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reignpage · 5 months ago

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Vice President!Sukuna

Hanssen: disasters all around

Word count: 5.4k Contents: cursing, violence, alcohol use, general dumbassery at parties, references to sexual assault/harassment, bts of Gojo's '4Justice' party, misuse of ChoCHo

“Why am I here?”

Sukuna inhales deeply, leaning against the dirty brick wall, one foot propped behind him, scuffing his trainers. Between his fingers, he holds a lit cigarette, dangling precariously as he bore a half-smirk, barely there, eyes smouldering when he meets the confused gaze of his cousin.

He scoffs. “Because you owe me a favour.”

The younger man grumbles a complaint but remains squatting on the floor, legs tired from standing for so long. Having been creeping around the side of some frat house for half an hour now, he’s grown restless. Refusing to explain further, Sukuna huffs silently at the pout his accomplice is sporting.

Suddenly, a click jolts the artist awake, eyes darting to the mastermind, who’s tense and jerking his head to signal it’s time to go. Unfolding himself, Choso mimics Sukuna’s position, directly behind a huge hedge, away from street view.

A silhouette steps out from a widening door, yawning loudly as it stretched.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” it yelped, burping loudly before walking away to get into its shitty car.

Sukuna watches the car splutter away, disappearing beyond the curve of the road, and makes his move. He rounds the hedge and climbs up the stairs to feel for the door handle.

Unlocked.

“Dumbass Theta Chis,” he mutters. They never lock their damn doors.

The night is still and both cousins’ shallow but even breaths are the only things that can be heard as they slink inside the house.

Aware that he could have simply paid off one of his family’s goons, Sukuna feels absolutely no regret when, as he switches the light on, he bumps into a vase. It shatters on the ground. Choso winces, feeling bad for said vase, but nonetheless walks in, hiking a duffel bag up; who is he to feel guilty about the destruction of property?

Empty as expected, they eye the place. Sukuna scowls in disgust over the pigsty they’ve walked into; empty beer bottles lay scattered all over the floor, chairs and tables askew, streamers limp over almost every surface, and yeah, in the corner that’s undeniably used condom. The soles of their shoes stick to the floor and neither of them want to make guesses on why that’s so.

Still, they look over at the one unsoiled spot in, likely, the entire house, standing side by side. Sukuna has a smirk, eyes glinting. His cousin on the other hand is wincing again, catching a glimpse of that deranged expression on the ringleader.

How did he let himself get caught up in his theatrics, again?

There, above the grand staircase —not quite as grand Alpha Phi Delta’s, well, most certainly not as grand — hangs an obnoxiously large portrait of the founding fathers of the fraternity.

It’s Theta Chi’s Holy Grail.

But tonight, it’s the cousins’ personal playground.

With a heavy sigh, the sleepy sidekick drops the duffel bag on the floor, the rattling of metal all too familiar to him, and he gets to work. As much as he loves art and creating art, being used by his stupid cousin who sports seniority by less than a year never feels great.

“Don’t rush, Choso,” an excited snarl pierces him, and he dares not look back, already exhausted of his antics, “I want this to be just perfect.”

………………………

At the centre of campus, the night is not so quiet.

Lights are beaming and flashing, blinding the moon itself. There’s a deep thumping rocking the ground and it vibrates through every pole, every cup and every person. The Quad is packed full of people from all years and all practices, with a solid chunk consisting of students from other universities, friends of friends. Anyone who is anyone is here tonight, but who they are doesn’t matter. Everyone moulds into heap of gyrating bodies, swaying and jumping to the beat.

Huge speakers line the perimeter, and drink stations have been practically robbed. Everyone has one thing on their minds tonight and that’s to get totally wasted.

Just a hair’s breadth away from the first blade of glass, there you stand. You’re breathing out, itching at a spot on your wrist subconsciously and it’s turning the skin there red.

Your thoughts are racing. You shouldn’t be here; you’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and it’s against the rules and the police could come and so many things could go wrong.,

But when was the last time you went to a party?

Not a charity event or an end of the academic year staff party, but a real party, drank cheap but strong alcohol, and danced to music with no lyrics.

When was the last you had even danced?

You scratch harder.

Most people are passing by you like you’re invisible, but one or two people would smile or wave, in a rush to get into the throngs of thoughtless pleasure. Maybe this was a bad idea — it’s unlikely you’d even enjoy this. You’ve always been a homebody, after all.

A flash of black catches your eye. A figure blanketed in woven darkness is standing around, clearly anxious about the noise, the mess, the consequences. She picks up a random red cup lying on the floor and throws it into a bin.

Is that the Treasurer?

Just as you’re about to take a step towards the girl, a voice reaches you, somehow clear despite the deafening noise of inscrutable music. You whip around and almost stumble at the sight of a person you’ve been trying not to think about the entire night.

He’s in a plain white shirt, jeans hanging low on his hips, flashing a Calvin Klein band, and hooked over his fingers is his varsity jacket strung over his shoulder. Head cocked to the side as he gives you a once over, whistling at the sight of your bare legs.

You suddenly feel cold in your skirt.

“Hey, prez,” he drawls, “been waiting for me?”

Your eye twitches. Then you turn away, facing the writhing mass of bodies surging with energy, fuelled by mixed concoctions and techno beats. You feel even more afraid.

This is definitely not your crowd.

“How was the press conference and everything else?” You don’t even know what you’re saying, just feeling a need to distract yourself with conversation. It’s easy to talk to Sukuna when you’re not looking at him. It hurts to look at him. Somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a desire to wear that jacket he’s carrying. But you don’t want to ask.

He steps beside you, eyeing the crowd just as you are.

“Nothing special.”

You nod.

Sukuna throws you a side-glance, sensing your nerves, and he thinks it’s hilarious. There’s a chuckle rising from his chest, but he has enough tact to smother it. So, he settles for giving you an elbow nudge, rolling his eyes when you glares at him.

“You gonna stand there all night or you gonna do what you came here for?”

“I’m going home.”

He laughs.

He couldn’t help himself.

The sight of you stomping away is too damn comical to resist the urge to wrap his arm around your waist. Pulling you close, he presses you tight against his chest, and whispers right in your ear, “Don’t leave before I get to see this other side of you, prez.”

You try to wriggle yourself out of it, but he only tightens his hold. Too anxious to fight, shaking like a leaf, you accept it. That’s the reason you feel most satisfied with to justify clutching his forearm, unable to wrap around the thickness of it, and remaining in that position. Sukuna’s so warm, it’s as if winter’s never going to come.

“I’m pretty sure all the alcohol’s gone by now,” you mumble.

There are a few people staring and whispering at the both of you, but he pays no attention to the gossipers. Blinking, you realise you’re swaying. Or rather, he’s swaying you to an imperceptible music, a song only he hears. It’s slow, not at all like the rapid fire of beats that everyone else is feeling running through their bloodstream.

“I’ve got a hidden stash,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry, prez. You’re gonna have fun tonight, one way or another.”

The way he says that sounds like a threat, like he knows something you don’t, and that clears your head. You push off him and snatch his jacket in one go, like it’s yours and he had stolen it from you.

Sukuna doesn’t flinch, simply pockets one hand into his jean pocket, and runs the other through his hair. It looks slightly damp, and you have to gulp to push away the thoughts of him in the shower. His bicep flexes at the movement, shirt rising to reveal a flash of skin, and a trail of hair disappearing into his boxers.

That shouldn’t make your mouth water.

With a slight shake of your head, you adorn the jacket, feeling the material slide against your skin, still warm, absolutely burying you in the fabric. Why is it so big?

“Alright, follow me.”

He’s sauntering off, long legs taking him so far in a blink of an eye. You stumble after him, meandering along the other people jumping and hooting like they have no worries whatsoever.

Sukuna’s taken you to the Life Sciences building, a little further away from the heart of the party, but still feeling the weaker waves with the random people making out against walls, or girls crying into each other’s arm. In a lab room, he opens a locked cabinet with a key hidden under a textbook. Stocked are two bottles of vodka.

You don’t ask why it’s there or how many other stashes he has, though you know you really ought to so you can confiscate them. He places the bottles on the work bench devoid of beakers or test tubes, and without warning, grabs you, the unsuspecting victim, by the waist and lifts you up onto the surface.

Yelping, you smack his shoulder. He ignores that and just lifts himself up to sit beside you. So then, there you sit, legs pressed against each other, sharing a bottle of vodka. The liquid burns your throat, and you hate the smell of nail varnish. It’s like an estranged lover, familiar but it doesn’t know your name. The instant warmth it courses through your body is very much welcomed, however.

Minutes pass in relative silence, you both check your phones here and there and pass the bottle to each other. You try not to think about the fact that you're technically sharing an indirect kiss. That's childish.

“You know,” you begin, “I’m surprised you’re a party person.”

He lifts a brow at that.

It’s quiet here. Sure, you can still hear the distant rumbling of disco and craziness, but where you are, the loudest noise is the dull thrum of the radiators. And your heartbeat, but you hope he can’t hear that. You need him not to hear it.

You continue, “It’s just, I’m pretty sure you don’t like people.”

“Oh, yeah?” He fires back immediately. “You know me so well, prez?”

Shrugging, you take the bottle from him and gulp, “I know you better than you think.”

You’re aware of how vague and ominous that sounds but the alcohol’s making it really easy to not care. If karmic law exists, then you’d be allowed this —these little jabs at his true form whenever you can. You’ve earned it. You know that, so then why does every word leave a bitter taste in your mouth?

Sukuna rubs a hand across his jaw, tasting your words and mulling it over. The lab room is lit up only by one light, just hanging a couple metres away from you. It’s enough to see the flush climbing up your neck.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

You laugh at his petulant tone. It reminds you of the frustration babies face when a square brick doesn’t fit through the triangle hole, try as they may to force it through. Opening your mouth, you’re about to make a retort, but then suddenly, shouting breaks out in the hallway, and you flinch, hand flying to grab his bicep.

Bare skin touching bare skin, it’s a feeling of utter scandal, and like you’ve been burned, you let go just as soon as you grabbed on.

“Relax,” he stares at his phone screen, “just some frat guys fighting.”

Frowning, you ask, “What about?”

The smirk Sukuna has makes your heart clench.

Rolling his piercing between his teeth, he considers his words carefully before deciding on, “Someone’s defaced the portrait in Theta Chi.”

You gasp. “No way. One of the alums on the board went to Theta Chi. They’ll be so upset.” The paperwork will be crazy, is the only thought passing through your mind. There’s a sudden lightness to your head and it pushes a giggle out.

“Weren’t the people who egged my window from Theta Chi?”

Sukuna takes a swig of the vodka, regretting, for a moment, his failure to stash something stronger. Ignoring your question, he jumps down suddenly. You don’t want to wait for him extend a hand out, or worse, grab you anyways. So, you jump as well. With much less grace.

Stumbling, you fall into him, right in his chest, buried between hard muscles. He smells nice. Clean. He really did just take a shower before coming. And once again, you’re picturing him soaked and naked and steaming and —

That’s enough.

You aren’t drunk enough to indulge in thoughts like that.

“Trying to cop a feel, prez?” His voice is gruff despite the amusement lacing his words. “You should know I charge extra for that, although I’m willing to give you a discount.”

Pulling away, you flash him a finger, and he only smirks.

“Seriously, what happened to Theta Chi?” You frowned. “I need to know how pissed the alums will be.”

He glances down at you, a dry expression on his face. “Someone painted some shit about their hazing process. That’s what Gojo’s saying in the group chat, anyways.”

Humming, you wracked your brain for every detail you can recall about the fraternity.

“The previous president mentioned that in passing to me last year, when I was shadowing him. Something about this long tradition of stripping the freshers naked and making them run into the woods? But I thought that was just a rumour.”

The man shrugged, already bored of the conversation.

You glare at him.

“This doesn’t have something to do with our conversation, does it?” It can’t be. “When you said you’d send a message.”

Surely, your vice president would have enough sense to know that a ‘message’ is just a stern talking to, and definitely not whatever the hell is going on. It would be catastrophic if this is linked back to him, and you.

Sukuna’s already walking towards the door, more interested in the commotion than the way your brain is firing at a thousand miles per second, even whilst the vodka begins to fuzz up your clarity.

“Dunno why your first thought is me and not the extremely outspoken vandal we’ve got in our midst, prez.”

That makes sense, and it calms you a little, even if it’ll still be a headache to deal with. But you can’t shake off the feeling that, somehow, he knows more than he’s letting on.

Following Sukuna, you both peek at the hallway where a crowd is forming. There are a bunch of guys wrestling each other onto the ground with uncoordinated swings and kicks. People are egging them on and recording, dodging the violence when it gets too close.

And yeah, you’re so very sure the paperwork’s going to be insane. Especially as two members of the student council will be seen in the background of the dozens of videos being taken. The headache is already developing.

“You fucking dick! Admit you broke in and destroyed our fucking picture!” A guy in a tank top despite the chilly weather yells and you recognise him as a fellow law student. Travis or something. He’s always been nice, quiet, but seeing him now as he trips over his own feet, backwards hat flying off, you realise, maybe he was just too hungover to participate in class.

“I didn’t do shit!”

Another guy throws a punch, missing its target but succeeding in pushing his victim over, but the act also drags him down. Both fall together.

“You’re a fucking liar! You drew over my great-great grandfather’s face with Pac-man!”

Someone from the crowd hollers, “Who the fuck doesn’t love Pac-man?”

“You fucking strip the freshies, you freak, a Pac-man on your ugly grandad is the least you deserve, asshole!” Someone else from the crowd screams.

And they’re collapsing back down, people try to pull them off each other but only end up getting dragged in. It’s one huge uncoordinated Jenga tower crashing down. Sukuna tilts his head, mildly interested. They’re all too drunk to throw a proper swing, one that could do real damage, but if even just one person could slip and crack their head on the floor, that would be enough.

A member of the crowd gets knocked over in the kerfuffle, distracted by something on their phone and skids along the floor with a pig-like squeal. Acting on reflex, you jolt towards the stranger, arms reaching out to pick them back up, but Sukuna grabs the back collar of his varsity jacket, the way one holds a puppy by its scruff.

You’re dragged away, to the other direction, away from the mess of drunkards, too consumed by the alcohol to realise that this is going to hurt in the morning.

“You’re just any other college student,” he scolds once you’re in the clear, “you’re not the president of the student council tonight.”

A pout drags your bottom lip down and you clutch his arm to your chest, it takes Sukuna by surprise, suspicion painted all over his face like you’re strapping a bomb around him.

“But Sukuna,” you peer up at him, “you call me prez.”

He scoffs, a disbelieving amusement wracking his body. You’re trying to kill him. That must be it. There’s no way you’re this much of a lightweight, so much so that you’d quickly abandon your integrity, and go as far as to say his name like ’S’kuna’.

Your eyes have glazed over and there’s an inelegance to your movements, little clumsy jerks and goddamn it if it doesn’t make Sukuna’s chest do that weird thing it always did when he looks at you.

How repulsive.

There’s a part of him that hopes you’ll remember the utterly embarrassing position you’ve placed yourself in, but he also doesn’t want to deal with the avoiding eye-contact and ignoring him thing you do. It’s irritating as hell.

“You’re fucking dangerous when you’re drunk, Jesus,” he snorted.

That makes you giggle. You’ve still got his arm trapped, blanketing it with his own jacket, and it’s warm, warmer than the alcohol your body’s desperately trying to digest, the foreign liquid an enemy.

“Fucking finally!” Someone yells.

It’s Gojo.

He’s marching towards the both of you, hands flailing in anger.

Sukuna rolls his eyes before he pushes you slightly behind him. “What climbed up your ass?”

“Your Treasurer, that’s who!”

And with theatrical movements he reenacts the complaints he’s been hearing, about how she’s preaching safe sex to couples making out in the hallway, shouting at people to pick up their litter, and sending him a finger from down at the Quad to where he stood on a balcony.

The last part seems to upset him more than anything else.

“Why did you bring the freaking fun police?” He directs the question at you. He always assumes you’re the root of all his problems, and well, you won’t deny that. “She’s gonna ruin my rep as the best party-thrower!”

Gojo’s a huge pain in the ass and to see him so frazzled over a different member of the council makes you pleased. You jab a finger at his chest, giggling as you mocked, “Someone needs to arrest you for being so stupid.”

When you hiccup, Gojo looks at you, horrified. His eyes dart comically between you and Sukuna like you’re pranking him, like he’s missing a big joke, instead of making it, for once. Seeing Sukuna only raise a brow in challenge, he groans, rubbing a palm down his face.

“You guys are killing me, I swear!”

And then he stomps away.

You giggle again, his lanky body looks so funny speed walking. You take the bottle from Sukuna and gulp clumsily. Some of the liquid dribbles down your chin, and you don’t care. This is the freest you’ve felt in months, hell, maybe even years. It’s as if chains have been loosened and you can stretch your limbs.

Taking the bottle away from you, he tilts his head back slightly to take a gulp too, except he doesn’t look away whilst he does it. Not a single drop goes to waste, not even as he brushes a thumb over your chin and swipes it over his own lips.

The skin where he touched sizzle.

You clear your throat, “Should we tell her it’s okay?”

Sukuna shakes his head with a devilish smirk and retorts, “You’re not the prez tonight, remember? Let the idiots fix themselves up.”

Slapping his chest and then settling on groping his pec, you slur out, “I’m never not the ‘prez’, idiot.”

“You’re just y/n, tonight,” he insists, encasing your wrist with one large hand, and stilling your movement so you can’t squeeze like a creepy uncle. “Be selfish for once, yeah?”

“Like you?”

Your head is tilted in curiosity, lashes fluttering and he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about. He won’t deny his habit of putting himself first, and he certainly won’t apologise for it, but the way you put the question to him brings a flash to his head.

Strobe lights, warm bodies and lies.

Sukuna reels back like he’s been slapped.

He gets not a single second to process anything before there’s whooping. People grin at you two, punching the air in an expression of solidarity, chanting ‘fuck Mahito!’ at the top of their lungs. It’s fun to see everyone so friendly when most days people stroll by without so much as even a glance your way.

A guy comes up to you both, in a blue sweater and cargo shorts, doing that weird handshake men do with Sukuna and you sort of want to join. He greets you with one of those half-nods and takes a sweep of your body, a grin on his face.

“Want something?” Sukuna pushes out through gritted teeth.

The guy shakes his head as if to clear his mind before he’s smiling like a little boy again. “Just wanted to talk about our next game. Heard the team’s good but I think their defence is a little weak.”

Hearing the basketball talk, you grow disinterested.

Which Sukuna doesn’t sense until it’s too late. Because your question threw him off and he’s slacked. For perhaps the first time in his life.

So, when he glances down beside him and finds you gone, he’s cursing the heavens and leaving his teammate mid-conversation. He searches for you everywhere, trying to find an oversized purple jacket hanging off your frame, even popping into the girls’ bathrooms, ignoring the crying girls there.

“Flighty fucking woman,” he growled.

There’re still too many things he had planned for your one-night truce, too many things he wants to pull out of you whilst you’re honest. And with you, the surprising lightweight that you are, being drunk off your head, alone, the thought of all the ways things could go wrong is making a muscle tick in his jaw.

He sees Choso, leaning against a bike shed, looking up at a mural with a cigarette between two fingers. It’s half washed off; the scaffolding abandoned for the night. Sukuna couldn’t care less for the sentimental mood his cousin’s in.

“Why do you look mad again?”

Sukuna ignores that, “Seen the prez?”

The younger man tastes the word in his mouth. “The prez? The president of the council?”

Okay, apparently all the usefulness he’s capable of has been maxed out this evening. Without a parting word, Sukuna continues his search. He’s practically running. People are trying to catch his attention. Guys who’ve fallen under the delusion that they’re friends for reasons that elude the pink haired man, and girls who mostly likely wanted to put the rumours of his skills in bed to the test.

He ignores all of them, popping his head into every classroom, growing more and more agitated, and he swears, once he finds you, he’ll tie you up and lock you in a closet so you can’t run off, can’t make his heart clench and his palms sweat.

Eventually, he ends up back at the Quad, there’s too many idiots crowded in one place to see, and he’s certainly not going to attempt to sift through them all. He sees Gojo on a balcony, standing beside two figures, sunglasses pushed up over his head, grinning so brightly, even from where Sukuna’s standing, he can see all his teeth. He’s leaning over the railings, eyes fixed on something at the side. Just as Sukuna makes a step towards his direction, deciding that getting a higher vantage point would be the best strategy, a flash of purple catches his attention.

He found you.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already climbed a table, shoes next to some red solo cups, drawing many people’s attention. No one expected to see the president here, and certainly not with a varsity jacket on. Perhaps, people are worried you’re about to lecture them, to warn them about the rules and trespassing and whatever else.

Resting against a pillar, he sighs and rubs his jaw.

Apparently, drunk you loves attention. Well, he shouldn’t be surprised; you’re a great orator and it just comes naturally to you, even if you are a bundle of nerves sometimes. He decides to stay there, watching your passionate speech, arms raised like you feel the zeal course through you. The music has quietened, the, no doubt ridiculously expensive, DJ a certain frat president hired lowering the volume.

Everyone’s watching you, halting their grinding and jumping to hear you out. You introduce yourself -not that you needed one to begin - and talk about the challenging couple months, the way students turned on each other and staff showed their bias. You saw the girls, other victims, forced to cower, forced to feel dirty, and doubt themselves.

But you also witnessed the love, the support, the community. The sisterhood that carried you all to this point where the truth has made itself clear, justice prevailing because they cannot deny the bravery you’ve all showed.

There are a few people wiping tears from their eyes, guys occasionally shouting in agreement. Despite most people coming just for a good time, it seems like there really was a need for catharsis. Recent events haven’t just taken a toll on you and the girls and the lawyers, but also on the other women on campus.

Sukuna rolls his eyes.

Drunk you is the female reincarnate of Mark Antony, go figure.

Half obscured by shadows and half lit by flashing lights, he stands there, eyes never leaving your figure, jolting every time you stumble on the table, but as infuriating as it is, you’re surrounded by a bunch of guys, ready to catch you.

He’s developed a disliking of parties over the years, hating the bumbling ineptitude of drunk people, and all the drama that comes bursting from the seams of repressed idiots. Still, he attends most of them, never taking part in the chaos but often just watching.

Sukuna hates parties but this one isn’t too bad, he decides.

A notification goes off on his phone and he sees his roommate’s message — a video and a text following it.

the girl of your wet dreams is really getting the waterworks going huh?

Once again, Sukuna rolls his eyes, saving the video and ignoring Toji.

God, he hopes when he brings you back to your dorm room that you won’t throw up all over him. He can deal with carrying your dead weight back to the Northside Halls, and the no-doubt moody and grumpy you that’ll show up the next morning, dragged down by a killer hangover, and even the insults you’ll no doubt hurl his way when you accuse him of enabling you for his own entertainment.

But if you throw up on him, he’ll lose his mind.

You reach a dramatic end, thrusting your fist into the air and people follow suit, just as drunk, if not more so, and easily influenced. They clap, roaring and whooping. The music comes back on and the dancing returns, invigorated by the shift in energy.

Clambering down, feeling satisfied, you’re being shaken by the overly supportive drunk friends you’ve made within the span of the five minutes until Sukuna found you. They slap you on the back, congratulating you and saying other things that aren’t really registering in your mind.

Escaping to a quieter part of the Quad, you skip along, to nowhere in particular, and fall face first into a hard wall. It hurts and you clutch your forehead, cheeks puffed out as you furrow your brows.

Glancing up, you’re met with a stormy gaze, it’s smouldering something unyielding and threatening. But, as you squint through the haze of insobriety, you see the gentle tracing of his eyes over your frame, and then as if he saw what he wanted to see, it hardened to something much more akin to a feasting.

You’re drunker than you feel.

“You left,” his tone is calm but there’s an undercurrent of heat there. It’s accusing and scathing, and it teases at your spine.

With a shrug, you reply, “You were boring me.”

You’re a little sweaty, the running away and the standing beneath so many lights had you feeling like you’ve just done a triathlon. And when he swipes a hair off your forehead, you can only splutter in complaint when he smears your own sweat onto your cheek.

“It’s bedtime, prezzy, come on.”

His voice is uncharacteristically soft, a quiet whisper against your head as he clutches you to his chest just as your knees cave in. Your vision is spotty, and your lips are dry.

In a blur, you find yourself in your bed.

When did you get here?

How did you get here?

You’re too tired to tell, eyes drifting close.

Your desk lamp is on, lighting your room enough for you to see the silhouette of a man running his hand along your table, eyeing the piles of papers scattered there. He flips a page over, studying your handwriting and the sticky notes with random faces, some frowning and some with Xs for eyes.

“S’kuna?”

His stare snaps towards yours and it steals your breath away.

“Go back to sleep,” his voice is soft. And even whilst weighed down by the alcohol, you’re aware of how tiny your room is with him in here. It feels wrong to have Sukuna pacing the length, studying the pictures on the wall and the neatly piled laundry waiting to be put away.

You have no idea what he’s thinking, and it scares you. Groggy and still not fully conscious, you croak, “Did you bring me back?”

“No, we teleported,” he fires back, without missing a beat. “Yeah, I brought you back. I didn’t touch you or anything, so just relax.”

“I didn’t think you did,” you admit, the sentence muffled by your comforter.

Sukuna leans against a wall by your door, calculating if everything’s as it should be, and you finally notice he’s just in his white shirt, no jacket in sight.

“Wait,” he cocks his head in question, “it’s cold out. Wear your jacket.”

He laughs, it’s low, just a couple huffs really, but it’s a laugh, nonetheless. It feels like one of those rare victories. “Nah, keep the jacket. You like damn thing more than I do.”

“No. Wear the jacket,” you point to the chair it’s draped over; your arm is heavy and you’re drifting off again.

He narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t see that, breath evening out. “Always so stubborn,” he says this more to himself, walking over to your chair and snatching it with more force than necessary. “I’ll take it, on loan.”

You don’t reply.

But when he stands over you, knuckles brushing a stray hair off your cheek again, you hear him from behind the haze of sleep and exhaustion say, “You always get what you want, don’t you, prez?”

And then he’s leaving, shutting the door much quieter than you ever have. You swear as you take one last inhale, you can still smell his fresh soap and feel the scalding burn of his touch.

Both of you know you’ll barely remember any of this, if anything at all. Despite that, you find yourself hoping that you, at least, remember the feeling of being free and unburdened, even just for one night. You also hope he’ll remember what life could be like if you two got along, so perhaps he’ll ease off a little.

Just as you enter a dream state, you sluggishly respond to something that seems so far away now, the words escaping you like one last exhale before you’re dead to the world.

“I never do.”

#jjk x reader #jjk sukuna ryomen #jjk fluff #jjk crack #jjk angst #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst

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wordsofwhimsy · 15 days ago

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓪𝔂 𝓘 𝓢𝓮𝓮 𝓨𝓸𝓾

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Blind!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, public declaration with a side of soft angst

Word Count: 560

Synopsis: Mark has something to tell you – and he decides to make a show of it.

a/n: the most important person in my life is completely blind. this is dedicated to her – she deserves for the world to see her the way i do

You could tell something was up the moment your phone buzzed with a message from Mark that just said:

“Come to the quad. Wear something cute. Trust me.”

That last part—trust me—was what got you.

You held your cane loosely, walking at a steady pace, heels clicking against the pavement. People were… murmuring. You heard your name once. Then twice. Were people whispering about you?

Your stomach tightened. You hated being stared at—being the one people noticed because you were different. Mark knew that. You trusted him. But right now?

You weren’t sure what you were walking into.

And then he was there. You could hear his breathing before you heard his voice.

“Okay—don’t freak out,” Mark said in a rush, excitement bubbling out of him. “But I did a thing. Kind of a huge thing.”

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. “Should I sit down for this?”

He grabbed your hands gently. “Nope. You’re standing right where I want you.”

And then… music.

It started from speakers set up around the quad—cheesy, golden-hour love song music. Then someone in the crowd (was that Amber?) shouted, “Mark, go!!”

“Okay, okay!” he laughed, then turned back to you.

“I know you hate attention. And you’re way more private than me. But I wanted to do something big. Not to embarrass you—but because… you make me brave, and I want everyone to see that.”

You blinked. “Mark, what did you—?”

“I asked the AV club to help me set up a flashmob,” he said all in one breath. “But they were like, ‘no, that’s weird,’ so I just asked everyone we know to show up while I told you how much I love you.”

Your jaw dropped.

“I love you,” he said again, more serious now. “I love the way you hold the world together even when you can’t see it. I love how you feel everything deeper than anyone else I’ve met. I love that you trust me. And I wanted people to see that it’s not me taking care of you—you take care of me.”

Silence. The kind that holds its breath.

“I used to be scared people wouldn’t take us seriously,” he admitted. “But I realized it’s not their approval I want. It’s yours. So I’m doing this here. Loudly. In front of everyone. Because I want them to know—I’m lucky to love you. I get to love you.”

You were quiet for a long moment. And then you whispered, barely audible over the speakers:

“Say it again.”

Mark stepped closer, forehead resting against yours.

“I love you.”

He kissed you like he didn’t care who was watching.

And for the first time in your life—you didn’t either.

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible show #mark grayson fanfic

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ssweeterthanfiction · 18 days ago

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Rush Crush!

college frat boy!finnick odair x sorority!reader content warnings: none! summary: you bump into your rush crush. wc: 1.2k

masterlist.

You noticed him earlier in the week.

The sun beat down on the quad, the air was thick with the buzz of voices, music blaring from portable speakers, and the laughter of girls running to their next house. You tugged your tote bag higher on your shoulder, trying to scan the maze of booths and banners for your next sorority meet-up. You could feel the edges of a headache forming, too much noise, too many people, too much pressure to be bubbly and interesting and perfect.

You were so focused on the map on your phone that you didn’t notice the football spiraling through the air toward you, or the tall, broad figure chasing after it.

Thud.

You stumbled backward, the phone slipping from your hands. Strong arms caught you before you could completely fall, steadying you with an ease that made your heart skip.

“Oh, shit- you alright, sweetheart?” The voice was low, a little rough, but wrapped in warmth and something dangerously close to laughter.

You looked up, and immediately forgot how to speak.

The boy in front of you was gorgeous in a way that didn't feel entirely fair. Tousled bronze hair, green eyes that looked like they'd been dipped in sunlight, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth as he held you by the waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I- yeah- I’m sorry-” you stammered, pulling away quickly, feeling your face heat up.

He bent to grab your phone from the grass, brushing it off before handing it back with a grin that could only be described as devastating. His eyes flickered to your name tag pinned to your dress.

He said your name out loud, like he was testing how your name tasted. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

You opened your mouth, some weak protest ready on your tongue, but he beat you to it, leaning in slightly, conspiratorial.

“Tell you what,” he murmured. “If you survive this madhouse, come find me. I owe you a drink for the collision.”

Before you could figure out if he was serious, one of his friends, another fraternity boy, shouted for him to hurry up. He shot you one last grin, backing away toward his group.

“I’m Finnick, by the way,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t forget it.”

You watched him jog off, the football already tucked under one arm, as your heart thudded unhelpfully hard in your chest.

Finnick. You said the name silently, like it was a secret.

The sorority booth you were supposed to be heading to was just up ahead, but for a moment you just stood there, slightly dazed, wondering what the hell had just happened, and why you suddenly didn’t mind Rush Week so much after all.

And now you were here.

The music hit you first when you stepped onto the frat house porch, booming bass, the laughter of people filling the air, and the unmistakable sound of red solo cups clinking. It was chaos in the best way.

You made your way through the house, trying to find your footing in the sea of people, when suddenly, you caught sight of a familiar face.

Finnick.

He was leaning casually against a wall near the drink table, his eyes scanning the room. The second his gaze landed on you, you felt a jolt in your chest. His lips curved into that easy, magnetic smile you had already started to dream about, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

You could feel your heartbeat a little faster, and before you knew it, Finnick had pushed off the wall and was making his way toward you, the crowd parting around him effortlessly. The closer he got, the more aware you became of every little detail, he way his shirt clung to his chest, the lazy confidence in his steps, the knowing glint in his eyes.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Finnick said, his voice low and warm, his smile just a little crooked. He paused in front of you, leaning against the drink table as if he hadn’t just stormed through a sea of people to get there.

You couldn’t help but feel a little breathless. “I…well, I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “But, you know, it’s the end of Rush Week, and my sisters said I should come. It’s…fun.”

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze dropping to your hands, which were nervously fidgeting with your drink. “I can see that,” he said with a teasing glint. “You look a little like you’re in the middle of trying not to disappear into the floor.”

You giggled, the sound coming out more easily than you expected. “I’m not used to parties like this,” you said, shrugging a little. “It’s a little…overwhelming.”

Finnick’s smile softened, like he understood exactly what you meant. “Well, you’ve made it this far,” he said, his voice quieter, warmer. He leaned in just slightly, just enough to make your heart race again. “I’d say you’re doing great.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at his words, but Finnick didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he was enjoying the effect he had on you. He stood up a little straighter, glancing around the party as if to see if anyone else was around.

“You know,” he said, his tone suddenly more playful, “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

You blinked, surprised. “Avoid you?”

He chuckled softly, stepping a little closer. “I’ve been seeing you around all week, and I gotta admit, I was hoping you’d come say hi.” His eyes twinkled, the mischievous glint there again. “But you were a little hard to find. Guess I’ll just have to come to you instead.”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin too widely at his boldness. “I was just, uh, trying to stay focused on Rush,” you said, your voice a little softer, a little more shy than you intended. “You know, trying to make a good impression.”

Finnick stepped a fraction closer, lowering his voice just enough so that it felt like a secret between the two of you. “You don’t need to try so hard with me,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, like he was really looking at you. “You already made a great impression.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that. There was something so disarming about the way he spoke to you, like he was genuinely interested, not just looking for a quick flirt.

Before you could respond, one of Finnick’s friends called from across the room, but Finnick didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. He glanced back over his shoulder, then back to you with that same easy, inviting smile.

“Well,” he said, stepping away just slightly, but still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. “You should stay here a little longer. I’ve got a feeling the night just got a lot more interesting.”

You smiled, your stomach fluttering. “Maybe,” you said, your voice a little quieter now, a little more sure of yourself. “We’ll see.”

Finnick’s smile lingered for a second longer before he winked and made his way toward his friends. But before he disappeared into the crowd, he turned back once more.

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

You watched him walk away, your heart still racing, trying to catch your breath.

This party, and Finnick Odair, were definitely going to be more than you had bargained for.

#isa’s thoughts #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick #hunger games finnick #thg finnick #finnick x reader #finnick fanfic #finnick odair imagine #thg finnick odair #modern finnick odair #college finnick odair #frat boy finnick odair #sam claflin x reader #sam claflin

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nizhspo · 8 days ago

Text

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff, suggestive

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: late night drive w/ a stranger

notes: i am very proud of this and i love this nigga atsumu so fucking much

may 25th – 8:38 p.m.

lsu campus, baton rouge

you didn’t plan to leave your dorm tonight.

you were supposed to watch boondocks reruns on your laptop with a sheet mask half-melted to your chin, bask in your edible glow, and fall asleep with your fan on medium.

instead, you’re digging through the bottom of your half-empty drawer, ripping through loose socks, a tangled charger, and a half-torn syllabus from february, cursing every decision you’ve made this semester.

FLO: your period may start in 2 days!

you blinked at the screen like it betrayed you.

you had three tampons left. maybe two if the box is lying.

and the vending machine in the dorm lobby? broken. and even when it worked, it only ever stocked off-brand pads that felt like diapers.

“god,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the edible has you all floaty and warm, but it’s no match for the rising dread of that first cramp creeping up when you’re unprepared.

you sit back on your bed, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, and pull open your floor groupchat.

you: anyone driving off campus tonight? i’ll buy you food

you: i just need to hit target real fast

you: please i’m desperate i will venmo you five dollars and my soul

nothing. just the “delivered” tag mocking you.

you sigh. stretch out on your mattress and stare at the ceiling fan. the air is thick. sticky. the edible is kicking in more now; your limbs feel slow, sunkissed. your mouth tastes like the cherry lollipop you popped earlier just to have something sweet.

then:

atsumu: i gotta drop smth off to my brother

atsumu: store on the way. u good w that?

you stare at his name for a second.

atsumu miya.

that boy from your psych class. two rows back. always lounging like the seat owes him something. black t-shirts. cocky grin. never takes notes but always manages to answer questions out loud like he already knew.

you’ve never actually spoken to him—maybe once, passing each other in the student union. maybe not even then.

but he knows your name. you know his.

you shoot back:

you: that’s perfect, thank uuuu i’ll meet you outside in like 5?

atsumu: bet

atsumu: i’ll be parked near the quad. black honda. lights on.

you hop up. tug on your purple and gold lsu sweats—the ones with the cracked logo at the thigh, and throw on a tank top. you debate a bra.

decide against it. too hot. too much effort. and it’s just a ride.

you grab your phone, keys, and a mini wallet and step out into the hallway.

outside, the air clings to your skin like honey. thick, warm, slow.

it’s not fully dark yet, but the sky’s sliding toward purple, soft strokes of peach and navy bleeding out behind the buildings. the year’s bleeding out too, really. campus feels like a half-finished thought. windows dark. dorm doors cracked but silent. the echo of summer just beginning to stretch her arms.

you’re standing on the curb and your tank top’s sticking to your back where it meets skin, the fabric of your shirt brushing your chest every time you move. your nipples perked the second you hit the hallway air, and now they’re brushing against the fabric with every breath. every step. your arms are crossed tight.

your phone buzzes in your palm.

atsumu: you see me?

the bass from his car gives him away long before the headlights do: low and rolling, some beat-heavy loop bleeding through the speaker system. not obnoxious, just… lived in. the kind of car that’s seen late-night drives before. fast food bags in the backseat. dusty sports duffels. a hoodie curled in the passenger side footwell like someone tossed it off mid-drive.

you spot him through the windshield, one arm hooked out the driver’s side, fingers tapping against the glass, phone glowing in his lap. he’s got on a black tee, soft and worn, that clings to his chest and shoulders like a second skin. his sweatpants are gray and low-slung. thick thighs spread in the seat. blonde strands blow with the breeze.

you pull the door open and climb in, closing it behind you with a soft thunk.

and immediately—

air-conditioning hits you like a gust. cold and hard and perfect. it’s blasting full speed from the dash vents, and your skin tightens under it. a visible shiver runs down your arms, across your chest.

“seatbelt,” he says, not looking.

you buckle up.

he does glance over then, just once, and the look in his eyes lingers. not in a gross way, just… aware.

he clocked it. your shirt. the way you crossed your arms. the sudden alertness in your posture. you look back at him with a little raise of your brow, daring him to say something.

he doesn’t. just turns the music down and rests one hand on the wheel.

“you good?”

his voice is low and easy, eyes flicking to yours just briefly before returning to the road. he doesn’t sound worried, just tuned in like he’s been watching your body language the whole time. his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, thumb tapping once against the leather grip.

“yeah,” you say. “just cold.” your arms tighten a little over your chest. your tank’s thin, and the AC’s been hitting the same spot on your collarbone for the last five minutes.

you tuck your chin slightly into your shoulder, trying not to look like you’re reacting too much, but your voice still comes out a little breathier than you meant.

“mhm. i can turn it down.”

his hand is already reaching for the dial, fingers brushing the silver knob, but he doesn’t move it until you answer.

“no, it’s fine. feels good.” you glance at him as you say it, your tone soft. honest. something about the cold air feels grounding. like it’s keeping you sharp even as everything else starts to feel slow and warm and easy.

a beat. the kind that hums thick with unsaid things.

“you high?” he asks, casual.

his mouth curves just slightly, like he already knows the answer. he keeps his eyes on the road, but his posture shifts, more relaxed now. like this version of you makes sense to him.

you snort. “a little.”

the confession slips out with a grin, half-embarrassed and half not. your voice lifts on the end, playful.

his mouth twitches. “thought so. your eyes are red.” he finally looks at you again. it’s quick, but his gaze lingers just a second longer than before. not judging. not teasing. just noticing. and the way he says it? like it’s a detail he’s been sitting on since you climbed in.

you glance at the mirror. they are. not bright-red, just rimmed pink, soft around the edges. like your bones have finally exhaled.

“edible,” you say. “i earned it.”

he nods. “finals?”

“last one on tuesday. stats. i hate it.”

“but you studied.”

you shrug. “enough to pass. figured i’d celebrate a little.”

“respect.” he taps the wheel. rolls the window down two inches.

and the music’s back, some local r&b station, static under the beat, bass rumbling low. the kind of song you don’t know the name of but already like. you hum without thinking, tapping your fingers on your knee.

he turns onto a side road, past the edge of campus. the lights thin out. you smell grill smoke in the distance—maybe someone barbecuing near the dorms. maybe a food truck tucked near the rec center. it’s the kind of night where everything feels close and far at the same time. stretched. golden. soft around the edges.

“you always ride like this?” you ask.

“like what?”

“music up. windows down. driving aimless.”

“you callin’ me aimless?”

“i’m callin’ you vibey.”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at you again.

“nah. i usually ride alone. but this ain’t bad.”

you sink into the seat more. let your head rest against the window. the glass is warm from earlier sun. the car smells like pine and something sweeter. his cologne, maybe. maybe lotion. you glance at his hands on the wheel. veiny. strong. knuckles dark from sun.

“where you from?” you ask.

“hyogo,” he says, grinning. “nah, i’m playin’. nola. me and my brother samu both.”

“so you stayed close.”

“scholarship made it worth it. and i like it here. feels familiar.”

“i get that.”

a pause. the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

“you got any family out here?” he asks.

“my cousin. she’s in grad school up the road.”

“you like it here?”

“i like the food. i like the heat when it’s not suffocating.”

“but?”

“but it’s hard sometimes. feel like everyone here already knows each other, y’know?”

“yeah,” he says, after a moment. “i felt that way too, at first.”

you look at him. he looks at the road. the lines on his face are soft in the passing lights. like he’s thinking more than he’s saying.

you ride like that for a while. quiet. just the wind through the crack in the window and the occasional cough of static from the radio.

you pass target without realizing it.

he doesn’t turn in.

“wait—”

“i’mma hit samu’s first,” he says. “if that’s cool.”

you blink. “you were supposed to go after—”

“yeah, but i figured you weren’t in a rush. and i need to drop this off now before he leaves. won’t be long. five minutes max. you can stay in the car. i’ll leave the air running.”

you hesitate. you’re warm now. skin soft under the buzz.

he just nods, one hand loose on the wheel, his other fingers toying with the car’s AC dial like muscle memory.

the ride settles quiet again, not heavy, just full. full of the kind of silence that swells around two people still orbiting one another. you shift your weight slightly, arms crossed over your chest, chilly from the vent’s cold air but not asking to turn it down.

you pass gas stations and streetlights and the occasional beat-up sedan with no headlights on. the further you get from campus, the more the world softens: less concrete, more trees. more overgrown grass climbing fences. more sky above you, bruising deep with night.

you keep glancing at him in the low light.

the radio’s humming a 90s r&b loop now, a song you halfway know. his fingers drum on the wheel, a lazy rhythm, wrist flexing just enough to catch the veins on his arm. his nails are clean, cut short. the smell of him curls warm in your nose, faint cologne with a sharper edge of deodorant and skin.

not like he sprayed himself up, just like this is what he smells like after a day.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t fill space for the sake of it. just drives like he always does this. like driving late into southern dusk with a soft-eyed girl riding shotgun is routine.

“you sure your brother’s home?” you ask after a minute, eyes tracing the power lines out the window.

“yeah,” he says. “told me to bring his charger. left it in my room again.”

you smile. “he does that often?”

“every damn week.”

you laugh, then sigh, pressing your shoulder to the window.

he turns off the main road and coasts into a quiet neighborhood with narrow streets, older houses, cars parked half-up on lawns. porch lights glow dim gold. a sprinkler clicks on somewhere behind a fence.

when he finally pulls into a gravel driveway, you can hear it crunch under the tires.

“you can come in,” he says again, shifting into park. “or stay out here with the AC. i’ll leave the car on.”

you nod. “i’ll come in. i gotta pee anyway.”

his lips twitch up. “figured.”

you both climb out. the heat clings to you instantly, humid, heavy, like breath on your skin. the night smells like cut grass, faint barbecue, and the lingering burn of car rubber from someone doing too much up the street earlier.

he leads the way up the steps. knocks once, then turns the knob.

you walk in behind him, and the smell of the house hits you first. not bad, just lived in. clean floors, slightly burned incense, maybe a faint trace of jambalaya cooked earlier. you hear a tv on in another room, the sound low. footsteps.

“yo,” atsumu calls, voice deeper now.

a man appears around the corner, similar build, darker hair, towel slung around his neck like he just wiped off sweat, like he either just finished cooking or bench-pressing something in the living room.

he stops when he sees you.

dark eyes flick from you to atsumu, then back.

his expression doesn’t change much, but his eyebrow lifts. subtle. like he’s trying to figure out what exactly this is.

“this her?” he says, dry, low, like the words are exhaled more than spoken.

atsumu exhales a sharp breath, dramatic. “bro—she needed a ride to target.”

“mm.” osamu’s gaze lingers on you, not in a creepy way. just observant. assessing. he’s got that quiet, oldest-brother energy, like he’s already weighed three versions of this situation in his head and picked the chillest one to go with.

“bathroom’s down the hall,” he adds, eyes flicking away. “second door on the left.”

“thanks,” you say, stepping past.

the hallway’s narrow, the kind where your shoulders almost brush the walls. hardwood creaks a little under your feet. the air smells like clean laundry and whatever seasoning was left behind in the kitchen pan. you breathe in slow, skin prickling with the quiet intimacy of being in someone else’s home for the first time—barefoot echo of your steps, the soft hum of a fridge, low voices floating from the kitchen behind you.

you find the bathroom. close the door.

it’s small, but not cramped. blue towels, a little air freshener on the counter, toothpaste smeared near the sink like someone rushed out in the morning. you take a beat. wash your hands. splash water on your cheeks and look at yourself in the mirror.

your face is warm. cheeks a little pink. there’s a softness in your eyes, half from the edible, half from this night slowly unfolding like something out of a song you didn’t know you remembered.

you dry your hands on the towel, slow and quiet.

outside the door, you hear atsumu’s voice, low and smooth—then osamu again, louder this time.

“so… target?”

atsumu laughs. “she ran outta tampons, man. i’m bein’ a good samaritan.”

“that what we call it now?”

you stifle a grin, cheeks hotter now, and flush the toilet just so they know you heard. when you open the door, atsumu’s already near the front again, keys in hand, twirling them lazily around one finger. he glances over when you step into view.

“you ready?” he asks.

his voice is easy. nothing forced about it. he doesn’t ask why you took your time. doesn’t comment on the fact that you definitely heard his brother grilling him. just looks at you like you’re still in the middle of something. like the night’s only just started.

you nod. “yeah.”

he opens the door for you. steps out first.

the air outside has shifted. it’s still warm, still thick, but there’s a breeze now. soft and slow, brushing through the trees. you inhale deep. smell the moisture in it, the faint scent of something blooming. the sky’s ink-dark, scattered with stars above the treetops. somewhere in the distance, you hear a boom—low and muffled.

a firework going off early, maybe. or a backfiring truck. it doesn’t matter. it feels like summer.

you both climb back in the car, the seat warm from where you left it. the dashboard clock flashes 9:27. he shifts the car into reverse, rolls back down the driveway smooth as ever.

the silence that settles in the car this time isn’t awkward. it’s the kind that makes you want to fill it with a song. and like he’s reading your mind, atsumu leans forward, taps the radio.

“let’s see if this thing’s still got a good station…”

static. flip. flip.

then, something slow. smooth. bass-heavy.

break from toronto.

the beat creeps in like syrup, warm and low, just barely pushing at the edge of the speakers. the vocals hum through the air, wrapping around the cabin like a weighted blanket.

you smile. “you like this song?”

“who doesn’t?” he grins, one hand sliding across the wheel.

“valid.”

you glance out the window. the lights of baton rouge blur by in long, melted strokes. everything outside the car feels far away now—like the city’s paused for the night and let you have your own little pocket of air.

“you hungry?” he asks, voice still low.

you blink. turn to him. “kinda.”

“you want mcdonald’s or actual food?”

“damn. you just called mcdonald’s fake?”

“i called it what it is,” he smirks.

you snort, then shrug. “i could do actual food. if you’re down.”

“i know a spot. open late. drive-thru’s always fast.”

you nod.

he doesn’t ask if you’re in a rush. you don’t ask if he is either.

you reach target ten minutes later.

not the campus one that one’s always packed and picked over by five p.m.—but the quieter location off college drive, tucked behind an old smoothie king and a gym that never closes.

the lot’s mostly empty, just a few stray carts tilted sideways near the corral and a flickering overhead light buzzing above a cracked parking space. the red glow of the target sign reflects in the hood of his car when he pulls in and parks a little crooked, two spots from the front.

he leaves the engine running.

“i’ll come in,” he says, already pulling his keys from the ignition.

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.”

he slams the door shut with his hip and meets you on your side.

inside, the air hits colder than before, grocery store cold, all artificial chill and soft overhead music. your skin tightens again under your tank, goosebumps rising like clockwork. you cross your arms as you walk, hugging yourself loosely, your steps echoing faint on the polished tile.

“what aisle is it?” he asks.

“ten,” you say automatically, even though you could find it blindfolded.

he trails a little behind you, pushing one of those hand baskets even though you told him you didn’t need it. his sweats swish quiet with every step. you pass a woman in pajama pants and a bonnet, a couple holding hands in the cereal aisle, and a manager restocking the travel-size body washes near checkout.

when you reach the aisle, you pause at the end—just a second too long—and he clocks it.

you turn to him. “i’ll be quick.”

he shrugs. “take your time.”

he doesn’t say it weird. doesn’t make a face. just backs up a few steps and turns to browse whatever’s next to the shelf—vitamins, maybe. chapstick. you breathe in slow, trying to shake the self-conscious edge prickling up your spine.

you grab a box. the purple kind you like. stare at it for a beat. then grab another, because last time you ran out too fast.

“you good?” he calls over his shoulder.

“yeah.”

when you turn back, he’s got something in his hand—cherry lip balm, and he’s squinting at the ingredients like he’s reading for class.

“you putting that in the basket?”

“nah,” he says. “my lips are soft.”

you blink. smirk. “okay…”

he grins. “feel free to confirm later.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s creeping in too.

you make a quick loop, all of your items small enough to finish before you’re off campus for the semester: travel-sized face wash, trail mix, a pack of gum, and he follows you, basket swinging from two fingers. the radio in the store starts playing “love galore,” and you catch him nodding a little to the beat, mouthing words like it’s muscle memory.

something in your chest loosens. the buzz is still sitting behind your eyes, soft and sweet.

at checkout, he throws in a bottle of gatorade and a king-size twix bar.

“you want anything?” he asks.

you eye the impulse shelf. grab a mini bag of sour patch kids. he hums like it tells him something.

he pays without blinking.

you don’t argue. just thank him under your breath as you head back to the car.

outside, the air’s even heavier now. summer pressing down like a hand on the back of your neck. it smells like pavement and distant water. sprinklers, maybe, or the bayou miles off catching breeze.

the sky’s darker, but not starless. somewhere far, another firework cracks.

he unlocks the car. you both get in.

this time, you peel the seal on your sour patch before the AC even hits your face. he takes a swig of his gatorade, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances over.

“still hungry?” he asks.

you nod. “you said you knew a place.”

“yeah. it’s a little hood, but the food’s fire.”

you grin. “good.”

he puts the car in reverse. pulls out slow. flicks his blinker, even though there’s nobody around.

you reach the restaurant a few minutes later.

drive-thru only, tiny neon sign above the window that just says WINGS & THINGS. a guy in a tank top and durag leans out the pickup window with a cracked phone in one hand and a bored look on his face.

“they got the best lemon pepper in the city,” atsumu says.

you order honey hot and seasoned fries. he gets lemon pepper, extra crispy.

when the food’s ready, he pulls into a half-abandoned lot across the street, just enough light to see your hands, not enough to see your reflection in the rearview. the windows are halfway down. cicadas buzz. your thighs are sticking to the seat a little now, sweat blooming beneath your knees.

he opens your box for you. passes it over. his fingers graze yours.

you eat in silence for a minute. licking sauce from your knuckle. the sound of chewing, the smell of fried food, the slow exhale of r&b through the car’s speakers. his head leans back on the seat, jaw working, the muscles in his arm flexing every time he reaches for a fry.

you glance at him. catch him looking at you already.

he doesn’t look away.

the food’s gone. wrappers crumpled, boxes empty but oily at the edges, tossed into the bag and folded neatly under your seat.

your fingers are sticky, and your lips are warm from spice, and your body? your body feels lazy and loose and alive in that particular way you only get when the night’s turned golden and you don’t know when it happened.

the radio hasn’t been touched since “break from toronto.” it’s playing something slower now—brent faiyaz, maybe, or tinashe. you’re not even sure. it’s just bass and breath and melody curling up against your thigh.

“you wanna stay out a little longer?” atsumu asks, voice barely above the hum of the AC.

you turn your head. blink slow.

“what’d you have in mind?”

he lifts a shoulder, eyes on the windshield. “fireworks show up by the levee.”

you blink again. “those weren’t just random ones?”

he shakes his head. “nah. they do a lil unofficial memorial day thing. nothin’ major. just people pull up, park, and watch.”

your stomach flickers.

your lips part before you can overthink it. “yeah. i’m down.”

he nods. puts the car in drive.

you roll the window down farther this time. let the wind rush in, let it ripple through your tank, lift your baby hairs. the air’s warm again, still sticky, but not in a way that makes you want to run from it. more like it’s wrapping around you, holding you in place. the breeze smells like wet grass and river water. and smoke. distant smoke.

you look at atsumu. his jaw is clean-shaven. his hands steady on the wheel. there’s a sliver of sauce at the corner of his mouth.

you lick your thumb. lean in and wipe it away without thinking.

he stills.

just a beat.

then exhales, slow and shallow.

“thanks,” he says, voice tighter.

“you’re welcome.”

the music keeps playing. you keep looking out the window.

when he pulls up to the levee, you don’t expect the view.

the sky is open here. wide. it yawns above you in deep navy, dotted with low, scattered clouds and stars that actually show. there are maybe four other cars parked nearby, spaced out. people sitting on tailgates, folding chairs, hoods. someone has a speaker playing old drake a few spots over, and you hear the fizz of someone cracking a beer.

atsumu parks near the edge and turns off the engine. leaves the radio on.

and then?

he hops out. opens your door.

“you good up there?” he asks, nodding toward the hood.

you climb out. stretch.

“yeah. lemme just—”

“here.” he shrugs off his hoodie, the one he’d tossed in the back earlier, and hands it to you without hesitation. “it’s getting cold out here.”

you blink at him. then take it.

it’s warm in your hands, still holding the heat of his body, the weight of it heavier than you expected. you slip it over your head slow, the fabric soft against your arms, the neck wide enough to drape loose at the collar.

it smells like him. clean and sharp and familiar now, and the sleeves fall past your wrists.

you pull your knees up slightly, climb onto the hood, and lean back on your palms. the metal underneath is warm from the earlier drive, and the night air feels softer now, hugging your body through the layers.

you look out at the sky.

he climbs up beside you. not too close. just close enough.

for a while, nothing happens.

just the sound of crickets. muffled bass. the rustle of trees behind you.

and then a firework pops.

it’s not huge. not coordinated. but it cuts through the night sky in pink and gold and green, crackling above the trees. you both watch it rise. then another. a few kids cheer in the distance. someone whistles.

you laugh under your breath.

“it is kinda ghetto.”

“yeah,” he says, grinning. “but it’s kinda perfect.”

you look at him.

his leg is brushing yours now.

you don’t know who shifted. you don’t care.

another firework blooms overhead, blue this time, long trails behind it like brushstrokes on velvet sky.

you both look up, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. you feel the boom in your ribs more than your ears. the kind of sound that sinks into you, low and grounding. it lights up his face in flashes: blue, then gold, then green again.

and god, he looks good like this. quiet. soft-eyed. like he’s letting the night wrap around him just like you are.

you don’t speak. neither of you do.

not for the whole show.

you just sit there on the hood of his car, knees brushing, fingers occasionally twitching toward each other like they forgot how to hold still. the fireworks crackle and whistle and bloom above you in every color. people cheer. a dog barks. someone blasts “march madness” from a bluetooth speaker two cars down. but it all feels far away. like it’s happening through a layer of cotton.

your buzz has mellowed now. everything’s warm. slow. syrupy.

your lips part without meaning to.

you stand, slow and stretching, arms overhead as the last firework sizzles out above the treeline. your hoodie rides up a little, tank clinging underneath, the hem of your sweats resting soft on your hips. the sky’s quieter now, and your chest feels full with the kind of silence that makes you want to keep moving.

“i could go for something sweet,” you say, voice quiet.

atsumu turns, eyebrows raised. “you still hungry?”

you shrug, sheepish. “not food-hungry. just like… dessert hungry.”

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “girl, you’ve been hungry all night.”

you grin. “i’m a growing girl.”

“uh-huh.”

his eyes dip, slow and obvious, lingering at the curve of your hips as you shift your weight. his voice drops, smooth as syrup. “yeah, somethin’ back there definitely been growin’.”

you blink at him, laughing once through your nose, heat curling up your neck.

he smirks, already turning toward the car. “c’mon. i know a spot.”

he drives you down a road that doesn’t look like it leads anywhere, trees on both sides, no real lights, gravel crunching under the tires like bones. your phone has no bars. the GPS would’ve given up two turns ago. and then, just when you’re thinking he’s made a wrong turn—a single neon sign flickers to life up ahead.

mr. spoon’s shakes & sundaes.

the building’s barely bigger than a shed. there’s a sliding order window, a laminated menu, and one fluorescent light buzzing hard above the roof. it smells like waffle cones and summer air and cheap cleaning spray. the kind of place you can only find if someone shows it to you.

atsumu pulls up and parks close. shuts off the engine.

the girl at the window looks half-asleep, nails long and red, hair in a puffed-up bun. her eyes flick over you both, unimpressed, and she slides the window halfway open.

“hey. how can i help y’all tonight?”

you lean forward to read the menu, eyes trailing over names like banana bonanza and strawberry lightning bolt and death by chocolate. but the words are swimming a little.

your high’s not loud anymore, but it’s still there, curling around your brain like cotton. you tilt your head. squint.

atsumu watches you for a second.

then turns to the girl.

“we’ll take a double swirl, chocolate and vanilla. extra whipped cream. with the waffle stick.”

she raises a brow. “you sure?”

he nods. “positive.”

she disappears inside and you blink at him.

“you ordered for me?”

he grins. “yes. because you were standing there like the menu was written in spanish.”

“it was blurry!”

“mhm. and you were moving like that girl wasn’t gonna fight you if you didn’t pick in five seconds.”

you cover your mouth, laughing. “she did look mad.”

“she was mad. i saw her grip the edge of the counter.”

the girl returns with your milkshake—if you can even call it that. the cup is massive. layered with thick swirls of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, piled high with whipped cream, fudge drizzle, crushed cookies, and a single crooked waffle cone sticking out the top like a flag. there’s one long spoon and a straw stabbed right in the middle.

“y’all got five minutes. we closin’ now,” she says, already sliding the window shut again.

“appreciate you,” atsumu calls, handing her a bill. she doesn’t answer.

you both climb back onto the hood of the car, this time settling closer without thinking. he balances the shake between you, and you take the first bite, ice cream already melting down the sides, sticky sweet on your lips.

“god, this is good.”

“let me try,” he says.

you nod, holding the cup toward him. but when you go to pull off the lid, he stops you.

“what?” you ask.

“what—you got cooties or something?”

you blink. then scoff. “no.”

“then gimme the straw.”

you hesitate. something in your chest tightens—not nervous, not embarrassed. just… aware. the straw’s slick. your gloss is still on it. your breath, your taste. he leans in and sips slow, eyes on you the whole time.

your thighs press together instinctively.

he pulls back, licking whipped cream off his lip.

“damn,” he murmurs. “that is good.”

you’re not sure he’s talking about the milkshake.

the silence returns, but it’s different now. thicker. your knees are touching. your hip’s leaning into his. and when you glance down, his hand is resting near yours again. closer this time. deliberate.

you look at him and he’s already watching.

and when he finally leans in, you don’t stop him.

the kiss starts soft. softer than you expect. just lips, brushing. then again. then again, deeper.

his hand finds your waist. yours curls behind his neck.

and when he tilts his head, breath sliding hot against your mouth, you open up for him without thinking, tongue brushing his, slow and sweet. like the shake you’re both ignoring now. like the fireworks that lit the night but couldn’t touch this.

he kisses like he’s learning you. like he’s waited the whole night to taste what you’d pick if you had to choose between chocolate and vanilla.

and from the way he groans into your mouth, you’re guessing he’d pick you.

his lips are warm, soft but certain, like he knows exactly how close to hold you without crowding. your fingers are curled in the front of his shirt now, tugging just enough to keep him there, and he’s letting you—leaning into it, mouth moving against yours like it’s instinct. like it’s gravity.

you shift a little, thighs spreading just to anchor yourself to the hood. the milkshake is still balanced between you, but it’s sweating now, melting faster than either of you are keeping track of. your left hand presses to the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. he kisses you deeper for it.

and then—

plip.

cold drips onto the back of his hand. thick and sticky.

you both flinch.

you glance down.

a long stripe of whipped cream and vanilla is sliding down his knuckle, slow like honey. it’s glistening in the soft light, pooling near the curve of his wrist. your eyes trail it. so do his. and for a second, neither of you moves.

then your gaze flicks up. you lean in. slow. you don’t even think— you just part your lips and drag your tongue up the stripe of cream, a clean, warm swipe from wrist to knuckle. his breath hitches. sharp. the muscle in his jaw flexes, and his fingers twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

your mouth lifts off his hand, slow. a faint pop of suction in the quiet air.

you swallow, eyes half-lidded, and tilt your head just slightly.

he looks stunned. then he laughs once—low and hoarse, and grabs the cup with one hand, sets it down hard on the pavement without even checking if it’s upright.

his other hand’s still slick when it slides to your thigh.

and now? he doesn’t sit back down.

he drops off the hood in one smooth step and steps between your legs, close enough for the heat off him to roll straight into your skin. his hands come up, bracing your thighs, holding you open just wide enough. the air sticks to your neck. your breath’s already shallow.

“you got a habit of lickin’ things that don’t belong to you?” he asks, voice rough, eyes fixed on your mouth.

“i didn’t hear you complain,” you murmur.

he grins.

“i’m not complainin’.”

and then he kisses you again, deep this time, hotter than before. his hands drag slow up your sweats, thumbs stroking the insides like he’s marking territory. your whole body arches forward. your hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. his mouth opens against yours and you taste sugar and skin and something feral rising between your ribs.

he licks into your mouth like he’s chasing the last of the whipped cream.

the metal beneath you is warm through your sweats. the air smells like sugar and pavement and the sweat sitting in the bend of your elbow.

he looks up at you for a beat—really looks. lips pink, mouth slightly parted, pupils blown wide.

and then he leans in again.

his mouth catches yours hungrily, like the dam’s cracked. his hands continue to slide further up your thighs, gripping—not rough, just intentional. his thumbs brush the inside, higher and higher, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you shiver. briefly regret wearing sweatpants.

he kisses like he’s tasting something rich, slow licks into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, teeth just barely grazing your bottom lip. your hips roll without meaning to, just once, right against where he’s standing between your legs.

his breath catches. he presses in closer.

the heel of his hand lands against the hood on either side of your thigh now, boxing you in. your legs tighten around him instinctively. your tank shifts higher beneath his sweatshirt. you can feel your pulse in your neck.

he pulls back for a split second, and then mouths along your jaw, down to your neck. kisses there, slower. firmer. like he wants to memorize the curve of it. his breath fans hot over your skin.

“it’s so damn hot,” you murmur, voice breathy.

he huffs a grin against your collarbone. “so are you.”

your head tilts back when he finds the spot just under your ear—sucks there, gentle but deep. your fingers tighten in his shirt again. your thighs flex around him.

his hand slides up again. this time, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie. resting there. not rushing. not asking.

just waiting.

you press your mouth to his again before you can think better of it.

he groans—low, ragged. his hands slide up your waist now, warm palms beneath your hoodie, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your sides. you gasp into his mouth. he eats the sound.

his body is all heat, all pressure. his thigh brushes right between yours again and lingers. not grinding, not humping, just there. like a placeholder. like a promise.

he pulls back, just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“you good?” he murmurs, voice rough.

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

his hands pause. “you sure?”

your eyes open. you find his. something in your chest tightens. not with nerves, just with want.

“i’m sure.”

he kisses you again. slower now. deeper. your arms loop around his neck. your whole body is arching into him. he shifts closer, one hand bracing your lower back, the other cupping your jaw. he kisses like you’re a song he just discovered, like he wants to learn every note by heart.

and when he pulls back again, finally—finally, you’re both breathing hard. faces close. noses brushing. your lip’s kissed pink. your pulse is skipping.

“that milkshake,” he murmurs, eyes still locked on your mouth, “didn’t stand a chance.”

you giggle, quiet.

he smiles. not cocky. not smug. just soft.

and then he kisses the corner of your mouth— once, gentle.

like he wants this to keep going long after tonight ends.

#fuck is a proof read #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #haikyuu smut #haikyuu smau #hq atsumu #atsumu x you #atsumu fluff #atsumu headcanons #atsumu miya #atsumu smut #atsumu fanfic #atsumu x reader #haikyuu atsumu #miya atsumu #lsu tigers

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animamii · 5 months ago

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highschoolsweetheart!Eren always asking you out to school dances by performing a Justin Bieber song for you.

It all started in Freshman year biology, the two of you sharing earbuds plugged into your phone. You have your liked songs on shuffle. All basic stuff, some Kanye, My Chemical Romance, The Weeknd. Just things you knew anyone, including Eren, would enjoy. Nothing you'd be embarrassed to play, none of your guilty pleasures. That is until One Time by Justin Bieber starts to blast through the headphones.

Me plus you...

Your cheeks flush, eyes widening as you look straightforward. Refusing to turn to look at Eren, who you can see out of your peripheral vision already looking at you with a smug smirk on his face. A soft snort leaves his nose, and you can feel your face getting hotter and hotter.

"Didn't know you were a Belieber, y/n," he teases, eyes still locked onto the side of your face. You take a deep sigh, your eyes shut as you slowly turn to look at your best friend.

"I grew up listening to him, Eren. Like every other little girl. I'm not a damn Belieber," you muster out, chest still tight from the embarrassment. You knew the situation wasn't that serious, but you and Eren had this will they, won't they situation that you didn't want compromised by your preteen music taste.

"Sure, you aren't," is all Eren says with a snicker and playful shake of his head as he continues to do the classwork. In all honesty you thought he would egg it on even more, continuing to tease and pester you over having 2000's teen pop sensation Justin Drew Bieber in your playlist. But no, the green-eyed boy drops the subject and forgets about it altogether.... right?

A couple months later you sit with your friends at lunch. Sasha downing her burger and school milk as Historia fills you in on some gossip, Ymir chiming in with her pessimistic opinion every so often. All you do is nod and listen, laughing at every snarky remark Ymir adds. The quad is littered with students, at lunch tables, walking around and talking with friends.

"Heyyy y/n please don't hate me for this, but I have to do this or else I'm getting my ass beaten or eaten," Connie shuffles to your lunch table, a good-sized speaker in his hands as he sits in on the table, turning it on.

"Do what??" You ask cluelessly, brows furrowed as you watch Connie plug in his phone and throw a thumbs up at someone. Your eyes follow his gaze, to Jean, who is standing like a damn weirdo next to something hidden out of your sight. Jean nods at Connie and gives a thumbs up back, to which Connie nods back as he presses play on his phone.

"What the hell are these boys doing?" You mumble to yourself until you hear it. That dun, dundun followed by adolescent vocals. Your face turns white, all color drained as you hear young Justin Bieber singing. Turning to Connie, you look at him with that 'What the fuck is going on?!' look he was so used to. All Connie does is nod his head to where Jean stands, with Jean giving you a shit eating grin and a wave. He turns to say something to someone next to him, some kind of signal. And there he is.

Eren freaking Yeager, dressed in a damn gray button up, opened with a black shirt underneath. And somehow some damn purple shoes, just like Justin in the Baby music video. With so much energy he jogs out into the middle of the quad, arm out to you as he lip syncs the opening verse. just shout whenever, and I'll be there. With every word he does the accompanying choreography, which has you wondering just how much effort this boy put into his little stunt. Shuffling his way over to you, his smirk grows as he sees your pink blushed cheeks that you try to hide as you cover the smile that starts to form.

"We're just friends. What are you sayin'?" He places his hands on your shoulders as he sings to you, people in the quad starting to stop and stare as he does those flashy music video jumps and hops Justin does. Ymir points to you two, her laughter drowning under the loud music from the speaker, Connie next to it as he nods his head to the beat and hypes up Eren. Soon Ludacris's part comes on, Eren turning around for a split seconds before spinning to face you once more, sunglasses now on his face as he raps along.

By the time Eren launches into Ludacris's verse, the entire quad has erupted into cheers, laughter, and even a few people pulling out their phones to record. His enthusiasm is nothing short of infectious. He’s moving with the confidence of a boy who knows exactly how ridiculous he looks—and doesn’t care one bit. Anything for you, right?

“Eren, stop!” you shout, though your voice is laced with laughter, and your hands are desperately trying to cover your face. But it’s no use; everyone is staring, and Eren is unstoppable. He drops to his knees dramatically, sunglasses barely clinging to his nose, and grabs your hand like he’s in a cheesy rom-com.

“When I was 13, I had my first love!” he belts, holding your hand up like he’s about to propose. The crowd goes wild. For a glimpse of a second he smirks, a devilish idea popping into his adolescent mind. He starts peppering kisses from your hand and up your arm, causing the girls watching to squeal a bit.

Your friends are no help. Sasha is choking on her burger from laughing too hard, Historia is clutching her sides, and Ymir has fallen over onto the bench, howling like this is the best thing she’s seen all year. Connie is doing some kind of two-step next to the speaker, hyping Eren up like a DJ at a concert. And Jean is just proud that all the practice had paid off, he would have been livid if Eren didn't do what he had taught him.

By the time the song wraps up, Eren’s out of breath but still grinning ear to ear. He tosses his sunglasses aside with a flourish and takes a low, exaggerated bow in front of you. “y/n,” he says loudly enough for the whole quad to hear, “will you do me the honor of being my date to the dance?”

Your face is burning hotter than the sun, but you can’t help but smile. The entire school seems to be waiting for your answer, the chants of “Say yes! Say yes!” growing louder by the second.

“Fine,” you say, trying to sound exasperated, but the grin on your face betrays you. “But you’re lucky I don’t die of secondhand embarrassment before then.”

The quad erupts into applause and cheers as Eren pumps his fist in the air like he just won the lottery. “Let’s gooo!” he shouts, and Connie cranks the volume up for the final chorus of the song, with Eren dramatically singing along one last time. He keeps his arms around you as he sways the both of you back and forth, the biggest grin forming on his face as you start to voluntarily move along with him. As the song ends, he places a sloppy kiss to your cheek. You groan, burying your face in your hands, but deep down, you know you’ll never forget this moment—or Eren’s goofy, fearless way of making you feel like the center of the universe.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿

Def gonna make another part to it, didn't know if it was too long or nott. Thought just popped up into my head and I was craving some Eren fluff.

#eren x reader #animamii masterlist #eren yeager fic #eren yeager #eren jaeger fic #eren yeager fluff #eren jaeger fluff #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren fluff #high school sweetheart eren

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howellatme-writes · 19 days ago

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Welcome Home

Marc Spector & Fem!Reader

Summary: F!Reader is a barista at Biggby Coffee in Chicago. She's had feelings for Marc for a while and was tempted to write her phone number on his cup, but he's going away on a mission. He's gone longer than he originally promised, and when he returns, the barista is no longer at his favorite coffee shop.

WC: 3042

Author's Note: I wrote this last year as part of The Coffee & Cream Digital Fanzine! A lot of amazing people worked on this zine, and you can read it for free here!

Also, did I have to do a banner? No. Do I love it? Kinda. It reminds me of a bad rom-com movie poster. I'm mostly proud of having his name on the Biggby Coffee Cup and having it look semi-realistic.

Beta read by the wonderful @reallyrallyauthor

Themes and warnings: Acquaintances to lovers, not race/body coded, Marc angst, coffee shop au. If I miss anything, let me know!

The coffee shop is bustling, the aroma of coffee filling the air. Quiet music plays through the speakers mixed with guests’ quiet conversations to create a cozy but bustling atmosphere. The warm lights and dry spot to sit entice regulars and tourists alike to the shop’s interior, a better alternative to the cold, dreary rain outside.

As you and the other baristas work behind the counter, the bell above the door rings, grabbing your attention. You turn and hand a strawberry creme freeze with whipped cream and extra sprinkles to a little girl. “Hope you have a great birthday, Sophia!” you say, smiling at the girl’s mom. “See you two soon! You’ll have to tell me about the aquarium. I haven’t been there in years!”

You turn to the register as Marc walks up removing his rain-splattered hood. His lips upturn slightly as he notices you, and you return his smile brightly, smoothing out your apron, trying to rid yourself of butterflies in your stomach. “Hi Marc, your usual?” you ask breathlessly, knowing the answer and starting to input it into the register.

“Yeah, but one extra shot of espresso today.” Marc sighs watching you grab the sleeve and Sharpie to write his name.

You turn the cup in your hand and ask, “a quad? That’s different. Late-night plans kept you up.” Teasingly, you contemplate writing your number again. If it were a slow day, he would usually stay and talk, but with the crowd, it won’t take long until he goes on his way. After writing ‘Marc’, you hold the sharpie down to the cardboard, slowly starting to write the curve of the 2.

“Got another work trip...boss wants to send me to Egypt tonight.”

You pause with the sharpie in hand. He’ll be too busy during the trip, and you’ll overthink his lack of communication as disinterest. You can see yourself lying in bed, wondering where you went wrong. It’s best not to write your number…at least not today. He repeats your name, and you’re brought back to the present as you hear him chuckle lowly and lean in slightly. “Maybe I should be asking you if you’re staying up too late? You need my extra shot of espresso?”

“What? No? I’m fine.” You try to shake it off and close off the beginnings of your number, turning it into a heart. Setting the cup down, you take his cash and he continues the familiar dance of the daily exchange by dumping the change into the tip jar. “How long are you gone for this time?”

“I don’t know. I hope it’s not a long job. A week tops, maybe two.”

“I know the opening game for the Cubs is coming up soon. Didn’t you say you were finally going to try and see them in person this year?” you ask trading places with your coworker, starting to make his drink. They all know about your crush, and always let you make his drink.

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to go since I was a kid,” he admits in a small voice as he shuffles down the counter with you, pulling down the hem of his coat. “I never got the opportunity. I figure since I moved back to Chicago, I might as well find the time.”

“I hope you get the chance this year,” you say earnestly, making his drink slowly, trying to savor every moment. “All of that travel, but sometimes there’s nothing like the comforts of your hometown…even if it is a major league baseball game,” you tease lightly.

“Yeah, but when home doesn’t feel like home…” Marc sighs heavily, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself as his voice falters, his gaze shifting briefly to the corner of the room.

“I hope you find it someday.”

“What?” he asks, looking like you pulled him out of a bad memory.

“Something that feels like home. A home that feels like home. It sounds like you don’t settle down for long. Whether it’s an apartment in Chicago, Egypt, London…or maybe even a person,” you add optimistically. “I hope you find it someday.” You blush looking down at the drink, revealing that you had kept up with the casual conversations. Remembering the little tidbits of info that he lets slip about his life, that you store away in the corner of your heart.

“Yeah…can’t seem to catch a break. Feel like I’ve been on the go since I was 18.”He confesses.

One of your coworkers taps your shoulder and says, “here’s the bacon, egg, and cheese bagel.” You pass it to Marc and put the lid on his drink, your hand covering the doodled heart he hasn’t noticed yet. “And the usual with the extra shot.”

“Thanks,” he says as he takes the cup and takes a sip, still failing to notice the heart hidden under his palm. He lingers momentarily, knowing it’s too busy to stay, but he wants to keep the conversation going. “You know there’s-”

The barista on the drive-thru calls your name. “Sorry, but can you help with the people in line? I’m getting swamped in the drive-thru.”

“Of course!!” you reply and offer Marc an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you when you get back, yeah? Bring your favorite barista a souvenir this time?” You plead with a small pout.

Marc chuckles softly, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.” He waves goodbye and walks back into the cold rain. Sipping his drink, he notices the heart on the cup. Marc retraces his steps and looks into the coffee shop. The line is long and you’re taking orders for a family. He looks down at the cup as if making sure the heart is real. His eyes briefly meet yours before he panics and hurriedly continues down the street, his heart suddenly racing.

“Marc, I can’t have you distracted by your feelings while on this mission.” Khonsu’s voice booms out.

He narrows his eyes and pulls out his earbuds, looking like he might’ve been on his phone. “The job will be quick. Don’t worry,” he snaps back, “...and I don’t have feelings for her. Not like you think.”

“I should hope so, Marc Spector. My travelers of the night need your help. It will not bode well for your future should you not succeed.” He hears Khonsu’s voice ring out.

“I get it- I get it. Just let me pack. You act like feelings are a fucking crime. Jesus Christ,” he grumbles. After a few blocks, he comes up to the crosswalk, tossing his coffee cup into the trash, secretly pocketing the sleeve with your heart into his jacket.

The job isn’t quick. It takes over a month to gather intel and successfully track Khonshu’s marks. Long nights on stakeouts, alone in his thoughts of when he could come home to you. He is exhausted as he wanders the Cairo markets toward the airport, remembering you had asked for a souvenir. He looks around, half tempted to buy a pyramid paperweight, but that doesn’t seem thoughtful enough, not for you. He walks past a few more stalls selling souvenirs when a jewelry stand catches his eye.

An older man is making Egyptian cartouche necklaces by stamping hieroglyphics into metal. Marc chooses the color of the necklace but is undecided. He thinks of your name, but there is another option. Lately, thoughts of ‘home’ are synonymous with you, and he still keeps the coffee sleeve with his name and heart in his jacket. As Marc stands in line, the person in front is getting their necklace stamped.

“Still thinking about that worm at home?” Khonshu sighs in annoyance. “Do I have to remind you how poorly your first marriage went? Your destiny isn’t a comfy life with a partner. You have a far greater purpose to play out Marc Spector.” Khonshu looms over the unsuspecting jeweler, watching him work.

Marc meets the bird’s gaze before handing the jeweler the form with your name for the pendant, and home for the second.

“My my…you are determined, Marc Spector. You think this person would want to be your home?” Khonshu asks sarcastically, “You don’t need a home. You’re my nomad, doing my work, protecting the travelers of the night.”

Marc doesn’t respond but watches the jeweler prepare the jewelry. Marc hopes it isn’t too late when he returns to Chicago. Would he be able to let down his guard enough to truly let someone into his life again? He fidgets with his fingers, thinking maybe he can do it for you. He watches the guy pound in each symbol, dry brushing ink into the crevices, wiping away the excess.

“This for a sweetheart back home?” the jeweler ponders, boxing up the layered necklace.

“I hope so,” Marc responds with a sigh of relief. Khonshu gets bored and leaves Marc to his devices. He takes the small box and exchanges money, sliding the box into a small pocket in his bag, finally ready to head home.

The first day back in his routine at the coffee shop is sunny. The weather is warmer, and the atmosphere seems light and airy, but not for Marc. He feels suffocated and vulnerable, you aren’t there. He sits for an hour nursing his coffee, barely eating more than two bites out of his bagel sandwich. He taps his fingers nervously waiting for you, frequently looking out the shop window to see if you’re just showing up later for a late shift. He waits for 3 hours, scrolling on his phone, his leg bouncing, looking for your smile. He sighs and finally resigns to finishing his bagel, tossing the cup into the trash on his way out. Tomorrow will be another day.

The second day is a repeat of the first. The third day he sits in the back of the coffee shop lobby, he feels embarrassed as Khonshu seems to loom over him, reminding him he’ll never have the relationships he wants. Who is he to think he could deserve a second chance at companionship and love? All he has in life are his alters and the stupid pigeon. Why does Khonshu think that’s enough? On the fourth day, he goes there out of habit, but he retreats into the subspace as Steven spends the afternoon reading a book, still looking up every so often searching for you.

The fifth day is going to be the last. One more day of sitting in the coffee shop feeling like a lost puppy. One more last-ditch effort before he gives up and finds a different coffee shop. It would hurt less. Marc just sat down to unwrap his bagel sandwich when he heard two baristas talking loudly. Marc is tempted to ask if they know where you are if you quit if you moved, and if there is any way to contact you, but he knows they can’t divulge information about current or former employees. He tries to zone them out, but his interest piques a few moments later when they mention your name rather loudly, “Must be nice at the new job!”

“I know, living the life of luxury at the brand new Biggby across town,” the guy emphasizes, still trying to get the point across to an oblivious Marc. “I bet they have better blenders with fresher blades than these shit ones.”

Marc looks at them, his brow furrowed. The barista talking to the man looks directly at Marc, “I’m jealous.” The barista said your name, “works at a spot with a bigger lobby, no drive-thru…at the brand new Biggby across town.”

Marc understands, nodding in their direction as he gets up holding his coffee and his bagel. He throws them in the trash untouched, as he walks out the door. He’s too focused to hear the baristas high-fiving as he walks out.

“Oh my days…it’s happening!” Marc can hear Steven getting excited from the headspace. Marc keeps walking and mumbling, trying to rehearse what he would say to you if you were at this new coffee shop. “It’s been awhile…no…I’ll have the usual, with your phone number. God, that’s so stupid. I got you that souvenir you asked for…so I had to find you. Fuck, I sound like a stalker.”

His heart races as he sees the new coffee shop in the distance and he gulps, flexing his hands. He takes a deep breath as he walks up and pulls open the door. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest as he looks around for you. It isn’t busy, and you aren’t with the baristas in the front. He walks up to the register, unable to hide the disappointment on his face.

“Maybe next time, Marc,” Steven speaks softly from the reflection in the fridge.

“Can I take your order, sir?” the barista offers with a smile.

“Yeah…uhm…I’ll have a grande, quad, non-fat, no-whip espresso with a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel…” he sighs, but he hears some frantic movement from the back that draws his attention.

“Marc!? Is that you?” you hear his voice from the backroom and push the door open so forcefully that it bangs against the wall. You were almost in tears when your old coworker messaged you saying he was on his way. It was a long few weeks of loneliness, wishing you had given him your number. As the weeks passed, you grew concerned that you wouldn’t see him again. You didn’t know what he did for work, but you knew enough that his work was dangerous. If only you had written your number! You were heartbroken that he didn’t walk in on your last day of work at the old location, but he had been gone for so long at that point… you didn’t know if he would ever come back.

Marc stands before you at the new coffee shop, looking exhausted. As he turns to face you, his worn-out expression transforms when he sees you, giving you hope. Still in shock, you don’t catch what he said. “What was that?”

“Your number? She asked if I needed anything else, and I said your number,” Marc repeats, trying to come across as confident, but feeling a little silly repeating himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks up at you again.

“O-oh,” you stammer feeling the heat in your cheeks, “I’m getting off my shift right now. We could go…for a walk?” you suggest bringing a hand to your warm cheek, your fingers making their way down to hide your smile briefly. Your heart pounds when his softening eyes meet yours.

“Yeah, we can do that.” Marc nods.

You both walk outside and down the street to a small park. Neither of you remembers who reached for the other’s hand first, but the intertwining of your fingers feels right. You gesture to a park bench with your drink, where you both sit. To Marc’s surprise, you sit right up against him, thighs touching. “You know, I tried to give you my number more times than I’d probably like to admit,” you confess while pulling out your phone.

“I had hoped you would have…more than I’d like to admit,” he says smiling as he hands you his phone. After exchanging contacts, he admits, “I’m not much of a morning person, but you make it so easy.” He leans in and adds, “I got you that souvenir.”

“Marc, really?!?” you gasp in amazement as he pulls out a small box, “Marc, I was joking, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I gave our last conversation a lot of thought while I was away.”

“About home?” you ask curiously, looking at the box, sitting up a little straighter, and setting your drink down next to you.

“Yeah, here. Take it,” he speaks cautiously, not looking at you directly, focusing on the box as you hold it in your hands, secretly wondering if you were feeling butterflies like he was. “When I thought of home…sure it’s Chicago, but when I thought of coming back I didn’t think of childhood nostalgia, my family, or even the Cubs.” You can see the corner of his eyes crinkle with a chuckle to himself, “I thought of coming home to the coffee shop…to you.”

“Oh, Marc,” you murmur, cradling the box in your hands as if it were the most valuable treasure you own. To mean that much to him feels like a gift in itself. Trembling slightly, you lift the lid off the box to reveal the necklace. It is a simple gold chain with two charms, tablets with stamped hieroglyphs. “It’s beautiful…what do they say?”

He points to one and explains it’s your name, each hieroglyph representing a letter. He points to the other one, featuring four stamped hieroglyphs on the other tablet, “...and this one says home.”

“Are these custom-made? Oh honey, I don’t know what to say. These are so thoughtful. I love it,” you turn to him, caressing his cheek. Home could be a person for him, and it was you. It took Marc so long to open up, you never expected this. Marc’s vulnerability makes you want to melt in his arms. You hold his gaze until your eyes drift to his parted lips. “Can I show you?”

To your surprise, he nods and leans into your palm as your thumb caresses his cheek. You slowly close the gap until your lips meet his in a soft kiss, your fingers moving from his cheek to the hair at the nape of his neck. After a moment he parts, resting his forehead against yours.

You chase his lips again but he takes the box from your hands holding up the chain with the offer to put it on. You turn so he can clasp the necklace feeling goosebumps from the cool metal, his fingers lingering on your neck before tracing the cool chain to the pendants. “Glad you like it, I almost got a paperweight instead…”

“It’s perfect, Marc. I’m glad you found it.” You chuckle, your forehead resting against his. “Welcome home.”

#if you look the glyphs in the banner spell 'home'#Same with the name on the coffee cup #i love hiding little clues #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x y/n #marc spector #coffe shop #coffeeshop au #moon knight #moonknight fanfiction #marc spector fanfiction

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aisiedaisie · 6 months ago

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I’m kinda living for the whole college Sirius you’ve got going. Never would’ve imagined him as a TA but Astronomy fits soooo well. (Very much looking forward to more of that) But just imagine… Tutor reader and one of the other boys is a barista on campus and they just know the readers order as soon as they walk in because it seems like they always stop by before or after work. I think that would be soooo cute!

Also saw you have designated anons can I be your ⏳ anon if that’s not taken already?

Hello hello~!!! I’m so happy you’re enjoying the college AU! I’m really loving TA!Sirius too, so that storyline will definitely continue. Now, as for your ask—when I saw ‘barista,’ my first thought was to make it a Remus-centered fic. But…I raise you social butterfly barista James Potter. With that said, I hope you enjoy my take on your idea!

Also of course you can be my ⏳anon!!!

Barista!James Potter x Fem!Reader WC: 1.1k

It's early afternoon, and the coffee shop tucked in the far corner of the quad is practically deserted. Only a few frazzled students tap furiously at their keyboards, their brows knitted in concentration, while the occasional professor unwinds after a long string of lectures. Behind the counter, two baristas are stationed, chatting as they clean and restock in leisurely rhythm, bracing for the next rush that’s sure to sweep through those double glass doors in a few hours.

When you step into the shop, just as you do nearly every day around this time, you’re greeted by the soft hum of music filtering through the speakers, barely louder than the clatter of laptop keys and the muffled murmur of conversation. Yet, the sound is familiar and comforting, blending seamlessly with the warmth of the space.

You glance toward the bar, and there he is—James, a familiar face, mid-motion as he turns from cleaning the espresso grinder. His brown eyes light up with recognition, crinkling with a smile that’s warm and easy.

"Hey, love," he greets, pushing his round glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Your usual?"

You can’t help but mirror his smile as you nod, digging into your bag to pull out your wallet. “Yeah, thank you, James.”

At the register, the other barista, a girl with dark red hair pulled into a loose bun, rings up your order. You notice, though, that she pauses as James adds an extra drink to your total. She raises an eyebrow, casting him a questioning look. “She’s only getting one, though?” she asks, her brows furrowing.

“Just trust me, Lils,” James replies, his smile as certain as it is mysterious. With a small sigh, she relents, and you barely notice the extra charge, simply thanking her with a quiet smile before finding an empty table.

You settle in, pulling out your journal and glancing at your phone, gauging how many hours you’ll be spending in the library tonight.

As you begin jotting down notes, your mind drifts to a few concerns your students shared during the last session, the things they struggle with that you’re determined to help them understand. The scratch of your pen on the paper becomes a soothing rhythm until—

A steaming mug lands on a coaster beside your phone, pulling you from your thoughts. You look up, startled, an apology already on your lips. “Sorry,” you murmur, realizing you must’ve missed him calling your name.

James only chuckles, his smile soft yet playful. “Sorry for what, love?”

“Not coming to get my order?”

He laughs, the sound warm and familiar, filling the quiet space between you. “I didn’t even call for you.” He shakes his head, clearly amused. “When I finished with your tea, you were already writing, so I figured I’d just bring it over.”

You thank James with a grateful smile, but he just waves it off, already turning back to the espresso grinder. Lily, meanwhile, busies herself at the small refrigerator, restocking whipped cream canisters with the kind of efficiency that only comes from experience.

You open your journal once more and start drafting a few more notes, tailoring each to help your students in their upcoming sessions. First on today’s list is Evan—a top business student, though lately, he’s hit a wall with Economic History. You’re not entirely sure why. Though the subject is notoriously dry, Evan is bright and usually navigates complex material with ease.

Then again, you’ve noticed a pattern. Every time a certain psychology major sits just outside your study room door, Evan’s focus starts to drift. You’ve seen the stolen glances, the way his attention wavers whenever that familiar face appears in his line of sight.

But you don’t really mind. Evan’s a fast learner, and once he sets his mind to it, he absorbs concepts quickly. With a small smile, you jot down a few more examples, hoping to make the material click despite his latest...distractions.

After some time, you shift in your seat, feeling the strain of being hunched over for so long. You roll your shoulders, feeling a satisfying pop and release of tension. Glancing at your mug, you realize it’s now almost empty; the last bit of lemon mint tea has gone cold, a quiet signal that it’s time to pack up and move on.

You slip your book and journal back into your tote bag and stand, carrying your mug over to the return station, placing it gently in its designated spot. A quick glance at the counter shows James mid-motion, focused on another drink. You approach Lily instead, thanking her for helping out and asking if you could order a tea to-go. Lily just shakes her head, waving you off with a small smile.

“Oh?” you ask, brows furrowing in mild confusion.

Before you can answer, James turns, holding a drink carrier with two steaming cups, his expression radiating a proud, quiet satisfaction. “Figured you’d be heading to the library after this,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “So I added a second tea to your order.”

You let out a soft sigh, almost a laugh, and despite yourself, a fond smile tugs at your own lips. “James…”

But he’s already pressing the drinks into your hands, that familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes steady and warm.

“You got the coffee too. Honestly, you’re too good at this job,” you tease, glancing down at the carrier— your usual tea to go and an Americano for Remus at the library desk.

James’ grin widens, his gaze bright with playful pride. “Well, we have to keep our loyal customers around somehow,” he jokes. “Can’t risk you being lured away by another coffee shop on campus.”

You laugh, a soft and genuine sound, as you take the drinks from him. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. This is my favorite spot, after all.” You give him a small, lasting smile, the comfort of this place—and maybe of him—settling around you.

“Good luck with work,” he says warmly, his voice carrying a note of encouragement.

As you make your way to the door, you catch yourself glancing back, a gentle wave accompanying the smile that lingers, soft and warm, just a little longer than you’d planned.

As soon as she steps out the door, Lily glances over at James, raising an eyebrow. “Do you think she noticed you put your number on the cup?”

James shrugs, a bit sheepish but still with a hint of a grin. “Probably. I mean, I hope so.” He leans back against the counter, his expression a mix of casual hope and quiet anticipation.

“I guess we’ll see.”

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jangofettjamz · 2 years ago

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Turn It Off!

Gentle!Wednesday x Autistic!Male!Reader

Summary: Wednesday comforts you after Enid almost sends you into sensory overload.

Words: 1076

Wednesday POV

Normally I would resent anyone who would even dare to think of asking me out, but that all changed when a particular psychic boy asked me to be his friend, and soon to be boyfriend.

Y/N L/N, a real gem among idiots.

I instantly took a liking to him, he's different from everything else and I soon came to find out why.

Y/N has autism spectrum disorder, which would be a valid explanation for some of his behaviour since coming to nevermore.

He's extremely shy, when he asked me to be his friend he almost broke at the seams. He's really nervous during any kind of social interaction with those he doesn't know.

Loud noises are especially irritable for him. Wolves howling in the quad would be torture for him, making him put his headphones on the second he sees them about to howl.

Meltdowns. Some imbecile thought it was funny to blast an air horn into his ears during lunch break, the result was Y/N having a meltdown with no one able to help him.

When we started talking I knew he felt a connection to me, he was a bit scared of me but also intrigued.

He's vastly intelligent, easily an IQ of 160. He's truly gifted with intelligence and that's coming from me. I'm not one to be humble.

When we started dating I took him to the weathervane, I didn't want to scare him like I did with everyone else. He's a fragile boy and didn't deserve that.

I wanted to protect him, to care for him and help where everyone elsen had failed him.

I love everything about him. I love the he'd hide his hands in his sleeves when he's shy. I love the way he talks about his favourite things in great detail. I love the way he could come to me when he's upset.

I love him, so very very much.

Me, Enid and Y/N are currently studying for our botany test next week. Enid, as usual, is procrastinating while me and Y/N have been studying since the test was announced.

We both go to reach for the eraser on the desk next to us, only for our hands to touch. I kissed the top of his hand making him blush madly, he really is cute; I hate myself for using that word.

Enid is dancing around her room being the foolish lycan that she is, she never ceases to amaze me how foolish she can be, its actually quite remarkable.

Suddenly, she decided it was a good idea to start blasting her incessant music out of her speakers, causing Y/N to cover his ears and whimper out of discomfort.

"Enid, turn it off" I said with a warning tone, though she only chose to ignore me and do her embarrassing dance moves in front of my face. Y/N began to whimper louder, making my anger with Enid rise to new heights.

"Enid turn it off!" I said louder; no effect was made.

"Why? It's getting boring in here, let's have some fun!" She said loudly, only adding to Y/N's discomfort. I was furious.

"ENID!" I shout, startling the both of them. "Can't you see that Y/N is getting upset because of your music blasting his ear drums apart, he's sensitive to noise you imbecile!" She looked over to Y/N to see him curled up in a ball with his hands over his ears, a guilty expression painting her face.

I point my finger to the door. "Get out" is all I say. She obeys and walks out with her head hung low. She knows about his noise sensitivity and yet she still does this, the audacity of some people.

Though my anger was strong and prevalent, I still heard faint whimpers from my side of the room. Y/N was still feeling uncomfortable after all that noise and was curled up in a ball on the floor by my desk. Thing was trying his best to comfort him, but nothing seemed to work.

I walk over to him and sit down opposite him with a gentle smile on my face. I patted my knees indicating for him to sit in my lap, he nodded and crawled into my lap and I hugged him tight, he preferred pressure over feather light touches.

He sniffled quietly, hoping I wouldn't notice. He looked away from so that I wouldn't see the tears streaming down his face like a river, as if I'd resent him for it. I pulled his face by his chin to look at me and offered a reassuring smile. I only ever smile for him.

"It's okay to cry in front of me, I won't be mad. Please don't be afraid to cry in front of me, I don't want you to be scared of me, darling." And with that he broke, he hid his face in my shoulder as I stroked his back, my blazer becoming wet with tears but I didn't care.

"I'm sorry Wednesday, I know you hate emotions." He said through his sobs. I felt my heart break a little, he thought I'd hate him for it.

"No it's okay, sweetheart, it's you so I don't mind at all. I would never be disappointed in you for being upset. Enid is the one I'm disappointed in, she should've been more mindful of your needs."

I pulled back from him. "Can I kiss you?" He nodded and I planted a gentle kiss to his lips. "Wanna cuddle for a bit?" He nodded again and I guided him to my bed.

We sat on the bed and I held him with a vice grip from behind. I wanted to reassure him that he's okay to be emotional around me. I had not realised he feared me so much.

"I won't leave you for being emotional Y/N, you know that right?" I whispered behind him. "I'm always here to listen you, I know it can be hard to operate somedays and it can be overwhelming for you, I'm hoping you'll let me in and help you and comfort you in any way I can." He turned around, he looked taken aback by what I said, I meant everything.

"You would do that? For me?" I smiled and nodded

"I'd do anything for you, mi amor." He leaned forward and kissed me gently, smiling against my lips which I happily returned.

Maybe I'm not unlike my mother and father after all...

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega #male reader #wednesday x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday #autism #comfort #jenna ortega x y/n

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anonymousewrites · 1 year ago

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A Good Day for Death Pride Special 2024

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Pride Special 2024

“Yet another day full of too-much cheeriness and color,” said Wednesday, crossing her arms.

“Oh, come on, Wednesday, you had fun last time!” said Enid, rolling her eyes.

“Nonsense. I said it wasn’t as terrible as it could be. It is still horrible, and not in a good way,” said Wednesday.

“Will you at least help us set up?” said (Y/N). “It isn’t crowded right now, and we’re playing some music for fun!”

They beamed widely at Wednesday, and she noticed they already had black sweater with nonbinary-colored stitching across the bottom on. Additionally, (Y/N) had pansexual-themed earrings on.

“It seems you’ve already started the Pride celebration,” said Wednesday.

“I’m proud all year round,” said (Y/N) teasingly.

“Please stay, Wednesday. You can put on the pin that (Y/N) got you last year, and it’ll be fun,” said Enid.

“I don’t need your ‘fun,’ ” said Wednesday.

“You don’t need our fun, but you can still have it,” said (Y/N). “We’re giving it for free.”

“And we’re your friends. Do it for us,” said Enid.

“I don’t have friends,” said Wednesday firmly.

“You’re really good at lying,” laughed (Y/N), completely undeterred.

“We’re your friends, and you know it,” said Enid.

Wednesday crossed her arms. “If I help you put up these…colorful decorations, will you lave me be to write tonight?”

“Yes,” said (Y/N), smiling. “We’ll get our dose of Wednesday and be content.”

“I am not a medicine,” said Wednesday, raising a brow.

“I was thinking more about poison,” chirped (Y/N).

Wednesday glanced at them and cursed the poison that (Y/N)’s happiness was for her. Them seeming so excited to have her around and always comparing her to the dark subjects she preferred made her heart feel sickeningly light.

Unfortunately, she had a permanent infection on (Y/N)—a crush. So she couldn’t not give in.

“Very well. I’ll assist,” said Wednesday. “But do not expect more.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, I promise,” said (Y/N).

Enid just pouted but nodded.

“Red Wine Supernova” by Chappell Roan blasted over the speakers as people danced in the Quad. Enid danced with her boyfriend, and more couples and groups jumped up and down while screaming lyrics.

(Y/N) laughed as they watched. They hadn’t joined yet since they didn’t really have a group and Enid was with Ajax. Plus, (Y/N) was worried they’d get too excited and steal energy from others. Still, they didn’t mind too much. It was a nice night, and Pride was fun to just witness, too. Getting to be proud of who they were—for being an outcast or for other reasons—was very important.

“I’m surprised you’re not dancing.”

(Y/N) jumped before turning to face Wednesday, who had popped up out of nowhere (lurking in the shadows as usual). They smiled. “Hey, Wednesday. I didn’t expect you.”

“These people are too boisterous. I cannot focus,” said Wednesday, crossing her arms.

(Y/N) smiled to themself. They could see Wednesday wearing the pin they had bought her for the last Pride event, so they knew that, despite Wednesday’s proclamations that being there was a mishap, she had put a miniscule amount of effort into coming.

“Right. Well, you’re welcome to hang out with me until the party dies down enough for you to write,” said (Y/N), smiling.

Wednesday nodded. The pair stood in silence as the dance continued, but Wednesday turned to face (Y/N). “I have this.” She held out her hand.

(Y/N) glanced down to find a pair of earrings that were shaped like scythes. Instead of a silver or black metal, though, they shone iridescently—rainbow.

“They’re very nice,” said (Y/N) appreciatively.

“Take them,” said Wednesday. “I ordered them in black, and these came by mistake.”

She was lying through her teeth, but what was she supposed to say, that she intentionally came with a gift to (Y/N) to repay them for the pin? Nonsense, that would be admitting that she thought about them more than she did anybody else.

(Y/N) smiled, and Wednesday had a suspicion they saw through her but were kind enough to not say anything.

“Thank you, Wednesday,” said (Y/N). They took off their current earrings, pocketed them, and put on Wednesday’s gifts. “How do I look?”

“Very reaper-like,” said Wednesday.

“Thanks,” said (Y/N), smiling.

Seeing them in her gift with that smile, Wednesday’s heart pounded. She was suddenly very pleased with herself. Turning away from them, she cleared her throat.

“You should dance,” said Wednesday. Anything to get (Y/N) away from her before she acted any more vulnerable around them.

“I’m worried I might drain someone out of excitement,” said (Y/N) sheepishly.

Wednesday raised a brow. “Nonsense. You have improved your control.”

“Have I really though?” said (Y/N).

“I have to do everything around here,” grumbled Wednesday, deciding she refused to let (Y/N) talk like that about themself. “We’re dancing.” She grabbed (Y/N)’s hand and pulled them towards the dance floor.

(Y/N) smiled as they looked at Wednesday’s hand and gripped it properly. “Okay!”

We’re dancing.

(Y/N)’s grin widened.

We.

What a nice word.

Taglist:

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#a good day for death #x reader #gn reader #nb reader #x gn reader #x nb reader #netflix wednesday #wednesday series #wednesday netflix #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams #pride special #pride month #queer pride #pride

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kurtvrich · 1 month ago

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Tumblr Super Hunk…

Congenital quad Nick has gone from gym rat to motivational speaker. From superficial appearances I’d say he’s doing quite well. You’ve come a long way, baby!

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vhyunjinverse · 2 years ago

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One of your Girls

f!reader x toji fushiguro (18+)

summary: There’s nothing like an old fashioned birthday celebration amongst friends going to the strip club, but it’s something when the Diamond herself is Toji’s treat for the night.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23 toji is 27), minor smoking, oral (m receiving), porn with plot, choking, creampie, squirting, spit kink, fingering, throat fucking, nipple piercing reader, tongue piercing toji

“Never been here before.” Toji grumbles, looking around the club. The music was loud, people going in and out of two separate doors. There was tight security and the area was clean, not your average strip club. Along with Gojo, Getou and Sukuna, the strip club was an ideal destination for celebrating Toji’s birthday. “It’s a cleaner spot, more expensive too. Might start comin here instead of the one we usually go to.” Sukuna pulls out a cigarette, quickly lighting it and giving it a puff. The quad shared a quick smoke session as they neared the door. Gojo taking the lead to the security guard that multitasked in reservations, “Fushiguro.” The white haired male leaning over the list to be nosey.

Toji scoffed while they took care of the business. He wasn’t one to really celebrate his birthday. To him it was another regular day of the year. However, his associates (his best friends he’s known for over ten years) always find some way to celebrate it (even without him). He took another look around the fancy place before chuckling. It reminded him of his college days, how wild he was before his family stepped in and sent him overseas. He stayed, and his friends came along. He caught his success here.

The inside of the club was even better. The floors a velvet red, private rooms lined the halls. Different stages each with a different group of girls dancing on poles. Men, hungry men, gawking at them with money ready to throw if it hasn’t been thrown yet.

“Shit….how much was this?” He laughs ex excitedly. Sukuna had already wondered off to a section the moment they stepped in. “Happy birthday.” Getou nodded with a wink afterwards. The trio kept walking down the hall until another door opened, and there was another stage ahead. Only one pole. The room was crowded but Toji found a seat close the front. Neither of the tables and chairs were placed too close to the stage. The men whistled. Gojo ended up separating from them once he sat eyes on the bar, his long haired friend right behind him.

There left the green eyed male, staring at the pole as the lights dimmed a seductive red. Music played from the speakers, good quality as well,

But that was when it happened. You- the diamond. The way your leg peeked from behind the velvet curtain, the way your body slowly made its way to the pole…how your hands wrapped around the cool metal. Your curls falling around your face, trailing behind your every move. Your curves emphasized by the black thong-like panties hugging your waist. Toji’s eyes rested on just how juicy your cunt looked hiding behind the material. His breath hitched. catching your brown eyes. Your hands snake around your neck, moaning softly while you rocked around the pole. Your eyes rolled, squeezing.

It felt like the whole world had stopped. Toji had seen many strippers, many..many strippers but you..you pulled him in. The room was quiet part from the music. No man spoke, no man made even a peep, other than the money being thrown at your body that moved like silk. You throw your head back, hands reaching for your bra. Toji scanned your face, your plump lips- the dimple he could see, all down to the beautifully detailed artwork on your face. If he knew you personally he wouldn’t even know.

The material slipped off your shoulders, you wrapping the straps around your fingers, holding the bra. Toji licked his lips, his tongue pausing on the scar for a second. His eyes trailing your pierced nipples, both hard.

“I heard..someone’s birthday is today.” Your voice sent shivers down his spine, straight to his cock that already shown its excitement. You glanced around the room until your eyes landed on his. You hum softly, heels clicking against the stage to the soft floor. On your knees, you crawled to him, back arching. Toji watched your every move, a smirk slowly rising to his lips. He heard Gojo’s snicker somewhere in the background, sneaky bastard. He’d have to thank him later.

You were between his thighs, hands on either side of his legs. Toji reached over to touch you- anything to be in control, but you shook your head. “Happy birthday..Toji.” You stood, your leg resting on the arm of his chair. So close…his heart was racing. It was only you in the room it seemed to Toji. He didn’t care for the men that whistled and still threw money. He didn’t acknowledge how rowdy they were when you sat on his lap and grinded over his hard cock. He sure as hell didn’t hear a damn thing when you leaned back, head on his shoulder, whispering softly into his ear: follow me.

“Happy fuckin birthday to me.” Toji looked over your body. The private room private to only you two. No one else. There was a small stage and pole but you didn’t use that, no, you didn’t have to. You leaned up, wrapping your bra around Toji’s broad frame and pulling him down. His lips crashed with yours. You moan into the kiss, his hands going down to grip your ass. You didn’t miss the cool material of his tongue piercing either. It made you moan. A good looking man at your job…perfect for you. “Been wanting this. Thought i was gonna have to wait.” He picked you up, causing you to squeal. “Toji-“

“You had yer turn princess. It’s my turn now.” He pushes you up against the wall, hand around your throat. You wrap your legs around his torso, his lips going to flick your pierced buds. “Mm..” you breathe. He sucked them. It almost seemed like he waited for your milk. The way he hungrily nawed at your breast..the grip on your neck. He squeezed and squeezed. “Want you on this dick.” He grumbles, other hand coming to squeeze the tit in his mouth. “So fuckin badly.”

Toji pulls back, mouth wet with his own saliva. He licked his lips as he pulled you from the wall. He carried you to the love seat. “You want that princess?” He asks, slapping your thigh to spread them. You whimper, opening your legs. He’s tugging at his belt to the button that couldn’t unbutton fast enough. You were so wet, nodding at his words… “Want you to fill me.” You lay back.

Toji’s fingers trail your inner thigh. He stops at your panties, the thing material being no help to how wet you were. “Look at that..” He groans, finger brushing over your clit through your panties. He licks his lips as he rubs it a bit faster. You kept your legs open wide as they twitched at the feeling. “all this for me. who else you spreadin your legs for huh?” He wasted no time smacking the soaked surface. You clench at the feeling.“hm?” Toji asks as he pulls your panties to the side. His fingers wet with your slick. You leaned right there for him. Your clit exposed, yearning for his touch. The tip of Toji’s fingers brush over the exposed skin, his eyes flicking up to your flushed face. How you stared at him while he teased your poor little pussy..the face you made while he made those slight brushes up against your sensitive clit. Your brows furrow when his finger slip inside of you with ease. Your lips forming a small ‘o’ at how his long fingers curled inside of you. “yes..yes-fuck.” your hips rock against the fingers that pressed and pressed inside of you.

“feels s’good toji..ah-“ you bite your lip,biting back the moans you wanted to scream out. Leaning forward, you run a hand over Toji’s clothes cock. The way you could see the veins pressed against the cotton material from how hard he was. “Need it..fuck i need it.” you whimper. “I know baby, I know.” Toji drunk on how wet you were for him. You pull at the band of his underwear until his cock springs free. You pull your hand back, licking a long, wet stripe on it. His tip was red and leaking. You wasted no time licking your land again, earning another finger from Toji. You take his cock in your hands, pumping him slow down base to tip.

Toji’s thumb presses against your clit, his fingers playing inside of you. “I could do this all day..yer warm princess.” He mumbled, his hips rocking forward. He fucked himself into your hand faster. “Right there..right there wait-“ you gasp, hips jerking. You squeezed around his fingers, that thumb still pressed against your clit. You whine feeling yourself gush over the fingers, his thumb circling your clit while you coated them. You lips fell agape while you stared up at him. Toji’s smirk only grew wider at that look in your eyes. His cock slipped right between your plump lips.

Legs shaking while Toji pumped your pussy full of his fingers, his thick cock touching the back of your throat. You stared up at him through teary eyes, smirk on his face while looking down at you. “Fuck baby- m’gonna cum soon if yer keep lookin at me like that.” He groans, other hand reaching down to tangle in your curls. He tugs softly, burring your face against the happy trail. His cock slipping all the way in your mouth. “I’ll give it to ya good if you don’t choke.” He laughs afterwards, throwing his head back at the warmth of your throat. You try your best, knowing just how needy you were in this moment.

“That’s it princess..fuck-“ Toji’s hips jerked. You choke slightly, the warm seed spilling down your throat. You gag just a bit, but still swallowing around his thick head. “fuck fuck fuck..” He groans, looking down at you through half lid eyes. “good fucking girl taking my cock.” He slips out, holding his cock against your mouth, slapping it against your lips. You lick every bit, Toji’s wet fingers slipping through his lips. “Taste good.”

You shudder and take a deep breath. Getting up you hold onto Toji’s arm. He takes your lips into his immediately. You taste yourself on his lips, and vise versa for him who only deepened the kiss. His spit trailed down your chin. His hand coming back to hold your neck. You pull back, “Shit-“ Out of breath. It only makes him laugh.

“This the part where I pay for yer college or somethin?” He takes a seat where you once were. You hum and straddle his lap. “Not yet.” You wink, “I said i wanted you in me, i meant that.”

He hums and rubs his hands over your hips, guiding you slowly on his cock. You hiss at the feeling, but the tip went in with ease thanks to Ojis fingers. You whimper, looking up at his slightly red face. Toji’s biting his lip, bottoming out once your heat surrounded him. “Perfect pussy for me hm?” He leans his head back on the soft cushion. You take his cock best you can. He lets you take all the time you need, which was nice. He worked you in perfectly. Once you settled down to base your body instinctively leaned into him. He was warm, his bare chest pulling your body into him. Toji bottoms out inside of you, shuddering.

He fucks into you nice and slow, every inch slipping into you perfectly. Toji filled every part of your hole. He moans into your ear, tongue lapping at your lobe. “M’gonna fill you up princess.” He groans. “Gonna give you all of this dick.”

“M..Myeah.” You groan into his chest. “cumming-“ you felt him hit your sweet spot. Your cunt tightening around him. “Shit..” He filled you with his seed. His grip on your hips tightened, the way he pushed you down further to make sure you took all of it..

“Happy birthday..” you slur, your eyes fluttering shut. He kisses your forehead chuckling softly.

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hyesunnyshine · 4 months ago

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The Sun Rises, A New Dawn is Here

Pairing: Adaine Abernant & Oisin Hakinvar, Adaine Abernant/Oisin Hakinvar

Word Count: 719 words

Summary: After resurrecting Ankarna and restoring Cassandra, Adaine returns to Elmville with a newfound purpose.

(can be read as unresolved romantic and sexual tension)

Content Warning: vulgar language, descriptions of violence

A burning desire fills Adaine when Ankarna brings her back to the gym.

Her cheeks feel hotter, burning red with urgency and desperation for something. No, more accurately, someone . Her vision tunnels in as her eyes dart from left to right, eventually landing on an orange bottle attached to Gorgug’s hip. She snatches the Potion of Fire Giant’s Strength from him.

“Adaine! What are you doing? There’s nothing in there.”

“I’ll get you a Basrar’s sundae to make up for it!” She yells at the half-orc, not bothering to look back at him and hear his comment. She opens the bottle and shakes what remaining liquid there is, and throws it into a trashcan on the way out of the gymnasium. The shouts of confusion from her adventuring party are drowned out with the slam of the gym’s door behind her.

Early morning sunlight washes over the Aguefort Adventuring Academy. Where there would normally be bustling conversations, cantrips and activity in the quad is now filled with nothing more than silence and mist. Yesterday, she had hoped that the morning after election night and Fabian’s birthday would be this serene, but now there is only a drive and an ache. Like a heartbeat, a name repeats steadily in her mind.

Oisin. Oisin. Oisin. Oisin. Oisin. Oisin.

The voice doesn’t stop when she spots the Rat Grinders, opening their eyes and collecting their thoughts after being revived for the second time in the last year, nor when her gaze finally stops at the blue-scaled student, scratching the back of his neck. He faces away from Adaine and she can’t catch his expression until a tanned Elven girl speaks up.

“Oisin, turn around you idiot.”

Ivy nudges him with her elbow, and the dragonborn finally turns, eyes cast down, brows furrowed, and demeanor so hunched into himself that makes it hard for anyone to believe him to be 6 feet tall. The cheeks on his reptilian face are blushed to a color Adaine didn’t believe was possible to achieve for someone of his skin tone.

For a few moments, the wizards stare at each other, the tension so thick that a Time Stop would look indifferent with their stillness. Ivy and Lucy are observing their friend with a quizzical brow, while Reuben looks to Oisin with intrigue and Mary Anne taps on her crystal uninterested in the current atmosphere.

It takes what feels like hours for Oisin to accept that Adaine is going to continue to stare at her until he breaks the silence.

“I'm sorry for the ping-pong balls. Must have been a pain to clean.”

And then something snaps in Adaine. The hesitation washes away and a new, stronger wave of something else, something hungry, takes over her frame.

Adaine takes a small step closer. Then another. Soon, she’s closing the several feet of distance between them in a light jog. Her left arm stretches out in front of her toward Oisin, and from the closing distance she can see he is visibly flustered, and perhaps something a bit more. A few feet turn into a few inches, and for a moment it seems like the two might collide.

Then Adaine turns on her heels, the rubber soles of her sneakers making a skitting sound on the asphalt. The hand that was out in front of her races forward, momentum making it hurl through the air, straight at Oisin’s snout.

A sickening crack of bone reverberates through the empty school campus echoing like the expensive speakers in Fig’s recording studio. Oisin recoils, clutching his nose when Adaine pivots sharply on one of her feet, and swings the other straight into his groin. Just as he begins to retract into his torso does Adain take her arms around his neck, the two facing each other with just a parting breath between them, and uses all the strength she borrowed from Gorgug’s potion to heave him over her shoulder and flip him onto the ground.

Oisin’s eyes are barely open in a daze of confusion and pain, the warm, orange sunrise washing over his blue scales. Adaine leans her head over him, her frame casting a shadow on him.

“That. Was for ruining Fabian’s birthday, you fucking cunt.”

Then without another word, the Elven Oracle walks back towards the school gym.

#dimension 20 #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #adaine abernant #the bad kids #dropout #oisin hakinvar #the rat grinders #one shot #adaine x oisin #fanfic #the library #dimension 20 fic

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autisticlenaluthor · 2 years ago

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Music

'When all you wanted was to be wanted, wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now'

Kara arrives fifteen minutes early.

She gets dropped off in front of the school by Eliza, and promises her she’ll be okay on her own. Once she’s alone, she crosses the quad by herself.

Earbud strings dangle across Kara’s body as she walks, head down, focused on the leaves and how they crunch beneath her boots. Taylor Swift’s Fearless echos through the tiny speakers and Kara can’t help but drum her fingers against her thigh to the beat.

The air is salty and damp with the smell of fallen leaves. It feels almost like she’s stepped into a painting, with the castle-like brick building in the foreground. It’s surrounded by trimmed hedges and trees with orange branches. Alex has always said private school kids are a different breed. But god, is their world fascinating.

She finds the meeting spot with relative ease. It’s a round concrete picnic table just off the main path, near the massive lion statue Lena described in her email. Kara sits and plops her backpack beside her, quieting the music on her iPod so she can focus as she takes out her pens and spiral notebook.

It’s supposed to be a simple project.

Sophomores from Metropolis Tech work with sophomores from the all-girls private school, Spence to clean up parks in the city. The whole thing is worth five extra credit points on her Earth Science final. Five extra credit points Kara desperately needs- because what kind of cruel joke is it to put an alien in Earth Science when they’ve only been on the planet for a year?

She gets her stuff organized and looks up, freezing when she sees the girl she’s been paired up with standing across the table. For someone with super hearing– spatial awareness does not seem to be a skill Kara possesses.

“You’re– are you Lena?” She stammers.

The girl nods. She has raven hair and pale skin like the vampires in the movies Alex forces her to watch. For a second, Kara selfishly wonders if she might be an alien too. She just looks so unlike the other people Kara knows. But Eliza says it’s rude to make assumptions, so Kara quickly tries to suppress those thoughts. Lena would likely perceive being asked about her home planet as a targeted insult.

“I’m Kara, it’s nice to meet you,” Kara says after a moment. “I like your outfit– you look so professional!”

Lenas brow furrows as she looks down at herself. She’s wearing a grey sweater vest with a blue crest over a white button-down and blue plaid skirt.

“It’s a uniform,” she says. “We all wear this.”

“Oh.”

Kara scans the campus- for the first time noticing all the girls in identical get-ups, all paired with knee-socks and Mary Jane shoes. A few of them wear dresses instead of skirts, one or two with school-branded sweatpants beneath them. Where had they all been five minutes ago, before she’d made a complete fool of herself?

“So… I was thinking we could go to Glacier Park,” Lena says, breaking the silence. “Most girls go to Central because it’s bigger. But Central is a tourist trap– Glacier Park hardly gets the same environmental attention.”

She’s quiet, keeping her eyes fixated on her hands as she speaks. But even so, she seems so sure of herself.

Maybe it’s a private school thing, Kara thinks. The students here are so smart, they don’t need to follow the social rules everyone else seems to abide by.

“Unless you were thinking something different?”

“Uh… I guess I hadn’t really thought about it,” Kara admits with a nervous laugh. “My classes and everything have been kinda crazy.”

Lena nods but doesn’t respond. Kara can’t tell if she’s judging her or if she just doesn’t have anything to say.

“You know… midterms week. Can you believe they do this every year?”

She isn’t sure why she keeps talking. In the emails they’ve sent, Lena only ever mentions the project. She doesn’t seem to be the chatty type– the type to care that Kara’s had four exams this week alone and that that’s why she can’t bring herself to be as invested in this whole thing as she should be.

It’s just that Lena is right there and maybe the reason she reminds Kara of aliens is that she may just be the prettiest girl she’s ever met– on Krypton or on Earth. And sure she isn’t talkative but that doesn’t mean Kara can help it either.

“Yeah,” Lena says, expression blank.

For a second, Kara freezes. She isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do with that.

“We um, we should start on the report too,” Lena restarts, as if nothing happened at all. “I brought some articles on pollution levels in the city. I thought it might be easier to get the reading portion out of the way today, so we can focus on the actual cleanup later.”

“Oh… okay, yeah, that sounds good.”

\\\\\

They go with Lena’s suggestion and meet at the entrance of Glacier Park.

Kara gives it her best attempt to look nice for her. Alex says it’s silly– they’re going to be cleaning up garbage all day, so why does she need to look good? But Kara can’t help it.

Lena is clean and elegant and weirdly perfect. And for whatever reason, she seems to know so much more than Kara does. There’s a gap between them and even though they’re strangers, even though they don’t have to be friends (Kara isn’t even sure if she wants to be friends) Kara hates it. She hates how isolating it feels.

So she does her hair in two braids, and puts on her favorite jeans with the black long-sleeved v-neck that reminds her of Rory Gilmore. It isn’t much but it feels good– feels like she’ll surpass whatever expectation Lena has of her.

When Kara finds the entrance, Lena is already there waiting for her. She’s standing under the big iron archway, carrying her backpack and the trash grabbers she’s borrowed from the school.

Kara smiles and waves over at her.

“Hey!”

Lena gives a slight smile in return and nods in acknowledgment.

“You look nice,” she says. She hands a trash pick to Kara who mentally pumps her fist and kicks a leg with excitement.

“Thank you.” Kara smiles. “So do you.”

Everything after that feels easy.

They pick up trash in relative silence. Lena stays in the grassy section while Kara cleans the pathway. It’s quiet and simple until it isn’t.

“Lena Luthor?”

Lena lifts her head and Kara drops the trash bag she’s been holding. Standing a few feet away are two girls around their age. One wears a Spence School Phys ED t-shirt. Lena must know them, Kara figures.

“How nice of you to help your brother with his community service,” says the one not wearing the Spence shirt. She has a high ponytail and blue Converse sneakers. She reminds Kara of the girls in Bring it On.

“But I don’t think it’s gonna make a real difference, didn’t he get like… what, twenty-five years?” she adds. Her friend– Spence shirt, laughs.

A crinkle forms between Kara’s eyes and she waits for Lena to react. She’s seen fights like this go down at her own school– groups of bullies ganging up on lower-classmen in the girl’s bathroom or staircase. They always seem to have the upper hand until they push too far.

But Lena doesn’t do anything. Her face doesn’t change. She just looks straight past them, the same way she does when she speaks to Kara, and says nothing.

“Hey, be careful with her,” Spence shirt jokes. “She might snap like he did.”

Lena looks down. Her face is red. She grips her trash pick so tight her palms grow sweaty and knuckles turn white, but still, she’s silent.

So Kara says something.

She can’t help it– she knows she shouldn’t. But the words slip out, and before she knows it, she’s asking-

“What are you talking about?”

Converse sneakers looks at her like she’s crazy.

“Lex Luthor,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Ya know– that psycho who’s obsessed with Superman and killed all those people?”

Kara nods.

“That’s her brother.”

Kara swallows.

It feels like being punched in the gut– knocks the wind right out of her.

And suddenly, she’s back in the living room, watching the TV with the volume off at three in the morning because she couldn’t miss the live reports on her cousin’s condition. Because she needed to know if he was dead or alive. Because she couldn’t cope with losing one more person, and if he died, that meant she had to go to.

She’s in her closet the night after the attack after hearing a crash in the backyard. It’s raining out. Pouring, thunderous flurries. Eliza said the noise was just branches hitting the window in the storm. But Kara couldn’t believe her. She couldn’t get his face out of her head, trailing the worry that now, he was after her too.

By the time she finds herself back in reality, the girls are gone and Lena is still looking at her shoes.

“You can go home,” she says through a forced, wavering smile. “I’ll finish cleaning and write the report. You’ll still get the extra credit.”

This time, it’s Kara’s turn to go quiet.

This stranger, this girl who she found so pretty and alluring, who she dressed up for, who she emailed with for weeks, is the sister of the very person who wants all of her kind dead. Maybe they don’t have a friendship, but to be acquaintances is still too much. To know her at all is to feel every ounce of hurt and damage her family has inflicted.

Kara isn’t aware of how tight her jaw has been clenched until she starts to taste blood spouting from the sides of her cheeks.

She isn't going to put up with this. She isn't going to be around her.

So she does as Lena says-- drops her trash bag, and walks away.

#supercorptober2023 #this got sad fast #supercorp #supercorp fanfic #lena luthor #kara danvers #tw death mention

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