#adaptive headlights

[wibbley-wobble]

Her lack of survival skills and doe like demeanor have captivated me

[lesbianraskolnikov]

Throughout it all. I do think his rodya protrayal is really really good. Pathetic little puppydog awwwww poor thing. Id feed him soup too hes so sad. Hes so sad

[just-jordie-things]

I know he's not your favorite but consider... #73 with Itadori... short reader has a crush on him but is too afraid to confess bc she knows he likes tall girls lol I think this could be super cute

kiss prompt 73: height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes

a/n: first time writing for itadori !!! ___

if you had to think about it, you'd had a crush on itadori yuuji since the day you met him.

after getting a call from megumi where he'd begrudgingly asked for your help tracking down a cursed tool that some spooky-loving school club had snatched before he could, you hadn't expected things to take the turn they did.

as soon as you'd run into the pink haired boy, it was like a daze took hold of you. megumi honestly could have believe you'd been poisoned with how you stammered over your words and moved awkwardly. he'd never seen you so out of it when exorcizing curses. you were sloppy, defensive maneuvers delayed, offensive maneuvers... megumi would have gotten the job done better when he was ten, so, let's just leave it at that.

but nothing would have stopped itadori from eating that finger, and, well, we all know what happens from there.

you were surprised with how quickly he adapted to an entire world he'd never known the existence of. he was an avid learner, eager to train, eager to educate himself. he was always asking you questions that megumi found silly having grown up in jujutsu society, but you'd been happy to talk to him for hours about the ins and outs of it all. that was how your friendship began to blossom, you supposed.

it was easy to crush on yuuji. he was kind, handsome, silly, and had a warm energy about him that just drew you to him like a moth to a flame. even with your harbored feelings for him, being around him was easy, and comfortable. you'd only known him a few months, but the way he treated you made you feel like you'd been close friends for years.

however, due to how close you'd gotten, you were well aware that you were not his type. he'd joked a few times about how he liked tall girls like jennifer lawrence, and you didn't exactly meet that standard.

after he'd casually let that information slip, you found yourself comparing the height difference between you two more often. it was no shock that he was taller than you, you could remember the first time you'd met him you'd tilted your head back to stare up at him- your eyes had been blown wide like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. he'd just leapt through a window like it was nothing and fought alongside you like his entire reality hadn't just flipped upside down- but now that he'd made his ideal type clear, you'd frown when it would dawn on you that you were barely even an average height.

you'd stand up a little straighter when you were standing before him, but even still you'd tilt your chin so you could look at him properly. he'd noticed the sour expression on you a few times, but you always brushed it off as something else. it felt sort of childish to tell him that you were upset for not being taller.

it's one afternoon that you're out shopping with the other first years that you finally tell him the truth. not that you'd planned to, of course, you were ready to take this secret to the grave.

but you're wandering around with yuuji, half avoiding nobara who was on a rampage and throwing armfuls of clothes at megumi, and half looking at the display of silly hats. some of them were cute, but most of them were pokemon themed, or beanies with funny saying.

yuuji had excitedly picked up a fluffy pikachu hat, complete with the tall ears, and fluffy yellow flaps that hung down your face, ending in paw shaped pockets that you could stick your hands into. he was grinning as he turned to you to tug the hat over your head. you had half a mind to scold him for ruining what was a good hair day, but you keep it to yourself. he looked too happy to have you model the accessory for him.

and you'd thought it was cute, at first. then you take note of how he has to stoop over to reach your level in order to properly adjust the dorky hat, and you're made aware again of how short you are in comparison to him. of how small in general you are compared to him. his tall stature complete with broad shoulders and biceps that were starting to display how hard he'd been training himself- as appealing as he was to look at, you're frowning due to your own self pity.

and when he's done playing with the droopy ears on top of your head and sees the look on your face, he's frowning, too.

"what's wrong?" he asks, quietly, worriedly, like a good friend. "you don't hate pikachu, do you?"

it makes you laugh, even just a little bit, and yuuji gives you a small smile in relief that his joke worked to ease your sad expression, even just a little bit.

"no, it's not pikachu," you huff, pulling the hat off your head and placing it carefully back on the mannequin. "i'm just short"

his brow furrows, assuming at first that he'd heard you wrong, but when you don't say anything else and give him an awkward shrug, he realizes you're serious.

"so?" he asks, chuckling to himself. "what's so bad about that?"

you avoid his gaze while you pretend to take interest in the other hats on the wall, despite you not being a hat person, which he knows.

"it's pretty dumb" you say, running your fingers over a fluffy sylveon cap that was similar to the pikachu one.

"try me" yuuji smiles at you, leaning into the display to catch your attention again. his smile reaches his eyes, and he seems to genuinely hopeful to ease your foolish concern, that you find yourself giving in.

"promise not to laugh at me?" you mutter.

he raises a hand to his chest, drawing an x over his heart before raising his palms towards you in silent promise. you crack a smile at how serious he's taking this.

you take a deep breath before confessing the thought that's been plaguing your mind for the last few weeks.

"i know you like tall girls," you say, staring straight ahead at the sylveon hat like it had been the object of your desire for our entire life. "and i know i'm not even close to being called tall,"

yuuji blinks a few times, his brows raising as he processes this information.

you were upset because you didn't consider yourself his type? did he understand that right? so this was because... you wanted to be his type?

"well, maybe a fifth grader would think i'm tall," you began to mumble to yourself. "but that doesn't really make me feel better-"

"you think you wouldn't be my type because you're so short?" he cuts off your rambling, and she turns to him with a bewildered expression.

"well you don't have to put it like that," you mumble with a furrowed brow. "kinda makes me feel worse-"

"(y/n), i promised i wouldn't laugh," he cuts you off again, stepping forward to wrap his hands around your shoulders. "but that's the dumbest thing i've ever heard!"

you frown up at him, not comforted at all at his attempts to make you feel better.

"you're really bad at this" you tell him, and he begins to break his promise as a few giggles escape through his toothy grin.

"are you kidding?" he teases. "you're the cutest person i've ever met!" he reaches his hands up to your face, squeezing your cheeks together playfully. "i don't want you to be any taller, i like you just the way you are!"

your face begins to heat up under his touch, and with his hold on you, you have no choice but to stare back at him, only making your blush burn hotter.

"you are my type, even as a tiny lil' tater tot," he says, and despite his laughter, you can tell he's being completely genuine. you can see it in the shine in his eyes as he stares at you. "that doesn't matter. what matters if you're a really awesome fucking person, and a badass"

the knot between your brows begins to relax and your lips curl into a smile at his sweet words.

"you're not just saying that?" you ask quietly, just to be sure he wasn't spewing out bullshit just to make you feel better.

yuuji laughs at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling from pure joy. he doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to say anything else.

instead he leans over you, bending almost dramatically to reach your short stature in order to press his lips against yours. it's a short kiss, but it's sweet, gentle, warm- all things yuuji.

when he pulls away, before he can stand back up properly, you're shooting up to the tips of your toes, your hands flying towards his shoulders for balance as you return his kiss. it's fast, eager, curious- all things you. he can't help but smile against your lips as he drops a hand from your face so he can wrap his arm around your waist, keeping you close.

you both distantly hear a harumph! from a passerby in the shop, having forgotten you were still in public. you pull away with sheepish smiles and pink cheeks.

"you are short though" he tells you point blank.

"i know, yuuji" you huff.

"but i like it" he says proudly, and you turn away so he won't see how your blush is spreading down your neck.

you still notice the significant difference in your height often, but it's mostly due to yuuji pointing it out every time he bends over to kiss you from there on out.

___

a/n: i love him sm it's criminal that i haven't written for him :'( xoxo ~ jordie

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 2 | stanley pines x f!reader 

summary: a quick look through concerning the early months of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly centered around moments in the car

warnings (TW): swearing, illegal activities (of course), descriptions of panic/panic attack or general anxiety, alcohol consumption

tags: fluff, early relationship described, pining, very slight angst, affection

notes: i mean, i liked writing part one? so … i’m just gonna keep writing? do what brings you joy and all that jazz. alsooooo im currently unemployed and have too much time on my hands. any feedback is appreciated, seeing as this is the first (second) time i’m publishing online !

edit 8/27/24: hello! below i have linked my new masterlist that contains updated parts to this series, thank you and hope you enjoy!

word count: 3.7k

| masterlist | part iii |

When you reside within the same place as another, you begin to notice particular behaviors. Of course, Stanley had resided in an unquantifiable number of places in the last decade, but he had forgotten what it was like to live alongside someone. 

Forgot about the consideration of messes and manners, and forgot about his socks in corners and cans on bedside tables. These were things he never had to consider when he was confined to a single room and a shared bunk with his brother, but she was different. 

The first couple months he found himself stumbling around her at times. Let her lead through doorways, ask her what she would like for dinner, using odds and ends as a coaster here and there. 

But she was much the same in that way. 

She hadn’t ever had to share her space like this, much less with a man. She fumbled with answers concerning dinner, forgot her delicates in the washer routinely, and had a habit of throwing her feet up on Stanley’s chair when he sat across from her at their poor excuse of a dinner table. 

But this was months ago. 

No, they both had noticed these intricacies about the other and had more or less adapted around them. Laundry was done half-heartedly, a quick combination of their socks and delicates. A calendar made its home on the fridge with scribbles of dinner plans, and her feet were shuffled onto his lap every night, adjusted to fit across his hips. 

But she still leads through most doorways. He would never admit to why. 

There were other, smaller things too. These things made him ache somewhere behind his sternum, and he usually shook them off. 

Small things like how she curled at her end of the couch, or how she brought her face to any page she was scribbling on, always squinting. How she tidied the living room every morning like they would be having guests. How she came to the kitchen every morning, hand outstretched for the mug he had deemed hers. 

He decided to forget about these things. At least some of them that is. 

He knew for a fact that she loved it when he drove the most. She enjoyed the movement of the trees out the window, enjoyed stretching her feet up to his dash (despite his initial protest), and she loved the radio in particular. 

Common law says to keep your eyes on the road, and both hands on the wheel. But it was very hard to conduct when she leaned forward towards the radio, singing under her breath. She was so relaxed here beside him on the long bench in the front of his long-loved car. 

The car had been through hell and back, but he was sure it’d never encountered anything as enchanting as her bellowing singing. It would ring through the car, only ever on the way home, and only ever after a bar visit. The buzz would stray his eyes from wheel and headlights to her, head thrown back singing. 

He swerved on the road more than he cared to admit when she was in the car. The reminder of her safety usually woke him up from his fantasies of her with her head thrown back, with her hair spilling around her, and a flush on her cheeks.

But he rarely kept both hands on the wheel, to begin with anyway. His right arm always flung behind, scrunched on the back part of her seat, itching to find the soft back of her neck. 

Clearing his throat, he adjusted himself in his seat, both hands returning to the wheel. A smile never leaving his face, a laugh rising as she scooted closer, incoherent 70’s BABBA lyrics sung into his right ear. 

He’d admit he likes driving her, in particular, around. 

They had made for town for a handful of differing supplies that day. 

Stanley, Stan, had a bright idea to earn some seasonal money by making the front half of the shack into a tourist attraction. After an explanation of his initial encounter with a group of town folk upon his first couple days in the shack, she had nodded along in agreement. 

They needed money, and the need was only growing of course. 

She was the farthest from a financial advisor, but she knew the reserve of money she had come to town with was dwindling, and with them both diving head-first into Ford’s basement business, the idea of money had seemed trivial, at least to her, those first couple months. 

She knew though that money wasn’t a trivial thing for Stan (Stanley). That he hadn’t had a successful last decade, and that her life strayed from his own background astronomically. 

That was one thing that grated her slightly. How flippantly he spoke of Ford to her, but how he had not shared himself as willingly. It didn’t make him a liar to withhold said information, but the state of Stanley’s (Stan’s) car backseat that first month spoke of a man on the run. 

But he had lit up so differently when he dragged her to the front of the shack's cluttered room. Explaining where things would go, a cash register, a display case, and certain merchandise. She’ll admit to perhaps not completely listening to him at the time, but later she would look back and reflect on how he was unsurprisingly a great salesman. 

He had been so happy, dragging her from corner to corner, painting pictures with words, but he had looked too enchanting for her to really hear it. One hand in his pocket, the other gesturing, and a smile upon his handsome figure. He had reached back out, dragging her back to the front door, hand on the small of her back as he ushered her around. 

It was a dump up here, truly. The one place in the house she hadn’t gotten to scouring for clues yet. She was unsure as to why she left the room untouched at the moment, but she thinks it had a lot to do with the panicked memory of meeting Stan (Stanley), and how the glow of the backroom reflected on his face made her wander in through the front door like a madwoman. 

She made for the car very soon after his explanation, eager to get the supplies he would need to renovate the front of the room. He had beaten her of course, opening and closing the passenger door without so much as a prompt, and making his way to the driver's side. 

The drive into town had been great as always. It was one of those mid-spring days. Wet on the windshield and crisp until 10 a.m. The hardware store served its purpose, as they wandered from aisle to aisle, looking for particular wood stains and sandpaper. 

“Here it is Stanl-” He had come up behind her abruptly. Hand coming up to her mouth, stopping her sentence, flicking his eyes up and down the aisle. 

She turned to face him, an apology already on her lips. But he was already looking down at her, a hidden heat behind his eyes. 

“What did I tell ya, hun?” He whispered it in the space between them. “I told ya, I can’t be that here.” 

He couldn’t be him anywhere anymore, at least not in the light of day. She had tried to shake the old him, but somewhere in the far reaches of her mind, she had a hard time calling him Stan. 

Because she knew it meant he was being Ford, not Lee. And it was hard to lie about anything concerning him, concerning Stanley. 

He sighed, his hand leaving her lips and running through his long hair. “We gotta get outta here anyways. Come along, hun.” A practiced smile reached the corners of his mouth, another lie. 

Unfortunately for his psyche, the cashier wanted to talk their ear off also. 

“Oh hiya, Stanford!” And of course, they knew his brother. 

A smile crawled up his face anyway, making nice like he figured his brother may have done all those months ago. 

“Getting supplies? Any new projects?” 

“Uh nah nah, not at the moment. Looking into renovating parts of the shack for some business right now.” 

“Business? Really? Never took you for much of a businessman.” The cashier continued to bag their samplings of wood stains. “But hey, life takes ya in odd directions sometimes!” 

He tisked. “Don’t I know it buddy.” He shook his head a little, grabbing the bag, peering over his shoulder checking for his smaller shadow. She followed in his wake, slightly downtrodden to have cut their store visit short with her stupid mouth. 

“Oh, Stanford!” The cashier called, but he didn’t turn until she reached for his jacket’s dirty red sleeve, tugging to turn him back. Flushed, he meets the cashier's outstretched hand. 

“The receipt! You always want the receipt.” 

He crushed the receipt in his hand. “Right… right ya, thanks.” 

She followed him back to the car, her hand never leaving his sleeve, brushing her warmth against his slightly shaking palm. He doesn’t forget to open her door or to slam the wood stains and sandpaper into the back of the car. 

The ride back was tense, and not of its usual bravado and fanfare.  He had peeled out of the parking lot all too quickly and regretted it the next moment as he looked over and watched her pale in the passenger seat. 

She didn’t reach for the radio, hands folded on her lap. She didn’t look out her window, as the trees blurred differently under Stanley’s hasty speed. 

Under Stan’s hasty speed. 

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this mess. And he definitely didn’t want to upset her. His arm never met the back of her seat, his knuckles tight around the steering wheel. 

He didn’t think of pulling over until he looked at her halfway home. Ram-rod straight, pale as all hell, and eyes blurry with undescribed grief. 

He cursed under his breath, pulling the car off to the side of the road, gravel underfoot. 

She got like this at times, at his temper. He knew at times he could be loud, that he raised his voice at inconveniences and the T.V. Knew that her lip curled in a particular way when on a very off day, his frustration explodes in her face. He was quick to anger at times, and she was quick to cover. 

He made himself so big in the face of things, but she folded into a different shape when he did. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he prayed she knew that he would never turn his anger to her. That he had raised fists before and spilled blood, but he’d never raise them again unless it was for her, if she would allow it. 

But he doesn't want her to get small in the face of his, well, everything. Because he had been angry at so many things in succession in his life he lost count, and he doesn’t want to lose the part of himself that cared for her in his anger, and he doesn't want her to fold into odd shapes and shadows in the face of him anymore. But above all, he didn’t want the reminder of his father to taint whatever the hell this was. It was bad enough he saw glimpses of him in the passing reflections from time to time.

He loved the fight in her eyes when they spat back and forth sometimes, a sarcastic, fake fight brewing between them. That’s how they both always ended up laughing at the dinner table most nights, and how he felt closer to her most days. His anger was never her responsibility, or her doing. She had never truly upset him once, and the way they played with words back and forth over a meal like an old married couple rattled a few rusty cogs in his brain from time to time. That his anger could at least be amusing, because when she smiled he forgot all about it anyway. 

So he parks the car in Spring and turns to her with his guts in his lap for the first time since he spoke to her that Winter night when he thought his prayers had been answered when she plowed through the shack’s door like a tidal wave. 

“I hate this.” He sighed. “And I can’t stand when you fucking look at me like that.” 

Her lip curled. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“I know.” It wobbled out her mouth. “I ruined the day, I’m sorry.” 

He leans back, his hand meeting the back of her seat. A beat, before he turns to her completely, like he does every night across the dinner table with her feet propped across the entirety of his lap. 

“I don’t want you to apologize to me. You should never have to apologize to me. I don’t want you to, ever fucking think you gotta hand that over to me again. Because you’ve never done anything to upset me doll, not ever.” 

She sniffles, a moment of crisp silence. Spring rain beats on the windows in a mist. A smile comes to her lips, and he sags in relief, anger fading.

“Except when I forget the laundry on the line.” She’s cracking jokes now? 

“Except that ya, because I kinda need socks and underwear mmk?” He laughs only slightly, a tiredness seeping into his posture. 

“I didn’t used to be like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“A bad liar.” He admits. He hadn’t disclosed much of his past to her. He wasn’t ashamed of it much when it came to disclosing his long resume to others, but she made him nervous. And he hadn’t been really, truly, honestly nervous in a long time. So he did what he does best, and he lied. 

“I could buy the shirt off your back from ya in under 10 minutes I swear.” He readjusts in his seat again, hand slowly creeping up the back of her seat still. “I’m a great liar, it’s how I made it from state to state, and the reason I’m not allowed back in Pennsylvania.” 

She laughs truly now. She had figured that was what he was used to. Long trips and longer fibs. She didn’t care much about the morality of it, because when she imagined him somehow corrupt in her mind's eye she remembered him bent over her on the couch, and how it felt to listen to the T.V. fade into the background as he carried her up the stairs. The faintness of her sheets, and the brush of his hand on her hairline. 

“But I can’t lie about this, or at least I'm really fucking bad at it.” He interrupts her thought. “I’m the farthest thing from Stanford Pines.”

“Perhaps you are, Lee.” A name she hadn’t used out loud fell between them. “But no one ever asked you to be him.” 

She realized quickly in her desperation to reassure him that she was also being a hypocrite. It was hard to call him Stan, she realized, but only because she was afraid of hurting him. The memory of Stanford still lived between them, and although they tried to shutter his existence in the basement they both weren’t very good at playing pretend yet. 

But they would need to be. It’d need to be the best con he’d ever pulled, that they had ever pulled. He just wasn’t used to having a partner quite yet. But they needed to be honest now if they were gonna pull it off and bring Stanford home. 

“You don’t need to be him. I know you aren’t him Stanley, and I don’t want you to be.” She paused, considering. “If we are going to do all this though, we need to work together. I-I need to get better, I need to call you Stan, and you need to believe me when I tell you I’m staying for the long haul.” 

He sighs again, readjusting to look over at her. 

“I lived a long time trying to be something great like I thought he was, like I know he is. But I haven’t, I hadn’t, seen him in so long. I don’t know who he is anymore.”

“You both have a surprising lot in common, actually.” She shrugs, a smile coming to her lips in memory. “You both smile the same, and you both doodle the same way, and you both tilt your head to the left when I ask a dumbass question.” 

He laughs at this, a memory of passing scribbles and doodles in class back and forth, and the comic books he would spend all night drawing in their shared room’s lamplight. Some things always stick, at least. 

She bridged the gap of some odd ten years, and he could at least be thankful about that. 

“I just want you to know… Stan. That when I do call you Stan, I mean Stanley- not Stanford.” She shrugs again, nervous. “Because you’re not him, you're right, and if you don’t want me to lie about this one small detail, it can be between us.” 

She had somehow come to the heart of his predicament without much digging. He had worn many hats in his time bouncing from state to state, a conman, a businessman, a thief, and a liar. But he didn’t wanna make her one of those things, and he knew by associating with him she would need to be. Just in the blur of it all, he didn't want to be someone else to her. Not even in name. He wanted there to be honesty between them because otherwise, it wouldn't work. What wouldn’t work? 

He finds resolution in her answer. That he will always be Stanley to her, and Stanford to others, at least for the time being. Oddly intimate, closely personal. He wouldn't linger on the thought.

“You’re right as usual, doll.” A smirk comes to his lips. “Team?” He questions, fist uncurling from the back of her seat, brushing between them to meet for a bump. 

She smiles brightly now, meeting him in the middle. “Team.” 

He sinks in the seat, beat from the emotions of the last hour already. “Okay we need to do something fucking fun now.” 

“Like what?” Amused, she reaches between them to turn the radio back on, sick of the silence in the shell of the car. A hum already on her lips. 

He smiles, a scheme on his lips, a memory playing in his head when he looks at her. 

She flushes, a quick shake of her head. “No, no, no Stan, no I am not doing it no.”

He loves how she fights it but he knows how to get his way with her already, even if it has only been a short six months. Flushed in her seat, and begging him. Fuck. 

All he has to do is fucking smile, with that stupid glint in his eyes. “Yes, ya are!” He taunts, a laugh already bellowing. “You’re driving!” 

“I don’t fucking know how and you know it!” She had been embarrassed to admit it to him that one night, that she had made it this long without a driver’s license, but he had all but said please that night, vying for blackmail from her. He had told her about his kiddy comic books, so she had to fess up to something stupid of equal measure he felt. 

“I’ll teach ya!” 

He was already out his door and around the front of the car, opening her own, and reaching across her lap to unbuckle her from her seat when she continued to shake her head. 

She moved only when he began slipping his hand under her thigh and around her back to move her across the long bench to the front of the wheel. He sometimes forgot about where he put his hands on her, when he was giddy like this. She never minded, though. 

She was still shaking her head when he reached back over her to buckle her into her new spot behind the wheel, laughing all the way. Amused by her protest of this simple thing. Only amused, because he knew deep down she was actually okay with it. Another fake fight ongoing between them, some old cogs moving in his head. 

He moved back some, but resided half in the passenger seat and half in the middle, his big hand on her thigh. Fuck. 

He leaned down (Fuck), his other hand pointing at things she should have been paying attention to. This is like the shack all over again. 

He looked back at her, even more amused by her flustered face, and repeated himself like he knew what was going on in her head. Because, well, he kinda did. 

“This is the petal to the right, and the break to the left, doll.” He brings his hand back to the wheel. “This stick on the left is the turn signal, and this stick on the right is the shifter.” 

She began to breath again when he moved away, but he was still chuckling through ever sentence of course. Too handsome for his own good.

“Now all ya gotta do, doll, is shift from park to drive, but put ur foot on the break first.” 

“Uh… this one?” She put her left foot on the left most pedal. 

He squeezed her thigh, goddamnit, leaning back into her to basically physically move her foot. 

“No, no, ya gotta only use your right foot. You can’t use both.” 

“Why not?” 

He shrugs, tilting his head left at her dumbass question. “Because I said so.” He laughs again, hand still very warm and very present. 

“Okay, okay… okay.”

He nods. “Okay okay okay, now just shift the right rod up here.” He grabs her hand, bringing it up and showing her the different gears and how to count through them. Forgetting himself in his amusement, hand still on her fucking thigh. 

He laughs all the way home, and she thinks it’s worth the constant breaking she does in the middle of the road when she gets spooked by the speed of the car. The road is luckily empty, and the radio is drowned out by Stan’s commentary. She doesn’t mind the jabs at her newfound skill, and he takes jabs right back when she slams the break particularly hard and his head gets precariously close to the dash. She doubles over at that one, amused by the sudden shock on his face, but quickly distracted by the hand still on her fucking thigh. He thinks she looks nice like that, behind his wheel. 

They make it back to the shack in one piece, but he’s the one that has to reach over to shift the car back into park. 

He realizes when he looks back over at her, that he had forgotten his anger a while ago, and that his hand had made a new home on the soft of the back of her neck, moving from her thigh when he shifted gears. 

He would let her drive again, if it meant this. 

She’d admit she likes driving him, in particular, around. 

He’d just need to stock up on brake pads. 

[irisbleufic]

REVIEW

Gatsby: An American Myth (Welch, Chavkin, Bartlett, Majok, & Tayeh; American Repertory Theater)

Something that most adaptations of Gatsby get wrong, whether film or stage, is the treatment of characters as archetypes rather than individuals. Symbolism drowns out most genuine attempts at capturing emotional connections and conflicts of personality. They forget that this story is not only a failure of the so-called American Dream; first and foremost, it’s a tragedy of failed roles and relationships. Almost every one of the players is attempting to be someone they are not, and even as they reach for what they believe they should want, they reveal with increasing fervor what they actually want. This is the heart of what makes Welch’s new adaptation so devastatingly, disarmingly unique, so true to its source.

The set design is literal wreckage. Crushed and warped automobile chassis scaffold the moving staircases, and concealed trap doors. The backdrop shows no clear incorporation of the infamous Eckleburg billboard; rather, it is made up of a dotted grid resembling headlights. These play out effects ranging from a downpour to camera flashes to, briefly and only once, a pair of eyes that make no effort to hide behind the owlish frames of glasses. The only thing infusing this jagged framework with meaning is the people who move through it.

The lighting design works with the set’s incongruences, deepening or excavating shadows as needed. The brightness, when it flares, is blinding. Jewel tones either enhance or diminish a costuming scheme that is composed of either very pale or very dark shades, no in between. And whether it’s the post-apocalyptic black and gray cabaret garb of the ensemble or the wealthy protagonists’ pale suits or the gunmetal and gray denizens of the wasteland, everyone’s trouser and skirt hems are conspicuously rimed with reddish dust. The visual effects are nearly impossible to describe without sounding like I had some kind of desperate fever dream.

So far, I realize that these descriptions of the set and lighting design sound like this production is about to fall into the trap of overplaying symbolism, but please bear with me. With all of that established, I can focus on what’s truly extraordinary here, what’s meant to and does shine unhindered. The acting, musicianship and vocals are all so precise that it was hard for me to believe this show is still in previews. It feels Broadway ready, West End ready, major international tours ready. If I was the production crew, I’d turn this loose on a massive scale from the get-go without a second thought.

Much like with Hadestown, the musicians are not down in an orchestra pit. They’re characters in their own right, present on the stage from start to finish on tiered risers that run up from the center on each side from one of the catwalks. I’m sure Chavkin’s involvement as director has everything to do with why this show feels so much like, moves so much like Hadestown. The company is on an equally small scale, about 23 - 25 people including the principals.

Costuming among the ensemble is delightfully gender agnostic. I mention a cabaret aesthetic earlier in this review, and I’m not kidding. If you had shown me the ensemble costume designs without showing me the principals’ designs, I would have assumed I was looking at a Cabaret revival. They’re the most talented dancers I’ve seen occupy one stage in more than a decade. The choreography relies on movements in eerie unison for a significant portion of the show, but not without allowance for individual flair within those constraints. The guy sitting next to me, when I spoke to him at the intermission, said he works as a choreographer in regional theater, and he’d never seen anything like this. I couldn’t agree more; the dancing is singular, and as impressive as the musicianship is, the dancing and unusual body movement are maybe the greatest achievements of this show on the living, breathing end of things. I could have watched the dancers for those three hours without any dialogue or vocal intervention and still understood the story. That takes so much fucking doing.

As for the principal cast, they’re constantly among the ensemble; when I say these are all triple threats in the purest sense of that terminology, I really mean it. You always expect a few of the principals to be less dance and movement focused, more polished on the acting and singing side, but this show gives you terrifying proficiency from every angle. Even the guy playing Meyer Wolfsheim is at the center of what I think is the most memorable dance number in the piece. I’ve just never seen such versatile principals all in one production. What’s even more extraordinary is that I had never heard of or previously seen any of them, and that takes some doing given how much live theater I’ve consumed in several decades of life.

Ironically, the musical composition is the one aspect of this production on which I’ll be spending the least time. I need not tell you why Welch and Bartlett were perfect for this job. They understood the assignment, and then some. There’s not a single weak number among the track listings, and I desperately hope they release a recording soon. The standout numbers all have something in common: they showcase Soleia Pfeiffer as Myrtle Wilson. You can tell that’s the role where Welch sank most of the sound that’s considered her signature style. I don’t even need to describe it; you already know what I’m talking about. What’s impressive otherwise is the restraint, the lack of over-reliance on that signature style.

The principals are fucking perfect. I’ve kept this review tautly professional without meaning to thus far, but from here on out is where I start bleeding feels all over the post. If you don’t already know who my blorbos are due to my writing history with a Gatsby-related novel (The Pursued and the Pursuing, 2021), you’re going to know by the time you’re done reading this. You’re going to know exactly who I love and why, who I hate and why, who I ship and why. But you’ll also know that I approach all three of those elements from a place of enjoying every moment of those characters, even the ones I hate. Nobody’s performance put me off or struck the wrong tone when taken in context of the novel and how the tragedy of how their relationships play out.

For a long time, I’ve been saying that there are certain support roles, certain sidekicks, that make or break the higher-profile person to whose side they’re stuck, ride or die, until the bitter end. Horatio is a great example that I’ve ranted about before; if your Hamlet production has a lackluster Horatio, then it doesn’t matter how good the Hamlet is. You have nothing if you don’t have the binary star system at the heart of that harrowing universe. I’ve seen other adaptations of Gatsby consistently fall apart because Nick Carraway is treated like the kind of voyeur who doesn’t matter, the kind of voyeur who serves as the audience’s eyes and ears, and nothing else. Anyway, this is all to say: Ben Levi Ross as Nick might be the most compelling argument I can make for the fact that the creative team behind this show understood the assignment. He’s awkward, warm, sincere, and reactive in all of the ways you need Nick to be. He’s not a passive observer; he’s in the middle of everything, and he knows it. There’s a self-deprecating response he makes when one character, Jordan if I’m not mistaken, quips that maybe he’s the reason for Gatsby’s parties for all he knows. “Maybe I am,” he says, and the tongue-in-cheekness belies a gutting meta-sincerity. We believe Daisy is the point, Gatsby believes Daisy is the point, but what’s borne out every breathtaking moment of this production is that Nick is the point. He always was. He’s also given his due as a gay man in context of the story for the first time ever. I might make some folks mad when I say Nick has always been gay; I’m going to point you to Myrtle’s apartment party and the hookup with Mr. McKee as textual evidence in the novel. The kiss with McKee, the hookup with McKee, is unapologetically here. His lack of belonging everywhere else he’s ever been, because he is gay, is unapologetically here. One of the most memorable numbers in the show hinges on the hope feels at being able to be himself in New York. Queer fans of Gatsby have been waiting a long time for this. Anyone who’s read the text closely and understood him has been waiting a long time for this. I’ve been waiting several decades as a reader, and I would’ve waited forever to have Nick so fully, lovingly realized.

One of the other things that Gatsby adaptations have persistently gotten wrong is the titular character himself. The invention of Jay Gatsby hides the underlying James Gatz, makes it feel as if that old self is truly subsumed, as if it never mattered. But Isaac Powell gives us a Jay who’s exactly as he should be, who can’t hide beneath his own attempt at artifice and reinvention worth a goddamn. He’s young (as young as Nick; they’re 32 and 30 respectively both in the novel and here), painfully earnest, and just barely keeping a handle on the criminal shit he’s had to do in order to get where he is. When he says old sport to Nick, it’s not an affectation; when he says it to Tom, it becomes a biting insult. This is a Jay who knows where and why he’s vulnerable; he latches onto Nick like a not because he sees a man close to Daisy that he can exploit, but because he sees another young man who’s equally vulnerable, equally an outsider, equally haunted by the things they had to do in the war. From the moment they meet, they are almost always touching—a hand on the shoulder, on the back, getting in social harm’s way for each other, eyes seeking each other without cease in the most crowded of settings. When Jay takes Nick to lunch to meet Wolfsheim (who has in this production taken on the function of Dan Cody as well), it’s not to have somebody else vouch for the artifice of who Jay Gatsby is. It’s taking Nick to meet his fucking father-figure, and all of the messy, sincere “if you hurt my boy, I’ll kill you” sentiment that Wolfsheim aims at Nick was the moment I knew just how much the Nick’s loss by the end was going to hurt. Jay’s love for Daisy is a ghost of itself, even if as painfully earnest as everything else about him. Meanwhile, his attachment to Nick is so disarmingly genuine from the start that you understand the true tragedy you’re about to watch untold: these men who need each other, maybe even were made for each other, each prove unable to step outside their parallel distractions from what they truly are to each other. Jay’s interactions with Daisy and Nick’s interactions with several male and/or gender ambiguous members of the ensemble have something in common, which is a shocking level of physicality. This show had an intimacy coordinator; that’s the level of no holds barred we’re talking about. When you look at Tom and Myrtle, you can see why that was merited, too.

Speaking of Tom (Cory Jeacoma), the treatment of him here is every bit as scary as it should be. There’s no attempt to make him palatable, unlike what I’ve seen done with him in other adaptations. He towers over everyone else in the cast, I mean everyone, to a physical degree that’s uncomfortable. The way his wife, lover, and friends all flinch when he gets too close to them speaks volumes to the fact that he’s an abuser in every sense of the term. Even Nick, the prodigal college friend from Yale, is on eggshells around him (which, by the hotel blowup at the end of the show, becomes a sneering, reckless contempt, one of the driving forces that drives Nick to put himself between Jay and Tom whenever real harm is on the table). At the same time, this is a Tom who sincerely loves his wife and was only ever using Myrtle as a fling. You can tell he never meant any of the promises he made Myrtle. When Daisy tells him she didn’t stop the car on purpose, it’s as if his wife’s unapologetic act of manslaughter (“It was her or me!”) is the thing that wins him back. They aren’t careless people; they are people who consciously choose, day in and day out, to use others until they’re bored or done with them. The ruthlessness of Tom and Daisy as a couple is impressive, played up to a level that I feel more adaptations should do without fear of exaggerating the text.

As mentioned above, Daisy (Charlotte MacInnes) is no delicate, nervous creature who can’t help her actions under duress. She knows what she’s doing every bit as much as Tom knows what he’s doing. They use people, hurt people because they get bored and restless and enjoy it. I respect a Daisy who’s in control of her actions every step of the way even if I don’t like her; it’s better than trying to depict her as weak and at the mercy of the men around her. She’s a pragmatist and a survivor. So many of her songs are about choices and being conscious of those choices. She is a person you should fear every bit as much as you fear her husband, and even Jordan knows she’s not safe in Daisy’s orbit.

As Jordan, Eleri Ward is one of the neatest personalities on stage. Like Tom, she’s noticeably taller than most, which gives her a commanding physical presence. She has no romantic interest in anyone; I fucking love that this production show her and Nick bonding on the basis of being queer and tired of everyone else’s shit. This is a more likable, relatable Jordan than I’ve seen in the past. This is a Jordan whose relationship to Gatsby is much more familiar and warm, much more akin to the friendship she forms with Nick. In fact, the queer-and-tired vibes that roll off several of the principals in this production are palpable.

Myrtle and Wilson (Matthew Amira) aren’t always played as effective foils for Daisy and Tom, but here? They unquestionably are. They do actually love each other in spite of the things they’ve done to hurt each other, and it’s a constant dance of daring each other, challenging each other. The most memorable duet in the entire show is between them, during Act II. The confrontation is positively electric. These are two people with deep, complicated history. Of all the couples in the show, they feel the most real, the most alive. It makes the loss of Myrtle so much more wrenching; she’s not just a plot device emblematic of the bad choices they’ve all been making. She’s not shallow or frivolous or anything like that. She’s a shrewd woman with complex motivations, and for the first time ever I find myself loving her and caring what happens to her. She’s thrust even further into the action in that one of her part time gigs is working as a maid at Gatsby’s parties, a conceit that works shockingly well and hastens the devastating consequences of her affair with Tom.

I’ve made mention of Meyer Wolfsheim’s (Adam Grupper) uniquely enhanced role previously, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on him again. This is a man who does, in fact, seem to give a shit about Jay above and beyond using him as a tool in his criminal empire. It’s not necessarily a healthy father-son dynamic, but Wolfsheim is usually played as ruthless, opportunistic, inhumanly calculating. Here, he’s a charming, but unquestionably dangerous man moved by a young soldier’s plight. He seems conflicted between his love for Jay and his need to have Jay continue to hold the party line within their business relationship. Wolfsheim is deeply conflicted about Jay in a way that I haven’t seen any Wolfsheim be played previously. And, as I mentioned earlier, the actor has a showstopper of a song and dance number. That may be the #1 “I wasn’t expecting that, but I’ll take it!” moment for me in this show. And I say “may be” only because the moment that truly stopped my heart, will stay with me until everything else fades from memory, is perhaps only understandable in the context of my engagement with the text of Gatsby as a writer of transformative works.

Daisy’s and Tom’s daughter, Pam Buchanan doesn’t always appear in adaptations because she’s a toddler. Even in the novel, she a throwaway mention plus a single scene near the end where the nanny brings her out to meet Jay and Nick. She’s most often left as a throwaway mention without even grave of the scene where she appears. The scene in the novel, however brief, is memorable—and has been captured in all its fragile beauty for the first time in this adaptation. Jay and Nick both pay bewildered, wondering attention to this kid when she’s brought out. Jay drops to his knees and takes her hand when she greets him while Nick looks on in a moment of singular focus on both of them. The child who plays Pam here has a spark, an expressiveness that made me choke up even though she’s only on stage for a few minutes, if that. The tableau is one in which you can feel the shock of reality, however brief, touch on these men—Daisy’s and Tom’s reckless actions may yet do harm to someone who’s barely even begun to live her life, but who is just conscious enough to be a participant in it. They recognize that they, like this child, are probably in for a word of ruin—and that they have let it go on for so long that there’s now nothing they can do about it. For me, the deepest tragedy was watching Nick and Jay throw off that moment of heartbroken, horrified recognition prompted by Pam and return to the parts they’d decided to play out until the moment one of their hearts stopped.

Speaking of grief, of Nick’s grief since he’s the one who loses so much: there is only one person who loses more, and that’s Mr. Gatz, Jay’s father. They preserve his arrival at the house when Nick is the only person who stays around to carry out Jay’s funeral and burial. And when he arrives, the visceral shock of seeing his dark skin, braids, and beaded elements of Native regalia in juxtaposition with his otherwise period-typical Western garb underscore the tragedy of what young Jay was running away from, of what he never quite succeeded in erasing from himself. The burial scene shows Nick reverently bringing several of Jay’s folded shirts from the house and handing them down into the grave to Mr. Gatz, who places them reverently as possessions to accompany his son into thereafter. The cultural ramifications are all at once understated and devastating. Nick has moments with each of Jay’s father figures that are among the most complex and moving in the show. The program does not make clear the name of the ensemble member who takes on this most memorable of all Mr. Gatz appearances, and this erasure in and of itself is both unfortunate and telling. This is a world that never belonged to the majority of those who inhabit it, and Nick realizes it with heartbroken clarity after having this final interaction. Even though he’s an outsider, he’s part of a world that has erased and betrayed the man he loved so much at every turn.

The closing number, “We Beat On,” felt like it needed something more, but it utilized the final line of the novel to a deeply moving effect. The lights go down suddenly as the last word is sung; it feels like the song is half finished. When the lights came up, Nick and Jay were center stage in each other’s embrace, just withdrawing from each other as the entire company transitioned into final bows. That’s how I’ll remember them, always: touching even when they’ve already lost each other, borne ceaselessly back into each other’s arms. If Nick is Orpheus, then I have no doubt that he, too, will tell this story again and again until someday, somewhere, something gives.

[five-rivers]

After months, if not years of missed curfews, failing grades and lies Maddie is done with her son’s behavior and decides to confront him once and for all, waiting in his room since he so rarely uses the door. Imagine her suprise the infamous Danny Phantom, injured and exhausted stumbles through the wall and detransforms into Danny Fenton.

She doesn't turn the light on. She doesn't know how Danny keeps getting past her and Jack, and that is one of things she intends to discover and put a stop to tonight, one way or another.

She'd prefer to talk, but if she has to nail his window shut from the outside, inside, or both, that is what she will do. It isn't safe out there at night. She and Jack did their best, but there are so many ghosts, and they can't do much about the more human dangers.

(The only good thing about this situation is that Danny showed no signs of taking drugs. Or, at least, Maddie hadn't found any of the related paraphernalia in his room.)

Outside the window, the light increased. Maddie frowned. The Fentonworks sign was bright, she knew, but it was also very specific neon colors. This was something paler, whiter, cleaner, and it wasn't bright enough, or coming from the right direction, to be car headlights.

Maddie hadn't brought her weapons with her. She didn't like going around unarmed, but she knew that going to what was almost certainly going to be an emotionally charged argument with a weapon close to hand - even a nonlethal one - wasn't wise. Thinking about herself that way made her nauseated, but no one thought they would do something like that until they did, a fact Maddie was familiar with from unfortunate personal experience.

But she couldn't help but regret this wisdom when the ghost came through the wall. And not just any ghost. Phantom.

She held her breath, trying to stay as still as possible. If she got away before he spotted her, she could activate the defense system, but in the same room, she wouldn't be able to get the words out fast enough.

Phantom hovered over Danny's bed, and for the first time tonight, Maddie was glad that Danny wasn't here. Who knew what Phantom had intended?

Ectoplasm dripped from Phantom's arm and nose, onto Danny's bed. She would have to clean it before he slept on it again. Thoroughly. He'd be annoyed to have to sleep in the guest bedroom, but it was a matter for his health.

Why had Phantom come here when he was this damaged?

Phantom suddenly flared bright, like a camera flash. The room was dark in its wake, and something fell heavily onto Danny's bed.

She blinked the light out of her eyes, furious and terrified. Was this the precursor to an attack? Did he know she was here?

When her eyes adapted again, she saw...

Danny.

Danny, in his pajamas, with the same injuries Phantom had.

Maddie watched and waited while Danny turned over, cocooning himself in his sheets. She would like to say that her hesitance was born from an abundance of caution, but really, she was too stunned to act.

But, finally, what felt like hours later, she walked over to Danny's bed. His chest was rising and falling, slow but steady. She put her hand on his shoulder and felt its warmth.

Her hand, slowly, moved to his throat. There was a pulse, there.

He was alive. Her son was alive.

She just--

She took a step back, away, back to the door, which she opened as quietly as possible.

She needed to understand what was happening, first, what she had seen. Then, she could start to figure out how to fix it.

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Don't get possessed!

You'll end up like this...

Gassy air bubbled from deep inside my soft, pudgy stomach. The smell of semi-digested beer wafted into my nose as my lips flapped in the gust of a violent belch dragging itself out. God, this body was disgusting, but this is what I did to it; this is what I did to him...

I used his cellphone to snap a pic of the sweaty slab of meat I'd been wearing for the past three years. It was the disgraced body of a former jock. Jake's stomach rumbled like it always did when I filled it to the brim. Even after all this time, it still hasn't adapted to the crap I've constantly been stuffing it with.

Swallowing yet another beer, I toss the can into the corner of his dark living room, where it collided with discarded pizza boxes and half empty milk jugs. I'd let the entire apartment overflow with the garbage generated by this once-godly body, and there was a lot of it.

The place smelled like a dumpster in the sun.

You might think this is a disgusting way to live. Well, I did too. Everything about the situation was nasty; the damp basement apartment, the stacks of dirty dishes, the closet of unwashed clothes. The entire place had a permanent stench of body odor, and I know it followed this body around everywhere.

I had never in my life felt so absolutely disgusted by my surroundings.

But that was the exact fucking point.

To explain, we'll have to flash back to a few years ago. Let me show you a photo of Jake when I first possessed him. I took this right after jumping into his perfect body...

The athlete had just gotten back from the gym. It was another perfect workout for the perfect jock, and I could feel the grit and intensity swelling in every muscle. The college footballer would normally shower after any physical activity, but I was happy to crack open a beer and bask in his sweaty glory.

I don't know if you could tell, but I am not a fan of Jake.

He was a pretentious bully at my university, and he got away with anything. I tried my best to stay out of his way, but ultimately found myself staring into the headlights of his fancy Christmas present: a shiny black camaro. The asshole ended my life while driving back to campus after one of his famous parties!

I hate to be dramatic, but I was not ready to pass away, and I was not going to let an asshole like Jake get away with my murder. The police couldn't solve the crime any more than I could console my mourning family, so I took matters into my own ghostly hands.

Jake, beautiful Jake, didn't have a single iota of remorse. He continued to get belligerently drunk, and continued to shame and ridicule anyone shorter, weaker, or fatter than him, which was just about anyone. The worst part was people let him: they allowed it because he was the strongest, the most handsome, the prize quarterback with a winning smile!

I had to do something to stop the piece of trash lurking inside his god-like body.

So I possessed him. And I did this...

When I took over, it was like putting on a body suit. As a ghost, I was invisible, so I got right behind and slipped inside. First, I shoved a leg in, then an arm, and then the rest followed.

He struggled, flailing the few body parts he still had control over, but it was in vain!

My head was the last thing to get situated, but once I slid it into place, his yelling subsided. His thoughts evaporated, and I broke in his handsome face with a wicked smile. It felt different, grinning with someone else's mouth, but I was just glad to have a body again. His was definitely an upgrade compared to my old one. The height I stood at, the breadth of my shoulders, the weight of muscular pecs hanging off my chest; it all took some getting used to.

I enjoyed living inside the jock's body, but I was on a revenge mission. The first thing I wanted to screw up was his diet!

I started shoveling massive amounts of fast-food down his throat three times a day, packing on forty pounds in just a couple weeks. Obviously, I quit going to his football practice and even dropped out from his classes. I needed the time to bulk his body up.

His teammates and coaches all reached out, but I told them to get lost. He took everything from me, so I wanted to do the same to him...

This is a pic I took of Jake's body after almost a year of controlling him. I wanted him to look and smell as awful as possible in public, so I kept him as sweaty and hairy as I could. Despite my best efforts, his attractiveness was still shining through. If anything, he looked like a hot, hard-working bear on the way home from the job, and that was not what I wanted.

This made me realize that I could destroy more than just his looks.

In his body, I marched back to campus and begged the manager of the university gym for a job. A bunch of his old friends were there to see it, so I made sure to act as pathetic as possible in the six foot hunk, practically grovelling for any position. I even dropped to Jake's knees in front of the guy, giving a lot of the gym-goers second hand embarrassment.

Ultimately, the manager offered me a janitorial position if I would shut up. I accepted it gladly, kissing the guys shoes with Jake's lips like some kind of submissive idiot.

So even though Jake's body was still attractive with the extra weight and fur I'd given it, the dingey old uniform of a janitor made sure to mark him as the bottom of the food chain. I wore it like a badge of honor, even if I never washed the damn thing. Wearing a stained boilersuit labelled 'janitor' everywhere definitely told the world what Jake was worth!

By that point, people really only saw Jake as a walking mop, if they even looked his direction at all...

This last picture is one I took after about a year of working for the school. No one had spoken to me (Jake) in that entire time, unless they needed a toilet unclogged. The man had truly lost any respect people had for him.

The overalls hide the giant gut I'd managed to grow on his torso, but you can look at the top pic if you want to see how fat and hairy I ultimately got him. He looked nothing like the explosive athlete he'd been a couple years ago.

I took that photo right before I released Jake's to his body.

The jock probably wouldn't recognize himself. He'd wonder why he was suddenly so fat and hairy. He'd be terrified by the janitorial uniform on his back and even more horrified by the layers of dried sweat swamping his skin. It wouldn't be until he realized how much time had passed that he would fully understand the punishment I'd carved out for him. I wonder how he'll react when he finds out that he's spent the last three years scrubbing floors in the gym instead of working out in it.

I wonder if he'll clean himself up and learn a lesson? Or maybe he'll just accept his fate and give in to the habits I've made for his body. I don't know, and I don't care.

I'll be long gone by then.

Honestly, I have to admit that it's kind of fun living like this. Disgusting, sure, but there's something about reveling in the laziness, the degradation, the stink. I never allowed myself to be so laid back in life. Maybe, I learned something from this experience with Jake as well. I'm starting to think I'll find a new body to possess and live in. Someone I can take over and use for my own immediate pleasures.

Maybe you're the right candidate! You've got a nice body I could jump into. You won't mind if I hop in and drive for a few years, would you? You'll be disgusted by the state I leave you in, but hey it's not like it's my body I'm fucking up, right!

[naffeclipse]

Charm Brought It Back

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

I am so excited to present this Hocus Pocus inspired AU requested by the lovely @jackofallrabbits! The boys star as the witchy brothers who return once a fated reader lights the starry candle. They simply must show their gratitude! And what better day to post such a spooky and fun fic than on Friday the 13th?!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.

———

You turn the key and cut the engine of your car. With a flick, you turn off the headlights. The beginning of a sunset swoops down onto your ill-adjusted vision. The horizon is drenched in purples and oranges as shadows begin to crawl off of trees and their yellowed leaves. It will take a minute or two for your sight to adapt, but you have tilted and revolved the structure waiting just at the edge of the forest within your mind’s eyes for days now. It’s beyond the dirt road you’ve pulled onto the shoulder of.

Blinking slowly, you find the house’s dark silhouette through the boughs of clustered trees, and you sigh at the beauty of its preserved history.

The building is an artifact dating back roughly to the 1630s. A post-medieval English-style home, it contains two stories with an overhanging jetty and stunning clapboard siding that has survived a little under four centuries of existence. Your eyes catch on the windows and your heart sings at the sight. Diamond-paned casement. And there, decorative pendants of celestial bodies, including iron-casted suns, moons, and overlapping symbols of the two. The steeply pitched roof is common for the era and is more renowned in its descendant the saltbox form, but this style boosts its spooky aura.

The Puritan colonists were the ones responsible for importing the style to America as they landed here on the eastern coast. 

It’s no stretch of the imagination to think of witches and execution trials while gazing over the beautiful home. You’re particularly intrigued by the history of the Salem witch trials, and as a historian, you couldn’t deny yourself the chance to enter the building and feed the gnawing need to stand within a piece of history.

Stepping out of your car, a gust of wind carrying the bitter edge of autumn cuts through your brown sweater. You shiver and shut the door as quietly as you can manage. This is hallowed ground. This will supply your ever inquisitive mind which is always looking to the past with a curiosity most insatiable.

You face the home. A footpath lightly serpentines between the trees. Hooligans with destructive tendencies and teenagers on dares will venture here for a spooky, fun time, but are usually caught by the police because the building sits on private property. You asked for permission from the owner of the hundreds of acres of forest land that includes the so-called “Witch House” if you might enter the premises. Given your credentials, you were certain the owner would trust you with exploring the home.

Much to your relief, the owner agreed. 

You look up, arms clutching your knitted sleeves to fight the chill of an October breeze, in awe and reverence. 

From your pocket, you slip out a wrought-iron key with the symbol of the moon overlapping the sun to form a black eclipse and marvel again at the intricacy of ancient beauty. Your fingertips grow chilled in the late hour. The sun shifts from orange to dark, bleeding red like blood from a heart spilled across the horizon. You walk towards the home. 

Perhaps you should have arrived sooner. You were caught in another historical journal depicting the specific timeframe of when this home would have been occupied by its original inhabitants. 

The rumors even now speak of curses and cursed artifacts within the building. Some of it is true—you have confirmed with your own scholarly sources. The original owners were a trio of brothers. They were accused of witchcraft and hanged for the crimes. That much is historically documented and verified. 

What is fantasy is the tale of the brothers casting a curse with their dying breaths, declaring they would one day return if a virgin lit a starry candle on the anniversary of their executions.

Superstition. Most likely, the fear of the townspeople transcended to their children, and their children, down and down until it became a tale to spin on Halloween night around these parts. 

The door is black as you approach it. A stray branch catches on your sweater, pulling on a thread, and you yank yourself free and silently mourn the roughen fabric before returning your attention to what really matters. You must be careful. This entire place is iconic and in need of preservation. 

You slip the key into the lock hole and turn it with a thick, heavy click before the black wood door groans and slides inwards as if inviting you into its sphere. You take a breath. Your boots cross the threshold and you enter the home. 

As is typical of some homes built in the early seventeenth century, an open hall greets you. In the far back is the fireplace with a cauldron still sitting upon an ashy bed. An original wood-carve table and chairs are set to one side as a staircase climbs up into the darkness of the second level. What little red light leaks inside is narrowed and cut up into diamonds by the panes. To one wall, shelves contain dusty and forgotten cooking utensils, once glimmery copper pots, and dinner dishes with designs considered much too gawky in the Puritan era but it causes you to softly gasp.

Your hand covers your mouth as you gaze around you, overwhelmed with the beautiful intricacies of metallic chandeliers holding half-burned tallow candles, and to the other wall lies a bookshelf covered in cobwebs as if the spiders refuse to let anyone examine such precious reads. Your fingers already itch to gently pry out one manuscript and gaze at the original script of whoever wrote it.

But the light—it’s far too dark now. The red has given way to blue and pale indigo. You squint. You reach into your other pocket for a lighter and flick it on. The tiny flame spouts a delicate light. Never would you dare admit this out loud to a living soul, but you so desperately wish to see the home in its authentic state, lit only by the technology the brothers had at the time: fire.

There are thick, yellowed candles lying on the table and clustered together on the narrow window sills. You have no hope of reaching the metal chandeliers but you do spy a candelabra positioned near the bookshelf on a small end table. You light it first with a careful touch of your lighter flame. The wick catches, even after all of these years. You smile softly, your heart warm within your chest as you bask in the essence of this beautiful place.

A few more candles should suffice. 

You slip to the table to light the thick and tall candles. The flames bloom and warm the space in rich light, casting thick shadows from support beams. You almost set your lighter away when you spy one last candle set upon a golden candle holder. The fashioned metal twists and twines with elaborate engravings of shooting stars and slices of sun rays were placed in the corner of the room almost out of sight. The curiosity within you urges you to take a step, then another, and another. You stand in front of the almost forgotten candle.

The tallow is black as midnight. Strange. How did they color this? Embedded within the darkness are speckles of white, splattering the candle like an array of stars. Your eyes stray in search of constellations before shaking your head.

It’s true. There is a starry candle. Perhaps the brothers did dabble in the occult, playing with cards and fortune telling, and being punished with death for their interest in unholy magic. 

The wick is dark and untouched as if it were never lit before. You bring the lighter flame closer. Superstition might worry another, but you concern yourself with logic and reason—explanations of humanity rather than inexplicable forces beyond comprehension. 

Something stirs from a nearby corner shelf. Two long ears twitch. You catch a glimpse of a rabbit with creamy white fur just before it leaps off of the shelf and directly onto your arm. You yelp. Nearly dropping the lighter, you scramble back as the rabbit hits the floor, collects itself, and sits on its haunches.

Green eyes glare up at you. The rabbit, small and bunny-like, stays firmly between you and the starry candle.

You stand with your chest heaving and your lungs scraping out air, almost burning your thumb on the lighter flame before turning around yourself. Where did the woodland creature come from? Did it crawl its way inside like a rat and become trapped within the colonial home? The shot of adrenaline still flowing through your veins leaves your hands shaking.

The rabbit is still watching you with uncanny eyes. Prey animals so rarely stare back at bigger, larger threats. Perhaps it’s a pet. A runaway pet that somehow ended up here, of all places.

You slowly offer out your hand, keeping the lighter away in your other, as you take a step towards it.

It thumps a foot once, as if in warning, then bounds away. You watch it disappear into the house, still reeling from the fright it gave you. 

If Michael was here, he would have laughed and told you to leave with him, now. He never wanted you to go here, especially alone, but you shake such ominous warnings away. He said curiosity killed the cat. You disagreed. This house is a part of history, not a curse. Witches are mere stories, conjured out of historical unrest and the longing to blame bad luck and tragedies upon an individual or three. 

There’s always an explanation for fear superstition or mistrust. It’s far more sad than it is spooky.

You shake your head, smooth out the creases in your sweater, and face the starry candle again. The lighter flame flickers softly as you draw near it.

It is the anniversary of the brothers’ executions. You remember now as the shadows from other candles drape over you like a veil. You are also a virgin.

You laugh to yourself, covering your mouth as you do so. Look at you! You’re getting so worked up because a rabbit jumped at you.

It’s only hocus-pocus.

You tilt the lighter until it engulfs the wick. The flame catches, and you at last snap the lighter shut and return it to your pocket. Your eyes squint slightly at the candle. The wick snaps and bursts into sparks. The flame is not yellow or orange or even blue—it’s pure white like a comet streaking across the sky.

A crack of thunder splits the night sky with a bellow so monstrous, you feel like a child again, fearing a storm. You drop low to the ground, shielding your head as if the very world was going to fall upon you. A spark cracks in the fireplace, conjured out of ash underneath the cauldron before it burns hot and bright. The cauldron immediately begins roiling and bubbling with water. Laughter, great and terrible, and filled with the most jester-like joy sweeps over the room.

The pulse in your ears drowns at any sense but the need to hide. You scramble into the corner, tucking yourself behind the stand of the starry candle and hunker down. Holding your breath, you grab a fistful of your sweater while clutching your chest, and watch the door to the almost 400-year-old house fly open.

Three figures stride inside, looking about the place with wide eyes and disk-like heads framed in jutting adornments not unlike sun rays or shrouded in a heavy, dark blue hood.

“Brothers! We’re home!” The first one, tall and dark with deep red hues to his form, accent in sharp orange sun rays and an eclipse upon his face, turns to face his brother with bright, cat-like yellow eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Another figure steps forward, yellow and off-white. Pale eyes beam. His head is crowned in bright sun rays as well. His spindly fingers twindle together in exuberant energy while he glances about the room eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes! More than anything! It’s as if we weren’t gone for more than a day—though the dust and cobwebs beg to differ.”

He draws a claw—you suck in a sharp breath—along the table’s edge and rubs his taloned fingertips together in disappointment. 

“We must get to cleaning at once.”

“No,” the last figure fixes his hood with silvery digits. Golden jewels hang down the back of his unusual skull, the last and most prominent adornment a thick, golden star pendant. His eyes cast around the room, scarlet, and searching. “We must thank the little mouse who lit the candle.”

He flashes sharp teeth within his wide mouth, shaping it into a hungry grin. You gulp.

“Where are our manners?” The red and dark one twists back to the room with a flourish of his arms. His yellow gaze sweeps over the shelves and floors with a blade-like glint. “Of course, we must thank one so lovely.”

A dark cape drapes about his person. Underneath, a white flowing shirt hangs loosely to his lithe and slender figure, causing you to balk upon staring at such an exposed chest. The other two are no different, wearing similar shirts and dark trousers, but the hooded one bears a thick, longer cape while the sunny figure shares a cape similar to the first.

The yellow one lifts his wrists and frowns at the red ribbons tied around them. Golden bells jingle softly in an ominous chord. 

“How terrible a reminder of our current impermanence,” he growls low in his throat, all cheerfulness lost and causing you to squeeze your ribs in fear.

“Patience, Sun,” the red one speaks, though he too casts a narrowed glance to the black ribbons and golden bells adorning his wrists. “We will affix ourselves back to this world in due time.”

“Eclipse, what a delicious creature I smell.” The hooded figure steps deeper into the home. Blue claws scratch at equally blue ribbons knotted to his hand bones but his attention is terrifyingly fixed on the candle stand just above your hiding spot. 

You shrink further into the corner.

“Yes, Moon? And how lovely?” Eclipse, you assume, asks. His yellow eyes flash.

“As lovely as the stars,” Moon answers.

You watch claws curl around the wooden side of the candle stand, scratching deeply into the wood before a half-moon face emerges from behind, teeth set like a predator’s upon the sight of a wounded animal. Your heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

“Hello, little mouse. Won’t you come and play with us?” 

You scream as he leaps behind the candle stand, takes you by the arms, and pulls you to your feet. You struggle to free yourself, crying out as he grabs hold of your wrists and fixes you firmly in place. 

“My, how sweet,” he purrs in a dangerously low voice that rolls in the back of his throat. “You are the darling virgin who lit the candle, no?”

“Let me go!” You thrash but Moon grins in delight, as if you’re simply too precious. 

“You deserve proper thanks,” He lowers one hand, forcing you to submit with slightly bent knees. “Here is my gratitude, little mouse.”

You freeze as he brings your hand towards his mouth, and a hundred, horrifying visions of him biting your fingers off or sinking his teeth in your palm send your blood into a frozen sludge of fear.

The witch, however, presses a kiss to the center of your palm. The softness catches the gears in your mind and jerks them to a halt.

“Thank you for allowing us to return once more,” he rasps. His scarlet eyes find yours between the space of your thumb and forefinger, and a strange stirring takes hold of your middle.

“This isn’t real,” you breathe. Dizziness begins to take hold.

This must be a dream, a thought gone wild, or inhaled bacteria triggering hallucinations.

Moon’s grin widens. He lowers your hand, loosening his hold for one precious moment. You rip your hands free of his grasp. A low growl escapes him but you’ve already slipped away, your eyes upon the door and spilling with the need to rush out into the night, away from the impossibilities standing before you—

Arms snatch your waist and lift your feet from the ground. You gasp. 

Held in the air, you squirm before a hot breath dusts the shoulder of your sweater. You fall still, your throat bobbing as a mouth presses into the corner of your neck and lays a kiss on the sensitive spot. Gooseflesh prickles up and down your body.

“I assure you, I’m very real, little mouse,” Moon purrs. His hands squeeze your hips once. “And as nice as this… attire is, I would dress you in blues and silvers. You would look proper and powerful, like my brothers and I.”

A squeak escapes you. You shrink against him, caught in his embrace.

“Brothers?” The word rattles out of your throat. 

“This is our home,” Moon whispers. “And you are our most honored guest.”

You manage to pry off his hands from your waist. With a sinister chuckle, the blue and silver hands release you. Without looking back, you run, ignoring the twinge in your stomach that whispers it was too easy to get away.

You hardly get a few steps before the sunny one—Sun—steps into your path. He catches you in his arms and spins you in a waltz at breakneck speed, your feet never touching the ground, before stopping without warning as he dips you low. He looms above you, his smile filled with sharp teeth.

“Let me get an eyeful. Oh, yes, you look good enough to eat,” he simpers. His hand splays along the small of your back and you gawk up at him, still trying to regain your balance after the sickness-inducing whirl. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”

“I just want to leave,” you whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Sunshine,” he laughs, and it echoes with all of his heart—do once-hanged witches have a heart? There is no historical journey to give context to this very moment, you fear.

He lowers his sultry gaze to you. “I wish to only thank you. And I intend to.”

He pulls you back to your feet. You’re still clasped in his embrace like lovers on a ballroom floor. His hand hooks tight to your hip, and his other catches the side of your face. Heat spreads through the marrow of your bones.

On the tabletop beside you, something white moves across the plane of its surface, hunkering behind the thick stack of candles still burning.

His head lowers to your neck. You stiffen as he tilts your head away, opening you to his parting teeth. A tongue, dark and sinuous, flicks out of his maw. A gasp slips from your lips at the wet lick up the column of your throat. Eyelids fluttering, you start to sag as weakness fills your knees. He drags his tongue higher to taste your jawline and finishes at your cheek with a swipe for good measure. 

Your hands find him and clutch tightly to his slender arms. He presses his lips to your ear and with a misty warmth, whispers.

“Thank you for—Gah!”

The white rabbit leaps up from the table, squirming directly between you and his chest, breaking you apart. Instinctively, you jump away just as Sun snarls. The heart-wrenching sound shakes your entire frame as he snatches the rabbit by the scruff before it can scramble back from his wretched claws.

“I’ll boil you alive!” he thunders. He steps towards the cauldron, back where Moon leans against the wall, watching the spectacle with an amusing twitch of his grinning maw. Behind you, Eclipse stands at the door like a sentinel, his eyes still hungry and even furious as he follows his brother’s movement to the cauldron. 

Sun dangles the rabbit, now struggling and kicking but unable to find purchase against the witch’s hold, above the boiling water of the caldron.

“No!” you cry.

Sun’s eyes widen. He turns back to you just as you close the distance and scoop the rabbit in your arms. His claws, pale-boned and wickedly curved, clench around emptiness. Without thought, you turn and run again though there is little hope as you come to the door. Your boots stamp against the wooden floorboards.

The rabbit in your embrace turns its face up to you and mutters in a woman’s voice, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

You gawk, stunned before hands catch you by the shoulders. You’re brought to a dead halt. The rabbit leaps from your arms, drops to the floor, and races away into a shadowy corner of the room with only one glimpse of its fluffy tail before you’re left alone.

You twist and face the eldest witch’s attention. Eclipse. His yellow eyes go up and down your body, and you watch in muted shock as two additional arms emerge from the shadows of his cap. He forces you backward, one step after the other until your back is pinned against a dusty wall.

You stare into his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your pulse pounds in your eardrums.

“I don’t believe this is happening,” you utter.

The witch tilts his head with a wicked grin.

“We’ll make you a believer yet.” He promises, and his deep cords vibrate through your form. “My dear, we simply must thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”

His claws slip over your collarbones. Your breath quickens, a stirring you cannot name unfolding deep within your middle. His extra set of hands fall to your hips and begin caressing the bones. Daintily, carefully, his warm fingertips slip just underneath the hem of your sweater, touching your bare flesh. A shiver runs down your entire body, leaving you to squirm.

“Be a good little comet,” he says softly, “Let me pour my gratitude all over you.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was true,” you stare into his face, marked with a red crescent over a dark shadow, and his eyes pierce into the very nature of your being. “You’re back.”

“Because of you,” he rumbles softly in his chest. His grin pulls higher at the corners.

His claws slip over the nap of your neck and card gently into the small, sensitive hairs at the bottom of your skull. You breathe in. His eyes brighten in pleasure before he slips his sharp but controlled talons over the shells of your ears and follows the arch of your cheekbone. His gaze drops to your lips. Your heart thumps and thumps against your sternum so powerfully, you fear he may hear it.

His lips pull over his razor-sharp teeth and you stop breathing.

His other set of hands begins working up the sides of your torso. He rubs slowly and gently, but you squirm despite this. He touches you far too intimately when you have never experienced such affections before. A mewl escapes your lips. You wriggle as he refuses to relent. 

In answer, his upper hands lower and capture your hands together in one, and pin them above your head to hold you in place. He coos, chastising. A great roil starts in your stomach and expands upwards until your face becomes pink and flushed.

“Hold still, little comet,” he chuckles, and you whimper. “I’m not finished with showering you in all my adoration.”

“Eclipse,” your breath is harsh and hot.

“It is good to hear my name upon such lovely lips,” his voice lowers, husky and scorching. “I knew a virgin would light the candle. I swore it to my brothers as they set us on the gallows and draped nooses around our necks. You are our light, our savior. How could I ever thank you?”

In his words, his burning stare that singes with sincerity, it clicks into place. All at once, you believe what you are seeing with your own two eyes. 

It’s true. He’s back. He and his brothers have returned with magic.

“I have questions,” you say hesitantly in your demureness, “I want answers.”

“Of course,” Eclipse agrees easily. “But first…”

A dark claw brushes your hair back from your face. The flutter in your heart can’t seem to hold still. Eclipse’s grin widens and his eyes soften.

“You have freckles like constellations,” he murmurs in the manner of one gazing at the night sky or one studying an ornate painting.  

Before you can shape words to reply, to say anything that might free you from his grasp, his mouth is upon yours. A sound softly catches in the back of your throat. You fall still under his caressing hands still moving below your sweater. He traces the row of your ribs. You have just enough mind to wonder if he feels your skin prickle in your sensitivity. His other hand clasps your wrists tighter. You gasp against his teeth. 

He pulls gently, hungrily, taking you as if a bite of honeycomb. You become melted honey, easily malleable between his teeth and then molded by his mouth. His tongue invades you. You moan softly at the claim he lays upon you until you become weak in the knees and almost fall. His kiss seals your fate.

He releases you from his maw. You sink slightly, and his arms fall out from under your sweater to properly catch you. He lowers your wrists, returns your hands, and brushes your hair once more from your face.

A chuckle emits from his lips, and you burn.

“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?” he asks, but he waits for no answer as he scoops you into his arms. Feet dangling, you have no choice but to cling to his shoulders and endure his brothers’ attention as he twists around and faces them.

The rabbit’s right. You are in trouble. Michael warned you. He said curiosity killed the cat.

But charm brought it back.

[techdriveplay]

How Audi Matrix LED Headlights Revolutionise Night Driving on Australian Country Roads

Driving at night presents a unique set of challenges, particularly on the dark, winding roads of the Australian countryside. Audi has long been at the forefront of automotive innovation, constantly pushing the boundaries to enhance safety, comfort, and driving pleasure. One of their most groundbreaking advancements is the Audi Matrix LED headlights technology. Introduced in 2013 on their flagship…

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

hii can u maybe do like all the pogues are stuck on poguelandia and the reader is sarahs sister (and the reader isn’t necessarily a pogue like sarah) but the reader had been secretly hooking up with jj before everything happened, and they decide to make it official after the pogues see them doing a lil sum sum on poguelandia

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Unlike your sister, you didn’t adapt easily to the island life. You were sick of eating coconut and fish for every meal, sick of sleeping on mats made of braided leaves, sick of feeling dirty and having tangles in your hair.

You were a Kook to the bones. You loved and missed the comfort of your old life — and everything in-between…including your little affair with JJ Maybank.

Every Tuesday afternoon, after working on the Carroway’s boat, he would sneak to Tannyhill for a good time. The house was always empty at this hour, so it was perfect. He was your little secret, and you were his.

On the island, the secret was more difficult to protect. You tried to put an act around the others, picking small fights and make it look like you were annoyed by JJ when in reality you were burning with desire for him more and more each day.

‘’We can’t continue our…thing on the island. It’s too risky to get caught,’’ you had resonated with JJ a few days after arriving on Poguelandia.

But your desires became too much to ignore and you both succumbed to the temptation and started playing with fire.

Back pressed against a tree, JJ's mouth was on yours, tongues playing together as his hands danced all over your body as moaned into his mouth. He pulled at your small top, easily exposing your breasts to the island air, and rolled your nipple between his fingers.

You broke the kiss and your head fell back against the tree. ‘’Mmh, J…’’

JJ smirked and kept playing with your nipple. ‘’I’ve missed this,’’ he said before attaching his mouth to your neck, the new placement of his mouth adding to your pleasure.

Your hands found the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his blond hair as you hooked a leg to his thigh, needing more. ‘’Please don’t stop.’’

JJ chuckled as he moved a little higher, nipping your earlobe. ‘’Wasn’t planning on it, princess.’’

The corner of your lips turned into a smile, the silly banter between you and him ever present. Kook Princess. That’s what JJ called you back in Kildare. You hated it and he knew it, so he kept calling you that just to see the annoyed look on your face.

One of your hands slipped from JJ’s hair to slide down his neck and chest to reach the button of his shorts, but the crack of a branch and a shocked ‘holy shit’ snapped you and JJ out of your bubble. You both turned, your faces mimicking a deer caught in headlights, and saw Pope staring right back at you.

JJ tried to play it off, but no words were coming out of his mouth. ‘’Pope, I—’’

‘’Holy shit,’’ Pope repeated while you fumbled to pull your clothes properly and cover yourself.

Pope didn’t say anything to the others, but your red face and the way you and Pope avoided each other’s eyes that evening gave away that you were hiding something.

‘’What’s the weird thing between you and Y/N?’’ John B. asked during dinner, sensing the awkwardness between you and Pope.

The latter shook his head and denied. ‘’There’s nothing weird.’’

‘’Bullshit,’’ Kiara called out, not believing him. ‘’You used to sit together at dinners, but now you’re sitting opposite sides and can’t look at each other.’’

‘’Kie is right,’’ Sarah added, taking a bite of coconut. ‘’You’ve been acting like this since you came back from picking wood.’’

Keeping secrets was unfortunately not Pope's fort. He was a terrible liar, too. You could see it on his face when he was hiding something and that was not good for your and JJ's secret. 

He gave you an apologetic look and sighed. ‘’I may have walked in on something I was not supposed to see.’’

You released a relieved breath. Pope's answer was vague enough not not give your secret away, which was good for you and JJ, but it was not enough to satisfy the others. They wanted more. 

‘’Could you be less specific?’’ Kiara said. 

Sarah’s eyes shifted to you and caught you looking at JJ, who was smirking down while eating his fish. ‘’Oh my god.’’ Everyone turned to Sarah, but her eyes remained on you and the blond she grew to call a friend. ‘’JJ?! No way!’’ She covered her mouth, shocked by the news.

Pope looked down, mumbling something. ‘’They weren’t just making out…’’

You groaned and covered your flushed face. 

—

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[frosted-hyacinth]

You have a bad day

Feat. sae itoshi

Tags. fluff

cw. near-death experience (if there are any more, please let me know)

        You practically collapsed on your chair after you finished the huge mountain load of work and documents. After how tiring and mentally draining your day was. You'd almost gotten hit by a car that screeched to a halt after seeing you in front of it, crossing the road. It was a green light so you proceeded to walk across the road, looking around to check if there were any cars around. After making sure that there were none, you crossed the road only to be met with headlights in your face and the loud noise of brakes. You were shocked, after all, you almost got killed on your way to work. You stood there stunned before seeing the flashing red numbers on the traffic light and ran towards the sidewalk. You were expecting to continue on your way to work peacefully, continuing on your day like you hadn't almost died but just before you could take a step forwards, the driver of the car decided that this incident was entirely your fault and logically, the only thing they could have done was to open their car window and start screaming at you.

        They thought that it was because of your carelessness that they could almost have been sent to prison yet the driver was the one who almost ran a red light. So you just sped up and walked to your work building. As you finally arrived at the building, you set your stuff on your desk and sat down on your chair, opening your computer screen since you were preparing to pick up on the work you were doing yesterday. Before you could open the document, your co-worker tapped you on the shoulder. You didn’t notice but she had been silent walking behind you while you got your things prepared.

        “The boss asked for you.” She said, a smile on her face.

        “Thanks Mika.” You replied with a similar smile then took your laptop with you to walk towards a glass covered room. These types of rooms made you nervous, not only because every time you came into these types of rooms you were going to have serious conversations but also because the room itself felt scary. Sometimes it could be claustrophobic and feel like the perfect environment to have panic attacks but this time, you were seeing your boss. The one that helped you keep your job but also the one that could fire you at any moment. You couldn’t just break down in front of them, that could make you risk your job that you’d worked so hard on finding! You walked into the room with some non-existent confidence that was made last moment, taking a deep breath before your eyes were met with the very direct eye contact of your boss.

Her eyes were still on your but she gestured for you to take a seat on the chair in front of you, an order to which you easily complied to. The two of you sat in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds that felt like hours. If you had to sit there any longer in silence, you felt like you would suffocate. Thankfully, before you could die mentally, your boss spoke up.

        "I have been... Watching your work that you hand in, and I've noticed some things about the pattern that you give me your work. You tend not to finish you work as fast as other employees and to try to make your adaptive skills better, I have decided to assign you an amount of work that you must finish today." She said while reaching under her desk and handing you a pile of papers and documents.

        You nodded slowly then was motioned to get out of the room and resume your activities with the workload that your boss had just given you.

        You walked as quickly as possible out of the room as an attempt to get more time to work done.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

        You sighed, clicking off your pen and shutting down your laptop. You were finally done. When you walked into the elevator, you heard a small ding sound coming from your phone so you turned it on.

Sae: When are you coming home

        When you saw that text, you let out a small chuckle as you realised that you forgot to tell your boyfriend that you would be coming home a little bit later than usual due to the work that you had to quickly finish. You stepped out of the elevator once it had reached the floor you needed then you replied to the text that Sae had sent you with some explanations to why you were late but not much else other than that. You didn't send him the time that you'd get home since it was dark out. When you sent the message to him, it had the symbol that it was sent underneath the text and just as soon as that appeared, it was read by Sae.

Sae: Do you need a ride

        You looked out of the building. It was snowing. So it was cold, slippery and dark outside... Not the best combination, not the safest either... You responded with a quick and straight forwards, yes.

Sae: I'll be there in five

        And now you were set to wait five minutes before your ride arrived. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

        Sae's car arrived in front of the building, you saw so you walked out of the warm building towards the car. Just before you entered the car, a large gust of wind caught you off guard, making you shiver and stumble backwards before opening the car door and entering the car. You slid swiftly into the front seat of Sae's car, when you made contact with the seat's leather, a large and fluffy jacket was placed over your body, covering your head as well. You pushed the jacket off your head and smiled at Sae, buckling your seatbelt. When you smiled at him, he saw a glint of stress in your eyes but right now, it seemed like all you wanted to do was go home. He'd ask you about it later but for now he'd focus on driving.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

        You and Sae changed into a comfortable sweater, you having stolen a hoodie from his closet. When you finished changing, he quickly pulled you to the couch, on his lap, making sure that you were comfortable then he looked directly into your eyes.

        "Did anything happen today?" He asked, tone dead serious. "..Yes'' He continued staring at you, initiating a silent request for you to tell him what happened. You were hesitant to tell him but continued anyway, listing everything that happened, from almost getting killed by a car on your way to work to getting overwhelmed with work. When you were done saying everything, you asked him if he could watch Howl's Moving Castle with you to unravel from the day, he silently agreed then proceeded to turn on the tv, playing the movie you mentioned. For half the movie, you watched with your head nuzzled into your boyfriend's chest until you dozed off.

        He stayed in this position with you for a few hours, almost falling asleep in the process but he managed to somehow stay awake. He quietly crept out of your grasp, grabbing his phone and wallet from the table, getting ready to use any and all contacts he possibly could to try and fire your boss and make the life of the person who had almost killed you, a living hell. So don't be surprised if you wake up to find that your boss has been fired. It shouldn't be shocking if you have a boyfriend like Sae.

-I don't actually have a job so... This is probably inaccurate. I also don't know how this ended up this long but... Also, I don't have much on Sae's personality so he might also be a little out of character. 映

[aughhay]

Raian and y/n fight so he pulls over the car and teaches her a lesson!!

𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲? || 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐞

“𝗍𝖼𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗋.”

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭; dubcon, blood, dirty talking, arguing, cursing, slapping, hair pulling, degradation/humiliation, public sex, raian’s wearing sweatpants.., cramped space, biting, facefucking, rough play, you & raian are complicated, cum in mouth

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; smut with gn!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 1.2k+, scrapped the actual sex part.

a/n; i did not proofread any of this shit 😦 im so sorry but WE HIT 40 NOTES ON THAT OHMA FIC IM SO HAPPY

18+ !!!

it’s about that time at night where raian turns into an egotistical asshole while driving, he starts noticing the streets are almost bare and grows a petty smirk. raian’s brain lights up with ideas to fuck with the remaining drivers on the road, make them pull over out of sheer fear or argue with them back and forth whilst going over the speed limit. it’s nothing new, but you’re sick of dealing with it as his passenger princess.

“raian, slow down a little.. you’re speeding..—“

“speeding? ha, you think this is fucking speeding?! this is nothing!.. i’ll show you and all these other bastards real speed.”

raian’s grin was as malice-filled as it was dark. his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he glanced over at you. he chuckled, barely audible, the sound mingling with the growl of the car engine as he pushed the pedal even further. your figure plunging back into the leather seat without warning. your head is in a swivel, hearing the beast's uncontrollable laughter as your body tries to adapt to the frenzied speed of the car.

the tension in the car became unbearable, the mix of danger and adrenaline filling the small space. his eyes flicked back to the road as you contemplated his words, the car's speed climbing with his expectations.

“stop the fucking car! it’s not funny, take me home raian.”

“you’re not going home ‘til i say so, and i say you keep your dolled up ass frozen in that passenger seat.”

his implications hang heavy, tangible as the charged air between you. raian’s hand, powerful and capable, finds a resting place on your thigh, digging into your skin without remorse. a reminder of his presence, his power. though your protests aren’t getting through to him one bit, the sound of your stern voice gets him hot, coaxing more out of you.

the car's interior feels stifling, tension thick between the two of you as headlights and street lamps streak by. you can tell by the tenseness of his jaw and the unwavering hardness pressing against his pants that his ire was vying with raw need. the silent car became a den of smoldered urges, one palpable exhale away from combusting.

“tch. little bitches like you always like to chat, don’t they?—“

“you may think you can bully all these other people on the road, but not me! you need to treat me with respect!”

“what makes you think you deserve my fucking respect? the fact that my cum was swishing inside of you last week makes you think i gotta be fucking jolly to you? hah! what a fucking joke.”

“fuck you!”

“fuck me?”

“fuck you! pull this car over now!”

raian’s scratched voice had a sick grin emerge deep inside. his eyes crinkling from a smile that could cause a god fear.

“if you were so worried ‘bout it... maybe you should have done somethin' to distract me, hah? could’ve curbed my fuckin' enthusiasm. but whatever..”

to hell with that alleyway three feet ahead as he swerved into it, his car jerks to a halt in the seclusion of the dark space. every tick slowed as he turned the headlights off and locked the car doors. even as time felt like it slowed, the hand that laid on your thigh switched to your locks in a quick snap.

“ah!—“

your squeak is muffled by the tight grip in your hair, raian’s jaw ticking as he watches the range of emotions play across your delicate features. he releases a chuckle, a sound scarred and throaty.

“d—don’t touch me!”

“that’s it, isn’t it? you love pissin’ me off ‘cause you know exactly what it leads to. fuckin’ freak. you’re lucky i’m hard too, would’ve kicked you the fuck out by now.”

“gonna make good use of you.”

the words come with a growl, his lips inches from yours as he leans closer, a silent promise of retribution or perhaps a dark form of foreplay.

without warning, his lips crash against yours, an aggressive and possessive kiss that leaves you breathless. it wasnt the kiss itself that made you feel that way, it was the harsh bite on your lips that took the air out your longing lungs. the anger that had been simmering between you diffuses gradually with each forceful movement of raian’s blood covered tongue against yours, seemingly battling for dominance. the sensation of being so thoroughly claimed by someone as fierce and relentless as this man sends a thrilling shiver coursing through your body.

your hands meet with his chest, at first to push him away. this kiss stings, it hurts along with his hand still tangled near your scalp. but as his tongue meets with yours, your head feels fuzzy and your hands relent against his shirt.

raian pulls back his face, mouth open tongue exposed, the mixed saliva dripping from the tip of his tongue as he pants.

“yeah, gonna use you ‘til you break.”

his hand pushes you to his crotch, un-busied hand pulling down his sweats as he stares down at you with anticipation. but as his cock pops up in front of your face, you just can’t stop yourself. his musk is too addictive as you kiss up and down each vein, his member twitching against your crimson red lips.

raian isn’t impressed, at all. a bored expression as he grumbles and slaps your cheek, not full of pain but enough to sting for a few seconds. his hips forcefully separating your soft lips as he uses your mouth. pushing your head down to the base where his pubes tickle your skin. you salivate and gag on his cock, looking up at his face as your head bobs up and down on his length. eyes hazy, you turned into a mess in seconds.

“fuck yeah.”

his gruff whisper barely slices through the stillness, his large hand tangled in your hair, guiding your head in a gentle rhythm. you feel his girth stretch your lips, his hand tightening ever so slightly each time he meets the deeper side of your throat.

every rough thrust interrupts your breath, leaving you gasping, eager, the sound of your muffled gagging mingles with the leather seats squeaking. raian’s assertiveness envelops you, his satisfaction clear in the grunt that escapes him when you hollow your cheeks, the slurping sounds filling the tight space of the car.

he hears the undeniable sounds of your commitment, the involuntary noise that escapes you as he continues to test your limits. the car jostles lightly from his movements, the energy of your eagerness causing the heavy vehicle to rock gently. raian’s breathing becomes ragged, a stark contrast to his usual, nonchalant demeanor.

the sounds of your lewd dedication, the steady rhythm of your gagging, drive raian closer to the edge. with his focus now entirely on you. moments become stretched, every touch, every noise heightened as he surrenders to your oral ministrations, his release imminent.

“fuck— gah!”

his words cut off, a deep chested grunt filling the car as his grip on you becomes a vice, his body tensing. you feel his pulse quicken, the unmistakable twitch as he empties himself, your devotion unwavering. his cum splurts into your throat without warning, your coughing audible as it sticks inside your mouth and makes it a struggle to swallow.

raian laughs at your tussle, pulling you away and into the backseat.

[neonpaperlanterns]

Hello! I noticed you were open to any ideas or prompts and I thought of one

Reader being a worker of playtime that was Assigned to help dogday taking care of the children (this happens before the hour of joy) and reader has Cynophobia (extreme fear of dogs) and so when they first land their eyes on dogday, panic

Reader tries to avoid talking or being near dogday as best as they could, Which would confuse and made dogday feel guilty thinking he did something wrong to upset them

So dogday being the sweet pup he is tries to comfort and show reader he's not a bad guy

It's a bit long sorry ^^"

[A/n: I almost feel like I should make this a full series. Just to explore the development more]

He's a dog

Everything is fine, it’s perfectly, totally fine. You aren’t freaking out. Yeah totally not freaking out. These palms are completely dry and your heart is beating at a completely normal rate.

So what if things didn’t turn out how you thought they would? You were adaptable, you could roll with the punches. Even if… Even if the punches were this. 

“Alright everyone, we have some new members joining us today!” Says the giant talking DOG. 

This. Is. Fine!

You got this as long as—

The dog is touching your shoulder. His voice echoes in your ears and yeah no.

Nope. 

Nope. 

You have got nothing. Nothing! 

No—

~~~~~~~~~~

Your eyes flutter open. Breathing deeply you stare up at the ceiling. It’s a mix of yellow, red, and blue. The paint is chipping in the red part, showing that underneath the ceiling is just plain gray concrete. 

Hm. Where were you? 

“Oh you’re awake!” The voice was cheerful, sunny even. Looking over you are filled with regret. Standing in the doorway of what you now understand to be a nurses office was the dog. Every muscle in your body seized up and it felt like your throat was full of cotton.

“I was so worried when you fainted. Are you alright? It didn’t say anything in your application that you were susceptible to dizzy spells~” He kept talking, his hands? Paws? His appendages moved around animatedly. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him as he moved closer. His words turned to white noise as he loomed over you.  

If there was some divine being watching from above why did they hate you? Had you done something in a past life to warrant such ire? 

“Oh dear, you look like you’re going to faint again. Is there something I can help you with?” All you could do was blink owlishly at his concern. Words were unable to come as you stared at him. You were sure you looked akin to a deer in headlights. You watched him cough awkwardly into his fist. The smile never left his face but it wasn’t as genuine as before. 

For what felt like forever you stared at each other. 

“Okay, um I’ll leave you to rest. And when you feel better I look forward to working with you!” Some of that sunny disposition returned to his face. You did nothing but blink and watch him shuffle out of the room. 

He said he looked forward to working with you. The sentiment was not returned but you were sure you wouldn't be seeing him much. You were assigned to be the helper of the unicorn. So you were sure you would be able to avoid him as much as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~

There must be a god and they must hate you. They must find your suffering to be the ultimate entertainment. You had thought you were meant to be CraftyCorn's helper. You could have sworn you were. But no! By some unholy sick twist of fate you are actually the assistant to him. 

The desire to cry on your second day of work was overwhelming. But you held it in. Somehow. You had already fainted on the first day you did not need to get a reputation. So you sucked it up. At least you tried to suck it up. It didn’t help that DogDay was so tactile and friendly and inclusive. 

You were living in your own personal hell. 

“Hey there my happy helper!” If DogDay noticed you flinch, he didn’t say anything. But he did slow down and there was still some distance between you two. 

You stared at him. 

He stared at you. 

A cough escapes him as you fidget. 

“I uh need your help with one of the kids. It’s Isabelle.” You didn’t know all of the kids yet so you weren’t actually sure which one Isabelle was. But you nodded anyway and trailed after him. You may not like this but you did like the kids. You would bear it for them. 

~~~~~~~~~

DogDay had no idea what he did wrong. He watched the other Smiling Critters with their helpers. Everyone was getting along. It was so nice to watch the others but then he glanced over at his own helper. Who sat with their shoulders hunched up around their ears and a perpetual thousand yard stare.

He had thought that maybe you were just shy. Not yet used to them but he has seen you interact with the others. You were quiet but happy. Talking freely and playing with them and letting the children climb all over you. But the moment he walked over you would freeze up. Any pretense of joy wiped from your face and replaced with a blank look. 

He confided in Catnap and KickinChiken that he felt like you didn’t like him. Catnap had simply flicked his tail at him but KC told him that was impossible. He said that DogDay was a rad dude and his helper just needed time. 

But it’s been a month and every attempt to get to know you was met with either silence or your rapidly walking in the other direction. He just didn’t understand and it was driving him crazy. Had his first impression been too much? Did he come on too strong when he came to see you in the nurse's office? 

He wished he knew. He just wants to be your friend.

~~~~~~~~~

You were starting to feel like a jerk. At every turn DogDay was trying to be nice to you and at every turn you would bolt away or shut down. And he definitely noticed. How couldn't he? You weren’t known for subtlety, especially not in this situation. 

Though with the forlorn looks you were getting from DogDay you wished you had been. 

“Hey Happy Helper.” You watched as his hands did a lackluster wiggle. He wasn’t looking at you and they just made you feel even worse. 

“H...H..” You swallowed thickly. “Hey Bodacious Boss.” Did you just say bodacious? To your boss? From the look on his face he was just as shocked as you. Though you don’t think it was because you said bodacious. Probably.

After a moment of silence with you staring at each other, DogDay recovered first. He was looking at you now and he was smiling and his tail was wagging. Seeing him light up made you feel a bit better. Your hands were still clammy and there was a lot of saliva pooling on your tongue but it was nice to see him happy. 

~~~~~~~~~~

“Can I ask you a question?” DogDay picked at the fur on his wrists. It’s only been a week since you spoke to him and boy was he nervous. He didn’t want to ruin whatever this was. 

“Hm?” You were making sandwiches for the kids. It would be lunchtime soon. Shuffling in place he took your noncommittally hum as que that you were listening.

“Do you like me?” He watched as your shoulders stiffen. That blank look slowly creeping back onto your face.  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” 

“I’m afraid of dogs.” You blurted out stopping DogDay in his apologetic tracks.

“What?” It was his turn to blink owlishly. Not really sure what to say right now.

“When I was younger there was an incident…” You waved your hand in the air, like you didn’t want to remember it. “Anyways it messed me up and ever since I have been terrified of dogs.” You continued to make sandwiches.

“I’m a dog.” He says rather dumbly. 

“I know.” You nod as you heave a sigh.

“I’m.. I’m sorry.” He frowns as he pulls at his ears and he can feel his tail sag against his legs.

“Please, don’t be.” You look up at him, a tight but genuine smile on your face. Your hand shakes a bit as you raise it in his direction. 

“I like you. You’re my Bodacious Boss.” DogDay felt his tail twitch as he tentatively took your hand.

“I like you too, my Happy Helper.”

[insect-whorefare]

as i see posts going around on here complaining about bright LED headlights i think americans who aren't car dorks like me ought to know that a bunch of companies have designed adaptive high-beams that dim JUST what would shine into an oncoming driver's eyes when it detects traffic in the oncoming lane, but these types of lights are illegal in the united states because of the current regulations on headlamps :)