#I have read it and heard a voice that was distinctly not my own

[godsperfectwomanforreal]

St. Paul’s letters have good conclusions but bad logic. This is evidence of how the Holy Spirit guided his writing.

[thecharacterchronicler]

Bloodline (Part 1) || Ominis Gaunt x Reader || Smut

Outline: Your family arranged for you to marry Marvolo Gaunt. Fortunately, your best friend Ominis steps up and makes sure to save you from such a fate.

Word count: 4’515

Warnings: English isn’t my first language so possible misspelled or misplaced words, arranged marriage, abusive families (mentioned), first time s*x, friends to lovers and explicit smut.

(( Part 2 - Please )) - (( Part 3 - Heirloom )) - (( Masterlist ))

The familiar flip-flap of owls entering the great hall through the windows resounded in Ominis’ ears, excited chatter rising from the students sitting at the tables as, one by one, they received their mail. The sound of paper falling on a wooden surface nearby piqued his curiosity, he didn’t receive letters often, nor did you or Sebastian but an envelope had unmistakably landed in front of one of you.

Your clothes rustled as you moved to take the paper in your hand, tearing apart the top of the envelope as your owl took flight again, its wings almost grazing Ominis’s hair on its way back to the owlery.

Despite the noise of other students all around, Ominis distinctly heard you take a sharp inhale of air, your silence as you read the letter addressed to you feeling somewhat tense.

“Is everything alright ?” He asked you, but you didn’t reply right away, too focused on whatever you were reading.

He waited a few more minutes, noticing the way your legs grew restless and your movements became agitated. You were sitting at the opposite side of the table from him and your foot bumped into his a few times as you nervously readjusted your posture.

He was too polite to insist and didn’t want to push you to share something you might want to keep for yourself, so even though he was dying to question you about the mysterious letter you had received and why its content seemed to upset you, he simply cleared his throat to remind you that he was waiting for an answer to his question.

“It’s a letter from my family.” You explained, with a slight tremble in your voice. “They say that they arranged a partnership for me, effective immediately after graduation.”

“A partnership ? You mean some kind of professional training ?” Sebastian asked, before biting into an apple.

“That would be an internship.” Ominis corrected him, shaking his head. “I think she meant something more intimate than that.”

“Like… A relationship ?” Sebastian inquired, still munching on his fruit.

“A marriage.” You stated, defeated.

“I didn’t know you were dating someone.”

“I am not.”

“It’s common for wealthy and powerful families such as hers to arrange weddings, especially if it’s a matter of keeping their bloodline alive and pure.” Ominis explained, a shiver running down his spine. That was something his family did too, they were obsessed with maintaining the quality of their bloodline, suitable matches were carefully chosen, sometimes within their own family members.

“It’s more of a business contract than a marriage.” You added, with a sigh. “And my parents are making it very clear that I don’t have any say in the matter.”

“Do you know who’s the lucky fiancé, though ?” Sebastian asked, seemingly taking such terrible news lightly. Way too lightly. It was a tragedy, really. You deserved better than to be forced into a loveless marriage under the pretense of keeping a bloodline going, securing the pride and superiority of the worst kind of wizards to exist. Maybe Sebastian couldn’t quite grasp the gravity of what you had been asked to do but Ominis knew all too well how you must feel, being robbed of your free will and freedom by a controlling and corrupted family.

“It’s Marvolo Gaunt.” You answered, bluntly, before getting up from your seat on the bench and leaving the great hall in a rush. Although Ominis couldn’t see, he felt the intensity of your gaze piercing right through him, until you were no longer in the room.

His chest tightened and his body tensed at the sound of his older brother’s name. Marvolo probably was the most cruel wizard he knew, aside from their father. Although they shared the same blood, the same family and the same education, Ominis wasn’t afraid to say that his brother was immensely deranged and should have been locked up in Azkaban a long time ago, like the rest of his family actually. The only reason rules didn’t apply to them and they were free to commit the most vile and cruel crimes without facing punishment was because they were Gaunts, descendants of the great Salazar Slytherin and held more power and wealth than any other family of wizards in the country.

And now you were going to be one of them.

He couldn’t imagine you, taking part in the cruel acts his family committed for fun. And if you didn’t, they would find a way to punish you for it, just like they had punished him in the past. The Gaunts were dangerous, and you needed to stay away from them, no matter what.

Ominis stood up, reaching for his wand to guide his steps through the corridors and halls of the castle. He needed to find you and he knew his wand would know exactly where to take him. He was racking his brain, trying to find a solution to save you from such a doomed fate as he followed mindlessly the path his wand indicated. Eventually, he found himself outside, in a narrow courtyard. Wind rustled through the leaves of a nearby tree and caressed his face, sending a cold shiver through his body. He couldn’t feel any rays of sunshine warming his skin, meaning it must be a rather cloudy afternoon. He could hear the sound of water moving in the fountain at the center of the courtyard, birds singing in the sky… And soft muffled sobs. His wand twitched, tugging him in your direction.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you.” Ominis told you, once he was standing in front of you. He could hear the sobs shaking your body as clear as day but still felt compelled to bring his hand to your face, wiping the warm teardrops away from your cheeks with his thumb. “Marvolo really isn’t a suitable match for you.”

“It’s alright, I knew this day would come eventually. I was just hoping my parents wouldn’t force me into this as soon as I was done with school.” You replied, another teardrop falling from your lashes and rolling down your cheek..

“There must be something we can do about it.” Ominis said, instinctively brushing off the fresh tear from your face. “What if you were engaged to someone else ?”

You laughed although you didn’t find anything amusing about the situation.

“During my seven years here, no one ever courted me, no one attempted to ask me on a date, I have no other prospects. And you know as well as I do that my parents shouldn’t risk angering the Gaunts.”

Ominis furrowed his brows. You were right, if your parents broke their promise to marry you off to one of his siblings, they might not make it out alive. If his parents had arranged for you to be wed to Marvolo, it meant they considered your blood pure enough to perpetuate their dignified bloodline. It was a rare occurrence, usually no one was deemed worthy enough so chances were that they’d do everything in their power to ensure that you’d become a Gaunt now that they had approved of you.

If you broke the arrangement to be with someone else, a wizard of lower class and reputation, his father would take it as an offense and you’d have to pay for such a daring act. If you married Marvolo, then surely he would take advantage of you and of your obligation to satisfy your family and his, he’d be cruel and violent, he wouldn’t care about you and would never treat you with the respect you deserved… There was only one option left.

“Marry me.” Ominis stated, determined.

“What ? What are you saying ?” You spoke, dumbstruck by the sudden suggestion.

“My parents want you to ensure the purity of our bloodline, your parents want you to earn the status and power that come with my last name… So marry me instead.”

“Ominis, you don’t have to. I can’t ask you to do that for me, that’s…” You argued, shaking your head.

“It’s a matter of time before my parents arrange a wedding for me too. I think I’d much rather be married to someone I consider a friend than a stranger they would have picked for me. So really, you’d be the one doing me a favor.” Ominis continued, his heart beating faster as he spoke. He knew it was a good idea, it would save you from Marvolo, from his family and, despite being a Gaunt himself, he would do his best to treat you well. He would never hurt you, never mock you, never give you any reason to regret choosing him instead of his brother…

So please, say yes.

His mother adjusted his tie. She told him that the all black suit she had gotten tailored made for him suited him better than anything he ever wore. She said it brought his blue eyes out, and that everyone would be able to tell that he was one of the heirs of the Gaunt name. Ominis wasn’t sure what was meant to be a compliment and what was meant as a jab, but he simply nodded at everything she said.

By the time he walked down to the garden of the imposing manor, his mother’s arm looped in his, he felt dizzy with anxiety. His heart was pounding in his chest, threatening to burst out at any minute. His ribcage felt so tight around his lungs that he could barely breathe correctly, and the more time went by, the more sweaty his hands became.

He could hear the chatter of the numerous guests his parents had invited as they took place around the lectern that had been placed at the very center of the garden. The familiar smell of roses tickled his nose, meaning the white rose bushes must be in full bloom in this season. He could feel the sunshine on his face and the warm summer air on his skin. It was a beautiful day on the gloomy manor.

His mother let go of his arm, leaving him standing on his own in front of what he imagined was an impressive audience of grumpy wizards. He still couldn’t quite catch his breath and, the moment the ambient chatter died down, his throat instantly felt constricted and his body tensed up.

He heard the whispers among the crowd and the footsteps approaching in his direction. It was unmistakably the way of walking of a man, confident and determined while the lighter steps next to his were more hesitant. In the past seven years, Ominis had memorized the sound of your steps. He also could recognize your smell in a crowd and knew exactly how soft your skin felt under his fingers. He could tell if your hair was up or let down from the way you touched and played with it and he knew that the quiet, almost imperceptible breaths you let out meant that you felt nervous. He knew all of this and more yet, he had no idea what it felt like to kiss your lips or hold you in his arms and that felt awfully wrong, considering what you both were about to do.

The man that had accompanied you walked away, leaving you standing with Ominis in front of prying, curious eyes. You didn’t say anything to each other, too busy trying to not pass out from how anxious you both felt. The contract was written and placed on the pupil in front of you, its tricky clauses oozing with dark magic.

It wasn’t just any contract. It was a cursed one, meant to bind you together forever. The words til death do us part took a different meaning as you signed your name at the bottom of the page, knowing that if you ever tried to leave him, you’d most likely be instantly killed by some kind of dark spell that probably was forbidden to cast. The promises you made by signing this contract were definitive and the consequences if you failed to hold them were deadly. At the very least, you both could feel thankful that you weren’t making such vows to a complete stranger.

Ominis signed the parchment too, the ink dripping from the quill dark red like blood. The contract was sealed with applause and illegal magic, making you his wife. For the rest of your lives.

The dinner that followed the ceremony was dull and mostly boring, a display of Mister Gaunt’s power and a lecture on his narrow views about muggles and mudblood wizards, as the guests listened quietly to his speech, nodding in agreement every once in a while. Eventually, Ominis took his leave, pretending that he was exhausted from the events of the day. You excused yourself too, glad to find him waiting for you in the hallway.

He knew the manor he grew up in in details and could navigate it without the help of his wand. He guided you upstairs, through the dark corridor that led to his bedroom. He opened the door for you, letting you step inside first before following you in and shutting the door behind him. He had never had any guest in his bedroom before and that realization made him feel uneasy. He knew that the servants kept his room neat and tidy - just how he liked it - but he wasn’t sure of what you were going to think about the ancient desk he sat at to write his letters to Sebastian, or the books that lined the shelves of bookcases that reached the ceiling. And what about the four poster bed he slept in, he had always found it large and comfortable but suddenly he worried it might be too small to share with you.

“Once we move into our own home we’ll be able to sleep in separate rooms. But for now, I think it’s better if we share mine.” He said, hoping that you wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable here until then.

To convince his parents to let him marry you instead of his brother, he had pretended he was madly, irredeemably in love with you. At first, they didn’t like it, saying that love made men foolish and pushed them to their demise but, eventually, they came to the realization that him wanting you so badly would serve the purpose of continuing their bloodline. Many heirs could be born from such desires.

Now that you were here, in the intimacy of his bedroom, he couldn’t help but think about it. How amazing it would be to kiss you, touch you, make you his as everybody expected him to. But he wouldn’t do it. Mainly because he was a gentleman and had promised himself that he would never, ever, disrespect you. And also because he was determined to not give his parents the satisfaction of having any heirs from him. The Gaunt bloodline was poison, corrupted with dark practices and immorality. Sooner or later, one of them would cause unforgivable chaos in the world, so he was determined to prevent it from happening anyway he could.

“I’m sorry that you had to do this.” You told him, taking a closer look at the books on his nightstand. You sounded sincere, as if you felt guilty that he now had the privilege of calling you his wife. “You should have been able to marry someone you love.”

Ominis had never felt anything remotely close to what was described in the books he read for someone, nor did he experience the crushes Sebastian so often had on a random person every once in a while. The only woman that had somehow interested him was you. He cared about you. And maybe it was an acceptable foundation for a marriage.

“You should have been able to do that too.” You sat on his bed, your wedding dress crunching up above your legs. He approached, heart hammering in his chest. “But for what it’s worth, I consider myself lucky to call you my wife.”

You smiled and reached out to take his hand in yours. His palms were sweaty, as per usual when you were around, but you didn’t seem bothered by that, pulling him so that he’d sit on the bed next to you.

“Do you mind if I try something ?” You asked him, a bit hesitantly. He took a sharp inhale of air, his body straightening up with sudden tension. In appearance, he seemed quite uncomfortable to be sitting so close to you, and even more now that you had asked him such a question, but he nodded despite hating being unsure of what to expect.

You moved closer, slowly. Your scent tickled his nose, he knew it by heart, he had fell asleep more than once to the faint perfume you left on the common room’s couch pillows, usually prompting him to dream of you. He felt your soft, warm breath caress his skin, indicating that your face was inching impossibly close towards his. He held his breath as you pressed your delicate lips to his, giving him a chaste kiss to seal your union, far from prying eyes.

He kept his eyes closed when you moved away, conflicted emotions passing on his face. He wasn’t expecting to feel so many tingles in his stomach after such a light and short kiss, yet even now that you had moved away, he still felt millions of butterflies tingling under his skin. He left out the breath he had been holding, taking just enough air to say your name, softly.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to know what it felt like.” You apologized, and he knew from the sound of your voice that you must be blushing.

He had wondered what it would feel like to kiss you too, more than he’d like to admit. A friend shouldn’t be curious about such things, it felt wrong to him, like he was betraying you by having such intimate thoughts about you. He hated how conflicted he felt whenever he woke up with an erection because he had spent the night dreaming of you touching him, and he hated how his primal instinct sometimes took over and he’d end up brushing against your chest or your back under the pretense that he couldn’t see what he was doing. He shouldn’t feel so desperate for his friend to kiss him again, and surely he shouldn’t want to be given permission to explore the body of his friend in details… But perhaps, if such desires weren’t acceptable between friends, they could be considered reasonable ones to have for his wife…

“Don’t apologize, we’re married now after all.” He gulped, feeling the temperature of his body rising. “Kissing is one of the many things that will be expected from us.”

You moved, suddenly growing agitated next to him. He could hear the rustle of the fabric of your wedding dress, the sound of clasps being opened and knots getting untied. He didn’t dare to move, not even breathe, as he carefully listened for a clue as to what you were up to. Then, he felt your hands on his chest, slowly undoing the buttons of his vest, one by one.

“What are you doing ?” He asked, his breath catching in his throat when his hands, resting on his lap, brushed against your bare thighs.

“Another thing that is expected of us.” You simply replied, now dragging his vest down his shoulders, before repeating the same actions to remove his shirt. He heard your surprised, yet quiet, gasp and the way your breathing became labored at the sight of his chest. He felt your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, brushing against the blond hair under his navel and grazing the elastic of his pants.

He said your name in a whisper, wanting it to be a warning but coming out like a desperate plea. You shouldn’t be touching him like this, not because it was what your families required of you. You should only do it because you wanted to. So he knew he had to stop you before it went too far, before he wouldn’t be able to refuse, before his body was set ablaze by his repressed lust for yours otherwise, there would be no way of stopping him anymore. He would consume you. Worship you. Devour you. And his promise to never disrespect you would be just a distant memory already, because none of the things he wanted to do to you were respectable.

But you weren’t making it easy for him to keep his word. Your hand was still tracing the lines of his chest like he was some kind of sculpture you were admiring, taking in every detail like he would. And when you moved to sit on his lap, straddling him and trapping him between you and the bed, he tensed up and groaned.

He brought his hands to your hips, telling himself that he’d gently guide you off of him so that he’d be able to remain a gentleman and not take advantage of the admirable loyalty you had for your family with your determination to complete your marital duties right away, but when he felt nothing but your warm skin under his fingers, when you leaned forward to press your naked chest against his and plant another soft kiss on his lips, the remaining of his will power to resist you dissolved.

“We shouldn’t be doing this, we’re friends.” He said, because that was what he usually told himself whenever he thought about you while rubbing himself in the shower. Except he wasn’t the one gripping on his erection this time. You had easily opened up his pants and now the evidence of his desire for you was held tightly in your hand. Your thumb stroked the tip of his erection, spreading the clear drop of precum that had escaped from it over the sensitive pink skin.

“We’re not friends anymore, Ominis. We’re married.” You corrected him, your words destroying the only argument he had to convince himself to not behave like some kind of wild animal as he couldn’t seem to stop his hands from exploring your naked body. “I wasn’t allowed to organize my wedding, chose my dress or invite my friends… Don’t rob me from having a beautiful wedding night. Please.”

His erection twitched in your hand. You were asking so nicely, so politely, for something so intense and passionate, it made him even harder. He put his arm around your waist, securely holding you as he removed you from his lap and laid you down on his bed with a strength you never expected him to have.

“Are you sure this is what you want ?” He inquired, holding himself above you with his hands gripping the headboard, his pants and underwear down to his knees.

“Absolutely.” You confirmed, with a shudder of excitement.

“Very well.” His voice was low, revealing just how badly he wanted this too. He placed a hand on your knee and followed the path all the way up to your core. He could feel the wetness and warmth coming from your center, begging for his attention. He traced the slit between your legs a few times, making you gasp with anticipation. Then, he pushed a finger passed your entrance, your whimper resounding in his ears. He moved his hand in a back and forth motion, not really aiming to pleasure you this way but trying to memorize a path he couldn’t see.

He took his finger out, bringing his hand back to his impatient cock. He wiped your wetness over his tip, mixing it with the fresh drops of precum that coated his skin. Once most of his hard length was slick and sticky, he brought his tip exactly where his finger had been, rubbing it between your wet folds to gather even more moisture before finally pushing it inside you. He heard you gasp loudly and he did too, the tightness of your cunt taking him by surprise.

He easlily managed to slide even deeper, burying his entire length inside of you with a satisfied sigh. He could hear your panting breaths, your soft cries in reaction to his movements inside you and the way you moaned his name, encouraging him to rock his hips against yours a few times.

It was nothing like he had thought it would be. His hand had never made him feel as good as you did, your warmth, wetness and tightness around him were intoxicating. The most wonderful thing he had ever experienced.

He slowly pulled himself almost all the way out, only to shove himself back in with more force. He could feel his tip hitting deep inside you, pleasure building in his abdomen with each of his quick pushes.

The sounds you made were music to his ears, the way you reacted to each of his thrusts was delightful, better than what he had imagined in his most vivid fantasies. He never expected you to be so loud, perfectly showing him how good he was making you feel. He increased his speed and you moaned even louder, practically crying out his name.

He felt your legs closing around his waist, keeping him close while your nails dug into his back, the whole bed shaking in rythym with his movements. Was he too rough ? How could he not be ? It was impossible to be more gentle when the pleasure he felt with each thrust kept intensifying, he was going to lose his mind, chasing the feeling, building it up until he couldn’t take it anymore.

You cried out one more time and your body tensed up, tightening around him so viciously that he finally reached his climax, instantly filling you up with his release. You kept your legs around him, your body spasming with intense pleasure as he struggled to catch his breath for a moment, his thoughts slowly coming back into order.

He waited until your body stopped twitching to remove himself, feeling your shudder as he pulled his spent erection out of you. You still were softly panting, your chest rising and falling under his hand while the other still clasped tightly the headboard. He leaned over, easily finding your lips from which breathless gasps still escaped. He kissed you, gently, as a way to apologize for losing control of himself and felt relieved when you returned his kiss even more fervently.

He moved to his side, lying down next to you to give you enough space to catch your breath but you inched closer, nuzzling your naked body against his in a cuddle that felt even more intimate than what he had just did to you.

“Thank you.” You said softly, sounding truly happy. Ominis smiled, his fingers absently caressing your back, playing with strands of your now messy hair. “I’m glad to have you as my husband.”

Husband. The word turned in his head, reminding him that you now were officially a couple. Mrs Ominis Gaunt; his best friend, his wife, his lover… His.

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Next in this series;

[stsgluver]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄 — geto suguru

synopsis. somewhere along the way, geto suguru had gone from being your greatest challenge academically to your greatest challenge emotionally

wc. 12.4k

tags. college/uni!au, supposed to be academic rivals to lovers but that lowkey became a subplot sorry, friends to lovers, fluff, mention of being sick , happy ending, not proofread, shoko tells you to have sex

a/n. hi!! this is my first long long fic so thank you to anyone who reads. sorry if it seems disjointed at any point, half of it was written several months ago and half in the last week <3

geto suguru was the bane of your existence to say the least.

if you could split your life into two, it would be distinctly separated as life before geto and life including geto. admittedly, you didn’t really remember life before geto – having been only a child – but from ten years old, he’d been a constant in your life. having moved from a small school where it was relatively easy to maintain your status as top of the class, you were suddenly put in a position where you weren’t the only kid with an above average level of intelligence.

so from ten years old, to now, at twenty, you have found yourself in constant competition with geto. scores didn’t matter as long as you beat him. shoko had started keeping track several years ago – a little tally chart in her notes app to record who was the highest scorer after tests. currently, geto was a win ahead of you, something which you weren’t proud to admit but you blamed it on the flu that had meant you’d missed a week and a half of lectures.

“so close yet so far.”

you jumped at the sound of a voice so close to you. it was a thursday morning, the library was relatively quiet and you’d been so engrossed in the sound of the keys as you typed that you hadn’t heard geto come up behind you. you were fully aware of him now though, his hot breath on the back of your neck as he loomed over you to no doubt read the answer you had been writing.

“maybe if i didn’t have someone breathing down the back of my neck, i’d be able to focus,” you countered, grabbing your bottle of water to quickly unscrew the cap and take a sip, hoping that the cool liquid could ease the heat in your cheeks. his hands were on the back of your chair as his eyes skimmed through your answer.

despite your rivalry that had been established on almost the first day of meeting, you and geto had always found yourself in similar circles. now, at university, the two of you were a part of a small quartet with your other close friends, gojo and shoko. both you and geto had majored in computer science (much to your delight), while gojo had majored in business and shoko in biomedicine. so not only were you stuck with him in your group, you two shared almost every single class together too.

he grinned down at you with that annoying smirk that you’d become all too familiar with, “you consider me a distraction?” anyone with eyes would say yes – with his long, dark hair twisted into a half up, half down do and a loose fitting shirt that showed off his toned arms. you didn’t have to fully look back at him to know why girls were constantly asking for his number.

“what i consider you is an annoyance.” brushing him off your chair, you opened a fresh tab. you still had catch up work, plus your usual studies from your small period off, hence why you had been at the library since it had first opened. you only had an afternoon lecture on a thursday so you’d sacrificed your usual sleeping in day to study.

the last thing you needed was geto playing teacher and critiquing your work.

the male in question laughed as he took a seat next to you, bringing out his own laptop that you half wanted to take a peek at. in less than a week, both of you had a large project due that accounted for a large percentage of your final grade for the year. you had the majority completed, but after reviewing your code, you’d realised that in your ill-state you’d made more errors than you’d realised (it would’ve arguably been more beneficial if you had just accepted defeat and done nothing for two weeks instead of trying). 

“i come bearing gifts,” a familiar voice called out far louder than he should have – gojo rarely entered a library, let alone bothered to learn basic etiquettes. the snowy-haired male had pushed his dark glasses up onto the top of his head, cup holder in one hand with three drinks from the local cafe and a white plastic bag in the other.

gojo took a seat on the other side of geto, dropping the bag unceremoniously on the circular table, its contents (sugary sweets plus some pastries) spilling everywhere. he was more gentle with the drinks and you could have kissed him for the iced caramel latte he passed across to you. you were only three hours in and you were ready to flake and go home.

“oh good,” geto grabbed one of the paper bags with chocolate-filled croissants (gojo only knew food associated with sugar), “some of us are going to be here a long while.” there was no subtlety as he nodded his head towards you, something you were willing to throw your half drunk water bottle at him for.

but as per usual, gojo missed the obvious social context cues and stared eyes wide at the two of you. “why? do we have a test?” 

the four of you had decided to take a language class together (specifically german) so even when you got busy during exams you knew that there would be at least twice a week when the four of you would be sitting at the back of a lecture hall together.

“since when did you study for tests?” geto scoffed, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms out above his head.

gojo giggled at the notion he was there to study. he’d only come to the library because shoko had plans throughout the day and his only other friends in the whole world were you two. “i just need to know what lesson i’m going to skip.” 

his attendance was horrific. he took two weeks off in solidarity with you so you ‘didn’t feel bad for getting the flu’. if he still felt remotely hung over on sunday evening, after attending one of his regular saturday night parties, he would make the decision then that monday was not the day for him to be attending lectures. if he woke up with a ‘bad feeling’, he took that as a sign that he would 100% die in a freak accident if he attended a lecture and skipped. you would kill to have his trust fund to cushion you if you failed university.

“no satoru we don’t have a test,” you laughed at his relieved look and little ‘phew’ as he dramatically swiped his hand across his forehead. to show his gratitude he offered you one of his excessively sweet croissants which you happily accepted. you knew you needed to get a real lunch soon but you just needed to do a couple more hours of real work before you could slack off.

unlucky for you, those couple of hours turned into the rest of the time the library was officially opened for.

you and gojo had taken an hour long break for lunch, before taking back sushi for geto (on gojo, of course). then both you and geto were in a video call whilst gojo played on his phone, attending your lecture online since neither of you were bothered to make your way back to campus just to come back out to the library.

geto had shown you snippets of his project and you were 70% sure that you were slightly ahead of him. but you weren’t about to hedge your bets and slack off – not when you still need at least two points to put yourself on top again on shoko’s chart. gojo had left a while ago once shoko had messaged him that she was back at your shared apartment. 

“are you walking?” geto asked you as he slipped his laptop into his backpack. gojo had been kind enough to take all of the remaining sweets with him so you only had your textbooks to clear off of the table and the empty wrappers he’d left behind. 

you nodded, grimacing slightly at the window. it was dark outside; it wasn’t winter but you hadn’t completely transitioned to spring evenings when the sun wouldn’t set till beyond seven. “my place is only a ten minute walk.” only a ten minute walk in the drizzling rain for which you did not bring a coat. as large as it was on you, you didn’t think gojo’s hoodie would suffice in keeping you warm (he’d forgotten it at yours after a movie night).

“i’ll give you a lift. can’t have you getting sick again.” he teased, chuckling at his own joke as you shot him a faux glare, lightly nudging his arm as you two descended down the stairs of the library. there was no one else in the library at this point, and your footsteps seemed to echo against the cool tiles of the floor.

“fine,” you sarcastically dragged, although you were grateful for the alternative to walking. 

somewhere along the way, the line between rivals and friends had been blurred. for you, the line had only become messier on your eighteenth birthday when the four of you had dressed up in suits and gone to your local laser tag place. as aforementioned, you’d always been aware that geto was attractive but it wasn’t until the close proximity under the neon lights, when you were a duo against shoko and gojo, did you truly see it. a few gentle touches on your waist to pull you back behind a wall, several whispers in your ear where he’d duck down to your height and you were a goner. 

for the most part, you’d been able to keep it to yourself, focusing all of your energy into being statistically smarter than him as opposed to admitting – or even really acknowledging – your feelings. 

“i was right,” you said, slightly out of breath having just run from the entrance of the library to geto’s car (which was parked as far away as it possibly could’ve been because he’d gone to the gym before meeting you). the light drizzle of rain and turned borderline torental in the thirty seconds it had taken you to exit the library. geto gave you a confused look as he pulled his hair out of his half bun, a slight frizz due to the dampness caused by the light rain. “my first answer,” you clarified, “i was right.”

he was smirking again, the same confident know-it-all smirk, “i know. i like instilling a little bit of doubt, better my odds.” 

“you’re an ass.” you huffed, crossing your arms in front of yourself. you’d reread the question three times and rewritten it once, coming to the same conclusion as before, before giving up and checking the mark scheme that had told you you were right all along. 

“i’ll make you pay for fuel,” geto threatened as he turned on the ignition, reversing the car out of the parking space. his hand was on the back of your headrest as he peered out of the back window.

“you can’t make me pay when you were the one to offer me a lift,” you retorted, playing with the strings of gojo’s hoodie and trying to ignore the close proximity between you and the dark haired male next to you. lucky for you, geto’s car was full of distractions for your wandering eyes, memorabilia of the last three years of your lives all around you.

on the dashboard was a dent from when gojo had hit his head after geto had had to emergency break and the former did not have his seatbelt on (there was a little blood and gojo declared that these were his final moments). the jelly belly car freshener that hung from the mirror was the same one that you had bought him as a congratulations for passing his driving test. there was a polaroid of the four of you graduating hidden in the folded mirror above your head, just the corner peeking out. 

each of you had your own designated seats – gojo was usually in the passenger (you could tell by the sweet stash in the door), you sat behind gojo and shoko behind geto. 

the only downside to geto’s car was the fact the heating did not work whatsoever. since getting the car at seventeen, he said every year that he was going to get it fixed but always ended up having to spend money on far more important things for the car. such as the light up gear stick and customised car horn. you shivered lightly as you wrapped your arms further around yourself, but the wet hoodie did little to warm you up.

geto glanced at you from the corner of his eye and nodded his head towards the backseats. “i have a dry jacket in the back if you’d rather that.”

you contemplated it for a moment before ultimately deciding that you would like to spend the next eight minutes warm. slipping off gojo’s hoodie, you turned to reach behind you to grab geto’s black zip up and slip it on, leaving the hoodie behind for your other friend to claim back. he would more than likely be in here the next day anyways.

the rest of the car ride was mostly silent, other than you critiquing his driving on several occasions – which he claimed you were in no position to do since you did not have a licence of your own. you argued you were perfectly within your rights as he’d had to swerve to avoid a stray cat.

“thanks suguru,” you said as you took off your seatbelt and reached for your bag. he’d pulled up just outside of the entrance to your apartment so you’d only be caught in the rain for a fraction of a second. “do you want me to leave your jacket here?”

“anytime princess.” what had started off as a mocking when you were kids had become your designated nickname and you hated how much you now loved it when geto called you that. you could only hope he couldn’t see your flushed skin in the dim lights. “and don’t worry about it. give it back to me another time.”

you thanked him again, waving him off before you scurried inside and up the stairs to the fourth floor where your apartment with shoko was. the two of you had been in separate student accommodation in your first year, but after six months and several awful roommates had both chosen to find a small apartment to share together. both of you had part time jobs to afford it and while it added to the masses of work you already had with school, it was worth it.

it was only small – two bedrooms, a bathroom and an open kitchen and living room – but it was your little home. as of a weekend, it wasn’t uncommon for geto and gojo to be there too. of a friday evening, the four of you would be huddled in your living room with a random board game (usually cluedo) and an excessive amount of vodka.

“where have you been?” shoko asked slyly, laying across the sofa with a pen in one hand and her ipad in the other. there was a picture of a human heart on her screen, her scribbles annotating it messily. 

“library. suguru gave me a lift home,” you called out to her as you dropped your bag into your room, passing shoko as you headed for the fridge to find something to eat. pushing your hair up into a loose bun, you grabbed a fork for the pot of mango you’d picked up. “when did satoru leave?”

“he was only here for twenty minutes. this place is too small for him,” shoko dropped her stuff down onto the sofa, following you to your little kitchen area. she jumped up onto the counter, happily accepting the fruit you offered to her. “so, geto gave you a lift home then?” she eyed your change in hoodie from the one you’d left in that morning.

“don’t start,” you complained, grabbing another fork so she didn’t have to eat with her hands. it had been shoko’s current fixation to over analyse the relationship between you and geto. you’d made it very clear twelve months ago when she’d first come to you to ask what was going on that there was nothing there. nothing tangible anyways.

“no, i just think it’s so sweet and so gentlemanly of him,” shoko tucked her hair behind her ear as she spoke with a mouthful of mango, batting her eyelashes innocently, “don’t you?” 

your refusal to point blank answer the question is enough of an answer for her. “i think it’s late,” you backed away from shoko and dropped your used fork in the sink. you’d sort it out in the morning. “and i have an eight am class tomorrow.” 

“with geto,” shoko called out before you could fully close your door and you could hear her smile in her voice. you rested your forehead on the cool wood of the door and tried not to think too much about how right she was. it was embarrassing – you were a grown adult, not a teenager anymore. it should be easy to pull yourself together and get over your silly crush that arguably stemmed from the rivalry between the two of you.

he challenged you in a way you had never been before you craved the competition. that was what you wanted from him – a challenge, not his toned body or honey-smooth voice.

when she’d confronted you the first time about your feelings from geto, you’d been honest (the woman was a walking lie detector, there was no way you could have lied). told her that yes you had a small crush but that was all it was – a harmless little crush. when you’d continued on as normal and didn’t make any sort of moves or obvious hints that you still liked him like that, she’d dropped it. 

you’d hoped that that was the end of it.

however, her interest had been revived after the two of you had stayed up a few weeks prior after coming home from a party. shoko had had far more than is recommended for the average person alcohol-wise whereas you had mainly sobered up by now. the two of you were curled up under a blanket watching whatever romcom shoko had found whilst you had made two bowls of cereal.

“if you had to sleep with anyone we know right now or you’d die, who would it be?” shoko had asked with a mouthful that you cringed at. neither of you had bothered to change into appropriate attire or cleaned your faces so it was almost comical to see her in her short dress and smudged make-up eating cereal. 

you nudged her arm gently, careful not to cause any spillages, and with a snort asked, “why would i die if i didn’t have sex?”

“shh,” she was messy and unbalanced as she leaned across to press a finger to your lips, “answer the question.”

you hummed, tapping your spoon against your chin as you mulled over her question. you knew the answer – you were sure she did too – but you didn’t want to come across as desperate. “i don’t know…” there was still a buzz in your system, especially as you thought back on your night out and the crowd of other uni students you’d been with. “definitely not naoya.” you pretended to gag after you said his name and shoko laughed.

he had made the first hour of your outing less than fun as he trailed behind you like a lost puppy. geto was away visiting family, gojo was somewhere on the dancefloor, and shoko was getting drinks from someone so you were left alone and the zenin thought that this would be the day you would accept his love confessions. as if two years of hard ‘no’s’ would suddenly become a ‘yes’.

the mere suggestion made you actually want to be physically sick.  

“he is the worst kisser,” shoko complained, staring up at the ceiling like she was reliving a moment you didn’t even know had happened. you stared at her, mouth agape, because in all your years she had never once told you when this had happened.

“why have you kissed him?” not only was zenin naoya renowned for his lack of respect towards women, the girl sat inches from you was a proud, outspoken lesbian who made it very clear she had zero attraction to men whatsoever.

“gojo donkey dared me to.”

“ieiri.” you deadpanned at your best friend as she snickered at your judgement, waving her hand dismissively towards you. 

“you would do it too for a free drink,” she tried to justify and you shook your head. 

“have some standards.”

you could practically imagine how it played out, gojo in fits of laughter and naoya in shock as shoko pulled him into a kiss (he’d mask it up though and use it as evidence that even lesbians wanted him). if you were lucky, gojo recorded the incident but the likelihood that he would have had the forethought is a fifty-fifty if he was drinking. even when he does remember to record silly things like that on a night out, majority of the time the camera is pointing at him instead of the incident.

“you’d kiss geto for a free drink wouldn’t you?”

you almost choked on your own spit at the forwardness of her question.

“i’m just saying, this whole rivalry thing? fuck it out,” she raised her hands in defence at the appalled look on your face. “the tension is unbearable.”

“you’re unbearable,” you flipped her off.

“you’re late.”

you weren’t a violent person but you think that just one little slap to geto’s perfectly tanned face would have made you a slightly happier person. it wasn’t fair that him and gojo looked happy and wide awake at sixteen minutes past eight in the morning whilst you and shoko looked like you had just run a marathon.

which, in your opinion, you basically had.

and now you were at your stupid language class that you didn’t really even need to be taking with no morning coffee to wake you up.

you huffed as you slid into the seat next to geto, grateful that you always chose to sit near the back so it wasn’t too obvious you’d just come in late. nodding your head towards shoko, “someone locked themselves in the bathroom.”

not only had you not woken up to your first alarm so you were already behind in your usual routine, just as you were about to leave your apartment, you heard shoko calling out from the bathroom saying the door was broken. ensue a fifteen minute battle with you both trying to jiggle the door lock open.

“i said it was a sign we shouldn’t show up at all,” shoko shrugged, grabbing out her pouch of tobacco so she could roll herself her first cigarette of the day. neither of you were overly morning people – especially not without your daily drink and cigarette (respectively of course, shoko found coffee to be too bitter and you weren’t a big fan of smoking).

“shhh.” a girl a few rows in front of you turned her head, giving you all a displeased look.

“shh.” shoko repeated back mockingly, not so subtly raising both her middle fingers up at the back of the girl's head. you bit down on your bottom lip not to laugh loudly at her childishness. the brunette on your right then turned her head down towards gojo and geto, holding out her hands, “one of you pass me your notes.” gojo looked over at you both with a grin, turning his laptop screen to face you. on it? a game of online chess. which he was losing.

“genuinely asking, how have you not failed uni yet?” shoko shook her head in disbelief before turning her attention to geto, “cough up, princess.” she mimicked the nickname geto occasionally used for you and you had to fight every urge not to nudge her in the ribs.

“i don’t know how you plan on topping me if you’re not showing up to class on time,” geto tsked disappointingly towards you as he sent the notes from his laptop to your group chat so you’d both have them. shoko slumped back into her seat, ipad in her crossed lap as she downloaded the pdf.

you ignored his jab with an eye roll, pulling your laptop out of your bag to see what you’d missed. it wasn’t much and it was a beginner’s class too so if you were going to be late to a class because shoko got locked in a bathroom, this was the one to be late for. you were glad, though, that geto always typed his notes because his handwriting was terrible. otherwise you would have to accept you lost the first fifteen minutes of the lesson.

halfway through the class, both shoko and gojo left to go have a smoke and get food (again seperately, gojo had tried to smoke once and had spent the next five minutes on the floor coughing and vowed never to do it again). the white haired male had kindly offered to grab you hashbrowns from the small on campus cafe and you’d accepted the offer after your stomach had decided that it was not happy you’d skipped coffee and breakfast.

that left you and geto alone together. well, not really alone since you were in a half filled lecture hall but the point still stood.

“it looks good on you.” geto’s breath was hot against your ear as leaned down and spoke in a low voice as to not disturb the people around you – it was either that or he too was aware of the crush you’d been harbouring for him and enjoyed seeing your flushed expression. for the sake of your sanity, you assumed the former.

you swallowed at the close proximity between the two of you; he was so close you could practically feel the loose strands of his hair brush against you. he hadn’t bothered to tie it up but you know he’d meticulously straightened it this morning. if you turned your head, there would be less than an inch between you and–

is he complimenting you in his clothes?

you’d worn his and gojo’s hoodies an endless number of times before in the past, this wasn’t anything new. you blame your flusteredness on shoko and her constant teasing at the minute. for the last couple years you’d managed to keep yourself in check.

clearing your throat, your straightened up in the uncomfy red seat. “i was in a rush this morning. you can have it back now if you really want it.” you hoped not – once again it was poor weather and you were relying on this to keep you sheltered from the rain since, for reasons that you were not at fault for, you’d left in a hurry this morning.

out of the corner of your eye you could see geto shake his head as he settled back into his seat. you let out a small breath of relief as you finally got your own bubble of personal space back. “don’t worry about it princess.” 

geto wasn’t oblivious to girls being interested in him – he would brush it off with a laugh and a cocky remark – but you hoped and prayed he was oblivious to the fool you were making of yourself. 

after class, the four of you had headed to your favourite cafe – only a five minute walk from campus but it was tucked out of the way in a little alleyway so that it wasn’t as busy as some of the others. you didn’t need to give shoko your order with how often you came here, you all always got your regulars.

“me and tweedle dee here,” shoko linked her arm around gojo’s as she spoke, ignoring the way she forced gojo to slightly bend down awkwardly due to their height difference, “are going to grab food, you two go grab seats.” 

“c’mon,” geto’s hand was on the small of your back as he guided you between chairs and tables and you could feel the heat emanating from his palm through his jacket. for such a small space, there were far too many tables and only half occupied, leaving the rest as a labyrinth to work through.

“where are you going?” you asked with a small frown when he gently nudged you in the direction of the dimly light corner when there was a table for four right in the window still available. despite the initial shower this morning, the sun had begun to shine through.

“i’m going to the seats in the corner. y’know since there is a sofa,” geto added in a ‘duh’ tone like the sofa was the best thing in the world. it wasn’t even like they were that comfy – too low down and squishy in your opinion. 

“it’s sunny,” you pointed to the light pouring in but he gave you an uninterested look, shaking his head.

“rock, paper, scissors.”

you blinked twice up at him and then down to his hands – one held out in a palm and the other in a fist over the top. the silver of his rings contrasted with the warm colour of his skin and you had to force yourself to look back up at him and not stare shamelessly.  

“we’re adults, i’m not playing that with you.” you deadpanned. this was a gojo response – clearly living together meant that his antics were rubbing off on geto.

geto laughed quietly, blessing you with a teasing smile and raised eyebrow as he nudged you with his open palm and fist. kissing your teeth with your tongue, you muttered an insult about maturity under your breath as you mimicked his stance.

“corner seats it is princess,” geto grinned, hooking an arm around your shoulder to lead you to the sofa after you picked paper and he picked scissors. “do you think that counted as another point to me?” the tease in his voice was evident and the smirk on his lips only riled you up more. not even his arm around you could distract you from your sore loser behaviour.

“no,” you said quickly and with a tone that had him laughing to himself. you weren’t about to lose another point over a child’s game that was just pure luck. there was a lot more integrity behind the tally chart titled ‘who needs to go outside and touch grass more?’ (named by shoko, of course).

the two of you sat next to each other, facing towards the counter so you could see as shoko pointed to various things on the menu and pastries on display. you were all too aware of how close you were when geto knocked his knee against yours as he slipped off his hoodie.

“i can pick you up if you’re going to the library tomorrow,” geto offered as he crossed one leg over the other. his and gojo’s apartment was in the other direction of the campus to yours, but you two did share a morning class – assuming he was driving in and not making the five minute walk then it wasn’t out of his way for you.

“are you going straight after class?” you turned your head to look at up, seeing him already looking down at you. in only his t-shirt, there was a sliver of black ink peeking out from beneath his sleeve.

several months after his eighteenth birthday, you, him, gojo and shoko had gone out for the evening and returned with matching tattoos of koi betta fish. his was fully inked in on his upper arm whereas gojo’s was just the outline on the back of his shoulder. your’s was a mixture of the two and on your lower hip whereas shoko’s was on her wrist. initially it had been both blue and black ink but the blue had begun to fade. 

“i need to go to the gym and then i’ll join you.”

the gym where he would most definitely be removing that shirt and not only show off the tattoo on his arm but the larger one on his back too. this one was much larger – a dragon that swirled around the shape of his spine. he always said that in another life, he would be training to become a tattoo artist and not studying computer science. 

“why aren’t we sat in the sun?” you turned away from geto to look over at shoko, the female in question holding a tray as she raised a brow at the two of you, displeased by your choice of seating. she, much like you, hated the sofas and would have much rather been in the window seats.

geto shrugged, pointing at you accusingly, like he wasn’t the one who wanted to sit here. “yn lost rock, paper, scissors.”

“yn,” gojo whined as he dropped into the sofa seat opposite geto, “one job.” he complained, shaking his head in a disappointing manner, like he cared so much where you sat and was not aching to eat his donut with a sickening amount of icing. you grimaced at his tastes.

“who’s going to meimei’s party saturday?” shoko asked once she’d divided up everyone’s orders. a caramel latte and muffin for you, croissant and black coffee for geto and a blueberry muffin and black coffee for herself.

meimei was a couple years older than all of you but since week one of university, her house had been the go to one at least once every couple of weeks. gojo and geto always got an invite – meimei would personally message them – whereas you and shoko showed up as their unofficial plus ones. it didn’t bother either of you, you were there to drink, not to hang out with the slightly odd and promiscuous woman. 

“yeah,” geto nodded, scrunching his nose up at the bitterness of his drink. you heavily judged both him and shoko for forcing themselves to drink a drink they barely liked. “if satoru goes.”

“i am 100% going,” gojo spoke with a mouthful, dark glasses pushed up onto the top of his head, “i need to redeem myself.”

“what after the dance floor incident?” you giggled, earning a kick under the table from the white haired male. after several drinks too many at someone’s house party, gojo had managed to create a circle in the centre of the living-room-turned-dance-floor. it was entertaining to watch him pull people in and out to dance with him… until the drinks caught up to him and he vomited everywhere. this was not at meimei’s luckily, or you don’t think he’d ever be allowed back

“shush! people won’t forget if you keep reminding them,” gojo whined, earning a sarcastic pat on the shoulder from shoko. 

“are you coming?” geto asked you as though the answer wasn’t obvious. when did one of the four of you ever do anything without the others?

nonetheless, you glanced over at gojo who was looking expectantly at you, “am i really getting a choice?”

“nope!” gojo grinned.

“you’ll pick us all up?” shoko smiled uncharacteristically sweetly towards geto who rolled his eyes and nodded. he was the only one with the car but both he and shoko had licences. though he seemed hard done by in his response, he wasn’t the biggest drinker and even less so compared to shoko. he was the unspoken designated driver.

“black is your colour,” shoko complimented as she reached past you for the straighteners. you thanked her through gritted teeth as you held a bobby pin between your lips, attempting to fix your hair with another one in your hands.

the two of you were in the same shared bathroom that shoko had gotten herself locked in several days prior. your sink was covered in the various skincare and make up products you used. the two plug sockets were occupied with your straighteners and hair dryer. it was a chaotic mess that would be tomorrow’s fun activity in your hungover state.

friday had gone by quickly, geto had even showed up at your apartment to take you to your first class before you went to the library together. you’d discussed both of your projects but for the most part you’d worked in a comfortable silence. in your lunch break, you’d gone to your local chinese takeaway and eaten in his car. for a brief moment, you’d indulged yourself in what your life could be as his girlfriend, spending each of your days like this with him. 

sighing, you slipped a bobby pin into the back of your hair. in a couple years time once you’d graduated and started your careers (albeit in the same or at the very least similar industries), your feelings for geto would dissipate into nothing more than the whisper of a memory. it was the competition, you reminded yourself. that was what created the ‘tension’ (as shoko put it) that had led you to believe you had these feelings.

you could laugh at yourself for how ridiculous and pathetic your thoughts sounded.

tonight however, that was not of concern. tonight, the only focus was on getting wasted.

you had dressed up in a tight fitting black dress that stopped midthigh specially for the occasion while shoko had opted for wide leg pants and a butterfly crop top. 

specifically the butterfly crop top that a mutual fashion student friend of yours had made for her.

you raised an eyebrow at her once you felt your hair was securely up, dragging your eyes up and down the top she was wearing, “are you coming back tonight or…?” 

“or am i getting laid by a certain very hot girl with blue hair? i’m getting laid,” shoko blew you a kiss with a grin. “you should try it some time,” she wriggled her eyebrows at you and it didn’t take a genius to know who she was hinting at.

in regards to her activities post-meimei’s, she had been getting closer to utahime over the last few months. you both knew her from high school but she’d avoided your group like the plague because of her strong disliking for gojo. you loved gojo, you really did, but to some he could come across as a bit much to those who didn’t know him well enough. 

at university, however, where there was a bit more space between the four of you (not by much), utahime and shoko had managed to get more alone time. despite her confident and cocky nature, shoko’s soft affection for the blue haired girl was obvious and you had fully encouraged her to ask her on the first date several months back.

“you know that means i’m going to be stuck with dumb and dumber all evening,” you complained light-heartedly as you stepped out of the bathroom to try and find the shoes you’d be wearing. geto would be happy to hear that though – it meant he only had to find you and gojo when it came to coming home.

the four of you had only ever stayed over at meimei’s once. her house was massive and you all took over one of her guest bedrooms which in itself made for a fun sleepover. however, there’d been a group of guys – zenin naoya included – who’d been trying to coax you and shoko with them to a different room. moving on from then, geto had made it a point to almost always drive.

“oh no, is that such a hardship for you?”

you held up your finger to the brunette who was peering around the doorframe of the bathroom to smirk at you. 

“you need to drop this.”

“nope,” shoko slipped past you, reaching into a pile of clothes to grab your silver strappy heels you were searching for. your living room was in just as much of a state as the bathroom with trial outfits and various accessories laid out on the sofa and floors. “i need some sort of fun here.” you scoffed at her reasoning, her fun at your expense, but still thanked her for finding your shoes.

the only clear space was on the small coffee table in front of the sofas where half a bottle of passionfruit vodka sat with two empty shot glasses. as you perched yourself on the edge of the sofa arm to start tying up your heels, shoko took it upon herself to pour the two of you another shot for the night. 

you grimaced as shoko handed you a full shot glass, but interlocked your arm with hers nonetheless. “three, two, one,” she counted down before you both poured the drinks into your mouths. the distinctive after taste ensued and you coughed at the overwhelmingness. 

“that’s nasty,” you stuck your tongue out and shoko snickered at you, having been completely unphased. 

a low rumbling could be heard outside through the open window of your apartment. you glanced at the clock – they were five minutes late. not that it bothered you since you were still struggling untangling the straps of your other shoe. 

“geto’s here,” shoko said, closing the window and pulling the curtains closed. you hummed in acknowledgement, muttering an ‘almost done’ when the vibrating sound of her phone went off. a picture of gojo wearing bright green goggles flashed up on the screen as shoko answered it. “yeah? yn’s just taking forever to put her shoes on.” you gave her a look. “yeah, i’ll tell her. geto told you to hurry up.”

“i am hurrying,” you shot back, tying the last bow. standing up, you pulled the skirt of your dress down so you didn’t flash anyone and did a little spin. “how do i look?”

“hot. we’re coming down now.”

“–and don’t accept drugs from strangers, i’m not dealing with another satoru situation,” geto said as he listed off the do’s and don’t’s for the evening. do’s including make sure you are always with someone you know and don’t’s including speaking to zenin naoya. not that the latter would be a difficult task. 

gojo was dressed in a white fishnet top and he’d opted to forgo his glasses for the evening. instead, he’d decorated his eyes with blue eyeshadow and gems – his usual going out look since he’d watched euphoria. in the drivers seat, geto looked far more casual in an oversized grey top and baggy jeans but it wouldn’t be far fetched to say that he stood out the most out of the four of you. his sun kissed skin and sharp eyes were alluring to anyone who saw him. the most effort he’d put into his appearance was pulling his half back into his half bun, pulling some baby hairs out at the front to frame his features.

you’d caught yourself watching him from your seat one too many times with shoko even nudging your knee once.

“me?” gojo gasped from his passenger seat, looking back at you and shoko like geto had made some outlandish statement.

“don’t you remember that time you took drugs from that girl because you thought she’d let you hit after,” shoko reminded with an unlit cigarette between her lips (no smoking in the car – another don’t on geto’s list). 

gojo cleared his throat, holding up his hands in defence, “look guys, i will be the first to admit it wasn’t my finest moment.”

that was an understatement. you’d been the one to find him after another party goer had recognised you as one of his friends and told you he was having a bad reaction. you almost felt bad when you found him upstairs in a bath, with a shower running all over him.

“you guys weren’t the ones who had to stay up till 4am while he cried in the bathroom,” geto shuddered at the memory and you were just grateful he’d taken over gojo’s care as soon as you’d called him.

“nope but i did have 15 voicemails from him the next day.”

again, gojo’s head snapped back, singling out only you this time, dread on his features. “you’ve never shown me these.” despite probably going out the most out of the four of you, his tolerance for alcohol was pitiful and his tolerance for any sort of substance was ten times worse. if it seemed like he had no filter beforehand, an under the influence gojo had to be supervised so he didn’t say something to the wrong person and ended up in a&e.

“i’m saving them for a special occasion,” you patted the top of his fluffy (and now also glittery) hair. it would probably end up in your annual slideshows you all did for new years eve. an ongoing tradition where each of you picked out your highlights of the year and made powerpoints with them.

once at meimei’s and out of the car, shoko gave you a quick side hug and told you to stay safe. “i am going to love you and leave you all,” she dramatically waved you away with one hand, the other holding a lighter up to the cigarette in her mouth. presumably, utahime was already somewhere around the back of the house waiting for shoko as opposed to inside where there were several dozen bodies already packed. “have a wonderful evening i will see you tomorrow for the debrief.”

the debrief in question being the mandatory coffee session post party to send each other pictures and make fun of how hungover gojo inevitably is.

“yn, come with me!” gojo slipped his hand into yours and dragged you through the sea of bodies out into the makeshift bar that had been set up in the corner of the living room. meimei’s house was massive, this room alone was probably larger than your entire apartment. geto had followed after you but he’d turned towards the crowd, opting to socialise over drinking whatever concoction gojo was about to make.

turning your attention back to the white haired male beside you, you cringe at the amount of liquid in the red cups. it was oddly graceful how gojo opened cupboards and grabbed bottles with no hesitation, haphazardly pouring them into each cup.

“how do you know where everything is?” you asked, leaning over to take a sniff from the drinks. surprisingly, it wasn’t awful, but you put that down to the lemon flavoured mixer he’d just added.

gojo lightly pushed your head back, shooing you away as he held up a bottle of malibu. after taking a neat sip (which you wanted to point out was not very hygienic but with what he was about to out into his body you doubted he cared), he poured in the final addition to your drinks. “look i’m number one meimei hater but i’d lying if i said i wasn’t a regular at this establishment.”

you scrunched up your nose at regularly attending a place like this. it was fun to a certain extent you could admit, but there was only so much of the pounding music and sweaty bodies that you could handle. “you need a life. beyond women,” you added once you caught his eye watching a short-haired ginger girl weaving through the crowd.

“oh honey i do. i dabble in both,” he winked at the pink haired boy following behind the girl and you quickly nudged him in the stomach with your elbow. you wanted at least ten minutes before he got distracted and tried to sleep with the first person that walks past him. gojo pouted, whining quietly, before making a miraculous recovery in order to hold out your drink to you. “try this.”

there was no countdown this time before you both began drinking. the alcohol burned your throat and the odd mixture of flavours had you calling it quits once the red cup was only halfway empty. you coughed twice as you dropped the drink back onto the table, wiping the excess liquid off of your lips. gojo committed to the entire drink, squeezing the plastic once he’d finished.

“delicious,” he grinned, already looking in the cupboards again to start up another mess. this was how he’d get borderline paralytic so quickly on nights out.

looking off at the crowd of huddled bodies ahead of you, it wasn’t difficult to spot geto who stood a head taller than everyone else. meimei had set up multi-coloured strobe lights that danced red and blue across his skin. he looked so effortlessly gorgeous. 

you couldn’t help but feel disheartened as he ducked his head down to speak to the girl in front of him. you didn’t know her but you recognised her from one of your lectures – one that you also shared with geto and there was no doubt in your mind she’d noticed him before. who wouldn’t have?

reaching for your red cup again, you decided that you could wallow in self pity all you want but you were not doing that sober.

“he looks at you like that too.”

“huh?”

your gaze shifted from geto and the unnamed girl to gojo. the male in question had one hand on a bottle of vodka and one hand on his hip as he looked at you accusingly. your face felt hot at the insinuation that you’d been looking at your mutual best friend in a certain way and you tried to take the vodka bottle from his hand.

gojo held it up above your head, easily out of reach from you as he too stood taller than everyone else. “look all i’m saying is that he was not very happy that you were asking nanami kento for advice on your project and not him.”

you frowned at the fact, willing yourself not to overthink what that could mean. nothing, is what it meant. 

you hadn’t even realised geto had still been in class when you’d spoken to nanami as he’d said he was going to the gym. the blond was smart and with you making a mess of your code when you were sick, you’d wanted a fresh set of eyes on it now that you’d somewhat cleaned it.

“why would i ask him? so he can sabotage me?” you countered. this was your chance to even the scoreboard in shoko’s notes.

“you are so smart, yn, so so smart,” gojo patted your head affectionately, arm slipping around your shoulders as he tugged you close to his body. he smelt like shoko, having stolen one of her perfumes the last time he was over. “and yet you’re dumb as fuck.”

“give me that.” you ignored the insult, which was pretty ironic coming from him of all people, and snatched the bottle from him, unscrewing the cap to fill up your cup.

“you can’t avoid it forever,” gojo sung but you were done listening to his unsolicited opinions, opting instead to console yourself with alcohol.

“have i ever told you how pretty your eyes are suguru?”

“you have. several times. all in the last five minutes actually,” geto sighed and you snickered at the two next to you. 

unsurprisingly, gojo was using geto as a crutch (more like he was being dragged along by the latter but it was all the same) having drunk more than his body could handle. you were faring slightly better but only after you’d given up on your heels. the grass was uncomfortably damp beneath your feet but it was better than falling headfirst into the mud. 

“goodie!” the white haired male giggled, almost tripping onto the ground as he struggled to keep up. you were glad you lived in separate apartments –  you did not want to be there when gojo started coming down from the bubble he was in and spent the next several hours with his head in the toilet.

“you take the front seat,” geto nodded his head towards the passenger side, “i’m going to lay him in the back.”

you obliged with a quick nod, skipping to the seat next to his. there was still the buzz of alcohol in your system and you know had it not been for geto calling it a night, you’d still be in the thrum of people dancing. you were shocked that there had been no noise complaints given the crowds of probably hundreds of students and the loud music still blasting despite having gone well past midnight.

you giggled to yourself as you recorded geto struggle to fit gojo into the backseat. he was like a large child; awkward and stiff and too tall for the small space. by the time geto’d finally managed to get the seatbelt around him, he was practically passed out and leaning across the backseats. you sent the video across to shoko.

“have you heard from ieiri?” geto asked as he slipped into the driver’s seat, pushing the key into the ignition but not turning it. your heart swelled at the concern he held for all of you – ever the gentleman. he’d been the one to help you untie your heels and held them in one hand as he held gojo up with the other, and now he was worried about the final piece of your group who’d already been clear she wasn’t coming home with you. it was basic really, a bare minimum one could even argue, but you were drunk and your feelings were already all over the place.

“yep,” you nodded, scrolling to your most recent message that she’d sent to you about twenty minutes ago saying that she was leaving meimei’s. leaning across the console so that there is only a few inches between your face and geto’s, you hold a finger to your lips and whisper, “she’s with her girlfriend but you’re not supposed to know that.”

it wasn’t not not a secret that utahime and shoko were seeing each other but shoko had been trying to refrain from using ‘girlfriend’ because it was still early days and she didn’t want to scare her off. utahime had never been in a publicly lesbian relationship before.

“mhmm. i won’t tell.” you were close enough to smell the mint on his breath (he probably went out for a smoke at one point) and you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing down at his lips. they were a soft pink and slightly damp from where his tongue had swiped across. in the corner of his lips was a small hole where he used to have a ring. you wondered what the cool metal would have felt like if you kissed him.

the sound of gojo muttering in his sleep brought you back to your senses, somewhat, and you quickly seated yourself back into the passenger seat. you could only hope that the drunken execution was as smooth as you thought it was in your head as you prayed geto didn’t notice your blatant glances.

you could see geto looking over at you out of the corner of your eye and you wanted to shrink away into the seat. you should’ve let gojo pour you another one of those awful drinks. he opened his mouth to say something but when you remained focused on pulling down the skirt of your dress, he chose to just start the car.

a ping from your phone had you frowning at an unknown number sending you ‘hi’. the follow up ‘it’s todo’ and ‘are you still here?’ had you groaning in annoyance at yourself.

“are you okay?” geto glanced at you, worry flashing across his features. you weren’t sure if it was for you or if he was concerned that you were about to be sick in his precious car.

“i gave todo my number,” you sighed. you could vaguely remember doing it after he’d joined you, gojo and several others for jello shots. after seeing geto with the same girl from your tuesday morning lectures, you hadn’t hesitated when todo had asked for your number. a futile attempt at getting back at the male sat to your right. you were already embarrassed by your actions now, you didn’t want to know how you’d feel tomorrow when you were sober.

if you turned your head, you would have seen the way geto’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, the skin of his knuckles turning white. but you didn’t and his voice was unsuspiciously calm as he spoke. “did you want his number?”

“no, maybe, i don’t know,” you rambled out in quick succession, hands moving in front of yourself as you spoke. you had wanted his number but you didn’t want it because it was his number. maybe this was an opportunity for you to stop with your silly crush. maybe you did want his number. taking half a moment, you continued, “well, i mean he’s not not attractive? but–” i want you. 

“but?” geto repeated when you stopped yourself mid-sentence. resting your head against the headrest, you turned to look at him. you found yourself tracing the outline of his side profile with your eyes – from the stray hairs that had clung to his forehead from sweat due to the heat at meimei’s, his brows that were furrowed as his dark eyes stared on ahead at the quiet roads, the soft shape of his nose down to his lips that you desperately wanted to ki– “you’re staring.”

you glanced at the intersection where you’d stopped because of the red light shining down at you, then back to geto who’s full attention was on you now. his own eyes were wandering across you now but his action seemed one of concern than your blatant admiration.

“do you…” you began, all inhibition foregone as you found yourself leaning across the console again towards him. geto’s hands dropped down from steering wheel to lightly hold your shoulders to ensure you didn’t sleep. it didn’t stop you from moving closer – he wasn’t trying to.

“do i…?”

geto wasn’t stopping you but he wasn’t encouraging you either. you stilled entirely when your faces had only a couple of centimetres away from each other. “would you stop me if i kissed you?” your voice was no louder than a whisper to the point you weren’t even sure if he had heard you.

there was a moment, a moment that you swear was real and not a figment of your drunken imagination, where you think geto was fully contemplating your question, just about to close the gap. the harsh sound of a horn ruined the trance you both seemed to be under and geto was back to focusing solely on the road.

you hurriedly settled back into your seat, running your hands across your face and pushing the stray hairs away from your face. your heart was racing, whether it was from the alcohol, the jumpscare from the horn or the realisation of what you almost just did, you weren’t sure.

“jeez, what did satoru give you?” he muttered aloud, though more to himself than you or the sleeping male in the backseat. his little snores may have been endearing if you didn’t also blame him for everything that just took place. ‘he looks at you like that too’ – he owed you at least a week's worth of coffee and doughnuts for putting the thoughts in your head.

“that was ages ago, i’m clear minded.” you were not clear minded at all. you wished shoko was here. you wish you weren’t.

“sure you are,” geto scoffed quietly under his breath. if he was annoyed at you, you needed to start plotting how you’d avoid him for the next few years.

“satoru said something,” you said when the silence became so unbearable you thought your mind would simply implode. the roads were familiar but you knew you still had a while before you got to your apartment. assuming geto didn’t banish you to the side of the street for trying to kiss him.

geto was frowning again and you wanted nothing more for the lines to disappear from his forehead. he was too pretty to get wrinkles. “what did he say?”

“what did you say?” you spun around in your seat to see the white haired male unceremoniously spread across the backseats, mouth hanging open. absolutely no help, as per. “fuck, he’s still asleep.” you closed your eyes as you thought back to your conversation with gojo when you’d first gotten to meimei’s. “he said you didn’t like i went to kento for help.”

“that means i want to kiss you?” geto seemed almost… amused? his usual confident demeanour seemed to be returning as he shot you a glance, the tension from his shoulders dissipating.  

“no, ieiri said that. kinda.” you chose to leave out the specific explicit detail of what shoko actually implied. the hole was deep enough, you didn’t need to dig any further.

“why aren’t you saying anything?” you asked after several beats.

“because you’re drunk.”

“oh.” what did that even mean?

you picked at the black nail varnish on your nails, willing the minutes to go by faster. maybe if you’re lucky you won’t remember any of this tomorrow and geto will pity you enough to never remind you.

“i would let you kiss me,” geto spoke so quietly you were scared you’d misheard him. you even looked back at gojo for confirmation that he had in fact just said those words. he was, however, still asleep and still useless. with one hand staying on the steering wheel, geto used the other to gently stop you from ruining your nail varnish any further. “would you let me kiss you?”

you were finding it hard not to smile like a little kid. you didn’t care what this meant – geto suguru said that he would let you kiss him. a win is a win. “depends if you’re good or not. i have standards, y’know.”

“of course,” he patted your thigh twice before returning his hands to the steering wheel. if you thought your heart was racing before, it was now running loops at a thousand miles per hour. 

several minutes later, geto pulled the car to a final stop. “this is your place,” he said but you weren’t really focused on that, you were entirely focused on him. the car wasn’t moving anymore and he could look and speak (and maybe even kiss you) without any car horns or other external distractions. 

except you weren’t entirely right in that assumption as your shameless staring was interrupted by a particular loud snore from the backseat.

you forgot gojo was still there.

letting out a quiet sigh, you picked up your shoes from behind geto’s seat and pointed several stories up to your apartment. looking up at geto as pathetically as you could muster, since not even embarrassment would convince you to walk on the pebbled path, you asked, “help me?” 

not another word was spoken between the two of you until you had entered your apartment. geto had lifted you from the car bridal style and you’d cherished the few seconds so close to him. he set you down once you were in the building of your apartment but stayed by your side as you walked up the stairs.

“drink this,” geto handed you a glass of tap water he had poured and you thank him quietly as you sip it. he avoided eye contact with you as he passed by you in the direction of your bedroom. when he came back out several moments later he gestured for you to enter the room. “i laid out some clothes for you and put out some paracetamol, you’re going to have an awful headache when you wake up. so whilst you’re being pathetic here, i’m going to be up bright and early finishing that project. then it’ll be me two up.”

you laughed quietly at the notion, walking past him. “thank you suguru.” tiredness was beginning to seep deep into your bones and you craved the softness of your mattress more than you did his attention right now. 

geto was still stood in the doorway, watching you from afar. clearing his throat, he pointed to the keys in his hand – keys for his car, your apartment, his apartment and the sweet safe he kept hidden from gojo. “i’ll lock the door with my spare key. night princess.”

you were an idiot who was never drinking again – that was your only thought when you woke up.

after taking the paracetamol that geto had left for you and finishing the glass of water off, you waited another ten minutes for the painkillers to kick in and subside your headache and then you just lay there. last night definitely wasn’t your worst but it was far from your best. between unopened messages from todo and a large question mark over your friendship with geto, you just wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

‘i would let you kiss me.’

geto suguru would let you kiss him. was that a confession in itself? you groaned, you wished the world was black and white and that was exactly what was meant and you knew that and didn’t have a voice in the back of your head conjuring up twenty other possible meanings.

you’d skipped your usual debrief with the others, sending shoko a message that you were headed straight to the library. she knew your project was important but she also knew that you’d had closer deadlines and still attended both the saturday night party and following debrief. still, she didn’t push you to come and just told you that you’d talk in the evening when you were both home before offering to grab you something sweet from the shops.

you weren’t lying about going to the library – you just left out the whole geto moment. 

after showering and eating some food, you didn’t get to the library till gone noon. nanami was already down there and you apologised for being late. why you arranged to work with him the day after going out, you weren’t entirely sure, but past you clearly expected you to make a miraculous recovery.

several bottles of water and paracetamol kept you functioning enough that you were able to make good progress on your work with nanami proof checking every now and then. gojo’s voice was in the back of your head – you could be spending your time with geto doing this instead of nanami.

that was no hate to nanami, you thought he was super sweet and helpful, but he wasn’t geto. 

you weren’t sure what had been discussed at the debrief but you had received several more cryptic messages from shoko that had made you put your phone on do not disturb. you were already reliving last night’s car ride home over and over in your head, you didn’t need to know everyone else was too.

with the evening creeping closer and the snacks that nanami had brought dwindled, the blond stood up from his seat beside you and nodded downstairs. “i’m heading down to the vending machine, do you want me to grab you something?”

you shook your head, leaning back in your seat and rubbing your eyes. “i’ll just have whatever you get.”

you wanted desperately to go home and back to your bed to sleep for the next twelve hours (had to be up in time for your 8am close, though) but you were dreading talking to shoko about geto. the conversation would go one of two ways; either she already knew and would inevitably tease you or would have to explain it to her, get her live reaction and then be teased. neither seemed fun. 

the sound of footsteps had you turning your head in the direction of possible food. the library was too quiet for your stomach to rumble.

your smile dropped when you saw who was standing next to you.

“hey suguru,” you swallowed, sitting up straight in your chair and pushing your hair back behind your ears. being nonchalant didn’t matter now and no amount of pretending you didn’t try to kiss him last night would actually make it not happen. 

“hey,” he waved before stuffing both his hands in his pockets. he must have just come from the gym – his hair was still wet and he was in his usual post-gym hoodie and shorts. it was odd, to see geto not sure of what to say or odd, appearing almost out of place. a pang of guilt washes over you – you created this situation.

scratching the back of your neck, you pointed at nanami’s seat next to you on your right, “you looking for help from nanami too?”

you were joking, obviously, geto wouldn’t need his help, and you hoped your weak attempt at humour would at least ease some of the tension. he cracked a smile as he raised a brow at you, “why? you think i need it?”

“all i’m saying is don’t come crying to me when i come out on top,” you raised your hands in defence, smiling with him. geto rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. he pulled out the seat to your left, dropping down next to you. 

that silence settled between the two of you again. geto was hard to read as he looked down at you, his dark eyes searching for something in yours. you swallowed again as you felt your throat dry up.

“are you avoiding me?”

your eyes widened at the forwardness although you tried to play off your shock (extremely unsuccessfully). “why would i possibly do that?” 

geto shrugged, that familiar smirk appearing on his lips, “i told you that i’d let you kiss me and you don’t even want to at least ask me what that means?”

“do i want to know what it means?” you countered quietly. you were glad the library was pretty much empty and you just hoped that nanami stayed downstairs as long as possible. it felt odd to be so publicly vulnerable.

“god," geto looked thoroughly amused as he tilted his head back towards the ceiling and then looked back at you. "you’re dense sometimes.”

you frowned, turning back to your laptop screen with your project. you weren’t here to be mocked. “if you’re here to make fun of me, i’m sorry, let’s just forget this all ever happ–”

geto spun you around, hands on both arms of your chair and suddenly you were back in his car with his hands on your shoulders and your lips brushing against his, “come with me.”

“right now? to where?” nanami was about to return any second, you couldn’t just up and leave him.

“i’ll take you to the sushi place you love,” geto offered, leaning over to close the screen of your laptop. like taking away your access to your project would lead you to the conclusion that going with him was the only possible outcome (as if though there was any outcome in any scenario where you didn’t pick him).

you hesitated at the idea. if he was asking you to go out after saying that you could kiss him it was definitely not a stretch to assume that your feelings were reciprocated.  “like… a date?”

“well princess that’s what girlfriends and boyfriends do is it not?” he posed the question in such a casual and natural manner that you had to bite down on your lower lip to try and control your grin. 

“yeah,” you nodded, interlacing one of your hands with his, “yeah, it is.”

you made a mental note to bring an extra coffee for nanami next lecture as an apology for disappearing.

bonus, several weeks later.

you had come out on top when it came to your project, being only several marks ahead of geto. he hadn’t been all that bothered, saying that he’d let you have the win since you’d had to resort to nanami for help (and he was head over heels for you and would probably flunk every future project and exam if it meant you’d be happy).

you found out that in the debrief that you missed, gojo and shoko practically demanded that geto ask you on a date because they couldn’t allow the two of you to keep going round in circles with each other any longer. needless to say your second debrief with shoko once you came home after your sushi date was a long one that covered both of your current love interests.

for the last few weeks, it had been about adjusting to the new dynamics that a relationship had brought to your group. it was little things like geto picking you up every morning before class and gojo having to decide who to third wheel when it came to parties.

one thing that had not changed was the existence of the list between you and geto.

the german test you had taken the day prior was the first test you’d both completed since your project. this was the deciding test as to who would be on top again.

“wake up, wake up,” you nudged geto’s arm repeatedly, the male in question groaning as he tried to hit you away with a pillow. if someone told you a month ago you’d be waking up in his shirt, in his bed, with him, you would have laughed. 

when your insistent poking didn’t work, you climbed ungracefully across him, your knees resting on either side of his slim waist. that caught his attention and he opened one eye to peer up at what you were doing,

“look,” you practically shoved your phone in his face, the screen too bright for his eyes to adjust to.

“okay?” geto squinted, trying to read the black text unsuccessfully.

you sighed when he didn’t get it fast enough, “it’s our test scores. i have seven more percent than you therefore i am winning.”

“hold on,” he grabbed your wrist as you tried to move your phone away from his face and pointed at the email your lecturer had sent out. “you’re still only second place in the class.”

“yeah wait,” you slipped your wrist from his grip, rereading the email twice as your face dropped in disbelief. 

“what?”

poor geto was wincing again as you spun the screen back to him again, “what the fuck?”

with an almost perfect score, for a class he spent more time playing dress to impress in, was the gojo satoru.

[dancingbirdie]

Hello there! I adore your fics and how you wrote Astarion! I was hoping you could write something around the succubus scene? I know you get comforted by Astarion later on in the game regarding it, but due to his own trauma and backstory I would have liked to see him stand up for Tav and protect them during that scene itself, instead of just standing by while Tav is being manipulated 🙈

If you could do something around that, it would heal me! 😂🙏

Hi, anon! I hope you enjoy. I really liked your prompt, but I'll admit it did get a bit darker than I had originally thought I'd write it.

Please take note of the content warnings before you read! As always, comments and reacts are appreciated.

No Self-Sacrifices

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x gn!Reader/Tav

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings/Tags: Discussion/description of dissociation, implied sexual assault, mentions of Astarion's past, descriptions of violence, blood, mild gore, death, angst.

*****

“Why don’t we play a game?” the Raphael-look-alike called to you seductively from the ridiculously lavish bed. “You win, I give you everything you desire. But you’ll enjoy yourself more if you lose.”

Astarion began to sense that all too familiar, uneasy feeling coiling itself tight inside his chest. The premonition that something was about to go utterly, horribly wrong. He risked a glance toward your allies, Lae’zel and Halsin, but they appeared just as woefully confused as you did. As if you all weren’t aware of the trap you’d just walked into. 

“What’s the game?” he heard you ask. He could feel the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

“It’s a surprise! Off with your clothes,” the devil commanded.

There could be no doubt as to what would take place. Surely, Astarion thought, none of his companions could be so blind as to not see what was about to happen. 

Astarion watched as you bit your lip, hesitating. How you looked wildly about the room, as if you were searching for any last-minute way to avoid this. With his preternatural senses, he couldn’t help but be aware of how your heart rate spiked to a frenzied pulsing as you stood there, terrified of what was to come. 

He watched in horror as your shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. Defeated. Resolving to go through with this. And as you began removing your clothes, his vision turned nearly as red as the fiend on the mattress before you. 

“Good, little thief, good,” the monster crooned, totally unaware of Astarion’s brewing rage. “Keep going like this, and you’ll get to live. You’ll be crying out my name soon, you’d better know it. I am Haarlep, Raphael’s personal incubus…” 

The incubus - Haarlep - prattled on while Astarion continued to seethe with barely-contained fury. His fingers twitched, itching – almost of their own accord – to reach for the crossbow strapped to his back. He began shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, restless. He caught the glare Lae’zel was leveling at him from his periphery and turned his head slightly to meet it. 

She gave a slight, but obvious, shake of the head. A silent command to stand down. Then he felt the tadpole squirm in his brain, while a voice that was distinctly Lae’zel’s echoed in his mind. 

Don’t act rashly, vampire. We need to gather more information before we strike.

Astarion nearly laughed aloud. The audacity of this Githyanki, willing to let her comrade be violated in such a way. After all they had done for her. For this party. And yet, part of him knew he shouldn’t be so surprised. After all, he had known plenty of “heroes” who had let equally horrible fates befall others without so much as lifting a finger to help them. 

“It matters not to me.” Your deadened reply to Haarlep brought Astarion back to the present moment. He recognized that tone of voice. Knew when someone was trying to dissociate. To disconnect their mind from their body. He knew all too well what that feeling was like. And it was nearly as horrible to watch as it was to experience it for himself.

“Very well, I will be Raphael himself,” Haarlep continued. “All of him. Now, on the bed. Lie back.” 

Astarion made his decision when he saw you begin to take stilted steps toward the bed. Covering yourself with your hands, trying to maintain some modicum of modesty as you climbed up. 

With Haarlep’s attention solely on you, he reached behind him for the crossbow. His index finger felt for the trigger as he pulled it around before him. One swift flick, and an arrow was suddenly lodged in the incubus’ left pectoral.

Chaos erupted as imps suddenly appeared throughout the room, responding to Haarlep’s distressed cry. You toppled off the bed, head knocking onto the floor, as the fiend raged above you, trying to right themselves and extract the arrow from their chest. 

“Tsk’va,” Lae’zel cursed in Gith, hefting her sword over her shoulder and barreling toward the first enemy in sight. “To battle it is, then!” 

Halsin shifted quickly into his bear shape and let loose a formidable roar, charging for another group of imps across the room. 

But Astarion only had eyes for Haarlep. He stalked slowly toward the bed, unsheathing the twin blades from his back as he did so. 

You watched as he gave one brief, wicked smile before utter carnage ensued.

*****

“Kainyak! Your foolishness nearly cost us all our lives,” Lae’zel spat venomously toward Astarion while she wiped her blade free of the fetid black imp blood. “I should strike you down now for acting with such stupidity.”

To his credit, Astarion barely seemed to acknowledge the Githyanki’s formidable censuring. You watched as he slipped his daggers back into the sheaths at the small of his back and readjusted his armor. He picked up his crossbow and shook it free of blood before strapping it back between his shoulder blades.

“You still have all your limbs intact, Lae’zel,” he replied airly. It was a stark contrast to the way he was standing, body as taut as a bowstring. “And wasn’t that bloodshed so much more satisfying than watching the incubus violate our dear party leader?” 

Lae’zel’s mouth snapped shut, but she continued to glare. The vampire had a point, though she was loath to admit it. 

“I, for one, prefer this outcome to the alternative that was before us,” Halsin agreed, rising from where he had been crouched after dismissing his ursine form. He glanced your way but averted his eyes quickly, to your confusion. 

“Best get dressed, darling,” Astarion drawled, coming over to where you still lay prone on the floor. “As delicious as I find your birthday suit to be, I’d wager you’ll fare better in this wretched place with a little more clothing on.” 

He held out a hand to help you rise to your feet. You observed him cautiously, trying to discern the emotion behind his carefully schooled expression. 

“Why?” you whispered. 

He squinted at you, one brow quirked. “Are you seriously asking me why armor is prudent to have on, in a place like this?” He chuckled before adding, “gods, you must’ve smacked your head harder than I thought.”

“No,” you retorted, refusing to be deterred by his cheeky banter. “I mean, why did you attack Haarlep? You’re never one to be spoiling for a fight.”

Astarion scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest as if insulted. “Careful, darling. You’re almost making me out to be a pacifist.”

“You know what I meant, Astarion,” you grumbled as you began donning your leather breeches and jerkin. 

“And would you have preferred to be fucked by that incubus instead?” Astarion bit out derisively. 

Your head whipped up to meet his gaze, hearing the sudden change in his tone. 

“Of course not,” you scowled. “But you could sense how powerful they were. It seemed like the only way to ensure your all’s safety.”

Astarion grimaced. “So you would have just laid down and taken it? For us?”

“I’m not saying I would have enjoyed it,” you hissed. “But to keep you safe? Keep them safe?” you gestured to Lae’zel and Halsin across the room, polishing and re-polishing their weapons as they attempted not to overhear your barely-whispered argument. 

“Of course,” you concluded, voice resolute. 

“Don’t be a fucking martyr. Not for me. Not for them. Not for anyone,” Astarion growled. 

Your brows shot toward your hairline in surprise. 

“We know what we signed up for when we joined this rag-tag group,” he continued, tone icy. “I’d rather fight a hundred fiends than watch you debase yourself to save anyone, including myself.” 

You let loose a mirthless laugh, feeling angry, embarrassed and too completely exposed. Before you could think better of it, your retort was flying past your lips. 

“You know, Astarion, you have a fucking funny way of showing appreciation for your partner who was willing to be violated in order to keep you safe.” 

It was the wrong thing to say. You immediately knew it, and so did the rest of the party. Suddenly it was like the air had been sucked from the room. 

Crimson eyes bored into your own as Astarion took a step forward to meet you, chest to chest. You glared up at him, refusing to back down. Refusing to be chastised for your willingness to protect him. 

The shared air between you was charged. You could almost feel the electricity surging. 

“Need I remind you? I’ve been violated enough times over the past 200 years to know how unequivocally monstrous it is,” he intoned, his voice pitched dangerously low. “I will promise you this. I am finished with having it happen to me, in front of me, or for me.”

Words escaped you. It was all you could do to maintain eye contact with him, feeling the conviction in his tone. The anger that had sustained you up until this point had all but disappeared. In its place was something far more demure. 

“So yes, I fired the first shot that pierced that devil’s skin. Then I eviscerated their neck with my teeth,” he crooned, reverently tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You shivered at his touch, at his dulcet tone that was describing such violence. 

“And I slit his throat with glee,” he continued, cupping your cheek in his palm. “I would do it again. And again. And again. Because I will never witness abuse like what was about to happen, ever again.”

He swept the pad of his thumb over the hollow under your eye, his gaze flicking rapidly over your face. As though he were subconsciously checking you over for any nicks, cuts, or bruises. 

“Do you understand?” he whispered softly. His voice was still laced with rage, but you could tell it was not directed toward you. Really, it never had been. 

The entire situation had obviously touched the most sensitive pressure point within him. Had triggered his urge to fight, to protect, to resist. You couldn’t be angry with him for that. Never. Not one bit. 

You gulped before nodding slightly. “I understand now. I’m sorry.”

You lifted your hand to cover his where it was still cupping your face. Turning slightly, you planted a kiss against his palm. 

“No self-sacrificing on my watch, darling, agreed?” he murmured, wrapping his other arm around your waist in a solid embrace. 

“Agreed,” you confirmed, returning his embrace before venturing on through the House of Hope.

[blackleatherjacketz]

John

Homelander x Female Reader

Summary: Homelander gets jealous when you take a new lover with the same name as him, and makes sure you remember who you belong to.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only! Mature/Explicit Content, Dark Themes, Homelander Should Be His Own Warning! Graphic Depictions of Violence, Murder, Stalking, Obsessive Homelander, Jealousy, Threatening, Choking, Intimidation, Dubious Consent, Fear Kink, Breaking and Entering, Kissing, Possessive Homelander Ripping Your Clothes Off, Vaginal Sex, Hate Fucking

Word Count: 2k+

Read more HOMELANDER

A cool and sudden breeze blows in from the hallway as you finish brushing your teeth, telling that you somehow forgot to close a window even though you distinctly remember checking each and every one. You wipe your mouth and grab the heaviest item closest to you, a large cylindrical Virgin Mary candle as you reluctantly venture out into your bedroom, scanning it for intruders before padding out into your dimly lit living room.

“I hope you don’t plan on hitting me over the head with that thing.” His familiar voice booms in your chest as he closes your balcony door very slowly before confidently stepping toward you. “Because that really wouldn’t work out well for you.”

“Homelander,” you greet him shakily, his tone making you unsure if him being here is better or worse than having a robber break into your apartment. “What are you…” you swallow hard as you still grip onto the candle. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” He smiles at you with malicious intent, the rage in his eyes barely contained by the false upturn of his lips. “Can’t I visit my best girl whenever I want?”

“Whenever you want?” You whisper back to him, still in shock that he’s come to visit you after all this time. It had almost been a year since he first saved you from that falling car, since he found out where you lived just to ‘check up on his favorite citizen’ in the middle of the night. It seemed like forever since he last soaked your sheets with his sweat, thrusting the gratitude right out of your body through sordid moans and needy gasps night after night for weeks on end.

But you were always ready to accept the fact that each deliciously torrid encounter you had with him could very well be your last, that someone like him could easily grow tired of someone like you… until that possibility finally became a reality. You figured that another woman had simply taken your place as his visits began to wax and wane, that someone younger or thinner had occupied his time and satisfied his needs better than you ever could. So when weeks had gone by without a sign or whisper of his presence, you decided that it was time to move on.

“Homelander, this is… you haven’t been here in ages. I thought that you…” You barely manage to stammer in your stunned state, his presence alone forcing your hormones to start coursing through your bloodstream.

“You thought, what, exactly? Hmm? That you could just move on with someone else because I was busy keeping you and the American people safe?” He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head as a disappointed sigh brews in his chest, morphing into a desperate laugh. “That you could just forget about me?”

Uh-oh.

The skin on your face and neck starts to warm up with that exquisite concoction of fear and arousal he always seems to draw out of you. You wish you could control how he made you feel, that there was some version of you, somewhere, that could resist him, but that was all part of his charm, now wasn’t it?

“Lose the candle, princess.” His tone is more serious than it’s ever been with you before, dipping down to a dark timbre you’ve only ever heard him use with his enemies.

“Yup.” You do as you’re told and loosen your grip on the candle without another thought, nearly dropping it onto one of your toes as it hits the floor with a dull thud.

“And you with a fucking investment banker of all people? I mean, really?” He scoffs, taking his time walking around your living room as he puffs up his chest. “I would have thought that you were better than that.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch his boots bend the hard wood of your floors, hammering home the heavy weight of the situation that you weren’t nearly as awake for as you needed to be.

“John,” you try to console him, taking a few cautious steps forward with an outstretched arm.

“John,” he repeats in a mocking tone, raising his eyebrows. He chuckles to himself again, picking up one of the pillows on your couch before running his gloved hand over the crushed velvet. “The fact that you chose someone with the same first name as me is really fucking telling, you know that? If you missed me that much, you could have just called.”

“And just how am I supposed to do that? Huh? You made sure I couldn’t call you when you left here without a trace.” You cross your arms over your chest as he puts the pillow back down, reminding him of how he left things.

“Don’t you put this on me!” He bares his teeth as his eyes glow red, pointing a finger at you before that warm hue quickly subsides.

Holy shit, you’re in trouble.

“I’m sorry,” you try.

“You’re sorry?” He smiles as if to shake off any real emotions he may have about the situation, tying your stomach into knots in the process as you try to keep up with his ever changing moods. “Do you have any idea how fucked up it was for me to hear you screaming that name when I wasn’t the one inside you?”

Your heart falls out of your chest, sinking down to the very pit of your stomach as his words hit your ears, weighing you down so that you can barely move. You had no idea that he cared that much about you, that he would even think to drop by after being away for so long. But why did he have to wait? Why did he have to hear…?

“I was going to visit you that night, but he was already here.” He spits, pointing to the doorway behind you. “In your bedroom of all places!” He takes a few more careful steps toward you, his eyes now burning his usual fiery blue. “It took everything I had not to destroy the both of you right then and there, but lucky for you, I’ve been working on my impulse control.”

All you can do is stare at him, lips trembling, unable to think of anything to say that won’t make him more angry than he already is. You swallow hard, quaking in silence as he advances on you, his jaw clenching in anger before he dared to speak again.

“You know, you really should have heard him beg for his life when I dangled him from the top of the Empire State Building.” He smiles so wide that the skin around his eyes begins to wrinkle, his canines appearing as fangs against his lips. “He even pissed himself before I dropped him from that high up. Pathetic, really. Load of good that big dick is now, huh?”

FUCK! What did he just say?

So that’s why the other John hasn’t called you in a few weeks; he wasn’t ignoring you at all, he was just… he was gone. You can only imagine how scared and confused he must have been as Homelander flew him up into the night sky one last time, the cool December wind biting at his cheeks. That is until he undoubtedly told him why he was doing it, because if you know anything about Homelander, you know that he made damn sure your former lover knew exactly why he was sending him to his death.

Homelander stops just short of your bare feet, towering over you as he places his gloved hand on your shoulder, squeezing hard before smoothing it up to your neck. He grins as he tightens his grip, leaning in close enough to whisper into your ear as he lets you think through the worst case scenario. “Now I don’t have to share you with anyone else anymore.”

You know that you should be appalled at what he’s telling you, that you should be absolutely sick to your stomach with fear and disgust, but fight and flight won’t do you any good against the most powerful man in the entire world. You’ve heard horror stories of those who have tried before you and failed, deciding in a split second to lean on your most trusted coping mechanism: fawn.

“You killed him… for me?” You lean into the idea of him being so obsessed with you that he couldn’t stand to have another man touch you in his absence; that you’ve haunted him well past the time since he left.

He pulls back to glare at you, surprised that you’re not more shocked about the news as his features shift from menacing to intrigue. For the first time since you’ve known him, The Homelander is speechless. You try to focus on the scent of his cologne as it swims through your nostrils, exciting every nerve in your body just like it used to as his thumb grazes over your windpipe, subtly threatening to end you right here and now as his eyes dart over your face.

“You sick fuck!” He whispers adoringly, grinning from ear to ear as he scans your vital signs for any biological tell of deceit. Unable to decipher the difference between the intertwined terror and excitement coursing its way through your body, he takes the hem of your t-shirt between his fingers, gathering the fabric together in his palm before quickly ripping it off your torso. “I knew you were just like me from the very first second I saw you. I could tell that you were different from everyone else, that you were special.”

He brushes his palm over your breasts, intently watching your nipples harden against the leather of his glove as he hungrily surveys every curve of your body. A look you know all too well paints his features with desire as he pushes you backward against the wall, the exposed brick cutting into the bare skin of your shoulder blades as you let out a surprised grunt. He chuckles before kissing your lips with a newfound intensity, his breath hitching into a needy moan as he tugs your underwear down your thighs, nipping at your bottom lip before ripping your panties off just as easily as he had your shirt.

All that anger and jealousy makes him take you that much quicker and harder than he ever had before, his superhuman girth stretching you to capacity before you can even blink. He glides inside your soaking wet walls in one fluid motion, making you forget about the other John entirely as he thrusts up into you with unmatched desperation.

“You’re mine,” he whispers before grasping onto your thighs, lifting them up around his waist so he can push even deeper inside. “From now on, you only fuck me! Got it?”

“Got it!” You cross your legs around his back, your feet getting caught in his cape as he bites his words into your neck, sucking your skin into his mouth until it nearly breaks against his tongue. You groan in ecstasy and run your fingers through his hair, holding him close as he latches onto you like a vampire, draining you of your very life force all while driving waves of delight through your viscera.

He continues sucking as many bruises onto your throat as possible, marking you as his for everyone else to see as he hits that precious bundle of nerves tucked away up inside you. His moans become more frequent as his needy, throbbing member brushes against your cervix with each tantalizing pass, shooting an electric tingling sensation up your spine and into the rest of your body. Every single thrust up into you seems to be fueled by his hatred for you and this situation; that palpable ferocity tainting your carnal reunion with just enough force to send you shaking and shivering over the edge just a little earlier than you expected.

“John!” You whimper as he drills each vengeful burst of pleasure up into your core, setting your skin on fire as you violently convulse around him.

“No,” he wraps his hand around your throat again, pressing his thumb into your deepest bruise as he glares at you with sweat dripping down his forehead. “You call me Homelander from now on.”

[sirianasims]

Chapter 44.4

Darkness envelops us, but I’d know the shape of her body anywhere, her every curve, the softness of her thighs wrapped around my waist, the arch of her back as I move inside her.

[🔞 Spice warning, keep reading at your own risk! 🔞]

I feel her voice more than I hear it, the vibration of her moans against my neck, sounds that are so distinctly hers, and that I like to pretend I’m the only man who can draw from her.

Her breath quickens against my ear, begging me to come. With each thrust bringing us closer to the edge, my body tenses, muscles straining in anticipation. Her nails dig into my shoulders, fingers gripping tightly as we near our breaking point.

Just as I reach my climax, I see her face.

She’s crying.

The sight of her tears jolts me awake. Immediately, the dream starts fading, slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, the wet spot on my boxers quickly becoming cold against my skin, and my mind filled with visions of red hair cascading over my pillows.

The room around me feels familiar, yet wrong, and I realise I’m on the floor.

I prop myself up on a slightly sore elbow, still disoriented. The old carpet is rough against my sweaty skin, tiny bits of dust and debris sticking to my side. It’s barely light outside, but there’s no way I’m going back to sleep like this.

I grab a towel and walk downstairs in a daze, not quite convinced I actually woke up yet.

The first shock of cold water helps, rinsing off the clammy sweat as well as the fading remnants of the nightmare as the water slowly gets warmer.

By the time I get out of the shower, I can barely recall what happened in the dream, just a faint, unpleasant feeling that is remarkably close to grief.

I haven’t had nightmares for years. They used to happen a lot, especially in the first few years after I lost my father, but those went away over time.

They only came back once, early in my career, when I had to grow out my beard for a role and found his face staring back at me from every mirror. When we finished filming, I shaved before I even left the set and never grew it out again.

But even without the beard, I still look more and more like him with each passing day. And soon, just a couple of years from now, I will be older than he ever was.

The very idea feels unnatural, obscene.

I leave the bathroom and find myself face to face with my mother, startling both of us. She takes a step back, wobbling slightly on her bad leg but manages to steady herself.

“Sorry, mum, did I wake you?”

She shakes her head, her eyes searching mine. “No, but I heard the shower and wondered why you were up so early. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” I reply, my throat feeling tight. “I just… had a strange dream and woke up drenched in sweat. Didn’t feel like trying to fall back asleep.”

“So… would you like some coffee, perhaps? I don’t think I can sleep either, and we might as well enjoy the last bit of summer while we can.”

“That sounds great. Let me get dressed and throw my sheets in the laundry and I’ll join you.”

My hair dries quickly in the breeze, the salty tang of the ocean mingling with the fragrance of lavender and lemon. The early morning light casts a soft pink glow over the garden. I used to hide with my cousins in these bushes, climb the trees and pretend to be pirates or explorers. Or superheroes. I feel a twitch in the corner of my mouth at the memory, even though the lingering sadness of the nightmare still clings to me like a damp sheet.

I think about the dream, about Julia. Sometimes I miss her so much it hurts, a physical ache in my chest, and it’s rare that a day goes by where I don’t think about what would happen if I saw her again. I still have no idea. I don’t know what I want, only that I want. It’s as if I yearn for something I can’t quite decide what is.

My mother adds copious amounts of cream and sugar to her coffee and stirs it slowly, her gaze on the coast beyond the garden. Her silver hair catches the golden light.

“Mum,” I begin, clearing my throat. “Why didn’t you find someone else? After babbo, I mean.” The words feel heavy, almost accusatory, especially here in his favourite part of the garden.

My mother pauses, thoughtfully, mug raised to her lips. For a second I worry that I’ve crossed a line, poked at an old wound, but then she sighs, her eyes distant.

“I don’t want you to think differently of him because of this.”

“Differently? How?”

“You’ve heard what my parents were like, they had a lot of plans for me. A respectable match, wealthy husband, securing their lineage. So, to stall for time, I decided to travel for a while.”

I nod. I’ve never met the earl and duchess of Northhaven, but from what my mother has told me, it’s no great loss. They wouldn’t acknowledge either of us anyway. “And then you came to Tartosa, found love, and never went back.” It isn’t a question, I’ve heard the story many times before.

She traces the rim of her mug with a finger.

“Not quite. I didn’t want the kind of life that was planned for me, the endless performance, the strategic marriage to some lord. But it was more than that. I never wanted to get married at all, Paul. And I wasn’t interested in any kind of romantic relationship, either.”

Her voice is soft, almost apologetic, and I lean back, brow furrowed. It always sounded like my parents had the perfect whirlwind romance, with my father famously proposing after only knowing her for two weeks.

“So… did meeting my father change your mind, then?”

She shakes her head, a soft smile on her lips. “I had never met anyone like Marcello. His easy laugh, his presence, the way he seemed to fill any room when he walked in.” She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. “Much like you. We became friends, and when he heard about my parents’ plans for me, he proposed.”

“Oh.” My mind is filled with questions and I struggle to even decide which one to ask first, but my mother quickly continues.

“Your father was everything to me, Paul. He understood. When I met him, I wasn’t looking for an escape. But he offered me freedom.”

“But you said you didn’t want… romance. Doesn’t everyone want love? Didn’t he? And how did… why did you even have me, if…”

I trail off awkwardly.

“We had love,” she says quietly. “But love doesn’t look the same for everyone. I didn’t marry him because I wanted him, I married him because he loved me and I knew he would never make me feel like I was broken for not loving him in quite the same way. And he never asked for more than I could give, which was why I wanted to give him you.”

I swallow, understanding slowly dawning on me. “So, it wasn’t about not moving on, was it?”

“No. When your father died, I lost my dearest friend. He was my life partner in every way that mattered. But another husband?” She shakes her head, putting her mug down. “That was never something I wanted. Marcello can never be replaced, but I don’t need to. I have you, I have our family. There was never any reason to find someone else, because I already have everything.”

We sit quietly for a while. The sun is higher now, slowly filling the garden with warmth. I still feel slightly shaken, unmoored by the realisation that the love story I grew up with, that I’ve always compared my own relationships to, isn’t what it seemed. But I also feel lighter somehow, closer to my mother than before. And then, for a brief moment, I can almost feel my father here too, woven into the morning air, carried by the scent of lemon and lavender.

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[quidell-fics]

Sneak peek for "A Tale Painted with Blood"

A Black Myth: Wukong fanfic

A/N: Sorry for hardly any updates these past two weeks. Here's a short sneak peek for the next chapter! Please note that this might change slightly when it's finally released as it's not edited yet.

That made my ears prick up, keen as a fox in a midnight forest. Even Monkey Boy, usually so aloof, was watching Shen Monkey with a rare glint in his eyes, his curiosity stirred like embers catching flame.

"There were others like me?" I couldn’t keep the thrill from my voice, my curiosity spilling over. I took a step forward, only to feel a tug at my waist halting me. "Did they wear strange clothes? Odd shoes, like these perhaps?" I pointed to my scuffed tennis shoes, distinctly out of place in this world. Unlike Monkey Boy, I wasn’t keen on going barefoot—not in this twisted landscape, no matter how strange these shoes appeared to the locals.

Shen Monkey let out a sigh, punctuated by a hiccup that seemed to catch on a thread of humor, scratching his nose in a thoughtful pause as he eyed my attire. But his gaze lingered not so much on my mismatched shoes as on the clothes Monkey Boy gave me. "Oh, she did indeed," he drawled, his eyes flicking back up to meet mine with a glint that hinted he’d seen more than he was letting on. If he found my attire odd, he didn't say so. "And her hair… just as red as yours, like the color of blood, freshly spilled and steaming on the earth."

She. 

She.

Another woman.

She had hair like me. Like the color of freshly spilled blood. 

That stopped me in my tracks, as if I'd brushed against thorns I hadn’t noticed were there, sharp and unexpected.

Even Monkey Boy felt it. His tail coiled around me, tense as iron, grounding me while his gaze locked with mine when I looked back up to him. I didn't know why I looked to him when I heard this… 

Each eye flickered like twin embers, probing, trying to read whatever shadows he saw reflected in my own. His look was guarded, layered, reflecting back a caution that felt like it ran bone-deep.

And then, from some wretched place I thought I’d buried, a voice I loathed slithered through the silence, cold and venomous: She was a druggy. And you? You’re no better.

I blinked, the sting of that memory cutting into the moment. I tore my gaze away from him, shaking off its grip, pressing that vile thought back into the dark.

But why, of all things, did that have to rise up now, pricking at the edges of a memory I didn’t want to relive?

[hughiecampbelle]

Press Pass (Hughie Campbell/Homelander Oneshot)

Character/s: Hughie, Homelander, Annie, Butcher

Word Count: 1,761

Warning/s: gore, sort of all the basic warnings The Boys typically has

Requested: ive reading some of your works and im in the love! the way you write for characters each distinctly is amazing. i would like to request a fic with the following prompts for hughie: 55) opaque, 17) crime scene & 11) “you say that like it’s a bad thing” :) - anon

Requested: Hii again!! I’m the anon who requested the Homelander fic with prompts Fury, Shooting Stars and “Get away from me” and lemme just say I loveee loveee it!!! The shooting stars part, I did not see that coming and you got Homelander to a tee. Could clearly imagine him looking hurt when reader said get away from me, the desperation in his voice to gain reader’s approval, and then his relief that reader liked what he did. Ugh. I really love it!!! Thank you!!! If it’s not a bother, may I request another? Still platonic Homelander x reader but this time with prompts: Desperate, Wildflowers, “Say something” Again, thank youuu!!! - anon

A/N: I hope you don't mind my loves, I combined your requests! I just got this one idea and it fits so well as one consecutive story. I'm really happy with the way it turned out :D My loves, it makes me so happy that you like my writing! Thank you for the lovely feedback, it means the world! I go back and read it so often it's pathetic lol. I really hope you like it!!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! 💜💜💜

Requests are open! 🔮

Hughie. . . His name falls from your mouth, dripping down your chin like vomit. Your hands are shaking by your side. You ball them up, nails digging into palms, attempting to steady them. Bile rises in your throat. It takes everything in you to breathe through it, swallow it. Hughie, you say again, louder, before you lose your courage, he knows. They heard you this time, all of them on their feet, collectively staring at what stood before them. The closer they get, the worse it looks. His hands find their way to your skin, turning over your palms and wrists, counting every finger, up you arms. The blood, it’s all yours. Dirt, too. You resembled a crime scene, covered head to toe in red. It was matted in your hair, stuck between your teeth, sticky across your body. As if you had bathed in it. There is no scar tissue, no stitches. That’s the thing about being a Supe: you could be tortured and still, there would be no evidence. Your body had it’s way of pulling itself together seamlessly. Effortlessly. It was dying that was the challenge. Your clothes, what was left of them, were full of holes, burned at the edges. Singed. Scorched. The air felt cold around you, nipping and biting at your skin. He follows the excess of blood from your neck, your head, his lips moving, but the ringing in your ears prevents you from hearing. When he finds no open wounds, no active bleeds, he stops, looking you in the face, speaking slowly. Who, y/n? Who knows? You can’t say his name. You shake your head. It all comes up. I don’t know how he figured it out, I, I was so careful. He was so angry. You were, weren’t you? He holds your shoulders, steadying you, asking you to calm down. Take a deep breath. You do as instructed, gasping for air. They’re all watching you, waiting. He asks again. This time, your voice comes out small, beaten and defeated. Homelander. Homelander knows. 

He made you dig your own grave. The soil was rich and muddy. He’d taken you somewhere secluded, outside of the city. Wildflowers sat at the edges of the woods. In another life, another situation, they would have been pretty. Beautiful, even. So would the trees. Fresh, rainy, it had the potential to be nice. But it wasn’t. He hands you a shovel and tells you to start digging. Your shoulder had been broken. Your jaw dislocated. One of your eyes had been swollen shut, bruised and sore. Your lip busted. Your tongue poked at all the empty sockets, instinctively, childishly. Somewhere in Vought Tower your teeth sat scattered across the floor. Would he keep them? You’re not sure how long it took, only that he was growing impatient, bored, sour. The sun was setting. He’d go back and forth, yelling and screaming and berating to complete silence. You’re not sure which unsettled you more. You did the best you could given the circumstances, using your non-dominant hand. The other had been crushed, placed protectively at your side. This would only end one way, you both knew this. You betrayed him. He trusted you and you decimated that relationship. Now you would pay for it. Broken bones, broken blood vessels, that was nothing. He wanted your life. He wanted to rid the world of someone who didn’t deserve to take another breath. You wondered if he knew what would happen next. You wondered if he’d known all along or if it would be another sick, twisted surprise. What would he do then? 

You’d used your press pass all those years ago. You were fresh out of school and just starting out. You were excited, elated, a rookie. It had been Starlight you’d intended to interview, one of a million reporters at the time of her debut. She picked you, and a few others, out of the crowd. Annie admitted later she liked you instantly. You were nervous and young, and it made her feel better about also being nervous and young. You weren’t arrogant or jaded, you were genuinely interested in her story, her upbringing, in her. You asked questions the others never would have thought of. They were so used to writing the same stories, the same angles. You had a new perspective. You’d laughed, called it inexperience, but she disagreed. You were good at your job from the start. Homelander took notice of you instantly. He’d grown tiresome of his team of yes men. They were old, and boring, and lost their flare. You made Starlight look good: cute, innocent, hopeful, yet powerful. Everything anyone could have wanted from a new member of The Seven. He requested your presence not long after at a meeting. Truth be told, he liked you for more than just your writing. You were attractive, intelligent, had working. All American. Working your way up the ladder, the ranks. There was something enticing about that. You were ecstatic. Homelander asking for you, requesting you personally? Annie had been wary, wanting to warn you, unsure of how to say it without giving away too much. In the end she said nothing and regretted it instantly. 

Say something. There was something desperate in his voice, a kind of begging. Look at me, he spat. You had to turn your head to look at him, your bad eye completely shut. Say. Something. He says again through grit teeth. I’m sorry, John. You hadn’t expected it, an apology, and neither had he. He takes a step back, reacting as if you’d slapped him. Struck him. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, you follow up, and you meant every word. You joined his team not long after. You were writing most of the pieces about him. He liked the pictures you painted, made him heroic, self-sacrificing, patriotic. You were insightful, smart but not arrogant, driven. You wouldn’t publish anything until it was perfect, until you were satisfied. You and him, you’d become friends. Or, at least, as close to friends as he could get. He made sure never to show you the other sides of him, instead he played a particular role quite well. He’d fooled you. He’d fool everyone. His intentions opaque, impenetrable. You never could have known, could you? And then Starlight left. That was the beginning of the end. She asked you to meet with her one night, sent you coordinates. You’d grown close to her, too. But she’d never let you in on what was really happening. If she did, she'd have been putting you in danger. Too late, you think to yourself now, half-laughing, half-mocking. That’s when you met them, The Boys. that’s when they told you everything. You were horrified, sick to your stomach, angry. Annie was so sorry, so incredibly sorry, but it was better that you didn’t know. Why would you tell me now? What, what am I supposed to do with all this? Your tone was accusing, hysterical. Butcher was straightforward, calm, collected. You’re going to help us take him down. 

You wanted to do your job and be good at it. That was all. You think back. Anything could have prevented this moment. Annie could have chosen someone else. You could have declined Homelander's offer. Perhaps it was earlier than that. You could have never been given Compound V in the first place. You’d never disclosed that you were a Super. Your abilities weren’t flashy, they were self-serving. One dimensional. You could come back from the dead. Sometimes it was instant. Other times, it took a little longer. All depended on the damage. Your injuries were extensive, bringing tears to your eyes with every breath, every move. You could still get hurt. You could still die. You just came back as if nothing had happened. No one at Vought, or work, or school had ever known. You’d only told The Boys out of necessity: you couldn’t let them think you were one and done. You’d come back eventually. It would save you, yes, but it would make things so much worse. If Homelander ever found out, if he didn’t know already, he’d make sure you suffered far worse than you already were. You’d have to go into hiding. Play dead. At least, for a little while. He had you stop, standing before him. He looked you up and down, his features contorting. You disgust me. And with that, the final bow, his eyes lit up red. Severed you in half, hip to hip. Then again, through your neck, decapitating you instantly.  You’re okay, Hughie says again. The first time you must not have heard him. You say that like it’s a bad thing. You’re only slightly amused. Mostly though, you were tired. There are no marks, no sign of a fight. It’s as if the night never even happened. And yet, you couldn’t get the feeling out of your head: the blinding sensation, it severed through your skin, your muscles and bones. Coming apart like that so easily, like you meant nothing, like your body was putty, malleable. His play thing. You’re not sure how you could shake it. He’d kicked your severed body into the hole, piling dirt on top. Hours passed. It was getting dark, and then, suddenly, it was morning. As if you’d gone to sleep. You clawed your way out, choking up dirt and blood. Your teeth had grown back. You were in one piece. Hughie brought you home, ran a bath. He helped you undress. You explained the best you could, but your words fell fragmented, in half-sentences. He didn’t push the subject. You faced Homelander and you lived to tell the tale. That was enough. You were sure the others were coming up with a plan, some sort of act of protection, but you didn’t really care. It was too much to think about, too much to care. Coming back was always a big feat. You’d sleep for days if you could. The water was losing its warmth. It was pink, gory and humane and smelling like metal. It mixed with your coconut soap. Homelander knew who you were involved with. He knew you had enough dirt and secrets on him to ruin him. He’d find you again. He’d torture you again, and kill, and kill, and kill again. You wanted to talk to him, even now. He hated you, but he was also your friend. Instead you let yourself sink deeper, listening to Hughie's promises, trying not to flinch.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Do you have any quotes of Anne Rice talking about Marius? Outside of what she wrote in the books, I mean. In her own words, did she describe what sort of person she intended him to be, what impression she intended to leave on the reader?

I keep getting confused whether she made the Christian Grey mistake, where she as an author might have meant to write a perfect fantasy 24/7 S&M relationship to get wet to - but accidentally made it abusive by forgetting the added layer of setting the physically and verbally hurtful interactions between him and his partners within the context of consensual roleplay,

or whether she intentionally wrote an abusive, insecure red flag dom because her setting is horror and the point of horror fiction is to have morally grey people do problematic things, and that's okay.

To deescalate, I actually enjoy reading Marius. He was my favourite character for many years.

I just want to be clear whether Anne Rice was aware that his self assessment - as a calm, wise, benevolent scholar and generous lover - does not reflect how he acts towards the other characters?

:) I... am not sure. If she was aware about that I mean.

I have been through the Facebook posts that I could find, I have read what was shared from Tulane, and... I am not sure. I would like to say yes, but... I am not sure.

There is a short one about Marius here:

Anne was a subconscious writer, imho, and iirc she has been called that by others as well. A lot of the bigger arcs that map at times over the whole of the chronicles are not immediately imminent on reading one singular book, and I don't think she really "planned" them, I think her subconscious did that for her.

So with that said, I think that reflects on her characters, too.

Characters like Marius, David, they are introduced as the benevolent scholar, the mentor - and then, and then more and more details emerge, and the reader grows to realize a lot about them, about the self-image of the characters, about the way they delude themselves. Or how their actions hurt or impact others.

Anne was very good writing like that, in-character I mean, and a character with flaws. Her character voices are all distinctly different, and oftentimes you only arrive at a fuller picture over several of the books, when you have "seen" that character through other's eyes. Or have heard a bit more of their story, have seen them interact.

When some of what you have read... clicks into place. Like the ending of Blood and Gold, for example. Marius bringing Thorne there after having told him his tale... for an effect (sounds familiar, eh?^^^).

But I digress.

I think Anne's "love" for her characters cannot really be equated to her intention for her characters, or how she subverted their initial image in a lot of cases over the books.

Because as the author she created them, and so the abstract form of these characters was something she loved, no matter what else she gave them.

In the case of Marius that subversion is subtle, but it is there, and Anne wrote it. I think that cannot be dismissed, if subconscious or not - but Anne wrote the little nods towards abusiveness, the whipping, she wrote Marius wanting Lestat to become his pupil... and Lestat never really doing that, for example. There are a lot of reasons for that, reasons that are strewn throughout the books.

"Lestat" says in TVL that you "have to read between the lines" - and I think that is a good advice for Anne's books - there is a lot left unsaid, a lot only insinuated - a lot only reflected by characters' behaviors.

Insofar... I think a part of her must have been aware. Deep, deep down at least.

And it is a scathing reflection of our world, is it not, that the ones that claim to be the ones we should follow, the ones who claim they are in the know... are the ones who reveal themselves to have depths to them that repulse. And that we only realize that through time, slowly, and at times unwillingly even.

I find Marius a fascinating character. He is not necessarily my favorite - but I find him fascinating, because of the myriad of facets Anne imbued him with, the good and the bad.

Whoever will portray him on the show though... will have his work cut out for him :))

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

A Freak and A Basket Case: The Seven Inches of Satanic Panic Edition

Chapter 3: Here Comes The Feeling

“ Oh God, where were you when I needed you?

I know that you, no,

You would never have betrayed me… ”

A/N: I’m back, bitches.

I took a break between Gladiator fics to pretty up chapter 3 of my OC fic. This was a really fun one to gussy up, especially during the rewriting of the Dune flashback. I don’t know what kind of hold Dune has on me, but it’s very much still there. However I’m more hung up on the 1984 version, Kyle MacLachlan has me in a chokehold.

Hope you all enjoy. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far.

Masterlist | Previous

Credits: Dividers by @strangergraphics-archive

Tag List: @melodymunson @writhingg @jozstankovich @rxqueenotd @trashmouth-richie @i-trash-about-things @ali-r3n @somnambulic-thing @mothmans-left-buttcheek @theold-ultraviolence

Warnings: Direct reference to specific instances of period typical racism, references to drug use, some smutty themes

“You ever read Clan of the Cave Bear?” Alejandra asked.

It was such a non sequitur. She heard an obnoxious snort threaten to turn into laughter.

“No, what… what the hell is that?” Eddie was red faced. Giggling.

“Prehistoric science fiction, bro.” She said in a low voice, “Caveman shit.”

“Cavemen?!”

Eddie guffawed. Covering his face with his hands as his giggles threatened again.

“It’s not funny!” She whined, unable to control her own cackling.

The distinctly pungent, acrid odor of Eddie’s own stash of what he called “longbottom leaf” (really, just a bad code name for his own recreational reefer) had already gone stale in the enclosed space they found themselves in. The shared smoke had gone stale in her baby lungs, and Alejandra coughed as she laughed.

“I’m so… ha! I… I’m sorry…” Eddie insisted, taking a deep breath and exhaling through pursed lips. “I’m sorry. But you said… you said it’s about cavemen?”

It took Alejandra a while to maintain herself. Spittle had shot down the wrong pipe and made her nearly gag. Holding up a finger, she made sure it all hacked out, inhaled deeply, then nodded with a grin.

“Yeah like, a girl from the Cro-Magnon people gets adopted by a group of Neanderthals and she becomes this hunter who’s all bad, right?” She said, moving her hands as though she was holding a spear, “Then she gets kicked out of her cave after giving up her son to start her own path, and the second book opens up with her in this valley where she tames a horse and a lion cub. Real girl power shit. But it’s crap.”

“Why crap?”

“Because the girl then turns into this air headed romance novel heroine, and she meets her perfect jock caveman boyfriend.” Alejandra said. “And the book gets all torcido in the second novel. You wanna know what her boyfriend Jondalar’s biggest flaw is?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by Alejandra’s retelling of the best selling prehistoric fiction novel.

"Lay it on me. What's the great character flaw of Jondalar, the Flintstone-era Mr. Perfect?"

“He’s sad because no girl on earth can handle his huge fucking wiener.”

Eddie screamed.

Honest to god screamed.

Screamed like a banshee being gutted, and then dissolved into the worst fit of laughter she had ever seen. Eddie collapsed against the van door, laughing so hard Alejandra could have sworn she saw his butt cheeks clenching in his worn Wrangler Jeans. The kind of clenching that comes from trying not to laugh so hard you accidentally fart.

Eddie took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but the idea of a sad, dimwitted caveman crying over his mammoth dick was too much.

"I swea… I… I swear… Oh Jesus H. Christ!” he paused, wheezing before he finally inhaled and managed to speak, “God dammit. What the fuck is this… How in hell did edgy caveman sex even get the go ahead from a publisher?!"

“Evidently Jean M. Auel had a lot of money and a lot of free time to be traveling to sites where they dug up remains. So the first one was just creative enough to get published, then the second sold purely on sex.”

Alejandra sat up straight on the leather seats of Eddie’s 1979 GMC Gaucho. Her fingers danced along the leather of the back bench seat, silently enjoying the tactile wonderland where the top grain of the leather had begun to disintegrate.

“Like… imagine though?” She said, voice lowering to a conspiratory whisper, as if Jean M. Auel herself was squatting outside of the windows listening in, “You spend all kinds of money to actually learn how to make stone tools and a lean to, and then you go and fuck it all up writing about sad peepee man over here.”

Eddie laughed even harder, his shoulders shaking and his face now burning red as a tomato.

"Peepee man, oh my fucking God... all that free time and money to learn about the Stone Age, just to turn it into a cringe-fest with Jondalar and his mammoth-size... oh shit!"

There was a frantic scrambling to prevent disaster after Eddie’s muddy Reeboks knocked over a full ashtray— a yellowed glass relic perched haphazardly on the front seat’s armrest. A few old roaches flew with the stubby blunt in a sea of ashes onto the already filthy floor. Eddie looked at Alejandra, looked at the mess, then began howling again with laughter. She burst into laughter too, a delayed reaction when she realized what happened.

When they both finally looked up at one another after a moment of calm, she noticed Eddie was staring directly at her, smiling widely.

“Damn… you're a bundle of laughs when you're stoned, aren't you? I’ve never met a dork like you who was so captivated by prehistoric wiener.”

“What?! No! I don’t want Jondalar’s unwashed dong!”

“Oh you totally do. What, you like ‘em big like a third leg?”

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Eddie made a buzzing elephant-like sound, sticking his forearm near his crotch and flapping upwards for emphasis.

“Stop it…” Alejandra threatened, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter, “Don’t make me laugh… I… I’m gonna pee…!”

He was about five seconds away from laughter himself. Biting his lower lip to stop the sound.

“Oh? You want me to stop? Because believe it or not, I’ve got a whole arsenal of stupid shit I can whip out to see how bad you really need to pee… I just don’t have the mammoth trunk package you want me to whip out—…”

A loud yelp erupted from his throat, followed by laughter when Alejandra began swatting him with her Carhartt jacket. The fabric made a snapping sound as it connected with his skin. Eddie wasted no time to hit her back with his denim vest.

They looked like two jocks in the midst of a locker room towel brawl, the jackets making a solid thwack against bare skin amidst their howling and animalistic grunting noises that started up after Eddie started screeching like a capuchin.

Before the van, before the two of them shared the reefer, Eddie had still been holding Alejandra by the waist back at Hawkins High. The two of them were hellbent on basking in the presence of one another, interrupted only when the bell rang to dismiss first period, and Alejandra had honest to god pouted when she heard the obnoxiously loud clanging.

“Don’t make that face.” Eddie had grinned, “Who says we’re going to second period?”

“Huh?!”

“You really think I’m going to let you go to class? Away from me? Hell no, we’ve got better things to do. You’re sticking with me today, lamb chop.”

His voice dropped down into a conspirator’s whisper, hot breath ghosting along her ear as he spoke again.

“Unless…” he teased, “You wanna… you know, be a good girl and go to second period…?”

“Hell no.”

“Didn’t think so.” He grinned. “After all, we only just started getting properly acquainted. What say you to us having a little alone time in my rather… unorthodox school hang out spots?”

He gave a light squeeze. A promise of an exciting adventure.

Alejandra scowled.

“… Bro, I don’t even wanna be at school.” she murmured. “I hate it here.”

His expression softened.

Maybe it was the hint of vulnerability in her voice, or the fact that she looked wilted and drained from her attempts at biting back at the masses. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Lamb chop said she didn’t want to be here, and Eddie seemed determined to make it happen. Desperately trying to please her, from the looks of things.

“Yeah, okay… no, I feel you. This dump was never designed for us cool cats. Let’s face it, we’re too cool for school, lamb chop.”

For a moment Alejandra looked around. Confused as to who Eddie was talking to. Who the hell around here was cool besides him? Certainly not her.

“New game plan: let’s ditch class and go on an adventure. Just you and me.” He said, holding firm to her waist.

“Okay but like… What’s there to do here?”

“Hawkins is our oyster. There’s a lot we can do. We could go cruising, drive to the park, or the lake. There’s even an abandoned scary house on Denfield we can break into. Perfect place to get chased by ghosts, while accompanied by a psychedelic synth number. Hell, sky’s the limit. Anywhere’s more exciting than this shithole.”

“… there’s a lake?”

Alejandra knew lakes. Liked them even. Abiquiu back home was a particular favorite. With the outcropping of mountains in caramel and umber surrounding the blue water in summer, it was a perfect wilderness retreat. Surely, this Hawkins lake would at least be as picturesque with its midwestern greenery and lush forest.

“Yeah. Lover’s Lake. It’s quiet there on a school day. Especially now in the morning. Perfect for an adventure. You in?” Eddie asked.

“I wanna go!”

She sounded like a damn kid. So eager…

No one had ever invited her anywhere before like this. Plenty of her classmates back home ditched class and never faced consequence. One girl back in Pojoaque took off during a pizza party in Geometry— simply because she didn’t bring any cash to chip in— instead she just walked out of the room like nothing while Alejandra sat there watching at her desk, gaping like a fish.

She always wished she had the balls and audacity that girl had. Now she had the opportunity to grow a pair.

Eddie was grinning at her attitude.

“Atta girl! We’d better be sneaky about it, though. I don’t feel like catching hell from dirty old Higgs for a joyride.”

He didn’t wait for her to put out her hand. Eddie grabbed her sweaty palm and began walking to the front doors, dragging her along to follow.

Alejandra laced her fingers with his, eventually grabbing onto his arm as they weaved through throngs of students. Every now and then they looked behind them to see if anyone noticed their flight from Hawkins High. For the most part students and faculty alike avoided Eddie like the plague. Especially now that they saw him coming; with his features set in a resting bitch-faced scowl. A mousy stage five clinger like Alejandra wasn’t even a blip on their radar.

Once outside, the humid summer air punched them both in the face. By the time Eddie led her over to his van, parked all the way in the far corner of the lot, Alejandra was sweating and dying to get in it. She wiped the back of her neck with her hand, letting the cotton duck fabric of her jacket soak up the sweat like a thirsty wick.

Eddie finally parked the two of them in front of the vehicle, holding out his hand. The “ta-dah” was silent, but implied heavily.

“Allow me to introduce my valiant steed: Large Marge.” He said in a deep voice, “Your white-… well, uh, green horse for the day.”

“Large Marge?!”

They both burst out laughing. Eddie even did the Paul Reubens laugh— the one that sounded like a drunk version of The Road Runner, and Alejandra doubled over wheezing.

“A la ve, eres muy pendejo, bro.” Alex laughed.

Immediately she tried the door handle. Just gave it a yank without even making sure the door was unlocked (it was) and hopped into the passenger’s side. Eddie didn’t hesitate either, he just did the Peewee laugh again before he hopped in, slamming the door behind him and making the engine sputter to life when he stuck the key in the ignition.

Without looking in the rearview mirror to make sure anyone was behind him, Eddie peeled out of the lot the second he put the gear in reverse. Alejandra hadn’t even buckled in her belt before he was doing fifty in the school zone lane, hitting every speed bump and pothole on the way out.

"Jesus H., all it took was a Peewee Herman reference to get you in my van?! You're either fearless, oblivious, or just damn crazy," he laughed, rolling down the driver’s side window. “Did McGruff the Crime Dog teach you nothing? I’m pretty sure the first lesson was: don’t get in a strange man’s big ass van.”

“At this point I wouldn’t even care if you were Baron Harkonnen himself.” she said, re-adjusting her belt so it wasn’t strangling her, “I’d still go with you.”

"Well, I promise I'm nothing as sinister as Baron Harkonnen. Just a humble dork who appreciates good humor. Although, I do sometimes dabble in the melange trade." He winked at her as he steered the van.

The ever turning record of thought in Alejandra’s brain scratched to a halt.

Hold on…

“Hold the fucking phone… you… you actually know who the Baron is?” Alejandra asked, looking incredulous.

No one had ever been familiar with her references to Dune, and here was Eddie just casually dropping lines about the Siridar-Baron, and spice melange…

"Of course. Who doesn't know who Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is?" he replied casually, one hand steady on the steering wheel while the other fumbled for a cigarette in the pocket of his denim battle vest.

He must have done it a thousand times. Mesmerized, she watched as— with practiced ease— Eddie steered with one knee, lit his cigarette with one hand using a dented Zippo lighter, sucked in the sweet tobacco of filtered Camels, and blew the smoke out of the window he was cranking down with his remaining free hand.

"Dune's pretty much one of the major foundations for like, every science fiction world out there.” He said nonchalantly, one hand returning to the steering wheel, “It’s got everything. Space, politics, giant sandworms... Without Dune, they’d have Han Solo pushing either booger sugar or disco biscuits instead of spice, considering it was what shaped the sci-fi genre of the 70’s."

“Yeah but…” she protested, unsure how to voice what she was thinking.

"But what? You seem surprised I know of Dune's existence," Eddie said, scratching his chin as he turned onto Mulberry.

“I kind of am.” Alejandra admitted, chewing on her jacket cuff, “I never met no one who could really keep up with my weirding ways…”

She had been buried deep in the desert sands of Arrakis ever since second grade; ever since her father had been tasked with reading her a bedtime story.

Sick with pneumonia and bronchitis, the doctor told her parents that she had to be kept home at least a week, possibly two if the antibiotics did not work. And they hadn’t worked all that well.

Alejandra was inconsolable.

Second grade was so fun because Mrs. Viola made it fun, and at recess Alejandra always played Candy Candy with her best friend Yesenia— and this week it was Alejandra’s turn to be Candy. Yesenia had even promised to let her hold her stuffed raccoon toy.

Instead, her parents kept her home, and force fed Alejandra this disgusting bubblegum pink antibiotic syrup that made her gag. Dad wasn’t working at the time, it would be another month before he started back up with hauling. So instead of dealing with just mom and Jaime, Dad was there to make caldito and read to her from one of his hardcovers from the Waldenbooks in Dallas that he’d bought two summers ago.

The way Dad played the characters was magical. Alejandra loved the gentle intonations of his voice as he read in the Voice of the Kwisatz Haderac: Paul Usul Muad’Dib Atreides, his very birth orchestrated by one of the fearless women of the Bene Gesserit space witches.

Arrakis was Alejandra’s second home. An escape from the world that did not understand her. When she grew into adolescence and longed to be accepted, she filled her lonely days with yearning to ride through burning sand dunes atop Shai-Hulud. She wanted to hold the Gom Jabbar with Alia Atreides as she killed the evil Baron Harkonnen, and to drink the water of life with Lady Jessica to become the next Reverend Mother of Arrakis, the cunning harbinger of an abomination.

She even wanted to join Stilgar and Chani in their holy war, feeling like a Fremen child herself as she had been born and raised in the desert dunes just as they were… Alejandra knew the sacred importance of water, of self sufficiency among the burning sands, and of a culture that often dealt with the realities of the drug trade and the higher powers that orchestrated them.

Six novels and eleven years later, on all levels except physical, she was still very much buried under the spice tinged sands of Dune. If one bothered to look closely, she fancied they might have seen the way the sclera of her eyes had begun to tinge just the slightest hint of blue…

"I've read the first book and seen the David Lynch movie, I went with one of my friends last year." Eddie smiled, glancing over at her briefly before returning to the road, taking a long pull on his cigarette.

“You’re not the only person in Hawkins who's been tainted by the Weirding Way. So I’ll be privy to any little Bene Gesserit mind tricks you try on me, you little space witch.”

"You know, you're really different from anyone I've ever met before. I mean that in a good way."

It took her a second to remember that she was in Hawkins, not on a desert planet or even a desert state. Instead she was laying back on a leather bench seat, in the back of a green 1979 GMC Gaucho named Large Marge, smoking pot with a guy that looked exactly like Eddie Van Halen.

“I’m different?”

She was shocked. Almost offended. What? Was it not normal to get philosophical about prehistoric caveman fiction?

“That’s… that’s kinda cliche, don’t you think…?” She groused.

Eddie shrugged, his smirk turning into a lighthearted grin.

"Maybe it is cliche, but I mean it. You're not afraid to speak your mind, even if it's about some fictional dude's wiener."

Alejandra couldn’t help the giggle that came out, covering her face.

“… I guess so…” she finally admitted bashfully. “I guess I just didn’t realize people don’t talk about book characters like it’s some hot school gossip. I… I don’t really talk to a lot of other girls.”

It sounded shitty. Even she could admit that.

“I… I don’t really have friends.” She whispered, her face red.

It sounded selfish and shitty, like she hated other women for simply existing. When in reality, she wanted another girl to talk to. Above all else, Alejandra really was just like any other young woman. She craved affection, and attention, perhaps even more than was normal.

At times, she wanted to be part of the cliques she was always excluded from. Cliquey friends came with so many benefits: at any given time, you had an entourage with which to laugh and look cool with. Someone always was free to go with you to the bathroom, sometimes everyone all at once.

Cliquey groupies giggled and gushed over cute boys, and fixed each other’s curls in the mirror before class started. They traded gum, scrunchies, and various fads that circulated in and out of the school halls. Last year, friendship bracelets were the big thing that everyone got into, and girls would have hundreds of them layered on their wrists. It was a caste system of the teenaged-mind’s creation; whosoever did not fit in was not always publicly humiliated, but rather silently shunned.

Alejandra had shamefully made her own to wear on her wrist, but it was awkward getting asked who she was matching with— or, god forbid, getting confronted for copying another girl’s “colors”— so she stopped wearing them altogether.

"Hey… hey, lamb chop."

Eddie’s warm hand brushed against her bare shoulder, raising the goose flesh against her skin. She looked at his hand, refusing to make eye contact directly.

"You shouldn't say that.” Eddie said gently, “I'm sure there's plenty people in Hawkins who want to be your friend. You just... you need to find your people.”

The hurt of his words stung in her heart.

Find your people?

All she had done that first day was piss people off, and look where she ended up. Shoved into a locker for it. Screamed at. Got called a “wetback Elvira”. Got tripped, and caught her jacket on a doorknob. With the way small town rumor mills ran, she knew any attempts she made here on out to make a friend would be FUBAR— Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

“I don’t know… I don’t… I don’t think there’s really anyone on earth, let alone here in Hawkins, who wants to be my friend.”

Eddie paused for a moment, the deafening silence making Alejandra’s heart clench.

"I'd be your friend." He said after a moment.

Alejandra tensed up. Gulping. Not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“Really?” She whispered.

"Yeah. You're smart, you're funny, and you've got a love for fantasy. Those are all… that’s badass, dude."

She turned away. Looked at the bucket seat in front of her, thence to the parking break, thence to the floor and the scattered ashes infused with butts and roaches.

“Are you serious to me right now?”

Her voice was so small, so helpless. As if she couldn’t believe it. She said this as if she couldn’t even imagine Eddie, for all his laughter at her antics and his handsy nature, even wanted to consider being her friend. The idea was laughable. There was no way he liked her like that. Maybe she was just a fun time? Something silly to do on a Monday morning instead of school.

Maybe, she thought, maybe he was just secretly some deadbeat dude who wanted dirty sex and was promising friendship in exchange. Using promises of companionship and understanding as legal tender to exchange for her “goods and services”. Playing up acting like a good person, just so he could stick his smelly cock in some panocha, as her brother would often so eloquently warn her about.

For all she knew, Eddie could be just a typical pig. Wanting a warm hole in between looking for someone better looking, more conventionally attractive, to show off on his arm.

But Alejandra wasn’t sure what was more sad: the fact that she was making a judgement based on unfounded allegations, or the fact that she was so desperate for attention, that she was actually considering giving it up just so Eddie would speak kindness to her.

Eddie's grip on her shoulder tightened. After avoiding him so long, she couldn’t anymore when he turned her around to face him. Red rimmed, watery brown eyes bored holes into hers, curtained by black brown, wild curls.

"Yeah, really.” He murmured, “I'm serious. I'd be honored to have a friend like you."

He gave a soft, genuine smile, with his laugh lines cutting deep divots in his cheeks. Alejandra let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

“Well that’s real cool because I really like you and-…” she immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, a squeak erupting from the throat when she realized she had just admitted the quiet part out loud.

The reefer had made her tongue loose. Ordinarily she would have kept the affection she felt for Eddie under wraps until the day she died. Old Alejandra would have made an ass of herself agonizing over shooting her shot. Probably would have gone to her grave regretting never telling Eddie that she was starting to feel the dreaded “like” feelings.

Eddie's smirk faded into a look of surprise as he heard the words come vomiting out.

"Alejandra..."

He said her name softly, his eyes searching her face and taking in the flushed expression.

"You... you really like me?"

She didn’t look at him, just kept her mouth covered as she looked down shamefully. Slowly, she nodded her head yes.

“You know… I like you too.” Eddie murmured.

“You do…?”

“Yeah, I do. I like you a lot.”

“… even if I’m the weird kid you just met…?”

“Especially because you’re the weird kid I just met.” He scooted closer, cupping her face in his hands.

“You think you’re the only one in this van that does weird, out there shit? We’re both weird. We’re both freaks. I don't care if you're weird. I like it. I like you."

Her hands hesitantly reached up, palms over his as she stroked his fingers. Every little sensation was like magic. From the worn feel of his callouses, to the jewelry adorning his fingers, it was all so uniquely him. So very much Eddie, that her fingertips finally moved of their own accord and ran along the grooves and ridges of his many rings, finding comfort in the shapes and feel of the metal designs.

“… really warm…”

Eddie's breath hitched as he felt her hands on his. He let out a low, soft laugh.

"What’s warm? My hands?"

“Yeah…” Alejandra nodded. “And your rings too… People… people say that rings are cold but… yours… the metal band is warm…”

She looked up at Eddie, and noticed something magical happening.

When the morning sun hit just right, his iris glowed a warm amber, like cognac. And when the cognac of his eyes illuminated his face, she could see all the beautiful little lines he possessed: the eye bags, the early signs of crow's feet in the corners of his eyes when he smiled, those goddamn dimple divots on either side of his mouth… Even the way he smiled was mischievous.

She couldn’t help herself. Brown eyes darted down to his rosy lips, chapped and a little dry, but plump. Kissable lips.

Did he taste like cigarettes? Weed? Maybe minty, like toothpaste?

Slowly, Alejandra’s hands left Eddie’s and cupped his cheeks, and she found herself pressing lips against his. Eager to find out.

At first he stiffened, totally caught off guard by the movements. It took a second or two, but at last he began to reciprocate, immediately wrapping his arms around her and pressing her further into his chest.

This didn’t feel real. Alejandra couldn’t believe she was really doing this… A moment ago the two were having the time of their lives. Nearly pissing themselves with laughter, enjoying the bantering back and forth and being real friends.

His lips were chapped. Bitten perhaps during a bout of nervous habit, but… oh, so warm…

His fingers tangled in her curly hair, a wet lathing at her bottom lip as his tongue gently stroked across. Eddie was pulling desperately at her too, as if trying to get her to hop onto his lap, and Alejandra responded by eagerly scrambling onto him. She frowned when she realized he was licking at her bottom lip sloppily, rapidly, as if he was an eager Saint Bernard looking for peanut butter.

“What are you doing…?” Alejandra asked.

Eddie blinked, pulled out of his momentary stupor by the question. He quickly tried to explain himself, a hint of guilt in his voice.

"Fuck... I didn't mean to! I just... I thought... Oh shit, I'm sorry-..."

“No like… what are you doing with your tongue?” She asked, genuinely confused.

Eddie shook his head and blinked at the same time. As if resetting.

"It's... I’m kissing you? Y’know, like, Frenching? You stick your tongue out and... and kind of…”

What the fuck was he talking about?

It took her a hot minute. A really hot minute to figure it out, and just before Eddie made like he was going to push her off him, she clung to his arms.

“Like wait no, hold on… is that… is that what they’re doing on tv…?” Alejandra asked softly.

Eddie nodded awkwardly. Unsure of what to say.

"Yeah... yeah, it is. When you kiss and... then you kinda slip the tongue. It's called... making out…"

“I mean I know what making out is called but like… I didn’t know that’s what was happening… inside.” She said, feeling a little stupid.

"Are you telling me you've never kissed someone with tongue before?"

“… I’ve never kissed anyone in my life… let alone done that tongue thing.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a fucking virgin!” Eddie laughed loudly and obnoxiously, as though reveling in the revelation of the awkward secret.

Now it was her turn to huff indignantly, only staying because Eddie had put his arms around her and held her in place.

“I’m sorr… sorry!” He wheezed. “I’m sorry! No… no that’s not funny.”

“Pinche mamon!” She hissed.

He shook his head, wiping a tear from his eye as he smiled at you gently. His hands began rubbing at her bare shoulders, enjoying the sight of her in a sleeveless, linen summer dress.

"Would you like to try it again...?” He asked softly, “The tongue thing?"

She curled soft legs around his thin waist, Chuck Taylors pressing into the armrest of the leather bench seats of the van. His body responded automatically, intimates standing to attention in a single fluid contraction of throbbing hot flesh through denim…

When she felt him get hard, how could she stay mad at him?

“Yeah… teach me, how do you do the tongue thing…?” She asked.

He gently pressed his forehead to hers, faces mere inches apart.

"Well, it's pretty simple."

He paused for a moment, leaning in slightly closer as he spoke in a soft, low voice.

"Gimme the Gene Simmons, like this..."

He slowly stuck his tongue out, the tip brushing against Alejandra’s lips. She giggled, mimicking him and laughing when his long tongue flicked against hers.

“Then what?” She asked. Words were a bit garbled because her tongue was still lolled out.

"Well, lamb chop, once our tongues are out, we... we kind of… You know…”

He paused, his eyes locked on her lips before leaning in a little closer.

"Start licking each other..."

“O-oh…”

Eddie smiled at the quiet, accepting response.

"Don't worry, we'll go slow. We don’t have anywhere to be." He said, eyes never quite leaving her lips.

"Close your eyes, lamb chop. You don’t keep them open when you kiss."

She obediently closed them, lips parted slightly as she felt Eddie’s warm breath caress her face. He evidently decided he would skip the gentle pecks and go for the tongue thing right away, so she kept her mouth a little open this time.

"Good girl.” He whispered, leaning in towards her, “You keep your mouth just like that…”

It was then she realized that not only did he taste like the Camels he smoked, but he also tasted like cheap beer, chocolate, and some kind of cereal she couldn’t quite place. All a myriad and fucked up mishmash of different flavors and scents that either complemented, or contradicted one another.

And Alejandra loved every single minute of it.

“ The flesh surrenders itself, he thought. Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time. What can we say of this? I occurred. I am not... yet, I occurred. ”

- Frank Herbert

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 28th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 115 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part II of Chapter 11, “L’enveloppe magique” (“The Magic Envelope”).

This section was first printed on Thursday, 4 November, 1909.

Gaston Leroux cut “The Magic Envelope” from his novel when he prepared the First Edition for publication.

In January of 2014, I published my translation of this chapter. Mine was the first English translation of this chapter to be published.

You can read my translation of “The Magic Envelope” on my blog here.

The text of this section starts at “All the same, Moncharmin was still looking at Richard in a way that the latter did not like at all,” and goes to “'Not on your life!’ cried Gabriel.”

TRANSLATION:

All the same, Moncharmin was still looking at Richard in a way that the latter did not like at all. It was easy to see that Moncharmin was suspicious of Richard, or at least did not trust him. Richard was infuriated.

Moncharmin explained himself.

“My dear fellow, who was it that spoke inside the box, if it wasn’t you?”

Richard raised his fist in rage but stopped mid-gesture. At the moment when he was going to slam his fist down on the desktop, he heard three sharp little knocks coming from inside the desk; his hand remained suspended in the air. The two Managers looked at each other.

“Did you hear that?” asked Richard in an uncertain voice.

“Yes!” said Moncharmin, who had become slightly pale…

They heard it again… They thought about the three sharp little knocks of which Mother Giry had told them.

Indeed, this is what they had clearly heard… Distinctly heard … from inside the desk … for there was no one under the desk…

But there was something on top!… A large envelope on which someone had inscribed an address in red ink. And it seemed to them that the three sharp little knocks had been rapped out for the express purpose of drawing their attention to that envelope.

Richard, who, however much he claimed to the contrary, was not completely devoid of superstition, cautiously reached out a hand towards the envelope, as if he feared that his touch might suddenly set it on fire.

Finally, he picked it up without further incident. It felt light in his hands, which were quick to open it after he and Moncharmin — who was leaning over his shoulder — read the address:

“For MM. the Managers of the Opera.”

“My dear friends,” said the letter, “it was I who spoke inside the box. I was there. If you did not see me, it is because I am slightly mistrustful of the police, who are always quick to make mistakes; although I had made all the necessary arrangements, as you can now deduce, so that if you had entertained the notion of informing them, they would have arrested both of you first, on your own instructions: that, you will admit, would have been quite entertaining… Let this prospect, my dear friends, be a lesson that you always bear in mind in the unlikely case that you should consider involving an outside force in our business.

“Here is how you shall handle the 20,000 francs.

“You shall slip twenty notes of one thousand francs each into an envelope that you shall find here enclosed. You shall seal this envelope and deliver it to Mme Giry one half hour before the next performance; she will do what is necessary. Cordially yours. P. of the O.”

Inside the envelope they had just opened, they indeed found another envelope that was exactly the same, folded in half, which bore the inscription in red ink: “For Monsieur P. of the O. Private.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

The next evening, one half hour before the curtain rose, an inspector came to see Mme Giry, who was already at her box attendant’s post, and requested that she report immediately to the office of M. Firmin Richard.

The good woman did not seem at all surprised by this message and momentarily left her duties, which consisted of awaiting the arrival of the first operagoers. She quickly went down to the season subscribers’ entrance, crossed the stage, and climbed the staircase. There she encountered her daughter, Meg, on a landing, who was in the midst of playing a prank on a fireman. Mme Giry gave her a slap on each cheek, and then went to knock on the Manager’s door.

“Enter!”

She did not seem to notice that the Managers were staring at her with an uncustomary urgency. She took an envelope, rather heavily laden, that they held out to her. She read the address, and since she was carrying the basket from which she rarely parted, she placed the envelope inside.

“No doubt you know what this means?” asked Moncharmin.

“Of course, Monsieur Manager! It’s not magic! It’s a letter for the Phantom.”

“And you are going to deliver it to him yourself?”

“So it seems. What would you have me do with it?”

“You are going to deliver it to him by hand?”

“Monsieur, I’ve never seen the Phantom’s hands, and I couldn’t tell you whether he has any…”

“But how do you do it?”

“I put it by his seat; it’s as simple as that!… And apparently, he comes to get the envelope. That has to be the way it happens…”

“Has it been long that you have served as his letter-box?”

“The first time that it happened was during the time of Debienne and Poligny, a few days before their departure… M. Poligny himself handed me a letter, but much thinner than this … and I did more or less what I am going to do with this one… Goodbye, Monsieur! With all due respect, I’m on my way… The patrons ought to be arriving, and everyone must earn a living, don’t you agree?”

Richard and Moncharmin did not stop her from leaving. They had not taken their eyes off of Mother Giry or her basket. No sooner had she closed the door than she was followed by Mercier, the Administrator. The box attendant’s every movement was carefully monitored. Her comportment was quite natural and she did not so much as touch her basket until she arrived at Box 5. There she calmly opened her basket and withdrew the precious letter. She left the basket on a stool and entered the box with the letter, which she placed on the shelf by the armrest.

Meanwhile, Mercier in turn took the liberty of opening the basket and found that it contained nothing more than a handkerchief of the finest lace monogrammed with the interwoven letters, “P.O.,”[4] a bunch of keys, a box of matches, twelve sous, and an old edition of the Petit Journal, folded to the section of the serialized novel: The Vampire’s Daughter.[5]

As for Moncharmin and Richard, they both armed themselves with opera glasses and stationed themselves in separate boxes in the upper tier so that they could not be seen, although the letter did not for an instant leave their dual patrolling gaze. In this way, they spent the duration of the performance, both the acts and the entr’actes.

They did not see anything occur inside the box, and yet still they watched the envelope on the little shelf by the armrest. They made arrangements so that after the performance was over, they would convene together with Mercier in Box 5, without interrupting their surveillance on the envelope for even a moment.

Then the two Managers, standing before Mercier, who understood nothing of the events that were transpiring, for he had followed his instructions without being briefed on the details of the affair, opened the envelope with a smile. They believed that the Phantom, who was surely possessed of a practical mind, must have sensed himself being watched and had not dared to touch the envelope. Indeed, they found the 20,000 francs still inside. And so, with a slightly smug air, they returned to their management.

But as they arrived in Richard’s office, they discovered that, sitting there on the desk, in the same location as before, was an identical envelope, which contained a “brief note” thusly worded:

“Candles and chandeliers![6] Brevity is the soul of wit; the Bank of Saint Farce[7] is not legal tender in my Empire. In the future, try to be a bit more serious, or I shall wax wroth once again. Candles and chandeliers!

“Your servant,

“P. of the O.”

It was no longer a matter of “friendly regards.” Needless to say, the Phantom was furious. But how had he known that in place of real banknotes, the Managers had slipped fake notes into the envelope, since it had remained unopened and had not been touched? And as for this latest threat — candles and chandeliers! — how had it arrived in Richard’s office, since after the last letter, Richard, recalling a bit late the recommendation given to them by the departing Managers, had installed safety locks on the doors of his office to which he alone had the keys?

I regret that I must here use an expression which is in no way recommended by the dictionary of the Academy, but no other word would be able to convey with detail and yet with restraint the state of mind of one of the Managers: Firmin Richard was fuming! No exclamations, no curses, no angry gestures. But in his breathless silence, he seemed to radiate fury.

And what infuriated him more than anything, even more perhaps than the absurd business of P. of the O., was Moncharmin’s eye, that eye which regarded him, Richard, with clear malicious irony.

For that ironic look could only come from two things: either Moncharmin imagined that P. of the O. was “making sport” of Richard in particular, or Moncharmin had begun once again to suspect his colleague! And this latter thought crowned Richard’s misery. Oh, to be the pawn, and yet to be thought the mastermind!

Suddenly, he cried: “Mercier! Go get me Gabriel!”

Gabriel, the chorus master, was Richard’s friend. He had Richard’s confidence, and frequently, when Richard was in trouble, he found excellent council in Gabriel. When Mercier had returned with Gabriel, Richard asked them both to sit down. Then, having ensured that no one could hear what would be spoken between the four men, having ordered Rémy, his secretary, who was keeping watch in the adjacent room, to prevent anyone from entering the office, he recounted from the beginning the details of that strange affair. Gabriel and Mercier listened in perfect silence.

When Richard had finished, Gabriel stood up and said: “You must put the 20,000 francs in the envelope, but the real 20,000.”

“That’s also my opinion,” agreed Mercier, and he added: “And we must inform the Commissary of Police!”

“Not on your life!” cried Gabriel.

NOTES:

[4] The letters monogrammed on this handkerchief are “F.O.” in the French, and it is the translator’s theory that this is short for Fantôme [de l’] Opéra. These initials have therefore been translated as “P.O.” for Phantom [of the] Opera. It is possible that the rest of the items in Mme Giry’s basket were meant to be Erik’s possessions, as well. For instance, the matches might be the implements that Erik used to write his various notes, since Leroux described that Erik’s handwriting looked like it was formed using the tips of matchsticks, presumably dipped into his signature red ink. It is also tempting to think of Erik reading a story about vampires, since there are certain aspects of his character, such as sleeping in a coffin bed, that appear to be drawn from vampire literature. It is certainly amusing that Leroux inserted this slightly self-referential element of a character reading a feuilleton within his own feuilleton. However, it remains unclear why these items were in Mme Giry’s basket. Like so many other details in Leroux’s novel, we have no definitive answers.

[5] A thorough search of Le Petit Journal, a Parisian daily newspaper similar to Le Gaulois, from 1863 to 1910 can find no feuilleton by the name of La Fille du Vampire. It is likely that this serialized novel was Leroux’s invention.

[6] This exclamatory phrase in French is “lustre et balustre,” which literally means “chandelier and baluster” (the baluster in this instance is the ornate stem of the chandelier into which the candle-bearing arms are inserted). This particular use of these words may be an expression of Leroux’s own devising, as it does not appear in contemporary books of French wordplay. That said, the words “lustre” and “balustre” frequently appear together in French grammar books as rhyming pairs, so there is likely a subtextual relationship between them. Instead of attempting an idiomatic translation, the translator has chosen a more literal translation, albeit one that captures some of the phrase’s rhyming quality, in order to retain the chandelier reference, since this gives the phrase its menace.

[7] The Bank of Saint Farce was pretend currency, similar to play money.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 4 November, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter fifteen | we only say goodbye with words.

masterlist

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +3k

A/N : Surprise, another chapter ! It's not the happiest one, but I did warn y'all lol... That's why I wanted to give them their little moment first :)))) I can't help but torture my readers a bit.

previous chapter

BRUCE WAS, TO PUT IT MILDLY, drowning in a whirlpool of pain and shame. 

How could he have let this happen? How could he have failed Alfred like this ?

The weight of it crushed his chest with every breath, a deep ache that refused to subside.

When he called Dory, he recognized the tremor in her voice immediately, the way it cracked under the strain of holding back panic. He knew. Deep down, he knew. But denial was easier to cling to. 

He refused to accept it until he saw the fire himself, the charred remains, the smoke still curling into the night sky like a specter of his guilt. Only then did the truth settle in, heavy and unforgiving. 

Alfred—his caretaker, his rock, his father in every way that mattered—was hurt. Because of him.

Through the glass wall, Bruce stared at Alfred's still form. Bandages covered his arms and chest, his face pale beneath the mask delivering oxygen to his fragile lungs. The rhythmic beeping of machines monitoring his vital signs was the only indication that life still flickered within him. Nurses moved around Alfred's bed, adjusting wires and IV lines. One of them caught Bruce's eye. 

He recognized her—Maryam's aunt. The resemblance was unmistakable. 

Maryam. 

Oh, Maryam.

His mind wandered, drawn to thoughts of her. Of the first time their paths crossed all those years ago, of that fateful night with the mayor, of their stolen moments together, specially the last one. He remembered the way he yearned to touch her, to hear her voice, to breathe in her scent. 

The way he wanted to kiss her until her lips were tender, to trace the graceful curve of her neck, to memorize every delicate line of her beauty. 

Just her. 

Her and only her. 

She had become his anchor, steadying him even when he felt unworthy of her.

A doctor emerged from a nearby corridor, her steps brisk but her expression somber as she approached Bruce. "We've sedated him," she began, her voice calm and measured. "Now, we wait and hope he stabilizes."

Bruce didn't respond, his eyes still fixed on Alfred through the glass.

The doctor hesitated before continuing. "You should go home, Mr. Wayne. Get some rest."

This time, Bruce nodded slightly, but it was as if he wasn't there—like the words were barely registering. She paused, watching him carefully, then softened her tone. "Is there... anyone else we should notify? Next of kin?"

Finally, Bruce turned to her, his expression distant, his voice barely above a whisper. "No, it's... just me."

The doctor nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped away, leaving him alone and the quiet hum of the machines.

He stayed there, unmoving, his gaze locked on Alfred's face. This was the man who had raised him, who had cared for him when no one else would, who had become more of a father than his own ever had the chance to be. And now, Alfred was fighting for his life, lying helpless behind that glass barrier.

Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a futile attempt to quell the storm of guilt inside him. He couldn't afford to break—not here, not now.

Then, he smelled her before he heard her.

Even amidst the sterile scent of alcohol, antiseptics, and the faint metallic tang of blood that lingered in the hospital, her scent stood out—clean, warm, familiar. 

It was so distinctly hers.

For a moment, he wanted to turn, to meet her eyes, to find some measure of solace in her presence. But he couldn't. Not yet. His eyes remained on Alfred, his guilt a tether that refused to release him. 

The softest shuffle of footsteps reached his ears, almost inaudible, but he knew it was her. Maryam had a way of moving through spaces, silent and fluid, as though she belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. She paused a few feet behind him, close enough that he could feel her presence but far enough to give him space.

Bruce didn't turn around. He couldn't bring himself to face her—not with the weight of his failure pressing down on him. Not with Alfred lying there, broken and fragile. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and strained.

"I let him down."

Maryam didn't respond immediately. She waited, letting the silence stretch between them like a bridge he had to cross. When she spoke, her voice was soft, measured, yet steady.

"If you think you let him down, it's only because you care so deeply."

He closed his eyes, the words hitting him like a gentle blow. "I should've been there. I should've—" He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. "It's my fault. All of it. I let this happen."

Maryam stepped closer now, her scent more distinct, her presence grounding. "You can't do everything, Bruce," she said gently. "You try. You push yourself to the edge, and sometimes... sometimes it's not enough. But this? This isn't on you."

Finally, he turned to face her, his storm-gray eyes heavy with anguish as they met hers. Maryam stood there, steady and unflinching, her hazel eyes—soft shades of green and gold in the dim hospital light—focused solely on him. She wore her scrubs and a white crisp coat, her hair pulled back, every inch the composed doctor. But her expression held a weight that said she understood. 

She always did.

Maryam hesitated for just a moment before reaching out, her hand warm and gentle as she rested it on his arm. "He's alive, Bruce," she said, her voice calm but firm. "He's alive, and he's fighting. And he's doing that because of you. Because he knows you'll be here for him."

Bruce looked down at her hand, its warmth stark against the cold knot of guilt in his chest. He wanted to believe her, to let her words soften the sharp edges of his self-recrimination. But the truth in his head wouldn't let him.

"This was the Riddler," he muttered, almost to himself. His jaw tightened. "He did this."

"I know," Maryam said quietly. Her tone carried no judgment, only understanding.

"I can't let it happen again." His voice was firmer now, a promise to himself more than anyone else.

She didn't respond right away. What could she say? The Riddler wasn't someone who played by simple rules. Every move was calculated, every victim chosen with a cruel precision. Bruce had been drawn into that web now, just as intended.

But she stayed where she was, her hand steady on his arm. 

"Do you have any other—"

"We need to stop." His voice cut through hers, sharp and resolute.

She froze, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"What?"

"This. Us."

The words hung in the air, stark and cruel. Her hand, which had rested lightly on his arm, dropped as if burned. Slowly, like the weight of his meaning took its time to settle over her, she stepped back.

"You're hurt," she began, voice trembling, trying to reason with him. "It's okay to be scared—"

He shook his head, cutting her off again. "No, it's not that."

She hesitated, searching his face for any crack, any sign of hesitation that might let her hold onto hope. But his jaw was tight, his gaze locked somewhere beyond her, far away from the moment they were standing in.

"Don't do this," she whispered, the words a plea, barely audible.

"You don't understand," he said, each word measured, every syllable sounding like it cost him something to say. "I put you at risk."

"Bruce—"

She said his name like an anchor, desperate to tether him to her, to this space, to them. But he stayed where he was, fists clenched at his sides as though holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I can't let happen to you what happened to him." His voice cracked as he gestured toward Alfred, the weight of guilt heavy in his movement. "I won't."

"Nothing will happen to me." Her voice was stronger this time, a touch of defiance lacing her words. She stepped toward him, daring to close the gap between them.

But he moved back, retreating as if her proximity alone might shatter his resolve.

That single step away struck harder than any blow could. Her face fell, her pain written so clearly in her expression that it took everything in him not to reach out, not to fold her into his arms and tell her that this wasn't what he wanted.

"You don't know that," he said, his voice softer now but no less firm.

She stared at him, her heart warring against the growing chasm between them. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence punctuated only by the unspoken words that hung in the air.

He had made his decision. She saw it now in the set of his shoulders, in the way he refused to meet her eyes.

And yet, a part of her refused to believe it, refused to accept that fear—his or hers—could destroy what they had been building, fragile and uncertain as it was.

But for him, protecting her meant letting her go. And for her, the ache of losing him was already too much to bear.

"Exactly ! You. Don't. Know. That. " she repeats his words slowly.

"I don't?" Bruce's voice rises, raw and exasperated. "The proof is right in front of you, Maryam." His gaze shifted to Alfred's motionless body, as if willing her to see the reasoning behind his choices.

Even the thought of losing her—of her—was unbearable, and yet here he was, standing on the precipice, ready to let it all go.

No more Milou. That name, that comfort, had vanished, as if it had never existed. And the thought of it alone cut deeper than she could admit. 

"Just the thought of something happening to you, I—"

She stiffens at his words, her jaw tightening. "It seems like you forget who I am."

"It doesn't change a thing."

"I'm nothing to him, Bruce! Nothing he'd consider important enough to hurt." Her voice is sharp, defiant, but beneath it lies a tremor she can't quite suppress.

"But you are to me," he growls, his voice low and resolute, teeth gritted as though the words physically pained him.

For a moment, her breath catches. She looks at him, her chest tightening as tears threaten to spill. She blinks them back, desperate to maintain her composure. The roles had reversed now, she realizes with bitter irony.

She had always been the one to push him away. Every time he had opened up, showing her pieces of himself that no one else had ever seen, she had shut him out. 

Her armor of stoicism had always been her defense, and now she saw him wielding it against her.  And now? Now he had taken up that mantle, retreating behind a shield of his own making.

And she hated it.

She regretted every moment she had hesitated, every time she had let fear dictate her actions, every chance she had let slip through her fingers. Maybe it was her fault they had come to this—this unbearable moment where the air between them felt like a battlefield.

"How?" she demands, her arms moving with her words, as if they could carry her meaning where words failed.

To an outsider, they might look like an old married couple arguing over something trivial, but the weight of their words could crush entire worlds.

"Whoever's behind the mask hates me," he says, the words clipped, almost bitter. "He hates what I stand for, what I represent. And he's ready to do whatever it takes to hurt me. And if he finds out—if he so much as suspects—that you're close to me," he falters for the briefest of moments, his eyes locking onto hers, those eyes he dreams of more than he should, "important to me..."

Her lips part, a response poised on the edge of them, but he barrels on, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his conviction.

"Then he'll hurt you, Maryam. And I can't let that happen. I won't. I refuse."

His words hit like a tempest, stripping her bare and leaving her defenseless. The ache in her chest swells, sharp and unyielding, each syllable carving its way straight into her heart. He's hurting her in this moment, yet his eyes betray him—they're filled with pain, with longing that he's trying so desperately to bury.

"So that changes everything," she says finally, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.

Bruce meets her gaze, and for a moment, his resolve wavers. He could take it back—everything he's said. He could reach for her, pull her close, and let the world be damned. But instead, he lies to himself, to her, and spits the poison he knows will break her.

"Yes."

She shakes her head, still in denial of what, exactly? She doesn't know yet, but she can't let him go like this. Not when everything in her screams to hold on.

"I'm still me," she says, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. She takes a deep breath, reaching for his arm and stepping closer, and he lets her—because he craves it, even if he knows he shouldn't.

"And you... you're still you," she continues, her voice quiet, but firm. "So tell me—what's changed?"

Her words slice through his defenses like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. What had changed? Everything. Nothing. He doesn't know how to answer, how to express the tornado of emotions whirling inside him. 

The way he sees her now, the way everything has shifted—he wants to hold her, to take away her fears, to kiss her and tell her that it's all going to be okay, that nothing could ever tear them apart.

But he can't. And she can't. Not now.

He looks away, his gaze falling to the glass where Alfred is sleeping, peaceful and unaware of the storm raging around them. "It's not that simple," he murmurs, his words barely audible over the howling wind.

She watches him, heart aching at the distance between them. But then, he turns back to her, his hand reaching for hers. He squeezes it tightly, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. His eyes lock with hers, filled with quiet desperation.

"I need you to be alright," he says softly, his voice low and almost broken. "And for that... I need to let you go. It's better this way."

A single tear slips down her cheek, and it's as though the world stops for a heartbeat. He reaches out instinctively, brushing it away with his thumb, hating the sight of her tears—especially when they're caused by him. 

But before he can hold her, comfort her, she pulls away.

Her hand slips from his, the warmth of her touch vanishing, leaving him hollow. She steps back, turning her back to him, as if she's trying to escape the words, the feelings, the hurt between them.

Silence falls between them, heavy and suffocating. But he watches her still, as always, as if he could never tear his gaze away.

"How can you say to stop something, to let go of something that never even began?" Her voice is raw, the words torn from her throat, a plea, a challenge, all at once.

And he's at a loss for words, just as he always is when it comes to her. 

What could he say? How could he explain the tumult in his chest, the battle between his heart and his mind? The truth is, he can't. He doesn't even know who he is anymore when she's around, when her presence fills him with both comfort and pain.

His jaw clenches. His fists ball at his sides, the muscles in his arms taut with the effort of holding back. He wants to shout, to reach out, to beg her to understand. But the words die in his throat, and all that remains is the crushing weight of the choice he's made.

In that moment, he feels as if he's suffocating—trapped between the need to protect her and the overwhelming desire to keep her close. But he can't do both. And that thought is unbearable.

She moves to leave, her steps heavy with finality, but just before reaching the door, she halts. She doesn't turn to face him.

"You know why he's targeting you?" Her voice carries an edge now, brittle and sharp, as if each word costs her. She hesitates, weighing what she's about to say, knowing she might regret it—but the weight of the moment pushes her forward. She's too overwhelmed, too angry to stop.

"Maybe it's because you've been locked up in that tower," she continues, her tone colder than he's ever heard. "Not aiding this city the way you should. Instead, you've been wallowing with your demons."

He doesn't respond, his jaw tightening.

"Going out at night, beating up petty criminals. For what? Vengeance?" She scoffs bitterly, the sound hollow. "For who? Your parents?"

"Maryam—" he warns, his voice low and dangerous, but it's not enough to deter her.

"What?" she snaps, turning the full weight of her anger on him. "It needs to be said, Bruce. Once and for all. Would they have wanted this? To go down that twisted path? I didn't know them—but you did. So, you tell me."

He still doesn't respond, his silence deafening.

Her voice trembles slightly as she presses on, but it doesn't falter. "Does this city—the one I know you love—deserve this?" She pauses, searching for the words. "Revenge? Vengeance?"

She shakes her head slowly, the motion as much for herself as for him. "You think vengeance comes with a sense of duty, of justice, maybe even divine will—but it doesn't. It doesn't change the past. Yours, or anyone else's. It only makes things worse. It consumes you. It consumes everyone around you."

Still, he doesn't respond.

Her breath catches, and when she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. "And eventually..." She hesitates, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "It will kill you. Truly." 

The words hit him harder than any blow he's ever taken, but he doesn't move. He wants to take her in his arms, to silence the ache in her voice, but his feet remain rooted.

"You would leave an impact, yes," she presses on, her voice trembling under the strain of her emotions. "But not the one you intend. The Riddler is proof of that."

Her shoulders slump, as though the weight of her own truth threatens to crush her. She pauses, drawing a shaky breath before continuing, her words carrying the quiet ache of someone desperately trying to reach him.

"Rahmati sabaqat ghadabi," the doctor whispers in Arabic, voice so tender yet so tragic, it seems to fade into the very air between them, as though the words themselves were too fragile to exist in the world. 

She pauses, the silence stretching, before she speaks again, the translation falling from her lips like a quiet lament. "My mercy prevails over my wrath."

She lets the stillness linger, her gaze distant, lost in the weight of the memory. "Hadith Qudsi," she adds softly, her voice barely audible, "My father... he taught me this prayer."

The silence that follows is thick and stifling, like a chasm filled with everything unsaid, threatening to swallow them both.

Bruce takes in the words. My mercy prevails over my wrath. So powerful, yet so haunting. 

There's a deep ache in her voice, a sadness that clings to the space between them, wrapping around his chest like a vice. He wants to reach out, to take it all away, to sweep it from the air, but he knows he can't. He made the mess himself, and now he's left to face the ruin he's created. 

It's too late to fix it, too late to erase the scars. 

"People need hope," Maryam says finally, voice steady once more. "Something to cling to. Not fear. Not anger. This city is both, Bruce—angry and afraid. Just like you." She swallows hard. "But what it needs most is someone to fight for it. To endure. To prove everyone wrong. To prove that hope still exists."

Her hand reaches for the door, and she grips the handle tightly. But before she steps out, she pauses one last time.

"When you finally understand that you can do as much good outside of that suit as you do in it," she says softly, "that's when you might begin to heal—not just yourself, but this city too."

And with that, she's gone. 

The door closes softly, the click reverberating through the quiet like the final note of a requiem. 

He stands motionless, her absence pressing against him, heavier than he expected. The air she left behind feels hollow, stripped of its warmth, as if she carried it all with her. 

His heart is no longer his; she took it the moment her hand rested in his and he kissed it, stealing something he could never reclaim. 

Now, it beats somewhere else—far from him, where he can only wonder if she feels its ache.

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taglist : @gaypoetsblog @rattyfishrock @faeryki

[tavyliasin]

BG3 FicFeb NSFW - Day 4

Just a shorter one today as I've been a smudge busy, but here's day 4! Shortfic below the cut~ ----- -----

Day 4 - The rest of the companions heard Tav/Durge going at it

“Tchk, do they not know the whole woods can hear them?” Lae’zel winced at the latest echo of a moan from the trees, trying to focus on sharpening her blade without slicing through her own finger in the process.

Gale tried in vain to stare harder at his book, as if reading the words loud enough in his head might drown them out. “Don’t look at me, I’m all out of paper to scribe out Zone of Silence for them. You’d think they might make the effort to learn one bloody spell so we can get a night’s sleep-”  

“Was that a tree breaking? Gods I hope they’re not bringing the place down around them.” Wyll looked as concerned as he was flustered, sorting through the supplies in his pack like it was the most interesting task in the world. “What I’d do for a house with some thick walls right now.” 

“I think it’s cute.” Karlach grinned, her heart glowing slightly. “At least someone is getting some action around here.” 

“If they don’t stop getting action I shall be asking Lady Shar to wipe these memories from my head too.” Shadowheart groaned, standing to walk back to her tent. “I’m going to at least try to get some sleep, I suggest you all do the same. You know they’re all elves, right?” 

“Ah of course, Halsin, Astarion, our fearless leader,” Gale’s words were punctuated by a distinctly loud cry from the aforementioned leader that anyone else might’ve mistaken for distress. “They’ll get just as much rest from their trance as we could be getting if it wasn’t too loud to sleep.” He directed his grumble to the treeline, as if the foliage might pass on his displeasure at the disturbance. 

“Do you think they’d notice if I-”

“Karlach, sit back down, you are not going out there to spy on them.” Wyll put a hand on her elbow, pulling her back down to sit beside him.

“I wasn’t going to ask if I could join in or anything.” She complained. “You never let me have any fun.” 

“I would hardly describe being an unwelcome pair of eyes to the affairs of those three as fun, istik.” Lae’zel put her sword aside, satisfied it would be sharp enough to deal with any enemies in the morning. “You should follow the secretive one’s lead and get some sleep, our foes will not hesitate to slice open your gut should you pause to yawn.” 

“That…does not paint a particularly pleasant picture.” Gale closed his book, standing to return to his tent, resolving himself to cast silence on himself once he got there. “Remind me not to ask for any Githyanki bedtime stories next time we’re around the fire this late.”

“I don’t think the Gith even do bedtime stories.” Wyll shrugged, looking towards Lae’zel’s tent.

“We do, actually, and a simple gut-stabbing would be considered too weak even for a helpless babe.” Her voice hissed from behind the canvas. With everyone else gone, Wyll and Karlach lingered a little longer by the fire, sharing a quiet laugh at the idea of Lae’zel as a toddler with an oversized sword complaining that her bedtime stories weren’t gory enough. 

“What about you, Karlach? Any fairytales, or at least good stories until we get peace enough to rest?” The warlock’s smile was disarming as usual. “I’m afraid all I can offer are the worn out classics, and they don’t seem to hold the same charm as they used to. Hard to imagine a dashing prince running off to play the hero and sweep a fair maiden off her feet when I look like this.”

“I don’t know, you look princely enough to me. And I’m not just saying that because I’ve spent years in Avernus surrounded by actual bloody demons, either.” She shuffled a little, her restless tail and glowing chest betraying her thoughts as usual. “The stories I have in my head now aren’t really suitable for children at bedtime.” 

“Lucky for us, we aren’t children.” Wyll sidled just a little closer, looking up at bright eyes that widened as his voice dropped to a whisper. “I might not have a coin to hand to give you, but I would love to hear your thoughts.”

[visiodeii]

hello! super new to the helpol crowd, and i was wondering:

what is it like when a deity contacts you? do you see an image of them? hear a voice in your head? or do you have thoughts that are distinctly not your own? are their messages more direct or indirect? what are the messages usually about? how do you feel when you recieve them?

Hii!!

well I just started my deity work this January too. My friends @amor-areia was/is an Aphrodite devotee & he told me I am super Apollo child coded. He told me about his experiences with devotion, it peaked my intrests and I started looking for signs.

Which were basically everywhere haha crows were following me, the number 7 was always in my life. Everywhere I have lived had a 7 ( 157,47,7) I was always into archery & my relationship with the sun always seemed special! I have never got a sunburn in my life!

I started reading tarot and pulled the sun when I asked Apollo if he was really reaching out to me. (not just once!)

but I’ve heard that a sign could be a sudden intrest in a certain deity too!

Me specifically I have never heard or seen deities, but I meet them in my dreams Hermes and Apollo! There were no clear messages there, they just appeared!✨

The signs are usually very telling. Like you will feel it! If its a sign you will know it! Sometimes it can just be a feeling, a passing warmth or a maybe a bee resting on you. Anything!

With messages …I always get them through tarot, with Apollo it’s easy cus he is god of divination & I find it easy to communicate with him through the cards! I always ask him for a general message sometimes he helps me with a problem which I have put off for way too long.

for example when I had enough of my work place he did tell me I should rest more or change jobs!When I was scared of my love life, he reassured me I am making the right choice, When I wasn’t sure if I should invite people back in to my life, he told me to think about it & reevaluate my friendships!

I also think getting a little pendulum is super helpful if you have yes or no questions for them! More straightforward 🐝

But the messages I get from the signs are usually: hey, I am here for you! Take care of yourself! Rest well! Good job today etc!

I hope I helped a bit🌞💋 I really recommend reaching out to someone with more experience!

but I have heard everyone’s experiences differ! Some people might actually hear them, but I have only gotten songs stuck in my head through Apollo haha

have a wonderful day

may the sun shine upon your face🌞

[wyvernoleander]

Entry 1 (Belowdecks on the Spearhead)

Journal of one Leander Wyvern, following...mysterious events. Entry one. Written in the bay of Stros M'kai, on the eleventh of Evening Star, year five-hundred-eighty-two of the Second Era.

There are...holes in my memory. I can nearly feel them. Captain Kaleen of the ship The Spearhead has granted me many kindnesses in the past few days that I do not know if I can repay.

Firstly, she saved my life. Personally, if what I heard upon awakening is to be believed. Dove into the bay and fished me out, brought me aboard and had me cared for. Granted me a place to stay while I recover from my...ordeal, room and board alike. Even offered to arrange me a job at the dockside tavern, the Screaming Mermaid. I feel...grateful, but someone suspicious of her kindness. On the one hand, I'm left only with the option to take what I can get. On the other, I feel as if there is something she wants from me.

I suppose I will discover the good captain's intentions in time. A more pressing mystery lingers in the back of my head like a tangible weight. A dream just too real to be merely phantasm. A thinness in my hands and an ache to my steps, a restlessness when I sleep and a flock of shadows at the edge of my sight. And the aforementioned gaps of recollection.

I remember my name, as evident by the titling of this entry. I remember how to speak, how to write, all the usual fuctions of a person. Including how to wield a sword, it seems, and I hold enough strength to spar with the occasional member of the Spearhead's crew. My intellect is my own, and there are callouses on my hands that indicate something of my past; this quill, for instance, fits near-exactly against one. I am left-handed, it seems.

There are a few things that I have been able to glean of myself in the past few days, while under the good captian's hospitality. The things listed above. I seem to have some knowledge and experience in a kitchen. A cup of dice for a sailor's game of chance feels familiar in my hand. I can hold my ale, and it seems I sing when I've drunk enough to warrant it. I know how to care for the weapons I wield, both the sword and a dagger. I can use my sword - for it was fished out with me and must be mine, though I do not truly recognise it - in both my left and right hands, and the dagger likewise. There is a shimmer of glyphs on the blade that speak of enchantment and I can read that it is one of frost, to chill the bones of whoever is struck by it. I borrowed the sword of another for our sparring matches when I noticed this enchantment; I do not wish to bring pain to those who have saved me, even by accident.

A twinning of old scars sits below my pectorals, older than any of the others I bear. I frown when I am called a man, and I scowl when I am called a woman. My hair is long and I feel as if it was once cared-for, before the not-so-phantasmal dream. I am clean-shaven; it feels correct to say that I cannot and have never been able to grow a beard.

In the not-so-phantasmal dream, I saw a woman who towered above me, fair of hair and pale of eye and skin, dressed in rags and wielding an axe as large as she. Her name begins with L, I am certain of it, and there is a scar through her left browbone. She saved me as well, but I cannot recall what came of her, or much of the strange cold place I met her in, save that it was dark and lit by pale blue flames. Trying to think to much of it brings me pain. But there is another face that haunts this not-so-phantasmal dream; an old man, with a voice that rings and echoes in my ears after I wake. His garb is ragged likewise, and I feel distinctly that he is blind, but speaks of things yet to come.

There may be much that I do not remember, but I know that I have never before had dreams such as this one that haunts me even in my waking hours

And it seems I must lay aside my borrowed pen; the good captain has appeared in the doorway. She has something she wishes to ask of me, and I would not begrudge her.

Next

[thezombieprostitute]

Alphas & Algorithms - Part 8 - Third Date

A/N: Continued from Part 7. Reader is female and is described as "tall". No other descriptors. None of this is beta read. All mistakes are my own.

Warnings: It is a Dystopian AU. Discussion of ableism, bullying, families being separated, food scarcity, non-consensual relationships. Please let me know if I missed any!

--Part 1-- --Part 9--

--Series Masterlist--

"Can you give me anything to work with," Y/N asked the redhead across the table. "I don't enjoy condemning people but there's evidence of you supporting the revolutionists and you're not denying any of it, Ms. Romanov."

The redheaded woman continued to sit in silence, fiddling with her fingers. Y/N could smell the "art fair", the curry and warm beer scent on her. The indicator of guilt the AI couldn't sense. She also smelled Romanov's scent: rations. Bland, nothing interesting, rations. Romanov wanted to make herself forgettable and had clearly messed with her own scent glands to achieve that goal.

Y/N sighed, "I'll be back in a bit." She left to go to the room next door, holding the Beta's partner-in-crime.

When she walked in, she recognized the scent as one that she was almost paired with: the cold front breaking the heatwave, or bringing the blizzards. Right now the Alpha's scent was distinctly "blizzard" but with that faint hint of "art fair" she recognized as well.

Sitting down she looked at the tall, dark haired, blue eyed Alpha and began, "there is evidence of you supporting the revolutionists, Mr. Barnes. Do you have any counter evidence or arguments?"

Similar to Romanov, he responded with silence. Eyes as cold as the snow he smelled of. Face as impossible to read as a whiteout.

"Please," Y/N pleaded, only to be met with silence and cold.

Trying another tactic she told him, "you know, your scent was one that was proffered as a potential mate for me."

No reaction.

"I very nearly chose you," she continued. "If I hadn't smelled another one first, I would have picked you to court."

No reaction.

"If your scent was so appealing to me then, it's entirely possible that you're not mixed up with the revolutionaries. That you and your mate can be free to go. Yes, your marks are covered, but I can smell it on you. I'm very glad I didn't select your scent. I would never want to take you away from her."

No reaction.

"Please do consider," Y/N got up and walked back to Ms. Romanov's room to try again.

Curtis was getting better at finding Y/N's apartment. He'd started picking up on those subtle scent changes that she had talked about on their first meeting. Namely he knew he could follow the scents of freshly made food and he'd find her place.

Knocking on the door he heard a very distinctly male voice respond, "come on in!" Confused, he walked in and was greeted by the sight of a blonde haired Beta with glasses and a goatee cooking away in the kitchen.

"You must be Jake," Curtis reasons.

"That's me," he responds with a big smile. "Y/N asked me to cook up dinner for all of us tonight since she's got a heavy workload today and you said you wanted to meet me."

Curtis nods, "do you need or want some help?"

"Nah," Jake shakes his head. "I could cook this meal in my sleep. It's one of her absolute favorites! But I wouldn't mind chatting with you while I work."

Curtis walks into the kitchen, the scents of the herbs overpowered by the ones coming from the stove, throwing him off for a second. He shakes his head to clear his senses and try to figure out how to ask what he needed to without actually asking.

“Fun fact,” Jake interrupted Curtis’s thoughts, “you’re only the second, maybe third Alpha I’ve ever really interacted with.”

“Yeah?” Curtis tilted his head. “I’d think you’d have met at least a few around the tower. I’ve only had one “tour” and saw another Alpha. You’ve lived here for years.”

“Yeah, you “saw” an Alpha, you didn’t interact with him, did you?”

“I guess there is a difference.”

“A lot of Alphas around here, if they’re allowed out and about, aren’t generally in a talkative mood. Worst case scenario, for Betas in their path, they’re looking for some kind of outlet for their pain and frustration. That’s why you saw Frank Castle in the gym; you have no idea how many times that punching bag has been replaced.”

“I can see why you’d keep your head down, then. So what other Alphas have you interacted with?”

“Constance, Y/N’s mother,” Jake replies softly. “She was…something. She definitely took the protection aspect of being an Alpha incredibly seriously. You know there was talk of getting rid of Y/N?”

Curtis nods, “I remember her telling me, in our first meeting, that they thought her brain was weird and considered getting rid of her, whatever that means.”

“Her tests frequently came back outside of the AI’s parameters for a “successful” Omega. But Constance wasn’t about to let anyone harm her pup. She negotiated a timetable for showing her daughter could still be useful to the AI. Not wanting to waste a valuable resource like an Omega, the AI agreed. That’s when I got drafted. Most Betas are brought in to be like old fashioned whipping boys. Other than when an Omega lies, Betas are the ones that get hurt for their mistakes. You’ve seen with Colin and Suzanne how well that usually goes.”

Curtis huffed in agreement and Jake continued, “but with Constance and Y/N, that wasn’t my fate. I actually got to live up to the title of Emotional Support Beta. All three of us would dig into the research and try all the calming techniques to figure out what could help Y/N stay an asset so she could stay alive. As a…group, we learned how to make Y/N’s sensitivities an asset. Constance was an amazing Alpha who left an understandably strong impression on her daughter and myself. I will be holding you to the standard she set.”

“I promise to do my best,” Curtis nodded. "I'm kinda surprised you're allowed to tell me all of this."

Jake nodded, "it's a simple matter of logic and reason. The better informed and prepared you are, the higher the chances of a...success, let's call it. There's a ton I still can't tell you due to security concerns, of course, but that's a discussion for another day."

“I didn’t realize how much work went into being the caretaker for an Omega.”

Jake stopped what he was doing and stared at the Alpha, “I genuinely hope you’re not treating this like a job. Like being with her is going to be nothing but a chore for you. She likes you. More importantly, she trusts you. And the one good trait she got from her father is that she does not trust lightly.”

Curtis raised his hands a bit to placate the Beta, “it came out harsher than I intended. I’ve seen for myself that she’s incredibly capable and intelligent. Hell, I find myself trusting her as well and that also doesn’t happen often.” Jake nodded and turned back to the food.

“So, what is this favorite food of hers,” Curtis asked, attempting to lighten the conversation.

Jake smiled, “it’s 5-cheese mac-n-cheese. I’ve told her the recipe but she swears it only tastes right when I cook it. Much like her death-by-chocolate cake. I’ve tried making it but it’s not as good as when she does.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had more than one kind of cheese,” Curtis responded. “And death-by-chocolate cake? It all sounds really rich.”

“They’ve kinda become our special occasion food,” Jake nods. “Because it’s usually just the two of us, it’s just a lot. Sometimes we share with another Omega, Peggy.” Curtis’s ears perk up at the familiar name while Jake continues, “Y/N likes her well enough because she treats her Beta pretty well. Not a lot of us Betas are willing to stand up for or defend our Omegas, but he’s stood up to Alphas and Omegas for her so that’s incredibly telling.”

Curtis smiled at the thought of Stevie standing up for someone with more power than him. He really did never like bullies. Curtis took comfort in the information that his brother’s Omega wasn’t cruel to him. That, maybe, he actually had some happiness. 

Before the conversation could continue the door opened and Y/N walked in, tears falling down her face. Without thinking Curtis rushed over and hugged her, asking what happened. When she started sobbing, Curtis's inner Alpha started purring in an attempt to calm her while gently petting her hair. Jake watched from the kitchen, a small smile forming on his face as her sobbing quieted. 

Jake set the table and served up the food while Curtis kept comforting Y/N. He tried to be as quiet as he could so as not to interrupt the sweet scene. Jake could tell she’d had a rough day at work and liked that Curtis’s instinct was exactly what she needed. 

When Y/N stopped crying she looked at Curtis and jumped back, “Oh, I”m so-”

“Please, don’t apologize,” Curtis interrupted. His dark blue eyes were filled with concern as he took her hand and asked, “what happened?”

Y/N sniffed a bit, “just a really, really rough day. It was a couple. A mated couple.” She stopped when Jake coughed. “Oh,” she shook her head, “that’s right. I can’t. I’m not allowed to tell you much. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Curtis soothed. “Let’s just sit and enjoy this delicious smelling meal Jake cooked, okay?”

She nodded and let Curtis lead her to the table where Jake was already seated, wearing a big grin on his face.

"And Jake has yet to break my Tetris high score," Y/N smiled proudly.

"I never should have taught you how to play," Jake chuckled. "Then I'd still be champion!"

Curtis chuckled at the duo. Their interactions reminded him so much of the pups. It was interesting to see that, despite the AI’s efforts to diminish the role of Packs, the dynamics were still inherent in people.

Their talk was interrupted when Y/N chirped. She was so surprised that she slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and she dropped her face in embarrassment. Curtis’s inner Alpha practically growled with pride at the sign his Omega was happy. 

Not my Omega, he reminded himself. Gotta keep that under control.

Meanwhile Jake was almost cheering, “you haven’t chirped in years! This is amazing!” 

Curtis touched a hand to her chin to gently lift her face towards him, “Sweetie, it’s okay. That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Sweetie?”

“Um, yeah,” Curtis suddenly felt bashful. “Because you bake sweets and make tea. If it’s too forward I can take it back.”

“I love it,” Y/N smiles at him. “It’s nice to have a nickname that’s not meant to hurt me. Thank you so much.”

Jake coughed, “not to break up what is possibly the sweetest moment I’ve ever seen but if you’re giving her such a nickname, does that mean…” Jake gave Curtis a meaningful look, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” Curtis nodded. “If I have to sign something or get a physical or whatever, but I…I consent to being your Alpha.”

“Can I hug you,” she stood and held her arms open. Curtis stood and accepted her hug. She put her nose right at his mating gland. She immediately picked up his loyalty, his trust in her and even a bit of genuine care for her. But she also smelled his uncertainty, his conflicted feelings, his love for his Pack and that hint of curry and warm beer. 

As she let him go and stepped back she looked at him, “you don’t actually want this, do you?” The pain on her face was clear. “You would be fine going back to how things were before our first meeting, even the malnutrition, if it meant you could stay with your Pack. You don’t want to be my Alpha, do you?”

“I…” Curtis stops himself, caught off guard by her insight. “I won’t deny that my Pack is my priority. That the promise of a better life for them is the primary drive to continuing to be with you.” He stepped towards her, his eyes focused on hers, the sincerity in his words practically making them glow with intensity. “But in less than one month you’ve earned my trust. A feat no one else can match. And with that trust, I find myself liking you, finding comfort in your presence, genuinely enjoying getting to know you. It might not be the stuff of True Mates, but I hope you’ll agree it’s a damn good start, Sweetie.”

Y/N’s inner Omega took over a second and she wrapped her arms around Curtis’s neck, kissing him deeply, passionately. Curtis responded in kind and they’re lost in each other’s hold for several seconds. As she broke the kiss, Curtis looked at her and whispered, “don’t apologize.” She giggled shyly, “thank you. And you’re right. Mutual trust is a very good start.”

It took them a few more moments to register the fact that Jake has been taking photos. Y/N’s eyes went wide, “Jake! What are you doing!”

“Capturing one of the sweetest moments I’ve ever been privileged to witness! These are going right into the permanent photo album!”

Curtis chuckled and brought Y/N back close to him. “Let him have his fun. I get the feeling the next week or so is going to be very busy for all of us.” He gave her a light kiss. “I’m going to be relying on the two of you because I have no idea how the process goes. And I’m going to need to be a quick study for your upcoming heat.”

“While also making sure the transition is as easy on your Pack as it can be,” Y/N nodded. She knew it would be important to Curtis and wanted to be supportive. “I’m not sure what my workload will be like. You may have to rely more on Jake for things, but I’ll help out as much as I can, I promise.”

“I’m already starting on the forms to fill out,” Jake interjected, working on his tablet. “I should have this stuff finished in no time, just need some information from you, Curtis.”

“Yeah, so long as I can get home to my Pack tonight, let them know what’s going on.”

The rest of the night, Curtis didn’t let go of her hand until he had to leave for home. Making sure to kiss her goodnight.

Late into the night Hobie receives the two signals he’s been looking for. The plan is on track.

--Part 9--

Tagging @every-username-is-taken-damnit, per request.