#- ow i have a headache from staring at this for too long

[kursed-curtain]

"We saw you from across the bar and really don't dig your vibe-"

(Additional flat color version under the cut for my own later reference!)

[sp0o0kylights]

Part Two / Part Three

Ao3

It's 8:45 am. 

The Red Barn, which is neither red nor a barn, has been open since 7, catering to the early morning crowd with rounds of coffee and pancakes.

It was no Benny's, but given the size of Hawkins and the lack of alternatives?

No one was complaining. 

They were all too happy someone had opened up another watering hole for the working class man (or lass, as Foreman Shelly will dutifully remind you) which meant the place was packed with both day and night shift regulars, passing each other in staggered waves. 

It also meant Wayne was sharing the packed breakfast counter with a warehouse worker by the name of John Cheese on one side and Police Chief Jim Hopper on the other.

He doesn't mind it.

Wayne's a man on a budget thinner than his shoelace, but he's also a man who understands that small indulgences need to be made in life or you didn't truly live it.

This is how he convinces himself to get a coffee at the Barn after work everyday, reading the morning newspaper and chatting with the other regulars before he heads home.

Bonus, it gets him out of the rapid-fire franticness that is his nephew in the mornings.

(All the love in the world wouldn't change the fact that all that Eddie came with a lot of noise. 

The kind of noise that was a tried and true recipe for a headache right after a long shift.)

As a trade off, Wayne went to bed early so he could wake up in time for dinner with Eddie.

 It was a nice little system that worked for them. 

A routine Wayne was reminiscing fondly on, when the pager on Chief Hopper started to chirp. With a sad moan, the man fished out a few crumbled bills and threw them on the counter, abandoning his coffee to trudge out to his truck.

This was not unusual.

Particularly recently, given they were but a scant few weeks past that whole mall ordeal. A fact all too easy to remember when one caught sight of the Chief’s still healing face. 

What was unusual, was when he came storming through the doors a minute later, face now a furious shade of red with his hat clenched in his hand. 

The energy in the room shifted, taking on something a little watchful as Hopper swept his gaze from side to side, like a dog on the hunt.

Judging by the way he stilled when he caught sight of Wayne, the latter assumed he found what he was looking for and could only pray it was the person behind him. 

(He liked John, but Wayne had enough trouble this year and he wasn't looking for any more.) 

"Munson." Hopper called, striding over and dashing all his hopes. There was a choked fury emitting off him, and given the way John audibly scooted his chair away, Wayne knew everyone had clocked it. 

"Chief." Wayne greeted, inclining his head towards him.

Idly he wondered what the hell his nephew had done this time.

'So help me if he stole all the town's lawn flamingos and put them in that damn teachers yard again….'

Wayne didn't even get to finish his threat, the Chief was already next to him. 

"Mind if I have a word outside?" 

Dammit Eddie.

"Ah hell, what's he done now?" Wayne asked with a sigh, eyeing the coffee he had left morosely. 

There was still almost half of it left and the pot had tasted fresh for once. 

"What?" Hopper said, and then Wayne got to watch as the man ran through an entire chain of thoughts, each one punctuated by things like; "Oh," and "No. " 

"This is something else." He finished, flushed and fidgeting, anger making him antsy. 

Wayne stared up at him. 

"Something else?" He repeated, not sure he heard.

"Yes, something else." Hopper snapped impatiently, before leaning forward, voice dropping low. "This doesn't involve your nephew, but we both know you owe me for how many times I've let that kid off, Wayne. That's a damn big favor I've been doing you and I'm calling it in." 

If it were any other cop, it'd sound like a threat.

It was Hopper though. The same Hopper who Wayne had gone to school with.

They'd never been friends exactly, but they had been friendly and remained so. Even now, after Wayne had taken Eddie in, who’d gone on to be an undeniable pain in the local PD’s ass. 

Hopper really did let the kid off easy. 

Wayne really did owe him. 

So he put down his coffee with a sigh, passed his newspaper over to John and stood up, motioning for Hopper to lead the way. Got into the Chief’s truck when he waved him in, and didn’t make a big fuss when Hopper tore out of the parking lot like hell was about to open up under them. 

"Not a lot of the kids involved in the mall fire could be identified, but a few of them were." Hopper started, which felt nonsensical given the utter lack of context. 

Wayne hummed to show he’d heard. 

“Some of them got banged up more than others, and a lot of people wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t make it.” 

A pause, Hopper white knuckling the steering wheel as he swung the truck hard around a turn. 

“For certain people, those kids dying is the preferred outcome.” 

A mix of fear and warning swopped low in Wayne’s gut. 

"Jim." Wayne said, dropping the use of a last name because if any situation called for it, it was this one. "What exactly are you saying here?" 

The Chief chewed on his split lip. 

"I know you're smart, Munson. I know you, and plenty of others are aware that something's happening, been happening in this town." 

Which was a hell of an understatement if you asked Wayne. Plenty of the upper classes might be able to bury their heads when it came to the military parading about and the flow of “accidents” they brought in their wake, but then, they didn't see all the other signs of trouble. 

The absolute oddity that was Starcourt’s construction. 

How it had been built using primarily outside crews and anyone who'd taken a singular look at the site could tell you they were building it weird. 

Weird as in it looked like it would have a multi-level basement, and not what a mall should have. 

Then there were the constant electrical problems. The backups upon backups that failed. The late night delivery vans headed out to the Hawkins Lab. 

The things in the woods that kept spooking all the deer and the weird markings they left behind that unnerved even the hardest of hunters. 

This didn’t even touch the Russian military that more than one reputable person swore was hanging around. 

The very same Wayne himself had seen, on more than one occasion. 

(And you couldn’t deny it; those boys were military. Past or present, it didn’t matter. They moved like a threat, and Wayne treated them like one, staying well clear.)

"Yeah." Wayne admitted. "I also know better than to stick my nose in it." 

"That makes you a smarter man than me.' Hop complained under his breath, but the anger was self directed. 

"The point is, there are some government types crawling around, doing shit they shouldn't be doing, and more than a few of them are in the business of making people disappear.” 

This was absolutely not where Wayne had thought this was going. 

Hopper took a breath. Than another.

A third.

It was starting to make Wayne nervous, in a way he hadn’t felt since a social worker had brought Eddie to him for the last time and final time. It was the feeling that things were about to shift in a way that would change the course of his life. 

"Steve Harrington is sitting in my office right now, beat to absolute shit.” Hopper admitted.

Wayne gave him the floor to talk, letting him go at his own pace without interruptions. 

“He's there because some of those government types finally figured out his parents are never fucking home.” 

Wayne sucked in a breath. 

"We both know his parents, Wayne. Harassing them to come back and take care of their kid won't work, and frankly, I’m beginning to think all the phone lines are tapped anyway.” He winced here, like voicing such a thing pained him, and Wayne understood.

It sounded a little too out there, a little like he was buying into a conspiracy. 

Except he wasn’t. Wayne knew he wasn’t. 

Jim Hopper might have been an alcoholic, a man living in pain and unconcerned with his own life, but if there was one thing he was solid for, it was shit like this.

He didn’t jump to conclusions. Didn’t believe the first thing people told him. Even at his worst, he did the work to see what was really happening, and made his decisions from there. 

(Even if that decision was to accept the occasional bribe, or drive an intoxicated 13 year old Eddie home instead of hauling his ass into the drunk tank.) 

“Harrington won’t admit it, but he’s got a hell of a concussion if not a full blown brain injury and he’s not reacting as well as he should to Suites trying to run him off the road.” Hopper continued. Angrily, he added, “Damn kid didn’t even come to me until they tried to break into his house last night.” 

His fingers squeezed the wheel so hard Wayne heard the leather creak in protest. 

“I’d take him, but my cabin is being renovated from…” He trailed off, heaving a sigh.

 “A storm, so me and my kid are bunked with the Byers right now and we’re full up.” 

Hawkins hadn't had a storm like that in years, but Wayne wasn't going to call him out on the blatant lie. 

“I need a place to stash him for the next few weeks, until I can work with some of the higher ups sniffing around, and get them to call off their attack dogs.” 

“And you want to stuff him with me.” Wayne finished. 

“I know you don’t have the room.” Hopper admitted easily, stopping his truck at a red light and locking eyes with the other man. “But I also know you’ll be the last place anyone would look for him.” 

'Ain’t that the damn truth.'

“You’re really gonna go this far for a Harrington?” Wayne asked, instead of the million of other questions leaping to the forefront of his mind. 

This one, he figured, was the most important. 

“He’s not his dad.” Hopper said, as firm as Wayne had ever heard him. “He’s not either of his parents, and he saved my little girl.” 

Wayne hadn’t even known Hopper had another little girl, but he also knew better than to ask where the guy had found one. 

It wasn’t his business, just as nothing else Jim was involved in, was his business.

Except, apparently, Steve Harrington. 

“I’m gonna need my own truck if I’m takin' Harrington home.” Wayne said easily, instead of bothering to ask anything else.

If Jim said the kid was different than his daddy, then he was--because when it came to things like that, Jim didn't lie.

No point in it. 

“I know. Just needed to talk to you first, without anyone overhearing.” Jim said, before swinging the police truck around and heading back to the Barn. 

“I’ll stay in contact with you, and I’ll make sure Harrington pays you for the pleasure of your hospitality. Just--” Here Jim cut himself off, looking like he was struggling an awful lot with the next thing he wanted to say. 

Once again, Wayne waited him out.

“Don’t let Steve fool you. He’s good at fooling people, letting them think he’s okay. Too good at it, and between the two of us, I have a real good idea of the reason why.” 

A memory came to Wayne unbidden, of Richard Harrington and Chet Hagan, beating some poor kid in the highschool bathroom bloody. The grins on their faces as the poor guy wailed for them to stop.

How they almost hadn’t. 

“Alright.” Wayne agreed.

Hopper swung back into the Barn's parking lot, and Wayne moved right to his own beat to shit truck, ready to follow Jim back to the police station.

He wasn’t a praying man, not anymore, but Catholisim wasn’t a thing that let you go easy. 

He found himself sending up a quick prayer, fingers flicking in a kind of miniature version of the sign of the cross. 

Considering his own kid’s history with Harrington, and the sheer small space of the trailer? 

Wayne had a feeling it was needed.

[alygator77]

♬♪ ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : beat of my heart ♬♪

♬ pairing. college au // drummer! gojo x psychology major! reader (f)

♬ summary. being a psychology major with a passion for music, you're no stranger to chaos—between juggling school, caring for your mother, and working at a local music shop, you've learned to keep your cool. but when a cocky drummer pushes your patience to the limit, a chance encounter with satoru gojo—an enigmatic, sharp-tongued musician—turns your world upside down. as you're drawn to his dangerous charm, an unexpected connection deepens, but so do the secrets you've both been running from. will you get caught up in his rhythm before you realize it’s too late?

♬ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, slow burn, smut, angst with comfort, some fluff, readers mom has dementia, mentions of suicide, alcohol/weed usage, unresolved trauma, commitment issues

♬ words: 7.3k

♬ a/n. hi lovelies, welcome to the debut of this fic :) very excited to explore this dynamic between satoru and y/n, thanks for reading ♡

♬ taglist: open

series masterlist ♬ next chapter → pending...

ch 1 // the first measure

“Emotional regulation is defined as the process by which individuals influence the emotions they experience, when they experience them, and how they express them in response to different stimuli.”

Staring at the neatly printed words in your psychology textbook, your mind automatically begins to dissect the concept.

Emotional regulation. The holy grail of human behavior, wrapped neatly in clinical terms. It’s the ability to keep yourself in check, to craft a perfect mask that hides what’s boiling beneath the surface. The world only gets to see what you allow. If it were as easy as the textbook made it sound, half your classes wouldn’t exist.

Letting out a breath, you sink deeper into your chair.

People aren’t simple equations you can balance, after all—people are… complicated.

Emotions, even more so.

They ebb and flow like unpredictable tides, swelling when you least expect them, crashing down when you think you’ve regained control. They are messy, stubborn, and relentless—especially when the brain stops following its own rules.

Your mothers face comes to mind—uninvited. Her once-bright eyes are now dull with confusion, emotions flickering in and out like static on a broken TV. Dementia has stolen the filter that once kept her reactions in line with reality. It’s as if her mind is betraying her, one piece at a time.

You press your fingers against the pages of the textbook. Will any amount of psychology truly prepare you to untangle the complexities of the human mind? Can it allow you to help her—or at least understand her—before she’s lost entirely?

Before you can sink further into that thought, an ear-splitting crash reverberates through the store, jolting you back into the present. Glancing up with a sigh, the peaceful hum of the music store is shattered by the clumsy cacophony of someone abusing a drum kit like it owes him money.

Clearly, emotional regulation isn’t on that guy’s radar.

Yet, somehow, you’ve grown used to it. Working part-time here has taught you how to tune out chaos, as if the dissonance of the store has become its own kind of background music.

It’s chaotic, but it’s your kind of chaos.

The strings of guitars being tested, the pounding of drum kits, the chattering of customers—it all blends into a rhythm you no longer notice.

You’ve been working part-time in this quaint little music shop for so long that silence has become unsettling. If it’s too quiet, your mind starts wandering, spiraling into places you don’t always want to go. And so, the chaos is your anchor—it helps you focus, keeps you present.

Studying in silence feels foreign.

“Ugh… I have such a headache,” Utahime’s voice breaks through your thoughts, her hand pressing to her temple. Standing a few feet away, she shoots a glare towards the drum section. “He’s been at it for practically an hour now. Like… come on. Is he trying to destroy that kit or learn how to play it?”

Glancing up from your textbook, you eyes land on a brawny guy with jet-black hair, slamming away on the drums with no sense of rhythm, no control—just brute force.

“Has it really been that long?” you ask, blinking at the scene. The noise had faded into the background for you, becoming just another layer of the store’s soundtrack.

Utahime gives you a look that screams disbelief.

“You didn’t notice?”

You shrug.

“Guess I’ve learned to tune it out.”

“Tch… wish I could do that,” she rolls her eyes, rubbing her temples like the sound is physically burrowing into her skull. “That guy is killing me.”

Oh, shit. Now that your attention is focused, you notice just how bad it really is. It’s not just noise—it’s borderline offensive to music. He’s not even playing the drums—he’s assaulting them—completely unaware of the sonic devastation he’s unleashing on the store.

Utahime lets out another long, exasperated groan, her entire body sagging as she leans forward in defeat.

“I swear, if he keeps going, I’m going to snap,” her elbows rest on the counter, and she presses her forehead into her hands. “y/nnnn,” she whines, lifting her head just enough to glimpse at you. “Can you please do something?”

Glancing around the store, you catch the irritated looks of other customers—one guy near the synthesizers is glaring openly at the drummer, his hand gripping a set of headphones so tightly you half expect him to snap them in half.

It’s like the whole store is holding its breath, waiting for someone—anyone—to make it stop.

A sigh escapes your lips as you close your textbook. It’s one thing to tune out the chaos when you’re focused on studying, but now that you’re paying attention, the noise feels like an assault on your senses too. You can’t blame Utahime for losing her patience—though she’s never been one to take matters into her own hands.

“Fine, I’ll handle it,” you mutter, pushing yourself up from your seat.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, finally peeling her hands away from her temples. “Please, work your magic. Before we all go deaf.”

You roll your eyes internally, though you can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Magic. Sure—that’s one way to put it.

What Utahime calls ‘magic’ is really just years of learning how to manage other people’s shit without losing your cool.

It’s not magic—it’s survival. A skill you’ve honed out of necessity, not desire. And sure, maybe your love for psychology helps—you’ve got the theories to back up the practice—but most days it feels more like wrangling toddlers who never learned how to grow up.

Taking a steady breath, you step into the fray, weaving through the store’s labyrinth of instruments and displays. As you get closer, the vibrations from the drums rattle through your bones, crawling up your spine. The sound is unbearable, like nails on a chalkboard amplified through a megaphone.

The guy doesn’t even look up, his head bent low over the drum kit, raven hair falling in messy strands across his forehead. His arms move with the rhythm of someone who has no idea what rhythm actually is, and the muscles in his forearms ripple with each heavy-handed strike as he slams the sticks down like he’s personally offended by the drums.

You stand off to the side for a moment, watching him have at it. You’ve dealt with a lot of difficult people working here, but this guy? He’s so oblivious to the fact that the rest of the store is on the verge of mutiny.

Clearing your throat, you raise your voice, hoping to break through his focus.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

Another crash of the cymbals, loud enough to rattle your skull. Your jaw tightens as you try again, this time louder.

“Excuuuuse me!”

Still nothing. He’s completely in his own world, bashing away with reckless abandon. It’s like he’s in a vacuum, utterly disconnected from the chaos he’s creating around him.

Jesus this guy… your patience thins and you step closer—close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him from his overexertion. His shirt clings to his back with sweat, and the muscles in his arms continue to ripple with each reckless swing of the drumsticks.

He’s not just playing hard—he’s playing like he’s got something to prove.

As you reach out to tap his shoulder, you try to keep your touch firm but not aggressive, although, the moment your fingers make contact with him, his entire body jerks—drumsticks freezing mid-air as he whips his head around to face you.

His dark eyes lock onto yours, sharp and filled with a flicker of annoyance.

“What?” he snaps, voice dripping with irritation.

Keeping your expression neutral, you try not to let his attitude get to you.

“You’ve been at this for a while,” you begin, as calm as you can manage. “We have a limited selection and there are other customers who may be wanting to try this kit.”

His eyes narrow, clearly unimpressed.

“So?” he drawls, waving the drumsticks lazily, like your request is beneath him.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you press your lips together in protest. Stay professional, you remind yourself. Shifting your weight slightly, you square your shoulders and look him directly in the eyes.

“So,” you continue, voice firmer this time, “store policy is thirty minutes per instrument. You’ve been playing for over an hour.”

A low, sarcastic laugh bubbles from his chest, the sound filled with mockery as he tilts his head back slightly.

“And… what are you gonna do about it?” leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees like he's settling for a show—eyes glimmering with amusement as his lips curl into a smirk. “Throw me out?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek—every fiber of your being is itching to knock this guy down a peg.

Ugh. What a tool.

The condescension in his voice grates on you like sandpaper, but you force yourself to stay composed.

“Look…store policy is pretty clear,” you reply evenly, nodding towards the sign behind the counter. “You either give someone else a turn, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Your words seem to pique his interest—his smirk widens, eyes flicking over you slowly, appraisingly. Suddenly you’re more interesting to him than this drum set. He pushes himself off the stool in a slow, deliberate movement, and you hold your breath the moment he towers over you.

He’s by no means, a small guy.

The light behind him is blocked from his broad shoulders, and there’s a new edge to his gaze now. The moment he invades your space, it is just a little too close for comfort.

“Oh yeah?” your stomach turns from the low suggestive timber of his voice, “And what if I don’t feel like leaving, sweetheart? You gonna make me?”

Ick.

This guy might take the cake for being the most difficult prick you’ve had to deal with here, and that’s saying something. Working in this music shop, you’ve come across a lot of full of themselves wannabees, praising themselves like the next big thing—acting like God’s gift to music when all they want to play over and over again is ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ and ‘Wonderwall.’

A surge of discomfort ripples through your body, but you stand your ground. You know how this goes—he wants a reaction, and you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

“Look dude, I’m not asking,” your tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. “This is your last warning”

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise, and a low whistle escapes his lips, as if he’s impressed—but it’s the kind of faux admiration that makes your skin crawl.

“You’re a tough one, huh?” he muses, chuckling softly.

Leaning in, the heat of his breath brushes against your skin as he invades your space once again—far too close for comfort—and you feel his gaze sweep over you slowly, lingering in a way that feels slimy and unwelcome.

“I like a girl with a little fire,” he adds, voice dropping lower. “It always makes things more fun.”

Gross.

Your hands curl into fists by your sides and you fight the urge to recoil as a surge of revulsion twists through you like a knife.

But before you can respond—before you even have the chance to formulate the sharp retort already forming on your tongue—the air shifts and a new voice cuts in.

“Wow, did I just walk in on the world’s worst pickup line, or are we about to throw hands over a drum kit?”

Turning your head towards the source of the voice, your eyes land on a tall figure standing a few feet away—his hair is a striking shade of snowy white, messy and untamed, falling in tousled strands that almost brush against the black sunglasses obscuring his eyes, and even with his face partially hidden, there’s no mistaking the mischievous glint tugging at the corners of his mouth—like he’s watching the scene unfold for his own amusement.

Despite the casual nature of his appearance—jeans slung low, a loose-fitting hoodie—there’s something undeniably striking about him. It’s the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it

Who the hell is this guy?

Clearly irritated by the interruption, the drummer straightens up—his smirk faltering as he sizes up the newcomer.

“This doesn’t concern you, man,” he growls, tight with irritation. “I’m just having a little conversation with her.”

The snowy stranger’s grin turns sharp, though his voice remains light.

“Yeeeah, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” he steps up beside you, and without hesitation, his arm slips around your waist, pulling you smoothly into his side like you’ve always belonged there. “Everything concerning her concerns me.”

Your heart skips a beat, caught off guard by the sudden, possessive gesture. Part of you bristles at the boldness, but another part… feels oddly safe in his grasp—like he’s been by your side forever.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere as the drummer's eyes narrow—like the balance of power has tipped—the presence of this stranger throwing him off.

“Oh really? And just who the hell are you?” he snaps.

Your mysterious stranger doesn’t miss a beat—he chuckles softly, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—brilliant, vivid blue, and gleaming with a spark that teeters between playful and dangerous. It’s the kind of look that makes your heart flip.

“Oh, me?” he feigns innocence with a nonchalant shrug, like this whole thing is just mildly amusing to him. “I’m nobody special.”

Sliding his sunglasses back into place, he casually pulls you in a bit closer, and you are met with the warmth of his body as he leans into you just slightly.

“Just here to make sure my girl doesn’t have to deal with assholes. Y’know how it is.”

Your mind scrambles to catch up.

Your girl? You blink, heat rushing to your cheeks as the words rolling off his tongue begin to register. You barely know this guy—hell, you don’t know him at all—and yet here he is, acting like the two of you are something.

But…maybe it’s working? Because the drummer’s eyes narrow further, his expression twisting as a furrow darkens over his features. Ah…but then you realize he’s not focused on the claim your stranger just made—no, his attention is locked on a different word entirely.

“Asshole?” he echoes, voice rising with indignation, practically spitting the word back. Clenching his fists, he steps forward with a scowl twisting upon you face. “You calling me an asshole?”

“Well, yeah,” your stranger remarks casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He shrugs again, utterly unfazed by the tension mounting between them. “When the shoe fits…I mean, you’re acting like one, aren’t you?”

Pure rage flashes across the drummer’s face, and you can visibly see his fists trembling slightly.

Uhh… on second thought, is this guy even helping?

Now you’re not so sure if your so-called rescuer is making things better or worse, because clearly, the drummer is on the verge of snapping.

“You better watch your mouth man,” the drummer snarls, fury simmering beneath the surface.

But the stranger’s grin only widens, and he exudes a confidence that makes it clear he’s not worried in the slightest.

“Heh. That’s a warning I get a lot,” he muses, tilting his head slightly. “But y’know what? I don’t usually listen.”

It's a wonder the drumsticks the drummer is fisting haven't cracked under pressure, given how tightly he clenches them—his knuckles turn white.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he growls through gritted teeth.

A low hum rumbles against your strangers’ lips as he ponders the question thoughtfully.

“I mean, I’ve been told I’m pretty hilarious,” he scratches the back of his head, like he’s seriously considering the statement, then, glancing at you, his eyes gleam with amusement as his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose slightly.

“Whatcha think babe? Am I funny?”

The question—and that pet name—catches you completely off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless.

But the drummer isn’t interested in the little game your stranger seems to be playing. His jaw clenches—teeth grinding audibly as his face hardens into something feral.

“I’m about two seconds away from wiping that stupid grin off your face,” he spits, taking another aggressive step forward.

Fucking hell, is a fight really about to break out at your work?

Your pulse quickens, and for a split second, you think he might actually swing at him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the stranger says, still grinning like none of this phases him.

He releases his hold on your waist and steps forward with a smooth, almost lazy movement, placing himself between you and the drummer. His hands slip casually into his pockets, posture relaxed, but the air around him shifts.

“Let’s pump the brakes, big guy,” he tilts his head slightly, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. “You’re welcome to try. But I’ll tell ya right now—” his teasing lilt diminishes, replaced by something colder, more commanding, “you’re not gonna like how it ends.”

His words—a warning and a challenge wrapped in one—hang heavy, and for a moment it feels like the entire store is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next. Glancing around, you notice a few customers watching the scene unfold.

Fucking hell—this has gone from bad to worse.

And yet…the drummer doesn’t swing. He doesn’t move—doesn’t even flinch.

He’s seething—rage evident in the set of his jaw, the clenched fists at his sides—but something about the stranger’s calm, unwavering demeanor is throwing him off balance. It’s almost impressive, really.

No, scratch that—it is impressive.

You misjudged this guy. He might have walked in here like a cocky troublemaker, throwing out cheesy one-liners and pushing your buttons, but now? Now, he’s cool under pressure, defusing a situation that could’ve easily escalated into violence.

Body language often says more than words ever could, and his is completely in control—relaxed, hands in his pockets, not a single muscle tensed for a fight, yet there’s a sharpness beneath the surface—an unspoken control that demands attention.

It’s brilliant in a way. He’s defusing the threat without lifting a finger—a textbook example of how to manage tension without aggression. This guy is winning a psychological game the drummer doesn’t even realize he’s playing.

Their silent standoff stretches, until finally, the stranger breaks the silence with his smooth and almost disarmingly casual voice.

“Look, man,” he shrugs one shoulder with a nonchalance that seems almost practiced. “This is me giving you a chance to walk away with your dignity intact.” Tilting his head slightly, he gestures toward you with a subtle nod. “She asked you politely to stop. This is a store, not your personal garage. So maybe it’s time you pack it up and go before you make things worse.”

There’s a moment—a pause that feels like it stretches just a beat too long—where you can practically see the drummer’s gears turning in his head, weighing his options, trying to hold onto whatever’s left of his bravado.

Then, finally, he mutters through gritted teeth,

“Whatever.”

The word is spat out, dripping with frustration and barely-contained rage, and with a sharp movement, he tosses the drumsticks onto the kit—the wooden sticks clattering against the drums in a final act of defiance.

“You’re not worth it, and this place sucks anyway,” he mutters, full of aggravation, but his heart no longer in it—it’s clear his fight has deflated.

Turning sharply on his heel, he shoves past both you and the stranger with a forceful shoulder, storming toward the exit, and once the door slams shut behind him, the sound reverberates through the store with an unmistakable finality.

Just like that, the tension breaks. It’s like the whole store exhales at once—the weight lifting from the air as the distant murmur of customers resumes.

Before you can fully process what just happened, the stranger beside you turns his attention back to you.

“Well, that was fun,” he remarks, “Could’ve gone worse though. I mean, I didn’t even get to throw a punch. Talk about anti-climactic, huh?”

You barely manage to take a breath as he closes the space between you just a little more, his movements slow and intentional, and your heart flutters the moment his sunglasses slip down slightly, just enough for you to get a direct glimpse of his eyes. They lock onto yours—those bright, vivid blues—and for a second, everything else around you fades into the background.

“Seriously though,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You okay?”

There’s something undeniably genuine in his tone, something that cuts through the playful exterior and lands right in your chest. You weren’t expecting that—this tenderness from someone who moments ago had brushed off a near-fight like it was nothing.

His eyes—soft but still burning with intensity—hold yours captive, and for a second, you forget how to speak.

“Uh… yeah,” you manage, “I think so.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Because I think you owe me a ‘thank you’ for that stellar rescue.”

You blink out of incredulity.

Thank you?

So much for tender—who does this guy think he is? You nearly scoff aloud. He wants a 'thank you' for a rescue that, truthfully, you weren’t even sure you needed?

Unsure whether you’re amused or annoyed by his arrogance, you open your mouth to respond—but before you can say anything, he cuts you off with a wink.

“Kidding,” he says with a chuckle, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Always happy to help.” His hands settle into his pockets and he pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Especially when it means I get to rescue a pretty girl like you.”

The compliment lands harder than you’d care to admit as you feel the warmth creeping up your neck and into your cheeks—betraying the fact that—against your better judgment—you’re not entirely immune to his charm.

A flicker of something stirs in your chest…

—nope. Let’s not go there.

Pushing it down before it can grow into something more, you refuse to let that feeling root itself.

You’re not looking for attention, especially not from a guy like this—a guy who flashes a cocky grin like he knows it works. The kind of guy who acts like the world bends to his whims.

Romance? No thanks. You’ve got bigger things to focus on. He’s exactly the kind of distraction you don’t need.

“Rescue might be a strong word,” you mutter, finally finding your voice again as you cross your arms over your chest. “I had it under control… mostly.”

“Oh, you did? My bad,” leaning in slightly, his voice lowers as if sharing a secret. “But trust me, that guy? He was one wrong word away from turning this into a full-on disaster. You’re lucky I stepped in when I did.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his comment, refusing to let him rattle you this time, and there’s a flicker of amusement creeping into your voice as you challenge him.

“Lucky, huh? So, what now? You expecting a medal or something?”

His grin widens—a grin that’s undeniably magnetic, but you resist being pulled into its orbit.

“Naaaah, I’m not that high maintenance,” straightening himself, he regards you with a slight tilt of the head. “But… I’ll take a coffee if you’re offering.”

You blink, momentarily thrown off by his response.

Did he just… ask you out?

“Wait, what?” you stammer, not quite sure you heard him right.

“A coffee,” he repeats smoothly. “Y’know, like a reward for my heroic efforts.” He pauses, just long enough to make it clear he’s toying with you. “Or is that too forward? I can settle for your number instead.”

You can’t help the scoff that escapes your lips—a sharp exhale that’s part disbelief, part amusement. This guy is unbelievable.

Nope. You’re not going to let him get to you that easily.

“I don’t even know your name,” you shoot back, lifting your chin just a little higher, “and you’re already angling for a reward?”

“Ouch, y/n,” he replies, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as if you’ve wounded him deeply—his grin, however, never falters. “That stings.”

You stare at him, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“How do you…?”

“How do I know your name?” he finishes for you, clearly enjoying this a little too much. He tilts his head. “Well, for starters, your nametag.”

Oh.

You glance down quickly and—of course—there it is, printed neatly on the tag pinned to your shirt, and now you are mentally kicking yourself for not realizing sooner.

“Right… of course,” you shake your head in mild embarrassment. It’s infuriating how easily he’s messing with you.

An amused chuckle dances on his lips and he leans back ever so slightly—hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world.

“But that’s not the only reason I know you,” he adds, voice taking on a more playful tone, almost like he’s daring you to figure it out. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

You blink, trying to piece together where you might’ve seen him before. There’s something vaguely familiar about his voice…have you heard it before? Do you know him?

“I don’t…” you start, trailing off, searching for any spark of recognition, but you come up blank. “Uhh… should I?”

Flashing you a toothy smile, he's clearly delighted by your confusion.

“Ouch again. Double whammy,” with a dramatic sigh, he shakes his head in mock disappointment as his crooked grin curves up. “I guess I’m not as memorable as I thought.”

Your eyebrow quirks up at his theatrics, and despite yourself, the corner of your lips do too. Ugh. You want to be irritated with him but somehow, he makes it incredibly hard to be.

“Right… well,” tilting your head, your voice dips with playful sarcasm, “maybe if you told me your name, it might jog my memory?”

With a soft chuckle, he slides his sunglasses off and rests them on top of his head, and just like that, you’re greeted with the full, unobstructed view of his eyes—striking, electric blue, so vivid they almost don’t seem real, and they lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a flutter through your chest.

“Satoru,” he says smoothly, as if his name alone should be enough to make everything click. “Gojo Satoru.”

The name floats in your mind, like it’s circling around something, but still, nothing concrete surfaces. He seems so confident—so sure that you should know who he is—and it only adds to your frustration.

Do you know him?

Generally, you keep to yourself, both at work and on campus—with your moms condition you don’t really have time for the exciting college life. Tilting your head, your eyes narrow as you study his face—surely, you would have remembered someone like him... wouldn’t you?

“Gojo Satoru…” you test the name on your tongue as if saying it aloud might unlock some hidden memory. But still—nothing. “Sorry, not ringing any bells.”

Satoru laughs again, rich and unbothered, like this is the highlight of his day.

“Wow, I’m really striking out today,” he shakes his head in mock dismay. “I guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Before you can muster a response, he reaches out casually, plucking a pair of drumsticks from an endcap display nearby, twirling them between his fingers like it’s second nature. He examines them for a moment, then looks back at you with a raised brow.

“So, since we’re here and I’m feeling generous… how about you check me out?”

You glance down at the drumsticks in his hand, then back up at him—his expression is unreadable, that signature smirk lingering as if he’s waiting for you to catch up.

“...you mean ring up the drumsticks, right?” you clarify, though your voice is uncertain.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” he murmurs, and then, with a sly wink, he adds, “But I don’t mind if you do both.”

For a beat, your breath hitches, and you fight back the urge to roll your eyes.

Okay—this is guy is definitely a flirt. You’re not falling for his trap.

“Wow… you’re really not subtle, are you?” reaching out, you snatch the drumsticks from his hand. “How many women actually fall for that?” you turn on your heel towards the counter, and he follows in step.

“Hmm…I’m not exactly keeping score,” he admits. “But let’s just say I don’t hear too many complaints.”

Glancing back at him, you arch an eyebrow as you approach the register—fingers automatically moving to unlock your cash drawer, and he leans casually against the counter beside you, propping his elbow on it—like he owns the space.

“Will say though,” he adds, voice dipping lower, “I don’t usually have to try this hard. You’re pretty special.”

You scoff, your fingers hesitating slightly over the keys, though you refuse to let him see how his words make a tiny flutter bloom in your chest.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter under your breath, trying—and failing—to focus solely on the transaction.

Satoru hums, watching you with that same playful gleam in his eyes.

“Nah,” his tone drops to something almost conspiratorial, “you’re definitely one of a kind.”

Yup. He’s a smooth talker—and without a doubt, bad news.

Pressing your lips together, you force your gaze to remain on the screen in front of you. He’s playing a game, and you’re determined not to lose.

As you scan the barcode on the drumsticks, he casually pulls out his wallet to pay, and that’s when something catches your eye—a student ID peeking out from the clear pocket inside his wallet.

Narrowing your eyes slightly, your fingers hover mid-air as you get a better look. The ID is familiar—yet you can't make out the school’s name plastered right across it, but the logo and the colors are unmistakable.

Wait a second…

“We go to the same school?”

Satoru looks up, his grin stretching even wider and the glimmer in his eyes practically daring you to catch up—he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Took ya long enough,” he teases, playful but with a hint of smugness. “Yeah, we do.”

You blink, the pieces clicking together a little too late.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you demand, unable to stop the half-accusatory, half-embarrassed tone that underlines your voice. A groan slips past your lips and you shake your head in frustration. “I swear…you’ve been messing with me this whole time.”

With an amused chuckles, Satoru lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug.

“Hey, it’s more fun this way,” he leans in a little closer, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. “Besides,” he pauses, tilting his head just slightly while his lips curve into a sly grin. “I like watching you piece things together. You’ve got this cute little furrow in your brow when you’re thinking hard.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your breath hitch, and no matter how hard you resist, there’s that undeniable flutter in your chest, warm and unwanted.

“How come I’ve never seen you around?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation back onto safer ground.

“Oof. You’re killing me, y/n. I pass by you every day, actually.”

You frown, narrowing your eyes.

“Every day? Where?”

“The water fountain,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers on the counter rhythmically, just a light touch. “Y’know, where you sit and study. Every afternoon, without fail. I walk by almost every day.”

Ah. That’s why his voice must’ve sounded familiar. You probably heard him—another voice blending into the background while you were studying.

“Really? Guess I never noticed you.”

Resting his chin in his hand, a dramatic huff falls from Satoru's lips as they form into a pout.

“Jeez…you don’t quit. I can’t believe I’m that forgettable.”

You can’t resist the soft laugh that escapes you, despite yourself—it’s hard not to find his antics at least a little amusing, and though you’d never admit it, the way he’s so desperate for your attention is almost… cute.

“Maybe you just blend into the background too much,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow while extending your hand, silently gesturing for his payment.

“Ouch...” he winces dramatically, pulling out his card before placing it in your hand. “Okay, that one stung a little.”

“Yeah, well… I’m sure your ego will recover,” you quip, glancing up briefly before focusing back on the transaction. But there’s a brief pause as you swipe his card—a silence that suddenly feels charged with something else.

You can feel his gaze lingering on you, heavy and expectant, and you try your hardest not to give in to the pull to look at him again—but the heat of his attention is unmistakable, almost like a gravitational force pulling you in, and you can feel your pulse quicken under his scrutiny.

“I gotta say, you’ve got a sharp tongue—I like it,” he murmurs.

Your fingers freeze for just a second, your breath hitching slightly as his tone shifts, and you can’t resist—your eyes flick up and he holds your gaze captive yet again.

“But it’s a bad habit, y’know,” he continues, his voice dropping, growing more intent as his eyes flicker over your features. “Not being aware of your surroundings like that...” leaning in just a fraction, his words become a quiet murmur between the two of you. “What if some creep tried to take advantage of you?”

The gentleness in his demeanor… is he genuinely concerned? It’s hard to tell—harder than you’d like to admit—and it’s easier to convince yourself he isn’t—that this is all part of his charming routine, because that makes it easier to ignore the subtle pull he has on you.

“Well,” you keep your voice steady, despite the flutter in your chest, “lucky for me, no one’s tried. Unless…” tilting your head slightly, a teasing smirk tugs at your lips, “you’re secretly admitting to being a creep.”

Satoru’s laugh spills out, rich and warm, breaking the moment just enough for you to catch your breath.

“Nah, I’m not creep,” his voice lightens as he straightens up just a little. “Just a concerned citizen looking out for someone who’s too absorbed in her textbooks to notice the world around her.”

You huff, though the corners of your mouth twitch upward against your will.

“I can handle myself, thank you very much,” you quip back, determined to maintain control over the situation. In a quick, defiant motion, you grab the receipt and shove it into his hand, a small victorious gesture.

“Right, right. You definitely proved that today when I swooped in for the rescue,” he teases, and his hand brushes yours ever so briefly as he takes the receipt—a touch so light is sends a tiny spark up your arm. “But hey, what if you don’t show up at the fountain one day? I’m gonna have to file a missing person’s report.”

You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“A missing person’s report? Seriously?” you roll your eyes.

“Yup,” he grins, emphasizing the ‘p’. “You’re there so often it’s practically routine. Same spot. Same time. Every day. It’s kinda predictable, y/n. If I don’t see you there one day, I’ll just assume some creep finally got to you.”

You narrow your eyes at him, though you can’t help the faint heat rising in your cheeks.

“Predictable?” you retort, trying to sound indignant. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, you are,” he counters, clearly reveling in your reaction as he slips the receipt in his pocket. “But hey, that’s not a bad thing. It makes you easier to find if you ever disappear.”

Shaking your head, you roll your eyes, a snappy reply ready on your tongue, but he’s already raising his hands with a dramatic flair, like he’s about to paint the scene in vivid detail.

“I can see it now: ‘Missing: Cute girl who spends way too much time by the water fountain. Last seen buried in a psychology textbook. Answers to y/n.’”

It’s impossible not to laugh again, the sound bubbling up as you watch him weave his ridiculous scenario with such confidence and flair. His eyes flick to yours, and a satisfied grin tugs at the corner of his mouth—clearly pleased with the effect he’s having on you.

“Wow,” you manage between chuckles. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Mhm,” he hums in agreement, leaning slightly closer. “Gotta be prepared. I don’t want anything happening to my favorite water fountain girl.”

Your heart flips—and for a second, it feels like he’s given you some kind of title you didn’t realize you wanted. You try to brush it off, to ignore the warmth spreading across your cheeks, but it’s not so easy with the way he’s looking at you.

“Riiiight… well, lucky for you,” you manage, attempting to sound nonchalant, “I’m not planning on disappearing anytime soon.”

“Good,” he murmurs, low and smooth. “Because I’d miss seeing you.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the upper hand, though the small smile that tugs at your lips betrays you.

“Uh-huh. Sure you would.”

There’s a brief moment, just the two of you—his gaze still locked onto yours, when—

“Ahem.”

You jump slightly at the sound, turning to see Utahime standing beside you, arms crossed, a knowing smile pulling at the corner of her lips. She gives you a look—a very knowing look—that sends heat rushing to your cheeks all over again.

“I’m taking my break,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes dancing with mischief as they flick between you and Satoru. “So… don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

Suddenly hyper-aware of the tension in the air, you swallow hard and offer her a tight smile.

“No promises,” Satoru quips, that cocky grin returning to his face as he leans against the counter slightly—clearly unfazed by the interruption.

After Utahime saunters off, he continues smoothly, picking up right where he left off.

“So...” he starts again, “What do you say? How about you give me your number? Just in case I need it, y’know, for emergencies.”

He’s relentless, isn’t he?

Heat creeps up your neck as you blink from his boldness—with a soft, incredulous laugh, you desperately try to find your footing again.

“You really don’t give up, do you?”

That familiar and confident gleam glistens in his eyes as his grin widens.

“Not when it comes to someone as interesting as you.”

There’s a flicker of something in your chest—a flutter that you’re quick to squash.

“Mmm… sorry,” you murmur, tone sweet but firm. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of disappointment. I’m really not interested in players.”

For the briefest moment, his grin falters, and something unreadable flashes behind his eyes—a momentary crack in his facade. It’s so quick, so subtle, that you almost miss it. But there’s just enough time to wonder if maybe you hit a nerve.

Still, Satoru recovers in an instant, his playful charm sliding back into place like nothing happened.

“That’s cold, y/n,” his voice light and teasing, though there’s a trace of something deeper, almost wounded, lurking beneath. “You really think I’m that kind of guy?”

Tilting your head slightly, you cross your arms over your chest as you study him—gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Yeah, well, I’ve met enough guys like you to know how this works.”

With a soft chuckle, and a smooth, almost lazy motion, he lowers his sunglasses from where they’re perched atop his head—resting them back on the bridge of his nose as the dark lenses now obscure his eyes from you.

He’s hiding behind them—letting them do the work of shielding his real thoughts. Huh. Typical behavior for someone who enjoys the chase but avoids real vulnerability.

“You’re quick to judge. I’m just a guy who knows what he wants. And right now? I just want your number.”

Classic deflection—you think. He’s not even denying it. Still... something about the way he says it makes that familiar flutter stir in your chest, and you hate it.

“Yeah... that’s not happening,” crossing your arms more tightly, you try to maintain control of the situation.

His hands come up in mock surrender as a small, amused sigh slips from his lips.

“Bummer,” he concedes, though there’s no real disappointment in his tone, only amusement. “But hey,” he picks up the drumsticks from the counter, “offer’s on the table if you ever change your mind.”

“Right... I’ll keep that in mind,” you dryly reply, knowing full well that you won’t.

“Please do,” he shoots back with that infuriatingly confident grin. “Besides, I’ll be seeing you around, water fountain girl.”

The familiar nickname brings an unwanted warmth that you attempt to shake off.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Gojo.”

But Satoru just steps back toward the door, exuding that same unshakeable confidence. “Oh, I’m not worried,” he says with a cocky smirk. “You’re predictable, remember? I know exactly where to find you.”

You open your mouth, ready to fire back with something witty, but before you can, he’s already halfway out the door, twirling the drumsticks between his fingers with effortless ease.

“See ya around, y/n,” he calls over his shoulder, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft jingle before you even have a chance to respond.

And just like that, the store feels quiet again, as if the air shifted back to normal now that he’s gone. You stand there for a moment, blinking at the closed door. You should feel relieved that he’s gone, that the exchange is over, but instead, you’re left with this strange, restless feeling you can’t quite shake.

What the hell just happened?

Shaking your head, you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. There’s a part of you that’s frustrated—frustrated at how easily he slipped under your skin, how effortlessly he managed to unsettle you with nothing but a grin and a few flirtatious remarks.

You hate that you’re even thinking about it. About him. He’s just another guy with too much confidence for his own good.

But something about the brief crack in his facade sticks with you. That fleeting moment where his grin faltered, and something else—something almost vulnerable—flickered behind those cocky blue eyes.

What was that?

With another shake of your head, you push the thought aside. He’s a flirt. A player. The kind of guy who never takes anything seriously.

That’s all there is to it.

You don’t have time to psychoanalyze every flippant guy who crosses your path, even if there’s a part of you that’s still curious.

Just as you’re about to shake off the thoughts entirely, your phone buzzes in your pocket, snapping you out of your daze. You pull it out, glancing down at the screen.

Kyoko: Hey sweetie, just wanted to let you know your mom's been having a rough day today. She’s more confused than usual, keeps asking for you. Maybe you could visit soon?”

Reality crashes back in—grounding you in the weight of your responsibilities.

With a sigh, you run a hand through your hair, already mentally preparing yourself for the evening ahead.

You: Thanks for the update, Aunt Kyoko. My shift is almost over, I’ll be home soon.

Focus. There’s no room for distractions—not right now.

Not with Satoru Gojo. Not with anyone.

a/n. thanks for reading the debut of bomh (or i guess the re-debut since this is a rewrite? hehe). i'm excited to explore a lot of topics in this fic, and rewriting it definitely helped rekindle my passion for this story. so, i'm looking forward with whats to come! hope ya'll enjoyed 💕 → you are currently all caught up ♪

taglist:

@gojoslefttoenail @satoryaa @ninjaturtletoes @murtabuckz @sorcerersseestars

@reagan707 @sakurasimppp @sugxryratz @tkyemfk @lovelyjkook

@lovebittenbyevans @kaemaybae @bloopsstuff

[bright-side20]

Bonus chapter

I often think about how people are so confident that the bonus chapter was meant to shut down Elriel. Regardless of the fact that it's a bonus chapter, which speaks volumes, we have a clear idea of what happened after that night. SJM said Cassian won the snowball fight because Azriel and Rhys were busy trying to kill each other, obviously because of what had happened during the solstice night. Then she pointed out that he was aloof during training and didn't even want to smile at Nesta. There was absolutely no development of his relationship with Gwyn, he preferred to save Eris . Then, in Hofas , she made it clear that he's single and doesn't have a mate.

What does that means?

It means that he is still staring at the headache powder plus the earplugs, suffering and longing for Elain in secret, thinking about how she now believes he rejected her while he was actually forbidden by Rhys to go near her.

I think the reason why people view the bonus chapter as an end to Elriel is that they think Azriel was an obstacle for Lucien. So, SJM made Az say it was a mistake so that Elain would be upset and run to Lucien because, you know, the poor guy was so patient with her while she’s been so stubborn. She'll realize how noble and sexy he is and start groveling as if she owes him shit. And SJM presented Gwyn for Az to say, I just said the cauldron is wrong, now Gwyn is my mate. Good, I'm too lazy for challenging fate let's train and heal.

But the problem is that they forget the context I've talked about above. They forget that SJM will not build Gwynriel and Elucien on miscommunication between Elriel. Their way of viewing Elain, Azriel, and Lucien triangle is so biased. Azriel was never an obstacle for Lucien. Since ACOFAS, he's been trying so hard to stay away from Elain. She and Lucien had the total space and time to develop a relationship.

Elain didn't develop a relationship with Lucien simply because she doesn't want to be with him. She's not interested in him, and that's exactly what people don't want to accept. She prefers to stare at a screaming kettle rather than sit with him. Even if Azriel didn't exist, Elain would still not accept being with Lucien because she believes in love. She doesn't want to give a chance to someone just because she's shackled to him by a bond she didn't ask for. When Elain rejects the bond, she will do it for herself and for what she believes in, to claim her agency over her life. When she's with Azriel, it will be because she fell in love with him and chose to give him her time, affection, and heart.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Second Chance 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Jonathan Pine

Summary: You move into your parents’ house as you try to rebuild your life, catching the attention of someone you never expected.

Part of the Brother’s Best Friend Universe

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You could say it’s Jonathan who convinced you to walk into that bar but it didn’t really take much. Anything to delay your return home is welcome. You’re grateful to your parents for taking you in, yet you can’t help but feel a little dejected all the same. You didn’t exactly return home to fanfare. 

Jonathan holds the door and you give him a look. He acts as if he doesn’t notice but you catch the glint of his blue eyes. 

“Why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll get the drinks?” He offers, “if I recall, you were a fan of Grey Goose–” 

“Oh god no, I can’t handle the headache,” you snort. 

“Ah, I see you’ve converted, pint?” He insists, 

“A glass of wine will do,” you insist, “riesling or sauvignon.” 

“Sophisticated,” he muses. 

“Relax, I usually get it in a box.” 

He smirks and turns towards the bar. You look around and claim a table against the wall, just beneath a vintage show poster for some long forgotten band. You sit and place your purse against the wooden paneling. 

You circle your thumb around your fingertip as you stare at the table. The finish is worn and a few slivers are missing along the edge. What are you doing here? Not just at this table in this bar, but in this town. You always said you would never come back. Now look at you. 

Embarrassment tendrils up your neck. You remember how loudly you proclaimed that very sentiment, every day since you turned sixteen. To the very man you came in here with. 

Jonathan finds you before you can descend too quickly into self-pity. He sits and puts a stemmed glass in front of you, a tall dark pint for himself. You reach for your purse. 

“How much do I owe you? There’s an ATM–” 

“My treat, as a congratulations.” 

You scrunch your lips then quickly slacken them, recalling how it deepens the lines around them, “what are you up to?” 

“I can’t be happy for you.” 

“Please, it’s been a long time but things haven’t changed that much.” 

“I have,” he insists, his voice deepening to a note that catches you offguard. You hide the slow realisation as it dawns; he is far from the stringy teen or the obnoxious coed… he’s a man and yet you don’t feel much different than that lost sixteen year old with the chip on her shoulder. 

“Did I never apologise for that molasses incident?” 

“Incident? Don’t try to act innocent,” you laugh. The first time you’ve truly done so in months. Looking back, those years weren’t as bad as they felt as you lived them. “I still can’t stand the smell.” 

He smirks and guiltily looks down at the table, “I was a little bastard.” 

“So you say but I still don’t hear an apology,” you chide, “it is what it is. It was years ago.” 

“Well, if it counts for anything, I do regret it,” he meets your eye. 

“If that’s your biggest regret then I think you’re doing just fine.” 

“Definitely not the biggest,” he lifts his glass and holds it out, “cheers to you.” 

You hesitate but clink the wine glass against the tall pint. You drink nearly half the glass before you remember to stop. You haven’t drank since the night it all imploded. You mad a point of it. Plus, your mother locked her wine away. 

You put the glass down and turn it slowly by its base, “sorry, I’m not much fun. I’m sure Jaydon will be up for some drinks later. You could even break out the beer pong.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Your mouth pinches again. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” He asks. 

“Molasses…” you mutter. 

He laughs and shakes his head, “I will forever atone for that one,” he sits back, his hand against the side of his glass, “you don’t realise, you were always the cool older sister.” 

“Please,” you roll your eyes. 

“You were. Jaydon is Jaydon. He can’t see beyond his own nose but… well, I’m an only child, I didn’t have anyone to scare away my bullies.” 

“Yeah, well, as much as I could smack Jaydon myself, that idiot was a bit obsessed, wasn’t he?” 

He tilts his head, “he has no idea how lucky he is. None of them do.” 

“Alright, Jonathan, I can’t take any more. I didn't come for a pity party.” 

“That’s not what this is.” 

“You know.” 

“I know?” He wonders. 

“I’m not stupid. I’m pathetic, sure. I hear my mother telling all her friends on the phone. I’m sure you’ve heard everything. It’s shitty. I lost my boyfriend and my job and my overpriced apartment and now I’m back here. And you and Jaydon have lives to go back to,” you gulp and raise your glass, swallow down the wine with your bubbling emotions, “I don’t need any more reminders.” 

He watches you put down the empty glass. He stares at it before he looks you in the face, “I’ve heard what they have to say but it doesn’t mean I believe them. It’s hearsay.” 

“It’s what happened. I am not the cool older sister, I’m the fuck up.” 

He leans forward and slowly reaches for your wine glass, “and what have you heard about me, hm? How do you know I haven’t fucked up?” 

You look at him and gesture emphatically, “come on.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he stands, “and pay you back with another glass.” 

Before you can argue, he’s on his way to the bar. The tinge of wine sticks to your tongue as you watch his confident march. As you examine the way the fabric of his button down strains between his shoulders blades, you blanch. You turn straight and once more lower your eyes to the table. 

No. No. It’s Jonathan. It’s your brother’s friend. It’s that skinny, reedy kid who drove you insane. You’re just lost. You’re not thinking straight. You're fresh off heartbreak, you’re not even through it. You don’t want him, you just don’t want to be alone. 

He returns and you clear your throat, fixing your posture as you smile at him. He sets a full glass in front of you. Once more, your hand is on your purse, “alright, you have to let me get this one.” 

“You can buy my next pint,” he gives a slanted grin, “I must warn you, I’m rather easy once I see the bottom of the glass.” 

You laugh, “be careful.” 

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me, darling,” the last word flutters through you, “I’ve grown, I can handle myself.” He takes his glass again and hovers it before his lips as his winks, “and you.” 

[creative-caramel-coffee]

Side Sickness

Prompt: Side Effects/Adverse Reaction

Pairings: Wandanat x R

Word count: 900

Summary: after getting shot you have an odd reaction to the anaesthesia

TW: vomiting, medical drugs, getting shot (mentions), surgery

It was suppose to be a simple mission. But here you were lying on the bed in the medical wing of the compound, with a bullet in your leg. Bruce had said it was too deep to just remove so you were being prepped for surgery. you had asked Bruce to wait to tell your girls until he knew you would be fine, not wanting to worry them.

“ready y/n/n?” he asked.

you nodded, still in too much pain to talk. he placed the mask down on your face, instructing you to count back from ten. you had barely hit eight when the darkness took over.

It was about an hour later you started to come to. the first thing that registered in your very fuzzy brain was the feeling of fingers carding through your hair. long nails running over your scalp in a way that made you want to go back to sleep. two voices chatted lively before going silent. upon opening your eyes, the bright lights seemed to make you nauseous,. quickly you shut them again. but nat noticed.

“Y/n/n? you with us baby?” nat asked, and you felt the fingers stop to tease a small knot out of your hair. you merely groaned. making Wanda chuckle.

“mm don’t feel good.” you whined. nat frowned and Wanda made some motion with her hand that sent nat to get bruce.

a moment later you heard the footsteps return and bruce folding his glasses.

“Y/n? Natasha says you don’t feel good.” you nodded, swallowing the nausea that built with the dizziness of the action. “can you tell me where it hurts, i thought i got the dosage correct for the pain meds but maybe you lost some weight?”

“‘m not sick.” you whined. Making both girls frown, you only ever acted like this when you felt ill. Wanda noticed the shift in the pallor of your skin before nat or bruce, probably because she was closest. quickly she reached behind her to grab a sick bag as you threw up into it. one hand held the bag to your chin and the other ran circles on your back. you coughed spitting the foul taste into the bag before flopping back and placing an arm over your eyes.

“is that… is that suppose to happen?” nat asked as Wanda threw away the sick bag and grabbed another just in case.

“its not common but it can happen as a side effect of the anaesthesia . Keep an eye on her and if it happens again come get me. just a warning the drugs might make her a bit … loopy.”

“loopy how?” nat asked as bruce scurried away. “BRUCE LOOPY HOW?” she yelled, making you wince.

“headache bubs?” Wanda asked, going back to stroking back your hair.

“mmmm.” you agreed. “tell nat to make less wiggly air.”

“what?” Wanda asked.

“sound waves are just wiggly air and nattys being too loud, for the brain. ‘s makin’ it angry.” you slurred

“sorry baby.” nat sighed kissing your knuckles. Wanda waved her hand and used her magic to lower the lights, and carefully peeled back your arm from your eyes.

“can i see those pretty eyes baby girl?”

you grinned opening you eyes wide to stare at Wanda. nat laughed as you relaxed again and flopped back.

“ow.” you frowned.

“what hurts baby?” nat asked

“my life.” you shrugged.

“ok.” Wanda smiled, as nat looked confused.

“‘m sleepy”

“you can rest now bubs.” Wanda cooed ignoring nats open mouth to protest. “we’ll be right here the whole time.”

the next time you opened you eyes the nausea was back. Wanda paused her conversation with nat, each girl sat on either side of your bed in the med bay.

“y/n/n? you ok?” nat frowned, motioning to Wanda to get the sick bag just incase.

“gonna be sick.” you cried, sitting up straight, almost vomiting into you lap if it weren’t for Wanda’s quick reaction to slide the sickbag back under your chin to catch it.

“shh its ok baby. your ok.” nat cooed, rubbing your back. slightly more lucid this time tears flowed over your cheeks. you spat again and leaned back gingerly to avoid aggravating your leg.

“are you feeling better now?” Wanda asked. you shot a weak thumbs up and closed your eyes again.

“I’m going to tell bruce you were sick again.” nat replied. leaving the room to find him. after a few minutes of Wanda getting rid of the bag again she sat back by your side. running her hands through your hair again.

“it’ll be ok y/n/n your doing so good for us.” you hadn’t realised the tear were still flowing but you made not move to stop them.

“never let me get shot again.” you muttered.

“Baby i wasn’t even with you this time.” she chuckled slightly.

“don’t leave me again.” you whined.

“I didn’t plan on it ever again my sweet. never again.” she kissed your forehead and you let sleep take over again still feeling felt and exhausted down to your bones.

MASTERLIST

[givemea-dam-break]

Hmm ok.. To the “married but don’t know how”, I saw a fic where these two characters got drunk and got someone to officially make them married and they didn’t find out till they woke up the next day so I was thinking of that.

If it makes sense because I’m shit at explaining. But you could have Lockwood reveal to the reader instead.

a/n: i’ve had to age the characters up for this one (in the uk, you have to be 18 to legally marry now lol) but hopefully this is still alright! i'm so so sorry you've had to wait so long for this haha i had no idea how to go about this for ages. there are no 18+ themes in this, the characters have just been aged up for it to make sense.

warnings: mentions of drinking, language gn reader

How Could I Refuse? - Anthony Lockwood

This is perhaps the worst headache you've had in a while.

As soon as you open your eyes, you have to shut them again to save yourself from being blinded by the bright sunlight streaming through the gap in your curtains. It feels as if there is a little person in your head, knocking against your skull with the strongest hammer they could find. Groaning, you roll over in your bed, shoving your face into your pillow.

There's a cold feeling on one of your fingers, but you chalk it down to it going numb from how you're lying, so you only move it.

And get a glimpse of gold.

Frowning, you lift your head up just enough to look at your hand - your left one, at that - and blink once, twice, three times to make sure you're actually awake.

Whose ring is that on your finger?

It's one you've never seen before, a simple band of gold with a glittering sapphire inlaid in the centre. Truthfully, it's gorgeous, but you can't help but feel guilty. Whose ring did you nick, and why?

And what on God's green earth did you drink last night?

You remember going out with your friends - Lockwood, Lucy, and George - last night to celebrate Lucy's eighteenth, and you remember the bar Lockwood had dragged you all to after the meal you'd all shared. George had left early. He wasn't interested in drinking, and although you all felt bad, he didn't seem to mind too much and went home. After a while... well, that's where your memory goes blank.

A good cup of tea. That's all you need.

So, with dragging, heavy limbs, you roll out of bed and make the oh-so-long and arduous trek down to the kitchen.

Only Lucy is there, and she looks about as good as you feel. Her hair is still messy from getting up not long ago, and her head is resting on the table beside a half-empty glass of water, an open packet of painkillers, and a steaming mug of tea.

"Morning, Luce," you mumble, reaching into the cupboard for your mug.

"It's two in the afternoon," she grumbles. "I think. Maybe."

You squint at the clock on the wall. "No, you're right. God, what did we do last night? We couldn't have drank that much?"

"If this is what eighteen entails, I don't want it."

Patting her shoulder as you pass to reach into the fridge, you say, "It's not all bad. You can buy scissors now. Want a piece of cake? There's still some left in the fridge."

"Can't have cake for breakfast."

"Not breakfast. It's after lunch now."

With that, she looks up and grins, accepting the plate you've already gotten prepared for her. She gratefully takes it but pauses.

"Where'd you get that ring? Never seen it before."

"No clue." You lean back against the kitchen counter, sipping your tea and burning your tongue in the process. "Ow! Ugh - No, I don't know. Woke up with it on. I think I nicked it from someone."

While taking a bite of her birthday cake, she gestures for you to give her your hand. You comply, and she stares down at the band and its glittering stone with a frown. She opens her mouth to say something, but hiccups instead, which sends you both into a delirious fit of laughter. Honestly, what did you drink?

"I've no clue whose ring this is," she says, twisting it on your finger a little. "Looks old. Expensive. I suppose drunk you wanted to go for a vintage look."

"But, why's it on this finger?" You waggle your ring finger at her. "I'm not married."

"Maybe Lockwood will know? Out of all of us, he probably knows the most about vintage shit. Look at the sofa covers in the living room, for god's sake!"

"Lockwood will know what?"

Lucy turns and smiles. "Perfect! Just in time. We need your help."

Lockwood stands in the kitchen doorway, rubbing at his eyes yet still managing to look like his usual chipper self. Unlike you and Lucy, his hair isn't messy, nor does he look like he's been dragged to the deepest pits of hell and back. He's even wearing fresh clothes! You glance down at the tatty pyjamas you never bothered to change out of and flush.

"Help for what? Oh, (name), is the kettle still hot? Mind making me a brew, please?"

You slip your hand from Lucy's and make him a cup of tea and she explains the predicament, suddenly very animated compared to how she was five minutes ago.

"(name) nicked someone's ring while we were out last night," she says, and her voice holds a tone of scandal that makes you feel embarrassed. "We've no idea who it could belong to, or why they took it. But, get this, it's on their ring finger!"

Lockwood frowns, looking at your hand as you pass him his mug. For a moment, that's all he does - frown - but a second passes and suddenly he looks as if he's been told the juiciest gossip one could ever know. It's a look you've seen a lot, seeing as the only thing he reads are the gossip rags that show the latest news on Penelope Fittes, or a scandal between two millionaires that have nothing better to do with their life.

"Let me see that," he says.

You share a look with Lucy, but let him look nonetheless. If you weren't red already, the second his hand takes yours definitely makes your face heat up and turn pink. He's gentle as he takes it, turning your hand this way and that so he can get a good look at it. Then he pales.

"That's my mother's wedding ring."

He may as well have told you that you're a grave robber. The guilt that seeps into your skin is overwhelming, and you immediately tear the ring off, placing it on the thinking cloth just in front of him.

"I am so sorry. Fuck. I wasn't wearing that when we left, was I, Luce? Shit, I'm so, so sorry Lockwood. I don't even know how I ended up with it."

"I do," he murmurs. He won't look at you for a moment, his eyebrows creased with confusion. "I always keep it on me. It's like a good luck charm, I suppose."

You look back at Lucy. Something is dawning on her, and she's looking at you wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "Shit, guys."

"What do you mean, Shit, guys?" You glance between them. "What's going on?"

Lucy makes a face, sipping her tea. "You telling her, Lockwood, or am I?"

Lockwood is still staring at the ring, and it's making you nervous. "Lockwood?"

"Lucy?" he says.

"Lockwood," she replies.

"I..." He runs a hand over his face, picking up the ring and twirling it in his fingers. "(name), don't kill me."

"Why would I kill you? Lockwood, you're freaking me out."

"Believe it or not, I think we got married."

The laugh that leaves your mouth then is accidental, and you cover your mouth quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to - What?"

You're not sure if the pounding sound you can hear is your heartbeat or George performing some kind of Zumba routine up in his room. When did you place your mug down, or did Lockwood take it from your hands?

"Like - like how people get married in Vegas? What is it, eloping, or something? You're pulling my leg right now. Lucy, he's not making sense, is he?"

Lucy only stands, hiding a smile, and says, "I think I hear George shouting for me. I better go."

"Luce -"

But she's gone, taking her tea and her grin away with her. Leaving you with Lockwood, who can't seem to decide whether he should look at you or the ring.

"You don't know that we got married," you insist. "We were both drunk, and you could've just given me the ring for good luck. Right?"

"I don't think -" He pauses, and the silence is painful. You have to sit down and down two painkillers. "I wouldn't just give anyone this ring. Like I said, it was my mum's."

"But we're not married, right? There would have to be, like, legal certification for that."

He smiles ruefully. "Wouldn't be that terrible being married to me, would it?"

"Oh, no! No, no, it wouldn't. I mean, well, you know -"

"I've liked you for a while."

The words cut your ramble short, and you can only stare at him in shock. He's finally looking at you now, but there's something in his eyes that makes you feel inherently guilty for reacting the way you did.

It's not that it would be a bad thing in all reality. Hell, you'd love the possibility of being in a relationship with Lockwood after years of pining after him, but you can't remember any of last night after a few drinks at the bar. It's something you'd liked to have remembered, especially now with what he's admitted.

"Well, I'm not sure liked is the right word. Loved, more like."

It's a little hard to breathe. "Are you sure you're sober?"

"Pretty sure I am. What's that thing that some people say? Drunk words are sober thoughts? Whatever. But I do mean it, (name). I've loved you since the moment you tried to stab me on one of your first cases here."

"I thought you were a ghost," you say quietly.

He laughs softly. "Yes, I know. I'm just trying to say that this wasn't out of the blue. I'd been hoping to ask you out sometime soon, but it seems that I skipped a few bases. Hey, at least you didn't reject me."

And the way he looks at you then, so imploringly, you know he's practically begging you not to now.

Sheepishly, you say, "I wouldn't reject you. Well, not unless you made one of those grand public gestures you see in the movies. Those make me feel queasy."

The grin he dons at that moment is dazzling, and it takes you off guard for a second. He runs a hand through his neatly brushed hair, breathing a sigh of relief that makes you smile a little.

"You can keep the ring if you want," he says. Already, that infamous charm of his has returned. "Seeing as I apparently proposed and married you with it last night."

"How could I refuse?" you ask with a laugh.

Gently, he takes your hand in his once more, slipping the ring back onto the finger you found it on not even twenty minutes ago. His grin brightens at the sight, and he holds your hand for a few minutes longer, entwining your fingers with his.

"So, I guess we're together, now?"

He laughs. "I guess we are.

You squeeze his hand softly, eyes fixed on the glittering band on your finger, and say, "I love you, too, for what it's worth."

[jtks-gh05t-g1rl]

My everything.

part one

(this is copied from my Wattpad!)

not many warning besides, swear words, smoking is mentioned, and kinda cheesey or sappy.

.....

.........

............

"what the fuck..?"

I rubbed my eyes to try to get rid of the blurriness. all I could make out was a wood podium; it reminded me of a court , the most important person in the middle, and the others on each side or in front.

I had a throbbing headache. Actually, it was my entire body that was aching. The heat was not helping my case. The only pleasant thing was the smell. It was earthy and smelt, kind of burnt ?, but in a calming way.

I finally got my vision back after a few seconds. In front of me, there were eight men; one of which caught my eye. His hair looked like the night sky right when the sun begins to set, containing hues of blue and purple.. He had the most beautiful eyes, a golden color that was mesmerizing. I noticed the person next to him whispering something to him.

"Oh! You're awake!"

I looked over at a red-haired man. He had a huge grin on his face. He was honestly very intimidating, I would be lying if I said I wasn't panicking.

"what is this? where am i?"

"It's a very long story, but y'know what else is lo-"

"Shut up!"

"Ow! You're gonna bruise my beautiful skin!" A boy with champagne like hair spoke.

"I'm just going to assume I was kidnapped, and now you're going to kill me."

"I promise you, We mean no harm," the Red haired man spoke.

"You are at The Royal Academy of Diavolo, or RAD for short, You have been chosen as an exchange student. You will be studying here for one year, You will also be representing the human realm."

"Human realm?"

"Ah, there are three realms. human realm, or human world, celestial realm, and the demon realm, which you are in currently."

It was completely silent for a couple seconds

....

.....

"are you guys high?"

"goodness no!"

"I'm so confused."

"and my head hurts."

"Barbatos?"

"I am already on it, my lord."

the man I'm assuming to be barbatos handed me a steamy cup of tea. it smelled incredible, I'm beginning to see a pattern.

"To help with your pain."

"Thank you." I said, trying to smile. The pain from all over was distracting.

"Allow me to introduce everyone before we move further."

"I am Lord diavolo, the future king of the devildom."

▪︎Leviathan's POV▪︎

[a few minutes earlier]

"psst, Levi, she was totally staring at you!!" Asmo had just whispered to me .

I gave him a "You're crazy" look. He must be psycho if he thinks someone that pretty would look at me, let alone stare.

I don't even know this girl, but I can already tell she's going to get a lot of attention here. I got an overwhelming wave of jealousy, or maybe even anger, rush over me.

I don't know this human, why do I feel like this? why am I so upset?

lord diavolo had begun to introduce everyone, and I hadn't even noticed. I was too lost in my thoughts. maybe I should stop thinking.

▪︎MC POV▪︎

one lengthy introduction and explanation later I understand what's going on and I know names of the people in front of me. I still could not take my eyes off this gorgeous boy. This is so sappy, but holy shit he's breathtaking.

"So, are you being serious about the three realms? I always thought that was like a fairytale or something."

"That's expected. Yes, we are serious." A man with piercing red eyes, I now know as lucifer, spoke. He was also very intimidating.

"I'm sorry, but all of you are extremely scary." I chuckled nervously.

"Oh sweetie, please. how could I ever be scary!"

"Hello? is she awake?"

"Right on time, solomon!"

"MC this Solomon the other human exchange student."

"Hello, MC!"

"Hi."

"Wait, don't I know you from somewhere? you look so familiar.." I gasped.

"You used to visit the book shop I work at!" I said with a huge smile plastered on my face.

"Yes! You always recommended the best books. Maybe you could recommend more in the future?"

"for sure!"

"MC, Mammon will be giving you a tour of RAD and The House or Lamentation." Diavolo spoke.

"Wha-! Why me?!" Mammon spoke, earning a terrifying stare from lucifer.

"Just kidding! I would be honored!"

"MC, if he causes you any trouble, don't be afraid to report back to me."

"Yes, sir!"

"Wow, mammon. She just got here, and she already has better manners than you!" Leviathan spoke.

▪︎leviathan's POV▪︎

She giggled at my "joke", truthfully, it wasn't a joke. I was a thousand percent serious, but she laughed.

We were all dismissed by Diavolo after mammon and MC had left. I obviously went straight to my room. I changed into something more comfortable, I could not take one more second in that uniform. I was starving, so I started to make my way to the kitchen.

"Y'know you aren't that bad for a human!" mammon told MC. They seem to be getting along well.

mammon to distracted to notice me, so he walked into me.

"Oi! Watch it, Levi!"

"You bumped into me!" Mammon's eyes lit up as if he had the most incredible idea.

"You're right, Levi! I'm sorry!"

"On an unrelated note! Can you finish this tour for me? I'm so exhausted."

"Oh em gee, do you hate me that much?" MC said, giggling.

"Of course not!" he said, running away.

"Well, I guess I don't have a choice."

"Oh my gosh! You like TSL?"

she said, gesturing to my t-shirt.

▪︎MC'S POV▪︎

"O-oh yeah!" the boy said, rubbing his arm.

"I've been a fan for years!"

I started to zone out as the indigo-haired boy went on rambling about his favorite characters and favorite book. staring at his features, thankfully he didn't notice. I didn't mind his rambling. It helped me get to know him better.

"Oh yeah! the tour! sorry, I got distracted."

"No, that's okay. I only just now got into TSL, but you seem to know a lot. Maybe you can tell me more about it later?"

"I would love too- I mean, that would be cool!" he had the most beautiful smile.

"Where have you not seen? What's left of the tour?"

"Oh, uhm, I think I just need to see where I'm staying."

"ok cool! this way." Levi turned on his heels.

.......

......

....

..

.

"Right here!"

"Whoa, this room is really nice."

"It's all yours, I think lucifer said that you'll get all of your things back sometime this week."

"Thank you, levi!" I said smiling.

"No problem! I-I'm gonna get going, uhm, goodnight!"

He walked away before I could say anything.

••••••••••••

1131 words

(if you find typos pls lmk thx lol :p)

[hollowwrites]

Putting the RIP in Scriptorium

Part 2

Summary - I didn’t think this would have a part 2 but after a few people asked for it and I had a cheeky think I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So thanks to you guys @skarathewitch and @samfoley!!

In my little slow burn Ominis and Eve are already very touchy feely and comfortable with each other. I wanted to explore the origins of that

Warnings - mentions of Crucio, little bit of Angst, mostly comfort

Word Count - 1676

~

Evelyn lowered herself onto the long benches flanking the Slytherins’ Feast Table. She ached to her core. Sleeping usually solved all of her problems. Whether it was a common cold or a headache, most of her ills could be resolved with a simple nap.

So why would Crucio be any different?

She was wrong.

Painfully wrong.

Her bones protested against the slightest movement, though she tried not to show it. The scarf she wrapped around her neck hid it’s own secrets, the huge bruise that spread out from the scar left in the curses’ wake.

Imelda and herself spent their morning talking about nothing. At least that’s what Eve heard. Imelda’s musings, unfortunately, just weren’t sinking in. The only thing Eve contributed to the conversation was an unenthusiastic nod and the occasionally hum of faux interest.

Where was Ominis and Sebastian?

She craned her neck painfully to stare at the big double doors hoping to see them. Either of them.

Well preferably not Ominis.

He had told her to rest but she was already so far behind her peers, just one day seemed like too much to ask. She sighed and shovelled more toast into her mouth, her jaw aching as she chewed on it slowly.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rest upon her shoulder. Her body contorted stiffly to avoid putting unneeded pressure on her side.

It was Ominis.

“A word” he said flatly, eyebrows slammed flat over his eyes. The stare of his sightless eyes sent a shiver up her spine.

“Ominis? I-“ she started

“Now” his hand fell from her shoulder and he strode towards the landing overlooking the Great Hall. He disappeared up the stairs and she sighed, defeated.

“I’ll see you later, Imelda” she mumbled before obediently following after Ominis.

He waited, arms crossed and foot tapping, impatiently at the top of the stairs.

“I told you to rest” his eyes somehow bore into her and she found herself shifting under his gaze

“I’m fine, honestly”

“Oh really?” His snippy little attitude was starting to grate on her. She was already in pain, she didn’t want to deal with this as well. “Where did that curse hit you”

“My chest, towards my shoulder sort of-OW!” She yelped as Ominis’ long digits jabbed into the bruise below her scarf

“I thought you were okay?” He asked sarcastically

“Enough, Ominis. I get that your concerned but I can’t afford to just sit around all day because I have a bit of a bruise” she snapped back, ignoring the dull ache from her shoulder as it screamed it’s objection.

“Are you forgetting who you’re talking to? It’s not just a bruise, Evelyn. It’s-“ all of sudden, he could smell the unforgettable scent of fresh blood. She started sniffing waiting for him to continue his tirade, until he randomly reached out and touched her lip. He drew the pool of red onto his finger, using it to punctuate his rant.

“It’s this too” he continued. She gasped rubbing at her face failing to rid the blood from her visage. She tasted the metallic tinge on her tongue as she licked it from her lips.

“Please…” his anger subsided, his true intentions bubbling forth as he held her arms “Come with me to the Undercroft. We can study all day if you’d like just…don’t spend all day in pain, pretending that you’re not”

“Okay” she said meekly, her voice now raspy “Can you help me study for Herbology? I need to write 20 inches on Mandrakes and their uses” he laughed breathily

“Of course”

~

She heard Ominis before she saw him.

He’d left her, momentarily to gather some supplies for their day in the Undercroft. He promised her that he wouldn’t be long, if she promised not to leave. If he had to sacrifice a day so that she wouldn’t do herself a mischief, then so be it.

The clattering of his arrival rang down the entrance corridor and echoed around the Undercrofts empty walls, followed by a string of mumbled curses.

“Are you okay?” She called to him from the crate she perched on top of. He stumbled though the portcullis, followed by a flock of tomes and books, loyally following behind, flapping like birds.

“I hate this bloody charm” he grumbled, dropping the crate he was carrying to the floor, the telltale jingle of potion vials tinkling against one another. He took out his wand, gesturing to the books. They descended into a neat pile at Eves feet.

“What are these?” She hissed bending to retrieve the book closest to her. They were immaculate textbooks covering each and every topic she was studying at Hogwarts, and a few she hadn’t heard of yet. Each were perfect, albeit a single mark upon the top right corner of each tome. Elegant handwriting marked each with the initials ‘OG’…“Are these yours?”

“Mmmm yes” he hummed “That is every notebook, dossier and textbook from my first year here. I’d have gotten my second, third and fourth years too but…having that many books follow me would’ve drove me mad.”

“Why?” She asked flicking through the pages of ‘Charms: a beginners guide to the basics’

“So you can stop worrying about falling behind. You’re a fast learner and a talented witch…you can use these, anytime, to brush up on things you’re not certain about. Or you can compare your notes to mine and see how exceptionally well you’re doing. You need to remember you’re technically a first year. So stop comparing yourself to fifth years. I’ll leave them here for you.”

“Ominis…” she clutched her chest, touched by his consideration. “That’s very sweet of you, Thank you”

He shrugged, summoning multiple blankets and throw cushions around them. If they were going to study, they were going to study right.

“I thought you couldn’t conjure objects inside of Hogwarts?”

“Ah, something I learnt in my third year. There are always exceptions to the rules, Evelyn”

-

Ominis was more intelligent than he let on, despite his moaning about Professor Garlicks’ lack of care or Sebastians’ distracting behaviour in Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had a theoretical knowledge of every possible subject making completing her assignments easy. His Wiggenweld may be rubbish, but he knew the potions origins and how to properly chop dittany better than even Garreth.

They made light work of their shared essays and assignments, and after several hours they decided they worked enough for one day, opting to just, for once, relax.

They leant against each other on their plush picnic blanket, shoulder to shoulder.

Well, shoulder to bicep. Ominis was tall and gangly, there was no way she was ever reaching that high.

Eventually, the fatigue of their long day caught up to them and they settled against each other, Eves head finding it’s way to his shoulder and his cheek found the top of her head.

For a while they were quiet, lulled to a calm and relaxed state by the steady stillness of each others breathing.

The soft tinkling of an enchanted harp sang away somewhere in the clutter of the room. It’s heavenly harmony was interrupted, momentarily, by the distant chime of the bells signalling it was dinner time.

Eve sighed, heavily. And she noticed that no pain shot up her side.

“How are you feeling?” Ominis asked shifting slightly as though he could look at her. No doubt a habit he had picked up to put people at ease.

“Actually? Much better. Those Wiggenwelds worked a treat”

“Can I see?” He leant back fully now, prompting her to remove her head from him. She groaned needily at the movement and earned a wonky smile from Ominis. “Here” he rotated himself and positioned himself directly in front of her “Now this will look…unnerving. But…trust me”

He took his wand off the blanket where they had discarded them earlier in the evening. Almost instantaneously the red glowing tip flared up. She squinted away from it as he pressed his wand closer to her.

“Er…Ominis?”

“Could you guide me to the scar?”

“Yes?” It didn’t mean to come out as a question. But, in her experience, being on the receiving end of a wand, usually ended badly. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, gently pulling it towards her collarbone.

From here, he seemed to gather the information he needed, on his own. The blunt tip of his wand dragged across her skin, the smallest amount of pressure being applied. It was soft and warming and she couldn’t help but close her eyes.

Why was this tingly? Magic?

“This is how I see colour. I’m checking to see if you’re lying to me, like how you lied this morning” he smirked

“Sorry” she mumbled sheepishly

“We agreed no more apologies” he smiled “I understand why you did it” he pulled his wand away discarding it as he had before, seemingly happy with the results of his interrogation. “I don’t agree with what you and Sebastian get up to. Running around the school solving everyone problems. Galavanting off into the Forest…” she opened her mouth to speak but he continued “but I understand why you do it. You’re kind and thoughtful. And it’s why you need to take care of yourself. I can’t stop you running off playing the hero…but I can be here for you when you get back.”

She thought for a second. Everything he said was true. And she didn’t know why. She just wanted to study and explore this new world after she’d been torn from her old one.

It was all getting a bit much.

“Do you ever feel like you’re being pulled away?” She said abruptly letting her thoughts spill out into the real world

“From what?”

“Everything” she laughed “My life. My friends…you. I feel like I’m being pulled down a path I don’t necessarily agree with”

He toyed with the edges of his shirt, fighting with himself. He reached over to her, tentatively, and took her hand in his.

“You won’t be pulled from me…I won’t allow it”

Masterlist

[vee-crytraps]

Good Luck, Babe! | Ch 1-2 | Ice Cream for Breakfast

{Trigger Warning/Themes Masterlist} This is split into a billion parts because it's long as hell! Read on Ao3 to avoid the headache!

You might not have the freaky little memory that your family of detectives boasted, but you would be out of your mind if you ever let yourself forget that Bruce Wayne owed you one. Exactly one year ago to the day, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian had abandoned you at Rollerworld, a frown fixed onto your face as you had watched them all peel off in the name of Bat-Family business. The threat hadn’t even ended up being serious. Serious for Gotham, anyway. At the time, you had grateful to have corralled them together- at a roller rink of all places, for the twenty or so minutes that you had them- but you remembered finding it tough to remain in high spirits for the rest of the night. You hadn’t even seen them until the next morning, when Bruce had promised you a day of anything you wanted to make up for the embarrassment of having to carry home the remnants of a too-big-cake on your lap, enduring the stares and snickers of the other people on the train.

You reveled in the way Bruce’s frown deepened as he watched you sitting triumphantly at the head of the table. He fixes you with one of his patented bat-glares before finally giving in. “Fine,” he sighs, defeated. “Ice cream for breakfast.” “From the look on your face, you’d think you’d sentenced him to the electric chair,” Dick laughed, plopping down in his usual seat. He spun a spoon between his fingers like a drummer about to let loose. “C’mon, Bruce. Live a little!” “It won’t be so bad, I was kind enough to make sure to get everyone’s favorites. Even Damian’s god awful mint chocolate chip stuff,” “Mint chocolate chip is the most delicious flavor in the world,” Damian warns, and beside him Tim prays you two won’t get into a whole thing about it. “It’s a perfectly fine treat,” “It’s an abomination is what it is.” Tim laughs. You toss him a set of plastic Mardi-gras beads, which he snatches mid air with his impressive reflexes. “Did you give me these because I agreed with you?” He questioned aloud. “I see you’re being extra insufferable about today, birthday girl.” Jason hums, pulling up his own chair. You elect to ignore him, gesturing for Bruce to join you at your right side. “I even got some low cal, non-dairy vanilla for you. Matcha for Dick, Coffee for Tim, and for Jason-“ “Rocky fuckin’ Road.” Jason finishes with glee, cracking open the pint in front of him. “I’m sold. All hail the birthday princess.” He catches his beads and dons them with pride. “I expect everyone to eat at least one bowl. You are supposed to be making it up to me for ditching my party last year.” You reminded. The whole table erupts into groans. “Oh for the love of- how is it our fault that Scarecrow decided to have his grand re-debut like twenty minutes into your party?” Dick whines, digging into a spoon of matcha flavor. “To be fair, we would have back pretty quickly if you and Jason hadn’t gotten caught up one-upping each other,” Tim shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re all complaining, I’m the real victim here,” You joke, digging into your own ice cream. “Besides, Ace and Titus don’t seem to mind,” With your spoon, you gesture over to the pair of dogs who lap at the pet friendly ice cream seated into their bowls. Both beasts sport tiny paper party hats that had been carefully strapped to their heads. “Ace and Titus are animals, sweetheart.” Bruce cracks a small smile, pushing his ice cream around in his own. “I do not understand why you are making such a huge deal of this,” Damian interjects. “We’ve all had celebrations interrupted by villains." “It was my seventeenth birthday, Damian. The last one I would have before becoming a dumb, annoying and boring adult. No offense. Let me grieve for it, at least.” “It is wayyyy to early for this,” Jason groaned, leaning back in his chair. “And I was kind of looking forward to waffles.” The only people he’d rather be eating with less other than four superheros were probably four other superheros. You all eat together in relative peace, and as you really savor your first spoonful of birthday ice cream with all of the fixings, you can’t help but sigh with pleasure. “Oh my god,” you relax into your chair, savoring the melt of it on your tongue. “Now I know why you never let us keep this in the house. I could eat this for every meal.” “I can hear your teeth rotting from here,” Damian mutters under his breath. He can’t help but be confrontational, even if it is really good ice cream. He makes a face as Dick artfully squirts chocolate syrups into his matcha ice cream, topping it with crushed Oreos and a few gummy worms. “I have witnessed deaths more appealing,” Damian remarks, watching his eldest brother scoop the abomination into his mouth. “I’ve had deaths more appealing.” Jason snorts. “Babies! Whiny little babies, all of you.” You scold, pouting as you loaded your spoon once more.

Part 3

[lowkeyrobin]

Hello I was wondering if you’d be able to write a Ranboo x Gender neutral reader, and they both just got into a heated argument that left them both crying (only if you’re comfortable with writing something like this, I’d not I completely understand, also thank you for your concern, I really appreciate it) :)

honestly struggled to find smthn to make an argument out of but I think I got something! oneshots are a little difficult for me bc I get burned out and I think the actions but can't find the right words LMAOOOO ; but this is totally find to request dw!! and of course, if you ever need to talk my messages are always open 🫶🫶🫶 ; also istg I have other ranboo headers they're just in my drafts bc I've only been working on reqs lately LMFAO

RANBOO ; burnout

summary ; youre both burned out and stressed, and take it out on each other

warnings ; language, fighting, reader is described/talked about as a writer, angry mischaracterization (it makes sense in context trust me)

word count ; 1.4k

masterlist

Both you and Ranboo had been working your asses off recently.

They had themselves so tied down to content creation that it was becoming a personal prison cell. It was like everything he did was only to appease his fans, and he didn't know how to just calm down and slow things down for his well being. From the constant, long streams to the talks with merch and production teams, it never ended. Plus, the infinite cycle of scrolling online to see all the hate they received, it was becoming too much.

You, on the other hand, constantly kept working and working through the lack of motivation and burnout with no breaks. No matter how much people reassured you that you could take a break and you didn't have to stick to a schedule, it didn't do anything. You were determined to fill out each and every request even if you barely had any idea what you were doing, you'd stay up late trying to block out what to write and how to put it into words to appease your followers. Three times a day, seven days a week, every day of the month, about 2000 posts a year, if you kept that up.

You were dedicated to writing, you loved it, and you loved that you were able to turn something you loved into a job considering "real" jobs didn't work out for you. You had streaming, but you only did that if you were writing or needed ideas or help every once in a while and wanted to share any progress and whatnot. Your eyes tended to be bloodshot on the regular, being pulled down by saggy, dark eyebags.

You trudge into the kitchen, taking a cold bowl of mac and cheese and some water back to your office with you. Ranboo glares at you from the couch, holding his phone to his ear as he talks to some big guy with money, most likely. He doesn't say anything, but you notice the look on his face, his eyes glaring daggers into you as you walk away.

You sit back down at your chair, not even touching your food. You stare at the screen, your eyes slightly protected by the dark mode you'd reinforced on the website. Your mind was blank, empty, vacant, muddled. There were no thoughts behind your glazed eyes.

Your head pounded in pain, caused by all the blue light absorption you'd been taking in recently. God, Ran hated that. How you'd fucking complain of a headache and only do everything to worsen it. It pissed him off. It made him want to yell at you to just shut up about it, considering you didn't want to do anything to help yourself.

You type away at the keyboard once more, every button press causing a little click or clack to immerse from it. The keys light up a particular shade of white, a smooth wave like pattern glazing across it once more. You stop again, unable to finish the sentence once more.

You groan and lean back in your seat, feeling the utter disgust around you. You oh so desperately needed to sit in the shower and cry, considering your stress and pain, but you couldn't. You needed to make these people happy, you owed them. You owed them for giving you a stable job and a roof over your head, the least you could do was have their requests out within a few days.

You sit and ponder about your partner. You were sure there was no love left anymore. Both of you were too financially dependent on one another to up and leave, so it had to work for now.

Ranboo, now not on the phone, nearly slams the door of your office open, smelling the ice cold pasta you hadn't even touched a few feet away. He's quick to raise his voice with a stern tone, pissed off at you once again.

"Dude, I told you dinner was ready an hour ago, what the fuck? And then you just bring it in here and don't even touch it just to stare at the damn screen some more? Are you fucking kidding?"

You roll your eyes, not wanting to deal with this again. "Fuck's it matter? This is my job, Ranboo"

"Your job isn't to please everyone who acts nice to you. Your job is to write quality content and not complain about burning yourself out or headaches that you could easily solve by touching grass! Go outside, this isn't even a job. You don't do anything other than write some stupid fantasy all day and feed into people's delusions, Y/n!" He quickly rants, scoffing at the end.

"Holy shit, you're one to talk! Meh meh, meh, I'm so miserable, and I do all these long streams for my fans, and I treat my partner like shit because I never spend time with them and enable their unhealthy behaviors! I take out my anger on them because I'm a lonely asshole." You quickly spit back, standing up from your chair.

They scoff, stepping towards you a bit, "You're so pathetic, I never want to hear you come to me with your problems again. You're dependent on me. You barely get any money off of that, let alone any to pay rent or buy your own groceries. Get into the real world where talking to fancy businessmen and actually working for your money is all you do! Walk in my shoes for one day!"

You roll your eyes again and scoff, "You don't think this is an actual job? I could say the same to you! You play video games all fucking day and beg for Twitch subs! Just because you have a fancy merch line and have some stupid show you're working on doesn't make you all high and mighty and more important than anyone else!"

"It does, actually, you have no room to complain! If you need a break, you can go take it. My schedule is busy every hour of the day, I have no time to do shit! You're an overbearing, selfish asshole!"

Now that got the waterworks going, that's what got you beyond the point of just petty arguing to genuinely fighting. You have no room to complain, yet you spend all day just trying to make people happy and not hate you, to just pump content out and pretend like you're okay. You bottle up your emotions so he won't have to worry about you, yet you're overbearing and selfish.

"You are such a fucking asshole! Everything needs to be about you, doesn't it? Every single fucking thing in the world, huh? Fine, screw you" You turn to grab the bowl of food, and quickly, out of sheer anger, throw it at him, shattering the ceramic bowl. "I hope I never see you again, go fuck yourself. You don't deserve shit of what you have, your platform, your friends, your money, anything. I hope your whole online empire comes crumbling down and you're left with nothing"

You snatch up your phone, wallet, and keys, quickly stomping past him as tears drip down your cheeks. He stands there, appalled as tears well in his glassy eyes. He tries to chase you outside once he realizes you're serious, but you'd already slammed the door so hard it might as well have fallen off the hinges. He wipes his eyes, cheeks a light red due to the sheer amount of anger he felt in the moment. He was soaked in cold mac and cheese, ruining his white hoodie.

Once the adrenaline wasn't coursing through his veins anymore, he sits himself on the kitchen floor, the cold tile against his hands being used as a grounding technique. Some ceramic dust lays on his shoes, some liquid cheese being smeared against his hoodie as he tries to use a towel to wipe the access off.

Fuck, what did he just do?

He sits in silence, rethinking the situation as tears slowly stream down his face.

He could only hope that you were safe on that bus to nowhere. That bus you used to just go anywhere but home, just to escape the horrible life you lived inside that house. The house that bound you to its walls so you couldn't escape.

You couldn't escape the pain of your popular online presence or the pain of being trapped in that house any longer. Finally, it broke, the enchantment that kept you sealed inside.

Someone had to leave, and it looked like it was going to be you this time around.

[scaryscarecrows]

Clancy wakes up with a splitting headache.

He’s got no clue what happened. He went to bed like normal, got up for a glass of water and a piss around one-thirty, and that’s the last thing he remembers.

Maybe he fainted? He’s never done that before, but he saw somethin’ about long-term head injury things, and the Bat has definitely walloped him good a couple of times.

“He’s conscious,” a voice says from right behind him. There’s a beat, and then big fingers flick the side of his head.

“Ow!”

“See?”

Kidnapped. Christ, why? He doesn’t know shit! He’s only been workin’ with Riddler for like, three weeks, since Sionis got his head blown off. Riddler’s not the sharin’ type, either.

He’s handcuffed to a chair in a warehouse, because this is Gotham and that’s protocol, but he doesn’t recognize the guys he can see. They look like the little army figurines he played with as a kid, but red, and with face masks and goggles that look more like something out of a cheap sci-fi show. No faction he knows.

“What the hell? I don’t know shit about shit!”

“Clancy Morrison, thirty-three, no kids, girlfriend dumped you six months ago, professional henchman, because that’s a thing here,” the man in front of him rattles off in a bored tone, voice echoing a little behind his mask. “Currently working for Riddler, previously worked for Black Mask.”

“You hiring or somethin’? ‘Cause this is a crappy job interview.”

There’s a small smattering of laughter. Clancy gives his cuffs an experimental tug. Absolutely nothing happens.

“Look, man. I had to roll my ass outta bed, take a connecting flight–a connecting flight, do you have any idea how much those suck these days?--to get back here and deal with the mess your old boss caused.” The man leans over, resting gloved hands on the arms of the chair. “But I’m still the nicer person you could talk to tonight. So here’s the thing. You tell me where your old cronies got hired or hid, whichever, and you get to walk away with maybe, like, a broken finger or something. Nothing too bad.”

This is Sionis’s fault? The bastard’s dead and he’s still causing problems? God!

Should’ve stuck with Two-Face, I should’ve just sucked it up and worn that ugly-ass Halloween mask…

Wait.

Sionis got his stupid face busted because he fucked with the Hood. A bunch’a people had kinda…appeared…aw, shit.

“This isn’t about the Hood, is it? Thought he died.”

He regrets this immediately, but the man in front of him just laughs.

“Just tell me where your friends are.”

Clancy’s a lotta things, but a snitch he ain’t.

“Fuck you.”

He regrets that immediately, too: a hand grabs the cuffs and he’s flipped over, slammed into the cement floor hard enough to shatter the chair and whack his head, and then he’s staring up at Death.

For a dead man, Hood looks plenty alive. He looks a lot better than the last time Clancy saw him, unfortunately.

“I’m a tough bastard to kill,” Hood tells him, voice bright with glee. “As you may have noticed.”

“Yeah, you oughta get a new name,” somebody new calls. “The Cockroach.”

“The Silverfish,” somebody else says. Hood sighs.

“No.”

“Oh-oh-oh, Cocaine Bear!”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“Just sayin’.”

“No.” He fixes his boot on Clancy’s chest and leans down. There’s a creak. Clancy suddenly has a lot more trouble breathing. “You should’ve taken the offer. He’s a little more kindhearted than I am.”

“Look, I don’t know where all of ‘em–”

“I’m sure you’ll remember.” Hood’s head swivels towards Clancy’s left elbow. “Didn’t heal right, did it? After it broke last year?”

“I-I-I–”

“Shame.”

CRACK!

“Oh God!” Pain. Painpainpain. “Motherfucker!”

Hood gives the now-broken elbow an experimental poke. Clancy howls as bolts of agony race up and down his arm.

“Fuck you!”

“Please don’t.” There’s a snick and the tip of a knife presses gently against the corner of his eye. “Ready to talk to me?”

[raineandsky]

#27

“How’s your food?”

The hero wouldn’t know. Their food is currently going cold in front of them, untouched. The villain, on the other hand, has more or less inhaled theirs. 

“Oh, don’t be so dour,” they continue through a mouthful of their dinner. “Agency’s paying for this.”

That much is true. The superhero more or less forced their hand in this, first with promises of time off and a payrise, second with threats of getting fired when the hero didn’t immediately agree. So here they are, in a restaurant they didn’t like the menu of, staring at the food in front of them that’s long stopped steaming, sitting across from the person they want to punch most in the world.

The hero turns their gaze to the doors idly, disinterested. They hope they can go home soon.

“I can’t believe people actually believe you want to help us,” they retort flatly, and the villain frowns innocently.

“I do—that’s why I offered my help.” They say it like it’s obvious, and the hero tuts in annoyance. “That fucker—[Supervillain]—owes me. I’m just getting my own back.”

“He owes you so much you’re trying to set heroes on him,” the hero says disbelievingly, and the villain nods. They train their eyes on the door as well, expectant.

“You think too much, god. Have a drink, loosen up, for both of our sakes.”

The hero glances down at the wine glass on the table, just as untouched as the rest of their dinner. They didn’t like the menu—and honestly this pasta looks wrong somehow—but wine is wine. Hopefully they can have a little faith in something that got here already made.

They swill it in the glass thoughtfully for a moment, staring into the tiny current the movement causes before taking a test sip.

“How is it?” the villain asks hopefully. Their answer comes as the hero tips half the glass into their mouth in one go. To say they look ecstatic would be an understatement. “Oh, wow, must be good.”

It’s okay. It tastes a bit weird, but they imagine everything does here. They don’t care too much – they know they’re meant to be on business, but if they can forget most of the time they’re being forced to spend here it might make it a little better.

They set the glass back on the table with a sigh. The villain watches them eagerly as they lean back in the chair. “Any better?”

“I don’t get drunk off half a glass of wine,” the hero snaps, but they’d be lying to say they don’t feel a little dizzy. “I’m not that much of a lightweight.”

“Shame. Would’ve made for an interesting night if you were.”

The villain goes back to shovelling food into their mouth as the hero heaves a deep breath. They’re feeling worse by the second, the whole world starting to spin nauseatingly, and after a couple of minutes they feel like they’re going to be sick. They lurch to their feet rather suddenly, pulling the villain’s gaze to them in surprise.

“Bathroom,” is all they have time to say before they stagger away from the table and in the vague direction of the signs they saw earlier.

The door bounces off the wall as the hero shoves it open, the clatter it makes against the tile emphasising the headache assaulting them. They stumble to the sinks, shakily turning a tap on and slapping water over their face. It’s refreshing, and it’s only when they feel the cool water on them that they realise how unbearably hot they feel. They have to lean all their weight on the counter to keep themself standing, desperately blinking away the unconsciousness slinking up on them.

They’re barely aware of the door creaking open behind them. There’s movement in the mirror in front of them, though they can barely bring themself to look up beyond the rising sickness. “That wine must’ve been strong,” a familiar voice says from behind them, the sound dulled slightly as if it’s coming from underwater. “You look rough.”

Something—no, that’s someone—touches their shoulder lightly, pulling them away from the counter. They sink to the floor, their support gone, and the villain follows them down worriedly.

“You have a phone, right?” They rummage through the hero’s pockets uninvited. “I’ll call [Superhero]. You really need to go home.”

“Ugh,” is all the response the hero can give them. They can see, somewhat distantly, the villain frowning at their phone in their hand, presumably looking for a contact they can use. They turn away as the door swings open again, and they lean out of the hero’s vision as they get back to their feet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” they snap coldly, and the supervillain hums a laugh.

“Picking up the trash. I knew you’d try to do me in,” he says simply, and he shoves them back to come more into the room. “You’re not the most original criminal, are you?”

There’s a moment of silence, and the lack of anything to concentrate on makes the hero realise how close to passing out they are. “You did this?”

“Who else? You’re too weak to do anything that matters.”

They know it’s not aimed at them, but the last of the hero’s attention is trained on that one sentence as the arguing fades into fuzzy nothingness. You’re too weak to do anything that matters.

[your-local-baguette]

Damn, i lose my mind

Warnings: slightly suggestive ?? Female! Reader, not proofread. Reader has bright red hair

It probably ain't that good, i don't even think i've ever written for him. So pls don't get your hopes up too much 🙏

Sanemi x reader

The lights of the city were blinding, the hashira walking through the crowd along with his mission partner. There was reported to have one of the twelve kizuki here, the snow white haired man let his eyes wander over the crowd. As far as he knows, it could be anyone here, it was hiding it's presence awfully well.

an exasperated sigh escaped his mouth, both he and his partner were clearly annoyed. Sanemi felt the cold hair on his exposed chest, hands stuffed in his pocket, he stopped walking his gaze locked onti something, someone.

Bright red locks flowing through the wind, the crowds eyes locked onto her. Her movements: elegant and graceful. She danced to the music, golden and red fans opening and closing in her hand aling the music.

The man partner stopped aswell, looking at him, he scoffed and elbowed the other hashira in his bicep. Said hashira snapped out of his trance and looked at his partner

"what do you want iguro"

"focus"

Those were the only words exchanged before the dancer sent a wink towards the white haired man, to which he simply stared. Although, he was on a mission, he had to focus, he turned his gaze away, following the serpent hashira.

Both hashira were on alert, yet, time passed and there was still no sign of the demon. At least an hour had passed, the dancer from before was gone and the crowd was dissipating, that until the two hashira were the only one out. Everybody had gone back home...

"where is this godam demo-"

A scream was heard, catching both hashira's attention, they hurried in the direction of the scream. Both clenching their swords handle, there it was, the demon was towering over, guess who ? The performer who was simply going home, blood was splattered everywhere, due to the dancer revealing clothes, she was already injured. Her fans torn to shred on the ground, it didn't take long before obanai had quickly slayed the demon before it realized they were even there.

The blood was gushing out if the dancer's wounds, the wind hashira rushed to the woman, putting pressure on the biggest one to hopefully slow the bleeding. He did so while looking through his bag for bandages. While he did find some, the wiman had already fainted due to blood loss and he had to act fast.

He tightened the bandages around the woman stomach, the bleeding stopped but not like he could leave her here.

...

You had an intense headache, your head moving slightly. Your eyes fluttered open and you sat up on the bed. The covers sliding off your body. Although, a hand pushed you back down.

"don't move, your wounds might open again"

You stayed down, bringing a hand to forehead, locking gaze with the owner of the passive aggressive voice. It bonged to a woman, not a day older than eighteen, she had a small smile plastered on her face.

"you've encountered wuite the demon there, surviving a lower moon's attack, that's quite impressive"

You simply hummed in response, pain spread thorough your whole body.

"could i get a glass of water, please?"

"of course!"

The doctor said, still with that passive aggressive voice. She left the room, while you clenched your forehead, you heard the door open, you looked at the person. It wasn't the woman, but a white haired man, covered in scars from head to toe. He looked at your state

"you look like shit"

A slight chuckle escaped your lips.

"not the first time"

You added afterwards, turning your head to have a better look at the person you were talking to.

"you've been attacked by a demon before ?"

"oh?. that's what you call them ? But to answer your question, yes, although this time someone saved me"

I stopped talking for a little bit, i closed my eyes to relax.

"thank you"

"don't mention it, it's my job"

"still, i kind of owe you my life for this one and also to whoever was with you"

The man hummed and before he answered, the door opened again, the woman was back.

"shinaguzawa ? What a surprise"

She handed you the glass of water while you sat up, drinking it slowly.

"shinobu..."

You let them converse, for a bit, when you were done with the water, you looked out the window. Something snapping their fingers in front of you brought you back to reality. You turned back your head.

"you've been spacing out for ten whole minutes, are you alright ?"

You nodded.

"well now that you've encountered a demon, i have a question for you"

"go ahead"

You said, awaiting what she was going to say.

"would you like to train to become a member of the demon slayers ?"

You stayed silent for a bit and thought for a while. If you did become a demon slayer, you'd be able to defend yourself and humanity while putting your life at risk.

But at the same time, you had finally accomplished your dream, becoming a famous dancer.

"i-...i don't know... Honestly, i think it will depend how this injury will affect my body."

Shinobu looked at you with a puzzled expression.

"she's a dancer"

The wind hashira said.

"it's understandable not to know, maybe your injury will prevent you from dancing again, maybe it won't"

You nodded along with his words.

"if it reassures you, i'm leaning more towards becoming a demon slayer"

You said to the two.

"very well, then you can stay here until you are healed, just come to me when you are ready"

You agreed and shinobu went to take care of some stuff, before sanemi was about to leave..

" pass on my thanks to the other person, please ?"

He nodded before leaving the room, you gripped your sheets. Looking out the window again...

Two months later...

You were helping aoi with some simple tasks, so you wouldn't be bed ridden all the time. You often spent your time, sitting outside the estate in the sun, it felt good after being locked inside for so long. Sometimes you'd also dance a bit but the trauma ( pain that usually happens after big injuries are healed) stopped you from doing many, many things.

As of right now, you were slowly, dancing outside, it was night time and most people in the estate were asleep. But you, you were dancing, you movement fluid like water. Your fans turning along with your movements. You hissed when spinning, stopping eight away, although the injury was healed, pain still remained. You sighed heavily dropping your fans ti the ground and leaning against a tree.

"i can see why you hesitated"

A familiar voice said, your head turned in the direction, the white haired man leaning against the wall, he had his eyes locked on you for a while. You smiled

"thanks"

He hummed.

"honestly, i lose my mind seeing you dance"

[layuhsblog]

lucas x male reader?

story: m/n gets kidnapped by a mafia group, and their leader, yukhei, wants the money that the former's family owes him - it doesn't come, as they don't care about m/n.

this makes yukhei have a change of heart.

(lucas is not really a jerk, he's just trying to do his job)

Hii, I made it into a chaebol m!reader x mafia leader! lucas fic,

hope you don't mind. I've never written mafia au. So this is pure shit I'm really sorry. I'll rewrite it and make it better once I have more experience.

Thankyou for requesting and reading it. ALSO- this was an amazing request. Renegade is such a bop and he LOOKS SO FUCKING HOT I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. Thankgod there are still Lucas stans on Tumblr.

Anyway hope you tolerate this fic T-T

REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN BTW!!

dk the word limit prolly 1k words

warnings: kidnapping, stockholm syndrome???, soft boy mafia lucas, angst, fluff?, small mention of religious trauma, family's a bitch, drugging, panic attack, hyperventilating, thoughts about death, mentions murder, daddy issues?, death, swearing, badly written threats, winwin is a dick but he loves you :), Lucas being HOTTIE MAFIA LEADER OOF, kissing.

To myself- Lucas x M!reader

-

Coming out to your orthodox religious family was not easy. On the surface the media thinks you're this wholesome rich family but the truth was much deeper and darker than it appeared.

You were sitting in a bar drinking away your problems when you were approached by a cute gentleman.

"Hi, rough day? May I buy you a drink?" he smiled at you

you tiredly sighed,

"If you're trying to get me into your bed, not happening."

He chuckled,

"Let me just buy you a drink, I'll walk away if you're not interested." You scanned his face, not so discreetly.

He looked cute and shy..you didn't see anything shady about him. You cautiously eyed his again and nodded. He showed a toothy grin at that.

"I'm Winwin by the way!"

"___" you replied and for the first time that night showed a slight smile.

_

A few hours had passed and Winwin started to grow on you, a couple of drinks more and your eyes started getting droopy.

Before you could call your driver to pick you; you passed out.

-

When you woke up, you had no idea where you where. Immediately you sat up and met with a throbbing headache. When you tried to get up, you realised your hands were tied. Panicked you screamed and screamed for someone to help you. You screamed till you lost your voice, and burst out crying. You had no idea what happened to you, what they'll do to you or if you'll even get out of here alive. All those thoughts became too mouth and you felt a bitter metallic taste in your mouth as your throat ran dry. You couldn't breathe. The worst of all, the room was empty except for a clock in it, it had been a long time since you were here and you were almost sure no one was looking for you.

"Ya done screaming or should I give you more of a reason to cry about?" You did not realise someone else was in the room with you. It was Winwin. Your heart sank.

"Y-you! What have you done to me!? Let me out! P-please." The last word came out as a weak plea and he laughed at your pathetic state,

"Can't, boss' orders. Yknow if he hadn't told me to bring you to him, I'd might as well taken you out on that little date." He winked at you and you were filled with disgust as fresh tears threatened to spill out from your eyes.

Your chest, throat, stomach everything hurt. You felt like you could throw up any minute.

It took you 15 minutes to calm yourself down all the while Winwin was looking at you with an amused look on his face, watching your every move like a hawk.

You were just blankly staring at a wall. The worst that can happen is they'll kill you. Who cares if you die?

-

Five hours had passed since then and you were doing nothing, feeling nothing so you closed your eyes and tried to sleep on the dirty floor. Winwin stepped out of the room to call someone, he did not realise the door is not soundproof. It sounded like he was threatening someone, probably your family you presumed.

-

"We have your son motherfucker. If you don't fucking pay us back you'll find his body in your front gate. Have fun when the headlines say 'L/n Family's Youngest son found dead on their door. It'll be fun seeing police raid your family seeing all the black money you have." he laughed

"Do what you want with him. You can't hurt my business. You're a nobody." and he heard the beeping of the phone.

-

The door, half broken and rusty slowly creaked opened and the fear you felt when you first came here returned. Winwin stood up straight and greeted the man. He had long black hair, his gaze cold, almost predatory.

"Did you hear back from those bastards?" he spat out, glaring at Winwin.

There was an awkward silence from his side and he eyed him and looked back at you. Immediately understanding what it meant, you weakly laughed.

The whole situation was so funny to you when it finally clicked.

You came from a famous family full of businessmen. People so influential that every move you made had to be absolutely perfect- however to them, you were far from it. The first shock came to your father when you were fifteen years old and told him you wanted to be an artist, that you had no interest in the business. Second and the final straw was 2 days ago when you came out to him and he disowned you.

To think such educated men could have such shallow ideals.

You remembered your mother, how loving she was. If she were here she'd definitely accepted you. You remembered how she told you crying how all this success was a lie and she wanted you to stay as far away from it as possible, afterall you weren't like your father and brothers. You remembered how you saw her that night for the last time. You remembered how you heard them fight in the other room, your brothers had left the country to pursue their studies. You remembered how you heard her scream but your door was locked from the outside. You remembered vaguely seeing a blood stain in the carpet which magically disappeared the next day. You remembered the police labelling the case as a suicide, how there was literally no evidence found- how each and every corner of the house was checked except the locker your father held the keys to.

The realisation made your blood run cold.

Your father had borrowed a large sum of money from someone years ago to start his business. He always assured your mother he'd paid them back. The situation in front of you made it clear that your father has always been a selfish bastard.

The thoughts, the questions, the suspicions hit you like a train wreck and you started laughing loudly. Both men looked at you puzzled.

"I cannot, that fucker- no one's coming for me, he killed her and he'll kill me too. I'm gonna die here anyway. That's so funny. Its always been fucking money. It's more important to him than fucking accepting his son and supporting his wife." You said between your laughs as tears spilled through your eyes

The man knelt down, his eyes softened a bit, voice comforting yet distanced, he motioned Winwin to get out of the room and spoke,

"Hey, calm down. You're not gonna die here. I'll take care of him. I'm sorry I involved you into this. I'll let you go. Just an advice, don't go back there. Get your own place, you have a chance to disappear from his life. Take it. I'm Yukhei by the way, you can call me Lucas." he smiled a bit.

You blinked in confusion, looking for any signs of humour in his words but there were none. He sounded genuine. It puzzled you how he could switch up so quickly. It made you curious to know more about him. Lord have you gone insane.

"What if I don't wanna leave. What if I want to help you get rid of him?"

And he only smiled.

"I'm not alien to murderer, rich heartless fathers." he joked,

"And I thought I was unique." he laughed at your comment. He has a nice laugh. You thought. You wanted to hear it more. Its funny to you how you feel safer with a literal mafia leader than you've ever felt with your father.

You talked some more, growing fonder of him each passing second. You realised he's not as cold as he appears. He was just doing his job and truthfully your father was just a huge dick. He has such a bright smile. His eyes had this spark when he was talking about the people he works with. He was making your heart beat faster.

He took you to his room, gave you clean clothes to change into and made you eat.

"You know, Winwin likes you- he felt bad about whatever he did." you nodded as he continued, the room suddenly felt hotter than it was as he leaned closer,

"Too bad, I want to keep you to myself" He whispered in your ear before he held your chin and connected your lips together.

-

[system-contact]

Closed for @biotic--timebomb

How long had he been out this time...?

There was that electrical buzz again. Well, at least he knew he was right where he left himself, as much as he didn’t want to be there. Fei’s eyes opened, though most of his face was obscured by his arm and the way too bright, way too harsh white fluorescent lights from above only threatened that nagging headache of his from around the edges.

It still echoed in his ears. That burbling wet language that greeted him in the dark, that helped pull him from Weltall-X’s cockpit when he was barely only awake enough to know he’d been hurt somehow. He only barely remembered what happened before, but he definitely didn’t wake up at the bottom of the ocean where he had started out before touching that… thing that made the whole world go black.

He also remembered that the strange people— ones he could only desperately assume were demihuman— didn’t really hurt him when they could’ve, and tried to talk to him over and over, but he also remembered them putting him into this very bright, very sterile, very locked metal walled room, and not telling him where his Gear was.

Not exactly a new thing for him. Fei knew what a prison cell was in every color and shape they came in at this point.

He groaned slightly as he braved taking his arm off his eyes— ow, ow ow bad idea, that hurt— and winced sharply before slowly pushing himself up off the… well, it’d be kind of rude and not correct to say he didn’t at least appreciate a bed, but boy was it only a bed by the strictest definition of being horizontal, having a blanket, and what he was pretty sure was supposed to be a pillow? Not sure, it was kinda flat and hard.

He kept his eyes closed with his head firmly in his hands as he reoriented to being upright— one step at a time— but again the burbling noise came croaking out at him from the door barrier. Welp, time for this song and dance again, another round of being spoken at and not with.

“Yep, I’m up, I’m up. And I uh… still… really don’t know what you’re saying. Not that I think you understand me either…” He sighed in exasperation. One eye cracked open to stare at the smooth-skinned, big-eyed, maybe horned face peering back at him. Strange, he thought he heard something else…