A cool fanfic idea I’ve been thinking about for date everything is
the player trying to do a hate run (getting all datable’s hate endings) but they feel so incredibly bad/guilty and (might be a little neurodivergent or bad with social cues or something) and end up getting all of the love endings. And like only Skyler and Reggie know what’s happening, but letting it happen because they think it’s funny. PLEASE IT’LL BE SO FUNNY 
Like some examples;
Dorian- being the players first friend he tries to help them (make friends or whatever). the player seeing that he is like strictly business no fun talks to all of the Dorian’s thinking it’s annoying him, but that makes him see how much they care or something and falls in love.
Lux- the player hears that people don’t like Lux because they’re kind of arrogant/rude so they go to Lux and go all like hey please teach me your ways and lux falls in love because Bros full of themself.
Scandalabra- the player sees that people don’t really like scandalabra, so they start spilling the tea on everyone they know so far and then scandalabra fall in love because bro lives for drama/scandals
Hector-they feel too bad insulting him to his face so they just say woof/bark at him, then when that doesn’t work (Hector just is confused) they think “huh being inappropriate unwarranted makes people not like you” so they just start spewing ‘sexy’ nonsense until they get embarrassed and leave. Hector falls deeper in love
Jean loo- the player decides to beat Jean Loo and his own game because ‘what destroys a relationship more than over competitiveness?’ and then Jonh falls in love because the player is a better crapper (note cool rapper)
Airyn-the players is tired of using words to make people hate (or at least TRYING) them so they just kinda silently look at her breathing in air to maybe spite her and then she falls in love because you have to be silent for her to gaf.
Skyler- she doesn’t tell the others what the player is trying to do because she thinks it’s really funny and amusing, and also doesn’t want the dateables to hate the player because then she can’t realize them/become humanAND ALSO the player is worried that if the suspension of disbelief is broken, it breaks the entire glasses/save file/run so they fix the suspension of this belief and then Skyler falls in love.
Reggie-Sitting back with a box of popcorn laughing at the players dismay, (maybe falling in love with their efforts??I don’t know)
(I can and will make more of these, if someone takes the challenge of doing this (with all 100+ characters or not) in a fanfiction please send it to me, sorry if there’s spelling mistakes/ grammar errors I’m dyslexic also ngl I was going to draw little comics on what it would look like so I might do that)
So we’ve constantly heard abt the Date Everything AU where all the dateables are realized and practically leave MC behind right? But what happens when it’s practically the opposite?
After you realize everyone, they begin to have an unhealthy obsession of knowing what’s happening to them: through social media, texting/calling, or ‘coincidentally’ appearing where they work. It’s not even meant to be in a controlling way. But you were human first, and they know how cruel the world (especially people) could be. So you’ve always tried to put the objects needs first before your own. Always worrying, never really caring for yourself. It’s over 100+ people, so of course that was the case.
It worked for the first couple of months. Comforting Jean Loo and encouraging him to take marine related classes, just so he can get out of that office hell hole. Bringing food to Eddie and Volt to their estate office, as they’re busy socializing/finalizing sales. Constantly checking media platforms to keep up with Lux, just hoping they won’t get into legal trouble again. Giving Amir a carpool when the celebrity life gets too loud. Sitting in the crowd as Ben-Wha gives their very… exotic but educational talks.
Too busy worrying about others— all the potential “what if’s”— you crash and burn at the end. Your mental health is at rock bottom. This isn’t healthy. You know.
But how could you just stop caring about the people you love…?
Maybe Sam jumps in to help. Or maybe you come up with the decision to just… leave. You still love the dateables— that was non-negotiable. However, you needed this desperately. Separate yourself from your lovers. Just enough so you can become grounded again.
Though you wouldn’t blame them for hating you for doing so.
You begin the preparations. Perhaps you sell the house. Perhaps you’re still clinging onto all the memories inside, turning it into an airbnb instead. Regardless, you pack up any necessary belongings— ones that don’t cling onto… tender moments. As for notifying your lovers, you turned to printing out letters (handwriting them would killing your wrist, as again: it’s 100+ people.). If you had to meet them in person… you would just run straight into their arms. You mail the letters out, say goodbye to Sam at the door, and… you’re gone.
Whether you move to another town, state, even country, this was the best move for yourself. Even as tears fall, already missing the warm comfort of your lovers wiping them away.
No. You can’t complain about this now.
You scrub the tears away with your arm. This is exactly you needed. You scroll through all the silly contacts of your lovers, pressing the block button before resting your head back. Whether they’ll take you back after acting so selfishly… you need to steal your heart, as you know if they said such things now, you’d never recover. This is the correct decision for you and them.
Even if they’ll hate you in the end.
(However you weren’t there to witness the carnage you occidentally caused. After all, the detables dreams came true. But everything was useless if the person who gently guided them through it all wasn’t there next to them.)
(And when few months pass, when they see you (you you you) plastered on a huge billboard with a blinding smile (one that used to be only theirs) and a shine in your eyes they never noticed faded away before— all they could feel the empty breeze beside them. A void. One that only you could fill (but how could they take you away from a place that made you whole again? something they couldn’t even do.))
i just know jean loo is such a munch even if he would never admit it to your face
ahem. yes. i didn’t double check the french in this so let’s rely on my highschool french class knowledge… gulp I hope this doesn’t flop
he’d scoff if you so much as joked about it. a dry little “pfft,” with his arms crossed and nose upturned, like your words couldn’t possibly affect him.
“you think i’d get on my knees for you?” he’d sneer, raising a dark eyebrow. “that’s cute, mon chérie. you’re funny.” and you’re just like ookaayyy it’s not that serious..
but every time your thighs brushed together when you walked into the bathroom, every time you sat just a little too close or sighed all soft and breathy when you were thinking—he lost focus on whatever the fuck. just for a second. enough for his eyes to drop.
which is exactly why, later, with his pretty mouth hot against your inner thigh, your fingers curled tight in his hair, you couldn’t stop yourself from teasing, “i thought you didn’t get on your knees, jean.”
he glared up at you, lips wet, face flushed, and looking absolutely ruined. you think he told you to shut up but it was hard to tell when your brain could only focus on rolling your hips against his smug face :(
but he just relished in the fact that you were already fucked out—loving your glassy eyes and short breaths—and buried his face even deeper in your cunt.
jean loo ate you out like he had something to prove. like his life depended on making you come harder than anyone ever had before. his tongue was relentless—slick, firm, curling up just right inside you before he’d pull back and suck your clit into his mouth like he owned it.
you were already shaking, gasping his name, and he smirked like the bastard he is.
“qu’est-ce que c’est, chérie? you sound like you’re gonna fall apart already.” he licked a long stripe up your folds and kissed your sensitive clit like it was delicate. “didn’t even start using my fingers yet.”
and oh, when he did?
his fingers were so skilled, curling in just the right way while his mouth stayed latched on to your clit, tongue flicking in perfect rhythm. he moaned softly against you, like the taste of you was turning him on more than he wanted to admit, like he was drunk off it. your sweet and soft moans turned him on even more, making him groan whenever you gasped.
“jean… ah—please,” you whined out, back arching as his pace sped up.
“tu veux jouir pour moi, hmm? go on, then. let me hear you.” his voice was low and taunting and downright nasty. “bet you never came from just someone’s mouth before, huh?” you hated how his smooth voice made the filthiest words sound so precious.
you couldn’t answer, just let out a desperate whine that sounded pathetic. you were already falling apart. and jean loo knew it.
“that’s it,” he growled, rutting against the floor because he was so hard, but still refusing to touch himself. he needed you to finish first. he needed to earn it. “come on my tongue like the little prize you are.” he could’ve said that without eating you out, and you still would’ve came for him.
you came with a high-pitched moan—your thighs locking around his head, grinding against his face like you were trying to ride out every last wave.
jean didn’t stop. didn’t fucking stop. he held you open and licked you through every tremor, chasing every twitch like he could get another orgasm out of you if he just pushed hard enough.
he probably could.
and when you finally gasped for air, when you whimpered that it was too much and tried to push his mouth away?
he kissed the inside of your thigh and grinned up at you, cocky and glowing with pride, mouth shiny with your slick. you huffed at how good he looked below you.
“told you,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “don’t ever doubt me, ma chérie.”
aka jean loo has to find other places to keep his stuff
also on ao3!
You hated him, which was an issue because he is literally your toilet.
The current bane of your existence is your recently awakened home appliance, Jean Loo. Ever since meeting him, he had continued to play hard to get, insisting you beat him at a crap (NOTE: cool rap) battle to “win him over.”
However, the fact of the matter is, it's never going to happen. You are absolute shit at rapping.
“TERRIBLE! You disgrace Jean Loo and his ear canals with your substandard wordplay!” He exclaimed after you failed to find a suitable rhyming word for dunce in your poor attempt to mock him. “The words simply shrivel and die on your tongue.”
“That was a hard one to rhyme, give me some credit!” You protested, gripping the ballcock tightly in your hand.
“Of course, an idiot such as you wouldn't be aware of the existence of ‘punce.’”
“YOU MADE THAT UP!”
Your lack of flow proved to be a pain in the neck for him, and he somehow became an even bigger jerk to you. Whenever you'd stop by to practice your crapping (NOTE: cool rapping), he'd have something snarky to say, and you'd bite right back. Without the clever rhyming scheme, obviously. The whole bathroom is ready to kick you both out when you start rapid-firing insults at each other, even Rebel thinks it's becoming unbearable.
“Li’l Crapper has made it as simple as possible for you, HOW is it that you still mess this up?? At this point, you are doing it on purpose to get his attention.”
“First of all, that was NOT simple, and second of all, who would want attention from an egotistical, busted up toilet like you?!”
“BUSTED UP?? JEAN LOO IS NOT BUSTED UP YOU–!”
For all the times you've screamed at each other, rap or not, it would make sense that you'd harbor some deep hatred for the guy.
And yet, you kept coming back to practice, and he always let you.
You'd never admit it to him, but a part of you craves his validation. You want to impress him, make him like you… Maybe more than just a friend.
That's why you were here now, showing up in the bathroom to challenge the toilet man once more.
“Hey, water closet, you ready to-” You instinctively greeted him; however, Jean Loo was nowhere to be found. All you saw was his porcelain self, bolted to the floor like a normal toilet should be.
‘Huh,’ you wondered, assuming he'd gone to mingle with his fellow housemates. Funny, you'd never taken him as a people person. Ignoring the logic behind how the “human” version of your appliances can roam while their object state remains, you approach the very normal toilet.
Suddenly, a memory of Jean Loo saying he keeps prompts in his cistern flashes in your mind. You grin, seeing this as an opportunity to get ahead in the game. Maybe he writes down his lyrics too, if that was the case, you'd know what to counter them with by the time he got back!
You opened the lid of the tank and reached inside, grabbing the mass of drenched paper. You quickly prayed Jean didn't feel any of that, but no one came, so you continued with your master plan.
The papers were as soaked as they were last time. Blue and black ink was smeared all over the pages, and you began to wonder if the smudges were even words at all. You cursed under your breath, thinking your efforts would turn out to be fruitless.
But you noticed some papers appeared to be somewhat dry, like they were only stashed in the tank recently. Some might even say secretly, with how they were inserted between sheets. Carefully, you separated these half-dry pages from the rest and laid them on the tile.
The words on them were almost intelligible, save for a few blurry or scribbled-out words. Jackpot, now all you had to do was make sense of the verses and you'd finally be able to show Jean that you CAN crap! (NOTE: cool rap)
Arranging the pages the best you could, you start to notice a theme with the lyrics. They seemed to be… related to your “situation.”
Finally, you're able to put them together in a coherent order. Ignoring all the comments in the margins, you pick up the papers and start to read…
You fumble your flow, got no bars in stock,
Still, somehow, his heart? You picked that lock.
You trip over words, got no rhyme rhythm or clue,
And yet the master would trade his crown just to lose it to you.
You rhyme “orange” with “door hinge,” he laughed for a week,
But your dumb little smirk got his knees feelin’ so weak.
Roasting you for fun, but it ain’t just a game,
Why’d he write sixteen seventeen drafts with your name?
Il ne comprend pas, he doesn't get why,
But your voice turns his tank from low to high.
Jean Loo is on fire, he don’t got time for fools,
Yet here you are, out here breakin’ all the rules.
So here’s the truth, (uncouth?) like a drip in the night.
Jean Loo’s been losing, and it feels kinda right.
Now he’s stuck on repeat, in this loop that is you,
And for once, Mon dieu Jean Loo don’t know what to do.
Full stop. What the hell was that?
Your rival, the guy you were sure hated your guts, is writing love songs about you. Dorky, cheesy love songs. You could laugh, you SHOULD laugh, but instead you just sat there, face becoming increasingly hot.
He basically wrote about how, in the dumbest and most embarrassing way possible…
Jean Loo might actually like you.
You barely managed to collect yourself from the momentary shock when suddenly—
“(Y/N)?!”
You whipped your head around at the familiar sound, finding the toilet man himself standing in the doorway. His eyes fell onto the half-soggy pages in your hands, and his face dropped. “Oh- merde.”
Wasting no more time, he rushed in to snatch them from you and backed away to keep them out of your reach.
“What do you think you are doing, HUH?! SNOOPING AROUND IN JEAN LOO’S… PARTS!”
Standing to meet his gaze, you retorted, “Did you have to say it like that?? And I wasn't snooping! I was- I was researching!”
“MENSONGES!! YOU WERE SNOOPING!” He pointed at you accusingly.
“OKAY FINE MAYBE I WAS!” You relented, arms flailing. “But maybe Jean Loo should've done a better job at hiding his top secret love songs.”
“THEY ARE NOT LOVE SONGS! They are… Emotionally complex syllabic experiments!! What is a good rap without emotional backing?”
You stared.
He clutched the pages to his chest, spinning to face the wall. “You read the whole thing?” He muttered, almost as if he didn't want you to hear.
“I-... Yeah..” You said quietly.
“All the way to the end?”
“...Yeah.”
The silence thickened between you. You silently wished no one was seeing this.
Jean Loo groaned, halfway to slamming his head into the wall. “Take me to the landfill…”
“...Did you really write seventeen drafts with my name?”
“NON.” He shouted immediately, “It was clearly a metaphor… an artistic expression. A FLUID SOUNDING NUMBER.”
You opened your mouth to counter, but decided against it. Obviously he was going into full defense mode.
“Aren't you going to ask me what I thought about your rap?” You said, a smile forming on your lips.
He scoffed at this, “Li’l Crapper has no need for your opinion. It was merely a draft anyway.”
Ignoring him, you continued, “I think your rhymes are grossly overcompensating for your emotional constipation.” You internally laughed at the irony.
Jean Loo let out a displeased noise; however, you spoke before he could say anything.
“But also…” You stepped forward, grin softening. “It… wasn't bad.”
He glanced over his shoulder, making the red hue all over his face more visible. “........What.”
“I said it wasn't bad.”
He made a choked noise. “You are unbearable.”
You shrugged, “So are you.”
Another beat passed. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his heart. Not that you were any better.
It was almost funny. Jean Loo, usually so sure of himself, so excessively loud, was now silent and cradling papers like it was his baby. His eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again. It was cute seeing him like this, in all honesty.
You shifted your weight. “Jean, do you—?”
He cleared his throat before you could continue. “Li’l Crapper has to, um. Rework his metaphors. Yes.” He said, fully facing you now.
You nodded, “Yeah, and I should, uh… not be here. Have fun with your metaphors.”
“Yes yes, begone, peste! He will be very busy.”
His usual persona seemed to be returning, and you rolled your eyes halfheartedly. Back to normal.
You left, and he didn't stop you.
Much later, after the heat on your face had subsided and after you tried (and failed) to forget the whole thing, you were just about done with the day. Showing yourself to your welcoming bed, you almost missed a lone piece of paper on your bedroom floor.
It was folded and slipped underneath the bathroom door. You had a feeling who from.
You opened it slowly.
This time, the paper was completely dry. His handwriting was surprisingly neat, careful even. It was the song you'd read earlier, without all the scribbled words and notes.
The final revision, you supposed, and he decided to gift it to you.
Only one thing was different now.
One line had been added near the end, new, deliberate. Your name was in it.
You felt your heart racing a million beats per second, and a smile creeping on your lips.
‘Dork,’ you thought. Because somehow, even without saying it to your face, Jean Loo had just told you everything.
a/n : yes, i wrote that shitty rap for this. not my proudest moment but i had the idea for this and i just had to see it through. honestly this whole thing is a projection of my frustration with his final rap battle. GET HATED IDIOT (im obsessed with him). also the title is from a song by Natalie Wilson. i felt that while writing.
Pairing: Jean Loo Pissoir x Reader – Date Everything!
summary: After losing your job to AI, your life takes a bizarre turn when you receive the Dateviators—enchanted glasses that reveal the true, dateable forms of your household objects. One of them? Your toilet.
a/n: sorry for the corny rhyme idk what to write
Your day started the same as every other since you got fired. You'd shuffled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and barely awake, trying not to think about your rent or the way your boss had said “the algorithm just does it better.”
Now you’re standing in front of your toilet.
And it’s talking to you.
In rhymes.
With a French accent.
And a chain that holds a mic named Ballcock.
You blame the sunglasses.
The Dateviators, gifted to you by a trench-coated weirdo outside the unemployment office, are perched on your nose. And ever since you put them on, your apartment hasn’t been the same. Your microwave flirts. Your vacuum growls. And now—this.
“Bonjour, mon cœur,” the toilet purrs, tilting its porcelain face toward you. His plunger-hat leans rakishly to the side, as if it’s seen some things. “You look like a clogged soul… in need of a flush.”
You stare. “Okay. Nope. No. We’re not doing this.”
Jean Loo doesn’t miss a beat.
“You flush your feelings, bury them deep,
But mon amour, the pain still leaks.
Sit down, relax, let’s unclog this mess—
The bathroom’s a church, and you came here to confess.”
Your eye twitches. You point at the door. “Out. No rapping in the bathroom.”
“I am the bathroom,” he says, arms out like he’s Christ on ceramic. “And the rapper.”
You groan and walk out, only for Jean Loo to follow. Somehow his boots make a flush sound with every step, and the toilet-seat shoulder armor creaks dramatically when he moves.
“I didn’t invite you into the living room.”
He shrugs. “Everything in this home is mine to access. Or are you forgetting who handles your… delicate situations?”
You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to throw the glasses out the window. Instead, you flop on the couch.
“…You smell a little like bleach.”
He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Merci. I shower in Lysol. Most find it… invigorating.”
You bury your face in your hands. “Why me?”
He suddenly quiets. You peek through your fingers and see something rare—earnestness.
“You looked sad. Lonely. Your eyes were heavy like a tank with no flush,” he says softly. “And I—Jean Loo—do not let my cherie rot in solitude.”
You lift your head. “Did you just say I’m like a neglected tank?”
“…Romantically, oui.”
You sigh, but it’s a little less hopeless now. Maybe a tiny part of you—some small, unhinged recess of your unemployed brain—likes having someone (thing?) around. Even if he does come with freestyles and flexible hoses.
You lean back. “Fine. You can stay. But no freestyling during me time.”
Jean grins. “But all time with you is mon temps préféré.”
“…That better not mean what I think it means.”
He winks. “Would you prefer a bidet pun?”
You hurl a throw pillow at him. He catches it with flair—bowing like you’ve just thrown roses.
Hi!! Since you’re taking Date Everything requests, could you please do some cuddling headcanons for Jean Loo, Cam, and Tony?
[I will try my best, I sadly have only gotten Cam's Friendship route and the other two I have gotten the hate routes sadly ú^ú But I am confident that I can write something up for all of them, especially our dear Trashcan!]
Cuddling Time 2 [Date Everything x GN Reader]
[Feat; Jean Loo, Cam & Tony] [Divider Credit]
🗑 Cam 🗑
- He acts rough and tough, even leaning on mean on some occasions but once you two get to know each other? He's a real cuddle bug, he loves having you close by and on hard days he asks to be the little spoon for the night. Don't tease him about it, it's a sensitive topic for him to be vulnerable just hold him close and enjoy having him there
- He pulls you on top of himself, arms wrapping around your hips as he lets you use him as a personal mattress. Which is the perfect opportunity to play with his face or poke his face, he will huff and playfully try to bite your fingers until you tire yourself out
- He smells quiet nice actually for someone who's a Trashcan, he would never admit it but he is a bit self-conscious over his smell. Especially since some others be it in your home or outside would complain about it often, so he always makes sure to get some perfume or get a shower if Johnny lets him
- If you ask him about it he will answer honestly, though it might take some time to convince him even a little that you aren't that bothered by his natural smell (which is often a mix of take-out, papers & the occasional deodorant/perfume bottle, it oddly enough smells quiet nice actually?)
🚽Jean Loo 🚽
- He's very busy with his rapping career, be it from working on another rap for his album or because of an upcoming performance but do not fret, Jean Loo always makes sure to have time for you even if it means sneaking in when you've already fallen and asleep and cuddle up to you, holding you from behind until you wake up the next morning to find him drooling onto the pillow
- But when he has time get ready to sit somewhere comfy and have him between your arms as he tells you his upcoming rap ideas for hours on end. If you wanna stop it just kiss him on the cheek and watch the master of crap freezes up for a minute but be prepared, Jean Loo never goes down without a fight, especially if it's a fight of affection and love
- When he's a big spoon he will take off his jewelry, even his trusty necklace with the Ballcock. He wants to make sure his muse is comfortable in his arms as you both hold onto the other, eyes closed as your foreheads gently collide against one another with a shared short laugh, he will whisper sweet nothings in french to you
🛠 Tony 🛠
- He thought for sure that he would nail your first cuddling session but to keep it short, he got a bit too excited and confused a gentle hold with an intense bear hug, say what you will but his arms truely are strong and muscular
- And speaking of them, he will carry you to a spot to cuddle with you if you even so much hint at it, nothing will stop him to share some quality time with you (except maybe if someone needs fixing immideantly and even then it's only if it's an emergency. But while he reluctantly goes he will make sure everyone hears his long sighs as he promise to come back soon as fast as he can)
- Tony in general is very muscular, his arms aren't the most comfortable to rest again but his chest? A perfect spot, especially when his arms snake around you and he holds you in such a secure grip. You ever need a slight, gentle squeeze? He can give you it and it feels almost like a weighted blanket but better since you can hear his heart speeding up whenever he hears you sigh and relax further into his hold
