#drop in anchor punch

[yeyinde]

Fuck please tell me captain price gets to go first! After all, he's the leader, and he has more experience? Gotta teach her right her first time, yea? The others get to watch, maybe get to touch...if the captain lets them..

Fuck I'm foaming at the mouth.

as captain, i think he def gets to go first. if only just to get that outta the way so the others can show you what you've been missing out on.

he doesn't put a lot of weight on first times, but he's a generous Captain and is willing to let Soap and Gaz both have at you, prepare you for him. them. he holds both by the scruff of their necks, too. in full control. always.

and with your legs thrown around Gaz's shoulders, he makes you hold his cigar (don't drop it now, love, or there'll be hell to pay) in your trembling hand for him, keeping it close to his mouth to take a puff whenever the urge strikes.

his are busy, after all—

—busy pushing Gaz's face into your cunt first, letting him feast as Soap palms his bloody hand over your body, punching your nipples. whining for a taste. cock dripping all over the place. like a sloppy, drooling dog.

takes his turn when you're buzzing after being denied so long. poor pussy forced to endure both Gaz and Soap eating you out, sucking on your clit, slipping their fingers inside. but never allowed to cum. they're always ripped back the moment he thinks you might be there, on the edge. you're only allowed to cum on his cock, sweetheart. (and maybe, maybe, if you've been good, he'll let you sit on his face after.)

when he does fuck you for the first time, he makes you feel every inch going inside of you. has Gaz hold your fingers against your rim, feeling for yourself how wide he stretches you, how deep he goes. makes you whine and beg for all sorts of lewd things—his cock deeper in your pussy, Soap's tongue on your clit, Gaz's cock in your mouth, Ghost's hands around your throat.

you're worn out before he even finishes. a shame, too, because Soap barely waits until Price has pulled out before he's shoving his fingers inside of you, cooing in your ear about how messy you are. how badly you must want his cock next. hungry little thing, aren't ye?

Price will probably go last, too. but it's not even really about sex this time when he sits you on his lap, humming at the whimpers you make, overstimulated and sore, as his cock slips inside again. warmed. soaked. you're all messy with each of them, and he rubs it into your skin, makes you suck it off his fingers. with your back flushed to his broad chest, damp curls sticking to your skin, matted from sweat, he holds you like this. big arms anchored around your front, over your belly, holding you there. and just lets you feel the rumble in his chest when he purrs in your ear about how good you've been for them, taking them all, satiating them. how pretty you look all fucked out and sloppy like this.

(and really, love. you belong like this, don't you? the perfect place for you has always been sat, balls deep, on their cocks, taking them. it's about time you learned that, mm?)

[captainjamster]

Hey if you're comfortable with it, do you think you write about how 141 would react to finding out you're ticklish? Preferably nsfw. Maybe they just tease you with it or maybe they have a session with you after a while and enjoy how it drives you crazy. It could be poly141 or just a drabble with each members reaction.

I love your writing sm

I'm sorry this took a while anon, thank you so much for your request!! This is the first time I've written about tickling, so I hope it came out alright. I loved researching this lmfao it's so cute

Pairing(s): 141 x reader (separately, not poly or sharing this time sorry! :p) Warnings: Bondage and restraint, tickling, tickling during sex Wordcount: 1.2k Summary: How each of the boys enjoy tickling you :p AO3 Link: Right here! <3

Full drabbles under cut <3

Price loves your laugh; just the sound can get him hard. Maybe you should’ve seen it coming from the first date. It was the first thing he complimented you on in the small bakery – heart eyes over the brim of his coffee cup that had your cheeks red, already breathless at the story between a cheeky sounding sergeant and someone’s poor dog. He stores every terrible joke exchanged amongst his boys, bringing them home just to fill your ears with them, to get anything from that exasperated little giggle to a shocked cackle at some of Ghost’s darker ones – the first time he hears you belly laugh, he writes the beginning of his wedding vowels.

For him, there’s a privilege in being allowed to bring you to such a vulnerable state, dazed and breathless, whether it’s scrabbling against the material of his shirt as you’re bent over in hysterics, hiding behind your hands, gasping for air at the comedy he’s been nagging you to watch, or between his thighs against the mattress, straining with hiccupped shrieks and pleads at his weight as he tortures your overstimulated skin. The only thing he uses is his fingers, and he’s stubborn about it, possessive of the tactile connection between his fingertips against your skin. The furthest he goes is a plug in your pussy, with a command to try and keep it there at the threat of a good spanking (though you both know you’re going to fail).

He challenges himself to make you come with just tickling – he neglects your needy pussy, wet and fluttering with arousal, until the delicate dragging of his nails down the plush insides of your thigh has you spasming around nothing.

-

Gaz, poor Gaz. Gaz, with blood under his nails he just can’t scrub, who sees someone’s face with every punch he throws at the bag. He’s heard the way his peers talk all throughout his service – spank their ass, slap their face, tight grip to the throat, till they ache.

There was only one part that ever stuck with him – till they ache.

The only time he raises a hand against you is to watch you squeal in anticipation before it flies down to your stomach, skittering up and down the soft skin as you twist and writhe against the sheets. It’s everything he needs – he can make you cry, beg, scream, with the whisp of a few touches, the softest of caresses. Tracing the marks that scatter your skin, only love bites and the imprints of restraint. On some nights, Gaz loves tying you up and tickling you, watching you squirm and contort against his ropes in an attempt to escape. The knots dip into your flesh, keeping your arms straight and pointed to the metal hook that meets the rope stemming from your wrists, legs spread wide with the thick bar anchoring your feet flat to the ground. His fingers dance over every inch of skin bare to him, honing to the areas you try to pull away from, watching you sway this and that way in peals of laughter as he switches between sides on your ribs.

Unlike Price, he doesn’t care for games – he’ll give you what you want. A toy, his fingers, his cock. Slow and steady, letting the rope drop a little to bend you at the waist, rocking back and forward into him, clenching down those slick and warm walls in sync with each ragged laugh. He doesn’t mind wielding a tickle wand, dragging the feathers up and down your thighs, your armpits, behind your knees. It’s not over until your eyes are puffy, cheeks tear stained as you sag under your own weight, kept suspended by the rope as your knees shake.

-

Soap becomes aware of your ticklish nature very quickly, being such a tactile partner. He’s always touching you – whether it’s an arm around your waist, foot rubbing against your calf, pinkies linked together – and it isn’t long before he unintentionally makes you squeal, accidentally brushing up against one of your most sensitive areas. The noise makes him jump, worried he’s hurt you, but when he sees the red of your cheeks and the shy smile on your face? Oh, it’s over for you.

“Y’ticklish, bonnie?”

He’s all a-grin every time, hands raising menacingly with wiggling fingers.

For a while it stays non-sexual, but poor Johnny can’t help himself. The tickle fights start to linger way past what’s appropriate, making home in his mind – how you get so panicked and squirmy, trying to get away from his fingers, your breathless laugh and gasps as his name whines so desperately from your lips. Your squeals rings through his ears during overdue paperwork in his late nights, so clear that he swears your lips brush across the tips of his ears, and Price avoids looking at him too closely as he turns in the files before leaving.

Sly, smart Johnny starts off slow. When the mood is playful during sex, he purposely rubs his hair and beard up against your neck, your back, feeling you pulse erratically around him with each giggle. He introduces it in increments, a foot in the door as you warm to the idea. Things really get going when he confesses, head buried in the crook of your neck as he groans how the way you flutter around his cock with each giggle brings him so close, and you can't help but laugh at that too. Poor Johnny comes harder than he ever has, and you can't help but want to indulge the glassy, lovestruck expression on his handsome face.

Unlike Gaz, he’d never restrain you - Johnny loves fighting you to stay still, caging you in or dragging you back by the ankle into his reach.

-

For Ghost, he loves the chase and anticipation beforehand, and his favourite way of being a pest – catch him brushing against just the right spot to make you jump and squeal as his arms slip around you, or his chin nuzzles into your neck.

But it starts with a morning of productivity, taken with your own domestic chores in a quiet co-existence. He’s finished a spot-tidy, bringing some discarded rubbish and checking on you in the kitchen. You’re unsuspecting, caught up in your respective daily activities, fixated on the job in front of you – and something hits him. The way you bob along happily to the music in your head, scrubbing at the dishes with a sway in your hips, caught up in your own world. Your happiness is magnetic, beckoning him and basking him in the same warm rush of dopamine. A light bubbles up through his body, something that forces its way from the depths of his chest more often when you’re around, and his feet are moving towards the kitchen before he thinks twice.

“Hey love?”

You hum questioningly, putting elbow grease into a particularly stuck blemish from the morning’s dishes.

“Got somethin’ for you.”

You finally turn around, soapy hands in the air as droplets cascade from them. Simon gives you a second to stare quizzically, watching your expression morph into a pleading grin as his hands creep up from his sides, fingers curling over into a leering grab.

“No! I’m washing dishes, please!”

His grin widens, fingers wiggling threateningly. “Then dry your hands.”

Your hands fall to your shirt, squeezing the material as you ready yourself to bolt. He squares up, arms outstretched, but he doesn’t close them as you swoop by close enough, out the kitchen in a mad dash. Though the chase is superficial, it doesn’t stop the thrill that jolts him with each impending step, following you through to the loungeroom. The sofa keeps him at bay, circling each other in a practiced synchronisation around the furniture as you feint left and right, keeping him guessing which way you’ll take off.

You bluff right to distract him from your plan to run the other way, but Simon lunges left anyway. He’s faster than you can think, reading the tensing of your muscles, and unable to rectify your charade as you scramble, his arms clamp around you in a swooping grab.

And as you gasp and giggle underneath him, something stirs to life.

dividers by cafekitsune

[rillils]

There were times, back then, when Steve was sure he wasn’t going to pull through.

When the fever had consumed him for days, and the breath burned thick in the back of his throat, and Steve felt himself slip too close to the dark place that lived behind his eyelids, across the threshold of his consciousness.

Death, he thought: hovering like a loving mother at his side.

He could feel it, like a cold whisper gusting against his skin, chilling him with words of warning. Soon, it said; and Steve was too weak to do anything but lie there and listen.

He tried to tell Bucky once, drifting out of a delirious sleep.

“If… if death came tomorrow...”

“You’d punch him in the face,” Bucky shushed him softly, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. The healthy warmth of his hand felt nearly cool against the fevered heat of Steve’s skin, and Steve leaned blindly into the soothing touch, sighing his relief as Bucky’s knuckles stroked his cheek.

Bucky. The world seemed to be fading at the edges, like a sheet of paper burning from the outside in, curling ash-black and falling away piece by piece; but Bucky was still there.

Bucky was made of gentleness and sound, sweet like the sweet nothings he poured in Steve’s ear when Steve slept fitfully, swept into his feverish haze and lost to the world for hours on end.

Bucky was touch: an anchor. Bucky was color, familiar and dependable, like the blue of the sky, the yellow heart of daisies, the stain-black of charcoal.

Steve glimpsed the downturned corners of his mouth, his lovely lovely mouth, red like ripe apples. Steve had dreamed of kissing it once. Twice. Every other night.

Bucky’s cheeks were so pale. His eyes looked so tired, circled by the bruise-like purple of his skin.

He hadn’t been sleeping, Steve knew. Steve had been sleeping, though – he’d stolen Bucky’s share of it while his body burned up from the inside.

“Buck,” Steve rasped, his voice thin and crusty, like plaster peeling off the wall. “If... if I go...”

Bucky shook his head, one curl coming loose from the once careful sweep of his hair. His pretty lips quirked up, a slip of a smile found so easily like he’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.

“Nah. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, collecting Steve’s hand to cradle it in both of his.

Steve’s head lolled sleepily on his pillow, lured by the sound of Bucky’s trembling voice.

“Buck.”

“Shh. You’re staying right here, where I– where I can keep an eye on ya.”

Silence spilled in the room, just for a moment – the space of a sniffle, of a soft, shivery exhale.

“Gotta make sure you don’t get into trouble, don’t I?”

One of Bucky’s hands left him briefly, and when it enveloped him again, there was a wetness there; one little drop trickling from the bridge of his finger, to land cool on Steve’s skin.

“Just. Just like I promised.”

And Steve knew then.

If Death did come; if it seized his wrist with its bone-thin fingers and bade him to follow, Now, child, it is time, Steve would say: No. He’s not ready.

He would think of the apple-red mouth he had never kissed yet, save for in his dreams; of the love he hadn’t quite begun to shape into words. He’d think of the life he’d only just caught a glimpse of, stretched far on the road ahead of him, twined with Bucky’s own as they reached into the future, together. Simply. Always.

No, Steve would tell Death. He’s not ready.

And neither am I.

[thedeviltohisangel]

For A Fortnight There We Were (One Shot): It Fit Too Right

a/n: welcome to my all the things i did metaverse. please meet evelyn, a hollywood a-lister who falls in love with her co-star callum turner while filming masters of the air. this will most likely be a request based series so send them all in! would also love to flush out this relationship more with you guys through asks and chats. let me know what you think!!

He stood in the doorway of their hotel suite with a smile as he watched one person tug the corset of her gown tighter, another brush powder across her cheeks and a third place her hair over her shoulder in a meticulous manner. 

“I promise we’re almost done, baby.” 

“Don’t rush perfection on my account,” he said with a smile as he took a few steps into the room. “Let me help, love.” Callum grabbed the pair of heels from her stylist and dropped to one knee, Evelyn steadying herself on his shoulder as he slipped on one shoe and then the other. He kissed up her leg for good measure as she giggled, standing with a matching smile as she pulled him in for a kiss.

“People might get the wrong idea. You being on one knee like that.” In reality, he was just waiting for her to say she was ready and he’d be on one knee with a ring in hand in an instant. 

“The right idea you mean.” Evelyn blushed as her team began to filter out of the room. There was always a moment before every event that the two of them wanted time to themselves. They had gotten used to picking up the tempo for when it was arriving. “One day,” he followed up with a whisper. 

“One day. Soon.” He felt something blossom in his chest at her words. “Help me with my necklace?” The gold chain held a dainty C charm and fit perfectly snug around her neck as he clasped it securely.

“Gave you this necklace almost two years ago. So much has changed since then.” Yet so much had also stayed the same. They were still in each other’s orbit, circling the sun together and happy to live in this pattern for the rest of eternity. 

“And we finally get to show the world our love story.” Callum wrapped his arms around her from behind and they swayed gently to the song playing in his head. “Tracy told me there’s already stories lined up about the timeline of it all. About the overlap of still being legally married and filming the show and meeting you.” Her publicist warned her as soon as the premiere was scheduled that all the questions were going to get dragged up again. The accusations and the whispers of infidelity.

“I know the truth and you know the truth, Ev. That’s all that fucking matters.” The truth was that her marriage was a disaster the entire last year. The fights about his job and her job and fertility issues and the occasional bump of coke all mixing into a toxic sludge she was still working her way through years later.

“You’ll punch anyone who asks on the carpet or on the press tour?” She looked at him over her shoulder. 

“With a smile on my face,” Callum answered with a pucker of his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Begrudgingly, she untangled herself from his arms and interlocked their fingers together in its place. He squeezed tight as they took the elevator down to the lobby with their security, her other hand wrapping around his wrist for two anchor points at the sight of the paparazzi waiting for them on the sidewalk. 

“Evelyn! Callum! Look to the left!

“To the right, guys, come on a little smile please!”

“Callum, how about a kiss?”

His hand landed on the small of her back as he helped her into the waiting SUV before sliding in next to her. Evelyn collapsed as the door shut. “Fucking brutal,” she muttered.

“I’m hoping they get what they want at the carpet and they can leave us alone when we get back tonight.” He reached for her hand and held it in his lap. “What are my lanes in the road for touching you tonight?” 

“Are you feeling particularly handsy tonight, Mr. Turner?” she asked with a smirk as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed across each knuckle. 

“That dress is an inspiration.” She leaned in with a giggle and kissed him square on the mouth. 

“Then make sure everyone there tonight knows that.” His eyebrows raised on their own accord. 

“Yeah? You mean that?” Normally, she was much more reserved. Making him settle for longing stares and soft, hidden smiles and subtle allusions to each other. She hid from all the attention and let her work speak for itself. 

“Maybe…maybe the part of me that always wants to hide should work on healing herself tonight.” It also had been a piece of homework from her therapist this week. 

“Okay. Okay, yeah, we’ll work on it tonight. Together.” 

“Together,” she reiterated as he kissed her hand again and then her lips. 

“You make me so happy. No matter what.” 

“You make me happiest,” she laughed as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and left a few kisses there. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

----

The ride was over all too quickly, the SUV idling at the start of the carpet and the sounds of muffled screaming and yelling reaching their ears instantly. Ever since their relationship had been made public, there had been attention on them like neither had ever experienced. 

She had been called a cheater, he had been called a social climber. Accusations of adultery and a months-long affair behind her husband’s back and questions on how valid Callum’s feelings could be as a less well-known star than her. Hell, Howard Stern had straight up asked her on his radio show how it felt to have power over the person she was in a relationship with when she had been so powerless previously. Callum certainly hadn’t taken kindly to the implication. 

Quarantine had been the perfect bubble for their love to take root and flourish. Had insulated them from the outside world as long as possible and allowed her walls to come down. They were built up so high after her failed marriage. Reinforced as her mind worked through the mental fuckery of falling in love with your co-star. Evelyn hadn’t known where she began and the character ended for the longest time but she knew in her heart she wanted to figure it out with him. 

The roar reached a fever pitch as Callum stepped out of the car, buttoned his jacket and waved to a group of fans on the side. He waited for her, watched her take a deep breath and square her shoulders before she took his outstretched hand and stepped out of the vehicle. 

Her movie star smiled flitted across her face easily as their fingers interlocked and her own hand raised in a wave before letting her boyfriend slot his lips against hers to the delight of the camera flashes. 

“Let’s do a couple autographs before interviews.” Her publicist gently pressed on the small of her back to guide in the direction of glossy photographs and posters and an endless sea of markers.

Evelyn smiled warmly as she let go of his hand and began to scrawl her name across various posters of her in Targaryen garb or an old military uniform or the occasional photo she had taken with a fan previously that they were now adding her penmanship to.

“Can I get a selfie?”

“Yeah of course!” She smiled with as many fans as she could and let them take a few photos to choose from before she was getting the signal it was time to keep it moving. “Thanks for coming!” Evelyn blew a few kisses to the crowd before Callum had her hand right back in his for the ensuing carpet walk. 

“Ev, you want to go first?” Tracy asked as she was beginning to urge her to the first photomark. She hit the X and did her best to look at the cameras like she wanted to fuck them. Those were normally the only shots that kept their hunger sated and kept from yelling too explicitly at her the rest of the night. 

She looked over her shoulder and watched Callum smile and show off his suit like it was second nature and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t excited to look at the photos later to see just how in love she was in this moment. He took her extended hand with a mischievous smile, falling in love all over again with this side of her that he knew well but she kept hidden from the outside world. 

“Let me get the two of you looking to the right!”

“Put your hands on her, mate!” “Look right at the camera with a smile, Evelyn!”

Callum furrowed his brow and wrapped his arm around her waist a little tighter as they kept fighting for a piece of them. They had both worked so hard to keep this one corner of their lives sacred and private but they couldn’t stay that way forever. Especially when they were trying to promote the show that brought them together in the first place. 

“You good?” he asked, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Hold my hand the rest of the carpet?”

“Of course, love.” Their eyes stayed locked together as he kissed the back of her hand and they made their way towards the first interviewer. 

“It’s so good to see you guys again!”

“It’s good to see you too! It’s been a minute,” Evelyn replied.

“Last time I saw you, Callum, you were with George Clooney which is a hard interview companion to top-”

“Oh, I’ve done it. This one’s my companion for life.” She couldn’t help but blush at his forwardness. “This show brought so many beautiful people to my life and introduced me to this incredible story of these men and the sacrifices they made for us but I’ll never be able to articulate what meeting this woman and falling in love with her has done for me and the honor that has truly been.” 

“This is why my team is always trying to keep us separate in front of a microphone because we always get a little in our feels about each other.” Evelyn rested her cheek against his chest.

“Tell me about that. You guys film this show and feel some vibes and then the premiere gets delayed for two years. Does this add to the nervousness or does it add to the excitement?”

“Definitely both,” Evelyn teases, “the characters are real people, real heroes, so there is such a desire to make sure the story is told in the most accurate, thankful way. Part of making sure that happened was fully devoting ourselves to the relationship between these two and to discover something real in the process was a really happy accident.” Her hand rested on his cheek and he kissed her palm, looking at her like she was the only girl in the entire world. For him she was.

“We had the opportunity to meet their children and grandchildren which was such a blessing because on paper I was skeptical, it seemed written for the movies, but they had letters and pictures and stories that really showed these two loved each other in a magical way their entire lives.”

“And what’s next for you two? I hear rumors we may see you, Ms. Shaw, in a movie about sand and worms…” Evelyn laughed. 

“I hear Austin Butler loves worms so you should ask him. I know nothing about a movie with those themes.” She mimed sealing her lips and throwing away the key. The interviewer looked to Callum for help.

“Hey, I know even less than you do. This one’s a steel trap.” 

“Alright, I’m getting the signal that the most in demand people on this carpet tonight are needing to move along. Have the best night ever you two!” They both offered their thanks before a team of security and assistants collapsed ranks around them as they moved down the carpet. 

“How’d we do, Trace?” Callum asked as he swung their interlocked hands back and forth. 

“You were on your best behavior. Thank you.” Evelyn was a typical client for a publicist. Did good work and got high profile projects, never caused controversy in an interview but had some skeletons in her closet. Evelyn always did exactly as she asked and took her advice as gospel. Her boyfriend on the other hand was all boisterous and laughed and sang and had not a care in the world. He wanted to hold her and kiss and let the whole world know he was in love with her and scream it from the rooftops. 

“I see Mr. Butler!” Evelyn pointed directly ahead to the tall blonde man taking photos with Barry. “Oh, and Barry! I haven’t seen him recently enough to ask about bathwater.”

“Look who it is! My first and second wheel!” Austin lifted her up and spun her around before greeting Callum. “You two walking together?” While he was very familiar with their PDA behind closed doors, it was rare to see it out in the open. 

“This is as close to her accepting a proposal as I’m gonna get, mate.” Ev rolled her eyes and turned to get in between them for the row of photographers currently screaming at them. She is safe in between the two of them. Had needed every ounce of it when she had arrived on set all those years ago. 

She knew Callum had a ring tucked away somewhere safe. Knew he was dying with every passing day to make things between them official forever. She meant soon when she had said it earlier. 

Evelyn looked up at him as the camera continued to blind her and she tuned them out. She smiled and he smiled right back. “I love you,” he whispered so it existed just between the two of them. 

“I love you, too. So much.” 

Yes. Soon indeed.

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

This may be my grief (but it's you who's made a mess of it)

love is not designed for the cynical - series masterlist here

pairing: jason todd x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.7k

genre: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

warnings: reader has a panic attack, there's a lot of blood but it's the clean-up part, Jason is riddled with self-hatred and guilt but he's making progress

a/n: ok enjoy kiss kiss <3

Your heart lurches as you stare at the television, your hands clutching the couch cushions on either side of you as you listen to the presenter on the news station that you'd idly turned on for background noise. He's talking about a current fight, some scuffle between some vigilantes and Two-Face downtown. He mentions Redhood - mentions that he was seen going down during the fight and wasn't seen getting back up again.

Suddenly, the walls of your apartment feel small - too small, closing in on you as the air leaves your lungs in a punched-out gasp. He's not getting up. He's not getting up and he's gone again. You stand abruptly, knocking the TV remote off your lap and letting it clatter to the floor as you begin to pace back and forth in front of your couch, trying desperately to keep listening to the news anchor and what he's saying about the current situation.

Maybe he's wrong, you think desperately. Maybe he's alright and no one really knows what they're seeing. Maybe he's… dead. Maybe he's dead again. Maybe you'll never ever see him again. Maybe you'll have to bury him again.

You drop into a sitting position on the floor ungracefully, leaning against the couch as you reach blindly for the remote, suddenly needing desperately for the news anchor to stop updating you on the situation. You fumble with it once you have it, your hands cold and numb as you turn the television off.

The silence, you realize immediately, is worse

The thought of having to mourn him a second time, you realize, might be more than you can handle.

The city moves outside, cars honking and pedestrians shouting - the normal turmoil of Gotham. You fit right in, you suppose, amongst the panic and the pain and the death that permeates this city. You almost, almost wish you'd left all those years ago when Jason became Robin - when you told him it was a choice that would kill him and you threatened to walk out.

And now, in the dull silence of your apartment, your gaze level with your coffee table that has two empty mugs, you wish that you really had left all those years ago… and you wish that you had never come back.

The thought punches out whatever air is left in your lungs as guilt, cold and heavy and choking, settles in your gut. You bring your hands to your face, digging the heels of your palms into your closed eyes as you try to get a hold of your rattling breathing. You had, at times, considered what your life would be like if you'd never met Jason, or if you moved on and gotten over him after his death - his first death. The thought makes nausea roll through your stomach. Of course, you'd thought about it. But you'd always come to the same conclusion - you were lucky to have met him and to have known him as you did. Even if it meant carrying his ghost with you for the rest of your life, you were blessed to have been loved by him.

Now, though, it doesn't feel like a blessing. Now, it feels like a rotten, undead curse, something dragged up from some unholy pit to pull him away from you again, and again, and again. There is nothing lucky in this life and there is nothing lucky in this love.

A clattering on your balcony rips you from your spiralling thought as your head snaps around to see Redhood heave himself up over the railing, stumbling with fatigue and obvious injury. You lurch to your feet, desperate to get to him, desperate to know he's alive, desperate to stop him from seeing you on the floor of your home, grief-stricken and terrified because of him. 

No, you think. He doesn't need to know about that. And fortunately, he's dazed enough from whatever god-awful fight he was in that he doesn't seem to really notice anything beyond the way you rip the door open and pull him inside, your hands flitting over his armour to gauge his injuries. Not at first, anyway. He lets you sit him on the couch, lets you shush his worries about staining the fabric with his blood. He doesn't consider the fact that your soul is already stained from him. Not yet, at least. 

It's not until his armour is off, sitting in the bathtub and dripping crimson blood onto the white porcelain. It's not until you've checked him over, the large gash along his side cleaned and the blood flow staunched. It's when you begin stitching him up, your hands trembling ever so slightly in a way that sends concern shooting up his spine. It's not concern for himself - he's had you do this countless times, and he's done it to himself with much less finesse even more times. But something wrong - something must be wrong for you to be unsteady, for your shoulders to be tense and your eyes to avoid his. The pain from his side is nearly blinding, but there's nothing that sobers him and centres him as resolutely as you on your knees in front of him and afraid. 

"Baby?" his voice is quiet, the breath leaving his lips in a tired sort of sigh that he can't help.

"Don't distract me," is your only response.

"Talk to me," he pushes in that gentle, guiding way of his.

But you say nothing. The silence drips between the two of you as you tie the last stitch, cutting the thread and rubbing your hands with a towel. Jason makes a mental note to buy you new ones as he watches the white fabric blooming red as you try to scrub the blood off your hands. 

But your skin doesn't come clean. There are places where the blood - his blood has dried around your fingers and you rub the towel on your palms until he reaches out, worried. Then, and only then, does it hit Jason, and he's not sure if it's blood loss or fear and guilt that makes him feel lightheaded.

It's his blood on your hands. And they're not coming clean.

He takes the towel from you gently, tossing it onto the other end of the couch before he grips your hands in his own. He's not sure who's trembling more between the two of you. He's not sure who's more blood-soaked. 

"I saw it on the news," you say quietly as you rub your thumb over the knuckles of Jason's hand. "They said - they said you were dead." Your breath hitches. Jason huffs, tightening his hold on your hands.

"Those reporters don't know what the fuck they're talking about most of the time - you know that, baby. They always get it wrong." He soothes, his voice low as he looks down at you. He's still sitting on the couch while you kneel before him, like an altar of violence that you pray to.

"I know, Jason. I just -" You take a deep, shuttering breath.

"What, baby?"

"I thought I'd lost you… again. I just - I couldn't take it. I couldn't bear it." You laugh, then - a humourless, hysterical sort of thing. "All this time you've spent trying to protect me and you're the thing that ended up hurting me the most and… no, I - Jason, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I was just scared."

But Jason's already lurched away from you, letting go of your hands as if you've burned him and pulling back in a way that stretches his stitches and makes him wince. You, on the floor in front of him, made the infamous Redhood flinch, made him recoil in fear and self-hatred and pain.

"I didn't mean that, Jason," you say again, a firmness in your voice as you surge up onto your knees. Your hands aren't trembling now, he notices distantly, as you lean forward to take his face in your palms and press your forehead against his.

"I hurt you," he says numbly.

"No," you respond instantly. "Life hurt me… life hurt us both. That's not your fault. It's never been your fault."

Jason sighs wearily, letting his head fall forward so that his forehead is resting on your shoulder as his eyes slip closed. There's a dull, throbbing pain in his head and his side aches and he's choking on too much hatred to stop you when you press kisses to his palms and his knuckles and the side of his head that you can reach. 

There is too much weariness in him to stop you from loving him.

"Let's… go to bed," you say quietly, feeling the way he slumps against you as the fatigue begins to take its toll on him. "Come on," you coax. He lets you stand, takes your outstretched hand willingly as you guide him to bed. He lets himself sit on the edge of the mattress heavily, slouched over himself as you sit in front of him, a damp towel in your hands. 

Jason thinks of the irony of it all as he watches you take his hands in yours, wiping the blood from them that you left on him. Granted, it's still his blood, but you're the one who made a mess of it. He thinks of that as you finish cleaning him up, listens to the sounds of you scrubbing your own hands in the bathroom sink as he falls sideways into bed, haphazardly tugging the covers up around him.

When you finally slip into bed next to him, reaching out so that you can cling to him like a lifeline, he wonders if maybe the blood on his hands isn't such a big deal, after all. Maybe it's the blood loss talking, maybe it's the post-fight dizziness muddling his judgement. Or maybe there is something to be said for the two of you cleaning the blood off each other's hands… again and again and again.

[longwuzhere]

Here are some cool Easter eggs that I found the newest My Adventures with Superman episode, “Let’s Go to Ivo Tower, You Say”. Links to the easter eggs post:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 1 post is here

SPOILERS if you have not seen the episode of course:

Perry assigns our intern trio to go get interviews about Anthony Ivo. I previously mentioned Ivo's deal in the comics in this post, but we'll talk more about this version of Ivo later.

Shout out to Lois' hanbok! As a kid in the 90s my first exposure to the DC was through the DC Animated Universe. Because of the way some of the characters like Lois, Clark, Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Terry, were designed, as a kid, I thought they were Asian. Very cool to see this version of Lois be Korean.

Before Lois shows up for their black tie event at Ivo Tower, Jimmy knocks down a stack of papers and magazine and Clark goes to pick it up and stumbles upon the Metropolis Star with a cover that shows him as a kid flying 15 years ago.

The Metropolis star is a rival newspaper to the Daily Planet in the comics. The publisher makes its first appearance in Superman #9 (1987) (W&P: John Byrne, I: Karl Kesel, C: Tony Ziuko, L: John Costanza).

When our intern trio makes it to Ivo Tower, Lois spots some very interesting powerful and political figures of Metropolis, the CEO of Galaxy Communications and Mayor Fleming.

Galaxy Communications makes its first appearance in Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen #133 (1970) where it was headed by Morgan Edge, the then leader of Intergang. In the comics Clark and Lois does work for Galaxy communications thanks to it buying out the Daily Planet forcing Clark to be the evening news anchor. The Galaxy Communications panels here are from Swamp Thing #68 (1988) (W&P: Rick Veitch, I: Alfredo Alcala, C: Tajana Wood, L: John Costanza).

Mayor Fleming makes her first appearance in Action Comics #894 (2010) (W: Nick Spencer, P: R.B. Silva, I: Denis Freitas, C: Dave McCaig, L: Rob Leigh) where she appoints Jimmy Olsen and Sebastien Mallory as a welcoming committee for Dalwythians aliens. Like her MAwS counterpart she is obviously the Mayor of Metropolis.

Later, Lois goes and questions Senator Sackett at the party/event.

In the comics Sackett was a councilman not a senator who makes his first appearance in Superman #130 (1997) (W: Dan Jurgens, P: Norm Breyfogle, I: Joe Rubenstein, C: Glenn Whitmore and Digital Chameleon, L: John Costanza) depicted here in the issue's panel wearing a Superman costume. Sackett in the comics is in Luthor's pocket.

I am like 99.99% sure this is Lex Luthor like who else in Metropolis is named Alex, has red hair (if this is Lex Luthor and he shows up again, I'll talk about him and what I mean by this in another post.), and works in the science and tech field.

We finally meet Ivo and he is as I was hoping he'd be a major techbro tool. The way he acts in his introduction and his meeting with Clark is very much like Lex and Clark's meeting in Batman v Superman. Both Ivo and Lex upon meeting Clark know how strong he is. In MAwS Ivo punches his chest and it hurts him and in BvS you heard an audible thud when Lex knocks on Clark's chest. Very similar vibes between both scenes.

Clark confronts Ivo about one of his deals and name drops one of Metropolis' mob families.

Bobby Gazzo, head of the Gazzo crime family in Metropolis, makes his first appearance in Batman: Dark Victory #1 (W: Jeph Loeb, P&I: Tim Sale, C: Gregory Wright and Heroic Age, L: Richard Starkings). Fantastic sequel to Long Halloween, highly recommend reading both books.

After Clark gets thrown out and Lois offers to repair his jacket, we see Lois mentioning her dad, Sam Lane a military general and if the person at the end of the second part of the first episode is Sam Lane...

...and he shows up again in the show I'll talk more about it in another post. For now this is all just speculation.

Might be reading into this but maybe a subtle nod to how the words "Superman" and "pal" are often used together. Both have been used as a comic book title, "Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen" as I've mentioned in these posts a few times.

The show here did a very clever thing with Ivo. Normally any other media pertaining to Ivo would give the audience his power and weakness stealing robot Amazo, but here the MAwS team was able to combine both Ivo and another villain in Superman's rogues gallery, Parasite.

The first Parasite, Raymond Jensen, makes his first appearance in Action Comics #340 (1966) (Cover Art by Curt Swan, George Klein, and Ira Schnapp). All iterations of Parasite have the ability to temporarily steal away anyone's energy, strength, and their knowledge. As I've said there have been other Parasites that Superman fought, the second and most recurring Parasite is Rudy Jones, the Parasite I'm more familiar with, who makes his first appearance in Firestorm #58 (1987).

Cover Art by Joe Brozowski, Bruce Peterson, and Tom Ziuko Alex and Alexandra Allston the third and fourth Parasite (green Parasite and purple Parasite respectively) first appeared in the Adventures of Superman #633 (2004).

Cover art by Gene Ha and Art Lyon

The latest Parasite, Joshua Allen, makes his first appearance in Superman #23.4 (2013).

Cover art by Aaron Kuder and Dan Brown So yeah there are similarities between the Amazo robot and Parasite and it was smart of the MAwS team to just combine Ivo with Parasite to avoid redundancies. Besides the Amazo robot is more of a Justice League villain anyways.

Near the end of the episode, after the Parasite suit wrecks Ivo's body, he begins to look more like his recent iterations in the comics now. The panel here is from Justice League of America #4 (2013) (W: Geoff Johns, P: Brett Booth, I: Norm Rapmund, C: Andrew Dalhouse, L: Rob Leigh). Hope you all had a wonderful time checking this post out. Like I said at the beginning my other MAwS easter egg posts are:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

My Easter eggs and references in My Adventures with Superman comic issue 1 post is here

[yuanology]

Hey, i love your writing! Could you please write for

M!reader, a seemingly innocent guy, though appearances can be deceiving. Then there's Geto, who initially dropped subtle hints about having feelings for Reader. But frustration mounts as Geto's attempts go unnoticed, with Reader simply viewing their interactions as friendly. Eventually, Geto's patience wears thin, especially since Gojo and reader have been getting along well. As jealousy and frustration brew within Geto, he unknowingly directs it at reader through snarky and bratty comments. Reader, though patient, can only take so much. They finally snap, (Geto is surprised because reader is always so soft spoken and sweet) giving Geto a piece of their mind and putting him in his place.

Can i please be 👁️ anon?

welcome 👁️ anon! i forgot to actually write smut in this! so have a really long build-up and hopefully a part two in the future, holy shit. i am so sorry. (suguru's characterisation is also a bit weird here . i can't put a finger on it but my brain is not clicking rn. i am so sorry, 👁️ anon. i'll do better next time. please forgive me for this failure just this once.)

geto suguru was not an impatient man but you were an entirely different matter. you always had been.

there was something about you that drove your existence apart from all of the others— a steadiness in your presence, a constance in your friendship with him. you kept him grounded, an anchor and a light in the darkness that came with being a jujutsu sorcerer. had it not been for you, suguru thought he might have gone rogue so many times ago in the past.

"suguru."

ah, speak of the angel (yes, he knew that wasn't how the saying went, but you weren't the devil. how could you be, with your smile and your careful hands? you were an angel, sent from above to keep him from drowning), you slid into the seat next to him. as usual, you smiled at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you did, before you dug into your meal.

suguru let his gaze linger on you for a few short seconds before he turned his face to eat his meal, too.

lunch was a contented affair, filled with small talk and the occasional sound of your laughter. there was something domestic, suguru would like to think, about the way you stole his chicken and he snatched your meatballs in compensation. suguru could hardly think of a time he had ever been this comfortable with anyone but you. you had him lowering his guards without ever having to ask him at all, an inane talent he doubted you even noticed. but it was there, and you were a miracle worker that never failed to hold him through his worst and his best.

so, really, it shouldn't come as a surprise that suguru would have to share you with others, too.

specifically, one fucking annoying gojo satoru.

don't misunderstand him, he loved satoru. satoru was his best friend, his one and only, his steady companion. they had been through hell and back together, shoving each other to further heights and hauling one another out of the deepest pits. he cared for satoru, loved him in every way a man could love his best friend. suguru loved his friend.

but jesus christ, could satoru get on his nerves sometimes.

because the thing is. the thing is that satoru knew—he knew the way suguru looked at you, he knew the way suguru spoke about you, he knew the way suguru's heart beat and ached for you. satoru knew all about the depths of his affections for you, every single beautiful and ugly thing, because that was what you do with your best friend, right? you trust them.

backstabber, suguru thought bitterly, shoving a now-acrid tasting meatball into his mouth.

because there satoru was, his arms thrown around you in ways that suguru could never touch you, his jokes making you laugh in a way that left suguru feeling ripped between wanting to watch your smile and punch satoru in the face hard enough that he'd be bleeding for days for stealing that sight from you and leaving suguru nothing but the left-overs to pick after.

in spite of everything, suguru was hardly ever really envious of his best friend. yes, there were moments where he wished satoru would get off his high-horse and someone would knock some sense into him (and that responsibility, more often than not, fell on suguru's shoulders), but he was never really jealous of satoru. there was never a need for it, not when he knew the worst and the lows of being gojo satoru.

however, in that moment, watching satoru cling onto you and make you grin, suguru understood what it meant to truly be seething with jealousy. that should be me.

the rest of the day passed by in a hazy blur after that. suguru vaguely recollected leaving lunch early, reciting robotically that he had somewhere to be urgently and ignoring the knowing grin satoru shot his way or the downwards curl of your lips. he thought he might have given you the cold shoulder at some point or another, the words leaving his lips a little sharp and a little cruel, but he didn’t remember what he said. you might have recoiled, you might have not. suguru couldn’t remember.

(and he didn’t want to remember— he didn’t want to remember the way he had turned his face away when he heard the sound of your voice calling out his name. he didn’t want to remember the way his shoulders had knocked against yours a little too hard as you passed each other by in the hallways. he didn’t want to remember the way your face dropped when he took a seat on a table across the room from your usual one. he didn’t want to remember because if he did, then he would have to remember all the tiny ways he hurt you. papercuts still stung like a bitch, after all.)

then, one day became another, and another became a week, and a week became a month—

and the end of the month brought you.

a beautiful, brilliant, furious apparition of you—one that stormed up to him and, without warning or another word, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him bodily after you. his feet dragged against the floor, his toes catching onto the heels of his own choes before he could struggle to right himself.

“what are you—” he began.

“shut up,” you interrupted him.

cleverly, suguru did.

he didn’t say a damn thing even as you slammed the door to your dormroom open, shoving him inside without another word. his lips parted in confusion when you began to lock the door behind you, but he still said nothing as you grabbed him by the wrist to direct him further into your room. he didn’t say a single word until you shoved him onto your bed, his back flat on the mattress.

“what?” he tried again.

“you’ll shut up and listen to me when i talk,” you said, your voice leaving no room for arguments. suddenly, you were looming over him, straddling his waist as your open palm pressed over his chest; right above his pounding heart. “do you understand?”

suguru swallowed thickly as he nodded. this was a side of you he hadn’t even known existed; rough and unafraid, your hands on him meant to firmly rule rather than to guide gently as you usually would. even in your anger, you had never been anything else but firm—steady and stubborn.

fuck, he thought wisely to himself. i'm in deep trouble.

but when your hand found the collar of his shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, he finds that he didn't mind it. not in the slightest.

because you had always been beautiful, but you were damningly ephemereal now, peering down at him with something burning carved into your irises; bold and brilliant, striking and inescapable. suguru had never felt so wonderfully trapped before, caught in your stare and unable to look away.

"satoru told me everything," you began, your assessing gaze never once leaving him. "i'm disappointed, suguru."

static clogged his head immediately, all thoughts clearing from his head into an unbearable haze. dirty little traitor. his throat felt tight, his heart stopping in his chest. excuses climbed up the back of his mouth, tasting like bile and the curses that he swallows, and every single little ugly thing that had ever crossed his mind. explanations defining his inner-most thoughts, apologies creasing into the space between his teeth. nothing came out, nothing but a strangled sound; caught between a whimper and a whine. weak, pathetic.

your head tilted at the noise, your gaze sharpening into something vicious. "you should have told me yourself," you said. "i never took you for a coward, suguru."

suguru couldn't help the weak, strangled thing that escaped his throat. he thought that it might have been a piece of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispered, before he could think better of it.

the sigh that you let out was low, almost vicious in its nature. suguru hid his wince by turning his head, the side of his face half-buried into the sheets. before he could succeed, however, your hand caught his chin, forcing him to turn his gaze to meet your eyes once again.

"look at me when i'm talking to you, suguru." your voice sent a series of goosebumps rippling up his skin. he shuddered, trying to shake it off, but he couldn't when your grip on his face was firm. he still tried to nod a bit, wanting to appease you.

"i'm sorry," suguru rasped out once again.

"stop apologising."

all of a sudden, his forehead was flicked. the motion was so familiar in the face of such an unfamiliar circumstance that suguru couldn't help but blink, startled. for a moment, suguru couldn't think, couldn't do anything—much less suppress the faint smile that appeared on his lips. perhaps not much had changed after all. perhaps you could still have him as your friend, still care for him the way you cared for him before.

"so," he started slowly, "you're not angry at me?"

"i'm pissed at you," you told him bluntly.

before he could wilt, though, your grip on his chin became a gentle caress to his jaw, and suguru felt his whole world tilting upside down once again. your face was close to his, too close, and suguru felt like he couldn't breathe at the proximity.

"i am so, so angry at you, suguru. you should have told me everything sooner. i can't believe you made me wait so long just for this. all your attitude as of late, all your snark and sass, that was just a defence mechanism, wasn't it?" your voice was cutting as you picked apart his brain, dissecting all of his secret truths with all the precision of a surgeon's knife. "you got jealous—and instead of talking to me, you decided to push me away."

your voice was a low murmur, not meant to be anything seductive but still sending a sharp thrill up to suguru's monkey brain all the same. all he could think of was the curl of your smile—secretive, knowing, like you were in on some secret joke that he wasn't—and the way you were looking at him now—like a predator who had his hunt cornered—and how suguru couldn't do anything but take anything that you doled out.

fuck, that's so hot.

"i'm sorry," he said again, dutiful and polite.

and for a moment, simply a nanosecond, he caught a fissure in your exterior; that softness bleeding out for a moment before the cracks smoothened itself out. even so, that split-second was enough for suguru to realise oh. he's not actually angry at me. because all of this, he knew now, was part of the game that you were playing with him; a theatrical dramatic act to compensate for the weeks of silence you got from his end.

your head tilted slowly, dangerously, as if you're assessing him, and the newfound knowledge that you like were made a shiver run down his spine. because you wanted this, you wanted him too, even if you haven't said those words out loud. you craved him, and that single piece of knowledge was enough for suguru to feel like he was going to break himself apart and meld himself together until he fit all and every single one of your wishes; until he became perfect just for you.

suguru's smile was small, placating in the way he knew you hated it. "forgive me?" he asked, practically simpering.

you caught onto what he was trying to do—of course, you did, you always did—and you threw your head back in a sharp laugh. "i don't know, suguru." your smile was mean, dangerous, and suguru almost fainted on the spot. fuck. "do you think you deserve my forgiveness?"

all of suguru's bravado melted in that moment as he felt like a miserably delighted pile of limbs and bones and a beating heart that thumped and echoed and lived just for youyouyou. "no," he said, his voice coarse, rough with his own admission. his hand moved to rest on your knees, not reaching higher because he knew better than to touch you more at a time like this. he didn't deserve it yet. "but let me show you." let me deserve the taste of you, let me deserve to feel what it means to worship you.

your lips curled into a smirk, and suguru felt as if he was going to die right then and there. miraculously, he managed to stay alive just long enough to watch you crawl off of him, standing by the edge of the bed, your gaze still following him like you were going to eat him alive.

"hands and knees, suguru," you said. "you better earn it."

geto suguru was not an impatient man but in order to satisfy you, no time in the world was ever enough.

[mymoonagedaydream]

Part 3

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Language

Part 1 / Part 2

—

The sky was darkening by the time the two of you reached your apartment, streetlamps illuminating one by one and melding with the warm glowing light that spilled from the windows above you. Bucky released the arm that had been firmly anchored around you and took a step back while you rooted around in your bag. He obviously figured that, after the absolute shitshow the last twenty-four hours had been, there was a pretty good chance he wasn’t going to be invited in. You pulled out your keys, letting him sweat right up until the last second.

Before you could unlock the door, however, it swung open to reveal Lily, jarringly backlit by pale, fluorescent bulbs. She looked disappointed.

“Oh, my dear, you’ve just missed them.”

“Who?” You glanced back at Bucky and gave him a reassuring smile, knowing this interaction was bound to put him on edge. “Have your family been visiting?”

“No, your friends. They only left a few minutes ago.”

“My friends?” 

“Yes, the young men with the birthday cards for you. Very sweet. I sent them upstairs but my word they were noisy, they must have had some trouble working out how to use the letterbox.”

Well, now you were on edge too, partly because your birthday wasn’t for another three months and partly because you didn’t have a letterbox.

Before you had the chance to respond, Bucky charged through the gap between you and sprinted up the stairs, swiftly disappearing out of view. You asked Lily to lock the door before racing after him, pausing halfway up the stairs when it hit you that entrusting security detail to her might not have been the best idea. You weren’t even sure if she could remember who did and didn’t live here anymore.

After inwardly deliberating for a second, you shrugged and carried on, deciding that you’d actually quite like to see someone try messing with you while Bucky was nearby and this irate. Might even cheer you up a little.

You were out of breath by the time you reached the top of the stairs, but the sight you were met with somehow still managed to pull the last dregs of air from your lungs. 

Your door was hanging off its hinges. There were splinters of wood littering the hallway and holes of varying sizes punched into the drywall. A vague path of cigarette burns in the carpet led from where you were standing to the spot where your doormat should have been.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of your throat, you slowly approached, tears welling in your eyes as they scanned over the inside of your apartment. It was worse than you could have imagined. The couch had been torn to pieces, the TV screen was smashed, the curtains had been ripped from the wall and strewn over the floor. You dreaded to think how the rest of the place looked and you weren’t sure you had the emotional capacity to find out right now.

Thundering footsteps approached from inside and Bucky stormed into view, his voice more deep and stern than usual as he addressed you.

“They’re gone. I can’t see anything missing but you should check around too.”

“Buck-”

“Fuckin’ cowards, man,” he kicked a nearby couch cushion and stuffing exploded out of it, “couldn’t even stick around to face us.”

“Buck, please.”

A warm tear spilled onto your cheek. He seemed to soften when he spotted it, quickly moving over and pulling you into a tight embrace. You buried your face in the shoulder of his suit jacket, letting a few more drops soak into the rough material, choking back hiccuped breaths. His hand smoothed down the hair on the back of your head.

“I’m sorry, baby. Take as long as you need.”

You turned your head to the side so your voice wasn’t muffled. “Is it bad?”

“It’s fixable.”

“Are you lying to make me feel better?”

“A little,” he took hold of your hands and gently prized them away from his chest, squeezing them firmly as he moved into your eyeline, “but we’ll do it together, okay? S’gonna be alright. C’mon.”

With a deep breath, you finally stepped into your devastated apartment and looked around. Some things were fixable. Most things weren’t. Slowly, tenderly, Bucky led you from room to room and helped you find all your valuables. Your laptop was still in your bedside drawer, camera still on your desk, even the emergency twenty dollar bill you kept in the key bowl by the front door was still there. It was bizarre, but you were actually starting to feel a little relieved- that was, until you walked through to the kitchen.

You spotted it immediately. Your grandmother’s necklace, the one that had hung from the corner of her picture on the wall ever since you’d moved in, was gone. You were in disbelief. It wasn’t even valuable, it was just a brass locket with a photograph of your grandfather inside, why the fuck would anyone take that?

You spun round and pointed it out to Bucky. If you’d been in a less disoriented state of mind, you might have noticed how his face dropped into something resembling dread, how his jaw suddenly clenched and his eyes squeezed shut, but you were far too busy spiralling. 

“Christ, I haven’t even called the cops. I don’t even know what crime this is. Destruction of property? Vandalism? Shit burglary?” Your shaking hands pulled your cellphone from your pocket. “Who the fuck would even do this? You think it could be that guy that was following me before?”

“No.”

“It makes sense, I mean he must have been working for someone, maybe they-” Your train of thought came to an abrupt stop as you realised what he’d said. “What d’you mean, no? Buck, do you know something about this?”

“No, I swear. It’s just- something my brother said earlier. It’s been bothering me. ”

“What did he say?”

“I might be overthinking it.”

“Buck. Tell me.”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Most of the conversation was fine, really, I just told him about how much of an ass I’d been and how guilty I felt and he nodded along. But after we’d spoken, just before he left the room, he said, doesn't she know it’s a dangerous city for a girl all on her own?”

You felt the blood turn cold in your veins. 

Bucky’s brother had only ever been to your apartment once, a long time ago, when he dropped off your invitation to his wedding. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you vividly recalled him sipping coffee from your favourite mug and asking about the picture of your grandmother hung up in the kitchen. He listened intently while you reeled off all the reasons you idolised her, even putting a comforting hand on your shoulder when you told him how much you missed her. A pinprick of white hot rage started in your stomach, slowly expanding and filling your whole chest.

“That motherfucker.”

“I can’t believe he’d do something like this,” Bucky looked genuinely shellshocked, “I thought I could trust him. I’m so sorry, I-”

“Jesus, would you stop fucking apologising?" 

The air between you stilled. It seemed like neither of you had been expecting such an abrupt snap, but you knew he needed to hear this, so you swallowed back your hesitation and continued.

"You know who they are. You know what they do. How the hell is this a shock?”

“They also know how I feel about you. This isn’t how we treat family.”

“Oh, come on.” You were doing your best not to scream at him. “How many fucking times have we been told that I’ll never be accepted as part of your family? Well, now we’ve been shown, too. I don't feel like waiting around to find out what's next.”

“Nothing’s next, cause I’m gonna sort it out.”

You scoffed. “You’re gonna stand up to them?”

“Of course I am.”

“Whatever.”

You walked out of the kitchen, quickly wiping away your frustrated tears before he saw them. You needed to busy yourself or you’d end up doing a Bucky and punching the fucking wall. Dodging shattered pieces of table and couch, you made your way over to the TV and crouched down, starting to gather shards of smashed screen from the floor. He appeared after just a few seconds. His face was flushed and every visible muscle was tensed, a few beads of sweat starting to form just below his hairline. 

“I’m gonna make this right, I just need to think.” 

“The fuck is there to think about?”

“Well, y’know, I need to, to figure out- Fuck.” 

He let his arms go limp at his sides, looking utterly defeated. Noticing what you were doing, he picked up a blanket from the floor and shuffled over, crouching beside you and emptying the sharp pieces from your hand into the soft material. You didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know what to do. My head feels like it’s falling apart. I’ve got a helluva lot of shit to sort out, I know that, but for now all I care about is that you’re not safe here.”

“No shit. What gave it away, the lack of a front door or the visits from your insane family?”

He placed the blanket down. “Look, I know you hate me right now, and you have every reason to, but I need you to stay at my apartment tonight.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t have to talk to me or even look at me, just let me make sure you’re somewhere safe.”

You spent a minute thinking about it whilst picking tiny splinters of glass out of your palm, but eventually gave a reluctant agreement. What the fuck else were you gonna do? You couldn’t stay here with no door and an increasingly unhinged downstairs neighbour, and you sure as hell couldn’t afford a hotel room for any significant length of time. Besides, even with him there, Bucky’s apartment would probably be the only place you’d feel secure enough to actually sleep.

He called a cab while you packed, collecting all your remaining valuables and yanking your clothes out of the wood pile that used to be a rickety chest of drawers. Both of you stayed quiet during the journey. The city rolling past the window became gradually less and less dilapidated, crumbling apartment blocks replaced by upscale residences and gleaming metal infrastructure, a whole different world than the one you were used to. Bucky’s world.

You hadn’t been to his apartment for a while, but it was still just as ridiculously opulent as you remembered. You dropped your bag on the floor and glanced around. Between working and seeing you, he never really spent any time here, so obviously never felt the need to properly decorate. It was sterile, like an overpriced showhome. 

He set you up on the squeaky, white leather couch, flicking on the TV and wrapping you in a blanket before ordering takeout. You listened to him rushing around out of view, marching between the bedroom and the bathroom, running water and spraying cleaning products. You let slip an exhausted chuckle at the cacophony of panicked noises. 

One thing you didn’t hear, however, was him picking up the photograph of him and his brother that he kept propped up on the bedroom mantelpiece. You didn’t hear him fold it in half and you didn’t hear the heavy breath that escaped from his lips as he tore it into two clean pieces.

He eventually reappeared and collapsed into the armchair to your left. The TV was blaring but he somehow managed to ignore it, instead staring at the wall all night, deep in thought and slowly tapping his fingers against the leather upholstery. 

He was definitely planning something, you just hoped to god it was something rational.

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—

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 11: Communion

Contents | Part 10 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) With fresh starts and awkward family dinners, things seem to be changing for Ellis.

Word Count: 5.6K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, sexual references, discussions of death and loss. Readers must be 18+

You could hear them through your bedroom door; Gina's voice fluctuating between hushed indignation and histrionic sobbing, while Alfie gave little in return besides the occasional mumble. You wondered about all the times you'd heard them talking before; the sudden silence when you'd enter a room, the laughing and teasing you never thought to question. Had they been talking about you in those moments? Whispering declarations of desire to one another and finding thrill in the risk of being caught?

You heard a door slam shut, their voices fading to a distant drone as you zipped up your jeans and pulled on a t-shirt Gina was always trying to steal. You never understood why she wanted it so much; it was plain, boring, the neckline beginning to fray on one side. But maybe it wasn't about the t-shirt at all. Maybe the only reason she wanted it was because it belonged to you.

You brushed the wet hair out of your face with your hands, the act instantly transporting you back to last night; how it felt to rake your fingers through Father Benedict's rain-sodden curls. You shivered, shaking it away quickly before moving around the room, scooping up whatever you could and dumping it into a large gym bag on the bed. 

The process felt mechanical, void of any grief or attachment to the possessions that anchored you to this place. You zipped up the bag and looked around at the rest of your things; mementos from times you no longer cared to remember, photographs of people you never truly knew, wallpaper you'd been so excited to put up and a bed you'd shared with someone who wasted three years of your life. 

You stepped into a pair of old, worn-in trainers, the leather so soft and slackened that you didn't even have to untie the laces anymore. Slinging the bag over your shoulder, you made your way to the door, turning the handle and pushing it slowly in an attempt to stop it from creaking. 

You successfully made it to the top of the stairs before the door behind you swung open, making you huff in defeat. 

"So that's it?" asked Alfie with a slight lisp, his mouth swollen from Father Benedict's punch. "You're just off, then?" 

You turned to look up at him. "What else were you expecting? Even if Gina hadn't kicked me out, do you really think I'd want to stay here?"

he shook his head. "It's like you don't care." 

"Oh, well I'm sorry for not reacting to you cheating on me in a way you find acceptable." 

"I don't mean- I just- You haven't even given me a chance to explain-"

"I have no interest in hearing you try to justify this, Alfie. If you and Gina wanted to be together, you could've just said so instead of doing this to me." 

"But it's not like that between me and G." 

"Not like that? I walked in on it!" 

"I mean I don't want to be with her! You were pulling away and she was... there. It was a moment of weakness that just spiralled-"

Gina emerged from the room, elbowing Alfie as she stormed past him, mascara like ink blots across her cheeks. 

He looked over at her as she marched into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her, then back down to you. 

"How many times?" you asked. 

He rolled his eyes. 

"Go on, how many moments of weakness are we talking?" 

He dropped his head, refusing to answer. 

You nodded, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. "Can you at least tell me... Were you safe?" 

"Yes," he replied weakly. 

"Condoms?" 

"Yes." 

"Every single time?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. Well thanks for that, at least." 

You turned, hoisting the bag back up your shoulder and continuing down the stairs. 

"So you can go and let Father Bellend know he's not going to catch anything from you," he muttered. 

You stopped, shuddering at the realisation that you'd told him; the words you'd spat at him like venom now trickling down your spine. 

"I just said that to piss you off," you said. 

"Wait, so you didn't sleep with him?" 

"No!" You hoped you were convincing, unable to tell beneath the bruises and swelling if he was buying it. "How insecure do you have to be to feel threatened by a priest?" 

"The same priest who did this?" He pointed to his face. 

"You deserved it." 

You finally made it down to the bottom of the staircase, glancing over your shoulder to see him still standing at the top. 

"D'you know, Mara never liked you," you began. "I always thought she was just being a bitch, judgemental, too stuck up to give you a chance. But it turns out she was the only one who could see right through you."

Daylight clung to the horizon, casting a golden hue across a blushing sky. The days since you'd left Gina's house had grown warmer, brighter, with mild breezes and longer evenings, as though the earth itself was rejoicing in your newfound freedom. 

You stepped off the bus with a sigh, thankful to escape the humid air of squashed passengers and closed windows. The walk to your mother's house was short, so you made the effort to slow your pace, making it last that little bit longer to steal solace wherever you could get it, even in the five minutes between bus stop and front door. 

She'd been surprisingly tactful about the whole thing, welcoming you back when you turned up on her doorstep two nights earlier, making up the bed in your old room and leaving you to settle in without prying; no questions, no judgement, no classic mum-isms you'd come to expect from her. Maybe she was secretly happy to have a fledgling back in her empty nest, careful not to do anything that may make you fly away. 

You reached the house as a car pulled up outside, its large tyres mounting the kerb with a gentle bounce. You raised your hand in a subtle wave as you made your way to the front door, rummaging for your keys inside your large, overfilled tote. 

"Did you just get off work?" Mara called out as she climbed out of the passenger side. 

You nodded, watching as she made her way around the back of the car. She didn't seem surprised to see you there, which meant your mother had told her. The thought made you groan internally.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. 

"Nice to see you too," said Nathan with a slight laugh as he emerged from the car. 

"Dinner," said Mara, as though it should have been obvious. 

She unclipped Soleil from her abundance of safety straps and seat belts, before hoisting her onto her hip and making her way up the path to meet you.

"How was work?" she asked.

"Eh." You shrugged, finally pulling out your keys. "Spent the day staring at pictures of babies in silly outfits."

"Sounds cute." 

"That's one word for it." 

The front door opened straight into a spacious living room. Perfectly tidy as always; cushions plumped, surfaces dusted, vacuum lines still visible in the rug. Since the divorce, your mother had taken to redecorating every few years. You always assumed it was a way of erasing any evidence that your father once lived there, but you were starting to think she just got bored easily. Right now, she was fond of the colour silver; opting for glittery wallpaper, velvet curtains and a large mirrored coffee table in the centre of the room. It was headache-inducing, yet there was something oddly comforting about it at the same time. 

"Oh, she mustn't be back yet," said Mara. 

"Back from where?" you replied as you hung your bag over the banister. 

"She said she was going to the church to pick up all the stuff." 

"The church?" 

"Well, the pub next door to it." 

"Oh." You swallowed, your mouth turning weirdly dry. "What stuff?" 

"Banners, bunting, that big balloon arch. We didn't have time to take it all down after the christening on Sunday so they stuck it in the back for us." 

"Ah." You gave a distracted nod and made your way across the room. 

"Where are you going?" 

"I just need a drink." 

You walked into the kitchen, pulling a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. The door opened behind you as you gulped it down. You wiped your mouth and glanced over your shoulder, forcing a bright smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. 

"So," said Mara, lifting the lid off the slow cooker and glancing inside. "Mum said you're staying here for a little while...?" 

"Mhm." 

She paused, leaning back against the counter with folded arms as she waited for you to elaborate. Instead you stood there quietly, rolling the cold glass over your warm cheek. 

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" she pressed.

"I moved out," you replied simply. 

She lowered her head slightly, staring at you beneath a heavy brow.

"What?"

She parted her lips to speak, but a noise from the living room caught her attention; the front door opening and closing, your mother's voice singing a cheerful greeting.

She gave you another dubious look. "You're going to tell me what happened."

You rolled your eyes and put the glass in the sink before reluctantly following behind her.

"So this... dinner thing, do you do this regularly then?" you asked.

"Maybe a couple of times a month." 

"Why have you never invited me?" 

"Would you come if we did?" 

"Probably not." 

"Well there you go."

Mara stopped suddenly in the doorway, making you bump clumsily into her back. You were ready for her to berate you for it, tell you to watch where you were going. But instead she gave a high-pitched 'oh', reaching back to grip your arm.

You furrowed your brow and peered over her shoulder into the living room, the air immediately evaporating from your chest as your gaze locked on a set of glacial eyes. 

He was carrying a large plastic storage bin, the weight of it evident in the whitening of his knuckles as he hauled it through the door. The lid lifted slightly, a single yellow balloon escaping and rising to the ceiling. 

"Father," said Mara, confusion laced in her cheery tone. "Well this is a surprise." 

"Hello," he said. "Nice to see you all again." 

You remained in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes wide, watching as your mother directed him to put the box on the floor. He was stiff in his movements, his gaze darting to you every few moments, the discomfort clear on his face. 

"You're a godsend," said your mother. "Do you mind helping me with the last few bits?" 

"Of course not." He smiled, making his way back outside.

"I'll do it, mum," you said quickly, hurrying across the room. "You sit down." 

"Oh, okay, thanks love." 

You wiped your palms on your trousers as you rushed down the path, catching up with him as he opened the boot of his car. Another balloon escaped, he caught it before it floated away, stuffing it back inside a bin bag and twisting it closed. 

"What are you doing here?" you hissed, leaning in and grabbing a box filled with table centrepieces. 

"I ran into her outside the church," he replied. "She needed help with all this stuff, I couldn't just leave her to struggle." 

"Yes you could." 

He rolled his eyes. "Relax, you haven't told them anything, have you?" 

"Of course not." 

"Then it's fine. Help me get this inside and then I'll leave." 

You gathered the rest of the decorations. He reached up to close the boot, stopping to look down at you. 

"Are you okay?" he asked. "You haven't text, so I assume everything was alright after I left the other day?" 

"I haven't paid my phone bill, remember?" 

He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head softly. 

"But no, it was fine," you sighed. "I said a few things, packed and came here. Uneventful, all things considered." 

He nodded and closed the boot with a heavy slam, hoisting an obnoxiously large display of balloons and flowers over his shoulder. 

"How's your hand?" you asked. 

He laughed again, looking down at the faint bruising on his knuckles. "It's fine. Was worth it." 

You glanced up at him, eyes falling immediately to the slight smirk across his lips; a smirk that held entirely new meaning now. You'd kissed those lips, felt them on your skin. Those lips had tasted you, parted to let out the most divine moans. 

He arched an eyebrow. "Ellis," he whispered sternly. "Stop looking at me like that." 

It sounded like a reprimand, but you knew it was more of a warning; a reminder that nothing innocent ever came from those looks.

You conceded, clearing your throat and making your way back into the house.

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" 

This was it. Your punishment from the heavens.

Father Benedict let out an appreciative sigh. "Oh, no, I-"

"Come on, I insist," said your mother. "You came all this way to help me, it's only fair." 

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Consider it a thank you, especially after everything you did getting the christening sorted so quickly." 

"I er..." he blew out a long breath. "I really don't want to impose-"

"Nonsense! Go on, sit down."

She gestured towards the dining room before disappearing into the kitchen. Mara waited until she was gone before letting out a laugh, turning to Father Benedict with an apologetic smile. 

The silver theme had bled into the dining room; sparkles and mirrors and crushed velvet cushions on each chair. You wandered around the table, stopping at Cain's chair and making an elaborate sidestep to avoid it. Mara rolled her eyes at you, sitting down with Soleil in her arms as Nathan pulled up a chair beside her. You slumped into your seat, pressing your lips together firmly as Father Benedict sat down directly opposite you. 

"She's hungry," Mara muttered, reaching to open her blouse. "You don't mind do you, Father? It's not offensive or anything?" 

You rubbed your eyes. Ah yes, just what this nightmare of a situation was missing, you thought, my sister's left tit. 

"No, not at all," he said politely. "I think it's beautiful. The breastfeeding, I mean, not your... erm..." 

"Jesus Christ," you mumbled under your breath. 

Your mother pushed the door open with her hip, walking in and placing a large pot in the centre of the table. "Beef stew, help yourselves. Father, can I get you anything?" 

He shook his head. "No, I'm good, thank you." 

"Are you sure? Anything? Condiments? Extra bread? Something different to drink?" 

"Just sit down, mum," said Mara. "Leave the poor man alone." 

She raised her hands in surrender and sat down at the head of the table.

"Sorry about her," Mara added, turning to Father Benedict. "I think she's got a bit of a crush on you." 

He chuckled, and you shuddered at the thought. 

"He's a handsome man, Mara." She turned to Nathan. "Isn't he." 

"I couldn't possibly comment," he replied. 

Everyone laughed, even your own face broke with a smile. 

It was astonishing, how one person could be so charming, so charismatic and endearing that everyone he came into contact with was left in awe of him. And it was you he'd chosen. This man, who was so delicious that the flavour of him lingered in the mouths of people who'd barely had a taste, had wanted you, worshipped you, fantasised about you. 

You. 

Everyone made smalltalk as they ate, the sound of cutlery clinking against dishes filling the brief silences between conversation. You'd never been good at smalltalk. But then again, you'd never been particularly good at 'big talk' either; preferring to melt into the background, nibbling on a piece of bread as you took in the mundanity of everyday chatter around you.

"So go on then, why've you moved back home?" said Mara, bringing you back into focus. 

You glared at her, pausing for a moment before shrugging. "I broke up with Alfie."

 "After the christening?" 

"Mhm." 

"What happened?" 

You picked up your spoon and swirled it in your stew, pushing a chunk of potato around the bowl as you spoke. "Caught him cheating on me... With Gina." 

Your mother gasped, Nathan's eyes widened in shock. 

"That fucker," Mara spat.

"Mara," said your mother, nodding towards Father Benedict.

"Sorry," she said. 

"It's alright," he replied. "He does sound like a fucker." 

Everyone laughed quietly, easing the tension around the table. 

You exchanged brief but intense eye contact with him. He turned his head quickly, exposing the edge of a love bite from beneath the collar of his jumper. You bit your lip, holding back a smile before spooning stew into your mouth.

"So yeah," you mumbled as you chewed. "It is what it is." 

Mara's eyes narrowed. You could tell she was sceptical, trying to work out why you weren't more upset. Her gaze darted between you and Father Benedict before she relaxed back into her chair. 

"Gina text me that night asking if you were at mine," she said. 

"Yeah, I walked out after I caught them." 

"Where did you go?" 

"A friend's. So mum, I was wondering if I'd be okay to stay until I sort out a place to live." 

"Of course," she said. 

"What friend?" Mara pressed. 

"Does it matter?" you replied. "Why did Gina say I'd left?" 

"She didn't. Conveniently left that part out. Why did you go to a friend's house and not come to mine?"

You shrugged. "Because we don't do that." 

"What?"

"Come to each other for things."

"You can come to me for things."

You furrowed your brow in confusion. "Wh-"

"How are you going to move everything out of the house?" asked your mother.

"I've asked Dad if he can drive me over in his van at the weekend."

"God this is just awful." She placed her head in her hands. "What are you going to do, Ellis? You've got no money."

"Cheers, mum."

"And I've not got the funds to help you get a place of your own. Do you think your dad and Nicola could help?"

"I don't- no, I'm- I'll work something out."

"Mum," said Mara. "You're embarrassing her in front of the clergyman."

Father Benedict dropped his head with an awkward laugh. "It's fine. This is nothing compared to some of the things I've heard in this job." 

"Ooh like what?" your mother leaned closer. 

"If you can think of it, someone's probably confessed it to me." 

"Wow." She rested her cheek on her fist, studying his face. "Is that why you wanted to be a priest? All the gossip?"

He cleared his throat and set his spoon on the edge of his bowl. "Well, actually, I er... I had a brother who passed away-"

She gasped. "Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. You know, the girls lost a brother as well. Cain, my eldest. He was only twenty-four."

Mara shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. 

"How did he go?" your mother continued. "If you don't mind me asking?" 

"Oh, he... He had substance abuse issues," he replied. "Sorted himself out towards the end though, got clean. But by that point he'd already done so much damage, his body just... gave out." 

You felt a pang in your chest, his voice so soft and sincere you could almost hear the heartbreak. 

"I'm sorry." She reached over and placed a hand on his for a moment, her fingers resting over the bruises on his knuckles.

He smiled, seemingly grateful for the comfort. "He was religious towards the end. It made me start looking at my own faith after he passed." 

She nodded. "Y'know when we first lost Cain, I contemplated going to church a few times. But the way he died, it was so... brutal. I couldn't fathom a god would let that happen-"

"Mum," Mara groaned, almost pleading for her to stop. 

"Ellis was thirteen," she continued obliviously. "Decided she wanted to do gymnastics, but the place was so far away she wouldn't be able to make it there after school unless someone drove her."

Mara let out a huff before handing the baby to Nathan. "She's full, I'll be back in a minute." 

You watched as she rose from the table, walking out as your mother continued to speak. 

"Mara was the one who usually took her, but she was busy on this particular day so Cain did it instead. Anyway, on their way home he lost control of the car. The pair of them were in terrible shape. They had to cut you out from the roof, didn't they Ellis." 

You exhaled a long, slow breath. 

"Obviously she survived, thank god. But Cain wasn't wearing his seatbelt." 

"Gosh, I'm so sorry," said Father Benedict. 

You stood up suddenly, brushing your hair out of your face. "I'm going to get another drink." 

Mara was stood in the kitchen, staring out of the window at the darkening sky, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek. You closed the door behind you and let out a sigh.

"Is she still going on about it?" she asked, eyes fixed on the window.

"Mhm." 

"Fuck sake," she whispered. "She just talks about it fucking constantly. Anyone who'll listen. The poor guy only came to help with decorations and now she's dumping all the family trauma on him." 

"He doesn't mind. He's good with this kind of stuff, always knows what to say." 

She finally looked at you. "What did you mean when you said we don't come to each other for things?"

You crossed your arms over your chest and shrugged. "I don't know. We just... don't. Not like proper sisters."

"Proper sisters?"

"You know what I mean. Sisters who aren't nine years apart. Who don't have a huge elephant following them into every room."

She returned to looking out of the window. 

You licked your lips awkwardly before making your way towards the fridge. "After Cain died-"

"Ellis," she groaned. 

"Just let me... After Cain died, I snuck into your room a few times when you were out and read your diary." 

She spun around. "You did what? Why?"

"Honestly? I always felt like you wished it would've been me instead of him. But I knew you'd never actually say that out loud. So I'd skim through looking for my name to see if you wrote it there instead."

She stood there, speechless, lips parted in stunned silence. "You actually thought I wished you'd died in that car?" 

"If it meant he got to walk away from it instead-"

"Well that's not true. Of course it's not fucking true. I- well, let's get one thing straight, if we're wishing for stuff I'd have just wished for no one to die."

"Fair."

"But no. Ellis, Jesus Christ, no. I know I've not been the best sister in the world, but bad enough for you to think I wished you weren't here? Really?"

"Well I don't think that anymore. But it's hard, I mean, why would I go to you for things when I spent the majority of my life feeling like you resented me?" 

Her shoulders slumped, a defeated breath leaving her. 

"Do you know, I think it actually bothered me more that you just never wrote about me at all," you said. "Ever."

"There isn't enough paper and ink in the world, that's why." 

You laughed softly, turning to pour yourself a drink.

"Can we just get rid of the elephant?" she asked.

"Hm?" 

"Tell it to fuck off. Leave us alone." 

You turned back to face her, thinking for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I'm not sure how you tell an elephant to fuck off, but we can give it a go."

"Okay. Good." She paused. "Do we hug now or something?" 

"I'm not really a hugger." 

"Thank god, neither am I." 

You took a large gulp of your drink. She watched you quietly, eyes burning into you. 

"Are you really alright? About Alfie and Gina?" 

"Yeah. I actually am. I think I finally understand what people mean when they say it feels like a weight's been lifted off them. I feel lighter." 

She smiled. 

"We should probably go back in," you said. 

"Yeah. Get back to Mr tall dark and handsome." 

"Mara." 

"What?" she laughed. "Do you know he hasn't stopped looking at you all night?" 

"I think he just feels awkward." 

"Hm." 

"He's a priest. Even if... I don't know, there's just- It's not..."  "Who knows, maybe he's secretly well up for it."

You laughed. "Yeah, maybe." 

She walked towards the door. You followed behind, stopping when she turned to whisper. 

"Just do me a favour, whatever you do, don't get pregnant. Your hair falls out, you can't cough without pissing yourself and your sex life goes down the drain."

"Well if you're pissing yourself all the time, it's no wonder."

She glared at you, but it only lasted a moment before a smile began to emerge.

Mara warned you not to get pregnant. And if that wasn't caution enough, watching forty nine-year-olds running wild around a church would definitely do it. They were loud, boisterous, ignoring their exhausted parents as they bounced from pew to pew. 

A headache was taking root behind your eyes, every screeching voice and thud of little feet making it worse. You were beginning to think June lied when she said she was visiting her niece in Wales, maybe she just wanted to avoid doing this. 

You stood near the doors of the chapel, handing out pens and taking attendance as each family arrived. Father Benedict walked up and down the aisle, welcoming them with smiles and high-fives, asking parents to spread out, though not many seemed to listen. 

You kept glancing over your shoulder at him, as though you couldn't help but steal a quick peek whenever his back was turned. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a snug-fitting fleece jacket, his white collar peeking out of the top. It had been four days since the night you spent together, yet the look on his face when you took that collar off was as fresh as the moment it happened, even down to the popping sound it made as you tugged it away from his neck. 

He checked his watch before turning on his heels, strolling leisurely towards you. 

"How are you getting on?" he asked, glancing down at the attendance sheet in your hands.

"Just making a mental note to take my contraception later," you replied, looking around as a group of kids chased each other from one side of the chapel to the other. 

He laughed. "They're fine when you know how to handle them. Watch." 

He turned around and cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice loud and commanding, echoing in the steepled roof. "Okay everyone! I'm going to begin, so I want children sat with their parents please!" 

The children immediately fell into order, their ruckus fading to a quiet hum as they rushed to sit down.

You bit your lip; the way he could control a room with nothing but his voice stirring something deep inside you. He walked down the aisle to the altar and turned to face them all, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Welcome, everyone. Thank you very much, as always, for coming. I know these preparation sessions can be a bit of a pain when we're all so busy, but it is so important for the children to be attending, especially as their first holy communion is just around the corner." 

'What's that?" a young boy with a freckled nose asked, pointing to a small brass font on the wall.

"Holy water," you replied, chin resting on your fist as you sat at the back of the chapel. 

"What's that?" 

"A sanctuary lamp." 

"What about that over there?" 

"A hymn book." 

"And what's that?" 

"That's just a radiator." 

"Oh." 

"Bradley," his mother shouted. "Come on, leave the lady alone." 

It was the longest hour of your life. Father Benedict had sent the children on a scavenger hunt around the church, challenging them to tick off as many items as they could find. But for some reason, most of them were more fascinated with you. They came over in waves, small groups of curious eyes asking you random questions, touching your things or trying to trick you into identifying everything for them. 

You checked your phone. Ten minutes. Just ten more minutes. 

"What's your name?" a soft, delicate voice asked. 

You looked up to see a small waif of a girl standing next to you, the biggest brown eyes you'd ever seen gazing at you in wonder. 

"Ellis," you replied. 

"I'm Dot." 

"Dot?" 

"Mhm." She nodded, hugging her work book close to her chest. "Are you Father Benedict's wife?"

You gave a soft laugh. "No, just a helper." 

"Oh okay." She paused, looking down at her feet. "I think you're really pretty," she finally said. 

Your mouth fell open slightly; the compliment somehow meaning more coming from a child. 

"Thank you. I think you're really pretty too." 

She smiled, a set of deep dimples forming in her cheeks before skipping away. 

Maybe a kid or two wouldn't be so bad, you thought. No, god no, Ellis. Remember what Mara said about peeing yourself all the time. 

The session ended ten minutes late. You sighed as the final few families left, your headache already beginning to ease in the newfound silence. You closed the doors, leaning back against them dramatically for a moment.

"You survived!" Father Benedict's voice echoed across the vast, empty space. 

"Next time I volunteer myself for something, remind me of tonight," you called back.

He chuckled, taking a set of keys from his pocket. "Can you lock those doors for me?" 

You nodded before letting out a pathetic shriek as the keys came soaring through the air towards you. When they landed at your feet, you looked up to see him laughing, covering his mouth with his hand.

"What about me makes you think I'd be good at catching?" you shouted. 

He continued to laugh, picking up a box and disappearing into the back. 

It was eerie being the only person in a church; the slightest movements seeming to echo, every piece of art staring directly at you. You locked the doors and began cleaning up, weaving through the pews collecting pens and forgotten booklets, the occasional sweet wrapper. 

You wandered down towards Father Benedict's office, tapping your knuckles against the open door and stepping inside. 

"Some left over booklets," you said. 

He was crouched at a small filing cabinet, fanning his fingers through a drawer of papers. "Oh, thanks," he said, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Just throw them on the desk." 

You walked over and threw them down as instructed, hovering for a moment, like something inside you didn't want to leave. 

"A little girl thought I was your wife," you said with a slight smirk. 

He stood up, brushing the stray curls out of his eyes. "Really? That's quite cute actually." 

"Mm. She called me pretty and I nearly cried." 

He smiled, walking over to the desk. "She's not wrong." 

You kept your eyes on him, watching his hands as they fanned out the booklets, his jaw clenching as he peered down at them. 

"Anything else you want me to do?" you asked. 

He presses his lips together in thought. "No, I think that's everything. You're relieved from duty."

"Thank god." 

"I appreciate you helping out tonight. I know it's a bit... awkward." 

"Is it?" 

"Well it's the first time we've been alone together since..." 

You looked around the office, setting your sights on the couch for a moment before returning to him. 

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Don't even think about it." 

"I didn't say anything." 

He moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Ellis, it is taking everything in me to behave myself." 

You gazed up at him, a thousand comebacks flitting through your mind. But in the end, you chose to yield, nodding gently and stepping away. "I'll get going then."

You left the office, pulling the door closed behind you with a disappointed huff. It was harder, somehow, to leave empty handed after knowing what it felt like to get every last piece of him. But you hadn't come here for that; you came to help, and now it was time to go. 

"Fuck sake," you whispered, halting halfway down the hall when you realised the keys were still in your pocket.

You turned around to begin walking back, but the sound of the office door made you slow to a stop. 

Father Benedict stepped out, his eyes falling on you. "You have-"

"The keys, I know," you laughed, taking them out and hurrying over to him. 

He took them from you and slipped them into his back pocket, looking down at you with a heavy, pensive brow. You swallowed hard, eyes flitting to the love bite peeking over his collar. You wanted to reach out and touch it, run your fingers over the place your mouth had been, the flesh you'd marked as yours. But you resisted, breathing steadily, waiting for him to speak. 

"Fuck it," he finally said, and in one swift movement, his hands were on your face.

He pulled you into a hard, aggressive kiss, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wall. You gasped into his mouth, fingers immediately finding his hair and grasping it tight. 

His breath was hot, hungry, overflowing with need and frustration. You felt his hands move from your face to your neck, fingertips pushing into the soft skin of your throat as his body pressed firmly into you. 

When he finally broke away, he kept his face close; forehead resting against yours, panting heavily into your open mouth. You moaned softly, chest heaving in an attempt to catch your breath as you stared up at him in awe.

He always said you had a way of looking at him. But the way he was looking at you right now; nothing but fire. 

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @veryladyqueen @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi @ehuether @dragonqueen89 @estheticwh0re @Lfp10836

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[lilac-5ky]

Roommates from Hell, pt.2 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 2: 2912

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the first part of the story! I'll do my best to update every 1-2 weeks and to keep things interesting. Feedback and suggestions are always welcome, and if anyone wants to be notified for updates, drop your name in the comments and I'll gladly tag your @.

Warning: Flashback, mentions of violence, blood, and sex toys (odd combo, I know)

2…9…1…2

Deft fingers punched in the numbers on the door’s keypad, a practiced crescendo of beeps and bops granting you access to your flat. Hesitant fingers that dropped to the handle, but refused to push forward, instead anchoring you there. Not yet, you mumbled, your eyes squeezing shut as soon as your forehead hit the frame.

Today has been a long day. So long that you barely had a moment to process the line of rapid escalations as it brought you to this very doorstep, with the ghost of your former scarf dangling from your neck. Some people would rather be glued to the little screens of their little phones than discipline their eight-year-old brats who, for some reason, thought playing tug of war with others’ scarves while they busted their gut to make a leaving to be of utmost entertainment.

Some people ought to keep their genes to themselves, you exasperated, untying the fabric from your neck and then balled it inside your bag, zipping the bunny across the seam.

The bunny…

Toji…

It was becoming a habit of yours to follow up his name with a sigh. Sometimes a sigh that meant “What am I going to do with you?” and others coming from a place of deep longing and frustration, meaning “What am I going to do without you?”

He said he’d be home after “snipping some loose ends,” which in his dictionary either referred to him breaking some poor woman’s heart, or quite literally stabbing some equally unfortunate man’s heart out of his body at his job’s demand. Depending on the plausibility of each scenario, you were given a minimum of four and a maximum of six hours to try and make sense of his actions and devise a plan to make this cohabitation work.

You licked your lips for the millionth time that day, gnawing at the chapped flesh with the edge of your teeth. No lip balm could aspire to salvage their sorry-ass state, aggravated by the low temperatures and honed by your continuous munching on them. You’d become so conscious of their existence, that it seemed as if you were trying hard to erase it before he had the chance to realize his goal of kissing them— even when that was a common goal shared by the both of you.

The taste of metal pooled in the hollow of your mouth, your teeth sinking a tad too deep. There wasn’t much reason to keep contemplating that which never happened and that which, perhaps, would never come. You wiped your shoes on the crooked doormat (was it always crooked?) and walked inside, your legs nearly giving out at the sight of two knees dangling from your beloved couch’s armrest.

“Woah, keep it down, won’t ya?”

None other than the voice of Toji reprimanded you as you screamed at the top of your lungs. His body was spilled across your couch, the expanse of muscles barely fitting upon the three azure-colored pillows. A soda —your soda— nested in his palm, while a bag of empty potato chips —your chips— lay on the kotatsu.

“What the hell are you doing here?!?” A trembling hand reached out to where your heart supposedly was, checking whether it was still in its place.

“Watching some travel show about Chikura,” he answered, unfazed and undisturbed. “You like abalone, right? Why don’t we-”

“I’m asking, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Oh, that,” Toji smirked, lowering the TV’s volume just when the travel host was about to devour a platter full of steaming hot seafood—mouthwatering enough to divert your attention for a second. “Sayaka let me in.”

“Sa-yaka…?”

“Flat hair, narrow eyes— kinda like Izumi Pinko. Walks around with a cane twice her size. Rings a bell?”

“Talking about Ogawa-san?” you asked, a caricature of your crabby landlady taking shape before your very eyes. “She never lets in anyone without a key, though. Last time I forgot mine, she acted as if she didn’t know me and went right past. Had to phone a locksmith,” you sighed, murmuring under your breath about the extravagant sum of money you were forced to pay. “How did you do it? Convince her to open up?”

“How else ya think?” His chin rotated leisurely atop his knuckles.

“You can’t be serious! Y-you fucked her?” Your eyes went wide like saucers, the notion sounding both feasible and surreal.

His smirk sharpened into a sly grin as he stood up, a slight slouch on his shoulders carrying him to your eye level. You couldn’t exactly look away from this proximity, so you began quietly analyzing him. The tight-fitting black tee and baggy training pants that greatly accentuated his hips and shoulders; his work outfit. The overgrown hair that curtained the dark circles of his eyes; evidence of a sleepless night. The absence of scent, not even of dirt, sweat, or struggle. He must’ve actually been working on a bounty, you deduced, your final thought of rationale as he invaded the last bit of personal space you’d left.

“You really think the worst of me, huh?” His tongue circled his lips, prompting yours to do the same as you sheepishly shook your head, the sultry sound of his voice as hypnotizing as his hooded green eyes were.

“You think I go ‘round spreading the legs of everything that moves?” Toji asked again, his tone growing more condescending by the second. “ ‘fraid that ain’t the case, princess. I’m not into goodwill. Don’t do things without merit, either. She asked who I was, got all perky when I said I’m moving in, and then handed me these,” he paused, throwing a bundle of creased envelopes at your feet.

You kneeled awkwardly, seeking the sender’s origin in each logo seal. Water company. Electricity company. Phone company. Insurance company. Even the bills from that one debit card Hinata issued in your name in case of an emergency.

“Could say I paid my way in,” he scoffed, his eyes searching for an inkling of appreciation that he failed to find in your stubborn squint.

“I could’ve handled these myself.”

“Thought you’d say this, that’s why I saved this one,” he tossed another, smaller yellow-tinted paper onto the pile. “Eviction notice. My, you have it quite hard, don’tcha?”

“I don’t need classes on financial handling from someone whose living conditions are entirely dependent on ‘the bimbo of the week’,” you snapped, rising back to your feet with the bills in hand.

Maybe things were a bit tighter these past few months than you’d accounted for, but you weren’t like him. Sooner or later, you paid all expenses through sheer work and effort— a concept foreign to him, who’d rather be thrown into the streets than save a dime.

You weren’t like Toji. Not one bit. You knew that if he hadn’t run into your landlady, you would have definitely paid all your debts off in a month’s time or two, even if that meant devolving your breakfast’s nutritional value to that of instant ramen. You could take care of yourself, just like you’d done for 14 years now. He had no right to interfere because, come next month, you’d—

But the overdue deadlines at the top of each paper spoke louder than your inner thoughts and bravado did. The next month would never come for you. Not in this house, at least.

Defeated, you unfolded the paper, straightening the creases your fingernails had helped create. You hated feeling this way— indebted. The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into just another transactional relationship with an expiration date dependent on the other’s wage.

“Thank you, and,” you mumbled, your stare hiking up his body and stopping at his chest —right about where the difference in your height manifested— “….sorry, I guess. Just thought that with the way you look, and all that-”

“The way I look…?” A winsome smile tugged at his dimples, his left hand weaving through his hair as if he were oblivious to how effortlessly attractive he appeared in his work clothes, every single crevice of his body visible under the little piece of fabric.

“N-never mind.” You tore your eyes away, cheeks flushing bright red at thoughts a friend shouldn’t be having. “How was work?”

“Pretty dead,” he shrugged, using the same hand to rub some of the tension around the crook of his neck. “Don’t see a real challenge rising until that Gojo kid hatches from his egg. Rest die like flies.”

As a regular person with about an average percentage of cursed energy running through your system, you had little understanding of the mystical world of Jujutsu and its sorcerers, all the information you had acquired being bits and pieces that Toji had shared with you over the years. He never went into too much detail about his job but never hid anything either. He killed sorcerers with the same ease he spread butter on his bread.

You really didn’t understand much, and perhaps the keywords “kills for a living” ought to ring an alarm or two, but an outsider like you who didn’t abide by their rules had no right judging those who broke them. Besides, with the way his family had disposed of him as if he were a chewed piece of gum stuck on the back of their sole, things weren’t as black and white as one would assume.

“Gojo, you say,” the name sounding awfully familiar on your tongue. “Is that one of the three big clans?”

Toji nodded, his arms folding over his chest. “Special grade when he ain’t grown any pubes yet,” he scoffed, voice twisting in an unnatural way that could have tricked you into thinking he was jealous of the young boy.

“Are you gonna kill him?”

His brows knitted together, clearly not expecting such bluntness. “Question is, can I? Answer being, for the right price,” the frown he wore subdued into a crooked smile. “maybe. Kid should fetch one good wad of cash. I’m sure many want the six eyes out of the picture.”

Six eyes?

“Just make sure you save some of it,” you mindlessly said, eyes dancing around the room for the first time since you’d entered the house.

There were no real signs of his presence. The duffel bag seemed to be nowhere in sight either. Only his shoes were left by the door right next to yours, a sign you’d completely missed upon entering.

“What happened to your things, by the way? Don’t see ‘em.”

“Took the liberty of sorting them out,” Toji said. “You had a lot more empty space than you made it sound earlier.”

Somehow that statement terrified you— not because you were some overbearing control freak who didn’t want others interfering with their stuff, but because you feared the misplaced items he might have found casually lying around, providing him with all the excuse he needed to tease you to an excruciatingly slow and shameful death.

You went on a parade through the rooms, Toji following in your steps like a well-trained puppy, letting you freely inspect the new “changes”.

In the living room, you spotted a pair of dumbbells lying by the window, heavy enough that when you tried to pick one of them up, it resulted in one loud, unintentional shriek as your feet were nearly crushed, much to Toji’s vile amusement. Then in the bathroom, you found a second toothbrush that shared the exact same color yours did, along with a black fuzzy towel and a men’s deodorant that was missing its lid. You’d have to get another cup for his toothbrush, you noted, and moved along, eventually making it to your apartment’s sole bedroom.

“Where are your clothes?” you asked, Toji nodding in your closet’s direction.

You opened the first door, finding a series of dark-colored shirts, sweaters, and cardigans hanging from the previously vacant racks. You didn’t wear much color yourself, but when comparing the disparity between his almost exclusively black side of the space and the creamier pastels that predominated yours, the clash in taste was indisputable.

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers through his clothes, stopping at the dark blue parka you’d gotten him for his 21st birthday. He wasn’t the type to keep gifts from women, but seeing he’d preserved yours in mint condition filled you with a strange sense of pride.

“Not bad,” you exclaimed, satisfied with how aptly his clothes were displayed until a new worry surfaced. “What about your underwear?”

He glanced toward the bottom drawer, his instep gently kicking against it. You weren’t too sure if that was necessary, and under different circumstances, you’d rather avoid such overt embarrassment, but this was your house first and foremost. Your closet, your drawer, and—

“The bottom drawer…?” The realization struck like a ton of bricks, your pupils widening and then trembling as a breath hitched up your throat, remaining there.

The bottom drawer is where you kept it, perhaps the only thing in this entire household that you’d rather he didn’t see, at the cost of your own life, even. A rabbit, whose little ears tapped in excitement every time it saw you. A rabbit vastly different from the ones that hopped around happily in fields or the one that was weaved through the zipper of your handbag. A rabbit that had kept you company in his place many nights and knew the sound of his name better than Toji himself did.

Sinking to your knees, you felt his shadow loom over you like the shadow of imminent death. You let go of that breath and yanked the drawer open, eyes squinting at the sight of neatly stacked black boxers, their size big enough to make you arch a brow, yet not big enough to completely conceal 6 inches of hot pink. You were safe.

“Looking for this?” A light buzz rang in your ear, your head tilting to meet Toji’s namesake.

“G-give it back!” You dived forward, gracelessly collapsing at his feet when he pulled it out of reach.

“Come and get it,” Toji retorted, wiggling it before your very eyes.

Piecing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you pounced at him, fingers locking around the silicone and his hand, while he refused to surrender, his thrilled expression revealing just how much he enjoyed the demand in your tone as you bossed him into handing back the vibrator.

“What will I get in return?”

“Wha— why would you get anything?” You gritted your teeth, stumbling forward as he dragged you to him.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he shook his forefinger playfully. “Finders keepers, losers weepers. If ya really want it, better compensate me first. Oh, look, it has multiple speeds, huh….” he said semi-impressed, revving up the rabbit’s switch to its second and third speeds.

“…What do you want?” You practically begged, seeking a way out of this humiliation.

“Now we talking,” Toji smirked, barely restraining himself from ruffling the hair of the ferocious, albeit cute, beast that attacked him. “2912. What do the numbers mean? Tried your birthday first, but seems like you do have a few brain cells in there,” he tapped at your temple with his free hand, frustration pooling in your eyes. “Then your mom’s death anniversary, your sis’ birthday, that brat’s too— even mine, but no good.

“So, what’s 2912 to you? Indulge me, and I’ll let you have it.”

2912, or more accurately, 29/12. It didn’t surprise you that he didn’t remember. After all, it wasn’t an important date, just another winter’s day from many, many years ago. A day that was all but erased under the thick blanket of snow as it engulfed your tender memories.

A heavy sigh parted your lips, and at that moment, you knew you’d already lost.

“You really wanna know?”

It was the 27th of December.

The 27th morning of a month whose sole notable event was the week-long blizzard that’d condemned the entire nation to a period of absolute and unfaltering inertia. Well, as unfaltering as the in-between downpours let it be, snow washing over the streets in a diluted mixture of ice and mud every two days— streets turning into a dangerous minefield, and hospital beds quickly filling up with broken-boned smarty pants who thought wandering out and about in the heart of winter would be as inconsequential as those dull days were.

You were one of those idiots. Not quite, but you were on your way to join their ranks, every step you took across the frozen pavements of Tokyo threatening to leave you with a bad case of a sprained ankle, or worse, a cracked skull. You regretted wearing those worn-out boots today of all days, but then again, your wardrobe choices were limited to whatever clothing you’d grown out of, and the clothes your mother left behind.

This old suede pair was hers, too. A gift from back when your house was still open to crowds and birthday parties— when it wasn’t just an empty carcass of termite-eaten joists and web-infested corners that could barely welcome, let alone host, the final of its residents: yourself.

Returning to the reason why you’d chosen today as the day to stride across Shibuya —a thermos of soothing Butajiru soup gripped tightly between your mitten-clad palms and a backpack full of advertising fliers for your afternoon job attached to your back— and consequentially, the reason why you sported your mother’s beloved shoes: you had a job interview. Your first non-canceled interview in over two months since your personal inertia began when you were suddenly and unjustifiably laid off.

Those were tough times. The entire country was dipped in despair over the biggest economic recession they’d known. Left and right, people had their jobs snatched from within their grasp in the name of meek excuses such as cost reduction, or merging and buyouts, or even staff redundancy, and who could blame those small enterprise owners, really?

In any case, the cost of running your previous employer’s rathole of a convenience store might have been reduced, but your living expenses weren’t, and the supplementary funds the state provided were running dry. No one wanted to hire an inexperienced, uninsured high schooler. It was too much of a gamble, especially when the contenders were overqualified college graduates desperate enough to work menial jobs for the same breadcrumbs a part-timer would.

You were at your wit’s end. Out of luck and starved for something other than vending machine onigiri. Thirsty for a life you’d probably never be able to obtain. But today wasn’t about wallowing in self-pity. No, today was the day you’d take your first step toward normality and dignity. Today, you marched proudly in your mother’s most prized possession, and today you felt her comforting scent linger in the breeze, giving you the much-needed push to achieve what you’d set out to do.

Live. That was the final request that left her lips, and that was exactly what you were planning to do. You’d live. No matter what, against all odds, you would live.

The headlights at the bustling intersection shone a brilliant green as the herd of sharply dressed businessmen and casually dressed students on their day off pushed forward like a troop of toy soldiers, sweeping you past Shibuya River, where the crystallized waters from below its bridge stilled your grimacing reflection.

It’d been so long since the last time you’d genuinely smiled that your facial muscles barely remembered how to. It looked awkward and forced. Foreign. You’d practiced your introduction days ahead, but that damn smile stood in the way. If only there was a “smiles for dummies” playbook, though you doubted it’d help. Those without a reason to smile could only second-guess the happiness of those who were blessed with it.

As if to further test your theory, today’s misfortune came pedaling right in your direction, a hasty biker knocking the thermos off your hands and onto the water with a faint “sorry” echoing in his stead. You ducked over the handrail, spotting the silver shine a couple of meters away from the river’s brink. You sighed in relief, grateful that the impact hadn’t shattered the ice and that you still had about 45 minutes to catch your interview— more than enough time for you to carry out your flask’s impromptu rescue operation.

You walked over to the bridge’s sideline, where, in place of stairs, an overgrown cherry tree cast its shadow. This was far from sensible, but the cliff wasn’t steep enough to dissuade you. You looped your scarf around a leaning branch and began your descent, the non-existent friction between your tattered soles and the slippery cement sending you to meet your maker as you tumbled down the slope and hit the ground. Shit.

Once you were done lamenting your sheer idiocy, your faulty shoes, the tree branch, the weather forecast, and every Shinto deity’s name you could remember off the top of your head, you pushed yourself onto your knees, carefully rotating each ankle around itself. Not broken. Thank those aforementioned gods you cursed, or else you’d never be able to afford the medical bills.

You shook the snow off your clothes and stood up, stretching both arms over your head, only to realize your blunder had become a lonesome spectator’s object of amusement. The man —assuming that the creature behind you was a man and not some wild beast with the way his jacket fluffed over his skull— was bent in half, knees to his chest, and arms coiled around, the sole distinctive trait that of his sparkling green eyes zeroing in on your plainer orbs.

You could have sworn you heard a chuckle, too, but you weren’t about to start a fight with some unhinged bum at the bottom of a bridge— not when you were one missed bill away from sharing his fate.

Deciding to temporarily forsake his presence, you located the now broken branch and attempted to fish your bottle out, moving as close to the ice as you could. Desperate lunges pushed the thermos further in, your hold on the wood relaxing with each failed attempt until you barely had a grip.

“Excuse me!” you turned at your last resort. “Hi, um… could you please help me out here? I dropped this into the water, and it’s really important I get it back, but my arms can’t reach and the ice is so thin and slippery I just might fall.”

An uncomfortable chuckle failed to appease its tough crowd, with the man remaining lost in his thoughts, his eyes blinking slower than traffic lights during rush hours. It seemed like you’d found the worst person to exercise your communication skills with.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Shut up.”

It was your turn to blink in surprise, your jaw dropping at the man’s barking. You were too shocked to be offended and too offended to question if it was you he addressed, but his next sentence left no real room for misunderstanding.

“I said, shut the fuck up and take it elsewhere. You were the one who dropped it. If it was that important to you, then shoulda taken better care of it instead of avalanching your way down here and disturbing my peace.”

Clapping your hands over your agape mouth, you muttered an apology and faced away from him, coming to your senses a minute later when you realized you weren’t in the wrong. Sure, he could be dealing with some lachrymose life-shattering situation you knew nothing about, but that wasn’t an excuse for him to act like a complete jerk to a fellow stranger in need.

You weren’t sure why you held back from flipping him off. Maybe you’d accepted that dealing with douchebags was going to become part of your new reality as a service worker, or maybe it was because you really didn’t want any trouble with a guy who looked this intimidating even while seated. Either way, you whipped out your trusty branch again and neared the brink, this time using it as a cane to help you tread the frozen waters and snatch your thermos.

You didn’t even get a chance at a victorious cheer when you felt the ice shatter beneath your feet, eager to swallow you into the depths of its bottomless abyss. Or that’s what would have happened if the river didn’t cap at 2 meters, and if a hand didn’t yank you by the scruff of your neck, hurling you back to the shore as if you weighed no more than a snowflake.

“The hell you think you are doing? Got a death wish or something?” the brass voice of your savior accused, belonging to a much more pleasant and youthful face than one would have expected.

The boy was more or less your age, about a head taller with broad shoulders and a toned physique his baggy clothes undermined— much stronger than your average high-schooler, judging by the sheer strength he’d flung your body with. Messy raven black hair rained down to his ears, sloppily chopped into shape by their owner himself. Eyes as green as a thousand springs gone by, and as fiery as the blazing fury scorching them. The only discord in his features was that of a scar on the right side of his lips, begrudgingly moving with each profanity he spat.

Your second apology came as a knee-jerk reaction to his outburst, encouraged by the temporal trance his good looks had subjected you to. You wouldn’t say you had a type, and even if you did, you doubted that a no-good, rude bridge inhabitant was it. However, the only way for you to tear your gaze off of him was to physically force yourself away. The guy murmured something under his breath and moved back to his original spot, arms dangling over his spread thighs.

You were unsure of what to do. The time for your interview was closing in, and no one guaranteed he wouldn’t rip the vocal cords off your throat if you tried to verbally thank him. You had a very bad feeling about this guy, and perhaps you should have listened to your gut rather than nullifying the distance with a peace offering.

“Here,” you prodded a spare cup of soup into the empty space between you.

He arched a brow at your gesture, his irritation gradually melting into curiosity and then acceptance as he brought the cup to his lips and took a hesitant sip.

“Hmm,” he hummed, gulping down some more after he’d made sure you weren’t trying to poison him.

You expected something else to follow, but it seemed like his outburst exhausted his vocabulary. You could always ask what he thought of it, but the thought alone was as scary as going for another suicide dive. So you said nothing, and he did the same. Just two strangers who barely tolerated each other sharing a moment of silence in the snowy landscape.

A short while later, the boy shoved the cup toward you and dug his hand in his jacket’s front pocket, dropping about six crumpled ten-thousand yen bills at your feet.

“For the soup,” he explained as if the notion of spending such an extravagant sum on half a cup of pork loin soup made sense.

“Are you outta your mind?” You pushed the bills back at him, lest your greed take over. “How much do you think this cost to make?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, no real hurry to reclaim his cash.

Your initial impression was completely false. No bum would ever wave ten-thousand bills around as if they were nothing. No, this guy ought to at least be some troubled conglomerate heir that’d run away from his five-bedroom mansion.

“I’m sure you don’t know how dangerous this neighborhood is,” you said, placing your hand against your heart. “But as a born and raised local, allow me to say that if you keep flaunting wads of cash in people’s faces so recklessly, it won’t be long before you get mugged. It’s your lucky day you ran into me and not some sleazy money grabber, but trust me, not every day’s lucky, and not everyone’s as nice.”

Something about what you said must have resonated with him, considering his frown cracked into a simper.

“I’d like to see them try,” he spoke in a cocky tone that reeked of confidence. “How much for seconds then?”

“Not for sale,” you answered, throwing the thermos inside your backpack.

His weight shifted in your direction, chin balancing against his elbow. “Why not?”

“You see, I’m on my way to a job interview. Figured if I don’t cut it, then the soup will,” quickly adding, “It’s my trump card.”

“What a dumb plan,” he sneered. “If ya wanna bribe someone, better make an offer they can’t refuse. Couple of these work like a charm.”

He waved the money again, successfully drawing your interest when you noticed tiny splotches of red on one of the bills. Blood.

Picking up on the change in your expression, he hurriedly stuffed the cash inside his pocket, his thumbs sticking out in a relaxed grip so as to hide his discomfort. The air grew heavy once more, albeit for a different reason.

Every guess you’d made regarding this guy’s identity clashed with the next one. He was rude, but he’d jumped to your rescue. He looked unkempt yet strikingly handsome. He’d taken refuge under a bridge but was damn loaded. A walking (more like seated) contradiction of a man that intrigued you in more ways than he repulsed you.

“So, what are you doing out here? Did you also fall from up there?” You chuckled nervously while pointing upward.

He smiled.

“That’s a pretty old-school pickup line, if ya ask me.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Your chest pounded against your fleece jacket, hands quick to dispute him. “Did something happen? Why did you end up here?”

He shook his head.

“Did you run away from home?”

He shook his head again.

“Did you get into a fight with someone?”

He thought about shaking his head a third time, but instead, he opted for a groan and hissed about how he should have let you drown.

Your tongue embarrassed you yet again, as you mumbled an apology and cowered in your corner. For some reason, you couldn’t stop apologizing to him, and if that was enough to frustrate you, then it was definitely enough to annoy him. Maybe the time to leave had come. You’d done your part in thanking him, and it was really none of your business to pry into his sad character backstory.

“Well then. It was nice knowing you, and all. Hope you have a Happy New Year’s and a nice life, and let’s never see each other again for as long as we-”

“What if I told you I just killed someone?”

The blood in your veins froze for a reason separate from the cold. You were left staring at him with wide-open eyes and a wide-open mouth that refused to form anything other than a soundless “What?!”

“Thought so,” he scoffed as if he expected the outcome, sorrow lingering in his voice. “Go away if ya don’t wanna end up the same way. I’m still getting the hang of it, and I’m afraid it’d hurt more than drowning.”

But you didn’t leave. Even when that little voice of reason thrashed and begged for you to seize the opportunity and get the fuck away from this place, your legs refused to take another step. Instead, you settled back upon the snowy blanket and stilled your gaze on his face, watching a glimmer of something tune in the green of his eyes.

“W-Who was it?” You feigned calmness.

“Does it matter?” he shrugged.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Does it really matter?” he sighed, reconsidering his answer. “Dunno. Money, I guess. Not as if I had a personal grudge or anything. Didn’t even know the dude up until three days ago. Took him out with a single bullet to his brain. T’was instant since he didn’t move. Painless, too.” He tried to humanize his actions.

You weren’t entirely sold on his story, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that made him a murderer and you a witness to his crime. Worse, if you didn’t rat on him, it made you an accomplice, and as far as you were concerned, neither was less illegal than the other.

Your hands cupped your mouth completely as you pretended to blow hot air, the reality being that you didn’t want to spew anything too backhanded before thinking things through. Oddly, it all made sense. The reason he sat down there like a puppy kicked by his owners. His devil-may-care attitude and rude comments that meant to throw you off. The blood on the bills and the stain on the hem of his jacket that you’d previously overlooked.

That was all the incriminating evidence one needed to possibly sentence him, and yet you sensed no real danger in his presence. Only a deep sadness that stemmed from his lifeless eyes, making you believe that his so-called victim was none other than himself. He looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in God knows how long, the light in his eyes reduced to a murky shade of jade now that everything was laid bare.

There was so much you didn’t know about this boy, his name included. But you knew that look of despair all too well. If it was because of money, then maybe, just this once, you wouldn’t mind giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“How much did you make?” You lowered your palms.

Your question surprised him more than he thought possible, and his stupefied expression was a telltale sign of that. He flipped both pockets inside out and let the money fall onto the snow, revealing twice the amount he’d held before— a total of 120.000 yen.

“Minus a grand. Felt hungry after,” he admitted.

“Must be nice… With that amount of money, I could have rice to last me until the end of the year.”

“You’d kill for rice…?”

Glancing at his face, you couldn’t help yourself from snorting. You were both too deep inside the twilight zone to be questioning each other’s motives.

“Why act surprised? People like us do all sorts of things to get out of our predicaments, don’t we?” you asked, deciding there were more things you had in common than things that divided you. “Is ‘just money’ a better reason than rice?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “But if I were you, I’d get myself a pair of boots that ain’t a death trap of its own. Gotta be a special kind of idiot to wear crappy shoes in the snow.”

“These were my mother’s!” you objected, and he smirked. “What about you? Where do you plan on spending all that money?”

“Roppongi probably. Or Kabukicho. Heard the right price fetches you the right type of fun there.”

He couldn’t be serious. Those were two of the most renowned bad districts in the history of bad districts. Drugs, gambling, prostitution— you name it.

“How old are you again?”

“Older than you,” he childishly retorted.

“What’s your name?”

“So you can snitch?” His tongue wet the scar below his bottom lip. “Toji.”

“Last name?”

He contemplated his answer for a bit before proudly stating that he didn’t have one —that he didn’t need one— and then he asked you the same.

“Y/N.” You smiled faintly. “I do have a last name, but doubt the one who gave it wants me to have it. Would’ve asked it back if it had any real value.”

“So we are two fuck-ups,” he— Toji, declared.

“I suppose we are.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t heard but felt through the eyes of two kindred spirits entirely content with each other’s presence. Ever since your mother passed, you lived in a sphere separate from other people. Your classmates and those who tried to be your friends could afford the luxury of sharing takoyaki on a school day and going karaoke singing the next. They could attend field trips and leave memories on a string of Polaroid frames.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. There wasn’t a single moment in your life when you hadn’t thought about the cost of milk and the value of one-plus-one deals you convinced yourself you didn’t need. Such were the concerns you had at seventeen. Not boys, no friendships, no university entrance exams, no nothing. You couldn’t afford the price tag of a dream, let alone a tomorrow. You lived for today and for making ends meet, so how could someone like you ever aspire to be understood? How could you ever view yourself as something other than the zeros at the bottom of your meager paycheck?

Your self-exile had no room for others, yet somehow, this foul-mouthed stranger had barged his way in and given you a moment that you couldn’t price. A moment that neither loan sharks nor the bank could ever steal. A moment of your youth.

The thick fingers of a calloused hand came to tap at your knee softly, making you wonder whether you’d missed something during your short period of contemplation.

“When’s the interview?” Toji asked.

“Uhm.” You rolled your sleeve to check your watch. “Ten minutes? There’s still time; the place’s right around the corner.”

“Somethin’ tells me getting your ass over there will take longer than that.” Suddenly, the hand that was on your leg hovered above your head, prompting you to grab it as Toji towered over you. “Let’s go.”

“You coming with?”

“You think I’d rather sit down here like some bridge troll that reels in defenseless damsels in distress?”

You were tempted to answer “yes” to see his reaction, but he resumed talking before you could utter a word. “Won’t say it again. Let’s go.”

And with that, you followed Toji to the other end of the bridge, where the stairs you previously failed to locate mocked you with every little squeak your heels produced, until you stood back at the top of civilization, finding it, unsurprisingly, the same as you’d left it. Thoroughly white and eerily quiet.

Just as you thought your ways would part, Toji took your hand in his rather forcefully and picked up a steady gait that you were made to keep up with, your shoes leaving deep imprints in the snow.

He held your hand all the way to the diner, and although you were truly curious as to why he did that, you didn’t dare ask. You walked side by side in silence, occasional fleeting gazes catching his warm breath clashing with the cold. It was then that you realized how warm his palm felt, despite it being all bare. Warm, strong, and certain. So this is what holding a guy’s hand feels like, you giddily mused.

By the time you reached the front door, you were more reluctant to let go than you’d been to grab his hand, thinking that this was the first and last time the two of you were saying goodbye. Sweat made your fingers slippery. You were anxious. You slid your mittens off your fingers and, on a whim, pressed them tight against his palms, making him the recipient of the first gift you’d ever given. He shot the pink-colored wool a funny look —maybe because the prospect of him accepting such a girly-looking accessory puzzled him— and then lingered for a moment or two before he turned around and waved at you over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you gonna wish me good luck?” You asked when the distance between you began to increase.

“You won’t need it,” you heard him say. “The soup will do.”

And with those final words exchanged, you traded the frigid cold for the diner’s artificial heat and the presence of a prospective friend for that of your boss-to-be.

Just like Toji predicted, you didn’t need luck, and you didn’t need that lukewarm soup either. The man hired you almost as fast as he saw you, sternly announcing that you start come Monday. You thanked him from the bottom of your heart and ran back outside, searching through the various white-painted buildings for that stubborn hint of black you’d not too long ago parted with— which you quickly spotted a couple of alleyways ahead.

“I got the job! You hear me, Toji?” You yelled in utter glee, sensibility alone keeping you from springing upward like a jack-in-the-box. “I’m not a fuck-up anymore; I got it! I got the job!”

You weren’t even sure whether that shadow really belonged to him and whether he’d actually made sense of all your frantic cries, but maybe if you’d hushed a little, then you could have heard a distant voice chiming, “I knew you would.”

It was the 27th of December when we first met, but it was on the 29th that I fell in love with you— the scruffy boy with the snow-laced hair and emptied pockets who ordered the cheapest fries off the menu as my company’s fee.

You had your answer locked and loaded— a trigger waiting to be pulled. A clear shot. One bullet was all it’d take to end it. One word, and the farce you called friendship would fizzle right then and there. A sadistic impulse uncoiled deep within your stomach, hitching up your throat like a vile serpent of temptation spurring your chaste tongue to commit the greatest sin imaginable.

I hate being your friend. I don’t want to do this anymore. Do you have any idea how hard it is?

All synonyms for the same emotion. A gut-wrenching, soul-crushing, and above all, self-destructive unrequited love that made your heart clench at the mere sight of him, pound at the sound of his voice, and hammer at the ghost of his touch. If you could reach deep within your chest and cut that useless thing off the strings that held it in its cavity, you certainly would. You’d hand it over to him and gladly watch him stomp on it with the biggest smile contorting the final expression on your face. You wanted to rid yourself of this pointless emotion, but you knew very well that to destroy yourself meant to destroy him.

The 18-year-old Toji that held your hand on a cold winter’s day as if it were the most precious thing to him. The 20-year-old Toji that came along to meet the sister and nephew you didn’t know you had. The 22-year-old Toji that said he was proud of you when you paid off your parents’ house’s mortgage. The 24-year-old Toji that came to your graduation from state college with blood-stained lilies in his hand, again letting slip how proud he was. The 26-year-old Toji that didn’t hesitate to knock the teeth right out of a handsy prick’s jaw, spending his first and last night in a holding cell. The Toji from the last ten years of your life that never strayed too far away from your sight and always managed to return in time for lunch.

Standing in front of the 28-year-old Toji, you felt more apologetic than ever, wishing that you wouldn’t have let your love for him fester into something so selfish and consuming. Because if Toji left, then you’d still have your sister and her family, but if you left, Toji would have none.

And that was why you could never tell him what that day meant. It was impossible to speak of it with any less fondness than the one depicted in your memories, and as dense as Toji could be at times, he was no idiot. So rather than giving him the answer he thought himself to seek, you retracted your hand and took a step back, forcing the meekest smile your guilty conscience could muster.

“How about an offer you’d never refuse?”

tags: @absoluteindulgence

[perfectfangirl]

notes after rewatching fallout s1 ep1

so once again like a crazy person [i've done this with star wars sequels before] i've decided to take three and half pages of notes over the course of an hour. i've been a fan of the games for at least a decade and i'm actually always watching lore content between the installments though so while i do know some minute details, within the show, there was some things i was interested in and curious about that i just decided to jot down. some of this may be things discussed already and some of it might be something i wasn't sure if anyone brought up before but anyways! maybe i'll do the whole season, but here's my ramblings • them titling the episode "the end" was when i knew i'd love the show • ok but i really wonder if cooper can still do those party tricks? he was really good at them and lucy would probably love them too 🥺 • thinking back, the radio in the first scene mentions not knowing where the president is--- beginning to wonder if he was the guy sitting in on the vault tec meeting • just realized they introduced the mr. handy robot in some of the first scenes • ten years of nuclear threat according to anchor but the show is careful not to give away all the cards because why does the weather anchor make it seem like they know when the bomb will drop? idk but birthday boy mother turns off tv real "head in the sand" like • the nat king cole song that's playing though [wondering if the song is mirroring specifically cooper's feelings about barb despite everything hmm] • horse's name is sugarfoot 🥹 • him having to pay alimony... wonder what the prenup? was like... [still think he probably loves barb 😞]

• them calling him a pinko despite him being an architect of vault boy's persona, a quintessential presentation of a "man's man" acting as a cowboy, a real cowboy, a former marine--- wondering if there was a smear campaign after his situation with barb and vault tec, him working children's parties leads me to believe... • did the kid's say the birthday boy's name was boyd? [if so, there's another character in the games with this name and this is also the name of a character walton has played in another series, funny] • weather man show's up again distressed, wondering if we'll get more info about that day • everyone ignoring, cognitive dissonancing their own nuclear annihilation is so prescient if not disturbing and damning

• him teaching janey the thumb thing ☹️ • cooper's voice when he says "let me see if i can't rustle you up a piece" 😩 • janey being the only one to notice the first bomb • the fear in cooper's eyes • cooper being in denial one last time before realization sets in • people becoming animals the moment they realize what's happening--- one guy punches his friend not letting his family into the fallout shelter • people getting into their cars and cooper onto his horse to escape--- wonder how fast they could be since it doesn't seem you could outrun nuclear annihilation

• lucy being raised so well under the circumstances 😔 [hope she never becomes her father] • i haven't trusted steph since episode one • lucy being a teacher [amongst other things] and asking maximus about what happened after the bombs fell makes so much sense [and also much like another person suggested is an interesting juxtaposition to cooper's pre war knowledge] • lucy showing how skilled she is for being a marriage candidate when in reality we are seeing someone fit for the wasteland is crazy on second watch • is lucy not watching a cooper howard movie with her dad? hello??

• them reading "war and peace" in the family book club is rich • lucy [thinking] she's not good at guns, ironic • steph having to step in like a sisterly type because lucy's mom isn't there 😞 • the wedding dress on lucy being ill fitting, tight as symbolism for lucy not truly "fitting in there" and being constrained [foreshadowing] oof • the vault boy sign in the back saying "don't lose your head" lmao • didn't catch the "cousin stuff" until someone mentioned it on tumblr and twitter 💀

• the flashback we see of lucy ending up being almost a false memory, a misrepresentation of her actual memories, that she has been on the surface, in the sun • norm taunting lucy about her future husband being "anybody" and a "cannibal, crammed full of tumours" 😭 unfortunately for ghoulcy, this was some of the heaviest foreshadowing [the raider also could have been one too] • why didn't hank recognize moldaver? • so many things i still don't understand about vaults 31, 32, 33 • the growing realization they are raiders was pretty funny to me lmao

• moldaver having to sit through the disingenuous lies of hank ugh • norm going into vault 32 like they wanted them to know what was up? or is that just how vault doors work? they used lucy's mom's pip boy [that hank lied about burying] • lucy putting norm in a storage vault, she really is so strong • the handed down wedding dress getting messed up • i am curious if the raiders [shady sands survivors?] only mostly harmed vault tec aligners but maybe not • the way hank and steph retaliating a little too well • hank acting like he doesn't know moldaver when everyone really does know moldaver • moldaver telling lucy she looks like her mother is really such a tipoff

• realizing maximus is getting bullied 😭 • dane... might love maximus a little idk • from latrine duty to basically ruling over the brotherhood of steel • they really showed some dude jacking it lmao it's just normal i guess 💀 • maximus being defeated and having a rightful outburst of emotion, poor guy • the poster saying "the outside world can never harm you"--- funny • chet would've died up there 😭 • them not opening the vault back up for her, wondering if the vapourized bodies are from the initial bomb drop or the subsequent shady sands ones • dane almost gets maximus killed three times tbh • maximus joined the brotherhood of steel to get back at what vault tec did, essentially hank's doing, hank has many enemies • knowing the enclave, it makes sense why siggi is hunted • cooper the ghoul's introduction though • the bounty hunter saying his captors dig cooper up every once in a while to cut pieces of flesh off him 😞 no wonder cooper acts the way he does 😔 he's been taken advantage of, no wonder he doesn't trust anybody and is horrible to everyone • "why is this an amish production of "the count of monte cristo" or the weirdest circle jerk i've ever been invited to?" why would he say this 😭 • cooper's... been invited to circle jerks 👀 • does the bounty hunter know the ghoul is cooper howard?

• him not harming the chicken, him healing dogmeat, there's something there, folks • people only digging him up to use him again 😞 • what a coincidence he's dug up just as lucy leaves the vault • "i do this shit for the love of the game" he's a character, he's playing a character, real theatre kid • hence why cooper is introduced as "the ghoul", cooper is long gone • "us cowpokes, we take it as it comes" something about this lineee

[dearharriet]

could you write a steve x fem!reader fic based on little freak by harry styles? thank you!!!

ty for the req!! <3 i hadn’t listened to little freak since harry’s house came out but this prompt rly grew on me :) hope u like it! (1.6K) 🦢 (cw: drinking, smoking, foul language)

A football team of college pricks had invaded the kitchen. You felt bad. In high school, the kitchen was always a haven at parties for chatting and drinking and planning to leave. What you were witnessing felt like the desecration of God’s land.

You were on the counter, where you’d stationed yourself an hour ago. The rowdy group would rotate between flirting with you and rooting through the cupboards and drawers, or roughhousing (which had broken three household items so far), or yelling.

The guy talking to you now smelled like Windex and had calluses on his hands that kept snagging on your tights.

“—and girls always say they like blue collar guys but really they’re just talking about Bruce Springsteen.”

“Mm-hm,” you mumbled a half-hearted agreement.

You’d exhausted your options, and were considering letting Windex take you home. Half of the other guys wouldn’t even talk to you, only shooting furtive glances your way.

“Have you seen how lanky that guy is? He’s never seen a day of work in his life.”

“Uh-huh.” You scanned the crowd, desperate for another chance, but only found two girls eyeing you from the punch bowl. Caught, they scampered out of the kitchen again giggling, their full cups sloshing red onto the linoleum.

“Hey,” Windex pulled your attention back to him. Your face felt warm, and you chided yourself. The girls never used to make fun of you for being liked.

“Hey,” he said again, taking your chin. You tamped down a cringe. “Wanna get out of here?”

This time when you swept the kitchen, hopeless, there was someone standing on the threshold.

There was a fuzzy familiarity about him—the nose, the big brown eyes.

Windex finally turned to see what was distracting you, and his grip on your leg tightened.

“Oh, Jesus. Here comes royalty.”

The other boys in the kitchen noticed him too, and started heckling him. The chaos of their insults made them indecipherable. You caught the stranger’s eye and smiled demurely, but he averted his gaze, and then lurched forward like someone pushed him. A small dirty blonde traipsed in behind him, speaking a mile a minute.

Windex blocked your view with his body, standing between your thighs.

“C’mon, let’s get outta here. I think the rats are moving in for scraps.” He pulled at your legs to slide you off the counter, but you anchored yourself with your hands.

“I think I’m gonna stay a little longer,” you told him, and because your subtlety is nonexistent, your eyes flicked over to the boy and his friend. Windex caught on quickly, glancing between you two and scoffing dryly.

“Right,” he said. “Have fun with that. Just don’t be surprised if his dick is softer than his hands.”

You straightened. “You can go now.”

He threw his hands up in surrender and backed away.

“You guys can give it up,” he shouted over the music and the jeering. “King Steve is here!”

The guys all groaned, dropping everything and abandoning ship.

One of them threw his cigarette into Steve’s brand new cup of liquor and it flamed. Steve jumped back, tossing the drink away from him. You gasped.

“What the hell?” Steve was giving the guy what for? but everyone else was staring at Windex. Steve’s drink was seeping into his flannel shirt, a blotch of brown over the forest-green. Thankfully the flame didn't last, so he was only soggy and unhappy.

“Real nice, bud,” Windex bit out. “My shirt is fucked.”

Steve’s friend spoke up.

“Tell your idiot friends not to make molotovs out of his damn drink, then, bud.”

“Rob, stop. Let’s just go, they were here first.”

“No, please, your highness. She’s all yours.” Windex shot a look your way, and then him and the rest of them went away.

With the guys gone, the typical kitchen crowd started reappearing. Steve and his friend seemed content to lean against the island and people watch.

You assumed she was his girlfriend after a while, but then a pretty redhead appeared and whisked her away, their fingers nervously interlocked.

Steve made his way over soon after.

“Hey.” There’s an art to charming guys, and you were always naturally talented at it. You’d dip your chin and look up through your lashes, and speak just a smidge too quiet so they’d have to lean in to hear you.

Steve, however, didn’t lean in. His mouth pulled into a strained smile.

“Hi.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, um, fine.” He glanced behind you. “Would you grab me a paper towel?”

Twisting around, you found the roll on its spool under the cabinet and frowned. The section tore off cleanly and you slid it across the counter to him.

“I remember you, now,” you said before he could escape. “From school. You’re the ladykiller.”

He blew a breath out and ran a hand through his hair. You remembered that, too.

“That’s not something I’m really proud of.” He winced. “I’m trying to leave it behind.”

A throaty giggle sprang out of you.

“I don’t know if spilling drinks on people is a step in the right direction.” You were joking, but he frowned.

“Yeah, I’m, uh. I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you?” You squinted.

“No,” he said with retroactive irritation. “He was being a prick. They all were. But I’m sorry for you.”

A scoff rolled out of you, slightly affronted.

“Gee, thanks.” You folded your arms and leaned back into the cabinet. “Is this how you charm all the girls? By feeling sorry for them?”

“I don’t do much charming,” he muttered. You raised a skeptical brow. “Anymore.”

Laughing, you lifted your butt to grab the pack of smokes you had stashed away in your back pocket.

“Clearly. I’m starting to think you’re actually here for the paper towel.” Kicking a leg out, you grazed his hip with your sneaker while you pulled a cigarette out.

Steve watched you light it, something churning behind his eyes.

“I don’t get it,” he mumbled, almost too quiet for you to catch. He was shaking his head.

“Hm?” Blowing your first drag out into the kitchen, you relaxed a little further in your perch.

“Just…in school, guys always talked about you like you were odd. Freaky.” He shrugged. “You just seem like a girl to me.”

Your brows pinched, conflicted. “Oh.”

Steve kept eyeing your smoke. When he realized he wasn’t being subtle enough, he turned to gaze out at the kitchen, arms crossed.

“Yknow, I always wondered what you thought of them.”

You looked out into the kitchen, but there was no identifiable person that he was talking about.

“Who?”

Ruffling the back of his hair a bit, he said, “The guys you’d talk to.”

You hummed. Ashed your cigarette onto his forgotten paper towel.

“You mean why I liked them?”

“No, just—” Steve paused. Intrigued, you scooted to the edge of the counter to listen closer.

“Just what you were thinking.” Steve kicked his sneaker into the floor. “You looked kinda far away most of the time.”

A smile crept over your face.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” you muttered, swaying your feet. You tried to sum your thoughts up without being long-winded.

“I think…they’re bored.” Steve looked at you and you added, “And sad.” Smiling bitterly, you looked away. “Mostly sad.”

Steve's laugh was hollow as he rubbed his cheek with the flat of his hand.

“Yeah. Sounds about right.”

You shared a look, and then shared a silence as you finished your cigarette. When you were done, you stubbed it briskly and leaned forward onto your hands again.

“Hey, so.” You cleared your throat. “I think I’m gonna go. And if I leave on my own, at least one of those guys is gonna follow me. I know you’re not interested, but, um…”

Smiling at him—a real smile, not a simper or a manipulation—you asked, “Do me a favor and walk me out?” Steve looked unsure, so you added, “You can come right back. If you don’t want people to think…”

Nodding slowly, Steve came and helped you hop down. You tried to concern yourself as little as possible with his big hands, with how automatic his decision to help you was. You failed miserably, especially when he started guiding you out by the small of your back.

Windex was shirtless on the couch, talking at a new girl who wore a thousand-yard-stare that rivaled yours. He stilled when you passed, watching the both of you with contempt, but didn’t stop you.

Outside was chilly, being night and near-October in Hawkins. You rubbed your arms over the thin sleeves of your shirt and sucked in a shaky breath. It came out as steam.

“Thanks,” you said cheerily, giving Steve's forearm a small grateful squeeze. “I’ll see you ‘round.”

You probably wouldn’t.

The gravel driveway loomed before you, and you started your trek with a huff.

“What are you doing?”

You spun around to see Steve looking at you, perplexed.

“I’m walking home.”

Steve's face flickered with emotion before he shook his head insistently.

“Uh-uh. Let’s go.” Shoving his hand into a pocket, he produced his keys and started toward a BMW.

“What? Steve, no, it’s fine. I do it all the time.”

The passenger door was already open.

“Get in the car, crazy.”

Shifting where you stood, you found yourself tempted to do just that. You glanced at the house.

“People will think—“

“That’s fine.”

A beat passed between you, and then a cold gust of wind pushed you into the cushy leather seat, and Steve closed the door behind you.

When he slid into the driver's side you asked, “What about your friend?”

He smiled. “She left a while ago.”

“Oh.” Nodding, you relaxed. Steve put the car in reverse and turned the radio up, and you laughed outright.

Springsteen was on.

+

thank you for reading! 🌝

masterlist

[honourablejester]

All the Veilguard reveal posting has reminded me of Solas’ … Solas’ face and Solas’ voice, and Solas’ aggravating fucking opinions, and I can’t …

My one abiding memory of the shithead egg was his conversation with my dwarven inquisitor where he asked if I’d felt more moral since getting the anchor. And I just … I, personally, in the real world, was staring speechless at him for like a solid 60 seconds there. Just absorbing the implications of that. I was staring speechless, and then overcome with a vibrating need to drop kick the motherfucker off the top of Skyhold. Did I feel more moral. Jesus fuck.

Solas doesn’t think dwarves can have morals. He doesn’t think people not connected to the fade can be moral.

I’m nowhere near surprised Varric in Veilguard can’t talk him out of ripping the world open to the fade, because Varric, a dwarf, is talking to a man who doesn’t think non-magical people are real people. Like you can’t … you can’t dent that sort of worldview. You can’t logic the man out of it, you can’t plead on the basis of morality, because he doesn’t think you have any. His morals are the only real morals. His people are the only real people. You can’t talk to somebody like that.  

Sorry. It’s just the gameplay demo, and his face, and his voice, and his goddamn motherfucking …

I think the only time I have ever reacted as strongly to a character opening their mouth in a game was Altair in the opening scene of Assassin’s Creed, where he opened his face and I instantly wanted him, if not dead, then at least getting his arse resoundingly kicked immediately. That conversation with Solas was the same. I was incandescently angry at him. I was struck dumb with rage. And now he’s coming back around, and I’m trying to be sane about it, but god I wanna punch his face in.

Ahem. I have some previously bottled rage-type feelings towards the genocidal elven egg, apparently. Pardon. Carry on.

[pseudowho]

Okay so i was thinking about the “belly bulge” stuff right? Generally gives me the ick cause it absolutely isn’t in the realm of possibility for me, and I got to thinking…”there is not a single person with a vagina where you can see the ‘belly bulge’” BUT then I started second guessing myself because i know that people with a uterus, the cervix and uterus is kinda the end point. People who’ve surgically transition have a “back” (for lack of better term) but what about people who’ve had radical hysterectomies? Is there a back? Feels like a stupid question cause of course logically it seems like there should be or else the intestines may slide down (right?) but i don’t know anyone who’s had a hysterectomy of that nature. Also?? Anal sex???? Could you see a bulge there?? Like ????? I feel like i should know this: i went to nursing school (i dropped out but STILL)

See this is the sort of stuff I won't answer here (I will in DMs because it's a bit graphic), but I do know. It's part of my job to! R.e. the hysterectomies, surgeries...ultimately if anything they will make the vaginal canal even shorter than before. R.e. anal sex, the rectum is situated between the sacrum/spin and the pelvic bones at the front, with other pelvic and abdominal organs in front of it, so...yeah.

In short...in NONE OF THESE SITUATIONS WOULD YOU SEE A BELLY BULGE. The genitalia and sex organs are pelvic organs. Even if a penis did happen to go through an open cervix (which doesn't just happen, there are limited occasions where a cervix would just be OPEN like that), the uterus is still firmly anchored within the pelvis. I mean, the uterus only reaches above the brim of the pelvis and is abdominally palpable a good few months into a pregnancy.

So yes...belly bulge from massive cock isn't a thing BUT to a large extent the smut described in fanfiction isn't a thing-- it's just fun, if unrealistic. Men without refractory periods? Women being wetter than a waterslide at Disneyland? Veritable gallons of cum? Aside from a few weird and rare circumstances, these things generally aren't the way it really is.

I guess what concerns me, is that while the sexually experienced amongst us know this, and enjoy our smut with a punch of salt, I think if TUMBLR was where I was receiving a sex education...well, let's just say I'd be shocked and disappointed by my first time.

-- Haitch xxx

[dxckgrxsonx]

Quiet Realisations (ii)

Pairing - Jason Todd X (F) Reader (Friends to Lovers) Words - 3.2k Warnings - Angst - Nightmares - Mentions of Blood & Violence - Mentions of Death/Murder - Platonic Affection - Comfort - So Many Feelings - Swearing - Jason can project his dreams/nightmares onto others. Notes - I’ve been reading about the potential that Jason can do strange things after being brought back. So for the purpose of this fic - and also for angst reasons - Jason can project his dreams/nightmares onto others. There will also be other weird mentions throughout this series because I think its cool.

PART ONE // MASTERLIST

**

‘How many times can the same thing break your heart? As long as you love it.’

**

He’s waiting for you outside of work.

You don’t know how your brain does it. How it can sweep over a crowd on autopilot and find him without you knowing. How it searches, soft and hungry for the tell-tale signs of his presence. Most of the time you walk out into the world, blink in the blinding face of the sun and there he is, there he is.

Right in the centre, like a perfect splash of colour.

Sometimes, you think you could recognise him by touch alone, could close your eyes, be blind to the world and still find him; strong and soft and so goddamn kind it punches painfully through your chest like a thousand knives; makes you feel like you’re dying.

You think you could find him in death’s bony arms. Maybe even in the grave. Or at the very end of the world.

You wonder sometimes, if he could do the same.

Not for the first time you wish he knew, wish you could open your mouth and let the truth come out. Doesn’t he know? You want to cry. Doesn’t he know that this thing in your chest is forever? That it's eternal?

That it’s his?

**

Your smile comes easy when you approach him, work bag hanging from one shoulder.

Jason meets you halfway, fingers fiddling with something in his pocket. In your head, your brain hands you the answer to what it is on reflex. It’s the same sort of easy knowledge that comes from looking out of the window and seeing Gotham shrouded in grey clouds and rain.

It’s easy. It’s predictable.

It’s this: Jason’s armed.

Over the time you’ve known him, you’ve picked up on his habits. Jason carrying weapons isn’t anything new, doesn’t come as a surprise. You’ve never seen where all of them are on his person. But sometimes, if you watch him in your peripheral vision, you’ll get a hint, a barely there clue.

There’s a blade in his pocket. One tucked into his boot. The handle of something sharp and shining at his hip.

Gotham has always had a serrated edge of unpredictability. Never had a pattern that could be deciphered or predicted. The fluttering urge to be prepared is something you learn, something the city teaches. Its lessons are vast and you either pay attention or find yourself dumped in the harbour.

You’ve always seen Gotham as something alive, something breathing and tangible. A teacher, a guide, a twisted lesson. It lives under your feet and sometimes, you think you could reach out your hand and hold its beating heart in your palm.

It’s not beautiful.

But a home never really is.

**

Jason wordlessly reaches out a hand when you’re close enough, one hand still in his pocket. He gestures to the bag over your shoulder without looking, eyes flicking across the street. Internally, you wonder how he’s able to tell exactly where your bag is without looking.

“No.” You say, quickly sidestepping him and leaning out of his reach. “This is my bag, get your own.”

His eyes quickly narrow in suspicion when he slants his attention to you, mouth pressing into a barely controlled line. Your stomach drops like an anchor when you watch him start to assess you. His focus is heavy and you can’t help the way the hair at the back of your neck stands on end.

Sometimes, it’s like he can stare straight through you.

His sharp gaze suddenly flicks to the bag over your shoulder and then to the tight lines of your face. His head tilts slightly to the side, fingers tapping insistently at his thigh as he thinks. You finally notice that he’s stopped fiddling with the object in his pocket.

Jason has always been clever, irritatingly so. There was a point where you thought you were just bad at lying. Bad at anything that meant holding the truth close to your chest and tucking it behind your ribs. But on multiple occasions he’s looked at you, studied your body language and eerily linked the dots together.

You’re not bad at lying.

He’s just a smart ass son-of-a-bitch.

Jason’s pretty eyes light up as realisation dawns, and you furiously tighten your jaw when he smirks, “You’ve stolen office supplies again, haven’t you?”

Bastard!

“That is pure speculation.” You start, tugging your bag closer to your side and walking away. “Do I look like I could commit robbery?”

Jason carefully raises one eyebrow, easily falling into step beside you and giving you a long, slow look from head to toe, “The last time we went to BatBurger you filled your pockets with packets of sugar and about fifty straws, so yes, I think you’re capable of taking office supplies.”

“This is pure slander. You’re damaging my sparkling reputation” You argue, ignoring the way Jason side eyes you, clearly not convinced. “And you can’t say anything, I distinctly remember watching you come clambering through my window with a garbage bag full of stolen shoes.”

“Hey!” Jason grumbles, jabbing you in the side with his thumb. “Those shoes weren’t for me and you know it.”

The memory unpacks itself without warning and you find yourself in endless freefall.

You remember drinking coffee in the early hours of the morning. Remember sitting cross legged in front of the sofa and sorting through a scary amount of mis-matched shoes. You remember the openness on Jason’s face, the soft edges of his mouth whenever you yawned but refused to go to bed.

The shoes were sturdy and made from good quality material, but they were so little it made you want to cry.

Children’s shoes, you’d realised. They were children’s shoes.

“I know, I know. They were for those kids in The Bowery.” You say, and if Jason catches onto the thickness in your voice, he doesn’t say a word. You’re thankful for it, you think that if he even so much as looks at you, you’ll burst into tears.

And yet under it all, there's something beautifully warm flaring awake in your stomach when you recall the things Jason has done. The way he fiercely protects those kids because he knows what it’s like to be them. To have nothing at all. Not even proper shoes on your feet.

But there’s also a catastrophic stab of grief wedging itself between the bones of your spine when you think of him as a child. Think of him, back to the wall, facing off the whole goddamn world on his own. It feels like bleeding from an un-stitched wound, it feels like being unmade.

You think of where he came from and where he is now and want to cry. Want to crack your chest wide open to the world just to let the feeling out, because sometimes holding it inside yourself is unbearable.

“It is starting to get cold out again.” You mutter thoughtfully as you walk, looking up at the darkening Gotham sky and suppressing a shiver. “We can always go and totally legally acquire some winter clothing for them.”

Jason’s pace doesn’t falter, but you catch his fingers in your peripheral as they twitch in your direction, like he wants to reach out.

You’ve noticed that when you say something that surprises him, Jason reflectively tries to show some sort of quiet affection. A brush of hands, a soft look. It’s there and then it’s gone again, like he grapples with the urge and shoves it down. Like he’s embarrassed by his own desire to express fondness, gratitude.

Recently, you’ve taken to crossing the gap.

Your own hand reaches out, fingers just barely brushing feather light across the back of Jason’s hand. Jason swallows, throat working hard. His fingers flex, almost like he wants to move so you’re palm to palm, but instead he nudges your hand, just slightly, a barely there pressure and then pulls away.

It’s not much, but it’s enough.

He fiddles with the object in his pocket again, and the curiosity drags itself out from behind your teeth, “What do you have in there?”

Jason hesitates, you feel it down the marrow of your bones. If he doesn’t want to tell you, you’ll accept it, move on and pretend you never asked. You think he knows this, knows that he doesn’t have to tell you a damn thing if he doesn’t want to.

Slowly, Jason pulls out the item from his hoodie pocket. And your heart swells in your chest.

“You kept it?” You breathe, touching the tips of your fingers to the object laid in his palm. It’s been weeks. Glancing at his face, you find that he’s already watching you, studying your reaction. It’s not fear swirling in his eyes, its anxiousness, almost like he’s afraid that you’ll take it away. “We really need to get you a keyring for that thing, I don’t want you losing it.”

Your apartment key looks small in Jason’s palm, and you use your hand to close his fingers around the piece of metal.

It’s yours, you want to say, I won’t ever take it away.

**

You’ve always had the thought that dreams can be haunted.

That dreams and nightmares loop together in the face of something beyond the world you live in. Whether by memories, ghosts, or some freak external manipulation, you’ve always had the idea that dreams are more than dreams since you were a child.

It’s a way of communicating you would think, young and naïve and trying to believe that if you tried hard enough, you could speak to those you’ve lost.

Jason appears in your dream.

He’s young. Someone’s laughing but it sounds wrong. There’s blood. So much blood. And the sight of it makes you sick. There’s yellow, and green, and red. So much red. Jason is young. He’s in pain. The laughter gets louder. It’s wrong, the sound of it is wrong. Metal drags over concrete. He’s in pain.

Jason is staring right at you, he’s telling you to run.

“Which one hurts more?” Someone says, and their voice makes your skin crawl. “Forehand?” Metal hits flesh and your throat closes up. “Or backhand?”

You can’t breathe.

You’re sitting upright in bed.

The darkness in your room feels alive, feels like it’s got teeth, and you scramble out from under the covers, choking on a soundless scream. You wrench open your bedroom door and try to get to the bathroom before your legs collapse from underneath you.

On the sofa, Jason’s already awake, head in his hands.

He looks tired.

He looks almost haunted.

Your eyes meet for a split second and you feel unceasing grief snake around your throat. He’s in pain. You’re going to be sick. Jason leaps to his feet and there’s an overlap in your head. You see him young, see him afraid, see him bleeding.

He was a child. 

You slam the bathroom door closed. Lock it. In your head you can still hear him, words slurring in his blood filled mouth, telling you to run. Bile burns at the back of your throat. You want to yank your beating heart straight from your chest.

Jason’s banging on the door. The worry in his voice has you choking up. You close your eyes and you can still see him, bleeding into the dark. There was so much blood. So much pain. Maniacal laughter rings in your head and you clap your hands over your ears to try and drown it out.

You know Jason was murdered. He told you straight to your face. But there's something almost unholy about watching from the sidelines. Something monumentally heart-breaking at knowing there’s nothing you can do; this has already happened.

You hear Jason calling your name, “Please sweetheart, open the door.”

There’s a lump in your throat and you open your mouth to speak, but the words won’t come out. Resting with your hands on the bathroom counter you look up, glance at your reflection in the mirror. You look empty, look like someone reached inside you and pulled everything out, stuffed something else in the gap.

“It was a nightmare, right?” Jason asks through the door, voice soft, even. He sighs, like he knows exactly what’s going through your head, knows how it feels to wake up breathless. “S’not real, sweetheart. You’re awake now. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen.”

It was real, you want to cry, it was real and you were just a child.

**

Sunlight streaks in through the living room window.

You still keep the latch undone, something inside you continuing to protest the thought of closing it. Even now. Even though you know Jason has a key. Frigid early morning air sweeps through the room and you tug your jacket closer, trying to trap in the smallest amount of warmth.

On the sofa, Jason glances up, and you try not to startle when his face bleeds into tired agony for a split second before returning to normal.

“You look like shit.” Jason says, and it wrenches a surprised laugh from your chest.

“Fuck you.”

Jason’s mouth tugs up at the edges, halfway to a smile but almost like he lost the urge part way through. The tight line of his shoulders softens and there’s a whisper of guilt knocking at each curved rib. He looks tired. Like he hasn’t slept well for weeks.

“You should get some more sleep, Jay.” You try, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out, to comb through his hair. The guilt rears up over your head, poised like a sharp blade. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

You blink, and Jason’s standing in front of you. He touches your arm, gently, as if the mere act of pressure would turn you to dust. There’s something heavy in his eyes and you wonder for a split second if he knows what you dreamt about.

You wonder if he knows it wasn’t your nightmare.

That it was his.

It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it never gets any easier.

“You’re going to work?” He asks, and you watch as his mouth dips into a frown.

Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and stroke your thumb over his bottom lip. Jason’s eyelids flutter and his hand moves from your arm, to your shoulder, then to the back of your neck. He tugs you in close, close enough that the warmth from his body soaks into your jacket.

“Yeah,” You whisper, shifting to brush a wayward strand of hair out of his eyes. “Turns out the world doesn’t stop if you have a nightmare.”

The sound of metal on concrete echoes in your ears. Insane laughter bleeding through the cracks, and you hear him again, young and terrified, telling you to run. He’s in pain. He was a child. You don’t know if the grief will ever stop.

Jason laughs like what you said was funny, like it's an inside joke only he understands. He rests his forehead against yours for the space of three breaths, then pulls away, leaving you cold. He turns his back, tips his head to the ceiling and you see his fingers tapping at his thigh.

Jason spins to face you, there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

“Yeah.” He smirks, but it looks wrong on his face, looks horribly bitter. “The world doesn’t stop for much of anything.”

**

Leaving work early comes as an easy decision.

The thought of Jason left alone in your apartment makes you feel like your bones are splitting apart, has you convinced that you're haemorrhaging from a fatal wound.

He looked so tired when you left, and you wonder how much sleep he’s actually been able to get lately.

Shoving open your apartment door you find Jason sat at your kitchen table. Your eyes snap to the various disassembled weapons spread out across the surface. Each piece looks meticulously placed and for a brief moment, you’re overwhelmingly impressed with Jason’s ability to easily identify each component.

“Hey,” Jason says, “You’re back early. Everything okay?”

Dumping your bag on the floor you approach him, eyes drawn to the tense line of his shoulders. You want to touch him there, want to release the tension twisted up tight in the muscle, “You looked tired when I left this morning, figured we could take a nap so you’re ready for patrol this evening.”

“Aw.” He mocks, defensive, maybe guarded. He won’t look you in the eye, “Don’t tell me you were worried about me.”

Your eyebrow cocks up, arms crossing over your chest, “I’m always worried about you.” You confess, swallowing thickly. Jason finally looks at you. You think he wants to say something, but the words aren’t coming. “Are you okay?.”

“I’m fine.” Jason mutters, going back to cleaning the mess of metal on your table. Then dismissively, “You worry too much.”

“Of course I do.” You say quietly, biting at your bottom lip. You don’t know what to do with your hands; torn between reaching out to Jason, or holding yourself for comfort. “You’re my best friend, Jay.”

Silence settles heavy between you. Jason darts his gaze around the room, knee bouncing under the table. He looks unsure, worried. Like you’ve given him the answer to a question he’s been obsessing over for years.

“I worry about you too.” He finally says, and you can barely hear his voice. It's so quiet. Jason still won’t look you in the eye, like if he sees you it makes something real, makes it tangible. “You haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

There’s a twist and pull at your heart, you can’t find the words to tell him that you haven't been sleeping well because he hasn’t been sleeping well either. In your head, you think that if you tell him he’s projecting his nightmares, you’ll never see him again.

It’s selfish, you know this.

You touch your fingers to Jason’s shoulder, walk them to the back of his neck so you can tug lightly at his hair. Goosebumps prickle over his skin, fine hairs standing on end at the softness of your touch.

“It’s just been a rough few weeks, it’ll pass.”

The tension in Jason's shoulders finally softens and the knot in your chest loosens. It feels like being able to breathe again. The rush of relief makes you lightheaded, makes you sway. Scratching at his scalp you feel Jason shudder, his knee’s stopped bouncing under the table.

Small victories.

“Come on, Jay. A few hours of sleep will do us good. You haven’t been sleeping well either.” He finally concedes, making a low noise in the back of his throat like you’re wounding him, like you’re causing him pain. A smile tugs at your mouth, “You’re such a baby, Todd.”

Jason huffs out a laugh, you feel like you could reach out and touch the scorching surface of the sun. Leaning down you press a kiss to the crown of his head.

Jason sighs like you’ve spread balm over an aching wound. Tipping his head back he rests against your stomach, eyes closed. Smoothing the pads of your fingers over his eyelids and then down to his jaw, you fight for a full breath when he peaks one eye open to look at you.

“You’re upside down.” He grins, then moves to poke your nose. “I can see up your nose.”

Swatting his hand away you flick him on the forehead, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

**

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Snoop - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi is someplace she shouldn't be.

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Vi leaves everything on the desk as she found it. On the dresser, something catches her eye. A cup decorated with moons and stars. The straw is smudged with black lipstick. It's a replica of her sister's Special Cup. The one she'd sipped cherry soda from at the Last Drop. The one Vander kept especially for her whenever she was glum.

It's the most Powderish thing Vi's encountered so far in the room.

Next to the cup, a note in jagged handwriting, reads:

Papaya smoothie. New import from Tereshni.

Dinner at eight.

Don't work too hard. I'm so proud of you.

XOXO

The message—businesslike, briskly intimate—is from Silco. The past month, Vi has glimpsed the obsessive armature of their bond. Now she's seeing all the tender, messy, matter-of-fact underpinnings. Her sister's life with that bastard. A consolation prize, but also a tangible link that keeps her anchored to something bigger than bombs and bullets, even if it’s alarm-bells and dinner bells.

(To the moon and back.)

Sense-memory serves Vi up bloodied scoops of last night. Nausea hits like a gut-punch. She scrambles for the bathroom, but only makes it as far as the sink. Puke boils up her mouth and splatters the basin. Shuddering, Vi sags there, before running the water cold. She splashes her face and rinses her mouth, swallowing some down her parched throat.

Stress has always played hell on her stomach. It's been years since it got this bad. Last night counts as its own league of Bad.

Vi straightens to Silco's reflected image in the mirror.

"Fuck!"

She whirls.

He leans a shoulder against the doorjamb. He’s donned his Lord of the Underworld carapace. Hair sleeked; warpaint on. His three-piece suit—red shirt, worsted vest, black slacks—stretches down in a sleek pillar to end in a pair of bare feet, looking incongruously pale on the tiles. In the bathroom lamp, his skin is nearly chalky, purple streaks under his good eye. The bad one is a hell-pit in a pile of scar-tissue.

He doesn't look like a man who's rolled out of bed after a night of hot sex. He looks like a vampire walking in daylight.

Murderous.

"Why," he says, in slow sibilant inflection, "are you in Jinx's room?"

"I was just—"

"Snooping.”