#// maybe we should start finding a way toward the end of this thread ha

[garmgeyr]

In the uneasy wake of the latest leg of the story and the retreat of the horror that had sprung to life on this beach, the other two talk quietly but haltingly to one another. Gallagher gazes sleepily into the fire as they do, swirling his glass thoughtfully as he listens to them try to understand how a story could feel so real. The Enigmata can have its way with reality, blending memory with fiction, but there is not a shred of it left here now so long as there are minds to probe through it for the truth.

Silently, he raises his eyes as if to check his guest's glasses for need of a refill - first the young architect's, then that of the woman with inked arms. But there they stop, noticing that hers flicker away from the firelight toward something in the dark for a brief, nearly imperceptible second.

Gallagher's warm rumble of a laugh does its best to break through the morose tension and he settles his elbows on his knees.

"What? Y'think just telling a story's doing something strange? I haven't noticed anything." He finishes off his glass and reaches for the bottle to refill it, now a little more clumsily than before, crimson wine sloshing precariously toward spilling as he pours. But he manages without losing a drop and then holds it out in offering to Kaveh, having spotted the longing glance toward his own nearly empty glass.

"Why don't you tell me what you've been seeing? I find it hard to believe that it's just the weather gettin' to ya."

Next: @aesthetecomplex

stranger than fiction.

ghost stories with @garmgeyr & @aesthetecomplex.

[theofficersacademy]

When you agreed to come to this island two moons ago to help with its renovation, you didn't exactly expect this to be the outcome.

WELCOME TO HAPPYLAND

That's what's painted on a wooden archway at the dock when you disembark from your boat. With lumpy, irregular letters and dried drips of paint, it looks like it might have been painted by someone's kid. Maybe that rich guy you were working for has one? You really have no idea. Nevertheless, the church says it wouldn't hurt to entertain the client, but you get the feeling that testing the attractions you and your colleagues pitched in to build was a hidden part of the contract. Might as well get this over with. At least you won't have classes for a month, right?

Whether you've been here working for the last two months, or you're arriving for the first time, your HAPPYLAND ADVENTURE starts at this ramshackle pier, the sun and the glimmering sea at your back and a white, sandy shore separating you from the steamy, overgrown jungle up ahead. You've been allowed to pack like you're on vacation, so you haul your luggage (there are no attendants here, you lament) up to the welcoming archway.

"WELCOME TO HAPPYLAND!" a mechanical bird sitting on a perch next to the sign says over and over again. "RIGHT THIS WAY."

Rocks have been laid in the sand in the shape of arrows, you realize, so you and the rest of your bewildered allies follow them...

What’s Going On?

Welcome to Happyland, the fifth anniversary event for the Officers Academy! Please continue reading below for information and rules.

The event this year is vastly different than past years. While every muse who signed up has been assigned to a team, teams will NOT be assigned a mod to preside over them or be physically separated from other teams. Instead, muses can mix and mingle across the island however they like. Backstabbing and forming new allegiances are all allowed, but your team's score will be what matters in the end. Keep this in mind as your muse chooses where to spend their time each week.

Additionally, there will be a high level of elimination each week, beginning from the first week. Once eliminated, your muse will not be able to participate in event games and objectives for the rest of the month. You will still be able to interact within the setting in order to obtain the grand prize, but this will require you to be more proactive about your own participation.

The Affluence mission board will be extended through the end of this month, but no new missions will be added. If your muse is sitting out of the event or you find yourself with nothing to do, use this month to catch up on past threads or thread together about your classmates and colleagues who have left for the event.

Happyland General Rules

Signups are closed and will not be reopened.

Find a list of the teams and housing arrangements here.

You may only start Happyland threads between August 1st and August 31st. Event threads may be continued after the event, but no new ones may be started. Likewise, only IC posts made between 8/1 and 8/31 will count toward prizes.

While we still encourage you to make choices based on what your character would do, this focus of this event is on interacting with one another instead of exploration.

Outside of your muse's chosen objective, you may interact within your location for the week however and with whomever you like. However, your muse's chosen objective should be your priority. Please plan your load accordingly.

Please tag all event-related IC posts with #toahappyland2024.

Happyland Schedule

August 1st - 4th: Getting Situated

August 5th - 11th: Week 1

August 12th - 18th: Week 2

August 19th - 25th: Week 3

August 26th - 31st: Week 4

Discord

Instead of team threads this year, our event channels will be separated into locations. Your muse can only be at one location per week (with the exception of the first few days), and therefore can only interact with others who have chosen to go to that location. Interactions will be a mix of dash threads, asks, and chatplays, and we will allow chatplays that have been compiled into docs and word counted to count for thread masteries at the end of the month as long as your muse has contributed at least 400 words.

Prizes and How to Get Them

Two sets of prizes will be awarded for the Happyland event.

PARTICIPATION PRIZE.

All muses entering the event automatically receive one of these prizes upon participating. You may message the masterlist as soon as you have made your first event post.

Canon Lord characters: You are granted access to your exclusive promotional class. This class will have mastery requirements of a Master Tier class and will also require rank A in Authority and a drabble. Please message the masterlist to claim it. To see muses that qualify and their corresponding prizes, please refer to the fourth page of this sheet. You will also be granted your Personal Skill. Please refer to the section below.

Characters who have not claimed a Personal Skill: You will be allowed to claim your Personal Skill. Please refer to this sheet for examples and guidance on crafting one for yourself. Characters who already have personal skills in their respective games will receive their canon skill, so you do not need to design one. If you need help designing your skill, please ask for advice in the personal skill workshop channel in the Discord server. All personal skills must be submitted to the masterlist’s inbox for final approval.

All others: If your character participated in past lore events and has already received all participation prizes that they are eligible for, you may claim an additional ability that you qualify for from the ranking chart.

If you prefer to hold off on choosing your participation prizes (i.e. waiting on skill points, etc.), you may do so until the grand prize claim period after the event. However, keep in mind that you may only feature any new abilities in threads after claiming them.

GRAND PRIZE.

This will be awarded at the end of the event to any muse who reaches a minimum of 12 IC event posts. Contains:

One free skill point

Two choices from an event-limited selection of prizes

And a third prize — unknown for now

More information on that will come at the conclusion of the event, so for now, simply enjoy what Happyland has to offer!

And as always, feel free to message the masterlist or use the Discord if you have any questions.

- The House Leaders

[blodgmonster]

Part 3 of my EoS ToD tandem reread commentary. Getting to the end of both books so it should be less of a slog now.

-- Yrene pushing Hasar into the pool. Priceless.

-- "I loved you before I ever set eyes on you." SARTAQ!!!!! God, men written by women are just so much better than the real thing.

"' We wait for the Queen of the Valg,' the spider purred, rubbing against the carving. 'Who in this world calls herself Maeve." The fucking SHOCK when I read that the first time. God damn.

-- "' You once asked me where I stand on the line between killing to protect and killing for pleasure.' His fingers grazed the seam of the scar across her abdomen. 'I'll stand on the other side of that line when I find your grandmother.'" DORIAN!!!! FUCK YEAH!

-- Gah, I'm getting confused on what chapters from which book I'm supposed to be reading in which order. And I'm like 85% of the way through both of them.

-- I was right. The Eye is the Lock

-- Hey, Nehemia....

-- It's so funny that all this time Elena has been portrayed as wise and serene. And then we find out she was reckless and short sighted and stupid.

-- "Everything he had done, Aelin had come to rip it apart. Starting with his honor." You did that all by yourself, Chaol. God, get OVER it, you Criston Cole ass bitch.

-- "He only looked toward the dark and smiled. Not broken. Made anew. And when the darkness beheld him...Chaol slid a hand against its cheek. Kissed its brow. It loosened its grip and tumbled back into that pit. Curled up on that rocky floor and quietly, carefully, watched him." What a lovely metaphor.

-- Hell yeah, House Whitethorn

-- Last 100 pages of EoS. Here we fucking go.

-- ABRAXOS AND THE THIRTEEN ARRIVING IN THE NICK OF TIME!!

-- LORCAN, YOU DUMB FUCK

-- "I'll go with you, I'll come with you" ELIDE, YOU BEAUTIFUL SOUL.

-- Aelin being whipped.

-- "Where is my wife?"

-- AEDION, SHUT THE FUCK UP

-- *heavy sigh * That's Eos done. Time to finish ToD.

-- having the Valg be Duva is a fantastic little twist. Sweet, mostly ignored preggo lady.

-- I wonder...will the baby be born fucked up? The Valg was infesting its mother the whole time it was developing in utereo. Will it have been affected?

-- Aelin's self-defense lessons coming through to save Yrene.

-- I think the scar Aelin gave Chaol should have stayed. Maybe that's mean of me but...

-- "I am as much of a man in that chair, or with that cane, as I am standing on my feet." Alright! Chuck that ableism out the window!

-- Oh, shitballs. I forgot that Yrene and Chaol's lives are now tied to each other so that if one dies they both die. Just like Feyre and Rhysand. SJM must think this is suuuuuper romantic. I think otherwise. A suttee is not romantic. Leaving your potential children to deal with suddenly becoming an orphan is not romantic. Leaving your loved ones to mourn not just one but both of you is not romantic.

-- Sometimes she makes it seem like Yrene actually goes INSIDE Chaol or Duva when she's healing them. That can't be right. It's her like...power going inside and fighting what's inside, right? Homegirl does not Magic School Bus her way into the human body. Right?

-- so the fetus is healthy and human. BUT will it be a sociopath or an asshole?

-- Poor Duva. Get her some therapy.

-- I'm so glad Nesryn claimed a ruk

-- Nesryn got a MASSIVE upgrade with Sartaq. And not just because he's the heir to the khaganate. Because he wonderful.

-- SJM like...never writes weddings. They always just get married in some secret ceremony off camera. Very weird.

-- "A gift from a queen who had seen another woman in hell and thought to reach back a hand. With no thought of it ever being returned. A moment of kindness, a tug on a thread..." I hope you feel kind of shitty about all the mean things you said about Aelin, Chaol. She saved your wife.

-- Fireheart. Locked away in the dark.

Well. I don't think I'll do the tandem reread again. But it certainly was a cool experience. A slog, but cool. Onto KoA, destroyer of my heart.

[ussenterpeen]

jeebies' most wanted!

Hi! I'm Jeebies (32, cisfem, queer, EST, been roleplaying for 20+ years) and I am a writer and moderator on Denouement, an 18+ pan/multifandom roleplaying site that's been going strong for over two years. We have a Jcink hub for apps, lore, and basic info, but most of the writing/RP takes place via real time chats (utilizing Tupper), post-by-post threads, and comm threads on Discord. We also use Cbox for RP, particularly for real time group RP. What makes Denouement unique is the sheer variety of fandoms/muses represented -- anime/manga, live action tv & movies, novels & comics, musicals & podcasts. It's truly a panfandom experience -- not leaning towards one genre or medium or another. We welcome the most niche fandom characters as well as fandomless original characters. Our members love sharing their OCs and hyping up others' as well. Below, I've written a few detailed blurbs for characters I'd really like to write against. The character wanted is in bold, and I write the character in italics.

Rebecca Welton for Ted Lasso (platonic or romantic)

I took Ted from the end of S3, leaving for Kansas City. Writing him against a Rebecca from S1 who is still bitter and an emotional mess could be a lot of fun; Ted would be able to use his therapy techniques and improved emotional intelligence to help her adjust. Talk about a reversal of which fish is out of which body of water! I think being stranded together, desperately clinging to one another for sanity and security, could be the spark of potential that leads to a slow burn Tedbecca relationship -- though I am absolutely cool with keeping them platonic/unrequited if that's not your speed.

Dean Winchester for Castiel (platonic, ideally romantic)

My Cas is from the end of S5, and I have also put him on the Summer Path, meaning he has all of his angelic powers but no memory of who or what he is. So far, he's been working as a humble gardener and beekeeper, interacting with other non-humans to try and figure out who he might be. Having Dean show up and try to help him remember things would help reshape Cas back into the being he's meant to be. And maybe they kiss a little along the way?? Plus, Denouement's got a whole lot of baddies to gank!

Tony Stark for Peter Parker (familial/platonic)

My Peter is from the end of No Way Home, so he arrived in Denouement under the impression no one would know or remember him, with both of his closest parental figures gone. He has MJ, a beacon in the darkness, but he's struggling to decide if he needs to give up being Spider-Man for good, lest he destroy this new world the way he nearly destroyed his own. Having his mentor back to help him find his way would be so great for his development. Also, if you pick up Tony, there's already a Stark Industries waiting for him to play with (and I also write Steve Rogers which could make for some draaaaaamaaaa). Plus, we have a whole cast of Marvel chars to write with.

Leonard 'Bones' McCoy for James T. Kirk (platonic)

I pulled Jim from the end of STID, so I am looking more specifically for an AOS Bones to write against, but also happy to write against TOS Bones if that's your vibe! Jim needs his bestie, and no world will ever test Bones' patience like Denouement; there are so many strange and hazardous situations that need a doctor. We have an AOS Spock, a DIS-era Pike, and a few other Star Trek OCs to write with as well!

Here's some helpful links to get started!

Guidebook Taken Canons Reserves Path/Ranking System Discord

I also write: Eddie Munson, Edwin Paine, Emma Meyer, Fiona Goode, Five Hargreeves, Joel Miller, Karen Page Rey, and Steve Rogers. I'm happy to toss plotting your way with any of these folks should you choose to join!

Aaaaand, a few other of my wanted fandoms/fandoms I just wanna see:

Star Wars, Stranger Things, The Umbrella Academy, The Last of Us, The Boys, Gen V, American Horror Story, Kingsman, X-Men, The Adventure Zone, Yu Yu Hakusho, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Barbie, Dead Boy Detectives, Doctor Who, Severence

[jasperlion]

[ I have Thoughts on the FB, let me tell you. ]

lets divide it into bits:

The fairies

Idc about them sorry.

Peony was wholesome and good on Triandra for finding out nightmares aren't hated. That's about all I have to say. I'm not sure how I felt about the Tharja segment tbh.

Sonya's Solo Story

For this I have nothing bad to say at all. I think Niime as a choice for someone for Sonya to talk to was a great idea, especially because they have a very similar history with the kind of magic that took away some of their family. Granted, the circumstances were Very Different, as is highlighted in the FB, but at least they have this to share in and research on together.

The Celica bit took me by surprise, I actually did not expect her to show up. However, I think it was also a good idea, seeing as Celica is probably the only person alive who has been turned into a witch and lived* to regain her true self. (*she did, however, have to die for it) Clearly, her circumstances were Special to say the least, but the fact it happened means saving a witch could be possible, perhaps even without the death part, they just have to keep looking. "The day I give up on trying to save my sisters is the day they truly die." Damn.

Mycen's Solo Story

It was nice to see FEH acknowledge that Alm was his own war tactician and is quite experienced and knowledgeable as a commander.

That said, we really could have done without Fjorm here beyond perhaps her role in being the player stand-in explaining Alm and Rudolf's beef if they hadn't played Gaiden/SoV.

I also feel it's a little odd of Rudolf to be avoiding Alm considering the Paralogue for Valentines literally ends on Alm and Rudolf trying to make amends and Talk (Celica pushing for it), and all of them going to the festival together. That said, it's not TOO odd, especially since this is a *different* Alm. It does feel like a bit of backpeddaling on the valentines event, though. Idk, I think this could have been elaborated more on.

Also, very silly of two old men to be arguing on who is responsible for Alm being who he turned out to be lol. No complaints on that, as much as it shows a little bit of what each other believes.

I do think it makes sense that Alm is a little sensitive about the patricide thing towards Rudolf and not Mycen simply because Rudolf in his world is already dead. There's no way to make peace with that, or amends with that. Mycen, however, is still alive. He probably already buried the hatchet with his adoptive grandfather by the point he got sent to Askr, so there's no need for sensitivity and hostility. To a point, anyways.

Anyway, mainly, all of this is minor 'eh... huh', my main issue is Fjorm being so prevalent in the story when it feels like she's just there to be a soundboard. Poor woman.

RIP Anna btw.

The FB Story Itself

I got jumpscared by the fact that it starts off ad verbatim like one of me and Bern's (@indumasname ) threads lol

I think the concept of the nothing, and the nightmares, is interesting.

Sonya's resolution with her own nightmares about being unable to save her sisters before she dies, and how they question her resolve, were touching and ended on a strong note. Very good stuff.

Mycen's, however...

That's the one I take issue with, of course, lol.

Mycen doesn't do anything to disprove what Alm and Celica say, he just speaks over them. Sure, they're nightmares, but they have a good point — he kinda threw two kids in a conflict he should have lead or at least could have assisted in.

In a way it felt more like writers trying to justify Mycen, but having no actual reasonable reason for him. Just "Well, he's right because they weren't shouldering it alone". Except adults around them forced them to take responsibility, and so did he, over a situation and world they had no hand in making at just 17.

It'd have felt more resolute if he had faced the children he harmed and admitted they're right, he DID put them in that situation. Maybe they weren't alone, but he set them on a path that forced them to grow up and suffer when they were barely adolescents, because he believed there was no other way to end the reign of the Gods. He believed in the prophecy, and while it worked out, they suffered for it. That would have at least felt like he was answering what the nightmares said… not just speaking over them and ignoring what they said. In a way, it made Mycen look like he constantly avoids the responsibility of what he did to those kids, and the writing put him in the right for it.

Closing thoughts

Alm vc

[dearweirdme]

https://www.tumblr.com/dearweirdme/719272022682828800/hi-i-appreciate-reading-your-comments-i-feel?source=share

I totally understand the frustration of this anon.

"Yet for most, it’s not because Tae is dating her (it’s his life after all) but because of the way this has come out - he’s told us more than once that he always wants to act with honour & integrity.Yet where is the honour now?For a year his fans have been defending him against the Taennie’s rumours, photos etc.But now we find that he’s been implicit in this all along - so what was the point? He could have just stopped this a year ago.

I think this perspective about the situation is what fueled the fans to get angry and frustrated coz for a year, we've been fighting for Tae's honor yet things turned out like this. I personally felt like I've been played and mocked. Although he didn't really ask us to defend him, but we did that out of our love for him. It actually doesn't matter if he's dating or not, but he could've come clean from the get go. He dragged this issue for so long, and the way the narrative of that pap (although full of loopholes), like he just wanted to stroll around Paris while holding hands with his gf and even asked their manager to tell the pap to shoot from afar, like honestly, it seemed so derisive toward his fans. That's why for a few days after that incident, I couldn't see Tae the same way anymore. He seemed like not the person I used to know. This is probably our faults, too. We believed the personas that they were selling their fans. Dating should not be made such a big deal like this, but revealing his relationsip like that made it seem so cheap.

The OP also talked about losing connection with him. I know a lot of fans are just hanging by a thread now. It feels like Tae's trying to test how far we'll hold on.

After some days, I realized that if this really is PR, then I call it BS coz playing this game with your fans is hurtful for them. Although they're not really responsible for how we feel, but a little consideration at least. We've invested so much for them.

Having said that, yeah, they're not responsible for how we feel, but how easy it is to manipulate people's feelings. I feel like we're puppets, controlled by them and the company. One issue comes out, oh here's a bangtan bomb, a live, a fanservice, another issue comes out, oh here's an album announcement. ARMYs tired? Oh here's a new set of merch. Whether we like it or not, we are their puppets. It's part of being a fan.

We should detach ourselves emotionally from them and just support whatever they put out. It's still business at the end of the day.

Hi anon!

Ah, I do understand the feeling. I’ve been where you’re at (not this time, but in a different fandom at a different time). It’s annoying and hurtful absolutely. From you I get the feeling that no matter what (whether Taennie is real or not) you are hurt about it and that is so sad. I think maybe you have only recently started considering the business side of artists? Coming to terms with that can be a daunting experience. You might be reevaluating a lot of stuff right now.

I don’t know what to say to make you feel better, it feels like you have to work through this a bit. Some detachment might help you with that. When things get too hard in fandom it’s always a good thing to step away for a bit. You’re also very welcome in my inbox, although I do feel differently about things, but a different perspective might also help at times.

[joons]

How good is The Raven Cycle? I've read maybe half of the first book and it wasn't keeping my interest. The male leads felt really fratboy-ish in a bad way and turned me off to it. But everyone says the books are really good. So I don't know if it's just not my thing, or if there's something great in it I just haven't gotten to yet. Is there anything interesting yet non-spoilery you can tell me that might motivate me to give it another try?

The male leads definitely have fuckboy aesthetics, but the series goes so deep into their internal landscapes that they all feel very complex and vulnerable the more you read. (I actually think Blue is the hardest of all of them, though the second book, The Dream Thieves, explores that fuckboy world more by introducing other characters that sort of represent the people the Raven Boys could become in a darker timeline.) I've heard people compare the books to The Secret History and other dark academia stories, but I like the way The Raven Cycle deals with class and goes for such a soft, friendship-and-fairies style of fantasy; the dark academia setting is just the jumping-off point before it starts being about talking trees and trauma and trailer parks. There's also a sequel/companion series that takes place after the first four books, which I haven't read yet, but I'm glad she kept going with the world because there are so many ideas in the series that it feels like you could explore little threads of it forever. The magic is all very hazy, powered by literal dream logic, so it has an almost fairytale "and then this happened" kind of pattern that you'll either really love or get annoyed by. And the characters feel so real that you can end up hating some of them because they are prickly and illogical and self-destructive, but there are ALSO enough characters that you'll probably really relate to at least one of them.

I would recommend the series because it feels so unique, even if there are elements you don't really like. It's always slow in plot, but Stiefvater will just, like, drop in an underworld hitman character that doesn't feel like he should be there, and that's so fun to me, that delightful mix of genres that shouldn't work but does. The villains are my favorite part of the series, which is probably an unpopular opinion. I also still don't quite know if I liked the ending? I kind of did, but I do think the number of characters DID make it feel overstuffed toward the end. But I reread the first book a lot because I love the way she introduces/explores the world, like, on a pure writing craft level. Stiefvater has always felt like an author I'm kin to, like we have the same priorities and aesthetics. The books are definitely her best work, and it's a story she worked on for years, set aside, then came back to when she was more experienced, and I think they feel like something truly weird and rough in the way any passion project does. It gets you excited because you have no idea where it's going. There's nothing formulaic about it at all.

I'd give the first book another try, since the end of that book sort of shows you the weird logic of the world and what she's going for. They are really mostly character studies about the hidden worlds inside all of us. I find them very beautiful. :)

[blogger360ncislarules]

Now that Colter (Justin Hartley) has solved his white whale of a case — the disappearance of Gina Picket a decade ago —there’s still another ongoing mystery for him to tackle in Tracker Season 2: that of his family.

The series began with Colter thinking that his brother Russell (Jensen Ackles) may have had something to do with their father’s death. But, as Colter instead learned from Russell, someone else was there that night in the woods. In fact, their mother had secrets, too, because he’d seen the same man who was there that night talking to her before. Their mother then told Russell it would be best if he left and kept quiet about what happened after their father’s death. Their sister, Dory (Melissa Roxburgh), has secrets, too, such as the box of their father’s stuff she hadn’t told either of them about.

In Ackles’ Season 2 return, he helped Colter out with a case and in the process, learned a bit more about their father. “You have a long family history of getting in the government’s way,” the man who previously held Colter in some sort of government facility when the rewardist was looking for a missing man, told Russell. “What, you don’t think I know who you are?”

With so much still unanswered, returns from Ackles and Roxburgh are needed. “Hopefully” we’ll see them again this season, Hartley told TV Insider. “We’re writing for them.”

Roxburgh did tell us she hopes to return as well while discussing her new show, The Hunting Party. “I think that’d be super fun,” she shared. “I’d love to go back and play.”

Hartley promised that the show would be diving back into the family mystery as Season 2 continues and it “gets real.”

“I don’t like the idea of wrapping things up in a pretty little bow just for the sake of the fact that it’s the final episode of the season, and so we write to the plot so that everyone’s like, ‘Oh, great, everything’s perfect and fine, and we can go and make a third season,'” he admitted. “I’m more interested in propelling the story in a way that makes sense, and if it ends up being four episodes or 44 episodes or 144 episodes to tell the most compelling story, then that’s what it is, not just trying to get more episodes in the bag or trying to finish a story in time. I think there’s a beautiful way to tell a story in sort of the best way and that’s what we should do. And all the writers are on board with that, too, everyone wants to do that.”

Hartley continued, “We’ll figure out a lot more, and [Colter will] get more leads. But sometimes when you get more leads and find out more information, it just unravels more s**t, and sometimes that’s more interesting. The way in which he died and the mystery behind it and what he was involved with and who he was involved in it with being the government and all that kind of stuff, there are so many threads to this that he’s following, and it is almost like he almost needs a wall to write things down, almost needs like a Dexter wall. It certainly unravels here towards the end of the season.”

He agreed that Colter and Russell’s relationship in such a better place than it was at the start of the series. That being said, there are mysteries about Russell and there’s the matter of his off-the-books type of work.

“Colter is very skeptical just by nature, and part of it is his job, part of it is upbringing, all the lessons that his dad taught him. He hung out with this guy who became more increasingly paranoid, and that can rub off on you,” Hartley noted. “But then as he is growing older, he’s realizing, ‘Oh, snap. Maybe my dad wasn’t so crazy. Maybe he was onto something.’ And so that’s where it starts to unravel. There’s a sense of responsibility that comes with that, too. If you start to treat things like an eye roll and you just ignore it, and then all of a sudden, a year later, you realize, ‘Oh no, those were cries for help. I shouldn’t have been rolling my eyes,’ there’s sort of a sense of responsibility and a sense of, I don’t know, shame that comes along with that.”

So looking ahead to what Colter and Russell’s relationship will be like the next time they cross paths, “It’s trying to get up to speed and make sure that everyone’s up to speed and that I have all the information that he has and that it jives,” says Hartley. “What’s the truth here? What actually happened? Were we both being lied to or was I being lied to? Were you in on the lie? What are you protecting me from? Because Colter’s not lying. The audience knows what Colter knows, but the question is, if the siblings know more than he does, why? What’s the point of protecting him? Are they talking to each other or are we all just kind of in the dark here? Colter is the one that is pursuing this, and everyone else is like, well, just let it go, who cares? It’s dangerous. It’s not worth it. Nothing can change the past. But that’s just not the way that Colter operates.”

[stoneheart-paramour]

take a shot every time paramour tinkers with the timeline/scenes in hiveword

[you are admitted to the ER with acute alcohol poisoning]

i just remembered a few lil things i needed to add, and also realized one of the scenes was redundant due to some other tinkering i did earlier, so i did something else with it. y'know, i used to think that writing a book/story meant having the ENTIRE plot, start to end, set in stone already. like, you didn't start until it was, and then you never strayed from that outline. now it probably does work that way for plenty of writers, but i'm finding that as i go, i often realize something or other would flow better in a slightly different configuration.

when i wrote Autumn Wanderer, i actually don't entirely remember HOW i approached it, if i had a rough timeline all laid out to follow. i did have all the key events worked out and i knew the order they happened, but if i remember correctly, i didn't make a tidy bullet point list of each scene moment-to-moment, i just sorta wrote in the general direction of where the plot was supposed to go.

it's sorta interesting to me now, because i rarely write that way anymore. i can't remember when i actually started doing this - a few years ago, perhaps? - but creating a skeleton of the story/scene from start to finish helps me keep focused on what i'm trying to achieve, and it makes sure i hit all the notes i intended to. yet, i still go "off script" sometimes, following the flow of the scene where it feels most natural. maybe it's just that a bit of structure and spontaneity is the ideal approach for me; who can say.

and so on a larger scale, the chapters, it's kinda the same thing; i've got the "script" as i originally jotted it down, but then as i'm moving through each, i sometimes realize that something should probably happen sooner, or later, or even not at all, or i realize something ought to happen first, that two scenes/chapters need some kind of buffer event(s) between them; it's interesting.

on the whole, none of the broad strokes are changing, i'm still largely following the "script", but it's a lot more fluid, more malleable, than i realized it could or should be. the further along i get, the less solid the script is (well not for a long while yet, but still) but i wonder if it'll tighten up as i go along. i sorta visualize it like a braid or rope; something twisted together from lots of strands. all the plot threads coming together to form the narrative... at the start, it's tight and neat, but towards the end it becomes looser, then maybe a little messy, or tangled in places, and eventually you get to the part where all the threads are completely unincorporated, just waiting for their turn.

when i started writing Autumn Wanderer, i already knew exactly how it ended. not so with this story, at least not yet. i have ideas of course, i know the gist of the conclusion i hope to achieve, but i don't have a clear, neatly organized series events that lead to "THE END" like i do for most everything else. i am of course working towards finalizing all this stuff, but if someone asked me, "so how does it all end?" all i could really say is, "happily ever after" - which is SO corny but idc. happiness is the point. joy is the point. an end to suffering and pain, at least for the characters, has always been the intended conclusion. not that it's going to be perfect and unspoiled of course, but it doesn't need to be. coming to terms with the rough edges of life we can't ever hope to sand down is as important as anything else we gotta do to survive and thrive. but, i digress. the precise final steps to everyone getting to this point aren't known to me yet, but i'll get there when they do lol.

[workofheart]

extra help | gojo satoru

what’s a teacher to do when his student is building up so much cursed energy? help her get it under control, of course.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

wc: 4.7k

warnings: smut, 18+ (minors dni), teacher/student relations (reader is of age), fingering, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, sir kink, unprotected sex (do not do this), lowkey corruption, squirting, exhibitionism (?), creampie, gojo refers to himself as “teacher” because i said so

note: barely edited, something to ease the brainrot. gojo satoru hollow me challenge. 

“Can you maybe, I don’t know, shut the fuck up?”

The jab spews out of your mouth before you can stop it. Your filter is long gone, the thoughts that pop into your head forming into verbal words without the chance to even process them. Once you hear it, you mentally slap yourself. Now you just look like an asshole.

“Jeez, no need to be a bitch about it,” mutters Nobara. She rests on the concrete steps on her elbows, appearing utterly disinterested with her head tossed back and eyes closed, soaking in the fresh air.

“I’m not being a bitch.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!”

“You kind of are,” Megumi says quietly, shrugging slightly when your incredulous expression finds his to be stoic and unmoving. He leans down to scratch behind one of his dog’s ears. His nonchalance boils your blood even further, effectively working you up past your melting point. A bitter laugh leaves your mouth.

“...You motherfucker-”

“Good morning, everybody!”

You sigh, lips hanging open with the rest of your insult frozen where it was interrupted. From over the small hill behind you, Gojo Satoru greets everyone with a bright energy you aren’t capable of returning this early in the day. 

You try your best to shake it off. The other students wave back happily as you sulk, aimlessly stretching your arms over your head in an attempt to push out the thousand things running through your mind, not one of which you’re capable of dealing with.

And maybe it is a good morning - the sun is out, the air is cool, there’s not a breeze passing by to mess up your hair. It’s a lovely day to be training. Megumi has been walking his dogs around the field, Yuuji has been racing himself from one end to the other, meanwhile the others take turns sparring. The springtime weather is rewarding, which is why it’s such a shame you can’t enjoy it.

Gojo reaches up a hand to lift one side of his blindfold. Though he’s standing all the way over on the steps, you can see his eyes clearly, crystalline blue and staring with scrutiny. The man leans forward into his gaze, and the way he’s inspecting you soon irritates you further.

“What’s with all the cursed energy?” he asks, letting his blindfold fall over his eye again. 

Yuuji perks up at the comment from where he’s been sitting after his run, pulling out blades of grass between his fingertips. “So it’s not just me?” he pipes up, pushing himself up to his feet. He seems relieved, turning his attention to you. “I thought maybe you just had a bad day but it seems like it’s seeping off you all the time now.”

Your lips press into a thin line as your eyelids droop in annoyance, trying to think up a reasonable answer quick. Unfortunately, you don’t get the time to do so.

“I don’t need to see it to feel it,” Maki adds. She finishes tying up her laces, objectivity unmoving with the deadpan spreading across your features. Your jaw tenses. “Didn’t want to say anything in case it would make you angrier.”

“Too late!” you snap, huffing as you place your arms over your chest. The number of eyes on you has your cheeks burning, and paired with your current vexation, makes you feel even worse.

“Well, what are you angry about?” Yuuji asks. 

“I’m not angry about anything.”

“That sounds a little defensive,” Gojo comments.

“You seem frustrated, that’s all.” Yuuji looks at you with a genuine curiosity that makes it hard to be mad at him. His doe eyes couldn’t possibly imagine what the real issue at hand is.

“Yeah, she’s frustrated all right,”  Nobara juts in. Her tone is whiney and annoyed, and you hope the glare you send her will shut her up, but she acts as if she doesn’t see it, only looking down at her nails in distaste. Then comes the zinger. “It’s because she hasn’t gotten laid in months.”

“That is not true!” you yell, but the obvious rage bubbling out of you gives it away. 

“Cursed energy can build from that?”

“It would explain a lot.”

“That sounds definitely defensive.”

“Shut up!” you shout, throwing your hands over your face to hide your cheeks burning in embarrassment. Then you’re sitting back on the field, hanging your head low over your knees. Quietly, you mutter, “You promised you wouldn’t say anything.”

☆☆☆

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

The walk here had been nerve wracking enough. Your heart had been stuck in your throat since the track this morning, if not from the sheer embarrassment of Nobara telling everyone you were sexually frustrated, then surely from the way Gojo had asked you to meet with him later in an old classroom rather seriously before walking off.

It scared you half to death upon hearing it, and just thinking about it scared the other half, so you’re hanging on by the thinnest of threads. The others comments hadn’t helped either, teasing about the frightening methods he’d use to dispel the energy, or how he’d berate you for being so stupid, or whatever else the maniac of a man had to offer.

Gojo leans back lazily in his chair, long legs thrown over the desk for his comfort and leisure. He stretches, letting out a satisfied groan with his arms straightened behind his head as you close the door behind you. 

“About time you got here. Been waiting forever.”

The lights are off, but evening sun pours in through the wall of windows that look out over the courtyard to brighten the room. He tosses a small apple plush above him with a smooth flick of his wrist, catching it on its down arc with ease. It looks like a marble with how it sits in his massive palms.

“Well, this wing is on the other side of campus,” you swallow, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. That reminds you...“Why are we this far, anyway?”

He sighs, placing the toy back down at the top of his desk and resting his chin on his palm. You can feel his eyes on you through his blindfold. “To solve your problem, of course.”

“My… my problem? No, I don’t have any problems,” you say with a shake of your head as genuine as you can muster, a nervous smile flashing across your expression as he stands. His hand trails along the desk as he moves around it. When you get the feeling he doesn’t believe you, you start again, “If it’s about what Nobara said, it’s really no big deal-” 

“While you’re a talented sorcerer, you’re not a very good liar.” He comes to a stop in front of you, towering over your small frame. His head is turned down toward you but you refrain from making eye contact. Trying to maintain your composure, you look straight into his chest and then avert your eyes to the sid, looking anywhere else in the room but him - the chalkboard, the windows, the posters on the wall - that is, until he takes your chin in his hand and tugs your face up to look at him directly.

He’s taken off his blindfold, the black cloth crumpled in his palm and already tossed to the floor.

The way you’re staring at him, that desire that lies just below the fear, has his dick tenting in his pants. When he focuses, he can see the cursed energy radiating from your body, dark and cloudy as it surrounds you. “Yuuji’s right, it’s practically seeping from you,” he coos, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

He drinks in your apprehension with a sadistic sort of delight, and you don’t miss the feel of his eyes as they trace down your body. “My student is struggling,” he says tenderly, tapping his index finger along your cheek lightly. “What kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t help?” 

He eats up the way you look at him, swept away and hazy, your brain turning to mush at the sound of his voice. Heat pools in your panties, and the subtle manner in which your thighs shift against each other is not lost on him.

The tension in the air is electrifying. Leaning down to your ear, he says what’s been on his mind for weeks. “Don’t think I can’t hear you at night, touching yourself, trying so hard to make it go away on your own.”

His words leave your throat dry and stomach churning. Your face burns, thinking of him listening to your pitiful attempts to get off. Clearly, the sleepless nights of trying to cum, letting slip the small whimpers you couldn’t care to hold back, hands buried in your panties and writhing in your bed sheets, were no secret to anyone but you.

You’re almost mortified. You would be, if it wasn’t for your hot teacher standing in front of you, smiling as he remembers how pretty you sounded, offering to fuck the shit out of you to sate your frustration.

And god, just how pretty you sound. He’d never admit it sober, but the times he’s taken “random” late night walks around the buildings that have ended up at the outside of your bedroom door are far too many to count. Palming himself through his trousers, panting as he pictures you just through the slab of wood exactly how he plans on having you now.

“I...I don’t know if we should be doing this,” you mumble in a moment of clarity, gaze flickering to the window in the door that lets you see into the empty hallway just outside. Swallowing hard, scenarios of your classmates walking by, peering through, clouds your head. “What if someone…”

“They’re on the other side of campus, remember?” he teases. His fingers slide back along your jaw, brushing your hair from your forehead before settling to cup the side of your face. “You can make all the noise you want out here.”

Heat spreads through your core and inner thighs accompanied by a visible shiver, a pleased grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The proximity alone is making you wet. His presence is overwhelming with the unimaginable power he holds over you.

His neck tilts down to reach you, hovering with his lips not a breath away from yours. Gojo waits. Tentative, you press your mouth to his and your eyes flutter shut, feeling him smile as his hands make contact with your hips. He’s gentle and slow, his lips pillowy and soft against yours, moving carefully as if not to scare you away.

He muffles a timid whimper with his mouth and takes the lead, kissing you harder and pulling you into a firm lip lock before spinning you around and walking you backwards toward the desk. Hesitant hands reach up to his shoulders, something Gojo senses immediately, shy hands working up the confidence to splay over his broad shoulders. He knows you so well by now - there’s a reason you’re his favorite student.

“Let me help, princess,” he insists, breaking away to quell your uncertainty. “You know I’m the only one who can.” Gojo’s voice is hypnotizing, his promises filling your head with a desiring haze.

Your tiny, timid fingers hanging around his neck, crawling up his nape as if searching for safety, have him reeling. He might just devour you, so cute and innocent and willing in front of him.

You’re melting into his touch as his hands squeeze your hips, rubbing up your sides until they lay a firm grasp on your hips, sitting you fully on the desk. His touch is teasing and featherlight as he drags it up your calves, hiking up your skirt to get where he wants to be, situated right between your thighs.

“None of the other guys fuck you the way you need to be fucked, right?”

He may be cocky, but it’s for good reason.

Gojo Satoru is older, he’s experienced, he knows what he’s doing. He knows you, in fact, more than you think. Don’t be fooled - he sees you sneaking off campus, sees the texts you send to the boys in the nearest town, overhears how you talk to them over the phone when you think no one is listening. He also sees how disappointed you look every time you return from one of your escapades. 

You’re mature for your age, but no one is willing to fuck you like it. Except him, of course.

A large hand cradles the back of your head to keep kissing you. His mouth is ravishing, absolutely eating up the feeble mewls that escape you. Deft fingers unbutton your uniform with ease and slip it down your shoulders to reveal your chest as if he’s done it a thousand times.

He moves to unclasp your bra, but is surprised to meet your bare skin. He pulls back from your mouth to meet your eyes, and you already know what he’s thinking with the way he looks down at you, head tilted back with a dark mirth.

“No bra?” he inquires, rolling your perky buds between his fingers, and your lack of verbal response, that guilt in the slight raise of your eyebrows, tells him everything he needs to know. “Naughty girl. Makes me think you were expecting this.” He makes you purr like a kitten, free hand kneading at your chest, coaxing out sweet little noises that make his dick throb in his pants. 

You inhale sharply at a particular tweak of your nipple that has your body tingling, arching into him. “Sir, I-” 

His mouth is on your neck, sucking on that sensitive spot below your ear, just next to your jaw. The feel of his teeth gently scraping down sends chills through your shoulders and down your back, subconsciously tilting your head to the side and exposing more to him, inviting him to your body even further.

“It’s okay, you can tell me how bad you need my cock,” he says against your skin.

Your body flushes hot beneath him. A hand cups your clothed core. The friction has your hips lifting in desperate motions for more, pushing against his fingers for some kind of relief.

“Poor thing, too horny for your own good,” he says, peering down at you. He tugs at the tiny, delicate bow sewn into the lace band of your panties, a smug expression passing over his features. “But don’t worry, teacher’s here to make you feel better.”

He hooks his pointer finger underneath the center of your panties and pulls it up, forcing the fabric taught against your slit between your folds, urging a cry to fall from your lips. You’re absolutely aching for more, pussy desperate for contact as your hips buck. His opposite thumb goes straight to your swollen clit where it bulges through the thin cotton, reducing you to whines as he applies light pressure. 

“So sensitive,” he says with a teasing lilt in his tone, caught between looking at your pussy and your dazed expression. “You want my fingers?”

He knows he’s supposed to be helping you, but he can’t stop himself with how cute you look like this. He’s already thinking of just how far he can push you, just what he can get you to admit to him.

“Yes, please,” you’re begging, pulling your lips under your teeth, and how can he say no? He has no other choice but to indulge you.

He pulls your panties to the side and finally, his long, thick fingers sink inside you without warning, pushing a lewd moan from your throat.

He groans at the way you pulse around his digits. Your walls suck him right in. “Fuck, look at your pretty little cunt. Feels good, huh?”

Your mouth falls open as you nod, staring at him through half-mast, glassy eyes. Light amusement covers his face as he works your walls diligently, curling up and massaging that spongy spot he knows you like from the sounds you’re making.

“Yeah, I know it does. Need it so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes, ah, need it so much,” you whine. At this point, you’d follow his every command, answer his every question, if it means he’ll keep doing what he’s doing. He connects his lips to yours again, swallowing up the noises that leave your throat, before moving down. He trails his mouth over your sensitive, flushed skin, burning to the touch as he leaves harsh, bruising marks behind. He’s kneeling down and throwing your legs over his shoulders without hesitation.

He has you desperate and shameless with how he’s making you feel. It doesn’t matter that he’s your teacher, it doesn’t matter that you’ll have to face him in class after the fact, all that matters is how hot and aching your core is, how bad you need him there to fix it. “More, sir, p-please.”

He groans at the name you’ve given him, that you’re addressing him by so earnestly. He never even asked you to, so when it spills out of your mouth so submissively, he can’t help the way it goes straight to his cock. “So polite, aren’t you? Let me hear you, be specific.” 

His fingers leave you clenching around nothing as he pulls them out of you, watching the string of slick stretch until it breaks. He slips them right into his mouth, licking your arousal off of his fingers, humming in delight. 

You’re fixated on his glossy, wet lips, entranced by the slight smile to his words. “Please, your mouth,” you plead breathlessly through a gulp. 

He presses a chaste kiss to the plush of your thigh, eyes flicking up to meet yours. His lips ghost over the tops of your knee socks and nip at the slight pudge that squeezes out.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he murmurs. Then, he’s diving in, latching his warm, wet mouth onto your pussy. You feel yourself gush under his lips as his tongue laves harsh strokes against your entrance. He has you quivering, your hips moving on their own accord over his face.

You squirm under his relentless tongue, swiping through your slick and spreading it all over your inner thighs. He laps at your fluttering hole before suckling your clit into his mouth, hot tongue flicking over it before releasing with a playful pop.

He thrives off of the whimpers leaving your mouth. A loud moan tears from you as his fingers plunge into you again, hands shooting to his snowy locks to ground yourself. You’re throwing your head back, keening in the firm grip he has pushing back your leg, his tongue swiping at you expertly while the pads of his fingers curl up into the spot you need him at, keeping his head pressed tight to your drooling cunt.

Pointed flicks of his tongue target your clit, puffy and sensitive, and you can’t help the way your hips buck up for more, babbling nonsense. His firm muscle prods at your hole before flattening and licking wide and short strokes up your folds.

“Aw, you wanna cum, don’t you? Gonna cum for me like a good girl?”

You only have the strength to nod, eyes squeezing shut and your lips parted in choked breaths.

“Look at me,” he commands sternly, and your lids are prying open immediately, struggling to keep your gaze on him with the pleasure he’s relentlessly forcing on your body. His plump lips are lustrous with your arousal. “Go ahead. Cum.”

His eyes bore into you as your face contorts, body tensing all over as you tip over the edge. That coil in your stomach which Gojo has so masterfully built snaps like a rubber band, shattering your mind as pleasure ripples through your body. You’re still as your release surges through you, making him moan against your pussy.

“That’s it, there you go,” he says with a growl as you take your first breath after the inhibiting pleasure fades, eyes darkening as he watches you, keeping pressure on your nub with his thumb, smooth strokes working you through your high. 

He carefully helps you drop to your feet, rubbing soothing circles into your hips, planting kisses to your temples before spinning you around to face the desk. You’re wobbly, but it’s nothing he can’t compensate for with his natural strength.

“Gonna take such good care of you,” he mumbles, large hands exploring the expanse of your back. He pushes you down, gentle fingers trailing up your spine until they find their hold on your hips like they were meant to be, loving how pliant you are beneath him.

The anticipation has you dripping, heart pounding as he flips up your skirt again, pussy aching to be filled. You hear the tugging of his trousers down to the floor, and a hefty exhale as he gives himself a few strokes in his palm.

His cock, hot and heavy and hard, presses into you slowly. You feel his girth immediately, cunt stretching deliciously to accommodate his size. It’s instant relief, finally the pleasure you’ve been desperate for, a drug you have to be careful of or you might just get addicted.

“Fuck,” he groans lowly, “So fuckin’ tight for me.”

You’re stuffed to the brim, focusing on how full you are, his fingers massaging the flesh of your ass as he gives you a moment to adjust. He feels his self-restraint thinning as you squeeze him. He’s gonna make you drool for him, make his cute innocent student into his little whore, make sure teacher’s the only one who touches you like this.

At first, his pace is slow and steady, sensual pumps that expertly drag against your gummy walls. You can feel his tip spreading you open, every burning curve and vein and ridge of his head as your pussy molds to him. But once your legs start shifting back for more, he speeds up the rocking of his hips, fucking you brainless on his cock. 

“How we feeling, princess?” he pants. He’s the only thing you can think about, mind scrambled from the white hot feel of being fucked so well.

He doesn’t have to ask to know - the string of heedless whimpers that you make are evidence enough, on top of the obscene squelches that echo every time he pounds into your sopping cunt. He pulls your wrists back from where they cling to the desk, white knuckled, to your sides. A strong arm snakes around your front, pinning your arms and waist close to his chest, caging you in while the other seeks purchase on your breast.

“F-Fuck, I- ah - so good, sir,” you sob, feeling your brain blank with the way his grip moves up to your neck, expertly pushing into the sides to cut off your blood flow. It’s dizzying, your pussy tightening around him for more.

And then he stops.

You’re about to whine, your walls fluttering around him, begging him to move, when his hand reaches to cover your mouth. He shushes you gently, snapping quietly towards the door. 

Someone is calling your name outside. “Hellooo? Hey Y/N, you over here?” It’s Yuuji, pacing the upper floor, walking straight down the hall and soon to pass the very door.

Your heart jolts in panic - why would he come looking for you? Why would anyone? The whole point of being out here was so that no one would come, right?

“Sorry to go back on my word, princess,” Gojo whispers. A wave of his hand creates a small masking barrier in front of the window, but it does nothing to hide the sound. “Gonna have to keep quiet for me. Can you do that?”

You nod your head, wiggling back against his hips pressed hard and unmoving to your ass. He pulls out slow and thrusts back, mindful of the noise of contact. It takes all your focus to bite back your moans.

“Don’t want your classmates seeing how slutty you are for a good fuck, do you? What if they walked in, saw you like this on your teacher’s cock?”

The thought has your hole constricting his length. You can already envision Yuuji’s shocked expression as he stares you down, his respected senior, nothing more than a babbling mess as Gojo Satoru fucks you raw in an empty classroom. The man behind you holds back a laugh.

The footsteps pass without the hint of something much filthier than extra help transpiring beyond the thin walls. You think you might have even seen a tuft of pink hair whizz by in the corner of your vision - whatever the matter, he’s gone, and you can finally catch your breath.

“Dirty girl,” Gojo rasps from behind you, slamming into you roughly, a sinister smile tugging at the corners of his lips while his fingers force themselves into your mouth, “you - hah - you fucking love it.” 

That spring in the base of your tummy starts to coil taut, rising faster than ever. “Love it,” you choke, stimulated tears forming at your lash line, “love it so much!”

His pace is relentless, your slick gushing all around him. He’s building you up just to break you down, the only one who can help you take the edge off.

“Tell me what you want,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’ll give it to you.”

Holding you tight to his chest with locked arms, he completely covers your body with his tall stature, inescapable and confining.

“Fuck, wanna - wanna cum so bad, so bad, sir.”

His large hand trails its way over your waist, soft fingers moving down, down, until they slip right over that little sensitive bundle at your front, cool and wet, that has your breath catching audibly in your throat. 

Gojo places his mouth just behind your ear, tone soft and sultry. The pad of his index finger rubs firm circles over your swollen, aching clit. It elicits a filthy sound from you that makes his cock twitch inside you. “Right there, huh?” He feels you clench as your legs tremble beneath him.

Your climax crashes over you in hot, unforgiving waves, tightening your walls and creaming all over every inch of his length. “Come on, give it all to teacher,” he encourages through heavy pants, making your skin prickle, and it’s just what you need. A chorus of loud, high pitched, breathless moans tumbles from your mouth as you ride it out. 

You’re drenching his fingers, making a mess as your squirt drips down and coats his cock, making him growl into your hair. He coaches you through it, stringing out his praises, “Just like that, mhm, good girl.”

His eyes fall shut as your cunt suffocates his cock, feeling his hips stutter as you suck him in. With a guttural, hungry groan, he’s burying his load in your waiting hole. He snaps against you once, twice more, hard and quick as he starts to come down.

A moment passes to catch your breaths, heartbeats beginning to slow in tandem. Gojo nuzzles his face into the back of your neck and sighs before placing an affectionate kiss there. 

Your legs are jelly beneath you so he’s careful when he releases his grasp, slowly turning you around to face him and sit back on the desk. 

“You alright?” he asks, wiping away the wetness under your eyes.

It’s safe to say that you’re relieved, in more ways than one. Your shoulders feel lighter and as does your chest, like everything you’ve been shackled to has been lifted off with a good fuck.

“Yeah, much better.” There’s a tired grin to your words.

He wipes away the sheen of sweat that has collected on his hairline and reaches over you to grab a few tissues off the desk. He’s gentle as he cleans you up, dabbing up sweat and cum from where it drips down your thighs. 

“You should get some rest. I’ll get you out of class tomorrow morning if you need it. Make up an excuse or something.” He pulls up his own trousers and helps you button up your top again, then lowering you back to the floor so you can be on your way.

“Let me know if you ever need any more assistance,” he winks, patting the top of your head. He smooths down a few stray hairs, putting you back together in at least a somewhat presentable way. “My help is always available to students that need it.”

Because while all that cursed energy may be under control, your relations are far from over. 

[missjoolee]

Can You Hear Them on the Breeze, Those Souls That Rock Amongst the Trees

2.4k words, Urban Legend AU  (Special shoutout to my gal @story-courty​ who helped me find the end)

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

An urban legend that exists in Los Feliz is the Hawke Park Band. If you go to the park's amphitheater after the park has closed at 10:30pm, there is a chance you might hear music.  It's always rock, and there is no explanation for it. Countless people have crawled every inch of that space, unable to locate any speakers that could explain the phenomenon. Julie grew up with this myth. Hawke Park is haunted. She believed it firmly as a kid, but now as a teen, she knows that ghosts don't exist. Probably. Because if they did, wouldn't her mom... No, they don't exist. The other part of the legend is that any musician that hears this music goes on to have a successful career in music. It's this part that started the tradition of Los Feliz High's music program students sneaking in right before summer ends each year, to hopefully hear the music that could make their dreams come true.

If one wanted to look at the conspiracy forums (which Julie did not, but Flynn did), they would see that the only record of any of the songs heard at Hawke is the forums dedicated to this particular Urban Legend. It's like the songs don't exist outside that space. There are threads dedicated to each song heard. Most of the discussion in those threads is about how each person remembers something different about it. Like a dream, they grasp onto one little bit and the rest escapes, leaving them only with how it made them feel. But that is the one thing everyone who has ever claimed to hear the band agree on. They feel uplifted and not alone. So moved by what they hear they went in search of others that shared the experience.

Julie was supposed to go to the park the summer after she turned 15, but that's when Rose's diagnoses happened and sneaking into the park wasn't a priority. Her mom passed away six months later and so the summer of her 16th birthday, she was no longer sure about music still being her dream. The summer after he 17th birthday, time has made thinking about music easier, but she still isn't confident she can do it without her mom. Flynn, having gone to the park with some of the other music program students two years before, decides that this is the perfect way to look for a sign. If they hear music at the park, and Julie is still unsure after, then she will drop it and let Julie continue exploring other passions. Julie doesn't believe in the Hawke Park Band anymore. And the lack of music the time Flynn went before has her raising her eyebrow at Flynn's insistence.

"Maybe I wasn't meant to make music with those other kids," she said when Julie pointed this out. "Maybe if we hear the music together, that means that you should give Double Trouble a second chance! Think of it, Jules!"

Julie laughed at Flynn's antics but ultimately caved, humoring her friend’s whims. Which is how she found herself crawling through a hole in the fence of Hawke Park after 11pm on a warm summer night.

They quickly get off the grass and find the path that leads towards the small amphitheater deep into the wooded area. Once they are about 50 feet past the edge of the trees, the low beat of music can be barely heard. Flynn turns to her with a grin, her pace quickening along the path. The closer they get, the more she can pick out the notes from the guitar and the rich tenor of a voice. The music settles into her bones in a way it hasn't in a long time, making it feel like she's surrounded by fireflies. She'll give it to Flynn, the atmosphere here is magical feeling. Filled to the brim with potential.

There is light up ahead, peeking through the branches as the path begins to climb. When they crest the hill, she's flooded with disappointment. Some teenage boys have snuck in to play. Camping lanterns are set up around them, lighting up the stage they are playing on.

Her disappointment at the lack of ghosts or anything haunted is short lived, however, because these boys are cute and the guitarist has noticed them and his smile is perfect. They make eye contact and Julie can't look away even as his smile shifts from elation to...something else the longer their gaze holds.

As the song comes to an end, he grabs the attention of his bandmates and nods in the girls direction.

She turns to Flynn with a grin, admitting, "This band is pretty good. Too bad it's not actually ghosts."

Flynn's brow dips in confusion. "What are you talking about?”

"Uh, the band that is obviously standing there?" She gestures aggressively at the stage.

"Jules, there's nobody there."

What? Is Flynn playing a prank on her?

"Real funny. Who are the guys?"

She hears a "whoop" come from the stage and then the guitarist shouts, "I knew it!"

She barely turns her head in time to see the bassist disappear before immediately reappearing in front of her and, okay. Maybe this isn't a prank, but also, NOT. COOL. A scream rips from her throat as she takes off running back the way they came.

"JULIE!" Flynn shouts as she races behind her. "What is going on?"

Julie continues her sprint, only taking a breath to shout "RUN!". She doesn't make it much further when the guitarist, guitar slung behind him, appears in the middle of the path in front of her. Her shoes skid to a halt but Flynn apparently didn't have the same reservations about running into ghosts that Julie had because she wasn't expecting Julie's abrupt stop and crashed right into her, bringing them both down to the ground.

"Ow. That looked like it hurt." The drummer appears next to the guitarist.

"It did," Julie groans, sitting up clutching her head where it had made contact with the ground.

"Uh, Luke. Did that lifer just respond to me?" he asks the guitarist."

Yeah, bro. She did!" is his excited answer.

"What the hell, Julie." Flynn slowly rolls into a sitting position. "First you take off running, no warning, then you slam on the brakes, no warning. What is going on? Who are you talking to?"

"You really don't see them?"

"That's how ghosts normally work." the drummer chimes in.

"Jules, you're worrying me. There's nobody else here." Flynn puts a hand on Julie's arm.

"I think I'm seeing the ghosts of the Hawke Park Band. But there's no such thing as ghosts." Her face falls into her hands. 

The bassist pops up next to Julie, making her flinch away. "Actually, our name is Sunset Curve. Tell your friend...s. I've never even heard of this Hawke Park Band," He says with a bright smile.

"That's not...." the blonde starts, staring at his bandmate. Seeing the bright smile seems to change his mind. "Okay." He turns back to Julie. "You aren't hallucinating. We really are ghosts. And you can somehow see us. What kind of lifer are you?"

"Does it matter? Guys, she can see us. Do you realize how dope that is?" the guitarist, Luke, says enthusiastically.

"This isn't happening." Julie begins rubbing her temples. "There aren't cute ghosts talking to me, because there's no such thing as ghosts."

"Aww, you think we're cute?" the Bassist pipes in.

Flynn places her other hand on Julie's knee, helping to ground her. She softly says, "They're talking to you?"

"Flynn, I swear I'm not crazy!"

"I mean, we're all a little crazy."

"Shut uuuuuuuuup." she groans while shoving her face in her hands again.

"What are they saying?" Flynn asks, zero judgment in her tone.

"They told me their name is Sunset Swerve--"

"Sunset Curve!!" Three voices exclaim.

"Sorry, Sunset Curve," she corrects sarcastically.

Flynn's phone is in her hands in a blink and her fingers dance lightning fast across the screen. Her eyes widen.

"Whoa, they are cute."

"Wait, they exist?!" She leans over Flynn's shoulder to see her phone pulled up on an article featuring a picture of four boys and a headline ‘Hollywood Tragedy’. Three of the boys were the same ones standing around them now. She points at the picture. "I can see these three, but where is the fourth?"

"That's Bobby. He didn't die with us." interjects the Bassist.

"This article says only Luke, Reggie, and Alex died. It doesn't say what happened to the fourth," Flynn also answers. Each of the boys wave at her when Flynn reads off their name.

"This is crazy, Flynn." Julie looks at her friend. who looks back at her.

"Are you forgetting, I love crazy. Do they have anythings else they can play? It's one way to see if you've really lost your marbles."

"YES!" cries Luke. "Yes! Please come back and let us play for an actual audience that can see us for once. Please."

Reggie and Alex nod in agreement. "it would be nice for a change to be seen."

Julie can't believe she's even entertaining the idea, but... it's not the worst way to prove she's not crazy.

"Okay, fine. ONE song," she stresses.

She gets to her feet and grabs Flynn's hand to help her up. The guys poof, disappear, as the girls turn back up the trail to head back to the amphitheater.

Once they've both settled onto a spot about eye level with the stage, Julie turns to see the guys politely, if bouncily, waiting to start.

"Alright, go ahead," she says.

The guys turn to each other, a nod is exchanged between them, and then they start. Julie is engulfed with melancholy as the riff brings her back to rocking out with her mom in the car. They'd loved this song. But wait, didn't Flynn say that they never played songs people knew? Must have been inaccurate.

They find themselves bobbing their heads to the music, Julie watching the guys perform, and Flynn closing her eyes since she can't see them. When the chorus starts, Julie can't help but sing along. The guys look at her in confusion but keep on playing until suddenly Flynn is clutching at Julie's arm, exclaiming, "Jules, I can see them!"

What is happening?

"Flynn, what?"

The guys have stopped playing, Luke disappearing and reappearing in front of her the same way Reggie did earlier. Flynn yelps, and Julie jumps, at the sudden appearance in front of them.

"How can you see them?"

"How do you know this song?"

Luke and Julie ask the questions at the same time.

Flynn is staring at Luke but then her eyes start jumping around. "Where'd he go?!"

Julie looks at Luke, then back at Flynn. "He's still right there."

Luke's attention bounces to Flynn, Reggie and Alex appearing next to him. "She could see us?"

"Wait, what?" Alex's strangled voice starts rising in pitch.

"He is?" Flynn deflates.

"Yeah. Reggie and Alex have joined him too. How could you see them?"

"I- I don't know. I had closed my eyes to listen because I couldn't see them, but when I heard you singing along, I opened them and there they were." She looks around, trying to find them again and sighs when she can't. "Loved Reggie's studded jacket, by the way."

"Awe. Thanks!"

"Can we be seen if people sing along with us? What the hell?"

Luke has focused back on Julie. "Julie... how do you know that song?"

And that's a ridiculous question.

"What are you talking about? It's a classic Trevor Wilson song. My mom and I rocked out to that all the time."

"No, it's a classic Sunset Curve song," Reggie responds. "Never even heard of Trevor Wilson."

"They've never heard off Trevor Wilson? Where do these ghosts live? Under rocks?" Flynn asks incredulously.

"I wrote that song before we died. Nobody knew about that song!" Luke's voice rises in vehemence.

Julie pulls her phone out and googles Trevor Wilson. "He released it in '97. That first album was really good. His newer stuff isn't really my style, though." She turns the phone to them.

"That no good vegetarian. That's Bobby."

"No, that's Trevor Wilson," Julie corrects. "I've known him my whole life, used to be friends with his daughter."

"Then he changed his name. That's definitely Bobby, but older. Ugh, he's a dad? Its been that long?" Alex's nose wrinkles in distaste.

Luke looks murderous. "Did he even give writing credits?"

Julie shakes her head. "Not that I'm aware of."

"That prick!"

"What's going on?" Flynn touches her shoulder, this time to get her attention. "Do they know why I could see them?"

Julie watches as the guys share a look that holds a whole conversation in it. Luke's eyes turn imploring, before Reggie says out loud, "Dude, it's waited this long. We have a whole bag of tricks up our sleeve, if we plan it out, it could be the best prank ever pulled!"

She uses this time to update Flynn at a whisper.

"You're right," Luke sighs. "Let's figure out why Flynn could see us. We can scare Bobby into peeing his pants later."

"Maaaaaybe we should make sure he's actually done anything wrong first. Hey Julie, would you be open to helping us with this?" Alex asks. "Its not like we can just go to the library and use the computers. Ghosts can't get library cards."

"Yeah! Let's see if we can make Flynn see us again right now!" Reggie's enthusiasm has come back full force.

"Actually," Julie starts, seeing the time on her phone. "We have to leave. Curfew."

The guys visibly dim at that.

She glances over at Flynn. She can't believe she's even asking this. "Do you think Mrs. H would be cool if we use one of the practice rooms tomorrow?"

Flynn's eyes bug out for just a second before she reigns in her surprise. "For you? Definitely. What are we doing?"

Julie looks at all four of them. "Meet us at Los Feliz High School, tomorrow at 3. We can figure out how to make you guys seen, as well as find any information you want about Trevor."

[averagejoesolomon]

Oh. Oh no. Oh, gang. None of us were ready for this one. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3.

Chapter Nine

Spies are supposed to notice things. Matt knows this for the same reason he knows anything worthwhile—because Joe Solomon told him so. 

And with the way Joe says it, spies are supposed to notice everything. Every twitch of a finger, every lilt in a voice. Every noise, every movement, every silence. As far as Joe’s concerned, the world is alive, and those who fail to notice its every breath are destined to end up dead. 

But it’s Matt’s privately held belief that some things just ain’t all that noticeable. Sometimes the biggest changes are the slow, steady sorta things that happen when no one’s looking. After all, an autumn chill always starts as a summer breeze. Acquaintances always seem to stumble sideways into friendship, rather than sprint toward it dead on. A fella can stare out across the same cornfield, day after day, dawn after dawn, and still be shocked when the stalks finally spring up to his knee. Sometimes, the world avoids the notice of even the most perceptive people.

This is all an awfully long-winded way of saying he’s lost eyes on Michael.

And it’d be nice if he could peg this as one of those less-than-noticeable things, but the truth of the matter is that he ought to be able to tail someone like Michael. The bigger truth is that Matt ain’t thinking straight, and he hasn’t been thinking straight since he got here, and maybe that’s the biggest change of them all. Maybe he’s finally starting to notice it.

If he has any remaining sensibility rattling through his head, it comes in the form of Joe’s voice, threaded through an earpiece. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

“Can we save the lecture for later?” says Matt. “Just get your ass down here and help me find him.”

Matt rounds a corner where black and white tile transitions to hardwood. The mansion’s floor plan is nearly complete in his mind, constructed from patches of barely-there recognition, but some pieces are still missing. There are rooms he hasn’t yet entered, hallways he hasn’t yet ventured down, and way too many goddamn corners. He hasn’t had enough time to do this right. He never has enough time, these days.

It doesn’t help that this stretch of mansion looks exactly like the rest, made up of the same brown-on-brown woods, the same exhaustively detailed molding, and the same towering windows. Gold frames line the walls and the drapery is sewn from silk. Each godforsaken hallway stretches farther than Matt’s entire childhood home and he doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

He skids to an aimless stop at the junction of one identical hall and another, a realization fast on his heels. With a stark and sudden sense of blind foolishness, recognition hits him and he knows, too late, that this is the place he should have started. It’s just how these things tend to work—he’s noticed that much.

Matt can think of nothing more damning than the sight of Michael standing just outside of Henry’s office door, one hand on the gold-plated knob and the other wrapped around a crystal clear bottle of scotch. A blue-ribbon cigar still hangs from the corner of this mouth as he pulls the door shut behind him, humming down an otherwise empty hallway. The latch clicks shut at exactly the same time Matt’s shiny new shoes scuff against walnut herringbone and Micheal glances up. Meet’s his gaze. Smiles a crooked, satisfied sort of grin. 

“Well, hey there, Georgetown,” says Michael, words caught behind the clench of his teeth. He pulls the cigar from his lips before he goes on. “Finally figured out where Henry keeps all the good whiskey, I see.”

Matt’s out of time, and he doesn’t have the patience to spare on pleasantries. “Party’s back that way, Harvard,” he says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Not much to see back here.”

Static cracks through Matt’s earpiece, with Joe just on the other side. “Do you have him?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t engage.”

Matt can feel the lack of backup in his bones. There’s an empty space at his side where Joe ought to be, but he’s just too close to back down. For the first time since they started tracking the Circle of Cavan, Matt has all the proof he needs to lock his lead into a corner. He’s been run ragged by the year it’s taken to reach this point, and he won’t let this one slip away.

Smoke twirls from the end of Michael’s cigar and scotch spirals around the edges of the decanter. He’s grinning wide, like he knows something Matt doesn’t, and suddenly Matt’s got Abby’s voice in his head all over again. I can think of at least one reason. “That’s where you and I disagree,” Michael says. “Y’see, the Jack Daniels Henry’s serving up at the bar is all well and good, but nothing can beat the Macallan the old man keeps in his office drawer.”

And there’s Joe’s voice again, talking sense where Matt’s lost all of his own. “I’m coming to you,” he says. “Do not get yourself killed before I get there.”

“He says this one is a personal gift from Scotland Yard—so you know it’s the good stuff,” Michael goes on. “You wanna sip? You won’t regret it.”

Matt’s not in the habit of taking drinks from strangers. And he’s certainly not in the habit of taking drinks from international terrorists. “I’ll settle for the Jack, thanks.”

Michael shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

As if claiming the lost opportunity for himself, Micheal brings the crystal straight to his lips and takes a generous swig. If Matt were thinking straight, he might have noticed it sooner—the lilt in Michael’s words, the sway in his shoulders, the subtle tint of red in his cheeks. Things being as they are, it takes Matt longer than it should to realize that Michael is drunk. And longer still to realize that he is very good at hiding it.

Matt’s teeth grind against a stale bruise, sending a sore pulse through his battered jaw. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

In this line of work, there are right questions and there are wrong questions. The right questions are tricky and elusive, but if a guy can pin down just the right ones, they’ll lead him toward the kind of information that saves counties, preserves democracies, and keeps all the right people alive. The wrong questions, on the other hand, usually just end in a brawl. Judging by Michael’s white-knuckled grip around the neck of the whisky, it looks like Matt’s fixing for the latter.

Michael closes the distance between them, and even though they’re the same height, he seems to loom larger than Matt. They’re on his home turf—he’s had years to learn every expansive inch of these halls and it shows in the way he walks. Familiarity forms to his gait, with nothing but comfort stitched into the shoulders of a perfectly tailored suit. When he does finally reach Matt, his gaze lingers on the crooked tie and taught buttons, as though remembering that this outfit was bought straight off the rack. “Question is,” Michael says, amber smoke tucked into his breath, “how many have you had?”

Only then does Matt realize Abby must’ve done a real number on his heart, because it seems to have shattered into a dozen different pieces. The jagged remains are scattered all across his body, taking up space in his ears, his jaw, his shoulders, his fists, his lungs, his stomach—a pulse, pounding in rampant rhythm against the rolling boil of his blood. It burns him from the inside out until every part of him is flushed and furious.

But Michael carries on. “Because, y’see,” he says, cigar embers flitting toward the floor as he pokes at Matt’s chest. “It’s a party, Georgetown. And at these parties, people usually have a drink or two—but you haven’t had anything to drink all night, have you?”

Matt swats Michael’s hand away. “Not much of a drinker.”

“By choice?” Michael asks, talking another swig. “Or by trade?”

“I reckon you already know the answer to that,” says Matt, “because a guy like you wouldn’t ask a question he doesn’t already know the answer to.”

Michael smiles again. Always smiling. “I reckon I do,” he says. “Because you and I aren’t so different, are we? So maybe we stop pretending otherwise.”

Spies are supposed to notice things, but it takes an awfully keen eye to notice Matt. He folds seamlessly into the crease of every crowd, and blends thoughtlessly into the background. He’s the sort of person who can cross the boarder from East Berlin to West Berlin without a second glance—who can walk the streets of Moscow just as naturally as he can walk the streets of DC. A fella has to look, and look hard, to spot Matt when he doesn’t want to be spotted.

He doesn’t want to linger too long on what Michael’s motivations might be. He’s been hunting the Circle long enough to know that they probably involve torture, and sacrifice, and all of the information Matt doesn’t want to give. But anyone willing to put in enough effort to tail him all evening is probably willing to put in the effort to hurt him, too.

The sound of approaching footsteps signal the backup Matt desperately needs. Bits of his shredded heart pile up in his throat until his breath gets caught in his chest, waiting for Joe to round the corner and start a fight that Matt desperately wants to finish. 

Except it ain’t Joe who stands at the other end of the hall. Of course not. Because, of course, Matt heard the sound of heels, not loafers. And he didn’t just hear one set of footsteps—he heard two.

Abby is the first to arrive, because Abby is always the first. Beautiful, agonizing Abby, who turns the entire world toward her favor with nothing more than a wink. Who barrels down the length of a hallway at the very first sign of trouble. “C’mon, boys,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re having all the fun without us.”

Rachel isn’t far behind, but she holds her place in the shadows, watching on without a word. She’s a well-placed punch waiting in the wrist, and she always times her swings to land at the most impactful moment.

At the sound of Abby’s voice, Michael takes one step back from Matt. Then two, and three. He swipes at his nose with the same hand that holds the bottle, his gestures easy and electric, like a boxer on the edge of the ring. “Just having a conversation, one man to another,” he says.

Abby lands between the two of them with the kind of graceful speed that shouldn’t be possible. “Ah, I see. Boys only. Well in that case, I’ll be on my way,” she deadpans. “Unless one of you wants to tell me what’s really going on.”

Righteous and certain, Matt offers up the facts. “He was in your father’s office,” he says. “Alone.”

The sisters are smart—smarter than Matt, and certainly smart enough to put the pieces together. Smart enough to know that Michael’s presence is evidence enough of his involvement with the break-in. Smart enough to know that this is bigger than them, and that Matt really ought to take it all from here. Matt is met with a lone moment of clarity as realization dawns across Abby’s face, and the parts of his heart still caught in his chest burst with the possibility of watching her tear straight into Michael.

But Abby turns on Matt, instead. Her voice is low and stern as she says, “I told you he wasn’t our guy.” Her eyes bounce back and forth between his own, trying to get a read, but there’s nothing there for her to latch onto. “Did I not tell you, straight to your face?”

Just like that, the night is on it’s head again. “You did, but—”

“So, what,” she says. “You didn’t believe me?”

“Of course I believe you—”

“So you just think I’m clueless?”

“I would never—”

“Those are your options, Matt,” she says. “I told you Micheal wasn’t our guy, so either you don’t trust me to be right, or you don’t trust me to tell you about it when I am.”

Matt is ten days into an eight-day trip.  He’s on leg three of a one-stop operation. He’s a full year into a mission that was supposed to be wrapped up months ago. Everything about the Circle of Cavan demands more, more, more from everyone who touches it, and there’s no way Abby can know that. Abby doesn’t even think the Circle exists. “Abby,” he says, struggling to express a sentiment that's stashed behind a bright red classified stamp. “Just—trust me when I say you’re out of your element here. I know you think you’re right, but—”

She holds up a hand, straight in his face, and the last remaining sections of his heart stretch into thin little threads that wrap tension into every muscle he has. “You’ve had a hard night,” she says, “so I’m going to forget that you said that. As far as you’re concerned, I’m right, and I’m always going to be right.”

Maybe that was the case before their dance, but it’s not going to be the case anymore. And Abby is going to have to get used to that. “And just what makes you so certain, huh?” he snaps. “What piece of infinite wisdom do you possess that makes me the fool and you the all-mighty goddess of all things covert?”

Matt’s never seen Abby’s eyes so wide. “How about the fact that I was with Michael that night,” she says. “Or is that not a tight enough alibi for you, Nebraska—?”

“Hey—hey.” Matt’s so used to hearing Joe in his ear that he doesn’t realize he’s hearing the words in person until Joe psychically shoves his way between Matt and Abby. “What the hell is going on?”

But Matt can’t help himself. The words are out now, and not even Joe can slow him down in this moment. “What were you doing with him?”

Michael, helpfully, decides that it’s his turn to jump back into the action. “Hey, control your boy, Pinstripes.”

Matt doesn’t need to see the look Joe sends over his shoulder to know it’s scary. “Now’s a good time to shut your mouth, man,” he says. “Otherwise I’m going to shut it for you.”

Michael scoffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

Joe ain’t one to leave a promise unfulfilled, even more so when that promise is actually a threat. With a challenge sparking in the air, his attention makes a quick shift from Matt to Michael, but Abby’s quicker. She steps right into his path and blocks him, her impeccable form against his scrappy swing. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

Joe practically growls against her. “Get out of my way.”

“Mmmm…no,” she says. “Don’t think I will.”

The whole ordeal is one great big mess of Matt, Michael, Abby, and Joe. They dissolve into the sort of bickering that exists primarily in schoolyards and sandboxes, but beyond it all, Matt still has a question that’s been left unanswered. “Why were you with him that night, Abby?”

“For me.”

A new voice joins the fighting—although join is a generous word. When Rachel speaks, there is no fighting left to join. Her voice is the kind of quiet meant to bring others down to her level, rather than rise to theirs. It’s the soft, certain tone of someone with something important to say, and it ignites a deep, instinctual need to listen. “She was with him that night for me,” she goes on. “To tell him that I was in town. To tell him not to come by, because I’d rather not see him. To tell him to stay away.” She looks at Abby. “Isn’t that right?”

Abby, wordless, only manages a nod.

With this, Rachel turns to Michael. “And you thought you’d just come by anyway?”

Michael blinks, and it clearly takes him a moment to realize Rachel addresses him, now. “Oh, please,” he says, spit flying with the pop of his p. “Don’t flatter yourself, Rach. All of Baltimore is at this party—you think I came to see you?”

Slowly, with all of the poise that can fit atop certainly uncertain shoulders, Rachel steps out of the shadows and straight into the flame. As she walks, her eyes flit to the bottle in Michael’s hand, then back to him. “How much have you had to drink, today?”

Right questions, and wrong questions, and wrong questions again. “You aren’t my fiancé anymore,” he snarls. “And you don’t get to care about how much I drink.”

The words roll over her, easy. “Michael, my love.” She wraps her hand around his—around the neck of the decanter, ready to relieve him of it. “It’s time for you to go home.”

There is a moment, single and fleeting, when it looks as though everything could go right. Rachel could take the whiskey and lock it back up. Abby and Joe could stand down—Abby no longer fighting for Michael and Joe no longer fighting for Matt. They could all go back to the party, and they could dance, and eat dessert, and debrief in the morning. 

But the moment Rachel tries to pull the whiskey away, Micheal decides to shove. 

What happens next, happens quickly. Maybe that’s to be expected, in a room with five intelligence agents, but it still catches Matt in a moment of unpreparedness. Rachel stumble, stumble, stumbles back. Abby holds out a hand to catch her. The decanter falls from both grips and plummets toward the hardwood.

But Joe is faster than all of them. Joe is faster than anyone Matt knows, which is how Michael gets pinned to the wall, even before the crystal shatters at their feet. 

Joe’s got the kind of grip that’s impossible to squirm out of—which is mighty handy, because Michael’s a squirmy sort of guy. He twists and thrashes on the tips of his toes as Joe steals the ground from under him. He tries to peel Joe’s hands away from the collar of his shirt, but it just ain’t worth the effort. “What the fuck?”

With a single, sideways nod toward Rachel, Joe says, “Apologize to the lady.”

If Michael wasn’t scared before, he sure as Hell is now. “Fuck you!”

Joe lifts him higher off the ground.

“Put me down. Put me down, you fucker.”

Joe shakes his head. “Not until you say the magic words.”

Something familiar finds its way to Matt, born out of a habit he wasn’t aware he’d forged. He and Joe have operated without mercy for long enough that Matt’s forgotten what it feels like. A part of him has come to enjoy watching Joe work—come to enjoy the way he makes things quick, and efficient, even if it means sacrificing decency. Maybe he’s even come to admire that part of Joe, because Matt would never have the guts to be so brash. But something about the moment feels raw and wrong now, with the sisters as their witness, and for the first time in a long time, Matt reaches a hand out to Joe. “Leave it,” he says. “He’s not worth it.”

Joe must not hear him. Or he must not care. Either way, he holds Michael steady in his bruised and blotched knuckles.

“Joe,” Matt tries again. “Drop him.”

With a bored back-and-forth of his head, Joe debates his next move. He settles on a sigh as he lets Michael fall to the floor. There’s something satisfying about the way he can’t catch himself on his own two feet. Instead, he falls to his knees—tie crooked, coat wrinkled.

Matt escorts Joe away, and the whole thing could be over, if Micheal weren’t trying to get the last word in. “You’re over, you got that, asshole?” he tells Joe, catching his breath. “I’ll find your fucking name, and I’ll find out every detail about you, and I’ll tell the goddamn world. There’s not a soul on either side of the Iron Curtain who won’t be able to spot you. You better damn well hope you don’t have any secrets worth keeping.”

There have been a few instances in his career when Matt has blacked out during a fight. Sometimes, the adrenaline gets the best of his memory. Sometimes, the exhaustion bleeds into his sight with little black spots. Sometimes he blinks, and when he opens his eyes, he finds someone unconscious at his feet.

This is not one of those times. This time, Matt knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s anything Matt’s learned in the past year, it’s that plenty of people feel the need to threaten Joe Solomon. This is the sort of thing that comes included with the kind of past Joe has, filled with unpaid debts, a sordid history with underground terrorist cells, and more than a few women scorned. The fact of the matter is that Joe is talented, and he’s used that talent against the wrong people for too many years. 

Truthfully, Matt’s had just about enough of it. Michael’s threat is one too many, so when Matt rears back and takes a clean shot across Michael’s jaw, he hopes word gets out about it. And when he kicks Michael flat on his back, he hopes the world hears his message—Joe Solomon is under his protection now. Anyone who wants to get to him, will have to go through Matt first.

“Matthew.”

Matt lowers himself down to Michael’s level, on his own knees now as he grips the collar where Joe’s hands were last. The hall smells like whiskey turned sour. “Let me make this absolutely clear,” he says, voice coated in rust. “We’re going to walk away, and then you are going to forget you ever met us.”

Michael mops up crystal shards with his back. There are red-rimmed tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Matthew.”

Matt’s knees ache like a prayer. “Because if you don’t—listen to me—if I find out that even one of our covers is even the slightest bit compromised, I’m flying straight back here, and I’ll make you wish you forgot about us. Understand—?”

“Matt.”

Rachel calls him Matthew, like his mama, which is another one of those things he didn’t notice until it changed without warning. She used to carry the name with so much tender regard, as though nothing, nowhere, and no one could be as sweetly obvious as him. He’s not sure when she started saying it with this desperate, pleading edge.

When he looks up at her, she’s got tears of her own, welling up against her will. “Leave.”

Matt loosens his grip on Michael. His heartstrings creep back to the center of his chest and form a halfway functional knot, all beating in mismatched rhythms. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay. I’ll pick up surveillance—”

“No.” She’s sharp. She’s cold. She’s every bit as cruel as she was when he first met her. “I want you to leave. I want both of you to take your bags and leave this house.”

And there, on his knees, Matt begins to beg. “Rachel, I—”

“Go,” she says. “I don’t want to see you again.”

[drwcn]

I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.  

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea: 

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation. 

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!” 

There was no response. 

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu. 

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —” 

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.” 

[2] 

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot. 

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a... 

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb. 

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.  

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible. 

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!”  Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -” 

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning. 

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.  

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside. 

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through. 

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby. 

Fuck. 

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets. 

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! —  in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name. 

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child. 

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift. 

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road. 

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead. 

[3] 

It ended with Jiang Cheng. 

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to. 

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead. 

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle. 

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would.  Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.  

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da. 

Da-da. Die-die. Father. 

He was standing beside her father now. 

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian. 

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!  

But then... 

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away. 

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother. 

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough. 

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential. 

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish. 

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...” 

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!” 

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—” 

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it. 

Just a joke. A silly joke. 

In time, he would come to realize his mistake. 

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry. 

[totiredtowrite]

Hey can I pls request an Asahi x reader where We agree to go to our house as a casual hang out after practice but what he doesn’t expect to see in our room is this creepy looking plush(appearance up to interpretation) that’s turns out to be yn’s childhood toy that they adore very much.

So like the whole fic would be Asahi’s internal struggle to either leave his crush’s house or stay with the terrifyingly petrifying abomination that yn has no problem hugging and kissing.Hed try to stay strong and continue talking to us but at times he would take bathroom breaks so he could build up his courage again lmao.

Maybe our mom would notice the amount of bathroom breaks Asahi would take and idk make some assumptions 🤨(she could become important if you decide making her ask Asahi what’s wrong and the whole silly conflict would be resolved by her telling us to bring the toy to another room so poor Asahi doesn’t have to be petrified)

Anyways thank you!💕

Rico

Warnings - Asahi being afraid of your bear :(

Note: Sorry I didn't get this out yesterday oml. This was one of my favourite requests so there's no way I could let this sit in the ask box any longer. The gif has noya in it cause why not and I couldn't find any other ones that fit ig :'). Little thing about the bear, I tried to describe it in a way that makes it seem like it looked cute as some point in time, so let me know if that was good <3

Male Reader

'Oh my god, did it just move?'

There really wasn't a good way to describe Asahi's predicament right now. Seated curtly on the floor of your room, while you were talking about something and pulling a video up to show him on your laptop.

There shouldn't be a problem here. In fact, Asahi should be nervous for completely different reasons. He honestly wasn't even sure how he got here in the first place.

~~~

"Azumane!"

Asahi turns at the sound of your voice, his face heating up as he spots you sprinting towards him. He slows to a walk to allow you to catch up, growing increasingly more fidgety. Why were you you approaching him? You don't talk to him too much outside of practice or class, so why were you running towards him with such a bright smile?

Then a horrible thought struck him. Did you find out? Were you going to make fun of him? You, the most beautiful, handsome, gorgeous boy he'd ever met? No no no, that couldn't be the case right? Somehow the smile on your face looked more sinister to him.

He was still worrying when you took up a place at his side. "I was wondering," you huffed, "if you wanted to hang out?"

His eyes widened, nerves fading quickly. "Sure! I- sure." He stammered out. He really had a habit of making something out of nothing, didn't he.

~~~

Oh yeah, that's how.

On any note, he should be nervous because he's sitting in his crushes bedroom. Not because of the absolutely terrifying bear seated in your lap.

There really isn't any other way to describe it accurately.

It looked like a normal bear from the back, the matted patches of fur and occasional stitches being normal for any childhood toy. You had walked in after him and saw him staring at the bear, so you had picked it up and showed him the front, beaming.

"Meet Rico!"

What was he even supposed to think? The bear had a little animal skull where it's face should be. The matted fur was a reoccurring thing, but in the front there were little patches of leather that looked dangerously like human skin sewed in to keep the bear from falling apart at the seams. There were little red threads sticking up in random spots, and Asahi was 100% sure there was an all too realistic eye in one of the skull sockets.

When he asked you about it in the most non-threatening, meek voice ever, you said that his other eye fell out a while back, and the leather actually did very well with not ripping or tearing. You also explained that your uncle helped you patch Rico up before he passed away, as he was good with leather.

So, here he was in the present. You were talking happily about something that interested you, sitting cross-legged with Rico on your lap. It was everything he had hoped for, but for some reason Asahi just couldn't focus on your angelic voice. Well, he knew the reason full well. He seriously thinks Rico was watching him. It felt like his weirdly realistic eye was glancing at him no matter where he moved, and oh god did its leg just twitch?

"... ahi... asahi... Azumane?"

He jumped and tore his attention off of the bear, instead opting to meet your (e/c) eyes. "You were spacing out, are you okay?" You asked with a warm smile.

"I- uh- yes! ...Could I ask where the bathroom is?"

~~~

Really it's pathetic. This is the fourth time he's gone to the bathroom in an hour, and he was sure you were starting to notice. He can't even think of any reason to defend himself, aside from the fact that the longer he stayed by the bear, the heavier the tension fell on him.

Taking a deep breath and meeting his own eyes in the mirror, he steeled himself to head back to your room. What's the worst that could happen right? At the very least, the bear wouldn't decide to off him while you were in the room.

Asahi, now determined and ready, opened the door and prepared to head back down the hall to your room when he was stopped by a woman's voice.

"Oh! You're (y/n)'s friend, right?" He stopped, turning around slowly, only to relax when his eyes landed on a friendly looking woman. She held a smile clad with a bit of concern.

"Yes! I- yes, that's me," he quieted down, bringing a large hand up to scratch the back of his neck. There truly was nothing more awkward than meeting your crushes mother. Alone.

She smiled a closed eyed smile at him, before opening her mouth to speak once more. "I can't help but notice that you've been taking quite a few breaks?" She was clearly trying to ask him about it in the most non-confrontational way possible, like approaching a scared animal.

And she was starting to get a little suspicious. More often than not has she spotted Asahi making a run towards your bathroom with a red face, and she at least wants to know what his relationship with you is before assuming anything crude.

"Well- I- Can you keep a secret?" He blurts out in defeat. She nods. "His bear- Rico- kind of scares me." The deflated aura around him was almost funny. In Asahi's mind, that bear was definitely not normal. After all, you mentioned that your uncle patched it up before passing away. As stupid as it was, he swears that bear is haunted.

Before anyone else could say anything, you chuckled from Asahi's back. "That's all? I really thought you hated me!" You laughed, Rico under your arm. He turned bright red and your mother chuckled.

"Well," she said, "How about we move Rico to another room so that our guest doesn't get too scared." She smiled softly. You nodded with a grin, and took off to set Rico down somewhere else.

Once you were out of earshot, your mom turned to Asahi.

"I always thought that bear was creepy too."

~~~

In the end, Asahi supposes, that awkward little encounter was worth it. You had your head on his lap, going on about something that you learned about earlier in the day. Maybe he was still a bit afraid of your weird childhood toy, but it kind of did help him get a boyfriend.

While his adoring eyes were on you, he failed to notice Rico's arm shifting, his little sewn mouth turning up to smile just a bit wider.

[hxseok-honee]

sundress || part 9

written portion under the cut!

sundress [part 9] || "I like it."

previous || masterlist || next

a/n : [when you’re close to me, i can’t breathe // we’re already six feet deep] fuck up the friendship x leah kate

taglist [open] :

@deepseavibez @thetrueghostqueen @reddeathraven @dingzerenistall @skyrro @unadulteratedlyunique @ramyagovindraj @itismochirice @wwhseokjin @drpepperobsessed @monamone @thekookiecorner @army-moa75 @burningupp-replies @lele-bb @pb-n-juju @red-kebab @heonsbebe @peachyyoongs @superloverpielamp @marifujioka @butterflylion @heyitsgigi @lochness-butmakeitsexy @miki-chi @cahowlkook @worshiphoseok @lilacdreams-00 @bongsbeforebibles @miriamxsworld @oasiswithmyg @peonyplace @annewrighthglc @calling-dips-on-j-hope @yoongiofmine @loveyoongles @instantspot @missmadwoman @x-xjaeminx-x @luvtaeha @vanillxangxl @renhold-nightspear @taeshuworld @lvrseok @supahumbreon @a-noona-mous

_______________________________

Monday, 20 September, 10:01am

“I sit through that class every morning, and I don’t think there’s a single thing I remember about it.” Yoongi runs his fingers through his hair as he exits the Charms classroom, free hand attached to Y/n’s hip. They hover in the doorway, waiting for Jin and Tae to join them, and then the four of them are headed down the corridor to their next class. Yoongi can feel his roommate’s eyes on him and Y/n, and when he glances over his shoulder, he finds that both Jin and Tae are looking with intrigue at the arm he’s got wrapped around Y/n.

“What?” They look up, Y/n glancing back to see what’s happening. Jin clears his throat, shaking his head, and Tae just smiles, a toothy grin that’s more than a little sheepish.

“It’s just… a bit weird, still -- seeing you two together. We’re getting used to it.” Jin nods before pointing between the two of them, eyes guarded.

“As long as I don’t have to accidentally walk in on you two getting freaky in the room, I don’t care what you do. But…” He trails off, glancing down at Yoongi’s arm again, an amused smirk dancing on his lips. “Yeah. Getting used to it.”

“You look good, though! You guys are a good match.” Tae gestures with both hands, the paperback book in his hold flapping obnoxiously as he tries to make sure he and Jin aren’t being misunderstood. “It’s cute -- we all like it. You know, except Jungkook.” Yoongi snorts, shaking his head.

“I really couldn’t care less what he thinks about it.” A lie, of course -- otherwise Yoongi wouldn’t be doing this at all. He wants to make Jeon Jungkook pay, just as Y/n does, but their friends don’t need to know that.

They reach an intersection then, Tae and Jin branching off to the right. They glance back when Yoongi doesn’t follow, and he points simply down the corridor on their left.

“I’m gonna walk Y/n to her next class -- see you guys at lunch?” Y/n looks at him, surprised he’s not heading to his own class. She waits until their friends are waving goodbye before she’s saying anything.

“You’re gonna be late…” Yoongi shrugs, guiding her down the left-hand corridor toward her Transfiguration classroom, his arm tight around her waist.

“So, I’ll run.” Y/n rolls her eyes with a scoff, but lets him walk her to class, anyway. She pretends she can’t see everyone in the corridor looking at them, just as they had been all morning. After all, once news had broken that Min Yoongi was no longer available, people couldn’t help but be curious. But Yoongi hasn’t said a thing about it, so she won’t either -- even if it is a little nerve-wracking.

When they get to her class, the very last one at the end of the corridor, Y/n turns to him, eyes suspicious.

“You better not use this as an excuse to skip your own class and go back to bed. You still have enough time to make it there.” Yoongi grins, shaking his head.

“You know me too well.” With a smile, she steps in and presses her lips to his in a quick peck. She would have tried to stay longer, but she can still feel everyone looking at them, and she’d panicked just a little bit. That’s a lot of eyes on them at once, and she figures a chaste kiss is acceptable enough that she can run into the safety of her classroom afterward without seeming like she’s avoiding his affection.

But as she’s turning to leave, a soft ‘see you later’ leaving her, she feels a hand on her elbow, pulling her back. Yoongi’s giving her a knowing look, tugging her close to him with an amused smile. When she’s close enough, he’s mumbling to her, fully aware of what’s been bothering her.

“You can do better than that.” Nervously, she’s glancing over his shoulder, but he’s tutting quietly, drawing her back. “Don’t look at them -- look at me.” She looks at him for just a moment, trying to build the courage to kiss him properly. It comes to her, and she’s stepping right up to him, hand on the side of his neck when she leans in.

Yoongi’s grip on her waist tightens when her lips find his, and he’s pressing forward right away, making sure to keep her focus on him. His free hand comes up and his fingers are threading through her hair, holding her still while he angles his head, molding his lips to hers more comfortably.

She pulls away first, ears tinting red almost immediately because she can tell everyone had seen that -- that they’re already whispering about them. But Yoongi makes it deceptively difficult for her to get carried away by the attention, tilting his head to block her view of the corridor with a playful smile.

“Good girl.” He’d meant it innocently -- she knows he’d meant it innocently. He’d only been praising her for not letting the embarrassment get to her, for doing it right that time. But he doesn’t know how those words affect her -- or… rather, he didn’t.

Because he catches it. He’s close enough, and his eyes are on her. There’s no way he’d miss the way her eyes had widened, even though she’s quick to mask it, or the purse of her lips -- the catch of her breath, almost imperceptible.

And then he’s narrowing his eyes at her, gaze flitting around her face, trying to pinpoint what had just happened. He puts it together easily, the side of his mouth tilting up as he gives her a knowing look. He wants her to say it, so he’s certain -- so this is something that can be shared between them, not something she’s too embarrassed to tell him.

“What was that?” Y/n blinks, shaking her head as she takes a step back, putting distance between them. He only steps forward to close the gap again. “No… something definitely just happened to you.” She shakes her head again, pointing over her shoulder into her class.

“Nope. That was nothing--I mean. Nothing happened, there was nothing.” She backs away further, jumping when she bumps into the corner of the wall. Yoongi only tilts his head with a squint, a full smirk on his features now.

“You know I’m not gonna let this go, right?”

“Go to class, Yoongi!” And then she’s gone, all but running into her classroom in a panic. Yoongi snickers, shaking his head as he turns and heads down the corridor, pocketing that interesting bit of information for later.

--

Monday, 20 September, 4:15pm

Y/n’s in the library, eyes scanning the shelf in front of her as she searches for the book title Hoseok had sent her. It’s something that has a chapter on the Wiggentree, which is what they’d chosen their project topic as for Herbology.

I’m definitely in the right aisle… Maybe I’m just missing it?

She moves to return to her starting place in the otherwise empty aisle, convinced she’ll find it if she just looks again. But she doesn’t make it far, a hand coming down on the shelf and blocking her. She’d been too focused on scanning the books to even notice that he’d arrived. But she certainly notices him now.

“So -- you like ‘good girl’?” Turning as the words are whispered into her ear, Y/n all but stumbles backward into the bookshelf, eyes wide as she finds Yoongi peering back at her. He’s squinting at her, just as he had this morning, as he searches her face for a reaction. Blinking rapidly, she glances down the aisle, worried someone might find them like this.

“Yoongi, what -- you can’t just sneak up on me like that!” Her voice is hushed, because she’s aware this is a library and even more aware that it’s full to the brim, having seen almost every seat taken when she’d walked through the room. The chances of them not getting caught are slim to none.

But Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind, only stepping in and further blocking her way out. She scoots back as much as possible, but there’s only so far she can go with her back pressed against a wall of books.

“No one forced you to tell me that you were here.” Y/n sighs, because she should have seen this coming. He’d been totally fine all day, holding her hand at lunch and walking her to class after, never saying a word about what had happened this morning. Even during their free period, they’d just taken a nap in his bed -- everything had been normal.

So when he’d texted her asking where she was, she hadn’t thought twice to tell him about the book she’s been looking for. She should have known he’d bring it up again -- he’d even said he would. But she hadn’t expected it to be here, in such a public place.

Maybe I should have. This is Yoongi.

When she doesn’t say anything, Yoongi leans in, setting his lips against the shell of her ear.

“What else do you like to be called, hm?” Flushing red, Y/n plants her hand on his chest, intending to push him away. But he’s already pulling back, just enough that their noses are brushing while he looks into her eyes. She hates that he’s smirking, because he knows she’s flustered.

“You know you should just tell me -- I’ll figure it out for myself eventually.” He’s fully aware she won’t say a word, already seeing that her jaw is clenching, mouth set in a hard line.

“I’m not telling you shit.” He raises an eyebrow, thoroughly amused by her disgruntled expression.

“No? That’s okay. I’ll just get it out of you later, pretty girl.” Y/n blinks rapidly when her heart jumps and grimaces, because he’s testing her right here in the middle of this library. And she knows when he smiles that she’s failed.

“Got you.” Y/n rolls her eyes, cheeks warm from how embarrassed she feels, and moves to push past him so she can leave -- she’ll just find the book later. But Yoongi’s in her way, a playful smile on his face. “You still haven’t told me if you like ‘good girl’.” She shoots him a wild look.

“You know the answer to that.” And then she’s looking away, because his eyes are lighting up and she’s not sure how she’s supposed to feel about that -- mostly, she’s not sure why it doesn’t bother her that he’s excited about this. “Can I go?” He smiles, humming in faux contemplation.

“Nope. I wanna hear it from your mouth.” She turns to him, exasperated, because he’s being obnoxious and he knows it. But he doesn’t let up, only pressing forward until she’s backed against the shelf again. “Come on… it’s just a couple words -- say them and I’ll let you go back to your project.”

When she only glares at him, he hums again, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Okay, then.” And then he’s leaning forward, slotting his lips against hers roughly, muffling the noise of surprise that leaves her. She pushes him back just enough that their lips part, eyeing him with shock.

“What are you doing? We’re alone--”

“Are we?” She blinks, knowing what he means -- that there are eyes everywhere, that what they’re doing is okay because they are in public, even if the aisle’s empty. Because this is exactly what it's like to date Min Yoongi, so it's okay. Everything they're doing and saying right now -- this is how it's supposed to look to anyone that comes across them.

He looks her over, checking that she’s alright -- that she’s not upset.

“… Can I go back to being the sexy boyfriend that corners you in the library to convince you with my mouth to tell me what I want to hear? Or do you want to stop? Because I’ll stop.” Y/n snorts, shaking her head. He’s careful as always, but if she’s honest -- she doesn’t really mind this all that much. She’d agreed to it, after all. So instead of telling him that this is fine -- that they’re fine -- she continues the previous conversation.

“You’re not gonna convince me to say it, no matter what you do.” He looks at her sideways, smirking, and she immediately regrets having worded it like that because she can already see Yoongi’s competitive side making an appearance.

“Is that a challenge?” When she only rolls her eyes, he leans in, stopping just shy of her mouth and waiting, just in case she doesn’t want to do this. She doesn’t move, gaze only flicking down quickly to his lips and back again. He tries his best to mask the smile that threatens to form on his face, but even as he closes the gap, it’s there.

He kisses her once, then leans back to talk to her.

“Say it.” She smiles, eyes full of mischief.

“Say what?” He kisses her again.

“Say it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Again.

“I could do this all day, Y/n.”

“No, you can’t. You hate missing dinner -- you like the dessert too much.” He sighs impatiently, setting his hands on her hips and pulling her in. The kiss he lays on her lips is different than the last few, this one made to leave her breathless. She hates that it does.

Without pulling away, he gauges her reaction, noticing immediately that she’s grabbing at the front of his uniform, almost as if to ground herself after something so unexpected. He doesn’t give her time to recover, pulling at her bottom lip with his teeth. When she inhales sharply, he pushes his tongue past her lips, licking into her mouth -- she whines, the sound immediately cutting off because she’s realizing that they’re still in the library.

Yoongi only smirks, finding it cute that she’s so aware of her surroundings. But he wants her completely out of it, thinking either about him or nothing at all. So he brings one hand up to the back of her head, where he’s taking a fistful of her hair and tugging harshly, forcing her mouth away from his as her head gets angled to the side. That whine comes again, but she’s definitely already more dazed than before, because she doesn’t stop it from happening. Her head is spinning too fast, the feeling turning to pure white noise when Yoongi attaches his mouth to a spot under her ear, his lips searing hot against her skin.

“Yoongi…” She breathes out his name, clinging to him like she’s going to fall over if she doesn’t. Yoongi tells himself that that’s why he presses himself flush to her, sliding his free hand down to her ass and pushing her hips forward into his -- because he wants to help steady her. It has nothing to do with hearing her call for him like that. Nothing at all to do with the reaction it draws out of her when he does, that breathy moan he’d secretly been looking for. Pulling his lips from her neck, he drags them up to her ear, not even noticing how hard he’s breathing.

“Now do you wanna tell me?” She doesn’t respond, whining incoherently. Yoongi sees out of the corner his eye that someone’s turning into the aisle. When they stop short and immediately turn to leave, he’s smiling, because they’d just gotten caught and Y/n has no idea. She’s too busy trying to catch her breath -- trying to come to her senses. Yoongi’s having none of it.

Using the hold he has on her hair, he brings her toward him, smushing his lips to hers -- it’s not as rough as she’d been expecting, but it takes her breath away all the same. Just like the first one. She whimpers against his lips, and it warms him -- the idea that even this is enough to make her feel good. He wonders if she actually prefers when he’s soft with her -- he’ll have to explore that more later.

Pulling his lips away from her, he watches her. The way she doesn’t open her eyes right away or even notice that he’s waiting for her. She just leans her head back against the hand in her hair, and Yoongi steadies her, smiling at how dazed she is. He shakes that hand gently, jostling her, and that’s when she’s opening her eyes, realizing he hasn’t done anything in a few seconds. They make eye contact, Y/n trying to blink her way out of the fog in her head.

“Don’t you want this to end already? Wouldn’t you rather go back to finding your book before we have to go to dinner?” She nods automatically, even though there’s a small part of her that hesitates first -- it must be because she’s too out of it to process his questions right away. When she doesn’t meet Yoongi’s eyes for a few seconds, he’s pulling at her hair again, drawing her attention. And when her gaze finally lifts to his--

“Then be a good girl and tell me you like it.” Yoongi watches as she reacts -- as she breaks. As her lips part in a small gasp, her eyelids fluttering as she looks at him. As the hold she has on the front of his shirt tightens, her knuckles almost white. It’s the first time he’s ever seen this side of her -- the first time he’s ever seen her give in like this. He almost feels bad for how proud he is that she’s like this because of him.

But then she’s saying it -- what he’s wanted to hear from her all day. She doesn’t say all of it, but she doesn’t need to. Just those three words are enough to make him smile, because submission looks shockingly good on a stubborn lion like her. His Y/n.

“I like it.”

[fishstyx]

“put the maid outfit on.”

featuring. sub!nagito komaeda x fem!reader

wc. 2.2k

genre. smut

tw. nsfw, penetration (pegging), orgasm denial/edging, praise kink, mild (mild!) toxic masculinity

synopsis. peg nagito 2021 + everyone’s favorite e-boy trend.

“You really think I look good in this..?” 

Your jaw slackens as Nagito materializes in the doorway, fingers fiddling with the hem of his skirt. His shoulders hunch over and his legs bend at the knee, but if he’s trying to make himself smaller, it does little to obscure your view. The costume fits him so well, corset detailing and silk satin bows lining his midriff, white ruffle trim splayed out against his wrists and thighs. Flouncy frills flare from his shoulders, jet puffed sleeves rounding out his sharper edges and broader sides. A pink flush creeps across his cheeks when you fail to respond, teeth locking his bottom lip in place like he’s trying to keep himself from saying anything more.

“I think you look great in it!” 

You clasp your hands together in an attempt to ward off your trance and he cracks a smile in spite of himself, relief washing over his features—but your next words have him standing stick straight. “It makes me feel like I should dress you up more often.” 

Suddenly his brows are threaded with vexation, Mary Janes clacking across the floorboards as he makes his way towards you.

“Please don’t joke about that. Even I take some pride in my manhood,” he pouts, somewhat unconvincingly. “But as long as you’re holding to your end of the deal—“

“And whatever deal could you be talking about?” you ask ever so sweetly, lashes batting away all too knowingly. He stiffens at your feigned ignorance, legs knocking together when you tilt your head pointedly. 

“...You know what deal.” 

Nagito averts his gaze, though unable to escape your own, hands clutching at the lacy material as he sucks in a sharp breath. “The deal we made… where I put this outfit on…” You wait patiently, silent stare urging him to finish the sentence.  “...and you pound my unworthy hole into oblivion.”

“Oh? And what exactly am I going to pound you with?”

However fake your play-pretend innocence, the curiosity in your eyes is very much real, blazing with the vehement desire to hear him say it aloud. The remaining shred of his so-called dignity is slashed to pieces, the hopefulness in your voice too compelling to defy.

“My favorite toy. Please, mess me up with it.” Nagito eyes you nervously, expecting rejection or derision or snide, heart fluttering when he gets only an warm smile in return. “The dildo that I can’t live without. I want it—I need it so bad it hurts,” he continues in a near whisper, but it’s good enough for you. You pull him in immediately, your chin nestling itself in the crook of his neck as your lips come to rest at the shell of his ear.

“Such a good boy, using your words so properly.” He shudders against you as you trace the fabric where it lies snug against his waist, mesmerized by the words of encouragement that spill from your lips. 

“I’m gonna make you see stars.”

Nagito practically bursts with anticipation as you snake your fingers up his skirt, unmoving from the spot where you pushed him onto the bed. With bated breath he lets you kiss up his inner thighs—lets you because normally he wants to do all the work, wants to be your little joyride fuck toy, wants you squirming under his touch. It’s all he can do just to watch, cock already twitching from how good it feels, how utterly starved he’s been of hands besides his own between his legs.

You push at his thighs, pressing them far apart for easy access, chaste kisses becoming damp squeezes as you traverse up the length. A silent smirk tugs at your lips as he throws his head back, the tent beneath his apron growing taller by the second. You palm it instinctively, rubbing circles through the fabric and inviting blood to his sensitive member.

But it’s more of a distraction than anything else, your other hand uncapping the bottle of lube with skill, lathering itself up with ease. Nagito pays it no mind, instead drinking in how you fondle him with eerie similarity to the most despicable of his favorite fantasies. So when a lone finger begins to circle at his entrance, he reels with an unexpected jolt, back arched like a cat. You waste no time in sinking a digit inside, sinful groans following one after another.

And then you’re pumping him with two fingers, swirling them in tandem and scissoring them apart a knuckle deep, then another. He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting the maddening urge to move on his own, to just take the reins and ram you inside of him. He’s already coursing with the need for something more substantial, and it’s obvious that he’s ready to take additional girth.

“Used to me already?” you ask, more statement than question. Nagito hesitates before nodding, sheepishness written into the slow bob of his head. “You’ve been playing with this lonely hole behind my back, haven’t you?” But he can’t bring himself to confirm or deny it, the way he peers back at you answer enough.

You reach for the harness in turn, untangling the heaps of straps right before him, his dildo of choice following soon after. You snap the towering thing into place with a satisfying click, swaying your hips as you guide the thigh straps to their final resting place. The fit is snug, belt of the strap just about digging into your flesh—but not quite—and you turn your back to add the finishing touches.

You’re dripping with lube when you face him again, glossy slick accentuating every vein, every bulge that graces your makeshift cock. You chuckle at the way his legs are spread already, the way he’s waiting on you with a look that says take me now, hold me down and fuck me silly.

But he’s ahead of himself as usual, and it’s inevitable that he chokes back a whimper when you disappear inside of him. He gives the prospect of pain no heed, silently pleading for you to move, and you click your tongue in distaste.

“Breathe,” you command, waiting for him to loosen. Green eyes shift expectantly from the strap-on to your own, an exasperated whine starting to form at his lips, but he knows his place and does as you say.

Nagito complies with the rise and fall of his chest, evidenced by the soft sway of a centerpiece bow. His muscles begin to relax even as you’re splitting him in two, and you angle your hips up in preparation. The tip of your silicone cock has barely brushed against his sensitive gland, yet it already has him quivering, hungry for more.

It’s in the middle of a deep breath when you finally deem him ready, doubling back before bucking into that same spot that has his jaw dropping and his eyes squeezing shut. A shaky exhale stutters from his wide-open mouth and he melts into a panting mess as you find your pace.

“Good boy. Such a good boy, making all that noise for me,” you repeat, chant-like words a melody to his ears.

“Y-you really think so?” he struggles to get out, little mewls escaping him even as he speaks. “Even when I’m… being so… selfish?”

“Shh, don’t say things like that. I feel it too, baby boy,” you’re quick to say—and you’re not lying, far from it in fact. The hilt of the dildo rocks against your clit each time your hips meet, the pulsating pressure tempting you to plunge even deeper. And with the face that he’s making, all reddened cheeks and parted lips, how could you not?

You’re snapping into him now, reveling in the challenge posed by the sheer length of his choice toy. It’s hard work with the way he clamps around you, but the tingle it shoots up your spine and the squelch it sends to your ears are well worth the effort. The marvelous stretch draws a throaty “f-fuuuuck” out of him, the god-sent sensation making him throb all the more.

But with every plunge you take, you’re met with the bounce of his pretty pink cockhead, a rebounding reminder of what you’ve left unattended. His neglected shaft looms in stark contrast to his black and white garb, breath hitching when you finally decide to wrap around it. Your movements are painfully slow to begin with, building up the pressure before picking up in speed, and he keens his dissatisfaction until you’re jerking him off to the same brutal rhythm of your rolling hips.

“I think I’m gonna cum,” he cries, locks of hair cascading past his pleated headband as you press into a spot so sweet he thinks he just might come undone; but you have other plans in mind. Your movements slow before coming to a lurching halt, the absence of stimulation quick to dampen the mood.

“Good boys cum when they’re told to,” you say, but the explanation does little to appease him. A look of disappointment leaps to his face, his lips pursed in dismay—or perhaps it’s betrayal.

He looks so disheveled like this, staring at your open palm like maybe his wordless begging can coax you back into stroking him. Hazy eyes glaze over, tufts of hair spilling every which way as he sits himself up, but you aren’t done with him yet.

It’s simple to redirect his movement, his weak limbs no match for your own as you turn him over so he’s kneeling on the bed. He tries to look back but you push him down by the neck, hiking his skirt up as you position yourself behind him. His ass is raised in the air without so much as being told, and you align with his fluttering hole before breaking him in again.

You were right to make him wait; he’s shaking in excitement now, tense with amplified arousal as his knees buckle underneath you. Bottoming out is so much easier like this, your pistons devoured whole and spat back out with each and every thrust. You draw back slowly only to bury yourself once more, repeating the motion until his moaning runs incoherent, completely wracked with shivering pleasure. You can’t tell if he’s humping the mattress, grinding against you, or both, but he’s reaching his climax again and the both of you know it.

“Can I finish now? Pretty please?” Nagito asks, so strained and so breathily that you nearly miss it. “Please, it hurts so good, please please please, I’m head over heels for your cock!”

The thought of stopping again is too cruel for you to give even a moment’s consideration, so you pin his wrist against his back and collect a fistful of hair in your hand before leaning in to award him with the magic words:

“Go ahead, then. Cum for me.”

You slam into him as he rides through the peak of his bliss, squirming in wretched ecstasy as he collapses under his own weight. You can only imagine what kind of expression he’s making with his head face-first in the bedsheets, the kinds of shapes his mouth is forming when you pull his hair back like this. Violent spasms render Nagito otherwise immobile, unable to move of his own accord. He’s going completely slack, quivers shorting until you wonder if he passed out from the aftershock.

It comes as a surprise when you notice him barely holding on, eyelids threatening to shut close when you pull him into your arms. He looks like a cheap whore in that kitschy uniform of his, thick white cum smeared all over the black fabric. Beads of drool streak his chin but he’s too fucked-out to notice, let alone care.

“You did so well for me,” you whisper as Nagito nuzzles into your chest, drowsy and spent. I don’t deserve this at all, he thinks, a dull echo reverberating in the back of his mind.

“I’m so proud of you,” you coo as you stroke his cheek with your thumb. Proud of what? My greediness? My utter uselessness?

But he’s too exhausted to fight your praises, self-doubt dwindling away to nothing as you hum your approval. He snuggles against your palm without even realizing it, subconscious of his mind chasing after contact with your bare skin. In his docile state, you can’t help but to hold him close, intimate proximity sating the needs of which he’s too adamant to admit aloud.

But all good things must come to an end, and eventually, your adrenaline dies down, too. You feel as though you’re a husk of yourself, curling up beside him and letting the fatigue tide you over. As much as you’d love to watch your symbol of hope fall asleep, your eyelids feel so, so heavy now, and you expend the last of your energy on little kitten kisses that trail up his temple and dot down his nose. Your collective consciousness fades away until all that’s left is the syncing of your breath, a singular flow of air where you lay wrapped around one another.

He’ll never admit just how good it felt to be pampered this way, but you’ll never regret taking care of him.

fishstyx © 2021 ✸ all content and their rights belong to me. do not repost, reproduce, or modify anywhere.