is the neck, imagine putting on a freezing cold necklace

yeah, it feels like that when he kisses you a certain way

in conclusion, your reactions enable him, please stop

★⋆ ⋆☆⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆☆⋆⋆★✧

[mageofseven]

MC: *slaps the boys' ass* Damn, boi. Your ass is fine!

Bros+undateables reaction?

This is an old ask that I thought looked fun so I decided to do it.

So here ya go I guess lol

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

Lucifer:

Blushes

Immediately scolds you

You two better be in a relationship or your ass is grounded.

If you are dating, this man may have enjoyed the action, but the words totally killed it.

You'll have a hell of a time getting him to admit that first part.

Do it in front of Diavolo though and he just may never forgive you.

Mammon:

Both sets of cheeks of are red

"W-What the hell??"

He will say that first regardless of if you are dating or not.

If you are dating, he will try to gain his composure and say something flirty instead, but it's too late, he's already made his best impression of a tomato.

Leviathan:

Honestly, his impression of a tomato is even better.

This man looks ready to pass out when you do this to him

And honestly, he just might.

Please, please catch him 😅

Satan:

Honestly, he is stunned at first in whatever position you smacked his but in.

Cheeks red as things lead the crossroads.

Are you his Kitten?

No-> something breaks and your ass runs for the hills

Yes->he picks you up, lightly remarks how he wishes you used a better vocabulary, and carries you to bed for some 'playtime'

Asmodeus:

Giggles and gives it a little shake for you

Says it's one of his many fine qualities.

Asks if you have any more ideas for his 'fine' ass or if you are just going to leave it neglected.

Is mostly teasing you, but in truth is down for anything.

Beelzebub:

"Um...thank you?"

Dating or not, this man is confused

And doesn't really know how to handle the situation.

I mean, no one has actually been brave enough to smack his ass before so he doesn't know what to say or do about it.

If you are dating him, please explain it to him.

If you aren't dating him, how dare you hit the cinnamon roll 😠

Belphegor:

Well that woke sleepy boy up real quick.

His cheeks are red and he's annoyed

And he'd rather drop dead than admit that he enjoyed it, regardless of whether you are dating or not.

If you two are dating, try that the next time you two are 'intimate' in bed and I swear the brat will love it.

Diavolo:

You, a human, had the gall to smack the prince of demons, one of the strongest beings in all of the realms, and descendant of the devil himself

On the ass?

That is so hot 😳

If it was around others, be prepared to be scolded by those in attendance.

If you are dating, also be prepared for Dia to ask for your presence in his bedroom

And if you aren't, be prepared for this man to ask you to date him...and maybe meet him in his room if you're comfortable with it...👀

Barbatos:

You can feel it within your bones--no, your very soul

You have made a grave error.

How grave?

Are you both dating?

No->prepare to never sleep again for your dreams, nay, your nightmares are no longer safe.

Yes->Aight keep moving

Was it in front of others?

No->he grumpy but he loves you so it's all cool

Yes->oh devil...well move your ass along

Do you both have a dom/sub relationship in the bedroom and are into bdsm (and are basically okay with punishment in the bedroom)?

Yes->your ass (and every other part of you) is in a lot of trouble the next to you're in the bedroom with him

No->this bitch stops talking to you for so long you start wondering if you're still dating.

Solomon:

Raises an eyebrow at you

In truth, isn't the biggest fan of this treatment, regardless of whether you are dating or not.

Either way, will smile his usual smile and ask that you to refrain from doing that ever again

Though his smile might be even scarier if you are not dating 😅

Simeon:

I'll be honest, if you did this in front of Luke, I will through hands with you.

Even still, this feels like a serious crime.

I mean, Simeon is an angel.

He is a being from the Celestial realm who is allowed no sexually desires or experiences

And you shatter his world by letting him know his ass is fine as all hell.

How does a Celestial being react to such a...'passionate' compliment?

He is not quite sure, if he is honest

And you have him at a lost of words, regardless of whether you two are secretly dating.

This is a new experience after all.

Either way, apologize for making this poor man uncomfortable and give him a proper compliment

...and quadruple check Luke was nowhere around in the slightest when this happened.

Mephistopheles:

Oh dear devil, you broke him.

His face is red, his mouth is moving

But not a single sound is coming out.

You have some things to consider here.

Are you dating?

No->he will hit you with his cane and call you every demon slur for humans that he knows.

Yes->alright, so you're his idiot then. He's used to your bs.

More importantly than that question, did you smack his ass enough to make him stumble?

No->I will personally let you live then.

Yes->that is mean and I am upset. Next question.

Was anyone else around at the time?

Yes->Mephisto will refuse to talk to you for a while.

No->alright, we will both forgive you this once, human.

[goodluckclove]

Some Loose Thoughts on Queer Rep (Specifically Aspec Rep)

(Just in advance I'm going to dunk on Alastor from Hazbin Hotel like a lil' bit, as a treat. Mainly the team that made him and what he represents, but still. If that's rage bait for you, I suggest maybe dipping out now)

I have a theory that queer media needs both queer characters and queer genre characters. The difference is very important.

I think a queer character would be a character in a story about their queerness. For some reason the only two characters I could think of are the guy from Love, Simon (What was his name again?) and the protagonist from Rubyfruit Jungle, which should express the weird and complicated relationship I have with this particular archetype.

Queer stories centered around queerness are definitely needed, but at the same time I feel like we're just starting to come to terms with the desperate need for the alternative, which are queer characters in genre media that contain overarching plots larger than their sexuality. Not separate, necessarily (Their queerness certainly influences things), but just beyond. This is more accessible for a variety of artists, which is also the reason why it can be a flop or a massive success.

We get more of this than ever for gay and sapphic characters, as well as some trans folks and occasionally non-binary. It's definitely way less seen in aspec characters, and even less respected. I started thinking this way because the internet is flooded with references to fucking Alastor from Hazbin Hotel as an aroace character and - like - god, I don't get it.

Like you can have your serial killer comfort character, that's fine. But latching onto him as representation for the entire aspec community when he was only confirmed to be aroace through a reference in a livestream and the weakest joke onscreen is pretty disheartening. It definitely reads like this part of his identity was added pretty late in his character development, and by a team of people that didn't seem to consider what the response and reaction would be and how they'd handle it.

I also wish the newest aspec icon in media wasn't created by a team so adamant on encouraging shipping culture above actually respecting the identity they've decided to provide representation for. Like I see it means a lot to people to have an aroace character doing something cool in a fun TV show that doesn't necessarily have anything to do with their identity. Then there's like four other people right behind that person who really wants that person to be romantic and fuck.

And like, yeah, aroace people can do that sometimes. It's a spectrum, I know. But can't we start with a baseline representation before providing proof of fluidity?

I just think we deserve better. Like a character who in the media is established to be aspec, and people are like "great" and move on to fight robots or do magic or whatever. And the person can be morally grey, or even a total dick, but like I'd personally prefer something with a little more depth than Hot Topic genericism.

Like don't get me wrong, I'll take some sort of eldritch horror as my representation, but...make him at all horrifying? Like everyone talks about how he has Eldritch powers, which I know to mean unfathomable and maddening. But I've seen everything he does in the canon of the show and it is both incredibly fathomable and makes me feel normal and sane. Yog-Sothoth this man is not.

But yeah, I don't think there's a solution here besides more aspec artists creating aspec characters in their work. That way people can still like Alastor if they want, but he's not like the only viable option in terms of representation in the media. Let me see lovingly-crafted cool guys and dipshits and chaos goblins and little babies and True Horrors, all of whom have varying degrees of distaste or indifference towards sex and romance.

Do it. We need it. Please.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

You seem like a decent person so I wouldn’t be shocked if you don’t have this thought. But I just saw something that REALLY made me think this (I won’t say which one, after all this is just me being a jerk I’m sure).

Do you ever get submissions where you think “MAN, someone here needs to go outside. The argument you describe would not have happened if you guys just went out and like interacted with human beings occasionally.”

It wasn’t a stupid submission or anything like that. But it was an argument that I really, genuinely felt could only happen if you lived on the internet almost 100% of the time. It’s concerning. But I would not be shocked if this is just me being ta

The thing is, you're still interacting with human beings on the internet, it's just that the communication has been made so abstracted that often people forget. The problem I have with how people act online has nothing to do with caring a bit too much about a fictional character or whatever and everything to do with the callousness and casual cruelty that comes from forgetting you're talking to people. You know, building that shell of ironic memey detachment and getting too caught up in dunking on people for internet cool points.

Which is kind of hypocritical for someone running a blog like this that kind of exists to dunk on people, I know! But I think the line between a justified dunk on someone who truly deserves it and just ripping on people who are literally just minding their own business is being lost. I totally get what you mean, and I think NAH in this case because everyone has little judgy moments in their head like that. And that's fine and normal! But I think the internet overall might be a little less awful to exist on if we collectively were a little less bloodthirsty in the comments section about it.

[themore12]

Praise (ft. vil and idia)

VIL SCHOENHIET

He gets compliments every day, he's used to it at this point.

Loves every compliment but holds your compliments closer to his heart.

This perfume suited him?

Well, you'll be smelling perfumes similar to this then.

Brands realized that he likes whatever you liked on him,

and that's why they have started convincing YOU.

"These clothes would look amazing on Vil!"

"No these will!"

Anyways.

He holds your compliments dear, and your complaints or minor issues closer.

He knows that you know him better than he knows himself, that's why he trusts you.

He also loves your random compliments.

He would be doing his normal routine and suddenly his heart skips a beat at your sudden compliment

example 1

============

"You are the most beautiful being I have laid eyes upon."

Your lover, who was busy doing his skincare routine was caught off guard.

You can see his eyes widen on the reflection in surprise.

You can see in the reflection multiple emotions pass through his face, surprise, disbelief, and happiness.

Adding the final touches to his skincare, he turns to you with love in his eyes and with the gentlest and in-love tone said.

"I should be saying that to you..."

IDIA SHROUD

He was definitely handsome.

But he never believed you whenever you said it.

Him?

He never leaves his room and...showering?

what is that??

(He started regularly showering after you started making his room your room-)

He would never admit it but he always feels happy whenever you compliment his looks.

Early in the relationship, whenever you compliment him he stutters, doesn't make eye contact with you, and attempts to hide his face in his hair.

He remembers each and every compliment as well!

But, when he starts to open up to you and gets more comfortable,

that's when things start to change.

Whenever you compliment him now he grins and says "I know."

You have done miraculous things to his ego.

He has evolved from not believing your compliments to only believing your compliment.

What an improvement.

============

Early in the relationship:

"You know, you're handsome now that I look at you."

Glancing at his hair you can see it has betrayed him yet again, as its tips glow red.

He immediately paused the game and turned at you quickly. And with the straightest face told you.

"Check again."

------------------

"I'm checking again and I can say, you're still definitely handsome."

"We need to get you to an eye doctor man..."

But my vision is totally fine?"

"Not if you think I'm handsome!"

You sighed and held his face in your hands. You can see in the corner of your eyes that the tips of his hair start turning red again after it cooled down not too long ago.

His face expressed annoyance but the look in his eyes are screaming to compliment him more. His frowning mouth opened.

"Do you really think I'm handsome?"

"The most handsome gamer I've ever seen."

=============

Late in the relationship:

"You're so handsome."

"Thanks lol."

.

.

.

"You know maybe I should tone it down with the compliments..."

"NO!?!?!"

.

.

.

.

authors note: I made this at 4 am.

[a-not-so-clean-blog]

Savior

Yan Shigaraki x reader

Warnings: mind break, isolation, sensory deprivation

800 words

He wanted to be perfect for you. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. That's why he agreed to become a guinea pig, to become unstable, a monster. When he becomes a true monster you will sit perfectly in his maw. Not like you knew about any of this. All you knew was that you've spent weeks in near total darkness. Scared, cold, and totally alone.

The room itself was pretty big. A plush king sized bed and soft blankets contrasted by a cold tile floor and gray walls. A table and chair littered with books and papers was the only thing to keep your mind active. The desk barely stood on 3 legs, having been broken after a week of being trapped in this box. There wasn't even a window or door to give false hope of escape.

Black fog oozed out of the wall just like it did every day. At first you would cry and beg for whatever was beyond the void to let you out. Screaming until your throat grew hoarse every day until you ultimately lost your voice. Your throat has healed but you know it's pointless to talk anyway. A hand passed through the darkness and left a bag on the floor and took the bag with yesterday's garbage with it. Clean clothes, some food and water, and a sudoku book. The puzzle was a nice change of pace, something to hold onto so you don't completely lose your mind. The isolation was really getting to you though. Often unable to tell if you said your thoughts out loud or in your head. Sometimes even imagining a voice talking back with you. You weren't sure how much longer you could take this isolation before you truly went insane.

The food always looked good, being a simple but balanced meal. Nothing ever too fancy or too cheap. The clothes were shorts and a t-shirt. Thin but it was fine as long as you stayed on the bed. The single light in the middle of the ceiling was on an automatic timer, and the only thing that sort of what you keep track of how many weeks you've been locked in here. At least that's what you have been using as a daily indicator along with the routine food drop off.

Slowly it felt like more of your will was draining along with your sanity. The craving for another human, for any comfort or companionship was ravenous.

You tried a few more times to talk to the void when it would show up, but all that left was an empty feeling in your heart when you never got a response. Despair, that's what it was. A crushing feeling coupled with the intense feelings of loneliness. All you could do was sit and wait, and wait, and wait…

You were never a religious person but watching the wall crumble to dust made your soul scream. An angel! He had to be an angel! Why else would he come and free you after all those months of soul crushing isolation! Freedom. That's right, he was your freedom. So why couldn't you move?

Your chest started heaving and your hands trembled. You watched your savior through misty eyes as you fell to your knees, your legs no longer able to support your weakened body.

“Hello.” His scratchy voice trilled, filling the silence that's been consuming you for so long. “I've waited so long, so so long to be able to do this..”

He knelt down in front of you and roughly grabbed your arms, the piece of metal attached to his left hand biting into your skin. It was impossible to care about the little details though. Not when his hands felt nice and cool against your hot skin. Not when his voice finally broke your burden of silence. Not when the rough feeling of his lips on your own felt like Nirvana.

You know you recognized him from somewhere. His white fluffy hair and cherry red eyes were distinctive enough, but all of your memories from before the room all felt so far away. If it was important you would remember, right? Well as far as you're concerned your angel is the most important thing in the world right now. He was your world.

He kissed you like a man taking his first drink after a month in the desert. A famished roughness that left you light headed, but you returned the enthusiasm as best you could given your weakened state. It felt like you were being eaten alive. Even if you were though you didn't want to stop him. As long as he kept touching you, as long as he was near you, as long as he stayed with you. You wouldn't care what he did. He was your savior after all.

[pseudophan]

some post wad weekend thoughts...

i just wrote all this on the plane and haven't read it through so apologies for any mistakes

first of all, this weekend was incredible. i usually just kinda sit at home doing not much of anything, and this was a much needed break to actually have some fun. london in general always lifts my spirits but i suppose that danisnotonfire guy contributed a little as well.

guys i think i've met more people the past few days than i otherwise have in years. like. holy shit. i started listing people but i'm petrified i'll forget someone so i chickened out, sorry about that. but you all know who you are. i've met friends i've had for years, people i used to know but haven't spoken to in what feels like a decade, newer friends, and a frankly baffling amount of people i didn't know yet but who told me they've followed me for ages. like holy fuck you guys lmao what the hell??? and i mean did the reaction ever get old no of course it didn't. bad for my ego i'm sure but totally worth it. there's something very amusing and incredibly surreal about being chronically lame in most aspects of life and then suddenly finding yourself in an environment where you're kinda cool???? SO fucking fun oh my god, but also i do kinda feel like i've tricked you all? but hey i'll happily let you keep believing i'm cool, that is more than fine with me.

most importantly though everyone was SO lovely. like i said i don't think i've spoken to this many people in such a short amount of time in years and every single person i talked to was awesome. guys did you know phannies are kind of great... don't tell anyone but, lowkey... everyone is so funny and cool and absolutely insane but in a good way (shoutout everyone left at the gates until the very end, we should probably get some help).

and then lastly of course, mr howell himself. i talk about this a lot i feel like but fuck me that man was born to perform. whether you think he's actually funny or not, nobody can argue he doesn't absolutely thrive on a stage. he plays off the audience so well and he's so very obviously having the time of his fucking life. i'd already seen the show twice before this, and i didn't think anything would top the previous london show but man... the first night he came back out after the show having clearly been tearing up backstage, apologising for being an inconsistent absent parent, and i can't lie the "i had daddy issues and THEN i subscribed to dan howell" got me cause yeah no literally dude, you nailed it, exactly, well done. i think something about doing this show again, his magnum opus as he considers it, now after the dapg return was very special to him. he seems genuinely surprised that so many of us were ready to just jump back in like nothing happened, i don't think he was expecting so many people to still be waiting and it's... man. he comes off so grateful for us all and it's so fucking sweet. and then on the last night, i think that was my favourite, when the show ended and he got the standing ovation and people throwing him flowers.. he was so HAPPY. and clearly overwhelmed with emotion which, i gotta say, there is something honestly kinda funny about daniel howell standing in front of you trying not to cry. like no by all means dude go ahead, please, you've made me cry an endless amount of times it's only fair.

ugh. i'm proud of him or whatever. dick. and i'm proud of our ridiculous fucking community. i'm not sure what 14 year old nora would say if you'd told me i'd still be kicking it in the phandom a decade on, but at almost 25 (fml) i'm so so happy to be here still. you know, we get a bad rep, but i genuinely think as far as fanbases go we're pretty solid. and i love you all so much.

i believe i will have to rob a bank or something because the next time dan and/or phil do a tour i think i'll have to just show up at every date like i'm sorry but this was too good of a high we need to do it again immediately

anyway. back to work 💪

(by which i mean giffing dan and phil. i am still very much unemployed. fr though i'm two whole videos behind this has never happened i feel weird. who am i)

[thebroccolination]

THE WAY KRIST INCLUDES WOMEN

[left: Krist and Namtan; right: Krist and his sister]

Once, my friend had the opportunity to work with a singer from a group I used to follow. When the project was done, I asked my friend what she thought of him, and she said, “He’s fine,” but I could tell something about the experience bothered her. After a few minutes of talking about the job itself, she said, “You know what it was about him? He doesn’t care about women. Like, he wasn’t rude to me or anything. He didn’t say anything negative about women, and he didn’t treat any woman on the project poorly that I saw. He just doesn’t think about us. At all. Whenever I met with him to discuss the project, or whenever we’d have small talk about culture or society or whatever, it just became abundantly clear that his whole life and worldview is very male-centric. I’m used to men being openly patronizing or downright malicious, and like, this guy’s whole career has been female-facing, so I went into those interactions expecting him to be either extremely cool with women or a total misogynist. But nah. He’s just, y’know. A man who doesn’t include women in his world. Other than that, he’s fine.”

I thought about that for the rest of the week. I’d been a fan of this guy’s group for years, and his group had been all men in a company of all men. He’d been on TV shows with women, of course, and I remember him being friendly with some former costars, but all the people I knew from his inner circle were, in fact, men. I was in my late twenties at the time, and I remember thinking, “There’s something inherently odd and exploitative about famous men who make their career off the money and support of women but don’t include women in their personal lives.”

It’s something I’ve paid attention to ever since. When I became a fan of Boun, for example, I noticed that he has female friends from university, and that he was extremely protective of all the girls in Wabi Sabi, which made me feel confident that he was a good egg. By that same token, I’ve also noticed when other actors are predominantly friends with men, and when they only seem to view women as support systems or sources of personal validation.

Krist is just…comfortable with women. And more importantly, women are comfortable with Krist.

[Krist and Mook]

Back in 2020, I noticed two things about Krist regarding women: 1) he had a crush on Namtan (don’t we all), and 2) after SOTUS, GMMTV steered Krist away from BL to star in lakorns opposite women.

That was fairly standard. Just a famous dude existing around women for work. No red flags, no green.

What I noticed over time is that Krist is still close with a lot of the women he worked with, and that his inner circle includes women.

And when I say those women are comfortable with him, I mean that not just in a, “He’s fine,” sort of sense. They’re comfortable goofing around with him, being physically close to him, and hanging out with him. They speak highly of his character, about how he treats them as a senior, a junior, a coworker.

[left: Krist and Mook; right: Aye with Krist and Gawin]

Last year, Aye went so far as to say that in all of GMMTV, she felt closest to Krist and Gawin partly because they made her experience making Be My Favorite so warm and comfortable when usually these male-oriented productions can alienate the women involved. She’d also worked with Krist before, and she said she feels completely at ease with him.

The work part I had backed up recently by a woman my friend spoke to: she said Krist goes out of his way to include every single person involved in a production. Not just the actors, but the crew and the staff as well. Rather than form a small clique with the people he already knows, Krist makes everyone feel like they’re in his clique. He treated everyone with respect regardless of age, gender, or role in the production.

[left: Krist and Godji; center: Godji’s birthday message to Krist; right: Jennie’s birthday message to Krist]

He’s famously devoted to his mothers, both his industry mother Godji who’s been looking out for him for years, and his birth mother pictured below from an episode of ArmShare (with English subtitles) in which Arm features Krist’s mother and shows how lovely and supportive their relationship is.

In the late 90s and early 00s, Krist’s family went into debt, and he took thankless jobs in university to try and help them out of it. The success of SOTUS is what got his family all the way into the green, and to this day Krist freely gives his parents access to the money he makes so they can live a better life. They still work (his mother’s office is pictured above), but because of Krist, they’re able to relax into their older age.

He’s also been actively protective of MilkLove over the past several months. When he interviewed them for Livehouse, they were noticeably open and confident in their answers. And yesterday, when MilkLove, KristSingto, and JoongDunk arrived in Singapore for their fan meetings today, the chaos in the airport created some genuine panic among security and the artists themselves.

In the video, you’ll see a man in a red shirt who was dogging MilkLove with his phone stretched out to capture himself with them. Krist, in gray, stretched his arm out to shield them from him. He and Singto did their best among the madness to protect MilkLove from the overzealous fans and from the confused security guard who pushed Milk out of the way thinking she was a fan, too.

Surging crowds like that are terrifying enough for anyone, but especially for women when they’re being actively pursued by larger men with no respect for their physical space. Krist and Singto both understand from personal experience how wild these situations can get, and I’m relieved they were both so quick to act for MilkLove’s safety.

I thought I must’ve made a thread or a post about this before, but I only really mentioned it once in a tweet a few months ago, so after this incident with MilkLove, I decided to zero in on one of my favorite things about him. Because these days, it’s not enough for me that a man is neutral about women. For me to support any man’s career, he has to be actively kind, actively supportive, and actively sharp with the men who aren’t.

The days of neutrality as the standard are firmly in the past, and it’s important to hold expectations for men high—especially famous men.

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Sulani: Evening

(Written for @akitasimblr's Mad About Dodo Challenge ❤️ This got very long. I cannot do short lines of dialogue that convey so much like some of you out there :x The last two paragraphs are the only ones that matter)

(Also I owe a lot to @dead-lights for her interpretation of Darrel. Thank you for giving him so may layers!)

GEMMA: So. Why are we here? DARREL: I know why I’m here. The question is, why are you here? GEMMA: Ah, c’mon man. Sulani. The cushiest and most exclusive resort on the whole island. Even more cushy and exclusive now that they’re filming Mad About Dodo. DARREL: Mad about what now? Mundanes still believe that they exist?

GEMMA: No, you doofus. Only the hottest reality tv show in the Simsverse. And Dodo Harper is the bachelor. DARREL: The twin of He Who Shall Not Be Named?

GEMMA: Now look around us. It’s a beautiful sunset. About to be a beautiful night. Why do you darken my day by bringing up that turd and his pro-vampire propaganda piece? DARREL: That’s usually my line. GEMMA: And it was totally when he was banging that one lady fanger too. Why do you masc type Sims have to go and lose any mote of common sense the instant you get your wands wet- DARREL: Gemma.

GEMMA: Okay, you have a little more sense than the rest of them. I’ll give you that. In fact, some days I think that you were born with a broomstick shoved so far up your arse that Emilia’s still pulling the fragments out- DARREL: Gemma.

GEMMA: So prove me otherwise by letting your absolute favouritist sister stay with you while you’re here for work? Pretty please? I’ll even cook you dinner. DARREL: I can Delicioso my own dinner. So can you. GEMMA: But then it won’t be made with love. Pleaaaase?

DARREL: Alright. Fine. But only because I know that you’ll get into worse mischief if I say no. GEMMA: A gentleman and a scholar! DARREL: Back on the premises no later than eleven o’clock. And if I’m out for the night, you’ll stay with Duane Talla and his caregivers. GEMMA: You’re the best! 

Somewhere nearby, a loading screen blips, deposits a Sim on the nearby shore (he never even got peanuts on his ride). A Wildfang emerges.

LOU: Well, hey. Had no idea I’d be working with spellcaster royalty. If I’d known, I’d have taken a longer wolf bath before boarding the loading screen. DARREL: Great. My associate is a Wildfang. GEMMA: Darrel, be cool. Don’t mind my brother. He doesn’t actually hate werewolves. DARREL: I don’t. I’m wary of them. No offence. GEMMA: He just miscast a spell one day and his face has been frozen like that ever since. So sad.

DARREL: I did not miscast a spell. GEMMA: Whatever. I however am a werewolf ally. LOU: I can tell by the lack of tense moodlets on you. Awoo! DARREN: How does that even apply when you’re not transformed?

LOU: For you, baby? I can transform. GEMMA: Don’t bother. He’s engaged and not the slightest bit interested in that throuple update coming to base game. Though he supports it in principle. DARREN: Yeah. See this finger?

LOU: Bro. Wrong finger. And that was hurtful. DARREN: Ah plum. Look, I’m just juggling a lot at the moment with the wedding and an upcoming trial- GEMMA: He’s going to be a Master Caster… DARREN: And for all I know, you’re a decent enough guy. But when I was told that I’d be working with a werewolf, I was expecting someone with more of a… reputation for polish and professionalism. Someone from the Collective, maybe.

GEMMA: Guys, it will be fine. This big secret thing that you’re not telling me, that is. Maybe you can start over by trading hair care tips? Even though Darrel only has the second best ‘do of all the spellcasters. DARREN: Ember has to be using some kind of untamed magic. I just know it. Therefore it doesn’t count. LOU: Hey, your locks are truly luscious, man. Could totally smell the keratin the second I got off the loading screen. DARREN: Oh, really? Thank you. It’s my-

GEMMA: And it could be worse. At least you’re not working with Vladdy Daddy... [mimes the creep walk] All three laugh. 

Here, however, comes someone who is not laughing. In fact, had she French kissed a lemon beforehand, you would probably describe her expression as ‘joyous’ next to the one she’s currently wielding.

ROSAMUND: Pleased to see that you have already found each other. But why am I addressing a child? My directives were clear. This is a potential business meeting, not a summer camp.

GEMMA: Child? You know, gameplay mechanics allow me to do all the things that a young adult can do. Even perform caregiving duties on an infant, only I don’t get any parenting skill boost from it. Do you ever think about that? No, you only ever think about yourselves. LOU: That’s so unfair. GEMMA: [fake sniff] I know! ROSAMUND: We can discuss the rights of the disenfranchised Thriftea generation later. Shall we sojourn to somewhere more private? LOU: [to Gemma] Hey, she’s got that kind of knack where she phrases something like it’s a request. Only it’s anything but a request- TOGETHER: I stan.

ROSAMUND: So. Is there an adult present with whom I may converse?

DARREN: That would be me. And not simply by default, though I can understand you having that impression. ROSAMUND: Yes. You come highly recommended at least. Please. Have a seat.

GEMMA: So, Wildfang. What news of this gig? What do your wolf ears perceive? LOU: A Lord of the Swings reference. I dig it. GEMMA: Something about Mad About Dodo? LOU: Oh my Watcher, I am obsessed! When that hot mean girl type was all set to Black Widow challenge Vlad- GEMMA: Not all heroes wear capes! LOU: And then that sweet shy twink finally got to shoot his shot at the WowWow hut! GEMMA: Total OTPness! LOU: Oh, but then that one dude drowned.

GEMMA: Which at first I thought was funny because I was like ‘people, chill, there’s a spell for that dot com?’ But then I remembered that everyone on that show is a mundane, probably because "Mister Vampire War Crimes Apologist" wants to be able to torture all the truly helpless Sims without any pushback or accountability or something. LOU: Plum, I hate that dick.  GEMMA: So then I felt bad for thinking that it was funny? Since they don’t know what we know. And Dodo was crying over his tombstone and shit.

LOU: Yeah, that was rough but like, don’t feel bad. Our first reaction to anything ever is all down to social conditioning, you know? You reframed the situation in your own mind with hindsight and that’s what’s important. GEMMA: Thank you. LOU: I got you. Anyways. The tea is that her daughter’s on the show and she’s not happy. GEMMA: Oh my Watcher, I knew that she looked familiar! She has to be - TOGETHER: [scooby doo villain reveal tone] - Minty’s Mom!!! GEMMA: And Minty almost died too. No wonder Lady Muck-Muck here looks like she just stepped in a three hundred year old corpse. LOU: Yeah, I would be Blood Moon Rising level Furious if it was my pup. [whispers even quieter] But as well as ‘a’ mommy, she’s also Mommy, am I right? GEMMA: Totally Mommy. Though I’m still a teenager so I don’t have those moodlets about anyone above my age group yet. LOU: Don’t worry. I’ve got enough for the both of us.

ROSAMUND: Let neither of us disrespect the other by wasting their time. What do you know of untamed magic? DARREL: About five thousand simoleons worth more than what you’re currently offering. ROSAMUND: A risky venture and you must be compensated accordingly for your labour. Understood. DARREL: You’ve obviously done your research. You know then that we Charms are an old spellcaster family and we don’t need the money. And neither are we the types to dispense cheap party tricks for hire. [glances over at Gemma] Well, those of us who are of age anyway. I want to know that you’re serious about this. ROSAMUND: Oh, I most certainly am. And I can afford to be still more serious than five thousand additional simoleons. I can be very serious indeed. DARREL: Let’s discuss particulars then, yeah?

ROSAMUND: Yes, let’s. Mister Howl and Ms. Charm, downstairs you will find a bar, a dance floor and some credit in your names. LOU: [to Gemma] Don’t worry, I got you. ROSAMUND: You will also find a bartender under strict instructions not to serve alcohol to any minors, and to blacklist anyone who provides alcohol to said minors. LOU: Curses, foiled again!