#when I say I hate them I mean if they were real people I would not want to be around them

[daddymaster21]

Okay!!! chapter 2 right away because I’m depressed and I need to binge something comforting

1. BEN POV RIGHT AWAY BARK WOOF

2. I’m very normal about him 🙂‍↕️

3. I can’t decide if having super hearing would be awesome or miserable. Probably some combination of both

4. Ben in his nickname era will always be comforting to me

5. Butcher and Ben can’t help having a dick measuring contest the second they’re within twenty feet of each other

6. Yeah, good luck with that buddy. You’re about to be real displeased

7. “I thought you were only going to ask once” fucking ICON, I LOVE HER

8. “Butcher would get himself killed all over me” seriously. I need to be in a polycule with her and Ben

9. Ben has his priorities straight. Why listen when women?

10. Unfortunately I am that crow-brained 😔

11. WAIT TILL HE LEARNS THERE’S A WORD FOR THAT. YOU’LL DEFENESTRATE HER!

12. She’s the funniest woman alive fr

13. Unfortunately almost all of your brilliant plans are also stupid plans. On the bright side, this one turns out pretty good!

14. Respond to insults with logic is hilarious. It makes people SO much more angry

15. That’s… that’s too many horse paintings, and i like horses

16. Ben would hate me, I semi-regularly wake up at like 11:30

17. God I hate peanut butter. Even the smell upsets me

18. “Very nicely” homeboy, you didn’t even say please

19. God, I hate cooking. Like. I can cook, but I really do hate it so much

20. I feel like it’s in the name??? A man who’s also a whore

21. Regrettably I am also a mean bitch who would throw a knife at someone if I knew it couldn’t hurt them

22. Literally every celebrity ever died in 2016. That shit was wild

23. Robin Williams is a national treasure

24. Boy howdy if he’d said that to me and I’d been through what she’s been through? He would be covered in third degree burns

Final thoughts: yeah… I also hate it when men.

Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Chapter title from American Idiot by Green Day.

Word Count: 5.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Soldier Boy is woken up, and you have to deal with the pitfalls of your idea. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn.

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

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When he was forced into this type of sleep, Ben didn’t dream. This type of sleep was more like death, with no part of him alive in any way that mattered. But in the few seconds before he woke, with chemicals leaving his system and consciousness returning, he felt pain.

Borderline unbearable, exhaustive and consuming pain. The last few times he had been woken up, the pain had made the bomb in his chest start to tick, tick, tick, building up and up, off the beat from his heart until they found a rhythm, and he would explode.

It never relieved all that pain, but fuck him if it wasn’t cathartic.

Every time he had woken up in Russia, he’d fought the scientists like a fucking animal. When that assfuck, traitorous Brit and his cum guzzling team had found him, Ben hadn’t hesitated to use teeth and fire, hellbent on getting out, on getting home. This time wasn’t any different, the beat in his chest was already banging against his ribs, save for the stark exception of his surroundings.

He wasn’t in a clean lab or disgusting tube. He was in a suburban living room, complete with potted plants, one of those new and weirdly flat TVs, and some of the most boring paintings of roses he had ever fucking seen. Not a single person was in sight, no tubes were hooked to his body, and no cannon barrels or gas-filled vents sat in his vision. A small part of him hesitated, wondering if he was suddenly dreaming, his body having adapted to fight back and allow him some hazy peace. But the fever in his chest was growing, and there was no goddamn world where he would ever find suburbia and floral-patterned carpets peaceful. No, this was someone’s attempt to trick him, to make him compliant. Maybe Vought, maybe the Reds, maybe the CIA, didn’t matter. They all died the same.

The nuclear explosion from his chest lit the room, tearing out of him with a rush. Ben braced himself for bullets and grenades as his captors realized their little plan had failed, but none came. And as the dust cleared, he realized that not only were there no soldiers dropping from the sky or weapons hurling at his body, but everything was… exactly the same. Well, the plants had been burnt to a crisp, but that was the only evidence of his power having ripped through the room. The TV was still smooth and clean, the sofa hadn’t moved an inch, and the paintings hung evenly on the walls.

What the fuck.

He paused, the drum in his chest having stilled, and listened. Bird song, running water below the floor, electrical hums through the walls, and…

There it was.

Heartbeats.

Five heartbeats. All sped up, all bouncing around in the chests of their owners. Three moved heavily and quickly, one rapid and staggered—that one reeked of terror—and one beat only a single mark off from steady, almost as if it were devoid of any fear. Interesting.

Ben searched the room for a camera, but settled on looking in the direction of the heartbeats.

“I know you’re there,” he drawled. “I can fuckin hear you. Come out, you pussies.”

There was a pause, all five heartbeats having stuttered at his words, before a door creaked down the dark, sconce lined halls, and footsteps sounded towards him.

The people who stepped from the shadows into the living room should thank the Lord that Ben didn’t kill them the moment they were in the light. Grace Mallory, the thin-lipped bitch, watched him wearily, with the backstabbing Billy Butcher to her left. Only a step behind them was the blonde broad that had blasted him in the face at Vought Tower, accompanied by her and Butcher’s gangly cocksucker. The only one he didn’t recognize stood at the very front, a woman who was looking at him with sharp eyes, arms crossed in front of her body and legs planted apart. This was the holder of the steady heart, unsurprisingly given her collected stance and cold gaze. It was almost amusing, the way she was looking at him, like she was a lion and he was a gazelle, like if she glared her lovely eyes at Ben enough, he might drop dead. But he turned his eyes from her tiny fury to Butcher and Mallory, giving them a smirk that made his murderous intentions clear.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was Butcher who answered, returning the false smile. “This is an intervention, mate. You have a problem, and we’re here to help.”

“The only problem I have is you. If you had half a brain, you’d start running.”

“Really? Because to me,” Butcher’s smile didn’t falter as he gestured around the room. “It seems like you’re having some performance issues.”

“Don’t make him angry,” the cocksucker mumbled from the back. Butcher only rolled his eyes in response.

“This, Soldier Boy, is an opportunity. We’re giving you a second chance to help us with Homelander.” Mallory said, watching Ben carefully.

“A second chance?” It was Ben’s turn to roll his eyes. “You should be grateful that I might not kill you all when I leave.”

“I’d start playing nice, Soldier Boy.” The blonde stepped forward with a scowl. “You don’t have the upper hand here."

"Oh, please, you blast me down once and think you’re some sort of god? You caught me off guard that time, doll. This time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Blondie opened her mouth to retaliate, but Butcher snorted first, a newer, more twisted grin on his face.

“Starlight’s no god, but she is,” Butcher nudged the steady-hearted newcomer forward. “Meet your new babysitter. Go on, Love, say hello.”

The woman stumbled slightly at the push, her already strong frown deepening, and had barely turned her anger to Butcher when Ben started to laugh. All eyes fell to him as he gave a loud snort of amusement, a broad grin on his face.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “Didn’t think you were funny, Butcher, but that’s a fucking riot.”

“We’re being serious,” Starlight snapped. “You answer to her now.”

“Yeah,” Ben rolled his eyes, giving his alleged keeper a once over. “Sure. Sunshine over here is going to stop me from ripping all your heads off your bodies. Fuck, she won’t even stop me leaving this room.”

“Wanna bet?”

Ben paused as the woman spoke for the first time. It wasn’t just her heartbeat that was level and even. Her voice was smooth, unbreaking and calm with not a trace of anxiety. Her eyes were still watching him coldly, her pretty face set like a mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like to bet that I can’t stop you?” She repeated slowly, as if he were a child.  “I’d advise you not to, but I don’t think you’d care for my opinion.”

“You think you can stop me, Sunshine? Are you fucking stupid?”

“No, but I don’t think my intelligence matters here. You’re not walking out that door.”

Part of Ben wanted to start laughing again. At her blatant lack of self-preservation to go up against him and not flinch. At her smooth claim of intelligence but painfully clear lack of understanding about the situation she was in. At her companions, who had all stepped back, undoubtedly realizing that their gambit had failed and leaving her in his line of fire.

Part of him wanted to be quick and brutal, make her an example before he left. But it wasn’t worth it, and her face was too nice to ruin, so he settled to just walk past her. He’d kill Butcher on his way out and figure out what he wanted to do from there.

He only had to take three long strides to reach the hall, making to just move past the woman, but she side-stepped, blocking his path. Ben looked down at her, finding his amusement at her misguided boldness fading into annoyance.

“Move, Sunshine. I’ll only ask once.”

She met his glare, no break in her resolve. “I’d say the same to you, Grampa.”

“I’m warning you. I’m not above hitting a lady.”

“I thought you were only going to ask once.”

That was it. Ben moved to grab her, to shove her aside and end her pointless little charade. He didn’t have time for her frivolous, self-indulgent bullshit, he had tried to warn her, and at this point her blood was really just on her own hands.

It happened fast. He reached to push her, she didn’t flinch, her face looking almost bored as Ben lunged, and his hand had barely landed on her arm before he let go, recoiling from her with a roar.

“What the fuck!” He looked at his hand, now raw and red, with blisters fading as soon as they had formed. His gaze shot to the woman’s unbothered face, she herself having neither flinched nor wavered. “Did you just fucking burn me?”

“I warned you,” she said. “I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Ben looked past her, where the small group remained, having retreated down the hall. Butcher’s face was painted with deep amusement as Starlight and Mallory held twin looks of satisfaction. Only the cocksucker still looked afraid, but his nervous eyes were trained on the woman, as though she might blow to pieces at any second.

“Somebody better start talking,” Ben growled.

“We tried to tell you, Governor,” Butcher said with an overly dramatic sigh. “She’s in charge here.”

“You think this will hold me? I-“

“You were unprepared, we got lucky, it won’t happen again. We all heard the speech you gave Annie.” The woman cut him off with a snort. “You need to start getting it into your head. You do not have the upper hand. The sooner you do, the sooner we can actually do something productive instead of peacocking like idiots.”

Ben stared at her, the drum in his chest growing loud once more, his anger serving as fuel. He didn’t bother to try and control it, simply letting it set to his heart and build and build. Just before the sound could drown out all his other senses, he heard the woman yell.

“Everyone out!” Her voice was slightly alarmed, but laced with no panic. And as the door slammed down the hall, Ben realized her heartbeat hadn’t retreated. She was still right in front of him. He hoped this hurt.

As the smoke cleared, Ben opened his eyes to, tragically and annoyingly, see the woman completely intact, unbothered, and in one piece. Most he could tell, she had only taken a step back.

“Are you done?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Lovely,” she sighed. “You just tried that. Didn’t work. Won’t work. Not on me. Like I said before you started acting like a toddler, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can help each other.”

“How could you possibly help me?”

She grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. Hughie! You’re up!”

The skinny little coward appeared over her shoulder, anxiety painted over his face. “Can’t Mallory or Butcher do this?”

“Nah, Mallory has a powerful resting-hater-face, and Butcher would get himself killed all over me, which would be gross. I don’t need that right now.”

The cocksucker pouted. “Annie?”

“No, I don’t think he’s her biggest fan, especially after the whole tower thing-“

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right fucking here,” Ben cut in.

“Fine, you baby. Hughie,” the woman nudged Cocksucker forward. “Give him the pitch.”

Ben didn’t listen to Cocksucker as he rambled, catching only the beginning and electing to ignore him once the words “article B-55XP2 allows” were said. Instead, he focused on the woman, whose brow was furrowed as she listened to her companion talk. Small tendrils of smoke were rising from her body, and Ben noted the way Cocksucker stood off to the side, attempting to somehow paradoxically hold and elude both Ben’s and the woman’s attention. Her lips were in a tight line now, and she was hugging herself slightly, curving into her own body. The smoke from her had begun to choke the room, and though Ben could hear her level heartbeat, he could also hear her gnaw on her lower lip and the tap of her foot on the floor. When her gaze abruptly slid to his, Ben held it unblinkingly, and the crease in her brow only deepened.

Before Ben could figure out what sat behind her sharp eyes, Cocksucker let out a cough and said a name that made the woman turn.

“Can you turn it down, please?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Hughie,” she mumbled, taking another step back as Cocksucker gave a nod of thanks.

“So the big thing to know…” Once again, Ben didn’t hear whatever it was being said. No, he was now fully staring at the woman, her name playing in his head. It wasn’t a supe name, like how Butcher had referred to Blondie. Almost every supe Ben had known preferred being called by their fancy little brand name, but he hadn’t even learned if this bitch had one. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard of her. Last time he had been introduced to a large number of new players, most of them weak, whining pussies with pathetic powers, but this woman was far from pathetic. He hadn’t heard anything about a fire-supe, let alone a doll faced, angry, bitchy one who had to have the resting heart rate of a whale. He bet he could pick it up to match the Cocksuckers, if he really tried. He bet he could make her scream, maybe from being ripped limb from limb, maybe from cumming her brains out all over him. A smirk started to grow on his face as he imagined it, her ice-queen demeanor crumbling from his irresistible charm-

“Are you fucking listening?” The woman herself broke him from his thoughts, her fingers snapping in his face.

“No,” Ben sneered. “Why should I?”

“Well, if you’d pay Hughie half the attention you seem to be paying to my tits, you’d be able to answer your own dumb question.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself-“

“Please, I’ve been told you stick your dick in anything with a hole.” She cut him off again, an action that, if she kept it up, would result in her being punched. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a real nice watermelon to play with if you just fucking listen.”

“Fine.”

She paused, but was thrown for only a second. “Ok, great, Hughie-“

“But you do the talking.”

She almost snorted. “Are you that fucking crow-brained that you can’t listen unless it’s something shiny?” She paused. “Sorry Hughie. No offense, you’re plenty shiny.”

The Cocksucker, Ben knew his name was Hughie at this point but couldn’t find himself fucked to use it, just shrugged. “No offense taken.” His attention shifted back to Ben. “Will you really listen if she talks?”

“She talks like a person. You talk like a boring army manual.”

“Could’ve just said book,” Cocksucker said with a frown, but stepped back nonetheless.

“This is fucking stupid,” the woman said with a glare that was somehow stronger than before.

“You wanted me to listen to your stupid little sales pitch, Sunshine. This is what will make me listen.”

She rolled her eyes further back than Ben had ever seen before, but started to speak, her voice dripping with contempt.

“Here’s the deal. You help us with our Homelander problem, we give you immunity for all the definite war crimes you’ve committed and keep you from being Sleeping Beauty for a third time. You’ll stay here, with me, until we have a clear and safe shot at Homelander. You’ll do your little Oppenheimer magic trick, and we’ll take care of the rest. After Homelander's dead, you’ll be free to leave America for good, and live out your shitty immortal life on some stupid island where no one knows who you are.” As she came to the end of her speech, Ben grinned at her.

“See? Wasn’t so hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “Any questions?”

“Questions? Nah. But you should know, this is fucking stupid, and I’m not participating in it. All I’ll get is a vacation, and I could have that right fucking now.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t leave this room, let alone go on vacation. And I’d say what you’d ‘get’,” she used air quotes, and Ben wondered if he could throw her out a window. “Is us not knocking you out right now.”

“Also immunity,” Cocksucker piped up.

She nodded. “Also immunity. We’re offering you this once.” She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Act now and we’ll throw in a second watermelon.”

“I’ll fucking break out.” Ben snarled.

“Take your best shot. This safe house is more durable than a cold-war bunker, inside and out.”

“I’ll kill your team.”

“Try it. I’ll burn off your money maker.”

“I’ll heal.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”

“I’ll go back to Vought.”

“Please, you hate them almost as much as me.”

“I doubt that.”

Her voice was coated in visceral, hot rage when she answered. “Don’t.”

Ben paused at that, squinting at her. “Why do you hate them?”

She shrugged. “Not your concern. But for the record, if you did try something that ass-brained, I wouldn’t just burn your face.”

Ben almost flinched when he saw her eyes flick down.

“What if I fail?”

“You won’t.” Her tone made it clear that there wasn’t room for debate.

“What if I want to stay here after, then?” Ben snapped. “I just spent forty years away. I’m not going again.”

“Fucking earn it.”

Ben let out a slow breath. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. But he had been against walls that were far more dangerous, and far more painful. He would play this little game until he figured out how to take her, the only player aside from him that mattered, out. But he wasn’t going to make any of this pleasant. If they wanted pleasant, they shouldn’t have crossed him in the first place.

“I want my fucking shield and suit back.”

She smiled with teeth for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

——-

This had been a mistake. Now that everyone had left, you could admit—to yourself and no one else—that this was a stupid, arrogant mistake.

The first day had been… rough. There were three bedrooms, all with identical queen beds and equally generic decor. Solider Boy had insisted on laying on all of them to “test their durability." When you had told him they were all the exact same, he had called you an “uncultured hick." You had explained that you were from Boston and currently lived in New York, two urban areas that rendered “hick” an unsuitable title for you, offering “street trash” as a replacement. He told you he’d call you whatever he wanted, utilizing his nickname of “Sunshine” once again. You reminded him of your threat to burn off his favorite part of himself, he said that you would be only depriving yourself of it, and you left the conversation before you could make good on the promise.

Eventually he came down the stairs and gruffly told you that the bedroom with the attached bathroom was his, before stomping back into the said room to do something undoubtedly disgraceful .

Day two was only worse. You had collapsed in the bedroom with the five horse paintings, as it had been closest to the stairs, and you were exhausted from a day of verbal sparring and worrying if you’d have to go back to MM, tail between your legs, and admit you’d been wrong. Now, having gotten a whopping 4 hours of restless sleep, you just wanted coffee. Mallory told you she would send someone to drop groceries overnight, the safe house door having a bank-like slot for packages, and she had made good on her word. You had been able to tell this because when you walked into the kitchen, it looked like a food bomb had detonated.

“What the shit is this?” You said, your voice more tired than angry.

Soldier Boy, sitting at the counter, glared at you. “You’re up late.”

“It’s 7am. In nobody’s world is that ‘late’.”

“I’ve been up for 2 hours.”

You shrugged. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I had to eat a sandwich.”

“Yeah, that happens.” You survey the mess for anything that you can use, hoping to see a box of cereal buried somewhere. You find what you’re looking for, along with some coffee that you put into the filter and stare at with blank exhaustion. In your sleepy haze, you block out Soldier Boy’s ramblings of hunger and shitty, crunchy peanut butter, hoping he tires himself out and leaves you alone. 

You were startled out of your head by the sound of your name.

"Huh?"

“Whatever you’re making, I want some too.” That gets through to you, and your head snaps up.

“How do you know my name?”

"Cocksucker said it."

"Cocksucker?"

"The little puppy that follows Butcher and Starlight around."

"Hughie?" 

"Sure." He rolled his eyes. “So, what are we eating?"

"We?"

"I asked you, very nicely, to cook me some of whatever you're making too. Or are you fucking deaf?"

“I’m not cooking anything.”

His brow knit in confusion. “You’re not going to eat? I thought all the feminist shit stopped that.”

“I’m going to eat, Jackass. But I’m not going to cook anything, I’m just going to throw cereal and milk into a bowl. You can do that yourself.” You decided not to touch the feminist comment, focusing on pouring your coffee instead.

“Well, what are you going to cook for lunch.”

“Well, if Mallory followed my list, I’ll heat up chicken tenders.”

“Dinner?”

You tilt your head. “Not sure. That’s like, twelve hours away.”

“But you’ll. You’ll cook something.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to cook.”

“What?!” He looked horrified now. It would almost be funny, if it were any other circumstances. “How?”

“I never learned.”

“But you’re a woman!”

“Yeah, no. We’re not having this conversation.” You turned on your heels to leave the room, coffee in hand, trying to ignore the hot feeling bubbling under your skin. You paused only to call back over your shoulder. “And clean up your fucking mess!”

Thankfully, after that, the morning was uneventful. You avoided Soldier Boy, he avoided you. All the way into lunch, you were almost able to forget your situation.

Almost.

“Fuck!” You tripped over a bag of apples on the floor, your eyes having been glued to your phone as you entered the kitchen. You looked around, seeing the mess from this morning sitting just as you’d left it.

“Keep it down!” Soldier Boy’s voice carried down the stairs. You ignored his request, raising your voice to a shriek.

“Get your manwhore ass down here right now, before I make you!”

You stepped further into the room, the bubbling feeling returning, and surveyed the area that somehow looked worse than before. Picking through the melted frozens, scattered produce, and loose cans and boxes, a dirty knife and plate on the counter.

“What the fuck is a manwhore,” he grumbled as he walked through the door.

“What the hell is this?” You ignored his question, gesturing around you.

He frowned. “The kitchen.”

“No, you ass. Why is all the food still out.”

He glared at you. “Because I’m already doing enough for your sorry ass, I’m not cleaning too.”

“You didn’t even put away your dishes!”

Soldier Boy just gave you an annoyed look, turning to walk away. Your vision went red.

“Shit!” He howled, running backwards into the room before turning with a glare. “You bitch!”

It took you a second to understand what he was talking about. You only managed to clue in from the fading scars on his face, and the realization that the feeling in you had boiled over.

If you were a better, less tired and angry person, you might have apologized. Thank god you weren’t.

“I am not going to spend the next who-knows-how-many months cleaning up after you. If you want to make this as difficult as possible, turn this house into a shithole, feel fucking free. I won’t stop you.”

“You don’t know how many months we’ll be here?”

“There’s a lot of moving parts to this operation that don’t concern you, and-“ You held up your hand as he started to interject. “That’s not the point. Clean up.”

“You should be thankful I’m even still here, you bitch. If it matters so much to you, do it yourself.” He growled back.

“Are you really that fucking stupid, or did you not just hear me say that this is not my mess to clean?! Either you do it, or it doesn’t get done.”

“You couldn’t make me with a million dollars and a blowjob.”

“Good thing I’m not offering either.”

A cold silence settled in the room, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to keep yourself from exploding once more. His glare had developed a murderous glint in his eyes, his fists clenched at his side.

“Bitch.”

You raised your chin. “Cunt.”

“You know, if I didn’t think it’d be a shame to ruin such a nice face, I’d slam you into the oven and burn yours off.”

“Oh, so you are that stupid.”

“Watch yourself.” He said your name in a low voice, taking a rough step forward.

“Sorry, for a second there I thought you said you believed you could burn a supe with fire powers. I must’ve misheard you.”

“I could make this very painful for you.”

“As opposed to your cheery compliance so far?”

“Do you think I’m just going to roll over?” He hissed, taking another step forward. “Be you and Butcher’s little lap dog?”

Something grew taut in your gut, but you held his gaze. “I think that if you don’t back the fuck up, I won’t make you roll over so much as physically harm you until you’re crying on the floor.”

"You're fighting a war you can’t win, Sunshine. I’ll kick your ass.” He sneered. “I’ll make you sob back home to Daddy Butcher.”

Your blood felt cold, your jaw almost cracking from the pressure in your chest. “So do it. Or move.”

Soldier Boy’s face was a portrait of rage, and you felt like he was dissecting with his cold green eyes. Looking for any weakness, any exploitable fallacy on your mask, any crack in your head that he could pry open and fill with poison. Make your lungs collapse into your ribs, make you claw and claw in desperation-

“Hm,” he grunted. He pulled himself to his full height before turning and leaving, leaving your anger sizzling at nothing. You watched as Soldier Boy, with controlled and rigid movements, stepped away from you, leaving the room without another word. Leaving you in the slop of the kitchen. He was getting further and further away from you, too far you to do anything about it, except maybe-

Before you could stop yourself, your hands were wrapped around the knife on the counter and the knife was flying across the room. It bounced off of Soldier Boy's back with a pitiful sound, but he stopped in his path, turning slowly. He glanced down, eyes finding the abandoned utensil on the floor before he dragged his gaze back to you.

“Did you just throw a fucking knife at me?”

“Clean up.”

He stared at you with the same eyes as before, the only betrayer of his emotions the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

“It’ll take more than a bad throw to make me pussy enough to be your maid, Sunshine.” With that, he was gone.

———-

Ideally, the woman Ben would be forced into a lockdown with would be fun. She would give him sweet smiles and syrupy words, laugh at his jokes, and sprout similar ones. She wouldn’t be a sulking, useless, bitter prude whose greatest talent seemed to be finding issue with every word out of his mouth. Every time they had spoken, he had felt that beat in his ribs grow and grow, and it was nothing short of a fucking miracle it hadn’t gone off.

He hadn’t cleaned the kitchen, and he wouldn’t. It was beneath him, and she was the one who had chosen to be here, not him. In a brief moment of weakness, the stench from the rotten produce almost breaking his resolve, Ben had eyed a vacuum cleaner, only to realize he couldn’t use it if he wanted to. There were far too many buttons, weird twisty things lining the handle and bag, and he would take the first flight to Russia before he asked her for help.

They skirted around each other with success for two days after the knife incident, sneaking into the kitchen at odd hours to look for somehow edible food and leaving every possible door in the house locked behind them. A beautiful and well executed arrangement, broken only by her sudden appearance in the living room a few days later, standing behind him as he watched TV.

“We need to talk.” When Ben didn’t answer, she walked around the sofa, and grabbed the remote, turning off the screen. “Now.”

Ben scowled. “I was busy.”

“Watch a re-run of Jeopardy? With categories you don’t even understand?” She crossed her arms in front of him.

“I understood enough.”

She snorted. “One of the categories was ‘Celebrity-Inspired Products’. Name one modern, non-supe celebrity.”

Ben paused. “Marlon Brando.”

“Marlon Brando died in 2004.”

“Gene Wilder.”

“2016.”

“That one funny guy who was on the rise. In that stupid book movie.” Ben frowned. “William Robinson.”

She titled her head. “William Robinson… Do you mean fucking Robin Williams.”

“I was close,” Ben said with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, not really, cause he died in 2014. Now can we please talk.”

“Are you here to apologize?”

“Yes, actually.”

That got Ben’s attention. “Well then. Go on."

She had started to chew her lip again, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something bad. Though, to be fair, she probably did. The milk in the kitchen had become a problem. “I am sorry.” She took a needlessly labored breath through her nose. “I shouldn’t have thrown the knife at you. It was childish.”

Ben waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he leaned forward. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So you’re going to clean the kitchen?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”

Ben lounged back. “Then your apology is worthless.”

The now-familiar look of anger had returned to her face. “I am not your maid.”

“And I’m not yours.”

��I didn’t make the mess. And I’m not going to clean it just because you think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” He retorted. “I am better than you.”

“Because you’re a man?” She jeered. “A big whiny baby with muscles?”

“Because I built up the company that gave you your little sparkle show. I am Vought. Those ungrateful backstabbing assholes wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”

She fell silent at that, the victory pumping its fists inside Ben’s head slowing the drum in his chest. If he had observed one thing about her, it was that there was almost never a time she lacked in words. Also, she listened to her stupid music deafeningly loud and had an impressive arm. He had felt that knife hit him, sharp end first, right on his spine, still burning from the heat of her touch. Another deep breath escaped her, a fog that had formed on her face clearing.

“Power and greatness have nothing to do with cleaning. Vought won’t hear about your refusal to run a dish washer and grovel on their knees for your forgiveness.”

“Because when I’m through with them, they won’t have knees.” Ben smiled at the fanstasy on a wheel-chair bound Stan Edgar.

“No, because they couldn’t give a shit about it. I don’t love being here any more than you, but I have to be. This is a marriage of convenience, so we-“

He snorted. “I'm not marrying you, Sunshine. You’re pretty, but too much of a bitch for my taste.”

“It’s an expression, you fucking idiot. It means a weary alliance hinging on a favor. We don’t need to like each other, but we can’t kill each other, or this will be a net loss.“

“Sure.” Ben gave her his cockiest grin. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“You couldn’t handle me, Grampa.” Despite her mocking voice, her small step back didn’t escape Ben’s notice. Though her heart was steady, he dismissed it as anxiety. Obviously, nobody had helped her relieve any of that clear, needless stress plaguing her in a while. He would. Make this whole situation a little more bearable. Maybe, once she had a good fuck, she’d turn out to be just half as pleasant as his fantasy.

“I fucked Marilyn Monroe. I almost made her leave that pussy, Kennedy. You’d be lucky if I looked at you.”

“I’d say I’m lucky right now. You’re too busy trying to fuck your own reflection to look anywhere else.”

“And my reflection thanks me every fucking night.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she gave him a toothy, arrogant smile. Ben knew she thought she’d won.

“If you ever want someone to pull that stick out of your ass, I’d be happy to help.”

Her smile faltered quickly, but was plastered back onto her face just as fast. “I’m sure it’ll fall out on its own.”

“In case it doesn’t, my door is open.”

“Thought I was a bitch?”

“You said we didn’t need to like each other to get hitched-”

“Never said hitched.”

“So if you ever want to ‘not like each other,’” he winked at her. “As hard as possible, my door is open. I’m a gentleman, you’d have fun.” He reached to take her, and he had hardly brushed their fingers when she jumped back, recoiling like he was covered in warts.

For the first time, Ben thought that the look on her face might be fear. She rubbed her hand like it had been burned, a part of him thought she might bite through her lips, and her heart had become erratic. But when she spoke, her voice was just as level as always.

“Clean your dishes, and keep your door fucking closed. Or next time I throw a knife, I’ll aim for your eye, and I won’t miss.”

She stomped up the stairs, the room lingering with smoke long after she left.

[cryptic-doe]

𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝘁 ❦

wc: 2,069

summary: sam meets the shy girl who lives with bobby for the first time

warnings: mentions of death and small mention of suicide, shitty dads, minor cursing, pls lmk if i missed anything !

a/n: there is no real romance in this first chapter, only because they're around 15 so this kind of just the beginning of their friendship ! i also tried to follow the show's timeline, meaning this is set around 1998, so hopefully, it's somewhat lore accurate. i hope u guys all love it, and like always, pls take care <33

you were just a baby when your mother's post-partum depression took hold of her, claiming her life. and you were only nine when a werewolf claimed your father. you would've liked to say that you missed them. and a small part of you, more so your mother than your father. you had no memories or reminders of her, other than the silver heart locket you wore around your neck with her wedding ring on it. your dad never talked about her, always changing the subject whenever you asked questions about her. so all of your information came from bobby. he said she was a kind and beautiful woman, with the sweetest soul he'd ever met. "you look just like her. she would've adored you." he told you that when you first asked him about her. you wanted to believe him, but it was hard for you to do so when your dad would tell you the opposite your whole life.

whenever he'd drink too much after a long hunt, which was often, he'd spew the most hateful words at you. "it's all your fault, girl. she'd still be here if it wasn't for you. i didn't even want ya anyways." and then he'd throw the glass bottle in your direction. sometimes it only hit the wall, or sometimes the pieces would bounce off and cut you. you'd end up hurt either way. only for him to wake up in the morning, seemingly forgetting what he'd done the night before, and act like you were still his little girl.so no, you didn't miss your father as much as you did your mother. but when it was late at night, and the only presence was bobby's sleeping body down the hall, you missed the idea of him. you missed the man who would cry over the cuts he'd given you, and whose salty tears would flow into the bloody wounds.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

you laid on the cold, wooden floor of your bedroom. the vinyl of radiohead's ok computer played softly in the background as you flipped through some old teen titans comics bobby bought for you. you could hear the front door of the house open and close before hearing the faint creaks of the rickety stairs. you didn't pay too much mind to it, though. figuring it was either rufus or that old lady down the street coming to watch you. but the three hard raps sounding on your bedroom door told you that it was actually bobby. you furrowed your eyebrows, looking up from the comic book. "i thought i heard the front door close?" you asked."yeah, it did. but there's some people i want you to meet," he replied. as if sensing your hesitation, he reassures you with a smile. "only for a few minutes, honey. these are some good people." you glance back down at your unfinished comic book, trying to think of some excuse you could make, but when you look up and see the almost hopeful look in bobby's eyes, you know there's no way of winning. you sigh, closing it, and then standing up. "fine, but only for a few a few minutes." he smiles at you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and you practically melt into his side. "that's all i ask of you."

as you and bobby walk down the steps, you take notice of the three men standing in the living room. there's two boys, one who looks a few years older than you, and the other looks to be about your age. a man stands behind them, and you assume that he's their father. once making it to the bottom of the stairs, you move yourself to slightly stand behind bobby, as if to hide away. you never took well to meeting new people. especially when they were ones your age. "y/n, this is my good friend john, and his two boys. the oldest is dean, and that's sam. he's your age."

dean looks down at you, and politely smiles, but doesn't say anything. he's handsome, you think to yourself, and has green apple eyes. then john looks at you and smiles, but his isn't as warm or friendly as dean's. "it's nice to meet you, y/n. i knew your dad, he'd talk about you all the time. and i'm... i'm sorry for your loss." it had been nearly six years since he died. you don't react other than a slight widening of your eyes when he says your dad mentioned you. and that leaves sam. the boy your age.

when he looks at you, it's with the softest eyes. you thought dean had beautiful eyes, but sam's beat his by a mile. they were a hazel color, wide and round. they reminded you of the doe that stumbled into the backyard last week. and when he smiles... it erupts something like butterflies to fly around in your belly. you didn't know these feelings really existed. they seemed like something that only happened in the books you read. "hi, y/n," he greets softly, looking at you. his direct gaze doesn't make you nervous like most others do. instead, you shift from bobby's back to stand at his side. "hi," you greet back.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

it's later now, probably an hour or two after you met the winchesters. what a funny coincidence that they were a family of hunters named after the gun. after you finished meeting them, bobby and john excused themselves to talk about some vampire nest nearby. when dean tried to follow after them, john snapped at him, and it made your spine go rigid. you didn't like their father. he reminded you too much of your dad, maybe that's why they got along so well. dean and sam left to go to a nearby arcade, when dean offered to take you along, you just politely declined with a shake of your head.

it was dark now, the sun had already set and the moon was rising. you sat on the front porch of the house, rocking back and forth in the white rocking chair bobby built for you. he was still inside talking to john, leaving you to stew in your thoughts, something you did often. you thought about a lot of things. like the black cat that passed through the yard last night, or that movie bobby showed you the night before. it was called mars attacks, or something. you liked it a lot, and laughed at the aliens whenever they would talk to each other. but then your thoughts drifted to sam. you didn't have much experience with kids your age, especially not boys.

having a dad as a hunter didn't really allow you the opportunity to go to a regular school. most of the time you would have to learn on your own. and when that got too hard, you'd walk over to the local library of whatever motel you were staying in and ask someone for help. you were thankful you moved in with bobby when you did, because school only got harder from there. he tried to enroll you into the local middle school, but you didn't want to one bit, and he wasn't gonna force you. and when your freshman year of high school rolled around, he knew that it would be the same outcome. so you never really made friends, not like you wanted to. most of the kids in town were assholes, whispering amongst themselves whenever you and bobby would roll into town to get some groceries. ghost girl, is what they called you. mainly because nobody knew anything about you, other than the fact you weren't here one day and then were the next. but partly because you had this weird aura around. off-putting and not very approachable. you rarely spoke unless it was someone you knew, and you would just stare at those who even tried. you didn't mean to, though, you just couldn't help it. when you were ten, you asked bobby if you were scary. if that's why none of the kids ever wanted to talk or play with you.

he sighed and patted your head. "you're not scary, honey, you're just... different. but there's nothing wrong with that. it's a small town, meaning small minded."

however, you quickly realized that you didn't care what they thought about you, or the whispered words shared between them. there was a part of you that hoped sam didn't think you were scary, though. the sound of tires on gravel brought you out of your thoughts. the black, chevy impala of rolled up to the front of the house, and dean and sam later hopped out of the car. dean made his way up the porch steps first, smiling at you as he carried in some pizza boxes. "hey, y/n, we got pizza if you want it." you muttered a quiet 'thanks' as he just nodded in response, before the screen door slammed shut behind him. when you made eye contact with sam, you immediately dropped your gaze. instead, looking at the worn-out black converse you wore.

out of the corner of your eye, you could see him standing there, shifting from side to side. he fiddled with something behind his back, and your curiosity got the best of you. "what do you have?" you suddenly asked, looking up slightly. he looked at you with his lopsided smile, and you noticed the dimples he had. "uh, just a prize i won. you should've come with us, it was pretty cool."

you just shrugged, pulling your knees to your chest. "i've never been to an arcade. i don't think i'd be very good at it," you murmured, tilting your head to look up at him. for only being fifteen, he was pretty tall. almost as tall as dean, who was four years his senior. "you don't have to be good at them to have fun," he replied, moving to lean against the porch rails. "between you and me, dean's not very good at them, either." his voice dropped to a low whisper, and you found yourself letting out a small laugh at his words. and to sam? that was better than any prize he could've won.

the screen door squeaked, as bobby peaked his head out. "alright, you two kids, pizza's on the table. let's eat." you and sam both nodded as he left to go sit down. you stood up from the chair, and brushed off the dirt from the jean shorts you wore. as you moved to open the door, sam's fingers brushed against your arm, sending shivers down your spine. "the prize i won, uh, it's for you." he held out a small plushie of a light purple butterfly, your favorite color. you gratefully took it from him, smiling the biggest smile he's seen from you all day. "thank you, sam." he ducked his head, kicking nonexistent rocks. "it's no problem."

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

for the rest of the week, sam and dean kept you company while john and bobby hunted the vampires. dean drove you guys to the arcade, and you were surprisingly good at some of the games. that same day you got ice cream and you laughed when sam got got sprinkles stuck around his lips. and when dean would leave you and sam alone, you showed him your comics and all of your favorite vinyls. "this is the teen titans. these ones are my favorites. i like raven, she's cool." his eyes stayed focused onto you as he nodded along to every word you said. he didn't talk, he listened, as if some part of him knew that's what you needed. and when the week came to an end, and you all said your goodbyes, he took you to the corner of the living room, pressing a small piece of paper with a number. "whenever you just need someone to listen to you," was all he said, before brushing his lips against your cheek as dean called for him. he waved goodbye and you did the same, watching as the imapala drove away.

and as you drifted to sleep that night, you clutched the butterfly plushie close to your chest, and dreamed about the boy with the hazel eyes. with his number placed right underneath your pillow.

a/n: this was intended to be a short drabble, but nothing is ever short with me 😭 i feel like it's a kind of a mess, as i was trying to introduce a lot of things, but i hope u guys still like it and lmk if you'd like to me tagged !! i plan for the next one to have a bit of timeskip, and for them to be around 16-17, so we can get into more of the romance ! we'll see how many chapters i plan to write for this series, bc i lowk already love sm <33

taglist: @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl

[scarfacemarston]

Hii, for the pride month requests, could I request Yelena Belova x female reader, with Yelena having feelings for her but not knowing how to deal with them/how to confess, she's scared of messing things up because she never had a relationship like that before. Basically fluff with a bit of an insecure Yelena and the reader comforting her. Thank you <3

Happy belated Pride Month! I meant to write this earlier and I got started, but real life got in the way so here it is now! I've not written something like this before so I hope you like it! Солнышко - means sunshine

Yelena was one of the most intriguing, complicated women you’ve ever met. You considered yourself lucky to have not only met her but also befriended her. You two met while Yelena was visiting the museum where you work. She was one of the few visitors who seemed truly engaged with the exhibits. You were surprised when she asked not just one question…..but a multitude. The questions led to a full conversation where she then asked you out for coffee after work, and you two have been close ever since.

You were not the clingy sort, but you did worry for Yelena. She would swing between visiting frequently, even daily, to radio silence for weeks or months at a time. You were always disappointed when she left, wondering if she’d ever come back, but you did nothing more than text once in a while to show you still cared. Yelena would always come back apologetic, usually looking worse for wear.

Lately, Yelena had been hanging on a wire. You finally decided to gently confront her about it.

The next time Yelena came over, you led her to your couch and sat next to her. Yelena gently raised her hand and gestured to let her speak.

“Growing up, feelings were not acceptable in the Red Room, but as a child, I experienced all the emotions - sometimes multiple in quick succession when I was wanting attention.” She said with a small smile before continuing,

“This…is hard. I’m not used to letting people in, but I want to let you in. Sometimes I feel like you’re one of the only things grounding me. I’ve not been myself. I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel like I have nothing, like I am nothing, but with you I feel alive again.” Yelena said, not meeting your eyes.

“My new job is…boring, unchallenging and soul crushing. Not different from other jobs, right? But this one, just makes me feel nothing. All I do is work and cry and drink. I want more, but I don’t know what to do.” She finished, her voice cracking. Yelena hated the shame that flowed through her.

“I’m not good at this. I’m not good at being human with emotions anymore. With relationships.” Yelena bit her lip. Should she just blurt out her feelings? Pull it off like a Band-Aid and then brace herself for the blow?

You placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. You had a feeling that you knew what she was about to say. You had been feeling the same for months, but didn’t confess your feelings. You were concerned you’d frighten her off.

“Take your time, Yelena. If this isn’t a good time to talk, then that’s okay. We can do whatever you want. I can get take out and we can watch something stupid on Hulu. But I’ll be here and ready to listen if you ever need to.” You said gently. 

Yelena shook her head.

“No. I need to say it. You’re my light, my Солнышко. Sometimes, thinking of you is the only way for me to keep going. I…care for you. A lot. I’ve not done this before. I have no clue what to do, but I want to try, for you. We’ll have to go slow. I guarantee you I will fuck up at least once, but I want to try.” Yelena said apprehensively.

You felt a grin slowly spread on your face as you took her hands in yours and kissed them.

“Of course, Yelena. I’ve wanted this for so long. I just didn’t want to push you. You have so much on your shoulders, and I never want to add to that burden. I hope now that I can lessen it for you. Being your safe space means a lot to me. Thank you for trusting me, Yelena. I can’t wait to see what’s next for us.” You said, touching her cheek.

Yelena smiled, nodding,

“Me, too, Солнышко, me too.”

[lara635kookie]

Every now and then, I think about how Rumi said to Jinu “What we had was real! I know it was!” and “That’s just your demon talking. You have to fight it!” and “I wanted to set you free!” Even after she was betrayed by Jinu and he admitted that he lied to her, she was still hoping for him. She was already forgiving him and ready to forget it all just so that she can have Jinu on her side 😭. She saw right through him. Like we talk about how she fell first but he fell harder. But the both of them were so into each other. They both fell so hard for each other to the point that I don’t think Rumi can have a romantic relationship after her experience with Jinu. No one can compare to Jinu.

Maybe this is why I was a bit frustrated with the ending because there’s no grieving for Jinu when he had such a huge impact on her arc and personal growth. We just see her let out a tear and that’s it. I really think it would be in-character for her to want him back if there is a sequel. I understand why the film tried to frame the ending as a happy ending because the people behind this film weren’t sure if there was a sequel. But I am also happy that they had Jinu’s familiars posing under the words “comback” be the final shot. I don’t know what this means or what the filmmakers were trying to say. For me, I am just gonna take it as a small hint or tease about Jinu. But it might just be hint of a sequel and that the girls are going to “come back.”

Yeah. The way Rujinu's dynamic was constructed was so good. The writers really did a phenomenal job. I love that the very same things people are hating on Jinu for, Rumi heard, acknowledged, understood, accepted, and forgave him for. Even when he lied to her, she still tried to make him believe he could be different.

I personally think that Rumi was grieving Jinu justice didn't show it because she was in front of Mira and Zoey in the final scenes (at the bath house and on the street). And I also choose to believe Derpy and Sussie, Jinu's pets, right above a comeback sign was a foreshadowing of Jinu's comeback, idc

[block-tales-headcanons]

I realized i forgot to talk abt FinnMcCool and Cruel King in my player hcs so hi again Player and Finn have a sort of rivalry after the battle, and by "rivalry" I mean Finn hates his guts and Player could care less. Ofc as time went on Finn rivalry became less hate and more frenemies. Whenever Player goes on those little play adventures with Kyoko and Griefer, Finn will often appear to play the "Villain" . "Oh cool uh... branch you got there, its mine now though." Griefer HATES it, Kyoko and Player find it entertaining though! Player felt nothing towards Cruel King at the start, seeing them just as some tyrant that everyone would be better off without. It wasn't until they spoke in nirvana that Player realized that what they killed was a robloxian, just like them. Player felt nothing but guilt( the fact this all happened RIGHT before ch3 didn't help! ) Cruel King doesn't blame Player in the slightest, often comforting them when the Player's head goes into those dark spots. Cruel King is also Player's most reliable call card, always coming to the rescue (unless someone else is there, he doesn't want anyone to see him)

anyways this a bit short so have some none relations player hcs

Player often talks with their sword, they don't actually talk back to them, but there's some level of comfort in it so they keep doing it

Player had always had low empathy, even without the whole thing in Ch3, they hate how it can make other feel but they're not sure how to fix it (haha like me!)

Player always has the Prayer card equipped after beating hatred with it as a last ditch effort

Player had Teddy Bloxpin, however it got destroyed by Griefer in their first fight. Brad doesn't remember doing this

Player is mute and never learnt SL (due to robloxians not having real fingers), so they often have to act out what they're trying to say. People always know what they mean thanks to MC logic luckily.

Player has a fear of Ghost, the ONLY exception is kitchen wizard

Player is Aromantic ( no hate to ppl who ship player with ppl ofc, i'm saying cause some people assume I don't like player ships because of this. )

Player has a whole in their chest after chapter 3, it doesn't effect them or anything, its just there as a reminder.

Player has a fursona, because I said so ( it's a dragon :) )

Player used to like to draw, but after chapter three they can't bring themselves to anymore

Player is fucking TERRIBLE at puzzles, half the time they're only able to do them thanks to pure luck

Player's real parents were neglectful, which is why they instantly latched onto Shedletsky the moment they played a fatherly role

Not a player hc, but the Sword's are able to turn into cards to be contained and carried easier

thinking what to ramble abt next now, maybe the noob family?

why do i feel like the dragon fursona is gonna be subtle foreshadowing

[starrihan]

what do u think abt a weno fic where he would be the sweetest most gentle person on the planet for you debunking the public's "mean/bully" accusations abt him

—🍙 anon!! (ily pls stay healthy and safe)

→ Pairing: Nicholas x gn! Reader

→ Plot: when a clip of Nico spreads out of context, he worries that his image as a “bully” will spread

→ Genre: fluff, comfort, kinda angst

→ Warnings: none!

→ Word Count: 607

→ Notes: I would think that you’re a genius and I love your brain sm 😚 (I’m doing fine thank you! I think I pulled a muscle in my leg when I was swimming tho 😅)

→ Here's a link to all my other masterlists!

༄ ༄ ༄

“Am I bad person? Am I mean?”

He came home to you defeated, sulking by the door as he kicks his shoes off.

“What the heck? No? Why would you say that?”

Of course you’re concerned because you know him as the sweet, playful Weno that he is. Sure, he has his moments of mischief, but so does everyone else.

“There’s been a lot of rumors about me all over social media. A video got taken out of context of me and people thought I was being mean to the staff. I tried to explain that we were fooling around and that I would never be rude to them but no one seems to be buying it. Even our manager lectured me about controlling my facial expressions and being nice to staff.”

He went to the couch, landing face-first onto the little nest of pillows you kept on the left side of it. You went over, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back to try to calm him down.

“They’re only rumors. They don’t know the real you. I know it’s hard to not let it get to you when everyone seems to have already made an opinion about it, but I know you’re good, the guys know you’re sweet, and only your real fans know how genuine and kindhearted you are.”

“Yeah but does it matter what anyone thinks if that’s how I’ll be perceived?”

You were kind of hurt by his words, as if what you thought of him meant nothing in the face of his fan base.

“Nicholas, what are you saying? I know your image is important but you shouldn’t let one misunderstood clip form your whole image. There are so many people showing you support, especially those who are uploading the full clip and debunking all the negative rumors.”

You sit him up, laying him down and pulling him into your chest instead. You played with his hair, knowing that it was calming for him as he let out a long sigh.

“I know, I’m sorry I said that no one else’s option matters. I just hate being known as a mean person or a bully. I know I can look mean sometimes but I’m really not.”

“You don’t have to prove to me or anyone else that you’re a nice person because it shows. Anti’s will find one clip and use it as their entire basis to hate on someone. You have endless positive moments to fight that, and even that clip was taken out of context.”

You run your hands through his hair, nails barely grazing his scalp as he cuddles into you a little more. You giggle, causing a small, barely-there smile to play on his face.

“You really think that everyone knows I’m not mean?”

“I would be scrolling on social media for years with how many positive clips of you there are. I am almost 110% sure that everyone knows you’re the nicest person ever.”

He smiles harder, burying his face into your neck, causing you to laugh loudly. You kiss the top of his head, holding him tighter when he embraces you fully.

“I love you so much, thank you baby.”

“I love you too, Weno.”

You say cheekily. He cuddles into you even tighter, practically jumping into your skin at this point with how close he is. You watch as his breathing starts to slow, the warmth of your hold putting him to sleep. You make yourself comfortable, not wanting to wake him up from his slumber.

“Goodnight my love.”

You whisper, placing another kiss to his forehead, closing your eyes as well.

[trickstarbrave]

Hello there! What headcanons do you have about Nerevar and his peers (the first council and the tribunal)?

oh wow we're gonna be here a while

nerevar:

shezzarine (mortal incarnation of lorkhan) i dont have time to go into all the details but here is the first post i made about it

trans. i just think it fits in with chimer culture and also i am projecting

half nord. i like nerevar having more traits in common with the nerevarine and this one i think makes it so he never fully feels "integrated" with any one group. he is always someone stuck inbetween and having to balance everything and hide parts of himself. and obviously as the years went the tribunal temple erased that as part of him

was a caravan guard originally for house dagoth

smells like citrus, fresh herbs, and salt water

almalexia:

her parents were assassinated when she was young and afterwards a relative hid her in a vassal house: house sotha. so she and sil played together when they were young

has a preference for women

loves children and unfortunately never had any of her own. she did start a bunch of charity programs though

the only real ruler of the tribunal before becoming a god and the pressure on her is immense. she basically forced herself to become as perfect as possible and never falter in the public, and eventually never falter around her loved ones either. she fears if she isnt perfect, she will be worthless and abandoned by her people. and if she is abandoned by them she cant help them either. her power hungry nature is just her trying to secure the only way of life she has ever known

vivec:

honestly most of my "headcanons" are just things in the extra semi-canon lore kirkbride has written. bc vivec is his oc.

loved nerevar so much it honestly made him fucking sick and crazy with want. loved him so much he legit started hating him. wanted him and wanted to be him. brutus by the buttresses energy too tbh

a musician in life, but he has a collection of songs he wrote solely for nerevar and will not play in front of anyone else anymore because nerevar is no longer here

sotha sil:

i dont care what yall want to say. it is in the text plainly but i think sotha sil was the one who instigated nerevar's murder because he genuinely felt nerevar was a now failed leader and his rulership was no longer needed. only after attaining godhood did he realize that was a mistake and he lives with the regret of being wrong. i think he did like nerevar a bit but not on the level of being his bestie

lost an arm in the attack on ald sotha as well as sustained some serious burns and a very fucked up leg that makes walking difficult. he began tinkering at a young age but ramped up his experiments to make prosthetics

he prefers to isolate on the anniversary of the attack of ald sotha. if its turning the war he likes to shut himself inside and if its post war (and hes in resdayn not off with the psijics) he will go to the ruins of ald sotha

voryn:

his gender is actually kind of fluid. he also just doesnt really care how people refer to him most of the time. but if you do try to disparage him he will definitely kill you sooner or later

house dagoth worships mephala predominately so they were commonly spies and intelligence gatherers. voryn was trained in the art of spying, seduction, manipulation, coded letters, and more

he is predominately a mage but he does have pretty good skill at throwing small weapons. he prefers small needles though that he can disarm or kill someone with. video below to show what i mean:

also voryn wears perfume and smells like briar rose by andromedea's curse (irl perfume it would prob be called smth else in resdayn or is a mixture of his perfume and incense)

[gotorux]

Another annoying analysis post by me about fandom. Again. No hate to any individuals. And if you don’t like what I say, the block button is free. I just get in my head so much, and need to express it somehow or it bothers me. I want to be transparent and not sugar coat things for people. Especially Western fandom. 

Fandom turning stoic or emotionally unavailable male characters into soft, blushing boyfriends. They go from calculating and composed in canon to flustered, clingy, and emotionally dependent in fan spaces. People take emotionally complex, emotionally reserved, and canonically not the type to blush when you hold their hand or call you “baby” twenty times a day. And yet, that’s exactly the version of them that dominates fanfic, headcanons, and the most popular posts.

It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal in some way. I even indulge in it from time to time. Fantasy exists for a reason, and I’m not here to tell anyone they can’t enjoy an AU or make their own headcanons. I do it often. But there’s a difference between having a headcanon and insisting it’s somehow canon and then turning around and getting defensive when they push it as canon and people are like “Wait a minute 🧐.”

A lot of people hide behind “it’s just a headcanon” until someone disagrees. Then suddenly it’s “you’re being mean,” or “you just don’t understand him at all.” Which makes me wonder if people even actually just enjoy it as a headcanon or truly believe that is the character. 

I am not trying to say these things shouldn’t exist. Everyone is allowed to engage in fandom in any way they wish. But lately it has started to feel like not fantasy or headcanons or any of that, but erasure of a character. It wasn’t about writing an out-of-character moment for fun. It was a complete reframing of who these characters were, and it made me wonder why are so many people uncomfortable with male characters who aren’t traditionally soft?

I think it’s because a lot of people use fandom as a way to rewrite the world. For some, being seen and loved by someone cold and untouchable is the ultimate validation for them; “he’s closed off to everyone but me.” People are obsessed with that. Men and women alike. And so they end up turning characters into simps, lovesick idiots, or emotionally fluent and desperate to cuddle even when it’s super out of character. 

What really confuses too, is we have soft boys in canon. Take Yuji and Yuta for example. Boys who would text you good morning, probably get flustered, want to hold your hand in public. But they don’t get the same romantic obsession like literally at all. Instead there’s a challenge in getting the stoic, aloof or closed off one. Maybe it’s about power, a lot of people in fandom spaces either lack power in their real life and want to take it back somehow. And that causes people to rewrite the character entirely.

I kind of start to hate that fandom culture and media in general can often make it seem like love has to look a certain way to feel valid. Unless he’s doting, constantly affectionate, clingy, or possessive than well, it doesn’t count. That view erases entire love languages, especially the quieter ones. It basically says there is only one way to love. Take a character like Megumi for example, he probably would never say it out loud but his actions would show he cared. That kind of love isn’t loud or super affectionate in traditional ways, but it’s not any less valid.

That perpetuates this idea that characters like this need to be fixed to be lovable. It’s not that they’re broken, it’s just how they are. Some people don’t wear their feelings on their sleeves, and that should be seen as okay. Like, they will show their love quietly, subtly. Which, honestly is a lot better than fake affection and overt displays for some people.

And before anyone says, “People interpret characters differently, especially ones with no canon romance”…yeah, sure. But let’s not act like that line gives people free rein to throw a character’s entire personality out the window. It’s actually not that hard to figure out how someone would behave in a relationship based on who they are. We do that all the time in real life. You watch how someone carries themselves, how they react under pressure, how they treat people and you get a pretty good picture of how they’d be as partners. You can interpret, but let’s not pretend it’s all equally valid when you’re completely ignoring the character’s core traits. Sometimes fandom uses interpretation as a shield to validate their fanon, when what they’re really doing is just writing a totally different guy with the same face. And if that’s what you want to do, whatever that’s cool, again I have absolutely no problem with that. But own it. Don’t rewrite a character and then get mad when someone says that’s not him.

[purpleshimmer]

I know Arcane is good because despite there being two characters that I hate (marcus and finn) it feels wrong saying I hate them because they're such well-written and interesting characters

[throes-of-warm-tornadoes]

the 2001 planet of the apes is so good to me. like, the 1968 version will always have a special place in my heart because the makeup magic was... dare i say... very magical, but i liked how the 2001 one leaned into a more biologically accurate angle. like, those are straight up apes. no wonder humans aren’t speaking as a survival tactic, those things could hurt you without even trying. again, the 1968 one was so good and impressive but the fact that taylor could overpower the actors that were playing gorillas was a little jarring lol. which makes sense, cos so much of his escape plan relied on him being strong enough to push people out of the way.

this isn't a complaint btw! they're just people in costumes---they are still very much giving ape, but there wasn't much they could do about that on a physical level. so, when the 2001 had these big hulking gorillas and more accurate looking chimpanzee faces on the screen, i appreciated that detail about the humans exploiting their fear of the water. it leveled the playing field without making the fight against the apes look like a losing battle

[rxc]

vent cw and self harm mention in the tags

i hate this goddmn hellpit of a world and i particularly hate men. like jesus fucking christ they ALL REALLY think they are just. better than me.

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Damn, my history of taste in irl men is questionable at best, but at least the girls seem pretty normal???

[chunkofchange]

i think im gonna have to put them down ..

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[avaricefics]

the winner takes it all | kimi antonelli social media au

| Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader

| Fans are starting to believe that Kimi's girlfriend, Y/n L/n, is a bad luck charm at races- he happily proves them wrong

| This is my first ever smau, so I'm still learning all the formatting and such. Please be patient!

f1updates

f1updates Kimi Antonelli's girlfriend, Y/n L/n, posted on her story about arriving to the Canadian Grand Prix. The last time she went to watch a Grand Prix live, at the Spanish Grand Prix, Antonelli DNFed. Should Mercedes fans be scared of a bad luck charm in the garage this weekend?

comments

user1 Still not over Spanish GP... maybe Y/n actually is bad luck lol

user2 the more you think about it the more it makes sense

-> user3 Her first in person GP since Kimi was in F2 and he DNFs...

user4 Always said he shouldn't have dated her

real life

You scrolled through your phone, barely blinking as all the hateful comments and mean words flashed past on the screen. You should be used to the hate, having dated Kimi since his F2 days, but it still made no sense to you. These people didn't even know you, and yet they thought they could say whatever they wanted about Kimi and your's relationship.

You tried not to let it phase you, you tried to pretend like it didn't hurt each time someone on the internet called you a 'terrible girlfriend' or a 'bad luck charm'. Formula 1 was Kimi's dream, and you hated the thought of ruining it with your own selfish insecurities.

It also bothered you how much the fans looked down on you for missing so many grand prixs at the beginning of the season. You hadn't meant to, but your older sister had given birth prematurely to triplets a couple weeks before the season started, and you had stayed at your family home in Italy to help out for those difficult first months.

Kimi supported you fully, of course. He understood the need to stick with your family, and help them when they needed it. Between races, he had even stopped by the house to help with the triplets himself.

You and Kimi had both been so excited for the Spanish Grand Prix, but clearly that didn't turn out so well. And honestly? With how much hate you were getting for attending the Canadian Grand Prix, you were half-tempted to fly back across the ocean to Italy to help change diapers.

You scrolled past another negative post, one that wondered why Kimi would date you if you were so basic looking. You shut off your phone and resisted the urge to chuck it against the wall.

"What's wrong, vita mia?" Kimi called from the other room of the hotel, noticing you despondently laying starfished across the bed. You couldn't help but smile at the Italian nickname.

"Just stupid people on the internet," you replied. Kimi walked out of the other room, holding a leftovers box with spaghetti and meatballs that he had been warming up in the hotel microwave. Even if the spaghetti wasn't as good as authentic Italian pasta, it reminded both of them of home just a bit.

"Are you looking at the bad luck posts again?" Kimi asked, upset. He hated that there were people who called themselves his fans who treated his girlfriend so cruelly. You nodded.

Seeing your face, Kimi didn't say anything, but instead set the leftovers down on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed, his body angled towards you. You sat up, scooching towards Kimi so you could rest your head on his shoulder as both of you leaned back on the pillows.

"I'm sorry this is happening," Kimi said softly. "I got so caught up in my own dream, I hardly payed attention to the toll it was taking on you to be there, too."

"It's not that," you said, trying to think of a good way to describe how you felt. "I love supporting you, and getting to be a part of that dream. I just... wasn't prepared for the fans to not want me to be a part of it."

"Oh, carissima," Kimi whispered. He pulled you closer to him with his right arm, and rested his head on top of yours. You didn't even realize that tears had started to fall until he reached up to brush them away.

"I love you," you spoke quietly. "I love you, and it sucks that people don't see that."

"I love you too." Kimi reached over your side to grab the leftover pasta, handing you a fork and taking one for himself. "I'll fix this, amore. I promise."

kimi.antonelli

liked by yourusername, mercedesamgf1, user74 and 134, 092 others

kimi.antonelli Y/n and I have been together for years, and I am shocked and horrified to see with my own eyes people who call themselves my 'fans' turning against her. We love each other, in sickness and in health, in the happiness and in the hurting, and through both good fortune and bad luck.

Anyone who doesn't see that and respect our relationship, and my girlfriend, isn't a real fan by any means.

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yourusername <3

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yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, georgerussel63, user10 and 184, 309 others

yourusername Mercedes 1-3 at the 2025 Canadian Grand Prix! I'm so incredibly proud, congratulazioni a entrambi! Let's go Kimi!!! (Something something bad luck charm... yeah, right. My boy is too good for luck :))

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georgerussel63 I see how it is... you get P1 and not even a picture

-> yourusername Gotta support the bf

->kimi.antonelli I'm her favorite 😇

->yourusername That too

[wileycap]

I think we in the A:TLA fandom have missed the absolute potential of the fact that Ozai Firelord is canonically a fucking idiot. I mean the dude's straight up stupid. And I want to be very clear that this isn't a plot hole, this isn't a flaw in the show, this is a fantastic and super realistic element that honestly enhances my enjoyment of it! Dictators are often stupid and breed a culture of cronyism-over-competence. Any similarities with real world leaders, dead or alive, are coincidental yet inevitable.

What do I mean?

Well, let's take the Drill. When faced with the problem of Big Wall, Ozai's Fire Nation comes up with Big Drill. One singular Big Drill. Which, as anyone except an idiot could have predicted, immediately breaks down and accomplishes nothing. And if the Fire Nation had made it past the wall, then they would have been fighting through a narrow opening against people who can hurl long distance rocks! Which, if your face or body is vulnerable to high velocity rocks, is a bad thing for you and also for the battle.

Not to mention the resource cost of that thing! It's so insanely gigantic, it must have cost the Fire Nation the equivalent of trillions. For ONE drill. Not ten smaller drills. Just ONE drill. (Fanfic fuel: how much did Ba Sing Se profit off of stripping that drill for parts? Did they reverse engineer it? Did Long Feng keep that for himself?)

And you might be thinking, fairly, that it was War Minister Qin who came up with the drill and you'd be right, but it's Ozai who's approving all this shit. Instead of doing the reasonable thing and asking Qin if he et the whole edible, or even the in-character thing of burning him to death, Ozai just goes... big drill. Makes sense. We should have the biggest drill, because we are the biggest nation. Drill, baby, drill. sorry

It's not the first time, either! He also approves Zhao's invasion of the North Pole, apparently just because Zhao is good at kissing ass and hates Zuko? I couldn't tell you what merits Zhao has. We do not see him lead a single successful mission. The closest he comes is Pohuai, and even then its the Yuyan archers who do most of the work. (My longstanding headcanon is that the reason we don't see the Yuyan archers again is because Zhao blamed the whole thing on them and they were disbanded. This is great fic fuel for displaced Yuyan archers just, wandering around, being elite.)

He approved a massive naval invasion of the North Pole, surrounded by and made of water and ice, inhabited by people who bend water. A nation that was, by its own choice, completely out of the war.

Every time we see Ozai doing something, it's something stupid. Like disfiguring and banishing his firstborn child in a culture that has primogeniture. And then (once he's done pissing away a massive fleet of ships) he does the logical thing and sends his only other heir to bring his first heir back - even though his first heir would have been willing to return with a simple invitation. Like he could have sent a letter saying "dear son come home miss u pick up 200 000 tons of steel qin wants 2 build a drill lol", and Zuko would have come. (Okay, he did have a valid reason for having Zuko escorted, since he thought Iroh was a traitor, but there's absolutely NO reason to risk Azula. Why not send Combustion Man? It's the luckiest stroke of luck ever that Azula is 100 times more competent than her dad.)

Of course, a dictator(-wannabe) sending his daughter on high-level diplomatic missions is pure fiction. Nobody would do that.

The best part of this is that it's entirely realistic and in-character. I could absolutely imagine Ozai purging all of his competent admirals and generals, and then promoting brownnoses like Zhao and crackpots like Qin, because they promised him glorious destinies and secret knowledge of Big Drill.

I also really, really want a scene of Zuko and Azula realizing that their father is a fucking idiot.

I would also like to note that all this stupid shit happens after Iroh leaves with Zuko. So, here's a headcanon: the only reason the Fire Nation didn't immediately implode when Ozai took the throne and purged everyone is because of Iroh. Iroh leaving with Zuko doomed Ozai. It's also a nice little drop of complexity in Iroh's character - he knew he was single-handedly keeping the Fire Nation afloat, yet he only left when Zuko did. Did he plan for Zuko to take the throne from the start? What was his plan before Aang showed up? Did he not intervene in the Agni Kai because he was afraid, or because he knew that Ozai was making a huge mistake and didn't want to interrupt? Give me chessmaster Iroh please.