#Too tired to tag all the pairings individually

[cece693]

May I pretty please request Hannigram with an SO that really likes biting things? Like they’ll just nibble on anything available, including themself or Hanni/Will

male reader if possible :)

Bite Me, Darling

pairing: hannibal lecter and will graham x male reader tags: self soothing mechanism, male reader bites things, Alana bashing, jack Crawford bashing, just everyone in general is against this relationship, innocent male reader, hannibal and will want to keep him this way

It was strange, how everything about him was normal on the surface but wildly unique beneath. The way he moved through life, unaware of the way people stared, was something that only a few people truly understood. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, for all their intelligence and their capacity for manipulation, had each found something in him—something pure and raw—that spoke to them in ways they couldn’t articulate.

You were innocent in the most innocent way. You didn’t know how to read people’s intentions, how to navigate the murky waters of deceit and pain that others swam in. You were a creature of quiet habits: chewing on pens, biting the corner of your sleeves, even nibbling your fingers. It wasn’t that you was anxious, but rather that this was your way of processing the world. You didn’t speak much, but when you did, it was with a tenderness that could disarm even the most hardened individuals.

For some, this made you seem almost too innocent for the likes of Will and Hannibal. They were two men who dealt with darkness constantly, who played in shadows. Hannibal, the brilliant psychiatrist with an appetite for blood, had found himself intrigued long before anything happened between them. How did such a pure soul even come to be? How was it that someone as complex as Hannibal could be pulled into a world where biting things wasn’t just a habit—it was part of who you were?

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Hannibal was nothing if not a man who craved complexity, and you, with your simple yet peculiar habit of biting, had an allure that he could never fully comprehend. He wasn’t sure when the lines had blurred, when you had shifted from being someone he wanted to understand to someone he wanted to possess.

Will, on the other hand, was less of a mystery. He found your unspoken understanding of him soothing. Will was not a man who found comfort easily. He’d had too many years of running from his own mind, of balancing between the need for human connection and the heavy weight of his empathic gifts. But you were different. You never demanded anything from him. There was no need to over explain; no fear of rejection. You were there, and that was enough.

The three of them had fallen into a relationship that no one, especially not Alana Bloom or Jack Crawford, could understand. Jack, upset that you had a greater control over his 'asset' perceived you as a problem that needed to be extinguished immediately. While he couldn't force Will to break up with you, he began to use manipulative language more frequently, hinting that his absence was endangering the lives of people. But after a while, his words began to lose power.

"Will, you can’t just leave because he told you to," Jack would say, his voice thick with frustration. "We need you to solve this case. You're part of this team." But Will, unmoved, always told him he was tired and needed a break—as if killers would respect that and stop murdering until he felt better. Jack would then begin to retort how soft Will was becoming, as if that ever mattered when others perceived him as a madman.

Alana, on the other hand, was driven by something more personal. Jealousy. She had been drawn to both Hannibal and Will. Her feelings for them had never been simple or easy, but she had always harbored a belief that somehow, one day, they would choose her. Instead, they had chosen you. The idea of you, with your gentle biting habit, managing to capture the attention of both men—of all people—was enough to make her skin crawl with resentment. How could someone so abnormal and clearly dealing with childhood trauma have the audacity to step into their world and steal both her love interests?

She couldn’t help but feel that you didn’t deserve them. You weren't like her—you didn’t understand the complexities of their lives nor seemed to be able to handle the hurdles that came with it. And so, she set to work.

It started subtly. A conversation here, a comment there.

“Don’t you ever feel like you’re a little strange?” she would ask, voice light, as if it were a passing thought. “I mean, the biting…it's something you can't help, but don't you ever want to stop it? Be seen as normal for once in your life?"

At first, you had laughed it off, thinking nothing of it. But over time, the seeds of doubt were planted. You began to wonder. Was your habit of biting things wrong? Your lovers had never raised concerns, but it would be something they'll definitely keep private, perhaps a secret only shared between Hannibal and Will. You never thought that Alana's words were connived to break your relationship apart, your naivety something the woman had taken into account and used to her advantage.

So, you tried to stop.

You started small: you tucked your hands into your sleeves when your instincts told you to gnaw at the fabric, and you opted for straws instead of biting the rim of a glass cup. You made an effort—any effort—to keep your teeth away from Will and Hannibal’s skin, no matter how comforting that gentle pressure felt against them. At first, neither man noticed; after all, it was easy to dismiss as a passing mood or an unremarkable change in routine.

But after a couple of days, small signs alerted both of them to the shift. Will began to see you catch yourself mid-motion, your hand halfway to your mouth before you stopped and pressed it flat against your chest instead. Hannibal noticed the anxious flicker in your eyes whenever you realized you were about to bite down on your sleeve—or worse, on him—and yanked yourself away.

It was Will who first chose to address it. One evening, you were curled up in his living room, dogs scattered around you like living blankets. The space was quiet, the only sound the gentle snoring of a dog and the low hum of the overhead light. You were running your thumb over your bottom lip—an almost-bite—when Will finally spoke.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, forcing a small smile. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

He studied you with those empathetic eyes of his. You knew he was reading more into your silence, but Will was nothing if not patient. “You’ve been distant,” he finally ventured, words slow and careful. “I don’t mind if you need space, but if something’s bothering you, I want to help.”

The sincerity in his voice tore at your heart. You wanted to confide in him, to say Alana made me feel wrong, and I don’t want to be wrong for you, but the fear of seeming weak or needy held you back. You simply shook your head and offered a reassuring pat to one of the dogs resting on your lap. “I’m fine,” you lied, hoping he wouldn’t push. “Just tired.”

Hannibal discovered your change in behavior under more intimate circumstances. The two of you were alone in his kitchen, the scent of simmering stock filling the air. He had taken your hand to guide you closer to the cutting board, demonstrating a particular technique for slicing vegetables. Normally, a casual closeness like this was an invitation for you to lean in, maybe press your teeth gently against the back of his hand or the curve of his arm—just enough to ground yourself in his presence. This time, you didn't lean in nor brought his hand to your lips.

Hannibal stilled, eyebrows lifting in polite surprise. “Darling,” he asked softly, “what’s wrong?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. You swallowed hard. “Just didn’t want to hurt you,” you offered lamely, though you both knew you had never caused him pain before. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he released your hand without comment. You wondered if your face betrayed the unease you felt, because Hannibal’s expression shifted into something gentler, concerned. But he chose not to press you then and there. Instead, he simply carried on, instructing you gently with the knife work and occasionally brushing a reassuring hand across your back.

Though both men tried to give you space, their combined worry spilled over as time went on. Neither was used to seeing you so guarded, especially around them. On a chilly afternoon, the three of you gathered in Hannibal’s study—a routine that had become something of a tradition. Will sipped his whiskey quietly while Hannibal and you browsed through his impressive collection of classical music. There was a soothing air of comfort, and for a brief moment, your doubts dimmed.

But of course, it was Will who noticed your jaw moving—saw the slight shift as your teeth worked the soft flesh inside your cheek. He placed his whiskey glass down on the table with a muted clink before pushing himself out of the chair.

“Stop,” he murmured, crossing the room with purpose. His voice was gentle but firm as he stepped close to you. Without hesitating, he brought his hand to your chin, his touch warm yet insistent. “Open your mouth.”

You stiffened, instinctively pulling away. You shook your head, trying to avert your gaze from Will’s intense blue eyes. You didn’t want to show him. You didn’t want him to see the damage you’d done to keep from biting them instead.

But then, Hannibal appeared at Will’s side, his presence commanding. He didn’t say a word, but the look he gave you—equal parts concern and disappointment—made your shoulders slump in silent surrender. Unable to deny the weight of their worry, you parted your lips, letting Will tilt your chin just enough so both he and Hannibal could peer inside.

A faint gasp escaped Will as he saw the small puncture in your cheek, the fresh bead of crimson welling against your lower molars. Hannibal’s lips flattened into a thin line, and a flicker of displeasure darkened his gaze. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small wound, but it spoke volumes to them—volumes about how you had been coping alone.

Hannibal’s voice was low, edged with concern. “You’ve been hurting yourself to avoid biting us.” It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet statement of fact.

Will let go of your chin carefully. “Why?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

You swallowed thickly, your hand hovering near your mouth in a subconscious attempt to hide the injury you’d just revealed. “Alana said it’s weird. The biting,” you whispered, your voice unsteady. “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

A stretch of silence followed your confession, Hannibal and Will exchanged a look—a silent conversation filled with understanding and mild anger toward Alana’s interference. Will’s gaze softened as he turned back to you. “We told you before,” he reminded you gently, “you don’t have to hide this from us. You’re not hurting us—”

“—nor inconveniencing us,” Hannibal interrupted, stepping closer again. The resolute calm in his eyes steadied you. “In fact, we’ve grown quite accustomed to it, and dare I say, fond of it. Your habit is part of who you are.”

You glanced down, feeling the sting of tears threatening in your eyes. “I just…I didn’t want you to get sick of me, or to think I was some sort of burden.”

Will’s hand found yours, his fingers threading through with a gentle squeeze. “That’s not possible,” he murmured. “We miss it…miss you being comfortable around us.”

Hannibal placed a hand against your cheek, being mindful of your tender injury. “You never need to hurt yourself on our behalf,” he said, voice quiet but unyielding. “Any pain you feel—physical or otherwise—we’d much rather help you carry it, not watch you bury it inside.”

At those words, a sharp wave of relief pulsed through you, along with an ache of regret for having doubted them. You inhaled shakily, letting yourself lean just a fraction closer to Hannibal’s touch, feeling the stability it offered. Will eased his other hand around your waist, tugging you gently in his direction. Sandwiched between them, you could almost believe nothing else mattered.

“I’m sorry,” you managed, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “I…I’ll try not to hide it anymore.”

Will’s lips quirked into a small, comforting smile. “No more chewing on your cheek,” he said, voice warm with affection. “You’ll let us help, right?”

With a hesitant nod, you felt Hannibal’s hand slide from your cheek to the back of your head, urging you closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. He cast a glance at Will, who leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Despite the swirl of emotions, you felt a gentle calm in their presence—a sense of being anchored.

[karmic-epiphany-archived]

So I wrote a thing for Mizuki's birthday

Also @hovkinnie Hi I know you're equally as feral about AnHaneMizuEna as me so have this thrown at you (If you want me not to do that lmk and I won't)

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.1 gojo satoru sent you a message

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, mentions of weed, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot

ᰔ chapter. 1/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 1.3k (short one to start off, but the rest are longer)

a/n. welcome to this pilot chapter! this was originally going to be a one-shot but i got way too carried away and ended up planning out a whole series. i hope you enjoy!

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1

♬.*ﾟplaylist

|| 2:13AM Gojo Satoru has requested to follow you

You blink the sleepiness in your eyes away as the harsh light of your phone hits your face. Somewhere in the middle of the crazy dream you were having, you heard your phone incessantly pinging and eventually woke you up to make you realize you forgot to turn the ringer off before going to sleep. Among all the spam email, iCloud storage warnings, and news headliners, there was one notification in particular that had you wondering if you were still dreaming.

“Ugh…y/n, please, turn your phone off,” you heard your roommate Mina mumble in the twin sized bed at the other end of the room as she shuffled her pillow above her head so that it covered both of her ears. You glance out the window of your shared apartment, peering at the pale moonlight, before your tired and heavy eyes travel back to your phone and press on the Instagram notification.

Suspecting this was maybe some prank account, you clicked on the small icon in your inbox that took you to a profile page. Gojo Satoru, Senior at University of Tokyo, Business Major, D1 Soccer #10, SAE. 12k followers, 172 following, 38 posts. 

Still thinking you’re dreaming, you accept the follow request and watch as the number on his following increases by one, now 173. Your thumb swipes up on your phone as you take in the square images of his profile. Pictures of him and his friends recreating memes…food that he’s eaten recently…frequent vacation posts in exotic countries…and a whole lot of what seemed to be professionally taken soccer photos of him striking goals and hitting balls with his head in mid air. You have put a lot of effort into your own Instagram photos (despite your modest 464 followers), mostly posting compilation slideshows of your favorite film photos that you’ve taken recently, yet somehow his feed looks much more inviting than yours.

You turn onto your side and continue to look through his photos. 624 comments, 373 comments, 958 comments. Many were from his friends trying to embarrass him, and many others were from girls that probably wanted him to notice them. You noticed he only really replied to comments from his friends. 

You knew who he was, of course. Gojo Satoru was one of the most, if not the most, popular guys on your college campus. When you got to college, you thought the whole “social hierarchy” thing would be over but it still seemed like there were certain groups of people that almost everyone knew about, "elite" individuals who other students could only dream of associating with. At UTokyo, the fraternities and sororities practically owned the place so of course Gojo was well-known since he was a member of the school’s most iconic frat, SAE. Not to mention, the school adored its soccer team–undefeated since 2012–and Gojo Satoru was the most talented center forward the division has seen in years. 

But as for why he requested to follow you, a film major that doesn’t play any sports and isn’t even in a sorority, well you’re just not sure. 

It’s then when you get yet another notification. 

“Oh my god, y/n, turn it off!” Mina mumbles into her mattress. You click the side button to turn off the ringer. 

|| 2:24AM Gojo Satoru sent you a message 

Your heart starts to beat a bit faster as you quickly slide to your DMs page. You notice three unread conversations from a few of your friends, probably from when they decided to send you their entire explore page, and then you see a little (1) next to your message requests box. When you open it, you see his icon in your inbox. It’s a simple picture of him in his soccer jersey, his smile wide as one of his team members who was mostly cropped out of the photo seemed to be putting him in a headlock. You see the first few words of the message.

|| 2:24AM Gojo Satoru: Hey, sorry if this is weir…

You’re about to click on it when you stop yourself. It was really late at night and you didn’t know if you wanted to entertain a conversation with this man you knew literally nothing about (at least on a personal level) and weren’t even sure why he was messaging you in the first place. Plus, he would see that you’ve read it and so you would feel anxious to respond. But there was no way to see his full message unless you opened it. Even though you considered this to be weirdly intimate since it was a message sent at two in the morning, you figured that was probably normal for the likes of people like Gojo Satoru, who probably were out drinking and partying until five in the morning every night, regardless of any 8AM lectures or not. 

But unfortunately, curiosity always kills the cat (that’s the expression, right?) and so you click on his message. 

|| 2:24AM Gojo Satoru: Hey, sorry if this is weird…I don’t think we’ve ever met before, but my buddy’s really into your roommate, and he’s tried to invite her out to our frat’s house parties but he’s had no luck. Think you could convince her to come this weekend? You’re welcome to come too, of course

You blink in surprise before rolling your eyes, not entirely sure why you were expecting any different. Maybe Mina wasn’t budging on his friend’s advances because she wants to be asked out on an actual date, and not to some house party. But you figured frat guys wouldn’t really understand that. Besides, how did he know that you were her roommate? You’re just about to type a response when you see three little dots in the left side corner, indicating he was typing, and you hold your breath.

|| 2:27AM Gojo Satoru: Here are the details

And then he sends you a post from what looks like his fraternity’s Instagram page. There’s an address, a time, the name of the DJ and girls get in free bolded at the top. You realize you’ve never even been invited to a fraternity’s house party until this very moment. 

You briefly consider not responding to him and just setting your phone back down on your nightstand, rolling over, and falling asleep. But you find your fingers moving on their own to type.

|| 2:31AM You: you’re messaging me to help your friend get with my roommate?

There’s an uncomfortable two minutes where there’s no response from him and for some reason your anxiety is through the roof. You remember the countless times you’ve heard people describe Gojo Satoru in passing: there’s just something about him that demands your attention. 

His notification pops up at the top of the Instagram app when you were scrolling through reels to distract yourself and you accidentally clicked on it too fast. 

|| 2:33AM Gojo Satoru: Uh, yeah? 

You sigh as you ponder the proposition. You don’t even know for sure why Mina wasn’t really responding to his friend’s advances, maybe the guy was a creep or just not her type. And even if she was somewhat interested in him, she’s already refused to go to any of their frat’s house parties, so how would you be able to persuade her? 

You finally convince yourself you’ve had enough of Gojo’s messages for the night and you’ll choose whether or not you want to revisit the topic again in the morning, until another message flashes across your screen.

|| 2:38AM Gojo Satoru: What can I do to get you to convince her to come this weekend?

You bite down on your lip at his question, and an idea flashes through your mind.

|| 2:40AM You: i’ll find a way to convince her. my terms and conditions will come later

He responds in a second.

|| 2:40AM Gojo Satoru: Deal 

a/n. dude literally slid into your DMs lol. thank you for reading! i also post this story over on AO3, if you're more into that format, but i just wanted to start posting over here on tumblr too. hope to see you in the next one!

➸ take me to chapter two!

[vanillawurld]

༊*·˚ Mi Corazoncito

✧.* Request- Anonymous

"Hii can you do a jealous joost like he sees you with ski aggu and gets jealousss💞🤍🤍"

✧.* Pair - Joost Klein x Fem! Reader (Slightly Ski Aggu x Fem! Reader)

✧.* Tags & Warnings - Jealousy, confessing, food(?) and tension

✧.* Summary - Joost gets jealous when he sees you interacting with his close friend. Seeing the girl he likes laughing with another man almost drives him insane.

✧.* Extra- AVENTURA AVENTURA I LOVE AVENTURA I LOVE AVENTURA AVENTURA NO LE DIGAS A NADIE LO MUCHO QUE TE QUIERO

✧.* Word Count - 1,739

Roomating with a producer can be a bit of a handful. There's always random people in their home, playing loud sounds, always hearing conversations or laughter. It's enough to make people want to move out, but not (Y/N). It was like that from the beginning though. She got tired of the loud noises and kept considering moving out, but that changed. She stayed because of the people she met. Her roommate introduced her to some of the coolest people ever.

One of those "coolest people" happened to be a Dutch musician by the name of Joost Klein. He wasn't just a cool person, he was an absolute sweetheart. He was a gentleman, some may say.

One of their first interactions happened in the kitchen. Joost was getting a drink out of the fridge while (Y/N) was reaching for a plate that was placed in a higher cabinet. She was tugging at the big batch of plates, she didn't realize the smaller ones on top were about to fall on her head. Joost noticed this and immediately jumped into action and caught the smaller plates. Joost asked (Y/N) if she was okay to which she jokingly responded with, "Oh my God you saved my life." That marked a new friendship in the process.

After that, Joost and (Y/N) started talking more, some conversations being taken to Instagram DM's or regular messages. Whenever Joost came over to work on new music, (Y/N) would be the first person in the room to talk to him. They easily connected and it was a euphoric feeling for both of them. As time went on, some feelings were starting to develop from both ends. The more they interacted with each other, the more those feelings got stronger. At first, it was a concerning issue for both Joost and (Y/N), but they individually came up with the idea 'If I don't tell, then nothing will happen.'

They never knew how hard that mentality was going to affect them.

It was another work day for (Y/N)'s roommate, meaning people were going to come over, also meaning Joost was coming over. (Y/N) waited on the living room couch for the door to make a knocking sound. Joost had a special knock that made (Y/N) instantly know it was him. It was the rhythm to (Y/N)'s favorite song. When she heard the rhythm knock, she shot up from the couch and basically ran to the door. She opened the door and was met with her blonde friend and another blonde that she didn't recognize. He had a pair of ski googles on top of his head which made him stand out just a bit.

"Hi stinky," (Y/N) heard Joost say. She smiled and gave him a hug and welcomed him and his friend in.

"How are you?" she asked Joost. He just just gave her a thumbs up and a dumb smile, which she adored.

"This is my friend, August," Joost pointed to his friend. "But you call him Ski Aggu because you're not his friend," Joost jokingly added.

(Y/N) smiled and rolled her eyes. She turned to August and put out her hand, to which he happily shook, "It's nice to meet you, my name's (Y/N)."

"It's lovely to meet you too, my friend Joost was telling me all about you," His voice and accent were deep. "You seem like a fun girl to be around," He continued, his tone changing just a tiny bit.

"I'd like to think I am," She replied. The atmosphere got a little thick in Joost's head. 'What did August mean by that? And why did (Y/N) even reply?' were thoughts going through Joost's head, but he pushed them away to not overthink.

The moment was put to an end when (Y/N)'s roommate opened his door, making everyone turn to him. "Oh shit, sorry guys. I kinda forgot you two were coming," he said, "The song's almost done, I just want Joost to make a bit more background vocals and then we're done. It shouldn't take long."

(Y/N) walked back to sit down on the couch and turned on the TV. She watched as Joost and August walked to her roommate's room to finish what they needed to do. August gave (Y/N) a little wave before entering the room, making her smile and wave back. Joost caught this and made him question even more, but didn't want to overthink it.

Before shutting the door, Joost turned to (Y/N) and jokingly said, "No girls allowed."(Y/N) giggled and told him to shut up and get to work in a joking manner.

Seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours, at least that's what it felt like to (Y/N). (Y/N) never gave the work her roommate did any interest, even though she loves listening to music. It was ironic. But one thing she learned from her roommate, making music isn't easy or for the weak.

(Y/N) was distracted on her phone until she heard a door open. She looked up from her device and saw August walking toward the kitchen to look for a snack. She watched as he walked towards the pantry and opened it up to see what he can munch on. She kind of felt bad because her roommate didn't really buy snacks like she did. August was struggling to figure out what to get because he didn't know which snacks he was allowed to get.

"You know, I have a full bag of takis towards the back. You can have them if you want." (Y/N) suggested.

August looked at her, back at the pantry, and back at her. "Are you sure?" he asked. (Y/N) nodded and told him she didn't mind. He smiled and reached toward's the back to find a party-sized bag of chips.

August was about to go back to the room until he realized that (Y/N) was all alone. He felt bad leaving her alone while he was with his friends working. He wanted to get to know her, alone. He sat next to her and turned towards her. "You're really nice." was all August said.

(Y/N) giggled. "Thank you, but why are you saying that?"

"Well, I don't know anyone else who would let me have their full bag of chips, let alone a party-size bag," August answered.

(Y/N) laughed at his response. At the end of the day, it was never that serious, but (Y/N) loved when people took their gratitude to a silly level. "This guy almost never buys snacks and whenever he does, he eats it in the same hour." She added, referring to her roommate.

August and (Y/N) continued their conversation that started because of a bag of chips. August kept making (Y/N) laugh with his responds and comments, which caught the attention of another musician in the very next room. "Damn, bro. He's taking your girl," Joost's producer friend jokingly said. Joost lightly punched him on the shoulder and got up to "Investigate."

When Joost walked out the room, he instantly noticed how close August was sitting next to (Y/N). That made his stomach feel weird. He hated watching another man make (Y/N) laugh, especially if it was one of his friends. He wanted to jump into the conversation so he didn't feel left out. "Guys, i'm kind of hungry," was all he said to break their conversation.

August and (Y/N) looked at Joost. "I'm kind of hungry too, i'm not going to lie," (Y/N) added, "I could door-dash us some food but.... I honestly don't want to pay that much for delivery."

"Oh, August and Teun can go get the food," Joost immediately suggested.

August looked at Joost and raised his eyebrow. "Why can't you go?" he asked.

"Because I don't want to and I need to record more adlibs," Joost replied. There was an awkward silence between the two blondes. (Y/N) didn't know why but she felt like there was weird tension between the two. The more they stared at each other, the more the tension was because thicker, someone could cut it with a knife. The weird moment was broken when Teun walked out the room and said, "Come on, August. You can choose what we eat," He was while grabbing his keys.

August mentally sighed and got up to leave with Teu, leaving Joost and (Y/N) alone. It didn't take (Y/N) much to realize Joost was bothered about something. "Are you okay?" she asked. Joost turned around and muttered about him being fine. (Y/N) was bothered by his response and called him out, "Don't do that. Don't. I know something is wrong, so tell me."

Joost slowly turned back around to look at (Y/N) and was mentally debating on whether he should tell her or not. He looked at the ground like a little kid that's about to get in trouble and sighed. "Honestly..." was all he could get out while making a quick pointing gesture at the door.

(Y/N) didn't understand what he meant until she connected the dots when she remembered the tension between August and him. She gave him a sympathetic smile and patted the spot next to her on the couch. He quickly sat next to her and she laid her head on his shoulder, making his heart race. "He can never replace you," she whispered to him.

Joost chuckled and reached to lay his hand on her cheek and jawline, covering her mouth. He felt like in that moment, it was the right time to let her know how he felt. "I like you, a lot. And I hate how a situation involving a man made me tell you," he confessed.

It was silent for a couple of seconds. Making Joost worry. "I like you more, but I still want to get to know you," (Y/N) replied. Joost smiled and looked at her.

"How about I let you know me more over dinner?" Joost asked. (Y/N) gave him a big smile and nodded. She gave him a quick kiss on his temple and got up to run to her room. Joost watched as she disappeared into her room. He finally got the girl he wanted and was once grateful for his envy.

˖◛. *. ⋆ Vanilla Speaks

im back because im bored. writing with nails is hard so sorry if theres mistakes </3

it took a mid ass man to break my heart to get me to come back onto here

[jeoncasino]

Prospects | teaser |

Tired of life and all it had to bring for you, things take a turn when you find out two of your friends start to take a liking to you. With newfound emotions and a whole lot of drama, what happens when they start competing for your love?

Pairings: JJK x fem! reader [x KNJ]

Genre: college au, love triangle, friends to lovers, fluff, angst, slow burn, eventual smut.

Tags: rich! jjk, law student! jjk, dark hair! jjk, sweet! jjk, jealous! jjk, needy! jjk, obsessed! jjk, but also dom! jjk, slightly toxic! jjk, english major! knj, boy bsf! knj, co-worker! knj, husband material! knj, brown hair! knj, sweet! knj, jealous! knj, sad knj:(, everything’s so complicated and everyone’s in denial, jk's love language is physical touch and acts of service, jk has mommy issues so he's too attached to oc, joonie is so sweet i feel bad for him, gguk will try everything in his power to make oc his, ggukkie lowkey hates joonie lol, my characters are flawed don’t expect them to be perfect.

Warnings: jealousy.

⋆ †₊ Series Masterlist

Minors do not interact.

“So, what are we having today, Mr. Jeon? Will you get me a cookie again?” you teased, looking up at him from behind the counter with those captivating eyes Jeongguk couldn’t get enough of lately.

He smiled sheepishly. “You know you owe me eight bucks, right?”

You gasped. “Hello? You literally beg me to take your cookies!” Pointing a finger at him, you both laughed. Just as he was about to defend himself, a stern voice interrupted.

“Y/n, I can take over if you’d like. Go on your break now.” Your shift manager, Namjoon, appeared beside you, pushing you aside with his hip in a friendly manner, trying to lighten his previous tone. After apologizing to Jeongguk and saying it was your duty to follow your manager’s orders, you left.

Jeongguk was immediately irritated. This wasn’t the first time Namjoon had come between you two, always trying to distract you and take you away from him whenever he had the chance. It was obvious that the man you called your best friend didn’t plan on staying friends forever, and the only one who couldn’t see it was you. The funny part? Jeongguk didn’t know why that bothered him most.

Both men, irritated by each other’s presence, exchanged heavy, intense gazes. Namjoon spoke first. “Your order?”

Jeongguk leaned over the counter, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles turned white. “Pull this move one more time, and I’ll get you fired,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Mr. Jeon,” Namjoon mimicked, “I’m just trying to take your order.”

Jeongguk fumed. “Cut the act, Namjoon. You know you hate that she likes me, even after you’ve tried to throw dirt on me just to get a chance,” Jeongguk stepped back. “Which, by the way, is nonexistent.”

And just like that, Jeongguk broke the moment and walked out of the café.

Author: what do we think what do we thinkkk, yall liked it yall hated it lmkk. if any of you are interested in joining the taglist for these series also lmk!!

This is a work of fiction. The scenes, characters and events depicted are purely fictional and not intended to represent real-life procedures or individuals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Do not use this story as your own.

@jeoncasino 2024 ©

[tsukimefuku]

CHAPTER THREE PT. II: DIMINISHED CAPACITY ❀ HIGURUMA SENSEI SERIES

masterlist link | mdni! | oopsie, is that... a special banner? gee I wonder if there's something to see at the end of this chapter, huh?

❀ diminished capacity.

Diminished capacity refers to an individual’s impossibility to form the intent necessary for committing any criminal act, because their capacity to fully comprehend the nature of their actions is impaired. It doesn’t, however, completely exclude their responsibility, and they may be held accountable to a lesser offense.

wc: 5.5K ❀ pairing for the series: professor!higuruma x student!reader

❀ tags and c/w.

non-curse au. college au. slow-burn romcom. professor and college student pre-relationship. internship interviews suck. nobara likes to steal food from people. mentions of hypothetical violent crime. nanami gets pestered by gojo even here. higuruma likes sunflowers. nanami has a sixth sense.

❀ notes etc.

Apologies to any colleagues reading the word “evidence” in place of “proof” and feeling like tackling me with a broom, lol. Also, a huge thanks to everyone who came around for part one, I hope you guys get to enjoy reading this just as much I enjoyed writing it.

Argh… Monday.

Internship hunt was hell. There was no other way to spin that wheel. You knew it’d be incredibly hard, but not this hard.

Mondays were cursed days, but to know that not only cursed, they’d also start with terrible interviews — plural — was not in your bingo card for this week. Between  oh, you just started criminal law I this semester? and we will let you know laid the crumbling sounds of your utmost despair of knowing full well you were in for a ride for those next few days.

Well, if only daydreaming about him could save you.

It didn’t, though.

Unfortunately.

You arrived at the campus cafeteria where you were supposed to meet Nobara. Even on a fairly uncomfortable chair, she slouched nearly enough to slide down onto the ground like a rag doll, and it didn’t take you much to realize these past few days were throwing her through the wringer too.

“You look like death,” you joked as you pulled your chair to sit with her, putting your tuna sandwich and can of soda over the table.

“And you look like… like… hmph,” she scoffed while rolling her eyes and propping herself back up again.

“No snarky comeback? Are you that tired?” 

“Leave me alone,” she replied, and apparently, she really wasn’t in the mood for playful banter. You took a bite out of your sandwich, pondering if you should ask her about it, but she beat you to it. “Why is getting internships this early in college is so damn hard?”

“Apparently, places don’t trust complete newbies or youngsters,” you noted, “and they want someone who has already studied all the necessary subjects prior to hiring. Also, people with prior experience are preferred.” 

“Yet these are internship opportunities! Aren’t interns supposed to be newbies who are going to learn from the experience they’ll get through the internship?” Nobara irritatedly inquired, her implied commentary more a complaint than a question. You nodded.

“Absolutely. It makes no sense, it’s like they’re just trying to hire a junior lawyer with less rights and a lower pay rate,” you churned out through your mouthful of tuna and mayonnaise, “now that I think about it, it’s probably that, actually.” 

“I can’t go back home! I mean, I made it all the way here. If I had to go back I would never get over this. I need some money, and I need some money soon, otherwise this will all just have been a waste of my time. I should just get a part time job already instead of insisting in starting my internship as fast as possible.” 

Nobara covered her face, and she sounded genuinely upset. You paused your munching for a bit, and after washing it all down with a few gulps of soda, you leaned towards her, pulling her hands from her face.

“Hey, Nobara, we’re not letting that happen, okay? Neither me, Maki, Yuuji or Megumi.” you offered in an attempt to comfort her. She let you peel her palms away, and gazed at you in a mixture of frustration and anger, which softly subsided after your comment. You decided to push your luck, just a bit. “We can refugee you in Megumi’s car. We’ll get you a hammer so you can hit passerbies for shits and giggles to let some collegiate steam out.” 

Consternated, she shook your hands off of her while you chuckled. She made her best effort to still look pissed, but you noticed a tiny smile forming on the edges of her mouth.

“That’s a shit plan, but I’ll take you up on that hammer offer,” she said, and you smiled at her, a gesture she finally reciprocated.

“I’d expect no less from you. So, tell me, in which area are you looking for internships? Fashion law?” 

“Nope, entertainment.” Nobara picked your half eaten sandwich in her hands and took a bite before you could protest. “Maki had told me it was easier to get internships in entertainment law to garner some experience for a future in fashion law, but honestly? I’m skeptical now.” 

“There might be some openings soon. Have you tried Professor Gojo’s firm? It’s the same as Professor Nanami’s, isn’t it? I mean, that giant firm with dozens of departments and that nearly every teacher at our college seems to work for.” You stretched your hand to get your sandwich back, but she slapped you away. “Hey!” 

“I need it more than you, I’m sad!” 

“I’m sad too! I had four terrible internship interviews today, give it back!” 

You both entered a silly slapping match, and the few people walking past the table would look away nervously in fear of getting dragged into the middle of whatever war was going on over a cheap cafeteria tuna sandwich.

“You were having interviews today too?! How come you never told me?! I’m gonna eat your food for not telling me stuff, you’ve been weird ever since that party that you went off for a smoke and dipped!” She took another humongous bite and you jumped over the table, finally snatching whatever remained of your food out of her hands.

“I haven’t been weird!” you had, “and yes, I did. I am interviewing for internship openings in criminal law, but… well, you’ve been through that these days yourself. You know the drill.” 

She grunted with tuna smeared around her mouth, trying to reach for the rest of your sandwich, and it was your turn to slap her.

“Stop it, Nobara. Quit being so stingy and buy one for yourself!” 

“Not when I can eat your food for free,” she joked while taking a big gulp from your soda can, and you sighed, which only gave her a shit eating grin. “Did you interview for that spot they announced today?” 

“What? What opening?”

“I just saw it, there was a new flyer on the main hall board. It’s an internship for criminal law, apparently under the guidance of Professor Geto,” Nobara said while shrugging. “Apparently the huge firm now has a criminal law department too. It was announced last week or so.” 

“Did it say up until when they were taking applications?” 

***

Each and every tendon in your body tensed as you sat with the perfect lady-like crossed ankles at the 45º angle under your second-hand suit. The meeting room was, for the lack of a better word, mighty, having an entire glass wall peering into the rest of the office, and towered over you high enough to have you feeling like a tiny speck of dust humbly drifting its way over the clearly expensive brown, leather couch. A few people walked by as you waited, and the mahogany table seemed big enough to fit three people. It was probably worth your entire year’s tuition, and you wondered if the ceiling height really needed to be tailored for elves. Or ents. Tree people, perhaps.

The firm’s name hung high right in front of you, the logo and letters made out of stainless steel illuminated by LEDs behind it. Opulence wasn’t a big enough word to describe that pompous display of corporate wealth.

You were fished out of your rags to riches daydreams by the pivoting door opening, figuring it was your interviewer for the position. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the already well-known foxy-eyed, long haired Professor to come in, but a much more stoic individual with the polar opposite for a hair, not only in length but in color too. You already knew him from afar, as your commercial law Professor. He carried himself in a dignified manner, and upon further inspection, not only was his navy blue suit absolutely pristine, he also didn’t have a single hair strand out of place. You got up to greet him, bowing respectfully, and he returned the gesture.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.,” he said as he sat down on his chair across from you, “my name is Nanami Kento and I’ll be responsible for your interview today.”

You introduced yourself, and remarked, “apologies, but I thought Prof- I mean, Mr. Geto would be the one responsible for this interview today.”

 “As it stands currently, the criminal law department is my responsibility,” Nanami clarified, “so I decided I’d be the one responsible for interviewing our future team. I currently work in our corporate law department.”

You acquiesced with a professional smile. Something about how every tiny detail in him was on point gave you enough leads to conclude that of course this man took it upon himself to be the one responsible for the interviews.

“I’ve read in your resume that you are currently undertaking criminal law I and criminal procedure law I,” Nanami said as he held your resume in his hand, glancing at you and then at the paper, “which isn’t ideal for an intern entering a newly built department.”

Harsh enough?

You readjusted yourself on your chair before speaking.

“Yes, I am.”

He hummed quietly and pulled another paper sheet from his briefcase, and even if his facial expression was perfectly collected, something about how the edges of his lips curled gave away that he was less than happy about whatever was written on it.

“Our HR insisted I should bring this questionnaire with me today, so that I could ask you this list of questions as part of our interview,” he stated, his words followed by a quiet sigh. Nanami then proceeded to tilt the paper towards him and took a moment before proceeding. “Tell me more about yourself in three… captivating anecdotes.”

His voice sounded robotic, as if he was feigning not to loathe the question at hand, and deep down, you did find it amusing. Not enough to distract yourself from the fact that you were usually horrible at interviews altogether, though.

“I’m currently in my late twenties. I started law school last year, and worked during my early twenties to save money for tuition. I’m really passionate about criminal law, that is why I applied.”

Oh, God. What was that?

Well, you sounded robotic too, listing off obvious factualities as if providing a recipe’s ingredients. Both of you stared at each other in silence, wondering if that was what this question was supposed to infer, and it took the two of you so long to speak up again that it became uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, Nanami unconsciously loosened his tie — barely — before continuing.

Well, at least I’m not the only one who’s uncomfortable.

“What…” he paused for a moment, and seemed to be biting down a discontented sigh, “animal would you be?” His gaze quickly darted down the sheet of paper, and his displeasure was palpable. For someone with such a straight face, his eyes were very telling.

What are these questions? Are we a hip tech company? Nanami thought to himself, wondering if he should make a new list to leave at HR. He was quick to discard the thought once he realized that meant he’d be telling other people how to do their jobs, something he did enough of already.

You didn’t quite know what the hell to answer.

“I… don’t know? I haven’t really thought about that in my life? A cat, perhaps?”

“I haven’t thought about that either, don’t worry, that’s unimportant. Let’s move on to the next question. How…” Nanami lifted an eyebrow, and that alone was enough to tell he was absolutely consternated, “many basketballs can fit inside a bus?”

“… Huh?”

Is this serious?

“I apologize, I believe there must have been some sort of mix-up at the HR, let me…”

Nanami was interrupted by three knocks on the glass wall. You both turned your heads to see Professor Gojo pointing at something — the paper Nanami held in his hands — while subsequently making a thumbs up, a wide grin smeared all over his face.

Without uttering a word nor missing a beat, Nanami got up, walked towards the glass and pulled on something you hadn’t yet noticed. Immediately, blinds slowly descended in front of the glass wall, and Nanami calmly walked his way back to his chair as Gojo’s face tried to keep peering inside the meeting room, descending alongside the rim of the blinds. He kept plastering his hands over the glass like a mimic.

A faint pained moan and a thud echoed once the blinds were about a foot away from reaching the floor.

“Is everything okay?” you inquired, pointing at Gojo’s direction.

“Ignore that.”

That wasn’t a request. You nodded. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. Let’s also ignore this for a while,” Nanami remarked while putting the sheet of questions aside with his fingertips as if it was radioactive. “Let’s try something else.”

Nanami had this feeling — a familiar one — that he’d be able to pry from you what he needed to know if he went about this interview in a more practical fashion. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“I’m going to describe a hypothetical scenario, and I want you to debate it with me,” he stated.

“Okay.”

“A client comes to this office being investigated of homicide and he wants to hire the firm to represent them in Court. They intend to plead not guilty.” you nodded, and Nanami continued, “The victim was shot, but there was no gun to be found in the crime scene. However, the client was the only person in the vicinity apart from the victim’s body. The client’s clothes — a long sleeved shirt and jeans — are evidence that has been collected at the crime scene, but no forensics were requested for it by the prosecution. When questioned in their first meeting, the client is adamant that they did not commit the crime. The attorney needs to decide which path to take regarding evidence they’ll request or submit. Now, I ask you, which type of evidence would the attorney request if the client is truly innocent?”

You took a deep breath while mentally going over the hypothetical scenario Nanami had just relayed, and considering all he mentioned, there was only one possibility.

“If my client was truly innocent, I’d ask for forensic evidence on their clothes. Guns leave gunpowder vestiges on things like clothes, so if this person didn’t actually pull the trigger, there should be no gunpowder on their sleeves.”

Nanami acquiesced, but remained silent. 

Ok, this is not the only thing he wants to know.

“Also… I’d tell exactly that to the client.”

Nanami’s face remained completely expressionless, but something about how he tilted his head less than an inch gave you the feeling that he seemed pleased with your answer.

“And why would you do that?”

“We need to work with accurate information. If the client was lying, and we submitted a request for that evidence — forensics on their clothes — we’d be tanking their defense. They need to know what we’ll be submitting as evidence and why. I believe telling that to our client would be enough to sway them into telling us the truth,” you sighed, before concluding, “people lie. Even when they shouldn’t.”

Nanami silently picked your resume back into his hands, and seemed to scan it quickly with his eyes. You knew your chances were slim, considering you had just started Criminal Law that very semester, something he didn’t fail to notice.

After a minute, he spoke again.

“Would you be willing to use some of your spare time to study topics you might not have seen yet in criminal law?”

“Yes.”

Your heart was thumping in your chest. This was it.

Here goes nothing.

“Then, it’s settled. Can you start on Monday?”

***

This wasn’t Higuruma’s usual go-to wish when he found himself behind the Passo’s wheel, but truth of the matter was, he hoped more than anything for his car to breakdown before he got to his destination. It wasn’t something completely out of the question considering his car’s track record, but as if some destiny’s mockery had been bestowed upon him that morning, even the clack-clack-clacks he was already used to hear for the past three months were gone. As Murphy’s Law would have it, the Passo glided over the asphalt like butter. 

“Of course you won’t fail me when I need you to, you unreliable piece of-”he muttered to himself under a discontented huff.

Put upon wasn’t strong enough to convey how Higuruma was feeling, his knuckle-white grip around the steering wheel being enough to give him a sharp pain in his palms that would surely follow him for the next few hours. In a sense, he had been knuckle-white tense ever since that morning, thinking about this endeavor he was kicking himself to push through. It was the nth time he’d tried to make that visit over the past year, one that he dreaded with each and every fiber of his being. 

The Professor eyed his passenger’s seat for a second, his gaze lingering on the plastic bag he carried with him that day. Inside, there were a bottle of Kirin, an incense, and a single sunflower. The flower was definitely too long to fit properly inside the bag, and it’s head peeped though the opening, yellow petals flickering while the car moved, every ridge on the road seemingly making it jump further and further out of its container.

With one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching out, he tried shoving the sunflower back into the bag, and in between eyeing the bag, then the road, picking the flower, pushing it, the bag sliding off the seat, loud news coming on the radio, Higuruma getting startled, his glasses slipping down his nose bridge, him pushing them back in place with his shoulder, tires screeching, a car horn, his heart pounding and his ears ringing, Higuruma came to the sensible conclusion that he should, as any responsible adult would, take a break.

I need a smoke.

Who he was visiting was definitely not going anywhere.

Checking where he was, Higuruma noticed a cafe nearby, and as fate would have it, there was a single parking spot right in front of it. He maneuvered the Passo, and the car fit neatly in between the white lines. Higuruma pulled his sunflower shawl — this time, not caught under any death trap, but laid over his back seat  alongside your scarf —, threw it around his neck and got out. He took a moment to stretch his fingers in the cold air, his breath clouding in front of his mouth, and tapped around his coat to take his wallet, finally inserting some coins into the park meter and crossing the guardrail by the sidewalk. 

He’d have exactly thirty minutes to get his shit together.

The cafe was warm, inviting, and strangely familiar, its orange light almost emanating the smell of coffee beans, croissants and decadent redemption for weary travelers. The store front had a glass display through which he saw an assortment of sweet and salty baked goods. Higuruma would probably pick one of those to eat — the greasiest one, if possible —, had he not been carrying a rock in place of his stomach for the past few hours.

With his resolution waning, he mindlessly took a step back while peeping, and sighed, his tired sigh weighing on his body deciding for him that an espresso was probably the way to go.

Stepping inside, Higuruma paid no mind to whatever was around him, and waited for his turn in line to order his drink. Across from him, you nearly choked, half a donut shoved into your powdered-sugar smeared mouth, nearly spilling your own coffee over your second-hand suit.

After your interview, you thought it’d be a good idea to have a snack, and made your way inside the closest, warmest, coziest cafe you found, which was across the firm. 

At that moment, you found yourself in a cliché adult life predicament — you just saw someone you knew, but they didn’t see you. Should you go over to greet them? Should you not? Would simply leaving be rude? Should you go actually talk to the man you definitely had — and shouldn’t have — a crush on?

You clutched your coffee harder as the thoughts flew around in your mind, as second nature at this point to avoid giving him another beverage shower.

After some quick consideration, you decided you would at least say hello, after all, it was the polite thing to do. You shoved the rest of your food into your mouth, washed it all down with the rest of your coffee, haphazardly cleaned around your mouth with a napkin and slowly walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. Somehow, he still hadn’t seen you, apparently too immersed in thought.

That was when you noticed a shawl around his neck.

It was pretty damn ugly.

“Professor, hi!” you greeted, and Higuruma got yanked out of whatever daydreams — or waking nightmares — he had been simmering in while waiting in line.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t expect to meet anyone here,” Higuruma replied, “I just stopped by for a snack.”

“Oh, nice. Their coffee is pretty good,” you said, “I got the espresso.”

“And… I hope that you’re finished already? With your coffee, I mean.” he asked while checking your hands, his usually unaffected tone slightly playful, earning him a chuckle from you.

“Rest assured, I’m not assaulting you nor your ugly shawl with my coffee,” you quipped, but his eyes only widened. His owlish eyes blinked once, and then twice, in absolute silence.

That was when you realized.

Oh. I said that out loud.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Awfully hypocritical of both of us, huh?” he noted, with a discreet smile pulling on his lips. 

Relieved, realizing he hadn’t taken offense, you sheepishly returned his smile, “I guess so. I don’t think I’ll get to keep being hypocritical about our ugly scarfs, though. I can’t seem to find mine, it’s been gone ever since that party.”

It was like a light bulb went on in Higuruma’s mind, and he cleared his throat before saying, “well, I may just prove you wrong. Follow me.”

Not fully understanding what he meant by that, you stood by him while he paid for his coffee, got it and walked outside. The cold winter breeze prickled your cheeks and your uncovered neck like hair-thin razor blades, and you followed Higuruma towards a car that wasn’t all that strange to you. Upon further inspection, you noticed that it was indeed his car, the old navy blue beat up thing you used as a shield for the wind during that night when you tried and failed at least half a dozen times to light a cigarette.

And then met him, and gave him a vodka scare.

And helped patting him dry with your-

“Here,” he called out, opening the door to the back seat. Sure enough, you saw that red, frizzly old thing tangled up in a ball.

“My scarf!” you reached inside and took it out, instantly throwing it around your neck. Higuruma noticed how you were genuinely pleased to have finally found it, and thought to himself that he’d most likely feel the same way if he ever lost and found his beat up, old shawl. 

It was just one of those things imbued with a sense of history and familiarity that only beat up, old tokens from days past had.

“Thank you,” you whispered, while sliding your fingers through the worn out cotton. “It was a gift. I might complain about it more often than not, but-”

“But it’s an important part of your life,” he replied, and you both glanced at each other while you nodded.

“Yes. Something like that. It’s my favorite curse to carry around while complaining about it, you know?” you mused, adjusting it around your neck and gratefully welcoming the warmth it brought around your neck. 

“I think I do,” he answered finally, taking a sip from his coffee.

“Let me repay you,” you offered. “Can I offer you a snack, or anything? Perhaps a smoke?”

“I’ll take you up on that cigarette offer,” he replied, and you pulled your pack out of your coat. Giving it a few taps, a cigarette popped up, and you took it in your lips, pulling another one and handing it to him.

Against his better judgement, Higuruma was slightly disappointed, and for a second, felt like kicking himself over it.

Idiot, you can’t seriously be expecting her to light a cigarette for me every time she offers you a smoke. Actually, I shouldn’t expect that at all.

 Against his will, Higuruma felt his cheeks warming up, and he tried his best to dive his face into his shawl while politely took the cigarette off your hands. You didn’t notice his moves and offered him your lighter — the same yellow, disposable one he had given you days ago. He picked it up, lit his cigarette and returned it.

“I see you still have it,” Higuruma noted, smiling gently, and you acquiesced.

“It has been my faithful companion for these past few weeks. I’m just glad I haven’t lost it like I lost my scarf,” you said before chuckling.

Higuruma leaned over the guardrail with his elbows, finally relaxing after… God knows how long. Slowly, he seemed to be getting lost in thought, and you seized the opportunity to better look at his shawl.  It had a sunflower pattern that went in a straight line right in front of it.

Still looking around as he stewed in his silent contemplations, you noticed there was a bag laying on top of his passenger’s seat. Peeping through it, stood a single sunflower, and what seemed to be the top of a Kirin bottle.

A sunflower man, hm?

The thought amused you as the corners of your mouth perked up in a gleeful smile, but you were quickly pulled out from it.

“Do you work nearby?” he asked, while taking a drag from his cigarette. “This is far from campus.”

“No. I mean, not yet. I was just… chasing my dreams,” you remarked, puffing some smoke. “What about you, Professor?”

Higuruma chuckled softly.

“I was being haunted by mine.”

You must’ve looked puzzled, because he quickly amended, “I was just on my way to visit someone and took a break for some coffee, that’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” you replied, realizing you were probably getting in his way. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you from your appointment. I-”

“It’s okay, there’s no one waiting for me. Or so I like to think.”

That comment left you with more questions than answers.

“Apologies. I don’t mean to keep you from going about the rest of your day too,” he bid behind a curtain of smoke, “and thank you for the cigarette. I really needed it.”

With your final puffs, you put your cigarette out and smiled at Higuruma.

“It’s okay, Professor. I should really get going, though. We are, indeed, far from campus and I’d like to get to my dorm before it’s dark.”

With a bow, you walked away, leaving Higuruma to his own devices. He sighed, alone with himself and his thoughts once again, turning his attention once more to the bag he had inside his car.

“Hiromi,” a familiar voice called out. Higuruma turned around, only to be met by Nanami, who had a indecipherable expression on his face.

Minutes before, Nanami decided to visit the nearby cafe and check if they had his favorite casse croûte that day. He wouldn’t mind getting a croissant, though.

 Upon stepping outside his building with dreams of pastries swirling around his overworked mind, he noticed you and Higuruma outside the cafe, and figured that was the perfect opportunity to approach you both and introduce you as the new intern for the criminal law department. It was just a matter of time before Higuruma accepted his offer, as Nanami thought, and you’d be both working together. However, before he could, Nanami noticed you and Higuruma were chatting, and not only that, but you approached Higuruma’s car and got something — apparently belonging to you — from his back seat. The ugliest red scarf Nanami had ever seen.

… What?

Nanami then remembered that you were a student on the very same university he tended to.

The same one in which Higuruma was a teacher too.

Why does Hiromi have things belonging to a student in the backseat of his car, of all places?  

Nanami was at a loss for words, and faltered for a few moments, wondering how he should ask Hiromi about this. That is, if he even should ask Hiromi about anything at all. Nanami decided to watch from afar, and something about the way Higuruma was carrying himself bothered Nanami.

He had only seen his best friend behaving like that in very specific scenarios, ones in which Hiromi definitely shouldn’t be interacting with a student of his.

After you left, Kento finally walked towards Hiromi, still uncertain if he should question his friend about the nature of your relationship with him. He could be imagining things.

But something was definitely disturbing him, he was sure of it. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Kento, hi! Oh… I had forgotten, your firm is nearby, isn’t it?” Hiromi asked while looking around. “Sorry, I always seem to forget where it is. That explains why this cafe felt so familiar. Care for a smoke?”

“No.”

“You haven’t smoked with me in a long time,” Higuruma offered, pulling his own cigarette pack from his coat’s inner pocket. 

“I quit years ago,” Nanami reminded him, trying to put an end to this conversation detour.

“You still smoke on special occasions,” Higuruma offered, “eh, I wish I had your resolve.”

“You do, you just fail to direct it at things that will benefit you in the long run.”

“Just my little human shortcoming, I guess,” Higuruma finally replied, sparing Nanami a soft smile. He walked towards his car while unlocking it, “Let’s have something to eat, the coffee opened up my appetite. I just need to get more coins in case I end up going over the meter’s time limit, hold on.”

“Hiromi,” Nanami said once again, his tone graver than usual. That caught Higuruma’s attention.

“Hm, is everything okay?” Higuruma asked while leaning into his car.

Before Nanami could go on with his planned line of inquiry, he noticed what was over passenger’s seat. Especially the sunflower.

“Are you at it again?” Nanami asked, gesturing with his head towards it.

“Ah, you saw it…” Higuruma commented, as if he was a child being caught red handed while making a mess out of the house. “Well, yes. I’m trying to, and failing at it once again.”

“You know you don’t have to go, right?” Kento offered, while pulling some change from his pocket. “I have coins, we’ll be fine. Let me get you a snack, this cafe has the best casse croute around.”

“I do have to go, though,” Higuruma closed the door and stepped back onto the sidewalk. “I should, at least.”

Higuruma’s earlier energy seemed to wane ever so slightly, his shoulders falling while he slouched, unconsciously making himself smaller. 

“I don’t think I’ll manage to do it today, either,” he finally said, his eyes low on his feet, and his voice barely above a whisper.

Assessing the situation, it was clear that Higuruma was in no way in the right mindset to have that conversation regarding you, so Nanami put a mental note on it to ask about it at a later time. He stepped beside Hiromi and put a hand gently on his shoulder, sighing.

“Is it low tar?” Nanami questioned, clearing his throat to disguise his displeasure.

“Hm, what?”

“Your cigarette. Is it low tar?”

Higuruma huffed, a tiny smile forming on his lips as he said, “yes, yes it is.”

In a smooth motion, Higuruma pulled his pack back out of his coat and took two cigarettes out of it, handing one to Nanami along with a lighter. With the disposition of a man ready to face the electric chair, Kento pursed his lips around the cigarette, and lit it, only to be thrown in a coughing fit moments later.

“How the mighty do fall,” Higuruma noted with a discreet smirk on his lips, “you used to smoke more than me.”

“Shut up,” Nanami managed to churn out in between coughs, “this brand is awful.”

His friend chuckled while taking one long drag from his cigarette.

“Hey, Kento.”

“What?” Nanami considered tossing the cigarette as far as he could, but tried his best to survive it, even if just for Hiromi’s benefit.

“Is that offer still on the table? To…” Hiromi paused for a moment, clearing his throat, “hm, work in your firm?”

Managing to get his throat and lungs under control, Nanami glanced at Hiromi, knowing full well that good things came to those who wait.

Just like he had.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Hi, did you know I like to shamelessly plug people's work? No? So, yeah. I love doing that.

I got this STUNNING commission from @radish-breath and I have no shame to admit that I scrumpt a scream never screamt before when I got this 😭💜 I think you should go check out her work if you still haven't, lots of great sfw and nsfw pieces (all truly delectable 🤌) - Twitter | Patreon | Carrd.

Rad, once again (you already listened to me screeching like a banshee and ugly crying over it, lol), thank you very much for this amazing piece. It is beyond my wildest dreams alsdjasldkj

-

Tag list (updated):

@arusearu @yammy-yammy-yama @redlikerozez @killerplink

@alwaysfreakingout @murderofravens @cmdrfupa @higurumapet @cindyneko-strider @howmanytimesamigoingtotrythis

@ohhheymessa @bigbaddulce @actuallysaiyan @s-witch-bitch @yeonjunarchives

@soft--cherry @quinnyundertow @traffi @shibataimu @shimadalluvia

[salutethesargeant]

The Morning (Ch. 1) - LS2, AA23

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Alex Albon (Sargebon)

After the DNF in Vegas 2024, Alex lets his mind wander. The flashy lights of Vegas cause his memories to reminisce. He misses Vegas 2023. He misses being happy. He misses Logan. And for one night, his wishes are granted.

Tags: Slow burn, angst, (mutual) pining, alternating pov, reunions, really slow burn, Alex is really soft and wants praise (and Logan), more to be revealed later.

It’s been a long weekend. 

Everyone at Williams Racing shared that exact sentiment. Tired and beaten down. For the past few weeks, there had been nothing short of gruelling labor for everyone involved under the dark blue roofs. From the drivers, the social media team, and especially the engineers: there was no break when it came to the Oxfordshire team. Cars had been totaled, wrecked even. Labor had been increased overtime with little to no increase in the already little pay compared to other teams. Spirits had been broken quicker than they had ever been briefly lifted. No one was safe from this seemingly cursed constructor. 

There was one individual who had essentially his entire world flipped upside down the most, even if he still had the privilege to call his blue seat a home: Alexander Albon. Or simply Alex, as most called him. The Thai-British driver who would be proud, if he did not know any better and was actually happy about his circumstances, to say he was the only remaining person at Williams to have a permanent seat. His contract extension from months ago was already starting to age poorly. As poor as a book left in the burning sun. 

He had been at Williams the longest compared to his past and future teammates. Logically, in a better team that didn’t have managers with their heads in the clouds or the dirt of their own asses, he should have the advantage. He should be their first priority if anything - but no. It seems the gambling hands of God had come to spite him in his last few races. Personally. Out of his control, then came the media ready to hawk him down. Claims of the Asian driver being supposedly “washed,” and “at risk of having his contract ripped” due to being unable to finish recently. Or worse, finish better than his new, rookie teammate. Week in, week out. A new problem with the car. But not just any car, his car. Of course, it had to be him. 

Even worse, it had to be now. His car was not the one totalled in qualifying this weekend, thank God. But in standard Williams fashion, Alex could not have even just a standing car of duct tape and glue as something to be happy about. His race, not the best due to poor qualifying from the day before, was at least going. Progressing. Then it stopped. The worst words he had ever heard lately came next. Came too quick. His own engineer on the radio. Up in his ears, up in his mind. The first syllable said stung hard and nasty, everything else mixing into a deafening ring. 

“Alex, Alex. We got a terminal problem here. We need to retire the car. Box box.”

And then, what does he say? Does he laugh? Does he cry? Oh how he wishes to be anything but a slave to his own command. It was barely a half of the race’s 50 laps. Barely anything. Before he could even process the cars around him, the flashing of the lights. The loudness of the world. His hands move on their own, he drives. Drives what little he can remaining on the strip with this car. This car that had caused nothing but reminded him of his suffering all season. A shackle tied to a block of cement in the ocean. He drives in the pitlane. He gets to the Williams garage. He hops out, replying to his engineer as he speaks without direction. Drives without direction. Physically he is there with the thousands upon thousands of people on the strip - mentally, he had fizzled out. Yet again. 

No matter how hard the angel in blue and white weeped, his cries would never be answered. 

The car that was not in need of repair during the break. His car that was not wrecked before the race or during qualifying and needed a rushed fixing. His car that was in one piece. His car, that because of a supposed power unit issue in his engine that was not detected earlier, had to be forcefully retired. Yes, that same car.

How does he do it? How does he not just lose it and cry on camera? Cry so everyone can see how much he can handle it, handle simply being at Williams. Handle his performance drop. Handle his luck. Handle everything he has gone through this season. A survivor of seeing the worst happen around him and to him. Perhaps there was someone on there who admired his mental strength of not effectively folding over already and sobbing his eyes out like a towel being ringed. 

George would listen. Surely as another 2019 rookie, a close friend, and an ex-Williams mercenary - but he wouldn’t fully get it. Not yet to Alex’s judgement. Maybe Lando, but no. Alex crossed the other 2019 rookie out of his mind. Too busy with McLaren and Oscar, the 2023 rookie, to care. His mind is starting to buffer out here. The smell of pot is strong. He walks away from his car with his head down and helmet on. Somehow the stench is too widespread to block, penetrating through. Hell, the latinos were right about that atleast. Latinos… Franco!

His new teammate, an Argentine boy with fluffy hair and an odd sense of humor. The one that has been his teammate since he got in the FW46 in Monza. The one who was already having a cult-like fanbase to run around and throw rumors that he’d replace Alex at his own team, among others. That kid. 

No, not him either.

Maybe he would listen, although Alex had noted that the boy preferred to talk than do the former. The Thai driver could be the one talking instead, rambling about his recent frustrations and deals with luck. His frustrations with the team principal, James Vowles. Hell, maybe about everything since the kid got his promotion. But no, that seemed too mean. It wasn’t his fault anyway. He was weird, sure. Quirky and eccentric like a cartoon or sitcom character. Pretty foreign to Alex’s own ways, Asian or Anglo. But he had no reason to hate him. Kid took his opportunity as a reserve driver, or technically had no other choice, and got an F1 seat for a few races. You’d be stupid not to take that. 

No, no. He had no superficial reason to dislike him. In fact… he can confidently say he liked the kid. He was charming, cute, and marketable. So much the latter. Good at driving despite some foolish mistakes and accidents since the past few races. Can’t judge him for that either, he was young once too. They were both thrown in the deep end for a team that grew more unstable by the day. In a sense, it was just the both of them. Or it should be on paper. Franco seemed to prefer to hang out around his fellow Spanish speakers -  Checo came to mind - or “rookies”, such as Haas and Ferrari’s Bearman. Alex had George and the rest of his own set of friends on the grid too, that didn’t bother him. 

What did bother Alex was James Vowles’ unsubtle favoritism for Franco compared to himself, a bit more than it should bother him. A part of himself hated how nice he was. How grateful he was to the team for picking him back up on his feet years ago where Red Bull crippled him. He would be a hypocrite, like the late Gasly before him, to bite the hand that feeds. His mouth was sewn shut anyway. Glued. A good boy like him just let it happen, or risk being kicked. 

Even without uttering a word other than another new rehashed set of “today’s race didn’t go so well for us ,” he was still at risk. But, that was James’ whole deal. Like a child, he forgot about his old favorite toy to play and prop up his new one instead. Franco was marketable. He was the hot new sensation. There was no benefit to gas up Alex anymore, especially not when Franco being priority causes Alex to lose form. Silly him, he should've seen it coming. 

It happened earlier. Just with him, not to him like it was now. 

Alex made his way deeper into the Williams garage, the sight of his useless car put away for examination and to make room for pit work. He tore and ripped at his helmet and fireproofs, putting them up on his locker and taking deep breaths. He could breathe now, he could! It still frankly smelled overwhelmingly like marijuana, but it was better than nothing. Air hitting his lungs as he coughed in his arms like he hadn't breathed in weeks; He hadn’t. It was the luck of the lord himself he did not suffocate already, let alone out on track before his race was cut. That didn’t matter now. His mind wasn’t even at the race anymore. Had it ever been?

Staring into the dark hazel of his temporary teammates eyes, he froze. Transfixed with the graphic on the side of the garage’s wall, a certain feeling of dread and grief washed over. For what exactly? Alex was the one who’s race was ruined that night, even if Franco binned it in the wall yesterday. Perhaps he wasn’t looking close enough. Perhaps, even, there was something about Franco and James’ insistence on the lad that put him off. Some sort of innate feeling he had been repressing that gave him full body chills. Vegas wasn’t even that cold. 

Franco’s portrait was normal. He had seen similar stills of himself also plastered everywhere. Thank God the most that was taken from media day were the same 3 poses. Nevermind that, where was he again? Oh right, the still of Franco’s image in the Williams pitstop garage. An ordinary photo that had him situated in place, catching his attention somehow. There was a look in the picture’s eyes, something familiar yet too foreign for him to name. Maybe his mind was making a mountain out of a molehill. It wouldn’t be the first time in the past few months that it has.

The Thai driver tried leaving, wishing to get out of his race suit. Sweat, grime, Vegas’ dirty air. It was too much to carry after getting out of the car. Or if he was honest, as he had always been, too much in general. He had bent to reach his race shoes, pulling his ankles high and slipping off the laces one by one. There goes the bunny under the tunnel, or something similar. He couldn’t help but giggle, that saying was always amusing to him. It reminded him of a story that Logan told him when they used to take each other's garments off after races. He was just a kid and was learning to tie his shoelaces when-

Wait. Shit. 

LOGAN. 

That’s what he couldn’t remember! Logan! Throughout the entire weekend in Nevada, Alex had been dealing with this sickening feeling at the back of his mind, throat, and heart. Maybe even his loins if he thought long enough. At first he tried antibiotics. George told him it was probably nausea. Lando said jet lag. Nope. Wrong – Deja Vu. The one that makes your heart sink and your head heavy. A contagious sickness worse than any virus.

Why hadn’t he noticed it earlier? The signs were extremely obvious now that he was reflecting back on it, gaze turned towards the led ceiling. Franco reminded Alex everyday, not by his faults, of James’ decision to cut Logan off the team. The day it was announced. How Alex, choppily remembering bits as he slowly changed from race suit to regular merchandise, reacted the moment James told him before his American teammate. How he fought tooth and nail for Logan, insisting over and over how unfair his treatment was. Asking for second chances again and again for someone with a worse car than his, someone who’d never be given priority like him. How it eventually meant nothing. 

By the waving of the checkered flag in Zandvoort, many moons ago for him to count, he was gone. Snap. Fade. Gone. There was no #2 at Williams Racing, there never was. 

Instead, there laid #43. Soon to be replaced yet again by #55. In Franco’s first press conference on the big stage, accompanied by him and Vowles, he summarized the situation. In the blink of an eye and hush of a whisper, #2 was alive again. In that second, Alex wasn’t there. He didn’t want to be there in front of the crowd. Standing right next to Vowles. Just exposed to the public eye, feeling naked and flashed. No…

He was in the office at the Oxfordshire headquarters. Fist slamming desks. Chewing bark and swears at his own boss. All for Sargeant. A Sargeant that the older Brit had grown resentment over and tossed aside to the meat grinder. Someone Alex couldn’t save, even if this business was expected to be as bloody as a butcher shop. 

A part of Alex died months ago too. He just wished the Argentine didn’t have that stare, the stare of the sheep. Enthusiastic, ready, willing. Unknown to the true horrors of this team, of it’s own team principal. A look that, with darker eyes that he was used to seeing, reflected himself back. In those hazel pools, he saw not only Franco, but himself and Logan. Franco was a good kid. But that’s all he was to the driver he raced with and the one he replaced: a kid. He brought presence to the team. To press conferences. To Team Torque episodes, but not comfort. Alex needed something more, as a hole was left empty in his chest.

He finally got his merchandise on, tossing the suit away. The light blue AA23 hat wasn’t fitting right on his hair no matter how much he shuffled it around, eventually giving up halfway placed. Eh no. He’s better with it off. With the zip of his darker blue jacket, adorned with Williams, Mercedes, and numerous sponsors, the sound of tire changes wake up again. He’s been zoning out too much the past few minutes. Perhaps Franco had done the team a favor while carrying them on his back, gaining good places. He’d check later. They’d certainly make it everyone’s problem and celebrate like no tomorrow at the slightest move he does anyway. But Vegas, while new to the rookie, wasn’t Alex’s concern. 

A mini television screen in the corner of the part of the garage the half-Brit was in showed him the current results. George P1, of course, since starting on pole. That wasn’t surprising. Lewis P2. Carlos P3… Max ahead of Lando, determined to win his 4th consecutive World Championship by any means necessary. That’s the Max that Alex knows: always and always working towards betterment. Almost unhealthily so, but Alex couldn’t judge what the Dutchman took the high end in order to be the best. It was admirable, then and now. Nothing was surprising here, actually. Well, Franco was struggling. That was to be expected if qualifying meant anything. His poor car was patched back in a day with duct tape and spit. It’d be a miracle if he got points with the few laps left in the race. 

The tall Thai was gathering his belongings to take to his locker, prepared to grab some water before putting on headphones and watching along with the engineers. A talk with James too about having to retire the car. Not much he could do but cheer on Franco for the remaining minutes and wait for the next week, as he had been saying for the past handful of races. Sigh.

It was silly of him to have a moment earlier, think of Logan. Sure, for the first Vegas Grand Prix, the two had left their mark in qualifying. In fact, there were more signs of their bonding beyond the day before the race from last year. Like a weird stroke of coincidence, things from this year set off his alarms and only he was not realizing it. How out of it was he? Think Albon, think! There was the obvious, Franco replaced Logan and the latter had just vanished in thin air. That one… didn’t need pointing out. Alex felt its impact every time he woke in team-reserved hotel bedrooms, with a bed too big and cold. Just him, only him. Not enough for a good night’s sleep. Still, there was that beating feeling lingering in the back of his head as he walked around the paddock and Vegas garage. 

The first few days that Alex and Franco arrived in the desert state of Nevada, that blanketing feeling of familiarness had coated him once again. Strange then, a warning sign now. Seeing the city down from the window view of his plane, small and scattered like an anthill, look tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hands. His Argentine teammate had fallen asleep from their flight in England, resting his head on Alex’s shoulder without any care of falling drool or deafening snores. In another world, the gesture is adorable and cute. In this one, he barely noticed. Vegas wasn’t eye-catching in the daytime, but thankfully it was at night when they landed. There wasn’t much for him to do on his phone during the plane but look at old pictures. The ‘memories’ tab seemed to bring up pictures of the nearby canyons, Hoover Dam, and… Logan. Him and Logan, in a helicopter. These must’ve been the pictures that Logan airdropped to his phone when they got back to the hotel, as the blonde was the only one to bring his phone on their helicopter ride. Ah, yes. It was slowly coming back to him, slower than the pace of a snail or a Kick Sauber, but eventually. 

A helicopter ride over Vegas, one Alex mistakenly referred to at the time as a “date.” Of course it was a date. Williams may have scheduled it for PR, like the rest of their little escapades and challenges they did on camera, but at the end of the day it was a daring date. Maybe only between them was Alex’s thinly veiled “joke” serious, but perhaps it was for the better. Lord knows what would come out of the media, not the speculative superfans, had they actually caught on. Alex and the rest of the grid witnessed the outcome of the 2022 season. The extended, messy meeting of two flirty championship contenders. There’s continuous debate on whether it has ended well enough or if it’s gotten messier by time… Who was he kidding, they’d never be like that. 

Logan was gone. For some reason, even months later. Even a year later in “his” city, despite both of them having a bad race, (not free practice or qualifying session, however) the thought - the feeling - of him has returned. He was too British for this, as he drank like a dehydrated traveler from his water. Vegas was Sin City. A hotpot of debauchery. But there was charm. Sick, wicked fun at every corner. For a place that his former teammate wasn’t born in, let alone didn’t grow up in, it screamed his name. 

He’s lost track of where he is in the Williams garage again, holding a bottle of water in one hand and carrying his dirty racing gear in another arm. This has to be, what, the fifth time already? He was typically the more grounded one in reality of the two. Even Franco was spacier than this. God, he’s a mess. No wonder Williams picked him up and Red Bull dropped him. Okay, okay, Albon. Enough with the self-deprecation, he thought. 

He had set his phone, this time one in the present rather than days ago when he was in a plane, to update its wallpaper with random photos from the gallery. Every day every hour - a new image was to be on his lockscreen. But with the brunette, well, it was random. Sometimes of the day it would be one of his cats or other animals. Another moment it would be of George or Lando striking a silly pose or looking like a fool during padel. Occasionally he’d see his mum or even himself as the center point. How he wished it was either of those today.

This wallpaper was set to one of the photos from when Franco and he had gone to the arena and met with the hockey team, the Golden Knights, for a PR challenge. It was fun. Silly. He visited the team exactly last year with someone more passionate for hockey, especially American hockey. The self-proclaimed “Florida Panthers boy” who kept whining to Alex about how Williams was forcing them (him mainly) to wear a “bad” jersey. The same American who blabbed and chattered about the intricacies of Florida hockey (something Alex never really understood. Why play a winter sport in the hottest state?) and other Miami sport teams during their bus ride. The same American… or really, Alex’s only American influence. 

What was he doing? He cupped his face in his hands, taking deep breaths as he regained composure and spatial awareness. He checked the time on his phone. Wasting time over a man, a lost teammate. A former friend. Yet, perhaps if he did give James more of a fight that day so many months ago… if he didn’t tear up live at their public fanmeet when Franco mentioned him… if he did more, much more to support him when he was still there… if he… 

And there he was monologing again. It wasn’t healthy, but what was at this point? He’d leave this team too if it meant he'd be less stressed by a landslide. Logan… atleast looked happy from what Alex saw on the blonde’s Instagram page. On the photos he liked, hoping to reach out even if there was no response on the other end since Zandvoort.

Surely, if he didn’t figure it out by now, he can’t keep doing this. But how could he not? Williams was getting worse by each race weekend, costs were ramping up as with a multitude of issues. If they kept going at this rate, Alex would be lucky to cross the finish line at all if his car didn’t fall apart again. Like today, and the last race day, and the last, and the… Fuck him at this point. It was getting harder to continue with a smile, but he tried. Tried too much until it hurt his face. There were only 2 more races left in the triple header. In the season. 

He could make it, he knew he could. He hopes he will. But he’s mentally still in Holland. Who knows if he’ll ever be able to leave. 

The brown and black of his bangs stuck to his forehead, sweat covering his skin as much as the rag beside him couldn’t wipe. The water from his cold bottle was already running out, his straw covered in bite marks from compulsively chewing to relieve stress. It was almost over. Franco was in p15, his car still together even if he was struggling to keep up with the other cars. Alex kept an eye on the mini TV in the corner of the cooldown room, occasionally looking up when his breath recovered. His mind still wasn’t there, but that was an established lost cause. 

The announcers screamed outside the garage and on the screen, lighting up in joy as George finished as the winner and Max was officially crowned as world champion. A replay showed the early celebrations and team radios coming from the two European drivers. The Mercedes man yelling at the top of his lungs, ecstatic as ever while the Red Bull cried in joy. Good for them, really. Franco was overtaken by Zhou. P16. Another day in the office for him. No points. Sigh. 

Maybe the lights were too bright for them. There wasn’t much hope to be bought with a struggling car, but the addition of new upgrades and a new teammate atleast had points finishes when it counted. When it did, but that was becoming too few and far between. You can't expect a kid to perform miracles every week when Alex's car busts up, again. And again. This was redundant now. The bright lights were blinding from outside the garage and the replayed footage on the television, straining the Thai driver’s eyes. Since the last car had finally crossed the line, the winners and podium makers were celebrating with their teams. Screentime switched between the absolutely buzzing atmospheres of Red Bull and Mercedes, champagne flying everywhere and fireworks sparkling in the sky. 

He misses it, misses actually celebrating something. Points, a podium, a win, and championship after a grueling campaign. It’s been years, well not as bad as some facing much worse droughts, since his last one. Since soaking Max and the Red Bull engineers in the finest champagne the world had to offer. Being on top of the world. Many of the fans in the audience were celebrating too, with footage being clipped of various fandoms jumping in joy or crying in pain after their favorite contender losing. Plenty of famous people were being shown, none to catch Alex’s eye other than the usual he saw already. His tanned hand ran through his dark hair, reshaping its fluff and volume as he was finishing off his recovery. The ice had run warm, room temperature. With a deep breath, he pulled away his worries of today and started thinking about next week at Qatar. What new strategies he’ll discuss with his engineers, what he’ll learn after they assess his engine failure from minutes earlier, what next week has in store. The whole nine yards, as someone across the pond would say.  

The commentators spoke over themselves one on one, their shouts and screams mixing together in a word vomit of praise and dramatic theatrics. Max won, George won, Lando lost, McLaren lost. Everyone lost but Red Bull and Mercedes. Ferrari were shaken up yet had a podium to take home. Williams were also tonight’s biggest losers, but what was new. Even last year, despite hitting Q3 in qualifying and setting too high of expectations then compared to now, was less embarrassing than today. Alex leaned against the cool wall of the secluded room, prepared for Franco to show sometime after parking his car in the parc fermé. The television stream of the race had mentioned his name a few times, but not enough to cause him to lift his head. More fan footage was being shown. The Vegas Strip was covered in flashy lights and firework sights. It would be beautiful to view if he wasn’t preoccupied. More clips from the podium celebrations followed after, champagne showers and confetti snowfall in the desert. Bright, colorful trophies and angelic lighting on the top three. More fans and celebrities in the crowd. 

Alex was about prepared to leave to find his team principal, more than likely with the Argentine, by the entrance to the garage. With hands and arms of supplies in white and blue, he suddenly lost his grip and dropped them all. A mess in the blink of an eye, a flap of the butterfly’s wing, a second of the moment. The rich, dark chocolate doe-like brown of his eyes widened at the mention, his head snapping to the television screen at the corner as the broadcast selected few special guests in the paddock. The smell of marijuana in the air seemed to dissipate and his ability to breathe abandoned him, his throat getting tight until he felt like suffocating. There and then, his eyes had met him again. Right when he thought he never would again since the start of autumn. Somehow, despite thin breaths and a growing weakness in his knees and arms, he reached out towards the screen and uttered in a wispy voice. At a true loss for words, only one came out. 

“Logan?”

[castle-of-ruin]

Reacher Comes to Visit 1

A/N: Well, here I am again. Dipping my feet into the waters of posting content on Tumblr again. This time, it's for my beloved Reacher. A character that I have grown ridiculously attached to thanks to Alan Ritchson 🤭. This story is based very loosely on the contents of the show but does not actually tie into the show. All things that happen in this story are strictly made up. Big shoutout to @quaritchscupquake and @cryingwriter, convincing me to post this.

Pairing: Jack Reacher x f!reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Warnings: Mutual pining? Size kink if you squint? Reacher being Reacher. This part is pretty tame. Mentions of food and injury. Character has a nickname, but not too many defining characteristics.

A/N 2: Please let me know if I miss any content warnings. I want to make sure it's properly tagged.

I do not condone the reposting of my story anywhere. DO NOT DO IT

Visual inspiration for anyone who cares. This is a very pretty gif. Thank you, @hunnam , for creating it!

The tv plays softly in the background as you float around your home cleaning up as you go. It was your favorite movie, one you have been watching since you were a little kid. The musical soundtrack was by far one of the best you have ever heard. Even now as an adult, you found so much joy and comfort in the movie and its music. Your night is rudely interrupted when a loud knock resounds off the walls of your house. Jumping, you grab your remote and pause the movie. Tilting your head, you make your way to the front door, you were not expecting any visitors.

Opening the door you freeze, heating finding its way into every part of your body. None other than Jack Reacher was standing opposite you beaten and bloody, however, this time he had friends. Two years ago Reacher saved your life: twice. Then the two of you spent one hell of a weekend together, and then he left, and you had not heard from him in two years. For him to be on your front porch unannounced after two years made you feel something you didn’t expect. You were mad at him, but part of you understood that is who Reacher was, a drifter moving place to place no one and nothing holding him down.

You stare up at the large man unable to form any words. Neagley, you remember her from before, steps forward and gives you a tight smile.

“Sorry to show up unannounced, Hawk,” She references the nickname she gave you. “We ran into some trouble and need a safe place to lay low for the night.” Neagley, as usual, is straight and to the point.

This was something you appreciate about her. Taking in the tired faces of the two other members of their group you let out a deep sigh and move to the side motioning them in.

You stand in the doorway leading to the living room and watch as three of them settle into your house comfortably. Reacher stands on the opposite side of the room and watches you.

“This is O’Donnell and Dixon, two of our old team mates.” Neagley speaks up, breaking the silence.

“Nice to meet you both.” You tell them with a small smile.

“Why does Neagley call you Hawk?” O’Donnell asks.

“She’s observant.” Reacher pipes in, folding his arms over his broad chest as he leans against the wall.

You avert your eyes from his stare, turning your head down towards the floor.

“I only have one extra bedroom. You can fight over who gets it. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll go get some pillows and extra blankets,” You pause as you look over them. “I can also run to the store and grab some robes for you all to wear so I can wash your clothes. If that is something you are interested in.” You finish looking at each of them individually.

“That sounds amazing. Thank you.” Dixon speaks up first. O’Donnell nods his head softly and settles deeper into the couch.

“That would be great, Hawk, thank you.” Neagley states.

Nodding you make your way out of the living room and back towards the front door where you grab your purse and keys before heading out the door. Leaving strangers in your house probably wasn’t the best of ideas, but you knew Reacher and Neagley. You knew they were safe.

Your trip to the store was rather quick, you try not to draw attention to yourself, but it was hard when you were getting four bathrobes all in a different size. You just smile awkwardly at the cashier who checks you out. Speeding home you mentally prepare yourself for the night to come.

When you make your way back into the house all four of them turn to look at you.

“Okay, each of you can have a hot shower, then bring me your clothes and once I have them all I will throw them in the wash for all of you. Anyone hungry?” You ask.

“I am,” Reacher shrugs. You nod and look at the others who nod in unison. This wasn’t a talkative bunch which you were thankful for.

“Okay, decide the order for showers and I will get started on food. The robes are in this bag.” You instruct, dropping the bag on the vacant chair.

You head to the kitchen and prepare dinner for the four of them, you had eaten earlier that night and were not hungry. The room suddenly felt smaller and you knew who was there with you.

“You look good.” He tells you quietly coming up behind you.

You close your eyes as a shiver runs the length of your spine. Even after all this time he was still imprinted in your senses. Turning, you lean against the counter and look up at him. Taking in the wet patch on his left side, which you assumed was blood, and the bruise under his left eye.

“You look like hell.” Your words have a smile pulling at Reacher’s lips.

He doesn’t say anything else after that, just shakes his head and leaves the kitchen. After some time food is ready and three out of four of them have showered.

“Okay, food is ready, come eat.” You instruct, smiling as you watch all four of them eagerly make their way to the dining room to eat.

“Thank you!” Dixon yells.

“Yeah, thanks this is good food.” O’Donnell nods.

You smile at them and nod your head. “It’s my pleasure. I will be in my room if anyone needs me. Just knock.” You tell them, excusing yourself to your room.

Flopping on the bed you stare up at the ceiling. Memories from two years ago running freely in your head. A quiet knock pulls you out of your thoughts. Looking to the door you see Reacher standing there. Sitting up you tilt your head.

“Everything okay?” You ask.

“Yeah, you said if anyone needed you just knock. I knocked.” He shrugs, and you stifle a laugh.

“Well, you’re the reason I can not start the load of laundry. Get it together Reacher.” You tease.

“Right, I’ll be back.” He states and leaves.

You shake your head and let out a groan. He was going to be the death of you. There weren’t many people in this world who consumed your thoughts freely, but he did ever since he saved your life, and fucked you better than any man ever had. You shake your head, now probably wasn’t the best time to think about that.

Not long after Reacher had left another quiet knock could be heard. When he enters your room he takes up the doorway with his large frame. You take in the way the dark robe holds on for dear life, like it was on the verge of ripping as it stretched thin over his broad shoulders.

“Everything is in your laundry room and ready for you.” He states.

Getting up you nod. “Okay, thank you. That robe is holding on for dear life.” You can’t contain the giggle that bubbles up in your chest.

He looks down at the robe. “I think they left me the smallest one on purpose.” He grumbles. You giggle again and he gives you a dirty look.

“I’ll be right back. Gonna go start the load.” You tell him.

"Is it okay for me to stay here?” He asks.

You look at him for a moment. “Yes.”

Going out you make your way to the laundry room and throw all of the clothes into the wash and start it. You poke your head into the living room on the way back where the others are still sitting talking quietly amongst themselves.

“Hey, once the washer beeps, one of you can put the clothes in the dryer. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Goodnight.” You tell them.

Entering your room you smile upon seeing Reacher asleep on your bed. He made your queen size bed appear small and you chuckle to yourself at that. Going over to your dresser you pull pjs out of your drawer and go into the adjacent bathroom. Closing the door softly you strip and turn the water on. A quiet sigh passes your lips as the water bears down on your back. After your shower you get dressed and head back out into your bedroom. Reacher is awake now and watches as you exit a cloud of steam pouring out behind you.

You get into bed and lay on your side looking over at Reacher. He turns so he is facing you.

“Two years is a long time.” You whisper, reaching out and hovering your hand over his arm. You weren’t sure if you should touch him.

He answers your internal question by grabbing your right hand with his right and guiding it to his shoulder. The fabric is soft beneath your fingers, but part of you wished it was his skin you were touching.

“I know, I’m sorry we didn’t call first before just showing up. I knew you were safe and just brought them here.” He reaches out and grabs your hip, pulling you closer.

“Not tonight. You need to sleep. Something tells me your life is about to be in danger, again. See it as an incentive to come back alive.” You tell him, placing your hand on his somewhat exposed chest. Enjoying the warmth that fills your fingertips.

“Can I kiss you? Just once?” He asks, cupping your cheek softly in his large hand.

You nod and close your eyes. His lips are warm against yours, and just like you remembered, soft, yet rough. The kiss was short, sweet, and full of an unspoken promise. He pulls you into him and tucks you into his side beneath the covers. You find yourself snuggling into him and closing your eyes. The warmth from his body spreads through you.

“Goodnight, Reacher.”

“Goodnight, Hawk.” You smile at him using the nickname as well.

Tomorrow, things will surely be different. Tomorrow, the threat was to be dealt with. Tomorrow, the outcome was unknown.

Uh, I'm gonna tag some folks. Maybe you'll like to see it :)

@obiknights @a-reader-and-a-writer @chelseasdagger @gemstone-roses @cryingwriter @quaritchscupquake @supernaturaldawning @xxidontwikeitxx @spnshortcake

[thehypnone]

Sundown: Chapter 1

WC: 2,6k

Relationship: Pre-relationship SwissAlps

Tags: Transfeminine Mountain, AU; Cowboy!Swiss x Barmaid!Mountain, First Meeting, Fluff, Protectiveness, Discussion About Being Transgender, Transphobia  (warning for that if someone's sensitive to it), not from swiss tho he's supportive!!!

Swiss has been travelling for a while. He finally gets to a place he can rest in and meets an unique individual. He's immediately enamored.

Notes: comm for @jazz-bazz, first part of our au! ty bex <3

Read chapter 1 under the cut or on AO3.

He’s been sweating his ass off for three days before something resembling civilization has finally come along. He’s half dead, his chick is half dead, and all he wants is to get a pint of cold beer and a damn bed.

The town—barely big enough to be called such—is obviously sparsely populated. Swiss doubts it’s even inhabited at first, but the closer he gets the more signs of life he’s noticing and the hope in him grows. He leans down to pat his chick’s neck and sighs at the puff of dust coming off of her.

“Soon, girlie. I’m gonna give ya a good brush, you deserve it.” The mare nickers and the pair continue their slow walk toward the town. It doesn’t take that long for them to make their way into the shadow casted by the town’s buildings. It smells like cow’s shit, but the people obviously have more water and food than they really need, which means there is a chance Swiss and his horse will get some. If not given freely, he’ll take it, but he is tired and he hopes their visit in that place will go smoothly.

Swiss doesn’t see any heads peeking out of doors or windows to look at him, neither threateningly nor curiously, as he looks around searching for any sign that would indicate where he can find a bar. He really needs a beer.

His knees crack when he jumps down from his mare. The ground is dry and a cloud of dust arises as his boots touch it. He finds something that could be a spot for travelers’ horses and as he leaves his chick there he hopes nobody will shoot her off if he was mistaken. It’s a solid roof over a spot covered in a thick layer of straw, with buckets full of fresh looking water hanging off of wooden beams and cubes of hay under them. Inviting enough.

Swiss pulled the reins over the mare’s neck and pulled the bit out of her mouth before tying her to one of the beams by the water. He hopes she won't be too picky. “Drink, girlie, I’ll be back soon.”

He pats her on the ass on his way and walks away, heading into the adjoining building. The batwing doors’ hinges squeal loudly as Swiss walks into what indeed is a saloon. It’s nearly empty, only two men are sitting in a corner and talking quietly over drinks. Swiss scans the space and even though it’s empty, it seems nice. The men from the corner don’t acknowledge his presence, but he doesn’t crave attention this time, so it is fine by him. It’s a bit colder there than outside and he already feels some relief.

Swiss goes straight to the bar and just as he’s sitting down on one of the squeaky stools the barmaid walks out from behind a dark brown curtain hanging between the shelves. A gorgeous, tall wo…man? They are a very pretty man, if that's the case. He shrugs, though, it’s none of his business.

They are wearing a long, light green dress—a little old fashioned in style, but it’s a good piece. Little dirty-white apron covers the dress from their waist down to where their knees are under the skirt. The dress doesn’t have sleeves, only straps digging into their shoulders and going down to create a laced neckline that makes their tits look very compelling. Their hair is long and wavy, a beautiful shade of dark amber flowing down their back and over their shoulders.

Their eyes, though…oh, their eyes are what makes Swiss’ belly swoop and his mouth go even drier than it already was. Big—adorned by thick and long lashes—and in the color of the healthiest, most fresh, summer grass ever. Swiss haven’t seen grass as green in years.

“Anything to drink for you?” They ask, picking up a rag to wipe the bar. More to busy themself than because it’s dirty. If anything it’s dusted over from unuse. 

“Well, ain’t ya a pretty thing?” Swiss winks, his head tilted to the side. He knows he most definitely looks like a creep, but he can’t stop staring.

“Oh, me? Uhm–thank you?” they stutter as blush creeps up their cheeks, coloring them a light rosy pink. Gorgeous. “What…what about that drink?”

“Get me a pint of some good ole beer, sweetheart. Pretty please.” 

“Mhm,” they nod, obviously flustered, and turn to disappear behind the curtain again. Swiss sighs—he really is exhausted—as he rests his chin on his fist, his other hand scratching at his stubble. Well, more like a beard, he didn’t have much time or opportunities to take care of it, so it’s a bit unkept now.

Soon enough the bar…person returns with Swiss’ beer and hands it to him with a light smile. “There you go.”

“Thank you kindly,” he mutters, nodding, before pressing his lips against the chilly mug and tipping it back. He moans at the refreshing feeling washing over him the moment beer pours into his mouth.

“Is it that good?” the person chuckles, leaning against the wall with their hands crossed over their chest. Their beautiful, full chest and it’s–Swiss shakes his head. He ain’t seen no tits in ages but he isn’t an animal, damnit.

“Nah,” he snorts before taking another gulp. “It’s piss, but I’ve been dry as a desert, sweetheart.”

The person curls their lips into a little amused smile and turns, grabbing the rag and starting to wipe the bar again. Swiss tries to not be obvious in his staring—looking from under the rim of his hat. The stranger is so captivating, he can’t tear his eyes away. 

“Listen, I don’t mean any disrespect, sweetheart, but I’ve gotta ask–” Swiss starts after clearing his throat, but gets cut off. The other probably expected it to go that way.

“You’re the nicest person I’ve encountered in a long time,” they say with a smirk and Swiss bows his head, grinning. “Phrase your question as nicely and there’s a chance I won’t take out the revolver from under the bar and shoot your hat off.”

“Damn, sweetheart.” He recoils dramatically, raising his arms defensively. “You’re too pretty for me to offend, don’t ya worry.”

“So?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?” The question lands, but no offense shows on the person’s face. Swiss continues. “Cause if you’re a boy, then you’re the prettiest one I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot—and if you’re a girl, then…well, then you’re the prettiest one of those.”

“I’m a woman, kind sir,” she laughs, fully this time, and the melodic sound of it goest through Swiss’ ears right to his heart, “you haven’t proven yourself worthy of permission to call me a girl. Yet.”

“Understood. I'd love to try and prove my worth.” He winks and lifts the mug nodding, as if in a toast. “You’re a gorgeous woman, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I do understand the confusion, though, even my own body didn’t get the memo.” She sighs, fidgeting with her hands and worrying her lip between her teeth. Swiss gets a sudden urge to gently pull it free, lest she breaks the skin and paints her mouth with blood, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, they’ve just met. Swiss doesn’t know what possessed him.

“Huh, that’s so…” He mumbles, staring holes into the already rugged wood of the countertop. With the corner of his eye he sees the barmaid pull up a chair on the other side of the bar and sit on it, right before him.

“Unnatural?” she finishes for him, but her guess of his thoughts couldn’t be falser.

“No, I wanted to say it makes you unique. It’s amazing,” Swiss says—confident—looking up at her again. She is so much closer now and so many more details of her beauty are visible to the man, and if she’d let him he’d count all the golden freckles adorning her face a hundred times over.

“Oh…” she whispers. Swiss doesn’t count her freckles, but he does follow the path of a blush crawling up her cheeks. “Well, uhm, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel amazing most of the time.”

“That must be tough,” he replies, wondering. “Is it like…like you don’t feel right in your body? Like it’s not yours?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” she has no idea why she’s suddenly spilling her innermost thoughts to a stranger she has met not even half an hour prior. There is something about him, though, that makes her feel safe and maybe carries a chance of finally being understood. Even if just a bit. “And sometimes I just feel…wrong all around.”

Swiss hums in acknowledgement and leans down to his mug, swallowing down a few gulps. Once his mouth is unoccupied again, he asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“It’s Mountain,” the barmaid says, “but I prefer just Mounty.”

Swiss snorts at that, but immediately regrets it upon seeing Mounty’s brows furrow in confusion and her eyes fill with a tiny bit of hurt. “Sorry, sweetheart, I ain’t laughing at you! My horse’s name is Monty, that’s why!”

“Oh. Oh, okay,” she relaxes and chuckles, too, a bit embarrassed by her immediate defensiveness. “Yeah, that is funny.”

“Nice to meet you, Mounty.”

“Won’t you give me your name?” the barmaid’s eyelashes flutter and Swiss wouldn’t be able to refuse or lie to her even if he wanted to.

“Swiss, sweetheart,” he says, lifting up the mug again. “My name’s Swiss.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Swiss,” Mounty replies, her face lighting up with a soft smile, and if Swiss was standing it would make his knees buckle. Still, his insides warm up and twist and he’s never felt like that; so stupid and…vulnerable.

Swiss feels himself blush and he quickly hides behind his mug.

“Would you–” Mounty is about to ask him something, but a squeak of the doors and heavy steps interrupt her.

“Afternoon!” a stranger calls out, walking into the saloon as if it was his own ground. Swiss looks up at the barmaid and sees her tense up—her lips turn into a thin line and her brows furrow. She knows the man and she isn't fond of him in the slightest.

Swiss doesn’t like that look on her.

“Afternoon, sir,” Mounty mutters, standing up. The man doesn’t reply, just walks over and sits down by the bar next to Swiss. He is alert after Mounty’s reaction, one of his hands close to his gun.

“Get me some whiskey, girl,” the stranger grumbles, spitting the last word out like it burns his tongue, like an insult. Swiss realizes it is supposed to be one and the knot inside him tightens, this time with something resembling anger. How can someone treat such a gorgeous, brilliant and kind creature without utmost respect?

“Hey, she ain’t your girl,” Swiss hisses as Mounty disappears to get the man’s drink. He won’t sit there and pretend he is okay with what is happening right next to him. “Bark orders at your wife like that. If you even have one, it don’t seem like you’ve got a lot to offer.”

“Why do you care?” the stranger scoffs, “he’s a freak.”

One second Swiss is sitting relaxed, sipping on his beer, and then in the next he’s up with his back straight, looming over the other man and staring down at him with fire in his eyes.

“I suggest you either apologize to her when she gets back,” he growls, reaching behind himself, to his revolver, “or get out now so neither of us have to see your ugly face any more. Or else…”

“Or else what!? Ya one of them, too, hm?” the man—clearly an idiot—snarls, craning his neck to look up at Swiss, pretending to be brave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had no balls on you.”

“Oh, I’ve got enough balls, asshole,” Swiss laughs and that seems to hit. He pulls his revolver out from behind his belt, twists it on his finger and watches the other man hesitate about his next words. “You wanna lose yours?”

The man scoffs as if there wasn’t fear in his eyes. He’s a coward and he storms out accordingly, because it’s unlikely he knows better than to actually challenge Swiss. He doubts he knows who he was.

Just as the man disappears outside, Mounty returns with a glass of whiskey intended for him. There’s no smile on her face and her rather neutral expression turns to confusion as she sees only Swiss by the bar. “Where did he go?”

“Oh, he realized he left something at home.” Swiss shrugs, returning to his stool.

“And what would that be?”

“Respect for women,” he says with a smirk and Mounty returns it, knowing and thankful. She sits again and looks at the glass in her hand before pressing it against her lips and cringing as she tips it back to drink. “Not a fan?”

“Not at all,” she coughs and Swiss chuckles. She is adorable. “All I drink is tea.”

“Tea is good,” he says and looks into his mug—there was still some beer left. He lifts it again and silence falls for a moment.

“You really are nice to talk to,” Mounty speaks after a while. “I get called a freak and other names all the time, usually the moment I come into someone’s view. It’s nice to be treated normally, have my feelings acknowledged…and be protected. You know?”

“I can only imagine.” Swiss smiles at her fondly. It must be hard living like that. Trying to live right by yourself and offending others by simply existing, just because they are too thick-skulled. If he could, he'd sit on that creaky chair every damn day and chase off every single man who'd as much as look at Mounty wrong.

It’s quiet again, Swiss finishing up his beer and Mounty drinking her whiskey—frowning at every single sip. They have just met, but the silence is comfortable. It feels like not only did they know each other for ages, but that they have a…special connection, of a kind.

Swiss snorts at his own thoughts. He’s stupid for them, for thinking this is anything more than…than what, exactly?

“A’ight, sweetheart,” he sighs after a moment, breaking the dead silence. “I should get going, find somewhere to sleep.”

“We’ve got beds,” Mounty perks up, immediately shying away as she realizes she might’ve been a bit too enthusiastic, “if you want…”

“I’d love a bed, but I don’t have much money,” the man shrugs. He’d rip anyone off without any remorse, but not her. He’s never gotten a soft spot for someone as fast as he did for her. “And I’d rather get a place for my horse than myself.”

“And if it’d all be on the house?”

“What, like me so much already you don’t want me to leave?” Swiss laughs, winking.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mounty scoffs, but her own wink says something else. “You’re clearly exhausted, who would I be if I let you go back on the road without a proper rest?”

“Will you at least accept my help in here and in the stables as a payment?”

“I can consider it,” she mumbles, smiling softly as she stares at Swiss through her lashes.

“Alright, then. I’ll stay, sweetheart.”

[honeesucker]

Six -

Pairing: ProHero!DynaMight | Katsuki Bakugo x Puppygirl!Reader

Word count:  2,917

Series Content Warnings: Little bit of a slow start... Graphic Depictions of Past Abuse & Trauma Response | Profuse Usage of Pet Names / All-around Softness | Bakugo Experienced Work-Related Trauma (causing near deafness, being put on leave from the agency, PTSD) | Eventual smut™ (will be tagged in individual chapters - to include but not limited to KiriBaku, HybridxHybrid, Hybrid heat trope, sex toy usage).

Chapter Content Warnings: HybridxHybrid assisted masturbation / sex toy usage, dirty talk, PTSD meltdown.

***This is essentially a short filler to progress the story, and to get something out. Next part already working on.

*Not proofread.

Previous | Next

It had been two weeks since the impromptu dinner and sleepover. Kirishima and TetsuTetsu had been over once more for a movie night and home-cooked dinner à la Bakugo, and another unintended sleepover since everyone was too tired to move from their spots in the living room; you and TetsuTetsu curled up with each other in a pile of blankets on the ground, and Kirishima and Bakugo snuggled on the large couch.  

Today was already half-over, and it had been a difficult day for you. You were having nightmares about the fight house, and it was setting you on edge with Bakugo, unintentionally and no one's fault, but you were snapping and growling each time he got too close to you. Currently he was watching you pace the living room, looking out of the balcony as he leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed over his muscled chest as he kept his narrowed gaze on every single one of your movements... but he was growing tired of letting you continue to spur yourself into more of a downward spiral. Something was up and he was going to figure out what it was.

“Pup,” Bakugo finally said using a harsh tone, though not angry. Your ears perked up, and your wide eyes scurried across the room until they landed on him. He gave you another command in the same hard tone. “Sit.”  

You immediately dropped to the ground, not even walking the two feet back to the couch as you plopped on your butt, sitting with your legs folded and your hands in your lap as you looked up at him with sad, scared eyes... your ears that perked up at his command now flattened against your head as you huffed from your growing anxiety. Bakugo walked over to you slowly, ensuring he wasn’t going too fast so you could anticipate his movements and not be spooked... Bakugo plopped down in front of you on the ground, his large hulking frame blocking your view as you looked up at him with a cautious stare.  

Bakugo moved his hands slowly as he opened his arms to you, giving you a curious look. “C’mere, Pup...” He said softly and you scrambled into his lap, snuggling up against his chest as your breathing hitched in your throat. Bakugo’s arms came around you in a tight grip as he held you to his chest, whispering soft words of comfort to you as he felt your body finally relax in his grip. “That’s it, Pup, you’re okay... everything’s okay.” Bakugo repeated while rubbing your back, your ears, threading his fingers through your hair with a gentleness not usually known with him. He hummed softly in his deep baritone voice, soothing you until you were a pile of puppy jelly in his arms, comfortable and at ease. “Those nightmares got you bad, huh?” Bakugo asked softly, and felt you nod slowly against his chest as he held you tighter to his body... his voice gentle as he asked his next question. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head slowly, eyes downcast as you flopped over in his lap, sighing softly and slowly finding yourself relaxing with the comfort brought by your proximity to Bakugo.

"S’okay Pup, we don’t always need to talk about things, sometimes we can just lean on each other, yeah?” Bakugo muttered softly, his hand petting sweet circles on your head between your ears, his other came up to boop your nose playfully until his movements stop and he pressed the back of his hand against your head. “You’re burning up... you feeling okay, Pup?” Bakugo asked, leaning down to peer at you closer as you huffed again in his lap, turning over with a flushed expression.

“Feel hot,” is all you say, and soon a deep pink flush is taking over your cheeks and neck, and Bakugo doesn’t know what to do, his whole body freezing the second you start nosing down at his crotch. “H-Hurts, help please.” Your choppy speech and needy look of desire paired with your face so close to his hardening cock through his sweats was enough to have Bakugo jolt up away from you, flipping you from his lap and down onto the ground with a harsh thud.

“I’m gonna call the facility, see if your counselor can help... you... you stay, Pup.” Bakugo mutters the command nervously, the sudden change in your demeanor from your earlier aggression to this had him reeling.

Your body was on fire, a burning river of molten desire churning its way from your core to every tip of your toes, fingers and the top of your head... you felt the itch of desperate need in the center of your palms and the pit of your stomach. You heard Bakugo’s deep voice from the other room, the reverberation reaching your keen ears as you slowly writhe on the ground. You had your ass up in the air, your cheek to the cold floor as your hands reach below your belly, into your bottoms as your fingers find purchase on your clit... your fingers stroking quick circles as you whimper and move along the floor, finding no satisfaction in your own hand as you growled lowly in frustration.

In the other room Bakugo could hear strange noises from the living room where he left you, but as he was on the phone with Hana, who had just briefed him on your difficult heats and PTSD given you were almost always abused during your heats at the hybrid fight house.  

So that explained your aggression this morning.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Bakugo mumbled, a little nervous as he tried to navigate this new situation.  

Hana answered in a kind, clinical way. “Bakugo there are a few options depending on the type of relationship you want to keep with your hybrid: you can provide toys and an outlet for her to help herself though this is often a last resort as it doesn’t offer much relief for the hybrid themselves... you can help her by engaging in play, or full-on sexual activity yourself, or you can reach out to a hybrid heat network and find a suitable heat partner for her...” Hana continued talking but Bakugo’s brain was flooded with all the new information, new ways in which he needed to care for you... he didn’t expect to be told to fuck you himself... a hot red blush burned on his cheeks as he continued on a little longer with Hana, before hanging up with a rushed thank you.

“Katsuki,” a pathetic little whimper came from the living room as Bakugo made his way back to you, seeing you with your bottoms and panties down to your knees, your ass up in the air as you furiously circled your hardening nub.  

“Just, hang on Pup... hang on, gonna get you some help, okay?” Bakugo said nervously, pulling his phone from his pocket as he hit the familiar call button on his recent contact.

“Heeeyyy Bakubro! What’s going on?” Kirishima’s familiar, jovial tone rang loudly through the phone as Bakugo blushed softly at his next words.  

“Eijiro, I need your help. Pup is uh... she’s uh...” Bakugo muttered nervously, not usually one to lack words for anything. “She’s in heat? I don’t know what I’m doing.” Bakugo finished and he could hear a bit of shuffling on the other end and the jingling of keys.

“On my way, want me to bring TetsuTetsu? I can also stop at the store on my way and get her some toys for herself...” Kirishima trailed on, and Bakugo just agreed.  

Bring toys, bring TetsuTetsu... bring everything.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Bakugo had scooped you up and put you down in the comfort of your bed as you rolled around whining and writhing but within fifteen minutes of him locking you in your room away from him and his inability to handle this new obstacle, a knock came at the door. Bakugo rushed to the door, opening it to see an excited TetsuTetsu and a smirking Kirishima who handed over a very full plastic bag.

“I got a bit of everything for the little Pup, but it’s best for hybrids to be engaged with primarily by a partner to ease the symptoms...” Bakugo’s head filled with so many thoughts as he looked through the bag, Kirishima still droning on and on in the background as he sets the bag on the countertop... taking things out of their packaging, removing tags and sterilizing them before he walked with a handful of cute dildos, grinding toys, and vibrating toys to your bedroom. Bakugo slowly opened the door to find you sobbing, no longer writhing or rolling around on your bed or touching yourself... just lying prone and crying, soft sniffles leaving you as your bright watery eyes look over at him.

“Pup! Are you okay?” Bakugo questions softly, leaning down as he sets everything down on the bed and kneels beside you, his hand tentatively coming up to rub your head between your ears gently. “S’okay Pup, I got your friend here to help and Kirishima brought you all of these, too... wanna give it a try?” Bakugo urged you on, his hand running over the variety of toys as he showed a couple of them to you, watching as the tip of your tail gave little nervous taps as you sniffled and nodded, palming away the tears in your eyes.  

Bakugo paused for a moment before speaking. “Hey Pup, Kirishima brought TetsuTetsu over... do you want him to help you?”  

Your ears perked up as your eyes glazed over a bit, your nose going up in the air as you sniffed and then nodded eagerly, your tail wagging faster against the mattress making a soft thumping sound.

“I’ll go get him, okay... but you just shout out for me if you change your mind, okay?” Bakugo waited for you to nod your agreement before he got up, walking back out into the living room and coming face to face with Kirishima and an excited TetsuTetsu who couldn’t help but sniff the air, his tail wagging fast behind him as his eyes were equally excited and glazed over with growing desire. “She agreed... so TetsuTetsu, if you wanna go help our girl out, head on in.” That’s all Bakugo had to say to have TetsuTetsu taking off with haste as he scrambled across the living room, down the hall and into your open door.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

No words had to be spoken.

TetsuTetsu felt a shudder run through his body at the sweet, musky scent that filled the room as he stepped in, shutting the door behind him with a soft click as he padded over on careful, soft steps. He saw as your eyes were big and pleading, watching his every move as he made his way closer to you and the pile of the toys on the bed.

“Hi Puppy,” TetsuTetsu said carefully, reaching out a slow hand to pet your head as you huffed and panted softly. “I know we’ve played before back at the facility but I’m asking again: Do you wanna play together?” TetsuTetsu used a careful, soft tone as he spoke to you, his hand still massaging gently against your head. He smiled as you nodded your head after a moment of thinking it over.

“Y-Yes, please... h-help.” Your voice was hoarse and weak, needy.

He nodded and his hand trailed down from your head, along your spine and down to the roundness of your rear as he gave the plush, soft flesh a squeeze. “I’ll help you, Puppy.” His voice was deep, calmer and steadier than his normal hurried speech and it sent a shiver through your body, the way the end of his words almost came out as growls. TetsuTetsu’s other hand trailed across the soft sheets toward the pile of new toys, his hand grabbing at a knotted canine dildo that vibrated. He wondered what kind of thoughts were running through your little puppy brain... the need to be knotted and bred, fat with pups and fucked dumb.  

“P-Please,” your whine caught his attention, his cock hardening against his trousers as he looked up to see your eyeing him and looking down at the toy now in his hand. TetsuTetsu smirked down at you as he hummed softly.

“What, Puppy, you want this big ol’ knot in your little hole?” TetsuTetsu mused with a teasing tone to his voice that made you squirm as you nodded your head eagerly. “Well, I better give the needy little Puppy what she wants then, hm?” He said as he slowly trailed the hand from the swell of your ass to the apex of your thighs, his hand hovering over your pussy as he felt the warmth coming from your sopping heat. His fingers delicately spreading your labia as a finger slowly dipped inside your pussy as he fingers you at a glacial pace, your whining only increasing as you backed your ass up against his palm to get more of him inside of you. “Tsk, tsk... what a greedy puppy.” He teased softly, withdrawing his finger to watch the slick string along his finger connected from your pussy before it snapped. He sucked on his own finger, licking it clean of your slick as he groaned softly. “You taste so good Puppy...”

TetsuTetsu brought the knotted dildo up to your entrance, running the plastic length along your slick folds to gather up enough lubrication to slip the pointed tip into your hungry pussy. The dildo stretching your walls as TetsuTetsu pushed more and more of the length into you, soon pumping the dildo in at a relentless pace mimicking one that would come from another dog hybrid... he watched the sweet, fucked-out look on your face as he pressed the length deep into your pussy, up until the bulbous knot hit your entrance...

… and it was this motion that triggered a memory in your head as your whole body froze and suddenly a growl ripped from your throat as your hazy mind cleared, your eyes widening and a scream piercing the air as you scrambled away from TetsuTetsu who was left shaking and wide-eyed, wondering if he hurt you somehow.  

“P-Puppy...?” TetsuTetsu asked, but you weren’t in your right state of mind, you were sobbing and kicking at the air, as if fighting off someone he couldn’t see. He opens the door and calls out to Kirishima and Bakugo who come running within seconds. Kirishima’s eyes wide as he pulls TetsuTetsu out of the room, and Bakugo crouches down in front of your flailing form, trying to make sense of what started this episode.

Bakugo wrapped his arms around you, letting you kick and scratch as him as you nip and scratch his arms, his strength and determination to calm you down overriding any pain he might feel from the fearful assault. “Kirishima!” Bakugo called, and saw his friend leaning in the doorway, keeping TetsuTetsu at bay who could be heard whining and whimpering in the living room, still thinking he did something wrong. “Maybe you both should leave... I’ll handle this, thanks for coming over and trying to help.” Bakugo muttered softly, Kirishima bidding his goodbye and saying he’ll text him later to check up on them.

Bakugo could hear the jingle of keys, as Kirishima picked up his stuff and slipped on his shoes – he could hear the soft click! of the door as they both left, and soon it was just you and Bakugo.

“Hey Pup,” Bakugo cooed softly to you, you were still struggling in his arms weakly, but soon all the fight went out of you as you can back down, your vision clearing as you looked up at him confused, unsure of what just happened. “Hey, Pup, there you are...” he cooed softer still, smiling down at you. “Something scared you, huh? Wanna talk about it?” You were squirming in his lap, still in the throes of your heat as you tried to quell your anxiety for long enough to form a coherent sentence.  

“S-Scared...” you finally murmured. Bakugo swallowed hard, nodding, ready to protect you from any threat, real or imagined.  

“Scared of what, Pup?” He questioned softly.

You shook your head slowly, a shudder running through your body as you curled up in his lap. “S-Scared... w-was back at t-the... bad house... r-remember heats there h-hurt... made me breed...” your words were broken and a bit of pieced together nonsense to someone like Bakugo who didn’t have the full picture, but he didn’t need the whole picture, just needed to know something bothered you, and he’d make sure you’d never face it again.  

“S’okay, Pup... you’re not back at the bad house, I won’t ever let you be alone or hurt again.” Bakugo murmured softly, snuggling you in his large, strong arms. “We got each other, yeah?” You nodded, sniffling softly as you relaxed in his arms, finally coming down from your panic.

“C-Can... Can Katuski help me?” You questioned softly, and Bakugo knew what you were asking.  

“I... uh, d-do ya really want me, Pup? I can call back TetsuTetsu... and you can go slow-” Bakugo was cut off immediately.  

“No! Want you, just you...” you pleaded with big eyes.

“Okay Pup, you have me...” Bakugo muttered softly, a bit nervous as to what he’s just gotten himself into.

@winnieslut @ryantryan6969 @natsukicookies @littlnika @im-better-than-your-newborn @ssc7514 @romiinlove @theequeenofcurses @xbieditz @hypernovaxx @craxy-person @archer-fb @sadgyaltings @kllrkitty @meiimeiichuu @noxva08 @livyyz @misscaller06 @kiwibao @ewwitsbella @mrsyixingunicorn10​ @simplesoup  

[lillaluna]

Hi!! :) Congratulations on your 100 followers! I just found your blog thanks to your pantalone tag and like your stuff! Can I request Pantalone please? 23. “I might have slept with your shirt while you were gone.” (reader saying it) feel free to do a normal or spicy/adult version as you wish :))

Hi, thank you so much, it's my pleasure as I really like Pantalone too!

Pairing: Pantalone x f!Reader

That evening, Pantalone crossed the threshold of his room in his mansion after a long absence, noticeably disposed to take a break from the fuss he was going through on his trip.

Throwing his travelling cloak on the back of a chair, which showed his affiliation with the Fatui organisation in the best possible way. Pantalone pulled the elastic band from his hair with a soft but precise movement. The raven-coloured hair fell silently down the Harbinger's back, and he closed his eyes in satisfaction for only a moment.

Pantalone was a self-confident man, whose confidence was already disgusted by his every move. Businesslike and always tired of the continuous race for success, he rarely stopped for a while to rest and enjoy the moment. And such a moment was right now…

Hoping to spend a quiet evening unbuttoning his clothes, Pantalone headed for the closet. Opening it, the man's eyes fell on an empty hanger where his favorite shirt used to be. His heart began to beat with an incomprehensible force.

"How is this possible?" thought Pantalone, he had always sincerely and deservedly considered himself a pedantic man. He remembered exactly where he had left this or that thing, so this situation at least surprised him.

Turning away from the closet, Pantalone looked around his room. Everything was as it always was, except for the slightly rumpled bed and something lying on the blanket.

The Harbinger's heart beat faster when he realized that someone had been in his room in his absence. He decided to check, and his fears turned out to be based on the harshest reality. When he got to his bed, he realized that the shirt he hadn't found in the closet was lying on it.

As if sensing with a sixth sense that the situation in the room had changed, Pantalone heard a soft laugh, which sent a wave of warmth through his entire body, which was still unusual for him. The dark-haired man turned and his gaze fell on you standing in the doorway with a shy smile on your face.

"Hello," you said with a soft laugh, but your excitement betrayed how timidly you were shifting from one foot to the other. "You're probably surprised that I'm here?"

Pantalone remained motionless, his eyes never leaving you. He was amazed that you were so violating his understanding of the norms and boundaries of relationships. His face expressed mixed feelings, amazement and admiration. You were a man who violated all his usual boundaries and standards, but Pantalone was captivated by your individualism and ability to live by your own rules. You destroyed his ideas of what a relationship should be, but at the same time you filled his world with brilliant colors and new opportunities.

"Yes, I'm surprised," Pantalone finally said in a surprisingly calm tone that didn't match what was going on inside him. "Did I miss something?" the man asked, glancing at his shirt lying on the bed, and then returning to you.

You smiled even wider, and the Harbinger couldn't take his eyes off your beautiful face.

"Well, I… I might have slept with your shirt while you were gone," you admitted, seemingly apologizing for your actions. For all your spontaneity, you understood that not everyone might like such an action. "She smells like you, and it helps me feel your presence when you're not around."

Pantalone just stared at you in silence, experiencing the many emotions that pierced him. Something new and incomprehensible arose in his soul – a feeling for a girl born in his absence, when his charming half admitted that she had pulled off his shirt and slept in it during his absence.

"I do not know how to react to this," Pantalone admitted, trying to cope with the seething emotions. It was so new to him, completely incomprehensible, and just as pleasant. Wavering between joy and fear, these new feelings they seemed so light and gentle, but the fearless Harbinger was also afraid that he might lose what he had just begun to feel. "But to be honest, the thought makes my heart flutter."

You entered the room and walked up to Pantalone from behind, wrapped your arms around his waist. Your touch was light and comforting. Together you stood there, breathing slowly, enjoying a moment of calm and intimacy.

"I was afraid you'd get angry. I understand that this may seem strange to you," you whispered, clinging to the back of the dark-haired man. "But this is probably my most honest way to show that you are special to me."

Pantalone finally smiled. His thin cool fingers found your small palms on his torso and he covered them with his hands.

"Angry? How can I be angry when you give me such a wonderful gift?" The Harbinger said softly, gently stroking your hands and listening to how you breathe. "Nothing can replace personal presence," Pantalone continued, "and if you're comfortable sleeping in my shirt, then I'm glad it fills that gap when I'm not here."

[dadfemme]

Someone to Lose - Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Interviews

a03 // wattpad

You and your team have compiled a reasonable list of interviewees by the time another body shows up. Narrowing down a legitimate pool of witnesses and potential suspects had been a tall task with a tight-lipped town like yours. Lips that got even tighter around two new faces. Knowing this you had Emily and Luke stay at the station and do other digging to better profile the suspect.

Regardless of their roles, however, the agents put their time in. There wasn’t a single person working on the case who didn’t average a 10-12 hour work day. Everyone pulled their weight. 

Despite your different roles you’d found that you and Emily crossed paths often. It started brief and unsubstantial. Quick brushes by with polite smiles when you were headed to different corners of the small station. No different than running by anyone else. Then one evening you’d caught her pooling over some old files and dropped her a cup of coffee on your way to your office.

At first she’d barely registered you enter, so focused on what she was reading. Her eyes eventually landed on the lidless paper cup, coffee still hot enough to release a bit of steam.

“Do I look like I need it that bad?” she laughed. 

“Finish up and get some rest, Prentiss,” you tossed over your shoulder on your way out by way of answer. You didn’t stay for her to test it to see if you made it right. You knew you had. You paid attention to that stuff with your guys, and she was no different. Certainly not.

Since that night Emily seemed to go out of her way to engage with you. She’d come and lean on your doorway to talk about the case, or whatever, really. You particularly enjoyed her big smile while she spoke with you, which contrasted nicely to her usual stoic appearance. You came to look forward to her popping in, but you tried your best not to look forward to it too much. That would be silly. So you looked forward to it a very normal and regular amount.

Anyway.

Back to the present: The new body and the interviews. Right.

By the time the station got the call, you’d had paperwork to finish so you sent the boys to go secure the scene and Alvez tagged along. You found you really liked Luke. He’s what you imagine your guys will be after a few years. The boys were earnest and incredibly hardworking, but they lacked the type of easy confidence that Luke had that came with age. A sense of comfort in his role, which just emanated from him.

With the men gone, you and Prentiss were on interviews. Although she was a newcomer, you figured a stranger in uniform along with a familiar face like yours made a perfect pair to interview. Nothing more unassuming than two women just asking a few questions. As you’d hoped, the two of you blew through potential witnesses and potential persons of interest together with ease. You were surprised at how well you complemented eachother. Transitions between each session were seamless, and her questions were either perfect segues for yours, or they were so clever even you hadn’t realized what she was getting at any more than the individual across the table had until she’d caught them in an inconsistency.

Eventually the guys returned, and with the last individual interviewed you all found yourselves at 6pm with a full day under your belts.

“Okay I’m calling it,” you announce. “Our days have been too long. We’ve put our time in so let’s get out of here.”

“You guys going to the bar tonight?” Joe asks

“Oh man I forgot it’s the third Wednesday of the month,” Danney answers, rubbing his eyes in a weak effort to get the tired out. Joe was less than deterred.

“Let’s go! Feds, you too. It’s great. The drinks are dirt cheap, the beer comes by the pitcher, and the music is entirely questionable.”

At Prentiss’ confused expression you speak up, “It’s open DJ night. Anyone over 21 can come and have a go at the music. It’s rarely great, but always fun.”

You watch one eyebrow quirk before an amused smile slowly spreads across her lips.

“Well, how can I say no?”

Some of the guys let out a little whoop and soon everyone’s packing up their bags and heading for the bar.

-

The night was exactly as promised. Various individuals either overly nervous or entirely too cocky got up to the small DJ booth in the bar (read: black folding table) and was given 30 minutes to play their sets.

Despite the rather clunky music the lot brought to the bar, the group was having a great time. You always love to spend time with your team, and having the agents with you made that no different.  You sat back and sipped your second beer from the communal pitcher while Garrett sang as off key as he could muster to a Cher house remix. Toward the song’s end your gaze drifts to Emily, and not for the first time that night.

Now you know yourself. You’re a very happy, very flirty drunk. So if you keep glancing toward her, well that’s only weird if she catches you while wearing what the boys call your “lovergirl eyes”.

You can’t help it. Her big smiles at the absolutely abysmal music. Her easy banter with Luke and the guys. It all feels like it happened so fast. Like getting acquainted to a new town and new people was so easy for her. You were impressed and in awe. Truthfully, the little crush you’ve developed was inevitable. You’d resigned to it that day on Ana’s property when she apologized, staring at you like you were something worth looking at.

You watch her stand and head toward the bar, and almost immediately the bartender sets two bottles in front of her. While she waits to run her card you approach, putting your elbows on the sticky bar next to hers, your shoulders touching.

“When I said it’s on my tab tonight, I meant it.”

She smirked at your words, not yet looking at you. Thin fingers move to pluck your glass from your hands to soon replace with one of the cold bottles she bought.

You don’t even think to fight your grin. “Attentive. Cheers.”

Your bottle clinks with hers as the two of you take a swig. Now she’s looking at you, her eyes studying, and there’s something else in them you can’t quite read.

“I didn’t know the FBI made them like you, darlin. Shame you have all that hidden by a suit.”

The two of you are broken from your bubble to find Becks Lammers. The man peaked in high school and deals with it with alcohol. He’s hit every woman with the misfortune of dating him. Tonight, he reeks of cigarettes, and is clearly having difficulty keeping his eyes focused as he tries to waltz off after his shitty come-on.

You watch her nostrils flare, and you stand, before she has a chance to swivel around.

“What did you just say?” Your growl is punctuated by a grab to his arm, bringing him back to face you. You nearly see red.

He scoffs, “Lighten up, Sheriff. I was just kidding, right little miss agent?” He goes to cup Emily’s shoulder in that patronizing way men love to do.

Your grip on his other arm tightens and he stops midair.

“Touch her and I’ll book your ass so fast for that tax evasion that you think you’ve been hiding it’ll make your head spin.” You step into his space, so close you can smell the alcohol.

“In fact, I’ll do one better, I’ll bring you to the station myself and I’ll make you regret ever stepping foot in this bar tonight, Lammers.” You stand there, solid and unwavering.

His eyes go saucer wide.

“I-I was stupid for saying it. It was nothing. I’ve had too much to drink. How about I just get goin’.” He turns on his heel and skitters out of the bar.  

*

Emily sits and observes the interaction, her dark brows raised. It was new to be on the other side of someone defending her against some scummy guy making a pass. On her team she’s used as the bait, cursed to grin and bear it for the sake of the case. Up until tonight she’d more or less resigned to it.

“Is he really evading his taxes?” she asks once the door slams behind the man.

“Unsure.” The sheriff snorts. “Just seems like the type.”

Before Emily can sit on the interaction further, she feels Jane grab her arm.

“Come here,” she says, as Emily feels herself pulled out of her thoughts and onto unsteady legs. She allows herself to get walked halfway across the scuffed floor before she has the thought to ask, “Wait what’s happening?”

"We’re going to dance.” The blonde says simply with that brightness Emily found herself so fond of as of late.

“It’s a slow song,” she continues. “Everyone’s already dancing, even Alvez.” The blonde tips her chin to her right, and sure enough there he was, posted up with a woman who could very well be his grandmother’s age. So wrapped up in the sight, Emily missed the sudden proximity.

“Come closer,” comes a softer tone. “We can’t be the only ones not on the floor.”

By this point, Emily’s hand had already been taken and wrapped around Hailey’s waist, and the realization makes her nearly go rigid. Not wanting to give off her nerves, she takes a deep breath and relaxes just in time for a strong arm to gently pull her closer. A lot closer. Her free hand clasped by the Sheriff’s, they begin to sway.

On one hand, Emily is grateful for the cheek resting against hers. It allows her own reddened cheeks to stay hidden from Jane’s eyes. On the other hand, the closeness has resulted in a warmth that began deep in her stomach, that crawled through her chest, and spread up to where the tips of her fingers joined the younger woman’s. This isn’t good. Emily Prentiss does not get distracted on cases. She focuses on her breathing still, allows her eyes to drift shut. It’s so unlike her to react to someone else this way. She can’t even think of the last time this has happened.

Jesus, Emily. You’re an adult. Get a hold of yourself.

*

Oblivious to the brunette’s turmoil, you find yourself comfortably wrapped in her arms until the song ends, marking the conclusion of open DJ night. She doesn’t seem to meet your eyes once you separate, so rather than dwell on that you instead focus your collective attention on ensuring everyone gets out of the bar and starts for home safely.

Neither of you register what that means until you turn to one another, alone, lit only by the nearly full moon shining over the gravel parking lot.

This time she catches your eyes, but she’s got that unreadable expression again, and before your alcohol addled brain can figure out exactly what it means the brunette suddenly steps closer into your space. Her breath is against your lips. One, two, three, puffs of air. The tension is unbearable and the second you watch those big brown eyes flit down to your mouth you’re helpless to do anything else but close what distance remains between the two of you.  

You hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine this, but even if you had it wouldn’t have been anywhere near to what it feels like now that it’s real. Tipsy or not, she’s real, and she’s kissing you.

Her lips are soft and she tastes faintly of the alcohol, but underneath it’s just her. You’re so busy running your fingers up and through thick hair that you faintly register hands settling on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to hers. Her tongue dips into your mouth, followed by a sigh, and a whimper against your lips that shoots straight to your core.

You’re helpless to the moan that escapes your throat, which seems to snap Emily out of whatever spell she was under. The agent steps back abruptly. Your gaze falls to her heaving chest before you move back up to her eyes.

“I don’t think I meant to do that,” Emily starts, eyes building up to panic.

And you laugh.

You laugh and nod, bringing your fingers up to your cheeks. 

“Oh god. Am I blushing?” you snort.

Emily’s brow is furrowed, but her shoulders relax slightly, her earlier expression replaced by a far more perplexed one.

When she stays quiet you continue, “The night got away from us, don’t sweat it. Go home and get some rest.” You squeeze her arm by way of goodbye and you both head for home.

It didn’t need to be a big deal. You’ve kissed women before. Prentiss is attractive. It’s nothing more than that. More accurately it can’t be more anything than that.

You’ll deal with this in the morning. You’re both professionals. You can pretend this never happened. For tonight, though, you’re going to drift off to sleep thinking of the softest sounds of pleasure that had escaped one Emily Prentiss.

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part two)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter two: do you feel it, too?

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: you fight hard to keep old habits at bay. joel falls into his head first.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> semi-public dry humping, kissing, mentions/fantasies of p in v sex, possessive thoughts, no one is drunk but everyone blames the wine, joel miller loves his kid!

word count: 5.3k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: i'm in shambles over the response to the first chapter, this series is my baby and it means so much that you guys liked it. thank you a million times for reading!

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“The wait begins as soon as I wake up. There is never any “after”. Life stops from the moment he rings the doorbell and enters.”

Annie Ernaux - Getting Lost

───────

Joel hasn’t touched the plastic tube since he brought it home last week. 

It’s become something he has to hide from, a nagging thought that pulls at his pant-leg like a child, clawing for his attention—open me, open me. Over and over he hears it, while in the office or cooking dinner or folding the wash, a whisper that begs him to reach in and claim his prize. When he’s really tired, brain damp from the days he has to work, the voice pours into something smoother, and suddenly it's that pretty girl—the one who’d made the thing—asking for the same; to be peeled back and stretched wide for him, cunt and heart and all. 

He finds himself losing a lot of very real time in the fantasy, chunks of his life spooned out to make room. 

The compulsion isn’t unfamiliar; it’s one that Joel thinks has something to do with his protective nature—or maybe that he’s seen enough living through the filters of hurt and mistrust—that makes him cling to the things he finds precious.

It traces back as far as the girls in grade school, when they would bring him little home-made valentines and wave him kisses first stamped onto open palms. He grew enamored with them, picking them flowers and scribbling symbols of promise in their note-books—the very beginnings of his acts of service. His heart would swell with it, a cartoonish thing, growing and pumping until he could keel over to one side from the size. He chased it in those early years, back somewhere between the brothering and fathering, moving through many someones he could fawn over, easing his need to possess. 

He can feel the need rising now, for the first time in too long, his body hurtling itself towards the ledge of something scarier, and he welcomes it. His hands itch for it, for the kind of love with teeth, that bites and tears into the edges of a substance much meatier, providing a place for the points to pierce and hold. He won’t call it what it really is, prefering to stomp out the whisper that warns him of its arrival—obsession. He likes to use less severe terms: thoughtful, involved, fascinated.

Knowing better in his age, he tries at least to be realistic during waking hours, and around Ellie, reminding himself that he has a hard time stepping down when he builds his hope high enough. He moves instead to just dreaming about you—in little tidbits and at guest-star capacity—to tide himself over until the week rolls back around.

Now, on a new Monday, he lets his daughter head off to class before he allows himself the privilege of unwrapping his reward.

He fishes around in the back of the hallway closet where he hid the case, retreating to his room to finally have his time alone with the creature he’d made of the object, letting it free from its cage.

He pops off the cardboard top of the roll, pulling the drawing out with the very tips of his fingers to not smudge something on accident. The sound of it sliding out sets his skin alight—this gift is one he asked for, but it feels like it was given to him all the same. Sharing a piece of you with him so freely, he feels special. 

He’s gotten used to seeing himself around the house, Ellie’s ever-growing library of renditions of him are fixed to the fridge by mis-matched magnets and framed in little glass panels in her room. It leans on the side of betrayal to have someone else’s version of him up, but he just wants to see it—if it’s as intense as he remembers it. As different.

His knuckle follows the curl of the paper to flatten the image, tacking it up to the wall with painter’s tape to avoid damaging the surface, like his daughter taught him. Joel sits on the corner of his bed and feels a hot wave of emotion fill his chest. 

He looks hopeful. It’s a garment he’s never seen himself wear. He’s soft and shy and child-like, face penciled in with detail that reads like a well-worn novel, bending and twisting to the curve of his expression. It’s a finely crafted summary. It’s guide-lines. It’s instructions, the very important parts of him spelled out in bold, black charcoal, with the gray shades of his complexion filling in the gaps. 

Was he that easy to pick apart? 

He’d seen some of the other drawings, the way everyone else had chosen to capture solely his pose, perfectly articulating the crook of his elbow or the network of muscle under the skin of his calf. 

But you’d chosen to show him. 

Something about it looks so familiar, enough to bring forward a memory of the conversation that had him feeling the briefest pass of deja vu—of you glancing down at the ground, quieted maybe by his proximity or his compliments; bashful. 

He walks out into the living room where Ellie keeps her sketchbook, the one with all the references. He thumbs through it—she’s given him permission to see this one—and flips to the page he remembers watching her use last week. And when he sees it, he feels like he’s going to faint. 

It was you. 

That was your face his daughter had been so beautifully replicating. Upon examining the fragmented portrait, he sees a striking resemblance to the one you’d made of him. They’re the same. Not the likeness, of course, but the visage. You knew what he felt like—had felt it yourself.

He already knew you, before you’d even spoken a word to each other. He admits that Ellie was only capable of piecing together so much of you, and even with the extra bits he’d caught in your brief meeting, he feels like he’s missing out. He wants to see the whole picture. You, in totality. 

When he arrives at the school building, he’s overtaken with a wash of what he thinks might be stage-fright. It makes him feel sick, stomach rolling with an embarrassment that scorches like youth—fight low and flight high—and his body starts to feel sore with the effort it takes to keep himself from fidgeting. 

Ellie’s teacher meets him in the hallway and passes him his slip, and he hums his way down to the bathroom to undress, admittedly working up the courage to confront you. 

As he enters the classroom, his excitement bottoms out. You’re not there. He keeps sweeping the room with his eyes, hoping you somehow had been hidden amongst the other bodies. He tries to sell himself the idea that you’re just in the bathroom, or on a break or late, but the wooden bench you’d sat in last week is obviously untouched. 

He clambers onto the stool, trying to replicate his pose from the previous lesson, much more uncomfortable now that he has nothing to distract him. The two hours are painful, and he finds himself counting seconds to fill the minutes in increments of ten until he can leave. 

His back hurts when he stands. 

On his way out, the blonde woman hands him a little flier, two pieces of neon copy paper glued together to make a double-sided image, advertising the group show this coming Friday. Ellie has already reminded him more times than he can count, but he takes it from the woman with the best smile he can muster, slipping out the door in a stride he’s hoping doesn’t come across as wounded. 

───────

The on-campus gallery is what someone a lot kinder than Joel would call cozy—a tight, short chamber with no windows and a single entrance, like a trap. 

He’s too keyed-up to be kind. He feels like nitpicking.

The metal door at the head must have been an afterthought, kicking back into the frame loudly every time someone walks through, nothing implemented to catch it. A continuous beam of fluorescent lighting wraps around the room in an all-encompassing spotlight, cooking the smell of fresh paint off the wall. It reminds him of picture day, or apartment hunting or something else equally unpleasant. 

He was always going to come to this, because he can’t imagine a version of himself who wouldn’t support his daughter, but he’s not happy about it, and he’s starting to feel dizzy from the too-fast swirl of anxiety in his stomach. 

Ellie had removed herself from his side the moment they made it into the building in search of her friends, with just a squeeze of his forearm and an ‘I’ll introduce you later’ left in her wake. He’s clung tightly to the wall ever since, making his way around the room to look at all the drawings, again and again and again until he feels like he’s on a track. 

Discomfort is a factor, but most of his indignation has to do with not seeing you in class—pointed at himself for the absurdity of his expectations—the voice in his head taking a bitter turn. Were you avoiding him? Would you not attend this, either? Did he do something wrong? His mind rambles on as he fiddles with his imitation cocktail glass, the shiny slip of plastic sticking to his fingers. There’s still a generous portion of what has to be five-dollar wine pooled at the bottom, bitter and opaque enough to stain. The woman who poured it for him did so nearly to the top, maybe sympathetically, disregarding that there was money obviously trying to be saved—deeming his cause a worthy one. He doesn’t even want it, really, nauseous at the idea of actually finishing it, but not having something in his hand was winding him even tighter. So he nurses it—even as it goes warm between his grasp, more unappetizing now than it had been twenty minutes ago—sip after sip to try and appear engaged. 

Eventually Joel grows tired of waiting, for Ellie to come back or for you to come at all or for this night to just be over, and picks a drawing to pause in front of. It’s a portrait of someone he’ll never meet, another graceful stranger coming together in an amalgamation of grays. He can hear people walking behind him, talking quietly and occasionally stopping to look over his shoulder at it in passing. 

“Hm. Quite the fan of my work, are you?” He almost ignores the comment, thinking it's for someone else, as it usually is, until there’s a figure taking up too much of his periphery. 

He’s a little dazed when he looks over, the hot, sour wine settled now in the pit of his belly, buzzing with a flare of something not-missed. He’s prepared to see more than one person beside him, perhaps a couple that had been talking near him rather than to him, but when he swivels his neck, it’s you. You’re just as pretty as he remembers, the face that he looks for in his sleep, but this time you’re not as shy, staring at him straight on—maybe similarly loosened by the pale yellow liquid in your own cup. 

Heat gathers at the rim of his jaw—his neck is red by now, he’s sure of it. Already exposed and driven by the faint whisper in his mind, he opens his mouth to speak without thinking, “You weren’t there this week.” 

You make quick quotes with just your pointers half-heartedly, “‘Sick,'” and breathe a laugh, “Had a few academic duties to fulfill. Gotta keep the scholarship intact.” 

There’s a thick moment of silence, but he can’t look away, eyes weighty and cheeks stinging. It’s awkward but he finds comfort in it, embracing the adjustment like it's a step towards better connection. 

Someone brushes his arm as they walk by and Joel uses it to his advantage, “Do you want to step outside? It’s a little hot in here.” 

There’s a flash of something like surprise across your eyes, but you shrug, “Sure.”

He crowds behind you as you walk step-in-step out the unarmed emergency exit, just to feel the closeness of your body, much better than the distance he’d felt in your absence on Monday. 

The night is worse than cold but it feels good against the heat in Joel’s chest. He can smell your perfume wafting back as he follows your movements, and it makes him pant. He’s ill, has to be—that or the wine was stronger than he thought, because the weird tie he feels is one he can’t explain as being healthy or normal or not fucking scary. But when you turn on your heel to face him, taking a seat on a hip-high planter in a secluded outer corner of the building, it feels right. Natural. 

He shuffles so that he’s far enough for you to be safe from his touch, and he shoves a hand in his pocket for good measure, “Thank you again for the drawing. It’s really beautiful.”

“Yeah, of course. Thank you for saying that.”

He wants to say something more, like you’ve captured me in a way that makes me hopeful about myself, but settles instead for, “My daughter liked it a lot, too.” It’s a bold-faced lie, but he thinks that keeping your gift a secret would look less appealing. 

“Is she here?”

“Somewhere, yeah. Ran off the second we got in. I’m not a comfort anymore, I guess.”

“Is she yours? Comfort, I mean.” You pick at the crown of the cup, rolling it gently in your hands like its real glass, and you both watch the fuzzy pattern of light that catches on its uniform surface. Joel wonders if you have a comfort of your own—if you need one.

“Is it bad if I say yes? It feels cheesy but the kid is my rock. Dunno what I’m gonna do when she grows up.” He shoves at the concrete under the toe of his boot. It didn’t taste as bad coming out as he thought it might. He hasn’t said that out loud to anyone other than himself, but you look at him like you know exactly what he means. The delicate beginnings of a smile crest on your face, cheek pinched, void of all the uncomfortable sympathy he's gotten from Tommy and Maria at the few things he made the mistake of revealing. He can’t find it in himself to stop now with your gesture, feeling relief in having a place to voice his heartbreak, “Honestly I’m scared, but not just for me, y’know? I worry about what she’s gonna find in the world. I just want to keep her safe.” 

“She knows it, I’m sure. I know what it feels like to have no one to root for you—I would’ve killed for that. The only thing you can do for her is be there when she comes home,” You’re looking down again, and he doesn’t like whatever’s made you want to pull back from him—be shy, “Spend time with other people you care about and that care about her. Make that network for her to lean on.”

“All I got is my brother. His wife too, sometimes. My nephews. A few years ago it was just me and him. Ellie—that’s her name. She, uh, isn’t ‘mine’,” he makes the bunny-eared quotes with the hand holding his drink, “Not by blood, anyway. But she popped up out of nowhere and I don’t know how to go back to being on my own.” 

“It’d be good to have a network of your own, too—if you’re up to it. It’s hard to do, trust me, but I don’t think I could do a lot without my friends.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore. I can’t conjure up much of anything worth listening to these days. Forgot how.” 

“Don’t do that. You have a lot to say—you’re plenty. Just start with one person. There’s always time to make more.” He knows you’re talking to him, but it feels like you’re also talking to that little boy inside of him, small and unloved and still bleeding.

“Do you need any more? Friends.”

You look up from your lap, pushing a piece of your hair back from your face like you need to get a better look, searching for a way you could be misinterpreting him, “I might have room. You have a recommendation for me?”

He reaches out, grabbing the empty cup from your grasp, stacking it with his own and depositing them by your side. He doesn’t miss the way you watch him, how you widen the spread of your legs on instinct, enough to suggest his entrance. He wades out on one leg to bring himself in, testing the water.

Your lips are parted, and when he looks into the opening between them he imagines he’s seeing to the center of you, and everything else keys out. Cars pass by on the strip of street behind him, driven by ghosts, providing nothing but a low song for your bodies to dance to together, his chest swaying closer to yours with every breath. You move with him, and it feels rehearsed, like all of the steps you've taken to get to this moment were purposeful, done in perfectly orchestrated succession for the hundredth time. 

“Do you feel that, too?” He asks, wanting to know if he’s reading too much into it, feeling that sweet edge of thoughtful-involved-fascinated scrape his skin like a sharp knife, “Do you? Like you know me?” 

“Yes,” you breathe, and it’s all the permission he’s ever needed. 

He leans in, lips skating yours, the warm cave of your mouth begging to be explored. He tries so hard to take his time, soft brushes tethering you to each other with the weight of everything he’ hasn’t had the time to say. His whole body is pins and needles—a fierce heat that floats so high it feels like ice. You sigh into him, the start of a moan, and his composure snaps. Service, he reminds himself, act on it—it feels almost divine when he thinks about all the ways he could pledge his loyalty, ready to bend at your altar every day of his life if it meant you’d sing for him again.

Joel brings a hand to the side of your neck, thumb digging into the pulse point at the corner of your jaw to bring you forward, licking into your mouth in search of more noise. He groans when you relax into his hold, so pretty and willing, and works you until you’re just as fervent, daring to suck his bottom lip between your teeth—going for blood. 

The voice in his head is yours again—open me, eat me, unhinge your jaw and swallow. 

He slots his other hand around the bone of your hip, pulling you nearer to the ledge of the planter, pressing his cock into your inner thigh as it swells to life. You gather his shirt in your hand, a tight fist, shifting yourself against him so you can grind into it instead. No one else exists, no one else could ever exist in this moment, or any moment you attend, for the rest of forever. He wants to fuck you, to see how far the attachment could go, how far he could reach down before he finds a warm, bed-shaped slot for him to rest in. He wants to live inside the body of someone who sees him so clearly. He wants to know every thought in your head before it comes to fruition. 

The wine tastes better coming from off your tongue, and he’s gleaning the flavor from every corner of your mouth like he can achieve a second-hand high. His full weight is rocking into you with enough force now that he has to plant a heel in the ground to keep you both from tumbling. He risks a thumb in your waistband in the flurry, tugging at it in the hope of another invitation. 

Before you have a chance to decide, the loud press of the swing-door at the front of the building opens, and Joel staggers back, remembering where he is and why. 

You look winded to say the least, hair bent from the imprint of his hand, mouth in a perpetual ‘o’, and he’s scared to see the state of his own face, not to mention the visible strain of his cock in his pants. He kicks an ankle out to try to adjust, heaving through an open maw at the thought that you might be affected in that way as well, picturing the slick wet in between your legs—a beautiful sheen from just his mouth on the top half of your body. 

You shimmy off the edge, straightening your shirt and he immediately steps back in for more, draping the full breadth of his hand against your collarbone, curling the tips around the top of your shoulder.

“Joel. I— I need to go inside.”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” 

You lay a hand over his with a squeeze and he retracts it, “Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting… I don’t know if I can do this right now.”

He can feel his breath restricting, heart plummeting down so far it feels like it’s landed in the ball of his foot; the second time this week you’ve pulled away. He thinks back to the face you made at him in the gallery, back before he fucked this up. Maybe you never meant for this to happen at all.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice strained, “I just need a little time. Just some time, I’m sorry.”

“No, no I understand. Don’t be sorry. Will you take my number? Just in case?” He wants to make sure you’re okay after this, if you want that, and selfishly he wants to give you a way to have him, knowing this might be the last time he runs into you. He’s too afraid to leave it up to chance.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” You pass him your phone with shaky fingers. 

“Only if you want to, honey,” He’s disheartened by the whole thing, but he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so he’s careful to double-check, even if it’s a blow to his hope, “You don’t have to.”

“I know. I’m just—the wine, sorry. I think it was bad.” You huff out a strained laugh, “I want it. Your number, I mean. Promise.” You practically shove the thing at him and he takes it this time, entering the contact with as little squinting as possible to save himself from any further humiliation. 

───────

You all but run into the bathroom in the back of the building, needing a moment alone to consider what the fuck it is that’s going on right now—what’s been going on since he walked into your class two weeks ago and overstayed his welcome. 

You stumble in, bracing yourself against the porcelain basin, switching on the faucet to drown out some of the pounding in your head. You’d been lying when you said the wine was catching up to you—very much sober—but now, in this suffocating, gray room, you feel like it must have at least accelerated the churning in your gut. 

You let water gather in your hands, bending to dip your face in the too-cold pool between them. 

Every day has been mostly encouraging if not indifferent but this feels like the start of a bad dream you won’t be able to wake up from, dragging you right back to that dark box you’d been existing in. He came in from nowhere, kicking down your reserve, for what? For a fuck? To enjoy you in passing? Or worse, to stay? You’re unsure which would be harder to receive.

And it’s unfair—for him to show up right at the point of being fully on your own, as soon as you’ve chosen to avoid getting caught up in that part of your life. You’re past the point of surrendering your time—know better than to want to be bogged down by a crush or the preconceived idea of the perfect stranger. 

You don’t know him, and you don’t need to. 

But you want him so bad it hurts; so bad you had to fake a cold to skip class because you couldn't face the idea of seeing him for the last time. You debated skipping the grade for the exhibition too, but you used any excuse to convince yourself he might not show. You weren’t sure who his daughter was, or how enthusiastic she was about the program, so you figured it was a fair shot. You outwardly willed him not to come, at yourself in the mirror and in the shower and out loud the car, all while secretly praying he’d be in attendance, right up to the moment you saw him.

When you stand up, staring at your rigid body in the plastic mirror above the sink, you’re pained at the sight. You look tired, shoulders tense and eyes bleary. Stray beads of the cool water stick to your skin, refusing to dry in the lingering humidity, balling up together to drip into the open lip of your shirt. You can barely feel it falling over your chest before being soaked up by the material. You feel outside yourself.

Someone starts to knock at the door, a quick and invasive interruption to the moment of absolute panic you’d been enjoying. You managed to twist the lock shut on the door at least, so you click your heel against the tile in a wordless someone’s in here, but the knocking persists. 

“Occupied.” You try, wet hands slipping against the edge of the sink. This shit isn’t normal. None of that even comes close to normal. 

Still, the heavy thrum against the hollow metal continues, and you take a deep breath before practically ripping it out from the socket of its frame. When you have it open, Ian’s posed between the V of the slot, face bewildered. 

“Really, truly, I love you, but what the fuck was that?” 

───────

Four days from the start of spring break, you’re out at some stranger’s place off Maple, invited by both Ian and your roommate—making it a little harder to get out of—in a joint, well-intentioned attempt to make you leave the safety of your room. A party will be nice, they’d explained, nothing serious, and a week off’s supposed to be fun, right? 

The house is pretty, but whoever owns it has demanded everyone remain out on the cobblestone patio, uneven flooring making for a jagged line of bodies packed too tight to fit. 

A fire burns in the middle of the yard, billowing out puffs of smoke you know will linger in your clothes for at least two washes. You swipe at some soot that's gathered in the bowl of your jacket sleeve absentmindedly. There’s no music tonight, maybe because there’s real school tomorrow—the elementary school down the street not quite on the same schedule—and you start to think going out on weeknights is quickly becoming more your speed. There's just the soft blanket of everyone murmuring, trying to stay warm in the chill of the wind. 

Ian’s prepping some guy across the fire to meet you; you can tell by the look on his face, like he’s planning something elaborate. You smile at him, at least amused by his effort to help you forget the weekend. He’s right, it is spring break, and Joel is nothing but a consequence of your stress-induced impulsivity. 

Still, despite your efforts, you’re thinking about him again, even if to punish him. You can still feel the line of his cock against your thigh, pressed hot and heavy into your body like an offering. You rub your thighs together, cursing him for giving you enough material to fantasize about for weeks—your punishment in return.

Ian crosses the circle with your new prospect, and you tilt your cup in mock cheers. Behind him he mouths hot and nice, tell me what you think. You nod, and the guy steps forward to block the flame. He’s handsome, airbrushed face and sweet cologne and long, thin fingers, nothing like how someone else’s had felt at the junction of your hips. 

You swallow, hard.

You honestly don’t hear a word that comes out of his mouth from the second it opens, not even to catch his name. Instead, you think about how nice it’d be if you could pay attention, how much easier it would be to fuck someone you thought was nice and safe and not at the forefront of every free moment you’d been afforded in the last two-and-a-half weeks. About what a relief it would be for him to mount and rut into you without consequence—no emotional burden, just boring and lukewarm like the last bite of something you can’t find a place to throw away. It’s always been easier when you didn’t want more. Yet now you want every night, hold out a hand in your dreams and let him into the part of you that has already carved out a hole in his shape. 

This guy couldn’t pull your mind off of Joel even if he was fucking you. 

When he offers to grab you a drink, you agree and then head into the house, like you’re not supposed to, as soon as his back is turned. There’s a few locked doors, and then one at the end of a hallway that opens up into a bathroom. You slip in, not bothering to switch on the light in an attempt to hide out from being found.

Here you are searching for reason in a dirty mirror above another sink, with nothing but the weak glow of a plug-in air freshener to guide you, too soon after the last time. 

You’re angry, suddenly, at how far he’s burrowed himself into your head, with so little to go on. He’s doing nothing but showing you yourself, a tired tactic to get you to fall in love with him while you do all the work. He was just pretending, right? He couldn’t actually want to love you. You groan, when the fuck was love even part of this equation?

You dig your phone out of your purse. The lock screen is bright—bold lettering reminding you it’s nearly midnight—but you click into your contacts anyway, because it’s not like you’re going to call him or anything. His page is still open, the Texas area code populating under Joel - Ellie’s dad—typed out with caps and all like that’s his only meaningful identifier. You scroll to see where he’d punched in ‘just in case‘ in the notes section of his info-card, and that decimates the cliff of restraint you'd barely managed, sinking in on itself under you.  

Your hands are wet with unease, held hostage by the way he’d read your thoughts out loud. You did feel it too, that searing weight of knowing—of being acquainted with him despite only meeting once before. He had to have been honest in at least that confession. You ask yourself for permission—‘was he going through this as well? what exactly was he feeling? would he explain if you asked?’—until it turns into selling yourself justification—‘you could just fuck him, right? that’s all this has to be, right?’.

Yes, you decide. Just another test of will—you can do it. You can pass. 

Your finger hovers over the number, closing the screen and opening it again and again and again until you just bite the bullet and fucking press it, the screen going black as you shove it against the side of your ear, covered again in darkness. 

He picks up within two rings. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi. Joel,” You offer him your name like a secret, “It’s me. Did I wake you up?”

“No, sweetheart. Are you okay?” 

“Can I come see you?”

[webcomic-character-tournament]

are you tired of how many character tournaments just become a popularity contest?

how regardless of seeding, even high contenders can almost arbitrarily be knocked out early on, leaving you with nothing to root for?

if you're feeling that, and if you like any webcomics, you should participate in the webcomic character tournament!

the primary goals of this tournament are:

to celebrate the medium of webcomics as a whole

to find new webcomics to read, and to recommend your own favorites

to highlight indie creators and help them build a wider audience

to have fun rooting for and celebrating your favorite characters!

in order to accomplish these goals, instead of a single elimination bracket, i will be using a mcmahon system inspired tournament structure!

this means that no character will be eliminated, and you can participate in polls rooting for your favorite character throughout all the rounds. characters will also be roughly matched up based on a system that determines how well known their work is, so most rounds should be relatively evenly matched, allowing people to fight for their favorites on their own merits

more details about how the mcmahon tournament will work can be found under the cut!

submit as many characters as you would like to here! the deadline is tentatively next saturday, june 3rd, at 4pm EDT

tagging some other tournaments i like whose participants i think might be interested :) @wlw-webcomic-bracket @obscurewebcomictournament @gaywebcomicsshowdown @autisticgirliesbracket @yuribracket @secretthirdthingtournament @nonyanderepoll @funkylittlebaldcharapoll @divorced-tournament

no submission is specifically banned, but try to keep in mind the spirit of this tournament when deciding what to submit.

under the cut after my more detailed description of the tournament structure, i also ramble in a lot more detail about my philosophy regarding submission eligibility, but it's not necessary to read all that before submitting characters

mcmahon tournament details:

matchups will be decided based off of a survey sent out after submissions are over gauging participants' familiarity with all of the competing characters' source materials. each character will be assigned points based off of how known their source material is, and each character will go up against a character with a similar popularity score for the first round

characters will be awarded points based off of if they lose, win, or tie their match and have that added to their total score, and then they will again be paired against a character with a similar updated score

depending on how many characters are participating, this process can continue either until there is a definitive ranking of all characters, or until just a few top winners are clear

i haven't entirely decided on specifics such as whether points will be awarded by a simple 0 for a loss, 0.5 for a tie, 1 for a win or by percentage of the vote, and if initial popularity points will be counted in the final ranking, or if i will try to rank winners from within their initial popularity categories, but i hope that won't matter too much, because in my opinion the main fun of this isn't the final results, it's for people to have fun in the individual rounds seeing their favorite character's points go up!

submission guidelines:

if you are submitting characters from extremely popular webcomics, try to limit yourself to just characters that are among your top favorites of all time, and maybe try to submit stuff from lesser known works as well

similar goes for webcomics that are more widely known for adaptations into other media forms (one punch man, tower of god, heartstopper, etc.)

i'm not specifically banning any comic for having bigoted content or its creator being a bad person, there's a wide scale of stuff i could decide to include in that definition or not. in the goal of celebrating favorite characters, obviously a lot of people love characters despite flaws in the work they're from, but also keep in mind the goals of recommending works to other people, and helping uplift and promote creators you like, and try to find a reasonable balance from there

what counts as a webcomic:

physically published works that you can find pirated or scanlated online probably don't count

comics whose publication is centered around physical releases, who also have simultaneous online releases by their publishers (comics on manga plus or comixology, newspaper strips with online sites, etc.) probably don't count

comics published through traditional publishers that are exclusively online (such as shōnen jump+ comics) still probably don't count

comics published online through companies that exclusively publish online (such as lezhin) are still discouraged

stuff like line webtoon or tapas official comics are more acceptable, as there are a lot of free comics from independent creators around them and many of these comics started out that way themselves, so they exist within a culture of webcomics more so than the aforementioned comic categories

stuff that is paywalled beyond just having an early release system is discouraged

comics that are no longer online but accessible through archives are fine though, especially in the wake of sites like smackjeeves being deleted there's a lot of stuff in webcomic history that can only be found that way now!

webtoon style comics absolutely count as webcomics, they're an exciting way of fully making use of webcomics' digital format! simultaneously however, i feel like with the rise of mobile webtoon apps, there are many people who read webtoon style comics but who dont further engage with webcomics, so i'd definitely encourage submitting a variety of styles of webcomic!

none of these rules are set! feel free to submit whatever you want, i just list them so you can try to find a balance between the different goals of this tournament when submitting stuff.

anyone can submit as many characters as you want, but just maybe if you find that a lot of your submission ideas are from comics in some of the more discouraged categories, limit yourself in how many you submit from those categories and only submit characters if they're absolute favorites of yours you want the opportunity to celebrate, and maybe try to also submit a character from something that isn't in a discouraged category too!

theres no penalty for not going with this, but i think because choosing characters by number of nominees doesn't really align with my intentions for this, depending on how easy it is to sort submissions i might just go off of vibes, so you might just be less likely to have a character make it to the tournament if their comic is in more heavily discouraged categories is all

[theelizamanelli]

Tengoku

Reina Iyashi wants a normal, mundane existence until Satoru Gojo takes a special interest in her uncanny ability to bring people back to life (or so Itadori says) and offers her a job as his assistant at Jujutsu High. Tags: 18+, satoru gojo x female oc, boss x assistant, golden retriever x black cat, forced proximity, slow burn, eventual smut, romance, blood and violence, implied/referenced death, implied/referenced child death, implied/referenced torture link to all chapters link to ao3

——————————————————————————————————

Chapter Seven

Satoru Gojo

——————————————————————————————————

The sun shone bright on Satoru’s face as he looked toward the sky, he reached up to tug his blindfold into place as the light warmed his skin. 

The courtyard had few occupants this early hour, Iyashi sat on the steps with one foot extending forward. Leaning backwards onto her elbows, she yawned before turning towards him.

“How long are we going to wait?” she asked, looking at the clock on her phone.

“My students wouldn’t disappoint me, Iyashi,” Satoru replied with a smile. “Have a little faith.” 

As the first year’s teacher, it was Satoru’s responsibility to ensure that his pupils were ready for any encounter; curse or otherwise. Therefore he had devised a morning of hand to hand combat training. 

He intended to use the second years as opponents, he reasoned he would have been too difficult a target. 

The students began to trudge into the courtyard, complaining loudly. 

“So early, so tired,” muttered Nobara as she stepped into line next to Yuji and Megumi. 

Satoru had assessed the three students over the last months, concluding their abilities satisfactory enough to begin field work. Though, one mutual issue existed: a desperate need for humility. 

“When dealing with a curse it is easy to default to our individual techniques,” Satoru announced. The group fell quiet, listening intently.

“There lies a simple mistake, we underestimate our abilities independently. What if we didn’t have our weapons? What if we didn’t have a cursed technique?” He eyed Maki momentarily before continuing. “Then what? Would you be able to hold your own?”

He paused and smiled widely, “Well, that’s what we are here to find out.”

Satoru paired the students up at random: Panda and Nobara, Maki and Yuji, Toge and Megumi. 

With a sigh, Iyashi stretched dramatically before heading in Satoru’s direction. She stood next to him, awaiting his direction. 

She had come to his room the night before to offer help with the training. Claiming that she was beginning to wilt away at her desk. Satoru had offered a few activity ideas that would keep her stamina up - earning him a shoe to the back of the head.

He reached his hand up and massaged the spot where it had hit with a grin. 

Clapping his hands together he leaned forward slightly. “Instead of using our cursed techniques and weapons as crutches, let’s pretend they don’t exist. Please put them up here by Iyashi-senpai and me.” He gestured to an empty spot on the ground next to them.

“Now now now, no cheating out there, please.” He wagged his finger at each of his students. 

He reached his hand up and lifted a portion of his blindfold. Satoru scanned the group, making eye contact with each of them before stating, “I see everything.” 

He returned the piece of fabric to its original position then sang out, “Three, two, one. And go!”

Iyashi wandered between the pairs, giving out constructive criticism as necessary. Satoru proceeded to do the same, stopping intermittently to demonstrate alternative moves. 

He noted that the students appeared to be holding back with their respective partners. He furrowed his brows as he assessed the sparring. Weaving in between the individual fights before ordering them to stop.

The students froze, turning their attention to Satoru. Iyashi crossed her arms as she looked over, a quizzical expression on her face.

“Iyashi?” He asked sweetly, extending his hand out for hers.

“Gojo?” She responded, not moving an inch. 

Satoru grinned, his hand still in the air, “How about we show them how it’s done?” 

A sinister smile crossed Iyashi’s face, “I thought you’d never ask.” She walked to the middle of the courtyard, her jacket floating as the wind caressed it. 

Satoru sauntered forward, providing at least ten feet of space between them. He slid his hands into his pockets and relaxed his shoulders. 

A glint in her eyes, Iyashi reached inside of her coat to retrieve the kaikens. Spinning them between her fingers before tossing them to the side - clattering into the weapons pile. 

Leaning back, Iyashi stretched her arms above her head before gesturing towards Satoru, “Come on, pretty boy.” 

A hush fell over the students as Satoru appeared in front of her, stretching a leg out in an attempt to swipe hers out from underneath.

Iyashi dove to the right of him, rolling into a crouched position. Her eyes quickly assessed Satoru’s position before she ran towards him. Grabbing onto his neck she kicked his leg in an attempt to flip him. He floated through the air as she lost her grip, landing behind her. 

Satoru reached for her ponytail, pulling her backwards as he kicked his leg into the back of her knee. Iyashi reached behind, grasping the back of his neck to pull herself up and backwards. She pulled off his blindfold as she landed behind him, grabbing the piece of cloth and wrapping it around his neck.

“I prefer to see your eyes,” she whispered in his ear.

Satoru grabbed her arms, flipping her over his head. She landed on the ground with a loud thud. 

He stared down at her momentarily, “Is this better?”

She kicked up and caught him in the face, Saturo staggered backwards for a second as Iyashi used her momentum to right herself.

Wiping his cheek, he looked down at the smear of blood on his hand. He pulled his head back in surprise before meeting Iyashi’s gaze.

Slow smiles spread across their faces. 

The spar lasted for longer than the students expected, every time they would assume who was about to win the other would gain the upper hand. A series of “Oo”’s and “Ah”s floated from the group.

In a final attempt at a take down they landed with a hard thud, Iyashi pinned Satoru to the ground - straddling him. She pressed one hand to his chest as a restraint. Her other hand wrapped around his throat. 

Satoru stared up at Iyashi - admiring how the sunlight cascaded down onto her hair, the deep red reflecting. He took note of how her black leggings crumpled around her hips and how her pink long sleeved shirt began to ride up - exposing a portion of her soft stomach. She had long since shed her jacket, the workout proving to be heat sustaining enough. 

Tendrils of hair fell from her high ponytail, sticking to her face. Her cheeks tinged with pink just the way he liked, her lips a soft red. Her heavy breathing caused a shift to her lower half that nearly pulled a groan from Satoru’s throat. 

“I love it when you’re on top, Iyashi.” He murmured, low enough for her ears only.

She squeezed his throat before sliding her hand up and over his jaw. Satoru shivered as her fingers caressed his cheek where she had hit him. Her soft touch lingered warming the skin before she grabbed his chin roughly, shoving his face to the side as she pushed off of him - standing upright. 

He laid on the ground, appreciating the view as Iyashi stepped towards the weapons pile. She pulled her kaikens out with a low grunt.

Walking in the direction of her office she called over her shoulder, “Next time fight for real, Gojo!”

Satoru sat up, reaching a hand up to feel where she had touched his cheek. 

In place of the bleeding cut appeared freshly healed skin. 

——————————————————————————————————

The steam slid over the bathroom mirror, Satoru wiped it with his towel - staring at his face in the reflection. There had to be a reason Iyashi wouldn’t own her cursed technique - he knew if he gave her space and time she would eventually.

Though he hoped it would be soon.

Sliding a pair of sweats on his lower half, Satoru ventured out towards the kitchen. The balcony light cascading onto the couch caught his attention, he paused to investigate. 

The moonlight draped over Iyashi’s figure on the patio chair. He padded softly over to the door, pulling it open gently. 

Satoru pivoted the second chair in her direction before sitting down, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

The silence lingered between them, Satoru stared up at the stars in the night sky - counting them as he waited.

“I used to live in this little town in the countryside,” Iyashi said quietly, shifting slightly in her seat. “There were these light pink tsutsuji that would grow along the road, my sister would make these bouquets from them - put them on our nightstand.”

“The people had grown impatient over the years as the ground yielded less and less. The fresh food had become scarce, forcing everyone to go further into the city for necessities. There were a lot of men who started to steal and pillage different areas. One night, one of the young boys had beaten an elderly woman for the food her granddaughter had brought back to her - she died the next day.”

Satoru refrained from moving as Iyashi continued to speak, not wanting to discourage her story. He found himself holding his breath - he quickly exhaled.

“There was talk afterwards - rumors of a yokai that would steal children and pets in the night. We were all told to not go out late. My sister had seen some tsutsuji on the side of the street earlier that day. She wanted to fill my vase.” Iyashi faltered and hugged her knees to her chest, laying her cheek down - looking in his direction without making eye contact.

Satoru began to reach for her but stopped himself, squeezing the arm of the chair.

“I could always see them, Mom used to say I was kissed by an angel at birth - that’s why I could use my wings to fix things. She told me I was special, meant for great things.” She turned her head, resting her chin on top of her knees to look at the sky. 

“It came in the night, I watched as it ate my sister alive - she was only five, holding pink tsutsuji’s in her little hand. It killed my parents but somehow left me untouched. I tried desperately to save her - no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t use my wings to bring her back.”

A few minutes of silence passed before he stood from the chair, taking a few small steps towards her. 

Satoru reached his hand out and slid a knuckle down the side of her cheek, “You’ve already done great things, Iyashi,” 

He smiled softly, “She would be proud of you.”

Satoru glided through the door, leaving Iyashi with her thoughts. 

Memories flitted through his vision of a young Satoru holding onto a frail red-headed girl covered in blood. He shook his head before looking back towards the balcony.

Satoru reasoned that for all she had been through, Iyashi was a stronger person than she gave herself credit for. 

He wondered what he did to deserve her kindness. 

——————————————————————————————————

chapter eight

[agi-ppangx]

💭your greatest support

pairing: lee felix x gn!reader

word count: 556

tags: non!idol au, fluff, hurt/comfort, established realtionship

warnings: i think none, just some hurt/comfort (reader cries bc of college and felix is there to help them)

summary: sometimes college is just too much, but your boyfriend is there to help you get through it

author's note: my first work with felix!! please let me know what u think abt it, feedback and reblogs highly appreciated<3

college was tough. your major was certainly interesting, but some classes were just too much for you. you tried your best, studying for long hours, pulling all-nighters trying to understand individual topics and solve different problems. but sometimes trying wasn't enough. it made you frustrated - without a doubt you were an ambitious person and couldn't just give up. but some days were simply bad. and when you had those days, breaking down over another papers from your lecturer, your boyfriend felix was always there to support you.

when he would wake up in the middle of the night feeling thirsty and see you sitting by your desk, typing something nervously on your computer, he would quietly place a fuzzy blanket over your shoulders, kissing your head and rubbing your back. it was his way of saying i know you can do it. and when you felt like time was slipping through your fingers, he would proceed to sit with you for hours, writing your flashcards for you and cutting them, and you would be so so grateful, because he would save you approximately three hours of work. and he would always make sure you eat enough and take a well deserved break.

felix softly placed his hands on your shoulders, massaging them slightly. "baby, c'mon, i've ordered some food," he exclaimed, looking at you as you were writing another essay, clearly tired and furious. he knew you weren't happy with the results, as you deleted sentence after sentence.

you only hummed in response, not bothering to look up at him. "hey, you can't even focus sweetheart, you need a break," he went on, concerned about your well-being. "lixie, please don't distract me now," you murmured, being on the verge of tears. you knew you couldn't finish it then, not with the lack of sleep and food. but you felt like you didn't deserve to take a break after barely doing anything.

you felt the tears start to fall on your face and the papers on your desk. you broke down again, feeling exhausted after all the failed tasks you'd tried to do. felix immediately hugged you, gently rubbing your back and patting your head. "it's okay, you just need a break. you're doing an amazing job baby," he reassured you quietly, kissing your head as you sobbed into his chest.

then you two would go to the living room. felix would place the food right in front of you and wrap you in a blanket, even bringing you your plushie to comfort you a bit more. after eating you would fall asleep in the middle of the movie he'd put on and quite frankly he would be so happy about it, knowing you hadn't been sleeping much at the time. then felix would leave your curled figure on the couch to tidy up your desk a bit, taking dirty mugs and plates, throwing away energy drink cans and overall organizing the place. you would be so thankful when you wake up, kissing him softly and muttering a gentle "thank you".

he would be so supportive, knowing damn well that even when you feel like a failure, you're doing way better than you think, working hard to pass the year and get a degree. and he would be more than happy to help you get through it.