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em1989ts · 6 months ago

Note

five and reader know they’re falling for each other and they’re both super touch/love starved but also don’t know how to demonstrate and give it to each other ? basically two awkward losers in love

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧' 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝

five hargreeves x reader

word count: 2.5k

masterlist

summary: you and five have always been professional, even though you're the closest partners the commission has even seen. once the two of you go back to 2019, you find out how to ease yourselves into the relationship you both know is just right

author's note: thank you thank you thank you sm for this request, i literally just saw it about three hours ago and it gave me immediate inspiration. this might not be super exact to what you were hoping for but i did my best to stick with it!

not proofread

You had Five had always been far too professional for your own good.

The two of you first met when the Handler brought you both out of the apocalypse and shoved you into neatly steamed suits to begin your brand new lives at the Commission.

You and Five were the only two people left alive after the world had combusted in 2019, yet neither of you had managed to bump into the other while you wandered around for forty five years.

Initially, there wasn't any trust between the two of you, as well as curiosity trapped in private thought bubbles. Both of you wondered what the other’s experience was like.

Did they find it nice to have the world to themself?

Did they have an easier time?

Did they miss anybody?

When the Handler officially made you two partners and sent the two of you off on your very first assignment together, it was definitely awkward. So many questions, so little bravery to make them heard.

You wanted to ask him. You wanted to be friendly. Of course, the apocalypse life took a toll on you, so maybe you could bond over your unfortunately mutual experience.

But he looked so stern, so reclusive, so unwelcoming.

He thought the same about you, with your shoulders turned in and furrowed brow. He thought you just preferred to be private. He assumed if you spoke about your past you would freeze or shut down. He didn’t wish that upon you.

During that assignment, the two of you had to wait in a parking lot for your target to arrive. The mark would be dropped off in a rideshare vehicle up to an office building. Neither of you knew what rideshare was but didn’t think it really mattered.

As you waited in a rental provided by the commission, you didn’t have the radio to fill in the silence, you just sat and stared.

Until you finally decided, what would be so bad?

“Hi,” you turned and looked at him, giving him a wrinkly smile.

“Hello?” he responded out of confusion.

The two of you had indeed talked before, but only once, at your initial introduction, only shaking hands and exchanging names,

“How are you,” you tried to further the conversation with friendliness before he decided it was worthless and ignored you.

“I’m quite alright,” he nodded, still not smiling but he turned toward you more, seemingly interested in conversing.

A good sign.

“And you?”

Your smile grew a bit wider, “I’m doing just fine.”

This kind of conversation might be more commonly heard in a classic American diner, by two old friends in their elderly years, about to order their early bird special. But on this rare occasion, it was being said by two elderly assassins, at the start of the most valuable partnership in all of time.

~~~

For years, the commission has waited for a team like this.

After the two of you returned from your debut assignment, nearly missing your mark as you were so thoroughly invested about discussing your shared accounts with twinkies and their expiration debacle, the two of you immediately requested another task, which the Handler was thrilled to hear.

Once that task was completed, you received another, and another, until you and Five were so caught up in each other's lives you were almost the same person.

For once, the two of you found someone who could truly understand you. You always felt supported and valued in each other's company.

Somedays, when the work got hard, the two of you would take a well deserved day or two off from work, learning about each other's interests and aspirations, refilling your coffee mugs as you talked your day away.

Eventually, the two of you had come up with a plan to try and save the world. What was the point in having time travel powers and only using them once?

Of course, the two of you were scared, but with the support from each other and years of experience and preparation, you had faith in yourselves.

So you took on that last assignment to Dallas, Texas, where you would confirm John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Five’s journal was filled to the brim with math equations, one of which was believed to be the correct one to bring you back to his family in 2019, giving you enough time to stop the apocalypse.

The two of you mustered up as much of your energy as you could and combined it into a glowing blue portal, where you could see a group of people standing in a courtyard.

As you and Five pushed through, you could feel everything change, your clothes felt looser as you fell to the ground.

Sitting up gave your head a spin, but once your eyes focused, they landed on a boy. This boy had dark, messy hair, with the same green eyes as your beloved partner.

“We did it!” you were so overjoyed and proud of yourselves that you tossed your arms around him and encapsulated him in a strong hug.

He returned the hug with just as much joy, never feeling so gratified by someone’s actions.

Even though the two of you had never hugged before, it felt so right.

“Does anyone else see little Number Five or is that just me?”

The voice snapped the two of you out of your moment as you both turned your heads to the group of adults, staring at the two teens huddled together in the mud.

You both looked back at each other, then down at the close distance between you, and muttered apologies as you both let go with a flush. He quickly stood up, lent a hand to assist you, and the two of you headed inside with a couple feet between you.

~~~

You didn’t talk much to his family when you were downstairs, you mostly just watched Five as he explained with little patience everything he decided his family needed to know at the moment. He did gain some valuable information, the date was March 24th, 2019, giving you eight days to figure out a way to save the world.

You were currently standing in the middle of his room, not entirely sure what to do. You didn’t want to touch or disturb anything, you knew how he likes his things a certain way, so you just stood there and waited for him to return.

He suddenly blinked back, trying to keep the skirt, sweater vest, blazer, tie, socks, and shoes all from falling out of his arms.

“The only clothes we have here that’ll fit us right now is the uniform,” he said as lied each item neatly on his bed for you.

“They’re my sister’s but I’m sure she won’t mind you borrowing them,” he turned to face you.

You had only seen what his younger self looked like in his file at the Commission. Initially, you hadn’t seen the resemblance between the bright, sophomoric, superpowered child and the tired, sarcastic, coffee-powered old man. But now, it’s almost as though you can see Five’s past through his eyes. That old grump you know and love hides behind those green irises.

Wait love?

You were snapped out of your daze when you realized his eyes were staring right back in yours.

“I’ll let you change in here, I’ll be just across the hall. We can meet in the hallway when we're done,” he said, cheeks a little pink and avoided eye contact.

You nodded and he blinked out of the room, but before you started changing, you looked around, taking in the atmosphere. You had learned a lot about his life here in the academy, but being here felt a little unreal. His storytelling made you feel like you were there in his memories, it was nice to now see what his life was like.

When you finished getting dressed, you quietly stepped into the hallway.

Unaware of your presence, you watched as Five conversed with one of his siblings.

“So who was that? Your little girlfriend?”

“No, she’s my partner,” Five scowled, his back away from you.

“Oh, like your life partner! You’re married! Yay! Ring the church bells!” his sibling said excitedly, waving his hands in the air.

Five face palmed and turned to you, wide eyed and fully red in the face at this point.

“You must be Klaus,” you awkwardly started, not really sure how to enter the conversation.

“Yes ma’am, welcome to the family,” he smirked as tugged you in for a big bear hug before releasing you and strutting off without another word.

Of course the two of you had dealt with romantic implications before, but back then you two were mature adults and could handle it professionally. Now, you were prepubescent teens who turned pink at the mere thought of someone they liked.

But two of you stood there, silently watching in his direction until he turned the corner.

~~~

It had been well over 24 hours since you had gotten any sleep.

Since you landed in 2019, you have met your partner’s entire family, gotten coffee, been shot at, tracked down the nonexistent owner of an eyeball, found Five’s old apocalypse friend, and got shot at even more. Only during the second shootout did you actually get injured.

Now, you were both dragging yourselves up the stairs of the academy to his bedroom. Him carrying Delores the mannequin, a kind, sophisticated woman, under his arm with the other around you to keep you steady. He himself was far too tired to blink, though he tried so hard to muster up enough energy every time he heard you wince.

You were exhausted to say the least. Blood seeped through your fingertips as you held your hand against the graze the bullet left in your shoulder.

Once you made it to Five’s room, he quickly set Delores down on the floor as he led you to sit on his bed. As soon as he blinked away, you fell back from your upright position and closed your eyes, unable to bear another minute awake.

When he returned, you could hear him run over to the bed and lean over you, grasping your face in his warm hands.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he pleaded, “Stay awake for me, please.”

You had lost a good amount of blood from the deep graze, but you knew you wouldn’t die. You just really needed some rest ever since Five decided it was better to keep moving than take on Vanya’s offer to stay the night.

Once your dazed eyes opened and met his, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, unconsciously brushing his thumb against your cheek, before quickly moving back to the first aid kit he had grabbed and sorting through its contents, gathering all the materials he needed for your wound.

He helped you sit back up so he could work. This wasn’t the first time one of you had to stitch up the other. In fact, it happened quite frequently as assassins.

But it never felt like this.

Usually you’d be making casual conversation, comfortable with the normality of the situation, and not thinking twice about it. This time however, neither of you spoke. He was focused on stitching you up as gently as possible, though he would catch you staring at him and watch as you looked away awkwardly.

He smiled slightly as he worked. He had grown to care so much about you, but he was always worried he’d ruin what he had with you. Overtime, he had become so used to you being the only constant in his life. The only one he could trust to share things with. Overall, he enjoyed how he could be so comfortable around you, he never needed a guard up when he was with you, but he never knew if you felt the same. But something about now made him feel like he might’ve been onto something.

“Hi,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

You looked up at him, only to see him finishing up your stitches with a knowing smile.

“Hello,” you responded.

“You okay?”

“I’m better now,” you said, watching him as he carefully cut the string to your stitches.

He carefully traced his finger over his work.

“Tired?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” you yawned a bit, giving him a droopy smile.

“Well, let’s get you to bed then,” he said as took off your shoes for you and placed them by the foot of his bed.

After he helped you climb under the comforter, you waited for him to get ready to lay next to you but instead he stayed standing, with his hands tucked into his pockets.

“You can have my bed. I’ll just be across the hall,” he said, almost unsure as he made his way towards the door.

“Wait.”

He turned around expectantly, but you weren’t even sure what you wanted to say.

Would it be weird if you asked him to stay?

“I mean, it’s your bed. I- I can’t just take it-”

“No, no, it’s okay-” Five started.

“We could just, I don’t know, share it?”

No one moved. Eyes wide. Had you gone too far?

On assignments, you always had two beds when you were scheduled somewhere for more than one night. That’s just how it always was. The only time you ever came close to sleeping next to each other was when you had to spend the night in the back of a van, but that was a whole different story.

You didn’t mean to insinuate anything, you just meant that you wouldn’t mind sleeping next to him. You felt safe with him and it would’ve comforted you to know he was with you.

Five understood just how you felt, and climbed in right beside you without another word.

Sharing a twin sized bed meant the two of you were very close with not much room to roll over without risk of plummeting off the side, which you almost did when you tried scooting over to give him more room to get comfortable.

The other thing you could grab onto to save yourself from falling onto your back was him, as he also grabbed you to save you from falling.

The momentum pulled you snug into his chest, which made the two of you nervously giggle before you realize just how much you missed being so close to someone.

You felt it initially yesterday when you first hugged him. But now, the warm touch of another human was all you wanted to know. Subconsciously, you buried your head in his chest as he nestled his above your head. He hadn’t felt this safe in so many years.

You whispered goodnight right before you drifted away to sleep, your breathing regulating to a pace, letting him feel your chest rise and fall against his.

He kissed the top of your head, whispering goodnight into your hair, waiting a moment to test your slumber, before he whispered once more.

“I love you.”

~~~

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cherrywriterrr · 26 days ago

Text

shotgun silence

college!rafe x oc series

warnings: 18+ mdni · strong language · suggestive jokes · tension · bickering · fighting · rafe being a dick · nova being worse · mature subjects · college setting · passive aggression in the sunshine · one bed trope

summary: when sarah invites nova on a spring break trip to vegas, she “forgets” to mention two things: rafe is coming, nova is riding all the way there with him,alone.

introduction<- ->next

“you forgot to fucking tell me that.” nova’s voice slices through the spring morning, loud enough to turn heads outside the dorm. pigeons scatter off the sidewalk. a tour group stares.

sarah winces. john b shoves his hands into his pockets. rafe, of course, smirks like he’s just been handed a front row seat to her breakdown.

“nova,” sarah says softly, like she’s trying to pet a feral animal. “i didn’t forget, i just… postponed telling you.”

“postponed?!” nova whirls on her. “you postponed telling me that he’s coming” she jabs a thumb in rafe’s direction without looking at him, “—and that i’m riding with him?”

john b mumbles, “it’s not a big deal.”

“not a big deal?” nova snaps, eyes blazing. “you’re literally sending me on a cross country death ride with someone who once told me i had ‘main character syndrome and a minor god complex.’”

“was that supposed to be an insult?” rafe cuts in, arms crossed. “because honestly, you kinda do.”

nova turns her head slowly, like a horror movie villain, and narrows her eyes at him. “i’d rather walk barefoot through the desert than sit in your car for eight hours.”

“cool,” rafe says. “i’ll blast the AC. enjoy the heatstroke.”

sarah physically steps between them before nova can throw something. “you two have been bickering for months and no one’s died yet. this trip is for fun. vegas, hello? vibes? we’re gonna party, relax, let loose—”

“and maybe get murdered by the side of the road,” nova mutters, glaring at rafe’s sunglasses like they personally offended her.

“my car’s clean,” he says, obnoxiously casual. “no murder weapons. just an aux cord and a working brake pedal. unless you wanna drive?”

nova scoffs. “yeah. in your dreams, bald boy.”

rafe grins, and john b lets out a low, painful whistle. “god,” he says. “the sexual tension is unreal.”

“shut the fuck up, john b,” nova and rafe say at the exact same time.

sarah’s face lights up. “see? you’re already bonding.”

nova looks like she might combust. “i cannot believe you did this to me.”

“think of it as an opportunity,” sarah chirps. “you two get to hash out your weird vibe in a contained environment. windows down, highway vibes, snacks—”

“oh my god,” nova says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “please stop saying vibes.”

“do you want me to drive with you?” john b offers lamely. “i can make her switch.”

sarah elbows him. “no, we need space for the outfits. and the backup outfits. and the emergency outfit bag.”

“you packed five bags,” nova says flatly.

“i like options.”

rafe opens the passenger side of his blacked-out jeep and leans against it like a menace. “so what’s it gonna be, sweetheart? shotgun or desert hike?”

nova doesn’t move.

john b coughs. “we’re leaving in five.”

nova exhales the most dramatic sigh known to man, then stomps toward the jeep like she’s marching into war. she tosses her bag into the back seat, yanks the door open, and throws herself into the passenger seat with a violent thud.

“not a single word,” she snaps, before rafe can say anything.

he doesn’t. not with words. he just starts the car, turns the volume up to a painful level, and drives.

the first five minutes of the drive are silent.

not the peaceful kind. not the kind where you watch trees pass and feel your thoughts melt into the sun. no—this is silence like a bomb waiting to detonate. like both of them are holding back just enough not to throw hands on the freeway.

nova stares out the window, jaw clenched so hard it could shatter. her boots are kicked up on the dash. intentionally. disrespectfully.

rafe doesn’t say anything.

until he does. “can you not scuff my car?”

nova turns her head slowly, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose like a threat. “are you serious?”

“deadass.”

“don’t say deadass.”

he shrugs, one hand lazily on the wheel. “don’t scuff my dash.”

nova laughs. not nicely. it’s the kind of laugh that promises violence. “i’m stuck until fucking vegas with the biggest frat boy on campus, and you’re worried about your dash?”

“yeah,” rafe says, cool as ever. “because my dash doesn’t whine every five minutes.”

nova gasps, mock offended. “i’m not whining.”

“you’re literally whining right now.”

“i am expressing justified emotional distress.”

“you’re throwing a tantrum.”

“you’re breathing too loud.”

rafe side-eyes her. “you sound like my little sister.”

nova rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “you sound like a bitch.”

he smiles. “and you sound jealous.”

“jealous? of what?”

“of all the girls who’ve been lucky enough to spend eight hours in my car before you.”

“ew. you probably make them split gas.”

“only if they complain this much.”

nova glares, then turns back to the window. flips him off, casually, with one perfectly manicured finger.

rafe laughs. “you know, i kinda get why sarah didn’t tell you.”

“because she’s fake?”

“because you’d start drama in the parking lot. which you did.”

“i was ambushed, rafe. ambushed with the knowledge that i’d be trapped in a metal box with a muscle-bound narcissist for literal miles.”

“flattering,” he says.

“it wasn’t a compliment.”

“then why’d you call me muscle-bound?”

“fuck you.”

“that’s what vegas is for,” he says with a wink, like he hasn’t just set her soul on fire with rage.

nova groans, drops her head back, sunglasses sliding to the tip of her nose. “i can’t believe this is my life. i could be on a bus. or a flight. or in literally anyone else’s car. i could’ve hitchhiked. i could’ve walked.”

rafe flicks his blinker, merges without looking, and says, “too late now, sweetheart.”

“do not call me sweetheart.”

“‘kay, angel.”

nova makes a strangled noise. “i swear to god, i will kick the steering wheel.”

“that’ll kill us both.”

“then i die doing what i love.”

“what, screaming at me?”

“exactly.”

they drive another few miles, the tension simmering hot and obnoxious between them. the music blasts—a half-decent playlist rafe refuses to admit he made himself—and nova scrolls aimlessly on her phone, not replying to anything. mostly just staring. plotting.

then she says it, casual as hell “i’m splitting the gas bill, by the way.”

rafe turns his head, stunned. actually stunned “excuse me?”

nova doesn’t look at him. “gas. i’m paying for your giant man-vehicle to haul my ass across the country. this is like an uber. i’m not tipping you tho.”

“you think i want your money?” he scoffs, full-body offended. “jesus, nova, what the fuck kind of guy do you think i am?”

“a guy who probably Venmos girls after first dates for ‘half the appetizer.’”

“i—” rafe breaks off, jaw twitching. “that happened once. and she didn’t even touch the spinach artichoke dip.”

nova snorts. “i rest my case.”

“no. no. don’t act like you’re doing me a favor. i don’t want your money, i don’t need your money, and if you even try to hand me cash, i’m throwing it out the window.”

“good,” nova says sweetly, without missing a beat. “because i only have twenties and i know you’re the kind of guy who hates breaking them.”

he whips his head toward her like he’s been personally attacked. “how do you know that?”

“i just know,” nova says, crossing her arms, smug and cruel and pretty as sin. “you’ve got ‘will awkwardly abandon purchase if the total is $11.07 and he only has a twenty’ energy.”

“i fucking don’t—”

“you absolutely do.”

rafe makes a strangled, disbelieving noise. “you’re insane.”

“and you’re boring.”

“i’m literally driving you to vegas.”

“and i’m stuck inhaling your frat cologne for eight hours.”

rafe glances at her sharply. “you love it.”

nova stares at him like he grew two heads. “it smells like a bottle of tequila got into a fight with a bottle of axe body spray and they both lost.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. “i don’t even know why you hate me,” he mutters.

nova turns, looks him dead in the eyes, and says, “because you exist.”

“i’m splitting the gas,” nova says again, like it’s already been decided. like her stubborn little mouth is law.

rafe lets out a laugh—one of those disbelieving, throat scorching ones. “nova. i’m a fucking millionaire.”

she blinks. “and okay? and i have a barista salary and like… seventeen dollars in my checking account. what’s your point?”

he throws one hand off the wheel, gesturing at her like she’s the most ridiculous creature on the planet. “my point is—you don’t even have a car. like, at all. not even a shitty one. your main mode of transportation is begging sarah for rides and publicly bullying people into giving you piggyback.”

nova gasps like he just slapped her. “are you shaming me for being poor right now?”

“no!” rafe snaps, exasperated. “i’m trying to make you understand that i’m not letting you pay for fucking gas.”

nova crosses her arms and leans back dramatically, muttering, “classist behavior.”

“it’s not classist if i’m being generous.”

“it is if you rub it in my face.”

“i’m not rubbing anything in your face, jesus christ.”

“you literally just announced that you’re a millionaire like it was a fucking personality trait.”

“because you tried to give me gas money!”

“because i have morals, rafe!”

“you don’t even recycle.”

“don’t come for my carbon footprint, you yacht-loving freak.”

rafe’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “i don’t even own my personal yacht.”

“but you could,” nova hisses, like that’s the worst part.

“and you wouldn’t if you could?”

nova’s quiet for a beat. “…maybe like a small one.”

“exactly.”

“with a disco ball and a slide.”

“nova.”

“and snacks.”

he groans and slams the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. “i’m losing brain cells.”

“i hope you lose control of your aux cord first,” she says sweetly. “you’re one play away from getting smacked with your own spotify.”

five hours in.

eight to go.

they haven’t killed each other. but they’ve come very close.

rafe’s chewing gum like it owes him money. nova’s been flipping through radio stations with the kind of manic determination reserved for people who think suffering should come with a soundtrack. at one point, she played an entire Doja Cat song just to piss him off.

they pull into a gas station somewhere in bumfuck-nowhere, surrounded by dusty pavement and vending machines that look like they haven’t been refilled since 2009.

“fifteen minutes,” rafe says, already halfway out of the car.

“ten,” nova counters, slamming the door with the kind of flair only she could make dramatic. “i’m not dying here.”

they split—rafe heads for the pump, nova beelines toward the convenience store with a purpose. she returns ten minutes later with a slushie the color of nuclear waste, flaming hot cheetos, and one sticker sheet she did not need but had to have.

rafe’s at the register, sliding his card before she even reaches him.

nova frowns. “what are you doing?”

“paying.”

“for my stuff?”

“yeah,” rafe says, not even looking at her. “keep up, angel.”

nova stares. “oh great. i’m a charity case now.”

rafe sighs through his nose, slow and deliberate. “nova—”

“no, really. this is so cute. i’m like your little community service project. sponsor a broke girl for 99 cents a day—”

“shut up,” rafe mutters, yanking the receipt from the machine and shoving it in his pocket. “i told you. i’m not letting you pay for shit.”

“why? so you can feel better about your daddy’s money?”

rafe turns to her, jaw tight. “no. so you don’t have to pretend like you’re not always doing math in your head every time you walk into a store.”

nova’s expression falters. just for a second. but then she scoffs, grabbing the bag from the counter and brushing past him toward the door. “whatever.”

“you’re welcome,” rafe calls behind her.

“die,” she replies, brightly, pushing the door open with her hip.

she’s halfway to the car, fuming and dramatic and halfway tearing open her cheetos like it’s an act of rebellion, when she hears his footsteps behind her.

“c’mon,” rafe calls, annoyed. “you’re fucking mad because i paid for your snacks?”

nova spins on her heel, wild pink hair catching the sun like fire. “i’m mad because you’re a dick about it.”

he throws his arms up. “i was just being a gentleman.”

she scoffs. “you don’t get to play ‘gentleman’ when you spent five hours mocking me, threatening to throw my phone out the window, and calling my playlist ‘painfully bisexual.’”

“it was painfully bisexual.”

“it was the 1975.”

“exactly.”

nova glares, chewing aggressively on a flaming hot cheeto like she wants it to be his throat. “gentleman, my ass.”

rafe steps closer. too close. “just take the free cheetos and shut up, nova.”

“don’t talk to me like i’m some poor stray cat you tossed scraps to.”

“don’t act like i kicked a puppy just because i didn’t let you pay for fucking gas and off-brand gummy worms.”

she looks at him, lip curled. “they were on-brand.”

“you’re off-brand.”

“you’re offensively tall.”

he grins, infuriating. “you noticing?”

“i notice the stench of axe body spray and male ego.”

“you love it.”

“i’d rather sniff a garbage fire.”

they stare at each other for a beat. nose to nose. all heat and scowls and that annoying static tension that’s been buzzing between them since, like, february.

then nova rolls her eyes and shoulders past him. “i’m sitting in the back seat the rest of the way.”

“good,” rafe mutters, following her. “you’re annoying as fuck from the front.”

“still not worse than your playlist.”

“we’re listening to it the whole way now.”

“i’ll throw myself out of the car.”

“at least then i get peace.”

they slide back into the car.

nova slams the door just a little too hard. rafe mutters something under his breath that sounds like drama queen. nova tosses her bag of snacks into the backseat like she’s punishing it and immediately stretches across the passenger seat like she owns it.

he starts the engine. she cracks open the window just enough to make it annoying.

half an hour of silence. sort of.

except nova’s chewing flaming hot cheetos at maximum decibel levels, scrolling on her phone with one socked foot on the dashboard, humming to herself like she’s the picture of peace.

rafe taps the steering wheel. twitches. eyes the road.

then he hears the buzz of a message and glances over.

nova’s smirking.

he can’t help himself. “who is it?”

nova turns to him slowly, too slowly, eyes wide and wicked.

“ooooh,” she says, gasping dramatically. “big bad boy cares about who i’m texting.”

rafe gives her a deadpan look. “jesus christ.”

“next thing you know, you’re gonna ask for my screen time report.”

“not interested in the psychological horror that is your brain.”

“aww,” she coos. “you totally are. admit it.”

he glares. “who. is. it.”

“your fucking sister, rafe,” nova says, eyes back on her phone, fingers flying. “asking if you’ve killed me yet. i told her no. yet.”

rafe lets out a sharp exhale, eyes flicking to the road. “should’ve made her come with us. she could’ve babysat you.”

nova kicks her leg up and leans back in the chair like she’s lounging at a beach resort. “she tried. i begged her not to make me ride with you, and she said—quote—‘maybe you’ll fall in love.’”

rafe nearly chokes. “what the fuck.”

“i know. disgusting.”

“delusional.”

“deeply unserious.”

“don’t even joke like that again.”

nova throws a cheeto at him. “you’d be lucky, cameron.”

he side-eyes her, slow and sharp. “you wish.”

“you dream.”

“you fantasize.”

“you need therapy.”

“i have therapy.”

nova shrugs. “not enough of it.”

they’re hours deep into darkness when nova finally stops chewing.

she’s curled up in the passenger seat now, hoodie zipped halfway, legs tucked underneath her like she’s trying to fold herself into a chair that’s clearly too small. the radio hums something moody in the background—his playlist now, because she fell asleep for twenty minutes and lost her veto rights.

“cold?” rafe asks casually, not looking at her.

“no,” she says quickly, lying through her teeth. “i’m perfectly comfortable.”

but she’s got her arms crossed tight over her chest, and her nipples are—yeah.

he glances over before he can stop himself. one flick of the eyes. not even a second.

nova catches it. immediately.

“why are you looking?” she snaps, voice high and scandalized like he just licked the window. “you’re supposed to be watching the road, not my boobs.”

rafe groans and looks away, dragging a hand down his face. “jesus. nova.”

“seriously. that’s a crime.”

“it was not on purpose.”

“you stared.”

“i didn’t stare.”

“you ogled.”

“i glanced!”

“at my tits!”

“because they’re pointy!” rafe explodes, then immediately regrets it.

nova gasps like he just proposed marriage. “oh my god.”

“no, shut up. don’t—”

“pointy?!”

“you made it weird—”

“you made it sexual,” she hisses, clutching her hoodie dramatically.

he slams a fist gently against the steering wheel. “i’m gonna crash this fucking car.”

“into a victoria’s secret so i can buy a bra?!”

“into a lake, nova.”

“boob shamer.”

“cold denier.”

nova laughs then, a real one, soft and tired and way too cute for this hour.

and for a second, it’s quiet again.

he’s gripping the wheel like it’s personally responsible for this conversation.

nova’s still curled up, hoodie zipped, arms crossed, looking entirely unbothered despite the dramatics. her cheeks are pink, though. from the cold. or something else. rafe doesn’t care. he’s not thinking about it.

except he is. “you never wear bras,” he mutters finally, eyes on the road.

nova whips her head toward him. “why are you noticing?”

he exhales hard through his nose. “everyone notices, nova.”

she gasps. scandalized. “oh my god.”

“your boobs are always out.”

“they’re existing!”

“they’re existing in crop tops and see-through shirts.”

nova puts a hand to her chest, like she’s shielding her dignity. “are you slut-shaming me right now?”

“i’m observation-shaming you.”

“i’m literally wearing a hoodie.”

“and it’s not helping!”

she bursts out laughing, full and unfiltered and amused in the way that makes her nose crinkle. rafe glances at her from the corner of his eye, jaw tight, trying not to smile.

nova leans her head against the window, looking smug. “so you do look at my tits.”

“i try not to.”

“that’s not a denial.”

“i’m gonna launch myself out of this car.”

“you’ll miss me when i’m gone.”

“i’ll haunt you.”

“you already do, baby.”

he doesn’t respond to that

they’ve been quiet for maybe five whole minutes. a record. nova’s halfway through her sour patch kids, legs on the dash, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

then, like her brain just booted back up:

“wait. are we driving nonstop to vegas?”

rafe snorts. “no.”

she looks over at him. “what do you mean no?”

“i mean we’re crashing at a motel halfway through. didn’t sarah tell you?”

nova’s mouth falls open. slowly. dramatically. “absolutely not.”

rafe smirks without looking away from the road. “guess she forgot.”

“so now i’m stuck sharing a murder motel wall with you?”

“you say that like i didn’t get stuck sharing a whole car with you.”

“you’ve been blessed with my presence.”

“you’ve been chewing for hours.”

“attractively.”

“violently.”

nova huffs, shoving a gummy in her mouth and mumbling around it, “you better hope there’s two beds.”

rafe just smiles, slow and infuriating. “you better hope there’s one.”

nova chokes on the gummy. the silence that follows? a whole new kind of loud.

nova eyes him, a wicked smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. “why? do you wanna fuck me, rafe?”

he shoots her a flat, unimpressed look. “you probably have some disease from sex. fuck no.”

nova laughs, shaking her head like she can’t believe the asshole honesty. “wow, so romantic.”

“i am romantic. that’s my romance.”

“gross.”

“truth.”

nova leans back, crossing her arms like she’s declared victory. “so, no chance?”

“no chance.”

“figures.”

nova raises one eyebrow, smirking like she’s got a secret weapon. “then… not even if i beg really nicely?”

rafe glances over, deadpan. “are you trying to make me mad, or do you really wanna get laid?”

nova shrugs, grinning. “probably ovulation week. you know, the primal shit.”

he snorts. “so it’s science, not desperation?”

“exactly.”

rafe shakes his head, amused despite himself. “well, science can wait.”

nova sticks her tongue out. “rude.”

rafe grips the steering wheel tighter, jaw ticking. “stop trying to get me to say yes, nova. it’s annoying. and you only do it so you can make fun of me after.”

she blinks, slow and mocking. “wow. someone’s defensive.”

“i’m serious.”

“fine,” she says, leaning back into her seat with a dramatic sigh. “oh god, i’ll just find some guy there. at the motel. or vegas. whichever’s faster.”

rafe’s head snaps toward her, eyes sharp.“you’re not—”

“i’ll be safe,” she interrupts, innocent voice fake as hell. “wrap it before you tap it, all that.”

“jesus christ,” he mutters under his breath, face already darkening.

nova smiles out the window. “unless you wanna offer first, big boy.”

he doesn’t answer. rafe lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“you seriously can’t just exist without a dick in your guts for like, i don’t know… three days?”

nova gasps—loudly. “wow.”

he keeps his eyes on the road, but he’s grinning now. smug. satisfied.

“jesus christ,” she mutters, “that’s boring.”

she pauses. then“actually, i haven’t done anything in like… five months.”

that wipes the smirk right off his face. “what?”

“you heard me.”

rafe side-eyes her. “you? miss primal ovulation week?”

“some of us are complicated, rafe.”

“some of us are liars.”

nova shrugs. “believe what you want. celibacy is kinda sexy on me.”

rafe doesn’t respond.

he just tightens his grip on the steering wheel again, jaw clenched. like that little revelation just made everything harder—including him.

an hour later, the neon buzz of the roadside motel flickers through the windshield. it’s late, past midnight, and everything looks washed-out and sketchy under the buzzing blue lights. they pull into the lot beside john b’s beat-up van.

nova’s already rolling her eyes before she even opens the door.

they meet john b and sarah near the office, both of them holding plastic key cards and looking way too casual for what’s about to drop.

sarah gives them a tight smile. “guys, nova, look…”

“uh oh,” nova mutters immediately. “why are you using my name like that?”

john b rubs the back of his neck. sarah winces. “so… we did get two rooms.”

“great,” rafe says flatly.

“buuut,” sarah continues, “your room… also… only has one bed.”

nova stares at her, unblinking. “you’re joking.”

sarah bites her lip.

nova turns to rafe. “she’s joking, right?”

rafe looks at the key in his hand like it personally offended him. “do i look like i’m laughing?”

nova makes a strangled noise in her throat. “this is sabotage. this is straight-up warfare.”

john b shrugs. “look, it’s one night. just sleep on opposite sides or something.”

“you’re assuming i’ll sleep at all,” nova snaps.

rafe snorts under his breath. “same.”

sarah’s trying not to laugh. “you’ll live.”

nova narrows her eyes. “i’m gonna smother you in your sleep.”

“with a pillow?” sarah asks, backing away.

“with intent.”

john b lets out the world’s longest sigh, already turning back toward their room. “just go to the fucking room, nova. and stop whining, please.”

nova blinks like he slapped her. “wow. and i considered you my brother.”

“you call me your brother when it’s convenient,” he mutters.

“yeah,” she shoots back, “like when i need to be protected from this six-foot-four testosterone monster you’ve locked me in a motel with!”

rafe raises both hands, mock-innocent. “i haven’t even done anything.”

“yet,” she says, jabbing a finger at him as she backs toward their room. “john b, remember this if i go missing. remember who i was with.”

john b doesn’t even turn around. “if you go missing, it was probably self-inflicted.”

sarah cackles behind him. “have fun you two!”

nova scowls as she unlocks the door, mumbling, “not even one fucking couch in this dump.”

rafe follows her in, letting the door click shut behind them. the silence that falls after?

deadly.

the second they walk in, they both stop.

nova stares. rafe exhales a low whistle.

“you’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mutters.

heart-shaped mirror over the bed.

dim pink lighting. a tiny table set for two with fake rose petals on it. the tiniest bottle of cheap champagne in a silver bucket.

and of course… one queen bed. dead center. big enough for two if they were in love.

which they very much were not.

“it’s a fucking couple room,” nova breathes, horrified.

rafe’s laugh is instant and loud. he leans against the door, grinning like it’s christmas. “nah, this is too good. this is actually perfect.”

nova whirls around. “you think this is funny?”

he smirks, arms crossed. “i think the universe just ships us.”

“the universe can suck my dick.”

“probably would if you begged nicely.”

she doesn’t even dignify that. just grabs the extra scratchy motel blanket from the bed, tosses it onto the ground, and starts arranging a very uncomfy-looking spot near the wall.

“what are you doing?” he asks, still smirking.

“sleeping on the floor,” she says, deadly serious. “i don’t mind.”

“nova—”

“i.don’t. mind.”

he stares for a second. “you’re gonna throw your back out.”

“worth it.”

he watches her fluff the world’s saddest motel pillow and lay it on the stained carpet like she’s a martyr about to be canonized.

“jesus christ,” rafe mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “just sleep on the bed with me. we can do a pillow barrier or some shit.”

nova looks up at him like he just suggested they shower together. “no thanks.”

“nova.”

“no.”

he points at the mattress. “it’s literally a bed. and you’re gonna freeze on that crime scene floor.”

she glares. “why do you even care? thought you’d be thrilled not to have to share oxygen with me.”

“i don’t care,” he shoots back. “i just don’t wanna wake up to you dead of hypothermia and have to explain it to my sister.”

nova snorts. “so it’s not out of kindness, it’s just damage control.”

“obviously.”

she squints at him. “and we’re doing a pillow barrier?”

“a fucking fortress,” he says.

“…fine.”

“really?”

“don’t make me change my mind.”

he holds up his hands in surrender, backing toward the bed. “wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

she flips him off. he’s still smirking.

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zorostitties · 7 days ago

Text

Weak Point; 2

⤕ It's crazy how life can turn upside down overnight. In your case, life took a 180º turn the morning you discovered you were the weakness of the most powerful creature in the world.

From a normal citizen, you become Jujutsu Society's most coveted target. In a world where everyone wants your head on a silver platter, plagued by secrets of the past and struggling to balance what remains of your “normal” life, you are trapped in a situation you cannot escape.

And yet - amid the chaos, you slowly realize that you might be his weak point in ways that have nothing to do with sorcery.

pairing: gojo x (f) reader

genre: romance, fluff and humor, angst, forced proximity, slow burn, eventual smut, "oh no we have to live in the same house" trope, fix-it fic (kinda)

warnings: violence/blood, explicit sex (in future parts), grief, smoking, alcohol consumption, explicit language, me trying to be funny

rating: 18+

word count: 11k

A/N: HELLO WORLD!! Here we are for one more chapter!! Thank you so much for the comments on the 1st ch, they always make my day!! Enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

Girl, I had the weirdest dream tonight.

Yeah, so, I dreamed that I was working, right? And then I killed a mutant rat. Yeah, stepped on it. Pretty gross. Then out of sudden I woke up inside a meat locker, mummified – no, like, I didn’t jump any parts, I was kidnapped from the hospital and woke up there. No, I don’t know how that happened. Why mummified? There were paper tags all over my body, and I couldn’t move… it kinda felt like sleep paralysis. But then my body caught fire, like… spontaneous combustion, but I didn’t die, just the papers caught fire, and then I could move again… and some ugly guys showed up. But that’s not even the weirdest part – a guy popped up out of nowhere, literally floating, exploded the ceiling, dragged me around like a ragdoll, killed the other guys (he was blindfolded for some fucking reason, did I mention that?), and his hair was white–

The first thing you saw as soon as you opened your eyes was a mop of white hair.

That was enough to make you freak out.

You sat up abruptly – which made you dizzy and you almost fell when you jumped off the bed (a hospital bed? What?), and you probably squealed a little too, drawing a lot of attention to yourself.

“Hey, hey, hey! Calm down!” And then there was someone holding your arm – you hadn’t noticed someone was so close, which made you get startled again. A brunette woman. You didn’t look at her for too long, though, your eyes scanning the area frantically.

“You are safe here, Mori-san.” A familiar voice rushed to say.

Your eyes landed on… uh… oh, thank God, he still had the identification sticker glued to his chest (remembering names really is not a doctor’s forte), standing a few steps away from you. His eyes were round, a bit worried, and he had his palms up in an appeasing gesture.

Maybe the fact that the fourteen year old was trying to calm you down brought you back to your senses (due to the sheer embarrassment of it).

You straightened your back and cleared your throat.

You were in some sort of infirmary, though judging by the silence, it was not inside a hospital. It was small and well equipped. There weren’t any other patients occupying the three other beds. Besides Fushiguro (what the hell was he doing here?!), the brunette woman (a doctor. Why would she be wearing a white coat if she wasn’t one?), there was a buff middle-aged guy whose eyes were hidden behind sunglasses (he was quite intimidating) who got up when you woke up, and–

And–

Albino Jesus, sitting on a chair against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked exactly the same: blindfold, hair spiked up, an oversized zip-up jacket with a high collar, pants in the same dark blue color and dress boots. Maybe he was looking at you. You couldn’t tell.

“...It was real. Fuck, it was real.” You mumbled in a fragile voice.

He shrugged and grinned for some fucking reason.

Before you realized, you were walking from side to side, staring at the floor (you were still wearing your navy blue uniform, which meant much time shouldn’t have passed) with your hands on each side of your waist.

“All of that happened. Great.” You giggled. That kind of giggle that comes when your body doesn’t know what else to do. You scratched your own scalp nervously, slightly aware of how insane you should be looking at that moment, but there was no time to care about that. “Uh. I suppose you’re not trying to kill me, right?”

“We are not.” The buff guy said with a voice so deep that startled you a little. The top of his head had spiky brown hair, while the sides were shaved; he had perfectly trimmed facial hair – a mustache and a goatee (much manlier than that ridiculous thing the kidnapper had). He wore a black suit without tie that only made him look bigger. His tone was stern. “Yet, we would like to make some questions.”

“You want to make some questions?” You glared at him for the first time. “Well, I got a lot of fucking questions to make.”

Buff guy quirked one eyebrow. Maybe he wasn’t used to people talking to him like that. Maybe you wouldn’t have talked to him like that in a normal day, but honestly? The filter in your head was broken at that point. It had melted with the rest of your brain around six hours ago.

“First off – where am I? You guys… you guys don’t look like policemen to me.”

“You are in Jujutsu High at this moment.” Buff guy said.

“And that explains a lot.” The dam that usually kept you from being overly sarcastic in serious situations had melted, too.

“Megumi-kun was right.” The doctor said. You turned to give her a better look: long dark brown hair, purple circles under her eyes that contrasted with her pale skin… overall, the tired face of a doctor. You could relate to that. Even her lethargic (even disinterested) tone felt very familiar. “She really has no idea.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Albino Jesus mumbled under his breath.

“I’m telling you. I know her from the hospital. She’s a non-sorcerer.” Fushiguro barged into the conversation (it seems he was trying to defend you, but you weren’t sure). “Or at least… she was until yesterday.”

You pointed from Fushiguro to lady doctor to Albino Jesus frantically. “Will you people stop talking about me as if I’m not in the room?”

“Pardon their lack of tact.” Buff guy spoke up again. From his tone and posture, you could see he was some sort of leadership (being almost 2 meters tall and built like a bear helps, probably), though you were under the impression he wasn’t one to be too tactful either.“My name is Masamichi Yaga, this school’s principal. You were involved in some abnormal situations this morning, and we are trying to figure out exactly why it happened.”

“So… you’re not the police.” You instinctively stepped back (as if you’d be able to run away from bear guy and Albino Jesus in this small room), feeling anxiety grow inside of you again.

“We are Jujutsu Sorcerers.” Masamichi saw your face retorting in a confused frown, and before you could spill another sarcastic remark without thinking (Really? And I’m a Sailor Guardian) he raised his hand to refrain you from interrupting. “I understand you’re confused at this moment, but quite frankly, we don’t have enough time to explain you the specifics. The incidents in which you were involved brought too much attention – thanks to someone that decided to act before informing anyone,” Albino Jesus giggled, “and now we have a lot of explanations to make. So, if you could please sit down and answer our questions, I’d be immensely grateful.”

His expression and his harsh tone did not match that final plead.

It was clear he wasn’t asking for your collaboration, but demanding it.

Again, it was the fourteen year old in the room who calmed you down.

“We are trying to help, Mori-san.” Fushiguro said quietly. “You can trust us.”

You thought for five seconds, feeling overwhelmed by the silence and all the eyes on you, before sighing deeply and nodding.

There was a small iron table in the corner. Hesitantly, you took a seat. Masamichi and Fushiguro followed, the older man in front of you; Albino Jesus stayed in the same place by the wall opposite to you. Lady doctor didn’t sit.

“So.” You intertwined your own fingers and rested your hands over the table, shaking your leg nervously. “I was kidnapped from my work place. He…” You pointed at Jesus hesitantly (that blindfold made it awkward to look at him for too long), “...rescued me, I guess–”

“And you slapped me in return.” He interrupted you with a boyish whine.

You stiffened and cleared your throat. “...Sorry about that. I was nervous.”

“Don’t apologize. He probably deserved it.” Doctor lady said flatly.

“Yeah, he deserved it.” Fushiguro said flatly.

“Definitely deserved it.” Masamichi said flatly.

He grinned proudly in response.

“Uh…” That was weird. “...And that’s about all I know.”

Masamichi hummed and held his chin. “You’ve never been involved with Jujutsu before?”

You blinked and tilted your head to the side. “I’m sorry, you keep saying this word but I– I have no idea what that is.”

“Oh my God. We’ll have to explain everything from scratch,” Albino Jesus groaned under his breath. Fushiguro sent him a nasty side eye.

“You are a teacher.”

You completely ignored their side banter and tried to make what remained from your brain work. “Wait, by Jujutsu, do you mean these… these things? The creepy things I see? The creatures?”

“So you can see curses.” Masamichi nodded.

“Were you always able to see them?” Fushiguro sounded surprised.

“Well, yeah. At the hospital. Everywhere. I’ve always seen these things, but–”

“And you were just living a normal life with this fact?” You could see the outline of Albino Jesus’ eyebrow quirking under the blindfold.

“Uh, yeah? What’d you expect me to do? D’you know what people think of you when you come with the ‘I see ghosts’ talk?! I didn’t want to be put into a straitjacket.” You crossed your arms defensively. “Besides – they looked creepy, but always seemed pretty harmless to me.”

“Harmless?” Fushiguro was even more surprised. All of them looked a bit surprised at this remark, in fact, and made you wonder if you said something wrong.

“Yes. They never interacted with me, so I thought it was all in my head. Until…” The image of the creepy rat from earlier made you shiver. Your then white tennis shoe was still dirty with its blood; now that it had dried, it went from purple to black, as if you’d stepped into a puddle of petroleum. “Until this morning.”

They side eyed each other in silence.

“Fushiguro-kun, are you certain she did not exhale any cursed energy before today?” Masamichi asked.

“Yes. I am certain.”

“That does not make any sense.” It was bear guy’s turn to cross his arms. “She just stated that she’s always seen curses. And she very obviously possesses cursed energy.”

Fushiguro stiffened; you saw as his ears took a slight blush. “B-But I… I am sure of it. I’ve come across Mori-san in the hospital many times, and she just felt like a normal person. Besides – Gojo-sensei has been in the hospital as well, right? And he never felt anything out of the usual.”

“Tryin’ to stick the blame on me, Megumi?” So Gojo was his name. He had put his hands behind his head in a relaxed position. Despite his words, it sounded that he was just teasing.

Fushiguro looked at him angrily. “You know I’m right.”

Masamichi was deep in thought. “Well… I doubt anyone with this much cursed energy would go her entire life without coming across a sorcerer.”

You were shaking your leg under the table even more frenetically. Maybe because very little of this conversation made any sense. Maybe because a bomb had been dropped over your head – the creatures you’ve always seen were real, you weren’t imagining anything.Or maybe because a part of you desperately needed to smoke. “Do you guys… like… hunt people that see these things?”

“Seeing curses and possessing cursed energy are two of the things that put us apart from the rest of humanity.” He explained – though it still didn’t make that much sense in your head. “There aren’t many of us in Japan. So the possibility of someone possessing both of these traits and never being sensed or recruited by a professional sorcerer is very unlikely.”

“In Japan, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then it’s explained.” A small smile popped up in your lips as if you had figured out something very clever. “I lived half of my life out of Japan.”

Fushiguro frowned. “You’re not Japanese?”

“What? No– I mean, yes, I’m from Kyoto. But us – my family – we left Japan when I was ten.” You scratched your head nervously again. They’d start thinking you had lice at this point. “Huh, now that you mention it, I almost never saw these… things? Curses? Overseas. Here, though, I see so many–”

“Did you come back recently?” Masamichi interrupted.

“Two years ago.”

The principal hummed.

He took his sunglasses off, exposing a pair of dark brown eyes and strong eyebrows that made him look even more intimidating. Probably because he was frowning, staring at you in a way that made you feel exposed, as if he had noticed something he hadn’t before. He leaned closer to the table at the same rate you leaned back.

“What is your name again, miss?” Why did he look so interested out of sudden?

You gave him your full name.

“‘Mori’ comes from your father, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What is your mother’s family surname?”

It was strange to speak it out loud. Mom always hated it. It became something of a forbidden word at home. So, as you pronounced it, the name tasted sour in your tongue.

“Hosokawa.”

They all went silent.

Your eyes jumped from Fushiguro, to Masamichi, to doctor lady and to Albino Je– Gojo. Aside from the white-haired one (because you couldn’t see half of his face), they had slightly shocked expressions.

“What?” You asked, starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Now things are starting to make sense.” Doctor lady muttered.

“You’re Kimiko’s daughter?” Masamichi said.

Your head whipped back to him. “You knew my mother?”

The principal sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He leaned his back on the chair once again.

“Your mother was a sorcerer.”

It was your turn to be completely shocked.

Another bomb dropped over your head as if it was nothing.

“My mother? A sorcerer?” You stared at him, waiting for him to dismiss it as a joke. But Masamichi was dead serious. You were under the impression he was incapable of joking or pranking anyone, to be honest. “Uh, I don’t think so. You must be mistaking her for someone else.”

“I’m afraid not, Mori-san.”

One more of your humorless chuckles went past your lips. You even smiled in disbelief. “Well, I think my mom would’ve told me if she was one.”

“I’m afraid not, Mori-san.” He repeated. “You said yourself that you left the country when you were a kid, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know why?”

“I don’t remember very well, but–”

You had to interrupt yourself.

A frown slowly took place in your face. You felt your shoulders dropping. Masamichi kept watching you, unfazed.

Crap.

“...As far as I know… she fought with my grandmother. And… cut ties with her side of the family.”

Masamichi nodded.

“Hosokawa is a sorcerer family.” For some reason, his words felt like a punch in the stomach. “A very traditional one at that. Your mother was a sorcerer, but retired when she was still young… completely withdrew from Jujutsu Society.”

“...Oh.” Was all you were able to speak.

You leaned on the chair and stared at the table blankly.

It felt like a cruel joke to discover that at such a date. July 18th. Yesterday, July 17th…

“This doesn’t explain everything.” Fushiguro said, completely unaware of how it had affected you. None of them seemed to be aware, in fact. Or care. “Why would they kidnap Mori-san like that? Why draw so much attention?”

“Maybe they’d demand a reward to have her back.” Lady doctor presumed in that same disinterested tone. “Or for revenge. It’s not like that family doesn’t have enemies.”

“...I doubt that.” You found the strength to barge in again. “I haven’t met anyone from my mother’s side of the family since I was ten. I doubt they even know I came back. I don’t think they’d care enough if anything happened to me.”

“Oh, they would.”

You all looked at Albin– Gojo (shit, that nickname really stuck). It was the first time he spoke up in a while.

“Please, enlighten us, Satoru.” Masamichi sounded both pissed and tired.

The white-haired guy just smiled.

He got up (you hadn’t noticed how tall that son of a bitch was) and walked towards the table, carrying his chair with him. He sat beside Fushiguro, unceremoniously pushing the boy to give him space (Fushiguro sent him another nasty side eye) and sat on the chair backwards.

It was the first time you gave a really good look at him from up close.

You had wondered before if his hair was bleached. But, from self experience, bleached hair would never look that soft and healthy (so he really was albino, huh? Though his skin wasn’t that pale). The fact that he wore a blindfold still threw you off, made you wonder if he was blind, even though he moved his head in directions that told you he could see. Made you curious to know what was under there. Also made him look like a freak.

However.

A sharp jawline, plump glossy lips, a masculine upturned nose and a prominent Adam’s apple were things you’d acknowledge from miles. Blindfold or not.

And his perfect white teeth.

And he had smile dimples.

Maybe it was a bit inappropriate how your half melted brain paid attention to that in such a critical situation, but oh well.

Okay. Focus now.

He was still smiling in a way you didn’t particularly like.

Gojo extended his tightened fist in your direction. You looked down at it and back to his face with clear confusion. Did he want to fist bump?

“Hold me.”

You leaned away, your face twisting in a scowl.

“Why?”

“C’mon, sweetheart. I won’t bite.”

Your eyes wandered to the other people in the room. None of them looked surprised or bothered by Gojo’s request, instead watching you with attention.

Weird. Weird, weird, weird. But of all the weird things you’d experienced today, that was the most normal.

So you decided to shrug and hold his wrist.

His skin felt hot.

“Was I supposed to feel something?” You muttered, unimpressed–

Until you looked up again.

Fushiguro had his jaw dropped.

Masamichi’s eyes were widened.

Even lady doctor, who looked very apathetic to everything, was pale.

It’s like they were scared to move. To breathe.

Gojo’s small smile had turned into a smirk you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Do you have it on, Gojo?” She asked quietly.

“Yep.”

“What is on? What are you talking about?” You looked around frantically.

“This,” Masamichi spoke in a bewildered tone you were not expecting to hear, “explains everything.”

“You could’ve told us earlier.” Fushiguro was sending him another nasty side eye. “Would’ve spared us from this entire conversation.”

For some reason, the fact that they were all ignoring you was the little push you needed to freak out.

“Okay, what is going on?!” You let go of his wrist and retreated your arm as if you’d been burned. You got up abruptly, scrapping the chair on the floor and gesticulating like a maniac. “If you’ve forgotten, I was kidnapped! I am the freaking victim here, but all you’ve done is interrogate me as if I’ve committed a crime!”

“Mori-san–” Fushiguro tried, but you were done with them.

“I don’t know if my mother’s family’s done something wrong, but I’m not associated with them! I don’t know why the hell these guys were after me! I don’t know anything! Like, hell, why are we in a school to begin with?! Why is a teenager involved in all this?!” Fushiguro looked a bit offended. “Why do you know my mother?!” Masamichi quirked one eyebrow. “And you–” You pointed at Gojo accusingly. “–Why are you wearing a blindfold?! It keeps throwing me off!”

Gojo smiled happily and threw you a V sign.

“None of what’s happening right now makes any sense!”

The principal sighed heavily. “If the situation wasn’t so atypical, we’d certainly make sure to explain everything. However–”

“However, I’m done listening right now.” You’re so sure he would’ve punched you at that moment if he could. The way his nostrils flared and a vein in his forehead popped made it clear. Whatever. “I have a younger sister. She’s a minor. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, and I need to check on her right now. Am I allowed to, sir?”

You glared at each other in silence for some seconds.

No one else dared to breathe.

Finally, he gave in.

Masamichi sighed and crossed his arms reluctantly.

“As you wish.”

Gojo shrugged and took something from the back pocket of his pants – and your eyes widened at the sight of your own phone and ID badge.

“Thank your blonde nurse friend later.”

It was a bit stupid of your half melted brain to notice how your phone looked small in his hand. It was also a bit stupid to be hyper aware of your fingers touching his when you took it back. It was also a bit strange to notice how he seemed to shake a bit from such a featherlight touch.

Whatever whatever whatever.

The screen lightened up, and you were surprised to see that it was 2PM – you’d gone through hell and it was still that early? The notification bar was overloaded. Texts and missed calls from Remi, Aunt Junko, some other colleagues and Mayu. Her latest text was from barely two minutes ago.

As if reading your mind, the screen lit up with a call from her. You immediately picked up.

“Hello? Mayu?” You sighed in relief upon hearing her voice. You walked to the back of the room, the fact that you were being observed still bothered you. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Yeah, I was… I was stuck with a situation here. Yeah. Yeah. I am–”

You froze.

“What?!”

The three people in the room whipped their heads in your direction.

Your fingertips were shaking. Your vision went blurry. Heat crept up your neck; your legs lost their strength.

That hellish day was far from over.

“This morning, two explosions were reported in different areas of Tokyo. The first occurred at the Metropolitan Hospital; preliminary information points to a gas leak. Fortunately, the victims, a patient and three employees,only suffered minor injuries. The other explosion occurred in Sanya, at adisabled supermarket, with no casualties. The cause of the explosion is not yet known. However, authorities state that the two accidents are not related– ”

You hopped off the black sedan while it still hadn’t even stopped yet.

Maybe if you weren’t going through a meltdown, you would’ve noticed how ridiculously hot it was. It felt that you were inside a giant pressure cooker. The sky was clear, however, so at least there wasn’t another summer storm ahead. Maybe you would’ve noticed that, despite the heat, it was a pretty afternoon, the type that would make you want to either jog around the block or deep clean the house before your courage wore off.

You didn’t pay attention to any of that.

The only thing that mattered was Mayu, standing on the sidewalk by the apartment building’s side, holding that fat demon in her arms.

“Are you okay?!” You gripped her shoulders and looked at her up and down. Mayu wore baggy jeans, an oversized black t-shirt and Vans sneakers, her backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her dark green hair was tied in a ponytail.

“Damn. You look like you’ve been to war. The hell happened to you?” Was the only thing that little shit said in return whilst frowning.

It’s funny how she made you go from “worried sick” to “I’m gonna strangle you” in seconds. You stepped back and huffed. “Thank you for showing so much concern, Mayu.”

She shrugged. “You told me you were okay through the phone, so…”

“What did you see exactly?” You eyed the fourth floor of the building nervously – your floor.

“Well. I got here and the door was broken down. It’s a complete mess inside.” It was also funny how Mayu could describe the scariest scenario while keeping the most nonchalant face ever.

“D’you call the police?”

“I thought it was better to wait for you. Don’t think the police would like to see a minor unattended.”

Smart girl.

“You really ain’t having a great day, huh?”

She looked over your shoulder and quirked one eyebrow.

You turned around. Gojo and Fushiguro approached: the younger one had a serious expression, while the older one was slouching as usual, eating his third popsicle in a row. This one was blue. His left hand was shoved in the pocket of his jacket, and a plastic bag full of popsicles hung from his forearm (you had no idea when he got those. It should’ve been before leaving the school, but you didn’t see it).

“No shit,” you groaned under your breath.

Mayu’s eyes went from them to you rapidly, sending a questioning look your way. “So…?”

“Name’s Gojo Satoru. Nice to meet ya. Want a popsicle?” He offered the bag absently.

“Hell yeah.” She huffed tiredly and shoved her hand inside the bag, picking a strawberry one and ignoring your furious glaring. This girl had a serious problem. Being offered a popsicle was enough for her to not suspect the situation anymore.

Gojo looked down (“looked”) to the fat demon in Mayu’s arms.

“It’s so… round.” He sounded a bit impressed.

Countess just whipped her tail around angrily in response – the tortie cat that for sure was the reincarnation of an evil spirit. She was probably angry to have that many people around her, but she was always angry, so whatever.

“Don’t call her fat. She gets offended easily.” Mayu replied while biting her popsicle.

You rolled your eyes and turned around again; you were so anxious and nervous and angry that your ears were almost smoking like an old cartoon. There was no time to focus on the cat while your home had been invaded.

“Can we focus, please?!” You were about to walk inside the building, but an arm prevented you from doing so.

“Hey, slow down, Lara Croft.” Gojo didn’t bother looking (“looking”) down at you, focused on the fourth floor instead… and it immediately made you feel cold despite the heat, because you didn’t tell him your apartment was on the fourth floor. “You’re still in danger here, alright? Don’t go walking into places alone.”

The white-haired man looked behind his back. “Watch Mayu-chan, ‘kay?” He told Fushiguro. Mayu hadn’t introduced herself, he probably just picked her name from your talk on the phone. You also didn’t miss the casual chan. He pointed up with his head and looked down at you again. “C’mon.”

You still stayed on the sidewalk for a while to see Fushiguro and Mayu standing side by side awkwardly.

Mayu stepped away and sent him a side eye.

“Don’t even look at me. I like girls.”

Fushiguro blushed violently from either outrage or embarrassment. “What?! I wasn’t gonna–”

You ran after Gojo before you could laugh.

The two of you were the biggest contrast possible – you, almost vibrating in a frequency that could break glass from such nervousness; him, completely relaxed and humming a tune. He walked fast. Maybe his one kilometer legs were a factor. Regardless, you reached the fourth floor quickly. You were about to mumble how you didn’t have your keys before remembering that the door had been broken down.

Yet, the sight still made your stomach drop.

It was ripped off the hinges.

Gojo walked inside in front of you, absently turning the lights of the living room on. None of you bothered to take your shoes off.

You gasped.

The apartment… it was upside down.

One thing about you – as unhealthy as it was, you hated crying. Especially in front of a freak you barely even knew. But at that moment, seeing your home in a complete and violent mess, you felt a strong knot in your chest, a tightness in your throat that you almost couldn’t fight back.

Glass covered the floor from the destroyed coffee table. Pictures that were previously hung from the walls now were on the floor. The couch had been turned over; the TV was on the ground. Some cabinets from the kitchen had their doors ripped off. In your bedroom, all your belongings – clothes, books – everything was off the drawers and shelves.

Your home. Your things. The stuff you bought with your money, and the stuff from your parents you would never be able to throw away.

Your space invaded. Disrespected.

You didn’t even know what to say.

“We’re lucky that your sister wasn’t here when this happened.” Gojo’s voice echoed from another room. He showed up from the corridor, now biting the tip of the already eaten popsicle stick. He had the decency to sound a bit more serious, at least.

You gulped the lump in your throat. “Was it… was it them?”

“I don’t know if it was them. But this isn’t the work of a simple robber. There’s cursed energy residue all over the place.” These terms they used kept bugging your brain. With a surprisingly patient demeanor you hadn’t seen until that moment, he approached. “You’re not seeing it yet because you’re not trying to see. Focus your vision. Pay attention.”

You tightened your eyes and looked at where he was pointing – the opposite wall. At first, you just thought he was coo coo crazy (kind of hoping everyone would pop up clapping and laughing and a camera crew would appear. You’ve been pranked!). But… the more you looked, the better you saw.

Another involuntary gasp erupted from you. Gojo seemed satisfied.

The entire apartment was stained with marks.

Black and ghostly; they flickered like a TV channel out of tune. They dripped from the walls, the ceiling; hand marks, sole marks… they were everywhere.

Your stomach twirled.

“So this means… this is the work of a curse?” Your voice was fragile.

“No. Curse users. Criminal sorcerers, basically.” Gojo crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side. That mysterious smirk was there again. “You are being hunted, missy. And this mess right here is the warning they left to you.”

Your legs were weak again.

You looked around the destroyed living room. Gojo was right… what if Mayu was here at the moment the apartment was invaded? What would’ve happened to her? The simple thought made you shiver.

“I bet there’s a reward for your head already.” He continued absently. Gojo had walked towards the fridge (the living room and the kitchen were divided by a small counter) and opened it as if it was his house, as if the destruction around didn’t bother him. “Ijichi’s still checking that, but I’m sure it’s already on the deep web. A big reward, given the mess they caused in the hospital.”

You heard it on the radio: the hospital had blown up. They had exploded their way out, dragging you along. Luckily, no one got hurt… but still...

“I… I don’t understand.” You hated how weak your voice was, but how could you act differently? “I’m trying to wrap my head around what you all said, but it still makes little sense to me. Why is this happening? Why me?”

You heard the click of a can opening. He really was drinking your Coca-Cola without even bothering to ask… “Well, for starters, you’re a Hosokawa.”

“I don’t use that name.” It was an automatic response that made you sound way too much like your mother.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s still in your blood, sweetheart. You can’t run away from it.” Gojo walked back to the living room. With his feet (and seemingly without doing much effort) he pushed the couch back to its normal position, plopping down on it; he crossed his legs and rested his arm over the back of the couch in a relaxed position. “Let me try to explain it in simple terms: there are curses, which are the ‘creatures’ you know. They are created by the accumulation of negative emotions that humans naturally leak; in other words, cursed energy. Then there are sorcerers – us. We don’t leak cursed energy like normal humans do. Instead, we can channel it into techniques.”

His words were flowing into your brain like an avalanche of information (and it didn’t look like he planned on slowing down). Slowly, you sat down on a chair nearby, feeling your headache get worse and worse.

“But there’s the catch!” He continued after sipping more soda. “You can’t learn a technique; you’re either born with one or you got nothing. So strong techniques are super valuable in the Jujutsu world. If a family has an inherited technique – one that goes down the bloodline – they do what they can to protect it and rub it in everyone’s faces if one of their children gets one. And unfortunately for you, miss, you have a pretty impressive inherited technique.”

“Huh?” You gripped the fabric of your pants nervously. “I don’t– I don’t think I have this… thing.”

“Oh, but you do.” Gojo caught something from the pocket of his jacket and threw it in your direction. “Catch it!”

You almost dropped it, but managed to grip whatever it was (more thanks to his great aim than your reflexes, to he honest). You looked down at the small unidentified object, smaller than your palm: it was wrapped in yellowed paper with engravings in black ink that you immediately recognized–

That was one second before it caught fire.

You shrieked, startled, and dropped it on the floor. It was that again – the black flames from before; they lightened up for a few moments, engulfing the small object, before dissipating as fast as they came. And just like before, the yellowed paper was gone, revealing a miniature, ancient looking oni mask.

“W-What the– it happened again!” You couldn’t fight the urge to recoil your legs up the chair and press them against your chest as if the miniature was a cockroach.

Gojo giggled and opened a knowing smirk you were already getting used to.

“That was your technique in action.” He pointed to the tiny mask on the floor. “This is a talisman. It was sealed. Your technique broke the seal effortlessly.”

You remembered the kidnappers’ incomprehensible talk from back then…

She broke the seals.

Ain’t my fault. The seals were pretty tight. This only means she really is the one, huh?

“B-But I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, because you’re unaware of it yet. But the sole property of your cursed energy is like a nullifier.”

You gulped, feeling a horrible taste in your tongue. “Is it… like… a big deal?”

“If it’s a big deal?” Gojo huffed and gesticulated widely. “Of course it is! On paper, you could break any seal! Negate any other technique! Hell, you could kill me if you wanted!”

After you saw him floating midair and twisting limbs with the power of his mind or whatever that was? “Uh, I don’t think so.”

“Do you understand how valuable this technique is?” He ignored you. “It’s extremely rare. I’ve never met anyone with something like that before.”

You gulped. The general idea of what he meant was clear. “So that’s why they’re after me. Because of this… technique.”

“Yep.”

“Is there a way to get rid of it?”

“No. It’s a part of you, like an organ.”

You put your feet back on the floor and crossed your arms. “Well, if it’s really a part of me, then why didn’t it ever bring me any problems until yesterday?”

“That, my friend, is a good question.” He chugged more soda. It reminded you that you were thirsty and hungry.

You ran your hand over your face. That annoying headache was getting worse and worse. Your home was a mess, the curse users people knew where you lived, the creepy stuff you’ve always seen was real, you were the bearer of a technique that could do something you hadn’t understood very well yet, there was a blindfolded guy drinking your Cola without asking, and you reeeally needed a cigarette.

“What do I do now?” Your tone was hopeless, because that’s how you felt. “We can’t stay here. Should I… should I call the police or something?”

“Hmm…” Gojo pouted thoughtfully. You tried to act nonchalant when he crushed the empty soda can without even touching it (the thing floated near his palm and shrunk). “I guess you two can spend the night at the school, given your circumstances. But Jujutsu High doesn’t accommodate people who aren’t active sorcerers or non-sorcerers… so that’s how long your stay can be.”

“That’s okay. Tomorrow is a problem for tomorrow me.” You got up and looked around nervously. If anyone info-dumped more Jujutsu content of cursed energy content or technique content, you might have a stroke. “Uh… I’ll just grab some clothes real quick.”

Gojo threw a thumbs up and grabbed his phone from his pocket, now more focused on scrolling it than paying attention to you.

You were about to run down the corridor when something popped in your head and you came back hesitantly.

“Huh… Gojo-san?” He looked (“looked”) up from his phone immediately. “I’d… prefer if my sister was kept in the dark about all this. You know, the sorcery stuff.”

He hummed and scratched his forehead with his thumb. “Well, it’s gonna be difficult. We’re going to Jujutsu High.”

“Yeah, but…” You fiddled with your fingers nervously. “Hell, not even I understand exactly what’s going on. And Mayu – she’s not like me. She doesn’t see things. So… just until I figure things out. Please?”

He smiled. “Just ‘cause you were really polite.”

He really was kind of annoying, huh?

You rushed. Took a backpack and shoved whatever clothes you could find. A pair of clean sneakers too. Toothbrush. The phone charger. Countess’ pink carrier. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter (Thank God!). Lastly, you took the wedding picture of your parents from the butsudan and shoved it into the bag. From everything in the apartment, that photo was what mattered the most.

Gojo put the door back into the hinges and you walked off the building.

Mayu was sitting on the curb with the demon still on her lap. Fushiguro stood a few meters away from her with an angry expression, eyes focused on his phone.

You plopped down next to Mayu. Countess hissed at you. You hissed back.

“They should’ve taken your fat ass.”

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Mayu elbowed you angrily; you didn’t have the energy to elbow her back. Instead, you simply lighted up a cigarette and inhaled it, savoring the feeling. “So what’s the plan?”

You sighed heavily. “I was thinking… double suicide.”

“Ew. If you wanna die, go alone. I have a date with my beautiful Kiku-chan on Wednesday, so I must live.”

You frowned. “Kiku-chan? Wasn’t it Rio-chan?”

“We broke up.”

“Wasn’t it, like… past week?”

“Yeah. The planet spins. Water flows. Everything changes in a few days, sister.”

Mayu didn’t mind you glaring at her with disgust. “You’re trash.”

“Actually, I have a big heart and a lot of love to give. You should try it out anytime, you know? Love.”

“No time for love in this economy.” Great excuse to give as your fourteen year old sister had a more exciting love life than you – even if she was pretty irresponsible with it. You envied her, honestly. Her home had been invaded and trashed, but not only did she not seem bothered by it, she was thinking of her silly little date. This girl was not okay in the head. You smoked the last drag and got up. “Put the demon in the carrier. We’re sleeping out tonight.”

“Where?”

“In a school.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, either.”

No time for explanations.

And just like that, you were all squeezed in the car.

Gojo on the passenger seat. Fushiguro and Mayu on the windows, you in the middle like a child. The demon inside the carrier over Mayu’s lap. The driver seemed on the verge of a panic attack all the time (you forgot his name). He wore a suit, thin glasses, had his hair parted in the middle; he looked like the type of guy who’d be bullied in school (and Gojo looked like the type of guy who would bully him, which explained a lot about their dynamic).

“Who wants to pick the next song?!” Gojo said excitedly. He did not know how to modulate the volume of his voice – why speak so loud inside a car? Why was he excited in the first place?! “Megumi?”

Fushiguro just groaned in response. He looked out the window, arms crossed, grumpy expression.

“Me!” Mayu raised her hand like a student in class. Gojo offered her his phone. You already knew she’d chose that new EXO song she’d been talking about the entire week. While giving his phone back, she peeked her head from behind his seat (and you already knew there was something atrocious coming). “By the way, what’s up with the blindfold, man? You blind?”

You elbowed her ribs and she winced. Countess inside the carrier hissed in unison. “Mayu!” Jesus Christ, she really was like a toddler who would stare and point at a disabled person on the street.

“What?! I’m curious!”

Well, I’m curious too, but I wouldn’t ask that to his face, you would’ve said if you could.

Gojo laughed, however, and didn’t sound bothered by her question. “I have reeeeally sensitive eyes, you know.”

You tried to act nonchalant upon hearing this new discovery. So he’s not blind. Okay. But is he, like. Seeing everything under the blindfold? The idea of him having his eyes opened under there and his eyeball touching the fabric made you shiver, so you decided to stop wondering.

“Oh. That sucks. I’m really short-sighted too, but I wear contacts!” Gojo chuckled again in a tone that sounded like you have no idea, girl. “Also, huh, are you guys officers?”

He looked back. “Your sister didn’t explain it to you?” It was annoying how you could see when he was quirking his eyebrow.

“I don’t have the mental fortitude to explain anything at the moment.” You said between gritted teeth. That was the truth. Maybe irresponsible, but still true.

Gojo shrugged and looked ahead again. “What are we, Ijichi?”

He patted the driver on the shoulder (Ijichi. Right. Remember this name.), and the poor man shrieked. He did look on the verge of a panic attack. Maybe teasing the guy behind the wheel was be a horrible idea.

“We are… huh… civil servants?”

“Exactly! That’s what we are, Mayu-chan. Civil servants. You’re surrounded by pretty reliable people, just like your nurse sister–”

“I’m not a nurse.” Your voice came quick and venomous.

Gojo looked back at you again.

“What’s wrong with being called a nurse?”

You crossed your arms defensively. “Nothing wrong with being called a nurse. It’s just that I’m not one.”

He looked ahead again, but before he did, you saw the teasing smirk increase on his lips. “Eh, you people that do medicine are all pretty arrogant, huh?”

Fushiguro sent him another nasty side eye. “You complaining about arrogance?”

Before you could defend yourself, Mayu popped from behind his seat again. “No, but that’s, like, so true. Dad was like that, too. It’s like any other profession isn’t good enough besides theirs.”

You elbowed her ribs again. She winced again. Countess hissed again. “You’re supposed to be on my side!” You whined between gritted teeth.

“I’m just telling the truth!”

You sunk on the seat and grimaced. “I’m not arrogant, okay? It’s just that I spent way too long studying to not be called what I am. A doctor. That’s all.”

“Really? What is your specialty, Mori-san?” You were surprised to hear the driv– Ijichi politely barge into the conversation, sounding both apprehensive and interested.

“Emergency medicine.”

“It’s not a specialty any person would pick.” He sounded politely impressed. It made you like him more. “One must have nerves of steel to work in such field, eh?”

“Well. Yes. You get used to it after a while.”

Gojo crossed his arms. “Huh. My field of work requires nerves of steel, yet you never compliment me for it.” He was pouting. That grown man was pouting like a child, and probably glaring at Ijichi under the blindfold. Ijichi shrieked again.

“Well– I– Eh–”

“Maybe because he was talking to me, not to you?” It was your turn to tilt in his direction slightly. Ijichi shrieked again. “Does it bother you not being the center of attention all the time?”

“It does.” Fushiguro grumbled.

Gojo threw his arms up in surrender. “Geez! God forbid a guy wanting a little compliment once in a while!”

“You want compliments all the time.” The black-haired boy grumbled again.

Mayu peeked her head from behind the seat again. “Who’s gonna pick the next song?”

“Me!” Gojo shouted happily while opening Youtube again. Fushiguro sunk on the seat as if feeling a bad omen. “The three of you are being annoying, so just me and Mayu will choose the songs from now on!”

His song choice started. The familiar and insufferable EDM filled the car.

“No.” You whimpered. “Not this song…”

“Yes!” Gojo grinned like a maniac and turned up the volume. Fushiguro looked either about to vomit or jump out the window. Mayu hopped on her seat. To your disgrace, the two of them shouted the lyrics in unison: “C’-c-c-c-c’ mon baby! U! S! A!”

You ran your hand over your face and sighed deeply.

You had been kidnapped that morning. You were being hunted by criminals. Your home had been wrecked. Apparently, you possessed a “technique”. Your mother had lied to you about her real past. But yeah, sure, let’s sing along to U.S.A by DA PUMP at the top of our lungs. This is fine. This is fine.

The next hour went like that. Jujutsu High was in the middle of fucking nowhere, so you were lucky that the traffic wasn’t as heavy as it’d usually be, otherwise you’d arrive at night. The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon line; the sky had orange tones and the temperature was a bit more bearable. Shit, you needed a shower. You needed to eat. You needed to reply to everyone that had been bombarding your phone (Remi especially). Most importantly, you needed to sleep. Maybe after some sleep you’d be able to think more clearly.

But no.

That hellish day was not over yet.

Because at the same time Ijichi parked the car at the school’s gates, you saw two other cars parked as well – and a few people getting out of them.

You wished you wouldn’t have recognized her immediately.

You’d last seen her around sixteen years ago, after all. You had changed. She had changed. And yet, the moment you laid your eyes on her figure, there was no mistaking.

She wore a sober black yukata – the same from your memories. Her hair was completely white, tied in a perfect low bun. She should be over eighty now. Yet, her advanced age did not bring you any sympathy. She was accompanied by three other men (all wearing traditional clothing, all younger), but still, you could only focus on her.

Mayu, clueless to everything, had gripped the door handle and was about to jump out of the car.

You shut the door again forcefully.

“What is this woman doing here?”

Your tone made everyone freeze in place.

Mayu looked from you to the woman out there. You hated how she started to recognize her, too, even if just through pictures.

“Is… is that…?”

Ijichi shrieked.

“Masamichi-san asked me to contact the Hosokawa Household about the incident,” he looked from you to the group and to Gojo nervously. “Did I do something wrong…?”

Gojo chuckled quietly and hummed. You were under the impression he found the whole situation entertaining, but you couldn’t care less about what he thought at the moment.

“You pissed Yaga off, Mori-chan.” He said in a sing-song tone. “He’s throwing the responsibility over your family.”

“She’s not my family.” There was no time to be snarky anymore. Not with that woman there. Not knowing that yesterday was July 17th.

You were trying your best to keep your cool even after all of today’s events for your own sanity. But that couldn’t be taken lightly – not even your nerves of steel could take it.

You were seething.

“So, what you gonna do?” Gojo crossed his arms. “You can’t sit here forever.”

Your jaw was tightened. Your heart was pumping. Your eyes were in flames.

But you weren’t one to run away from confrontation. You never were.

“Stay in the car.” You told Mayu sternly. You opened the door and managed to jump over her lap (Countess hissed inside the carrier).

“But–”

“Stay in the car.” You shut the door again before she could argue more.

That woman immediately noticed your presence.

You had the time to hear Mayu’s muffled voice inside the car:

“Mr. Blindfold, is my grandmother someone important?” She asked in an apprehensive tone. “’Cause if she is, I don’t think it’s a good idea to let my sister talk to her.”

Gojo giggled in response.

“This is gonna be fun.”

He hopped off the car.

You walked on a beeline towards the entrance. Masamichi was there, too, accompanied by two people in suits (a man and a woman), yet you couldn’t focus on anyone else. Just her.

Hosokawa Nobuko.

She was shorter than you remembered. Her skin, wrinkled and fragile. A cane helped her stand. She could pass as a simple elderly woman to anyone, but those eyes couldn’t hide the truth. The cold, heartless eyes staring back at you.

She measured you up and down. Your navy blue uniform. The stained tennis shoe. The disheveled hair. The iron grimace.

All she said was: “You grew up.” And that was the nicest thing she could say. You knew how she could be mean. You remembered.

“And you got old.”

The people around you froze.

At that moment, Masamichi found out setting up this meeting might not have been a good idea.

“Let us get inside and talk appropriately,” the principal said. You wanted to yell I have nothing to talk to this woman, but the still sane part of you decided not to. Decided to listen.

Your mother barely talked about her family; your memories from your childhood in Kyoto were damaged by time. You had just discovered that your mother used to be a sorcerer, and apparently her retirement was what made her cut ties with the family. It was all too new, too confusing, and as much as you hated it, maybe this woman – your grandmother – could grant you some answers.

Maybe she had changed. People change with time, isn’t it? Get softer.

Just looking at her was enough to know she hadn’t.

But still. You decided to obediently walk inside the school’s gigantic property towards the administration complex. No one dared to mutter a word – well, except for Gojo who hummed U.S.A quietly all along. He was beaming, in fact.

Finally, you got to some sort of meeting room. It had fancy green sofas with a coffee table in between. Nobuko sat in one sofa with her three companions standing behind her. You sat on the opposite sofa. Masamichi sat on an armchair between the sofas like a mediator; Gojo plopped down beside you as it it was his house. The two people in suits stood behind the sofa.

You stared at each other.

The air inside the room seemed to be charged with electricity.

“I’d like to extend my thanks for your presence, Hosokawa-san–”

“What are you doing here?”

Your voice was sharp like steel.

You didn’t have time to listen to formalities or care for it.

It immediately set the atmosphere inside the room.

There it was. Her gaze. It hadn’t changed a bit. The arrogance, the cold, the nonchalance – it was all there.

She tapped her finger over the cane slowly.

“You know very well why I am here, child.”

“I don’t, actually. Don’t think you would come greet me out of the kindness of your heart.”

One of the men behind her glared at you with so much anger, he’d make a hole on your forehead if he could. He was probably your cousin. “Excuse me, who do you think you’re talking to, miss?!”

“Yeah. I’m talking to your boss.”

Nobuko chuckled and raised her hand without bothering to look back. “It’s okay, Juugo. I’ll deal with her.”

You huffed with disdain.

Nobuko measured you up and down again. Slowly. Her lips slightly upturned in a disdainful smirk; her eyes gleaming with distaste. That wasn’t a usual, innocent old lady; she never was, and never would be.

“Extinguishment.” She spoke in a thoughtful, raspy voice. “I didn’t think I’d live to witness it. I really was blessed with a long life.” Nobuko tilted her head to the side slowly; the movement reminded you of a snake. “Do you even know what I’m referring myself to, child?”

But the sole property of your cursed energy is like a nullifier.

“My technique.”

The other people in the room eyed the scene like a tennis match. She chuckled quietly again. “And to think you had it all along.”

“Well, maybe you would’ve known sooner if you cared about us.”

“It was your mother’s decision to cut ties. I simply respected it.”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Nobuko chuckled again. You fantasized about shoving that vase in the corner down her throat.

“This doesn’t matter anymore. The past is in the past; what matters is the present and the future. And you, child–”

“I have a name. Do you even know my name?”

“Now that it matters to me, yes, I know your name.” The atmosphere in the room got heavier and heavier. Tons heavier. There it was; her showing her true persona. “You are being targeted by forces beyond your comprehension. You possess a technique that hadn’t reappeared since we were part of the glorious Fujiwara clan, yet you barely know what to do with it.” Nobuko quirked one eyebrow. “The only people that can actually help you are the one’s who you continue to disrespect.”

You tilted your head in disbelief. “So you came all the way to tell me you want to help?”

“Of course.” She straightened up like a proud peacock. “You should know, child, that I never agreed with your departure. You should’ve stayed with us. Heavens, how powerful would you be if received proper training from a young age?”

You stared at her in silence for a few seconds. That, perhaps, gave the impression you were agreeing with her – but it lasted just those few seconds.

“You’re lying.”

Nobuko frowned. “What?”

“You’re lying.” Your tone got progressively more venomous. “You didn’t know I had this technique until Masamichi-san contacted you. That’s why you hopped on a bullet train to Tokyo so fast in the first place.” Ancient memories from your childhood resurfaced like mismatching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. You couldn’t remember the details, but you remembered how you didn’t like her, how the house in Kyoto was unwelcoming and oppressive, mother’s heated arguments with her… “That’s why mom cut ties with you, isn’t it? You didn’t know I had this. You despised me the way you despised her.”

Her disdainful smirk was back. “Despise? Your mother had the best opportunities Jujutsu Society could offer her despite being a woman.”

“You are a woman.”

“A woman that knows her place.” She sounded proud of herself. “The moment she decided to walk out of line, she chose to not have our support anymore.”

“And you want me to know my place, too?”

“Of course.” Nobuko had the audacity to show a proud smile. “You might not be able to reach the peak of your abilities this late in life, but there’s still time. There is a place in this world reserved for people with an ability like yours, child. A place of honor and pride.”

Gojo exhaled a quiet disdainful chuckle beside you.

Once again, you remembered his words.

If a family has an inherited technique – one that goes down the bloodline – they do what they can to protect it and rub it in everyone’s faces if one of their children gets one.

“What’s this gonna grant you, granny?” Nobuko quirked an eyebrow at the mocking nickname. “I might not fully understand what’s going on, but I know what type of person you are.”

Her nostrils flared. He inhaled.

“You really are too much like her.”

The anger in her voice was what filled your patience through the brim.

Too much happened that day. You had a headache. You were confused, scared and angry. Yet, the way that old lady had the audacity to show that emotion in front of you was like adding gasoline to a fire.

Maybe your twisted situation worsened your distaste towards her. But you couldn’t stand that. Being in the same space as her. Looking at her. She looked like your mother.

“Your daughter. She was your daughter.” Your voice raised – angry, gritted, barely contained. “Her name was Kimiko.”

The room felt like a pressure cooker about to explode. No one else dared to breathe. Masamichi, however, as a mediator, still tried:

“Mori-san, please tone it down–”

“You’re childish.” Nobuko cut him off. “If you can’t sit down and talk like an adult, I won’t stay here any longer–”

You leaned forward, eyes beaming with fire.

“Do you know what day was yesterday?”

The old lady interrupted herself at your sudden question.

“July 17th? Do you know what day was yesterday?” You pressed on.

She frowned. “What?”

She didn’t know.

The pressure cooker exploded.

“Ten years since your daughter died. It was yesterday.” You watched as, for the first time, quiet embarrassment covered her expression. She had the decency to feel ashamed, at least. “The daughter whose funeral you didn’t attend. Yet, here you are now, wanting me to go back to your house because I have something you want. You’re disgusting.”

“Don’t you dare disrespect Nobuko-sama like that–” One of the man behind her tried again.

“I don’t fucking care!” You got up abruptly. The other people in the room flinched. “I don’t care about your family or your honor. You’re all disgusting!”

“Mori-san.” Masamichi’s voice was stern. He wasn’t intimidated by your outburst, but you were far from caring at that moment either. “Do you understand what you’re doing right now?”

“I understand very well.” You pointed your index finger at Nobuko accusingly. “You’re right, I am too much like my mother. I never wanna see your face again.”

She stared back at you with the same intensity.

“You will regret this.”

“We’ll see who’ll regret what.”

Without sparing a last look at anyone, you stormed out of the room.

You didn’t know where you were or how long it had been, but the sky was almost completely dark.

Jujutsu High was immense. You didn’t know where you were going. Your vision was blurred, your head was aching, your heart was pounding. You just walked aimlessly out of the building, then crossed the complex, then ended in another building – fuck, you didn’t know where the entrance was. But you couldn’t face Mayu, not in this state.

You found a hidden place behind what looked like an old shrine. Ahead, a railing separated the school property from a hill and a forest that extended for kilometers; Tokyo shined in the far distance. You sat there, your back against the wall, knees close to your chest, and smoked.

You may have cried. You didn’t know.

You just stayed there until your hands stopped shaking.

It all felt like a big fat joke brushed in your face.

You didn’t have time to digest anything. The whole thing barely made sense yet. Your dear grandmother’s visit was the cherry on top.

And yet, what might have caused such a grand reaction from you was the fact that she looked too much like your mother. Except you’d never see mom this old, because she had died ten years ago – and Nobuko didn’t even care.

You closed your eyes and listened to the sound of the wind and the forest. You… you just needed to sleep. You just needed to be alone. You just– you just needed some freaking paracetamol–

The sound of steps approaching made you remember that you had no time to rest, actually. You never did.

Gojo was clapping.

You opened one eye to see him grinning.

“Let me say, that was the most spectacular social suicide I’ve ever seen in my life!” He put both hands on each side of his waist. “Congratulations!”

You sighed heavily and hid your face behind your hands.

“I really don’t need this right now…”

“Okay. Straight to business, then.” You looked between your fingers. The white-haired man was leaning on the railing in front of you with a carefree posture (as usual). Nothing ever bothered him, and he didn’t care about bothering anyone. “What you gonna do from now on?”

“I…”

“You have few options.” He interrupted you. “Respectfully, despite what you said back there – very badass, by the way, I respect it –, I think you don’t understand what you just did.”

You crossed your arms and grimaced at him.

“Okay. Explain it.”

Gojo patted his index finger over the tip of his nose. “The Hosokawa Family is kinda important, you know? Big traditional household. Boring, I know. But. They were among the only people able to protect you and your sister. And they probably have the ancient scrolls with the knowledge about your technique… but you just told their matriarch to fuck off.”

“I’d rather die than go back with them.”

“Again! I respect it!” He threw his opened palms to his sides. “But it has its consequences anyway. She may make your life more difficult than it should be.”

You gulped. Maybe you should’ve thought this through better? Yeah. Actually, no. Fuck them.

“So, with the family option scratched, you have another one.” Gojo pointed two fingers up. “You pissed Yaga off, sure. But we’re always in need of sorcerers, regardless of age. So, if you commit yourself to becoming a sorcerer… receiving proper training… the school will be able to back up your expenses and protection. Both to you and your sister, at least until we find out who’s after you and why.”

You leaned forwards slightly, more interested now. “And how would it work?”

“You’d get to live here, which is the safest place in the world for you right now. We’re paid to work, too, so you wouldn’t need to worry about money. Of course, you’d have to work your ass off to catch up with the minimum a sorcerer needs to be able to go on missions.”

“Missions to what exactly…?”

Gojo groaned. “Gosh. You really know nothing…”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m asking you to explain. Aren’t you a teacher?!”

He tsked. “Sorcerers exorcise curses, sweetheart. The creepy creatures, you know? We get rid of these things, because they’re actively dangerous to normal humans. Dangerous to us, too. Not me, actually, but to you– super dangerous. And you might die fighting, by the way, which is how most of us die – not me, by the way, but that’s how most sorcerers die.”

Your face retorted slowly as if you were tasting a sour lemon. “Wow. You’re doing great propaganda in your favor.”

Gojo waved his hand dismissively. “Relax. We don’t throw anyone into super dangerous missions head on. There’s levels of difficulty, like a video game. Get it? Weaklings like you are at the moment would deal with equally weakling curses.”

You looked down at the floor. It didn’t sound so horrible. No, actually, it sounded horrible. And yet, if it meant Mayu would be safe… just until you’d get who’s after you…

“It… sounds viable.” You agreed quietly, which seemed to excite him.

“Right? There’s a small condition, though.”

You whipped your head back at him. Gojo was eyeing your uniform. “What?”

“Jujutsu sorcerers work full time. It can’t be a side job thing. So… your current job…” He pursed his lips and tilted his head.

“No.” Was your immediate answer.

“What?”

“No. I– I can’t leave my residency.”

Gojo sighed heavily.

He wouldn’t get it. He wouldn’t get that you spent years of your life studying. He wouldn’t get that your father encouraged you to keep studying even when he got sick and you almost dropped out to take care of him. He wouldn’t understand that, by leaving your residency behind, you’d be leaving your father’s sacrifices, too. And you wouldn’t drop that over someone you met that morning.

“You’re making your own life very difficult right now…”

“I can’t throw eight years of my life away!” You gesticulated nervously. “It’s not just a job, medicine is my life!”

Gojo grumbled quietly and threw his head back.

The half melted part of your brain notice his Adam’s apple bobbing again. And how fluffy his hair looked. Whatever whatever whatever.

He looked (“looked”) back at you again with his head tilted to the side. You really, really wished you could see his eyes to properly to decipher his expression.

“You can’t stay here if you’re not associated with Jujutsu High, Mori. Neither your sister. She’s a non-sorcerer.”

Fear slowly set in your stomach.

“So… what do I do?”

“You go back to your house, wait until the people after you kidnap you again, and we’ll have to rescue you again. If we make it in time, that is.” Gojo shrugged.

You gulped and avoided his gaze. Maybe he thought you were childish, just like Nobuko. Maybe you were childish. But fuck, you didn’t ask for any of this! You just wanted to go home and sleep after a 24 hour shift, not to be dragged into a world you knew nothing about!

Gojo hummed.

“You don’t want to go back with your family. You don’t want to become a full-time sorcerer. Yet, you want you and your sister to be safe, whilst keeping your merry doctor life.” Why was he repeating all that? Was he mocking you? What was wrong with him?

“I didn’t even have time to think about everything–”

He crouched down in front of you suddenly.

You shrieked, startled, at the sudden proximity.

He was smiling. His teeth were white. His dimple was cute.

“Okay, then.”

You stared at him in shocked silence for a few seconds.

“What?”

“Yep. Sounds fine to me.” Gojo tilted his head to the side. His hair was infuriating. His smirk was infuriating. He was infuriating.

And what he was about to propose would be even more infuriating than anything he’d done until that moment.

“But you’ll have to come live with me.”

A/N: - Reader's technique is basically Angel's, but turned up tenfold. Or: this is an Asta situation. We'll dive deeper into her abilities in the future! - When I write reader inserts, I like to make sure anyone can insert themselves (duh) in the story regardless of appearance (or regardless of the shitton of lore i give my mc's lol). Which may be a bit of a problem since Jujutsu is pretty much a Japan only thing with VERY rare exceptions, and I like to keep stuff lore accurate. SO, it's a small detail, but I wanted to make it kinda implied that reader is biracial. The country overseas she lived will keep unspecified, you can fill in the blanks if you want. Or don't if you don't want!! Whatever!! It's up to you!!! ("oh but mori is a japanese name" yeah but i wouldn't name her family idk MACKENZIE either lol you get it right?? yeah i know you get it you're smart) ANYWAYS!!! Feedback is MUCHHH appreciated as usual!! If you read it this far pls don't forget to leave a comment <3 See you!

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yokumirumerafan · 3 months ago

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Can I request for a loverboy/lovergirl reader who is their partner but still looks whipped in love whenever they look up at them? A reader who's pupils mold and morph into dilated hearts and a dreamy smile as they yap about everything anything and nothing and their always so hyper around them? And how about this reader is also a stoic and cold person who has sélective mutism and doesn't show emotion or talk to anybody except their dear lover? You can do this with either mha or demon slayer you choose!

OH BABY. YES. This idea??? Romantic. Whipped. Cold-on-the-outside, heart-eyes-for-their-baby-on-the-inside??? WE'RE COOKINGGG 🔥💘

Let’s go with Demon Slayer for this one 'cause the contrast with the whole “cold and silent Hashira vs. bubbly loverboy/girl mode with their S/O” just hits DIFFERENT in that setting 😭💖

🌊 Giyuu Tomioka

Giyuu blinks, confused. You’re pressed into his side, starry-eyed and grinning like he just descended from the heavens. You haven’t spoken to a single person in weeks. But the moment he sat down next to you? You were talking about a cloud you saw that looked like a duck, how you tried soup yesterday but it was too hot, and how pretty he looks even when he’s mad. He’s just staring. “...You sure you’re the same person who glared at Sanemi for breathing too loud earlier?” But lowkey? He loves it. Blushes every time you stare at him with those heart-shaped pupils.

🔥 Kyojuro Rengoku

He is eating. You are staring. You: “Did you know your eyelashes sparkle in the sunlight? You're like a sunrise, you know? Gorgeous. Fiery. Golden. Like a—” “AH! MY FLAME! YOU ARE SO EXPRESSIVE TODAY! I LOVE IT!!” He lets you ramble like he’s watching a play. Meanwhile the rest of the Corps is watching you in shock, because the last time someone tried to say “hello” to you, you didn’t even blink. But when it’s Kyojuro? You look like Cupid shot you in both eyes.

🦋 Shinobu Kocho

“You’re talking so much today~ Did something happen?” You: “I saw you smile. I think my brain exploded. I am now running on 100% Shinobu-love energy.” She just giggles. Thinks it's adorable how you're cold and unreadable to everyone else, yet melting into a puddle the second she enters the room. She’ll use it to her advantage. Leans down with a teasing smile: “Tell me again how much you love me~”

🐍 Obanai Iguro

This man…is frozen. You: heart pupils, whispering about how cute he looks when he’s annoyed Obanai: 🧍 He’s internally combusting. “I—why do you talk to me like that?? You don’t even say hi to Mitsuri.” You: "Because she’s not you 🥺💘" His brain short-circuits. He will now protect you with his life.

⚡ Tengen Uzui

You're sitting on his lap, babbling about how his earrings sparkle and how his laugh cured your chronic sadness, while everyone else watches you like you’re a brand-new person. “BAAAABE,” he grins, “You’re so extra—AND I LOVE IT.” He thrives off your obsession. Will absolutely strut like a peacock anytime you go into loverboy/girl mode. The second someone else tries to speak to you? You deadpan silence them. He finds it hilarious.

🌸 Mitsuri Kanroji

You cling to her arm with literal hearts in your eyes, going on and on about how her hair looks like strawberry candy and how you’d die if she ever stopped smiling. Mitsuri: 🥺💖💗💕 “You’re so cuuuuute when you talk!! I didn’t even know your voice could sound like that!” You're shy when others look, but with her? You're all wiggles, giggles, and lovey stares. She eats it up and might even squeal every time you start gushing.

🌪️ Sanemi Shinazugawa

You: 🥹 staring up at him like he hung the moon Sanemi: “...Why’re you lookin’ at me like that.” You: ��Your hair’s so white. Like a snow angel. I love you. Have I told you? I love you so much. You’re so angry. It’s so hot.” Sanemi.exe has stopped working. “You didn’t even say a word to the Kakushi earlier but now you won’t shut up???” You just smile dreamily and play with his sleeve. He groans but he’s bright red and secretly enjoying every second.

🪨 Gyomei Himejima

You: clinging to his sleeve while gushing about his voice sounding like heaven and safety and soft rain Gyomei: 🧎 “My child, you are so precious.” You don’t speak to others. You don’t even look at them. But Gyomei? You’re a love-struck poet. He always listens gently, hands folded, smiling softly at your endless babble. He says he doesn’t deserve your love, but secretly? You are the light of his life.

Let me know if you want a MHA version too because omg I WILL DO IT 😭

#demon slayer #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #kny x y/n #kny x you #kny x reader #kny #merafan

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sugardollcurse · 2 months ago

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hi! do you think you can do headcanons of the guys with an s/o who has a southern accent? it’d be so funny clashing with their liverpool accent

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 �� 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒏-𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ "ya'll" vs "lads"... ANYWAY HELLO I'VE GOT A SOUTHERN ACCENT TEW!!

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“You say that again, and I swear I’ll combust. D’you know what you sound like, love?”

He loves it.

Thinks it’s sexy, hilarious, and weirdly comforting.

Calls you things like “cowpoke,”

When you talk to strangers back home, he watches with awe.

“It’s like you’re speakin’ a different language,” he says, eyes wide.

That said, the clash is constant. You say “buggy,” he says “trolley.”

You say “coke” for any soda, and he’s like, “You want what?!”

“We’re gonna start a war with the way we talk,” he jokes, grinning.

But he always listens when you speak.

And when you get homesick? He does a terrible Southern accent just to make you laugh.

“Miss yer porch yet?”

You absolutely have miscommunications.

One time you said “fixin’ to” and he genuinely thought you meant you were repairing something.

“You’re fixin’ what?”

“No, I mean, I’m about to-”

“Well why didn’t you just say that?”

But he starts borrowing your sayings, throwing them into conversations just to make you laugh. “We’re fixin’ to leave, lads. Let’s go.”

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“You say things like molasses. Sweet and slow and hard to get outta your head.”

Paul is delighted by your accent. He finds it endearing, charming, and vaguely musical.

He leans in every time you talk, just to hear the curl of your vowels.

He especially loves when you say his name, “Paul” in your voice becomes “Paaawl,” and it drives him mad.

You tease each other constantly.

“Y’all alright?”

“Youse alright?”

He lives for the affectionate little phrases you use.

“If you keep talkin’ like that, I’ll do anything you say.”

When you visit your hometown, he asks a million questions.

“Do I have to eat grits?” “Why do you all wave to each other on the street?”

He starts using your phrases just to be cute.

Says it completely wrong and gets smacked for it.

He loves when you two blend accents in everyday life.

You say “supper,” he says “tea.” You say “y’all,” he says “you lot.”

Somehow, it works.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“Y’know, I reckon we confuse everyone when we talk. Good.”

It takes a minute for him to adjust when you two first meet.

He’s used to thick accents, sure, but yours is like molasses and light, and sometimes he has to ask you to repeat yourself.

“Wait, what was that? No, I’m not takin’ the piss, I swear. I just didn’t catch it.”

But once he does get it, he starts noticing the subtleties, when your accent gets stronger, or softer, depending on your mood.

He loves that.

George asks genuine questions about where you’re from, what it was like, what music played on the radio, how your voice got to sound like that.

Eventually, he picks up some of your phrases, quietly, without fanfare.

He kind of stereotypes you based off what he sees in movies.

He’ll tease you a bit, especially if you start sounding extra-Southern when emotional.

“Getting riled up, are we?” he smirks. “You sound like a banjo’s about to start playin’.”

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“I dunno what you just said, but it sounded sweet... so I’ll assume it’s nice.”

Ringo is delighted by your accent from the very first word.

“You’ve got such a nice voice. It’s all... soft an’ sunny. Like a radio show I’d fall asleep to.”

He grins every time you open your mouth.

“I mean it! You could read the phone book to me.”

The two of you absolutely have conversations where neither of you understands the other for a full 30 seconds.

He's like John with the miscommunications thing.

“I said I’m fixin’ to go.”

“You’re... what now? Fixin’ a toe?”

“No, I mean I’m about to go!”

“Ohhh! Right. Mad.”

He’ll try to imitate your accent and it’s terrible.

But he’s so earnest about it you let him get away with it.

He gives you cute nicknames that sound funny in his accent

He starts inventing phrases he thinks sound southern. You threaten to kick him. He thinks it’s adorable.

“Do I get points for effort?” he asks, pulling you into a hug.

“No,” you mutter into his chest.

“That’s fair.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

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lupinmoonlight · 2 years ago

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Hello, I love your stories <3 Can I request for story professor Lupin x female student, with dominating Remus, a lot rough sex, blow job and very sweet and tender aftercare? :)

Corrupted

Masterlist AO3

Summary - You and Professor Lupin had been having an affair for some time already. However, this time, he couldn't help himself and practically snatches you from the corridors in broad daylight. Rough sex in Professor Lupin's quarters ensues. (2,450 words)

Warnings - professor/student, smut, blow job (reader giving), swallowing, rough sex, professor kink, lots of "good girl", implicit mention of spanking, reader climaxes twice, so does remus, marking, mention of bruising, mention of biting, choking, reader depicted as "innocent", mention of reader almost passing out, aftercare, not proof-read, my grammar.

Notes - Thank you so much for your comment and request, Anon! Sorry for taking a while for this, I hope you enjoy! I appreciate everyone's patience. I am slowly going through requests.

You were making your way to lunch when you felt yourself getting grabbed firmly and pulled aside. His approach was subtle yet deliberate, a skill he had mastered over the last few months. His voice was a warm whisper, barely audible in the sea of students, for your ears only. "My quarters. Now."

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. The picture of innocence, though your mind raced with vivid images of what was to come. His gaze held yours. Intense. Hungry. Unyielding. This was not a request. It was a command.

"I...Yes, Professor Lupin," you managed to reply.

"Good girl," he murmured, his breath tickling your ear. "Don't keep me waiting."

He stepped back, blending seamlessly into the crowd, and you were left rooted to the spot, your knees nearly giving out. You took a moment to gather yourself, trying to calm the racing of your heart and the flush that coloured your cheeks. You glanced around, ensuring that no one had noticed your exchange, and made your way through the corridors.

Reaching his quarters, you paused outside the door. You were nervous. It was a feeling that never went away, no matter how many times you met in this clandestine manner. He had an effect on you that was overwhelming, intoxicating, suffocating, in the most delightful way. The mere thought of him, of his presence, of his scent, was enough to make you combust.

Finally feeling brave enough, you knocked softly. The door swung open, and there he stood. He stepped aside without a word, his eyes never leaving you, silently inviting you inside.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Remus moved closer, his tall frame effortlessly backing you into the wall. Your face instantly turned a deep shade of red under his intense gaze.

"My, my," he murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice as he observed your reaction. "You really are the cutest when you're all flustered like this."

You, utterly undone by his proximity and the deep timbre of his voice, could only manage a weak nod, your breath catching in your throat.

"Look at you," he murmured, "all flushed and breathless. Can't even look me in the eye, can you?"

Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red if that was even possible, your gaze flitting down, unable to hold his. Remus's hand guided your face gently back towards his, his fingers trailing up to entangle in your hair. With a firm tug, he exposed your neck, leaning down to press his lips against your skin, leaving a mark that was as much a claim as it was a caress.

Your knees weakened at the sensation, your grip on him tightening as a soft gasp escaped your lips, making him chuckle against your skin.

Pulling back slightly, he watched you with a hungry gaze. "Wear your hair up tomorrow," he instructed. "I want to see that mark I left on you."

You could only nod, too flustered to utter a single word. But Remus wasn't satisfied with just a nod.

"Ah, ah," he admonished lightly. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"Yes, Professor," you whispered. "I will."

"What a good girl," he praised softly, his words sending a fresh wave of heat through you. He pressed closer, and you could feel the hardness of him against you through his trousers. Instinctively, you pressed back, seeking more contact.

In a swift movement, Remus spun you around, pressing you into the wall. His hips pressed flush against yours. You tried to press back against him, your actions betraying your desperation.

His response was primal, a growl rumbling in his chest. "You're so responsive, so eager," he observed, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you have any idea how much that turns me on?"

Your breath hitched, your body trembling with need. "Professor, please," you begged.

Another growl rumbled in his chest and before you could do anything, he abruptly pulled back and dragged you to his bedroom with an urgency that bordered desperation. He released your arm, eyeing you as if you were his prey and he was a starved predator.

"On your knees," he commanded, and you stood there, unable to move, feeling vulnerable and captivated at the same time.

"On. Your. Knees," he repeated and this time you obeyed, sinking down onto the floor in front of him.

You looked up at him as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours. He reached down and gripped your hair firmly, pulling your head towards him. Your eyes were perfectly aligned with his crotch, the outline of his hardened length straining against the fabric of his trousers. You swallowed thickly in anticipation, your lack of experience making you nervous.

His free hand reached to unbuckle his belt and the sound of his zipper getting undone filled the room. The sight of you on your knees, looking so innocent and vulnerable, was maddening, making his length twitch. He finally freed himself, his eyes never leaving yours, his grip in your hair tightening.

"Open," he commanded, guiding himself to your mouth.

You obeyed, your lips parting to take him in. Your fingers delicately wrapped around him, and your lips, soft and inviting, approached his hardness. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening with need.

The first touch of your lips against his sensitive tip had him gasping. Your mouth was warm, wet, and perfect around him. You pulled back slightly, teasingly running your tongue along the underside of his shaft. The sensation made him jerk involuntarily, a throaty groan escaping him. Encouraged by his reaction, you began to work your way down, taking more of him in. "That's it," he murmured, his fingers instinctively tangling in your hair more firmly.

He let you experiment with your pace as you started to bob your head in rhythm, eliciting deeper moans from him. Feeling bold, you decided to go deeper, to try and take him in fully. The tight constriction made his knees nearly buckle, causing him to throw his head back and moan aloud as he hit the back of your throat. "Good girl, so very good."

His gaze found yours again, taking in every detail: the way your lips stretched around him, the slight watering of your eyes, the flicker of determination to please him. The sight was intoxicating. "So beautiful," he rasped, barely able to string words together.

It didn't take long before his control began to waver. Gripping your head, he started to set the pace, moving in and out of your mouth in rhythmic thrusts. Each movement brought him closer to the edge, and he could see you trying your best to keep up, tears starting to roll down your flushed cheeks.

You moaned around him, sending vibrations up his length, making him curse loudly. The sounds you made, the way you tried to keep up with his thrusts, only fueled his arousal further. "You're going to make me come," he warned, his grip on your hair tightening.

"F-fuck," he growled as he felt his climax approaching, his thrusts becoming short and fast.

"Swallow," he commanded. "Be a good girl for me and swallow."

You could only nod as he kept using your mouth for his pleasure until his body went taut and he thrust deep into your mouth one last time, his seed filling your throat in thick, warm strands.

You choked a little, overwhelmed by him, but Remus held you there, his body throbbing with each pulse, until you swallowed everything. "Good girl," he muttered, his chest heaving from the intensity.

The sight before him was so erotic, sending a new wave of arousal through him. You, still in your innocent school uniform, now tainted by his lust, your face flushed and lips swollen, tear-streaked cheeks. "Look at you," he purred, "so beautifully ruined for me."

In a haze, you were hauled up from the floor and thrown on the bed, face down. "Can't keep my hands off you," he growled, hiking up your skirt with trembling hands, removing your panties hastily.

"Lift up your hips for me," he ordered, his voice firm and filled with hunger.

Before you could comply, you felt a dip in the mattress and his strong hands gripped your hips with a bruising force, raising them up and positioning you to his liking. A small whimper escaped you as you felt vulnerable and exposed. He let out another growl at the sight of you, hips raised; a beautiful display of submission just for him.

You felt his tip of teasing your entrance, eliciting a desperate moan from you as you tried to press back into him, desperate to have him inside you.

"Good girls use their words to tell what they want," he practically growled as his hand landed sharply on your backside.

"R-Remus...please," you begged breathlessly, but it wasn't good enough for him. With a fistful of your hair he tugged your head back, almost bending you in half from behind, his mouth next to your ear as he whispered "You will address me properly. Now try again. What do you want?"

"I...I want you inside me. P-please, Professor," you tried again desperately. The anticipation was too much and you felt like you might be pushed over the edge without him even touching you.

The words were barely out of your mouth when he pushed into you, filling you completely. There was no time for niceties, no time to get you ready. You cried out, clinging to the sheets below you as if they were your lifeline. "Professor!" Your voice came out as a pathetic whimper, barely audible amidst the heavy sounds of his laboured breathing.

"So tight...Always so tight for me," he hissed. He dominated every inch of you, his trusts hard, deep, unrelenting. The sound of his body colliding with yours filled the room, each thrust driven by pure need. He was like a man starved, each touch, each bite, each mark, feeding a desire that felt like an endless pit. An insatiable void.

His hands roamed over you as he kept pumping into her relentlessly. He was everywhere. One of his hands reached around your throat, restricting your airways in the most delightful way. The feeling went straight to your core and your climax hit you unexpectedly, with such force that your vision went blank. You felt yourself spiraling, the world narrowing to the sensation of him inside you. With a cry, you tightened around him, surrendering to the intensity of your release.

Your face was pushed down, the sheets muffling your whimpers as his body pushed you into the mattress. He didn't care that you came. He didn't care that you were overstimulated. He didn't stop. He continued his merciless pace, the pleasure now bordering on pain.

"God, Y/N," he cursed, the force of his thrusts increasing. "You feel so damn good."

You cried out, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. You couldn't breathe, you couldn't move. All you could do what lay there, on your stomach, hips raised as your Professor took what he needed. And it was perfect.

You cried out again, your body tensing as another wave of pleasure crashed over you unexpectedly. Having you clench around him like that was his undoing. With a final thrust, he buried himself deep within you, causing you to gasp. "That's it, take all of me," he rasped as he spilled into you with abandon, his hands gripping your hips possessively.

Each thrust that followed milked him for every drop, his hips grinding against yours as he sought to sate the hunger that consumed him. As his movements slowly stilled, he remained inside you for a few more moments, trying to catch his breath. A soft kiss was place on your shoulder but you barely registered it.

He withdrew slowly and sat back on his heels, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in heavy pants. You tried to move, but a gentle hand on the small of your back stopped you. "No. Let me. I want to take care of you."

You slumped back on the bed, overwhelmed by what had just transpired. You were shivering, your breathing was laboured, you couldn't speak, couldn't move. Remus, ever attentive to your needs, quickly recognized the signs of you experiencing a drop, a common reaction after such intense moments. His nurturing instincts kicked in, seamlessly shifting from the dominant beast to the caring protector he inherently was. With a soft incantation, he cast a cleaning spell over you both, removing any physical traces of your shared passion.

"Are you alright?" he asked, the concern clear in his voice. When you didn't respond, too caught in trying to ground yourself back, he gently turned you around, sitting you up. His hands were tender as they cradled your cheeks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of distress.

"Look at me, love. Breathe with me," he coaxed gently. He took deep, deliberate breaths, guiding you to sync your breathing with his. Slowly, your breaths became more regular, the trembling of your body easing as you came back to yourself.

Once you seemed calmer, Remus helped you back into your underwear and smoothed your clothes with a careful touch. He conjured a glass of water with another quick spell and held it to your lips, encouraging you to drink. Still slightly dazed, you complied, the cool water a welcome relief to your sore throat.

"Good girl," he praised softly, his voice now warm with affection. His approval brought a faint smile to your lips, a small sign that you were recovering.

"There you are," he cooed, pressing the softest of kisses to your forehead. After you finished your drink, he lay back down, gently pulling you into his embrace. He held you close, cradling you against his chest as if you were the most precious thing in the world. His touch was gentle, reverent, as he peppered your face with light kisses.

"I'm here, you're safe," he murmured soothingly.

You nestled into his embrace, the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart grounding you.

"You made me miss lunch, you know? That's quite unforgivable, Professor Lupin."

Remus looked at you with feigned guilt, a twinkle in his eye. "Oh dear, I am terribly sorry. How can I possibly make up for such a grievous error?"

You couldn't help but giggle at his theatrics. "Well, I suppose you were lunch enough for today," you teased back with a huff.

He sighed playfully, shaking his head. "I fear I've corrupted you, Y/N."

"Perhaps it is I who have corrupted you, Professor."

#remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #professor lupin #professor lupin x reader #remus lupin smut #professor lupin smut #hp #hp smut #hp fanfic

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pneumaticshift · 5 months ago

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Hello! I’m loving your best laid plans on ao3! The way you write the two is such a fun dynamic and they both com across as such meshed out people in your writing with very different dispositions. I was wondering if you had anymore stories of them in mind now that you’re wrapping that one up? I’d love to read more fics where Hal gets to be competent or shown as a badass. I love all the fics I read of them but sometimes Bruce should get swept off his feet and experience butterflies too! (Obviously only if you want to)

I’d also love anything where Bruce is the one suffering from mortification or being caught at a bad time 😏. Take him down a notch or two hehe <3

Oh god, thank you so much!! I'm really pleased people are liking my silly little stories as much as I love writing them. I really put a lot of effort into characterisation, so comments like this mean the world to me 💚🦇

After I've finished with Best Laid Plans, I'm probably gonna churn out some oneshots I've got planned until I've got some time off work to bash out another multichaptered fic. There's a Hal-centric idea I'm working on that's less humour and more plot, but I haven't completely committed to it yet.

In the meantime, I live to serve. Have some Bruce having a terrible time:

———

This wasn’t happening.

It simply wasn’t.

If Bruce refused to acknowledge it, that meant it didn’t exist.

The problem with having gear built to withstand bullets, fire, acid, and the occasional metahuman temper tantrum was that it was durable by design. Which was great when he was throwing himself into the thick of Gotham’s nights. Less great when that same marvel of engineering decided to betray him.

Because right now, on this cold, dank, miserable Gotham night, Bruce hung. Perfectly still. Suspended several feet above the alley floor with his cape stretched taut, snapped on what was, after a begrudging, sideways glance, some kind of industrial vent. Heavy-duty. The kind meant to withstand decades of corrosion, poor maintenance, and, apparently, vigilantes with no contingency for his own ability to be a dumbass, rare as it was.

His legs dangled. His arms were crossed over his chest. He was, for all intents and purposes, a goddamn ornament.

Fine. This was fine. Not at all embarrassing. It was fine.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. A dog barked. Gotham carried on, utterly indifferent to the fact that her Dark Knight was currently caught like a very large, very stupid bat in a very unexpected trap.

It was a temporary state, after all. A statistical anomaly in his otherwise flawless execution of being Batman, if you will. In moments, he knew he’d rectify this situation with the quiet efficiency he was known for. He would put it in the back of his mind, no harm, no foul, and most importantly, no witnesses.

Unless, of course, he counted Hal Jordan, who was standing right there. But that was another element of the situation that was being ignored.

There was a silence at first, which Bruce appreciated. It gave him a small, dwindling hope that maybe Hal would be mature about this. Maybe Hal would see it, process it, and then solemnly file it away under Things We Do Not Speak Of. Bruce himself had an extensive pile of things he did ot speak of in polite company. He could only hope it was the same for Hal.

It wasn’t. Of course. Because Hal, for all of his heroics, was ultimately the worst person Bruce knew.

It started with a sound. It was a sharp, strangled noise, choked off at the last second. It could have even been mistaken for a cough had Bruce not been intimately familiar with Hal’s very specific brand of barely contained, unrepentant amusement. It was the sound of a man witnessing the single greatest moment of his life and actively working not to combust from the sheer joy of it.

Bruce valiantly remained neutral. He kept his eyes fixed forward. He was a statue. A grim, shadowy gargoyle hanging over the city. A silent warden of justice. Slightly swaying in the wind like an unmoored scarecrow, but otherwise unmoving.

Then Hal sucked in another breath, shoulders shaking. His entire body trembled in that telltale, barely restrained convulsion of someone attempting to hold in laughter for the most optimal moment.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Don’t,” Bruce said. HIs voice was flat, emotionless. He was a void of authority that could terrify criminals, gods, and the majority of the Justice League. He was in control of the situation.

Hal lost the battle. A full-bodied, ugly, gasping wheeze of a laugh exploded from him as he doubled over mid-air. His hands were on his knees, his shoulders were shaking. Bruce would have been more interested in seeing him laugh like this if he hadn’t been the reason for it.

“Oh my god— oh my god—” he spluttered, stumbling back as if the sheer force of the situation had weakened him. “Spooky. Spooky— Are you…? Are you seriously—” He had to stop speaking to brace himself on a fire escape lest the weight of his laughter sent him plummeting to the cobblestone below. Bruce could only dream. “Are you seriously pretending this isn’t happening?”

It wasn’t happening. That was the official position. End of story.

Bruce continued to stare straight ahead.

Hal took in a grounding breath. “Okay. Okay,” he said, nodding and composing himself. He straightened his back. “I’m good. I’m done.”

He wasn’t done.

The moment he looked at Bruce again — well, the moment he looked at Batman again, trapped and dangling, reduced to scenery, he lost his tenuous grip on his self-control. Hal was the type to wheeze-laugh. Full on clutching his stomach, cackling with his whole body kind of laugh. A probably-crying-behind-the-domino kind of laugh. The kind that was beginning to sound almost medically concerning.

“So, Batman—” Hal tried, biting his lower lip to stop himself from laughing again. “How’s it hanging?”

Bruce wasn’t a godly man, but he found himself praying. Not for salvation, nor for a miracle. He just wanted something quick and swift to smite him down. Or, failing that, for Hal to be struck down where he floated. Maybe the both of them, just to make sure this…incident never saw the light of day.

But, as was often the case, divine intervention refused to answer Gotham’s calls. Typical. He continued to say nothing. Because engaging with Hal would acknowledge his presence as a witness to an event that wasn’t happening, and he was certainly not doing that.

Briefly, he began to calculate if he could somehow swing free without garrotting himself on the cape and land on Hal hard enough to expunge the whole thing from memory. It would require precise torque of his core muscles, a bit of tactical folding, and he might have to sacrifice his windpipe. Worth it. All for the cause.

Finally, Hal managed to compose himself enough not to laugh every time he so much as glanced at Bruce’s suspended body. “Okay, I’m really done this time,” he said, even though the grin stretched on his face suggested otherwise. “How did this even happen?”

It didn’t happen. Bruce was just surveying the city at an unexpected altitude. Hal didn’t know what he was talking about.

What Bruce said was, “Jumped.”

“This is the best day of my life.”

“You can leave now.”

Hal snorted. “Like hell,” he said. He floated closer, hands on his hips, scrutinising the problem with a smirk that could only be described as punchable. “Damn, you’re really stuck in there. That’s what you get for not making the cape detachable.”

Alfred had told him the cape would need to be detachable. Bruce had agreed, but then proceeded to sacrifice practicality for The Aesthetic because at heart he was a theatre kid that had been too traumatised to join the arts programme at school. The cape looked cooler when it was a fixed feature.

As he dangled in the alley way with a goddamn witness to his suffering, Bruce was seriously beginning to recalibrate that decision.

Bruce inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower.

Someday, he would look back on this moment and—

No.

No, he would never look back on this moment. Because it would be buried so deeply beneath layers of repression and strategic denial that he, with all his training and unparalleled mental fortitude, would convince himself it never happened.

“Do you even know what you look like right now?” Hal continued, because apparently he wanted to be a permanent fixture on Batman’s shitlist. “Take a look.”

A construct diorama of the scene unfolded in a burst of green light as Hal reconstructed something that definitely wasn’t happening right now. It was a caricature, of course. The tiny construct Batman’s arms were crossed over his chest in what Bruce could only assume was Hal’s attempt at capturing his quiet dignity — except it was entirely undermined by the dangling legs, the exaggerated sway, and the way the goddamn cape stretched taut, hoisting him up like a piñata.

Bruce stared at it.

He was going to set the cape on fire. He was going to salt the earth where the cape had once been. He wasn’t Batman anymore. He was Man-Man now.

“It’s kinda sexy,” Hal continued, nodding to himself. “You know, I’ve always wanted to sweep you off your feet. Figures you’d do the job for me.”

Bruce exhaled slowly and focussed on something, anything, other than the unholy combination of wicked glee and smug arrogance radiating off Hal. The sudden swooping sensation in his stomach was purely situational. Disorientation. A natural response to being held hostage by his own goddamn cape. Definitely not related to the way Hal was looking at him.

“You are not flirting with me right now.”

“Oh, I definitely am.”

There it was again. More of that disorientating, entirely unwelcome swoop beneath his skin. He had begun associating that feeling with Hal a lot recently. It was irritating. It was inconvenient. It was ongoing. He still was not going to acknowledge it. Just like he wasn’t acknowledging this situation.

“You know, now that you can’t run away,” Hal said, voice edging into dangerous territory “I figure it’s a good time to shoot my shot.”

“It’s a terrible time for you to shoot your shot.”

“I’m not known for my excellent time management skills.” He poked Bruce in the ribs, just to see him sway. If he came any closer, Bruce was going to bite him. “And it’s not like you’ve never thought about it. I’ll tell you what. If you agree to grab a drink with me some time, I’ll get you down.”

“Hal.”

“Think about it. I cut you down, super heroic, super sexy. You fall into my big strong arms. I’ll even carry you all romantic-like over Gotham, if you want. We can get real Bodyguard about it.”

“Hal.”

“Or I could totally leave you dangling and just grab you something fruity with a straw. We can get cosy right here, ‘cause I’m not gonna complain about the view. Your choice.”

“Hal.”

Hal snickered to himself. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mosly. I still kind of want to go out with you, but I can leave that until after you’ve had some time to nurse your disintegrated pride.” He flew a little closer, enough so that he was face to face with Bruce. “Just one more thing before I help you, though.”

Bruce glared at him.

“Say please.”

And goddamn, Bruce did not need that in his life right now. Not those words coming out of Hal’s mouth with Hal’s voice and Hal’s face. He stomped down the butterflies that dared to step foot in his stomach. He set fire to their wings, torched the little bastards where they fluttered and sprinkled their ashes on what was left of his wounded pride.

“You have three seconds to—”

“Yeah, yeah. God, you’re no fun,” Hal relented. He raised his ring hand, but not before adding, "You know, if you ever wanna reenact this, but, y'know, in a more private setting, I’m totally open to suggestions.”

Bruce closed his eyes in exasperation. He was going to make it look like a goddamn accident.

#i have to go to bed #but when i saw this prompt i couldn't NOT write something #bruce wayne #hal jordan #batlantern #request #answered #sam writes

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becauseicantthinkwritings · 2 years ago

Text

No Other Gods

Serial killer! Billy Russo x Female Reader.

Billy’s POV mostly

Summary: Billy’s on the run, moving from place to place as he leaves a trail of bodies behind. When he steps into a church to hide, he stumbles upon someone that makes him want to stay.

Warnings: Dub- con, violence, gore, blood, blood smearing, so much murder, mentions of Billy's past assault attempt, suggestion of possible sexual assault attempts toward the reader, religious themes, blasphemy, sexual acts in a church, thoughts of non-con (no actual non-con), poison, restraints, oral, fingering, sexual intercourse, wax play/heat play, Devil worship.

If you want clarification on a possible trigger, I am happy to elaborate.

I took the dove out back, shot it, then resurrected it so I could kill it again. Be warned.

For my lovely @ittybxttykxttytxtty who was so instrumental in the design of this fic. This goes out to you, love, who reminded me that I shouldn't be afraid to write whatever inspires me.

He’s calm.

Each step he takes is slow, measured, he hears the echo of it on the quiet street, the drag of his shoe on the concrete sidewalk.

He turns the corner, and has to fight the instinct to hold his breath as they turn their heads to look up at him. The murder weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans feels ten pounds heavier.

Even breaths, one in, one out, he knows nothing, he has no sense of concern, or worry. He blinks, feels trepidation wash from his skin.

Internally, he readjusts his course, doesn’t want to walk past the group of officers that are studying him from further up the street, doesn’t want to answer questions just yet, not until he has his story straight.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the church and he changes his walk ever so slightly that it looks as though he’s been heading there the entire time.

When he’s at the closest point, he raises his head and smiles, gives a little wave to the officers, wishes them a good day, though he knows what they know, and it’s not a good day for them.

The church is pristine, unlike the other buildings on the street, it stands with fresh paint and the smell of almost dried varnish and scrubbed steps that tell him that this church is probably the most coveted place in the entire town.

Billy, having just cut a man’s throat in the High school gymnasium, steps past the door, and does not immediately combust.

Surely, that must mean he’s doing something right, that his cause is a good one, maybe even approved of in the eyes of God.

He’s not convinced.

For a moment, he thinks it’s empty, thinks he’s alone with God and his thoughts, up until the slight movement of shoulders draws his eye.

He’s in disbelief that he missed you the first time, the light of the stained glass hitting your sedentary form.

He takes some quiet steps forward, swears he feels the concealed knife grow warmer. He watches you, studies in rapt attention the way the coloured lights look on you, the way they illuminate your hair, makes his fingers ache to touch something that looks explicit in its forbiddenness.

Your dress is white, or a cream colour that tells him the outward state of your mind, the purity nurtured in your soul.

He moves faster now, eager to see you, to know what you look like, to hear your voice, to look into your eyes.

He turns when he makes it to your pew, sees the way the light caresses the planes of your face, and he wishes he could do the same.

You are radiant, undisturbed beauty, your hands clasped together beneath your chin, a small rosary wound between your fingers. He wants to touch your hair, swirl strands of it around his finger, he wants to feel your skin, hold your form beneath his palms.

Everything he wants, halts, the moment you turn your head and look up at him.

His lips part in surprise, he’s taken by you. You must be an angel, or something more.

“Hello.” You say softly, gazing up at him with unsure eyes.

“Hello sweetheart, I'm sorry to bother you.” Billy answers smoothly, as though he isn't desperate for you to get closer so that he can catch your scent.

You look like you smell like flowers, he thinks to himself, bristles with delight when you finally stand, the light streaming through the stained glass paints you with a myriad of colors.

“It's okay,” you soothe, “I don't mind helping.” You smile at him, an ease of trust in your eyes. Trust, he could so easily extinguish with the weapon concealed on him.

You extend your hand, giving him your name, he smiles, gives his back. In your eyes, he can see something he doesn’t quite recognize.

Too pure, Billy finally decides. You're too pure, there must be some wrong.

“I’m new to town,” Billy explains, leaning in so that he can stand in God’s light with you, in hopes that you can absolve him of the thing he has done.

“Got a little bit lost. Will you help me find my way?”

You smile, and it reminds him of warm fires in the winter, of standing in sunlight after being drenched from head to toe.

“Where are you going?”

One of the wives whispers something in your ear, Billy watches you tilt your head back laughing. You had this entire town wrapped around your finger and before he’d arrived, he’s sure no one had ever questioned your purity.

A white dress and blue cardigan, he wants to take you into one of the back rooms of the church and push his murderous hands under your dress, feel your gasp in his skin as his hands paw at your delectable thighs.

He wants to ruin the very image of you, reshape you for him, and him alone.

He turns his head slightly, observes that he’s not the only man here transfixed by you, but one in particular catches his eye.

The reverend, in the same clothes he’s just delivered Sunday sermon, gazes lustfully at you, his glasses balanced at the very tip of his nose to conceal the direction of his eyes.

He recognises the expression, knows it like he’s looking into the face of someone who once looked at him the very same way. The reason he started killing in the first place.

He feels the itch swell inside of himself, his fingers flex.

It seems as though it would be time to hunt again very soon.

“Lost again?” Someone says behind him while he’s picking out laundry detergent.

He turns, seeing you there, in a pale pink shirt, and tan pants that hide your figure from his view.

He smiles, watches the way you light up even more. A sweet, little morsel made for his fangs.

He holds up two different boxes of detergent for you to see.

“What do you think?” He asks.

You hum, deep in thought.

“This one,” You say, pointing at the item in his right hand, “smells too flowery for my taste, and you don’t seem like a man that likes to smell like flowers.”

He smiles, raises his eyebrows, intrigued.

“And this one,” You point to his other hand, “Oh, that’s the one I use.”

“So it must be the best.” He agrees, as if you made a proper suggestion, putting the latter into his shopping cart.

You smile up at him in amusement.

“So, how are you getting all of this back to your place?” You ask, tilting your head at the moderate amount of groceries in his cart.

He turns, looking at what you were observing.

“You’re right, I might have picked up too many things for my walk back home. I’ll have to put some things back.” He agrees with her implications.

“No way!” You protest, reaching to take his hand, tugging him with you.

“Pastor Wade brought me along with his wife, I’m sure they’ll have some extra space in the back for you.” He follows, feeling anger that Wade had found himself closer to you than before. You wave your hand excitedly at the reverend, and Billy smiles internally at the sour look he receives from the man himself.

The trunk gets filled with the reverend’s new items, and Billy smiles, looks at you as you tilt your head, trying to solve a problem of too many groceries and too many people trying to fit into one vehicle.

“Give it up,” He says, mouth angled near your ear, “I’ll find another ride-”

“Don't you dare,” You argue, “I promised you a ride home and I won’t back down now.”

He smirks, watches you pile yours, and then his items into the backseat of the car. When you’re done, there’s only just enough space for only one person to fit.

“That’s okay.” You insist, “I can sit on you, if you don’t mind?”

Of course he doesn’t mind.

“If you’re sure.” He taunts.

“It’s a great idea.” Wade’s wife echoes, too eager to have them both in the back seat and the journey started.

Billy does his best to appear aloof, he gets in, and looks up at you expectantly.

You’re hesitant at first, before looking around, and then climbing into the back seat of the car to seat yourself in his lap.

Billy takes a deep breath, exhales, watches the pores on your neck and collarbone rise when his breath touches you.

A few moments into the ride and you’re wriggling uncomfortably in his lap.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Warm.” You explain, reaching for the buttons on your pink cardigan, brushing his stomach with your hand as you tug it off your shoulders.

Billy watches, with rapt attention as you reveal a white shirt beneath your cardigan. When you almost slip off his lap, he reaches to grip your knees.

“Hold on, sweetheart.” He whispers, just so you can hear.

You hold conversation with Wade and his wife throughout the journey, talking about how excited you are for the upcoming Christmas season, and that dressing up as an angel at the annual concert is a highlight for you.

All the while, Billy keeps you seated in his lap, your ass right on his hardening cock, the smell of blossoms drifting from your hair.

He closes his eyes, tries to distract himself from thinking too much about you, but he knows it doesn’t work. When the road gets bumpy, Wade apologises for the rough ride, and you respond with something reassuring.

You stiffen after a moment, and he knows he’s been caught.

He knows you feel him when you turn your head to look at him in surprise, his cock, hot and hard below your ass, rubbing against you as the car sputters along.

He looks right back at you, meets your shocked look with a sinister one of his own, wants you to know what a man feels like, makes sure you commit him to memory.

In the rearview, he sees pastor Wade glance at the pair of you. Billy looks back, holds his eyes, gives the supposedly pious man a smirk.

The next Sunday, you sit beside him in church.

It completely unfocuses him from his next target, he tilts his head to look at you.

Such a curious thing, drawn to something you now know isn’t as wholesome as appeared to be. It makes him feral, makes him want to put his hand on your thigh, slide it slowly up until he’s at the apex, tuck his obscenely large fingers under the waistband of your panties, find you dripping, feel you aching, press a lone finger to your swollen clit, make your sweet little cunt gush in God’s sacred domain.

When it’s time to take his hand in prayer, he makes sure to do it as slowly as possible, dragging his fingers along your palm, your touch makes him feel blessed.

It becomes a habit, sitting beside him for Sunday mass, the eroticism of your touch right before you pray, before you ask God for forgiveness from all your impure thoughts and deeds, and Billy sits besides you, blood dripping from his hands as he imagines the ways he wants to violate you in this very church.

It’s a Wednesday evening when he steps into the church, the most desolate time possible. He knows there’s only two people here, him, and his target.

He moves slowly, cautiously, on the balls of his feet to avoid making too much sound. The wind blows, the front doors to the church groan.

He passes the stained glass windows where he’d first met you, he passes the pew he sits at every Sunday while thinking about you, he passes the doors at the back of the church that he thought would make a decent place to defile you.

He goes deeper, till he can hear the quiet familiar slapping of a man going at it.

He’s not shocked by it, or scandalised, he knows his wife barely touches him, he knows she has an idea of what goes on inside his head. Billy’s studied her too, looked at her while she watched the way he leaned in to speak to you, a spark of realisation in her eyes.

He makes gentle movements, turning the doorknob with two of his fingers at a pace so slow it goes unnoticed by the person on the other side of the door.

He gazes steadily through the small gap.

Pastor Wade has your pink cardigan pressed to his face. Billy remembers the last place he saw you wear it- in the back of Wade's car.

He has one hand to his face, and the other stroking his meagre erection. Billy waits, in the stillness, the only sounds are the preacher’s laboured breaths and the movement of his hand.

There’s a right moment to act, and Billy waits patiently, he doesn’t have to talk himself into this one as much as he’s done with some others before. This one comes easily, in part because he’s grown accustomed to the feel of blood spilling onto his hands, almost craving it now, but mostly, it’s because Wade’s next intended victim is you.

In front of him, Wade groans, tilting his head back pace quickening. Billy pushes the door open. The wooden door doesn’t groan like it did before, Billy had greased the hinges just last week in preparation for this.

Billy stands behind the man, waiting for the precise moment, and when the preacher lets another groan loose from his lips, a warning of impending release, Billy strikes.

The man comes just as his throat is cut open, blood spraying from his neck as semen spills from his cock. Warm blood pours over Billy’s hands, as he supports the man as he drops, not wanting to cause more noise than necessary.

He lies on his side, turns his head upward, mouth parting in surprise as he sees Billy’s face.

“I wish I could punish you more, but I’m not worried, I know the Devil is going to take his sweet time with you.”

He watches the words register behind the dying man’s eyes, and Billy smiles wickedly as life leaves him.

He tugs your cardigan free from Wade’s hand, it’s partially soaked in blood and will need to be properly disposed of, he doesn’t want anyone finding it and linking you to the crime in any way.

He studies the soft pink material, smiles at the thought of you. He brings the material up to his nose, catching the smell of blossoms just barely clinging to the fabric.

The fluttering wings of a bird above makes him glance upwards, and he figures one must have found its way into the space between the ceiling and the roof, searching for a comfortable space.

He uses your cardigan to clean his knife, before turning, and heading for a sink to wash the blood from his hands.

He brings a casserole to the deceased’s house the evening they discover him dead.

It’s just a little something to help out, he explains to Wade’s widow when he greets her in the kitchen. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, crying from the moment she’d heard the news, no doubt.

He doesn’t stay with her too long, excusing himself despite her attempts to hold onto his hand, the women around her gazing at him, more intrigued than ever about his culinary skills.

He wants to find you, to see you. There’s an itching inside of him that won’t go away until he knows you’re here with him.

When he finally catches sight of you, something inside of him unknots itself. You’re standing in the middle of a large group of concerned people, you look like you’re fighting tears with everything you have. A woman touches your shoulder, and you raise your head to give her a brave smile.

He pauses on the outskirts, wonders how he’s ever going to get your attention.

But he doesn’t have to worry, because your eyes lock with his as soon as he stands still, as if you’d been seeking him out this entire time. He gives you a small smile, something of an icebreaker from so far away, and you take it as an invitation, running right to him with tears already spilling down your cheeks.

Your body collides with his, and for a moment, there’s only you, and the softness of your form, and the smell of your hair and he’s quietly reassuring you that everything is going to be okay.

He enjoys it, the way you grip his shirt, the way you cling to him with every ounce of strength you have. He hugs you back, finding a way to the soft loveseat in Wade’s living room. You don’t pull your head from his chest as you cry, you shake with big, heaving sobs, and he tries his best to comfort you.

If you’d only known what Wade’s intentions were with you, you wouldn’t be crying. After a while you calm, and you continue to cling to him while you sniffle, his shirt damp with your tears and he wears it like a badge of honour.

So many people stop in to check on you, more and more with each passing hour. Billy thinks more people are concerned with your wellbeing than with Wade’s actual widow.

It amuses him, that so many people are drawn to you, that you have such influence on everyone, that they care so much for you, and here you are, tucked into his body, turning your head into his chest to cry every now and again, growing less frequent with the more time that passes.

Later, he offers to take you home. He’s just been able to afford a slightly beat up car, and he asks if you’d be okay with being driven by him. You accept with sleepy eyes, and he smiles internally, going to find Wade’s wife to bid her goodbye.

He overhears one person speaking with another about the state in which the body was found, covered in his own blood and semen, throat slit from ear to ear. Billy is delighted to hear it, he wants everyone to know, he wants to shame Wade’s name, even in death.

His widow is sad to watch Billy leave, she grips at him once more, trying to wrap her arms around him the way you do. When he mentions your name, he watches her stiffen, mouth set in a grim line, something in her eyes like accusation, or knowledge of something that she cannot say to another soul.

She doesn’t speak her accusations to him, and he leaves, wraps an arm around your wobbling form and helps guide you to his car.

You’re so tired, and you fall asleep in his car as soon as you’re buckled in. He drives slowly, takes the long way, anything to be by your side longer. Your cheeks are stained with tears, he thinks about how beautiful you’re going to look in black.

You hum sleepily, reaching across, he blinks in surprise when you take his hand in yours.

“I heard how he died. Can’t wrap my head around it. Someone just decided he shouldn’t be alive anymore. Can you believe that?”

The lord giveth, and the lord taketh away, he wants to say.

Out loud, “I’ve seen it a couple of times, back in New York.” he says instead.

You squeeze his hand.

“Do you think you could ever take a life?”

His breaths pause, it was time to confess to you.

“I have,” He clears his throat, “I have killed people, I was in the army.”

Your head swivels to him in his peripherals, he glances back with a sad smile.

“I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

You continue to hold his hand.

“You- you’re not- you don’t hate me?”

“It’s not in me to hate, I have to believe that the path you’re on was necessary to bring you to me.”

“To you?”

“So I can help you.” You answer, squeezing his hand.

He wants to rip you apart and reshape you with his own hands.

When he finally gets to your house, he helps you out of the car, helping you up the few stairs and supporting your weight as you get the door open. When he tries to let you walk on your own, you stumble, and he has to catch you before you fall.

“I’m really tired.” You explain to him, and he hums in understanding.

He takes you up to bed, watches you collapse onto the soft surface, knee length dress rucking up so that he catches just the quickest glimpse of your underwear.

His hands clench into fists. He wants to push your skirt up, bury his face between your legs, taste your little cunt, worship you until you come on his tongue.

“Will you stay?” You ask, arms spread out, legs slightly bent as they press together.

He kicks his shoes off decisively.

“What will people say?” He teases.

“You don’t strike me as a man who’s ever cared about that.” You whisper softly.

He grins, climbs into bed beside you, reaches around your hip so that he can pull your body against his.

“Goodnight, angel.” He whispers as your eyelids flutter, struggling to stay conscious.

“G’night, Billy.” You respond, touching your face into his chest once more before you doze off completely.

It's too much power, and you must know it. To fall asleep so easily right beside him, every temptation to be like the predators he hunts. He could press his palm to your thigh, drag his hand up to your hips, you would never even know. He could do so much worse, pin you to the bed, pull his cock out and take you right here, watch you wake in shock while he fills you. Watch his cum leak out of your little hole. What could stop him? You? God? Everything he's wanted at the tip of fingers and all he has to do is take.

In the end, he doesn't do it. He lies beside you and thinks of all the vile things he could do and doesn't act on a single thing and he doesn't really know why.

He thinks it's because of the consequences. Doing that would mean you wouldn't want to be around him, and he needed you to want to be around him.

By the time morning comes, and you wake, he's spent the entire night memorizing the feel of your body against his. If you feel his aching erection, you say nothing of it, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or not.

He finds you right after the funeral, lighting the candles that have gone out when the doors had been wide open to allow the coffin through.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, approaching you, swallows as he finally has a chance to fully appreciate your funeral attire.

It's loose, giving you an almost formless shape, to hide from everyone's view, your skirt is just a little shorter than usual, probably something you haven't worn in a while, resting at mid thigh and no doubt giving the women something to chat about in hushed voices.

You glance at him with a little smile, before continuing your painstaking process of relighting each candle.

“I'm alright. The lord gives, and like natural order, the lord takes.”

He blinks.

“That's right.”

“What do you think about the Devil?” You ask suddenly, not looking up, simply tilting your head to continue your work.

“What do you mean?” He pries.

“Is he evil? Or is he just the way God made him?”

“He's both.” Billy answers.

You smile, and finally turn to look at him.

“Do you think God loves him?”

“Doesn't the Bible say God loves all his creations?”

You smile wider, nodding. For once, Billy feels like he doesn't have the upper hand in a conversation.

“Are you worried about eternal damnation?” Billy asks, taking a step closer, ready to reassure you that someone as sweet as you couldn't possibly end up in Hell. If you were damned, well that didn't bode well for him.

“I'm not afraid of Hell, I can handle fire.”

Billy watches you raise a hand, and hold it closely over one of the candles. He hisses, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away.

He turns your palm to check for any serious burns, but he'd withdrawn your hand just in time.

“I'm alright, Billy.” You reassure him, leaving your hand in his, and using the other to continue with your previous task.

It's the first time he realises that there is more to you than he'd initially thought. He'd seen you as a pristine painting before, something to be looked at, forbidden to touch, to love from afar. Now? You were an enigma, a puzzle whose pieces were made to be handled, to be solved by the right person.

Billy wanted to be that person.

“-He wants to be here with you, the lord is one with everything, he’s in everything you see, and everything you touch. You just have to close your eyes and let him in.”

From around the corner, Billy listens to you speak, your hands holding the other woman’s, who’d stumbled into the church an hour ago, searching for someone to speak with.

“I’m not worth the forgiveness.” The woman sobs.

Billy is ashamed to admit that the very sound of your voice turns him on. He feels sick, that listening to you speak about the lord makes him hard. If he closes his eyes, he swears you talk about God as if he’s just another person in the room,

“He believes in you. You’re here, you found me, because that’s what he wanted. You found the strength to come in, to open yourself up to being judged just a little, and I know he appreciates that. He loves you, and I do too.”

Later, when the woman leaves, with a promise to be here on Sunday, Billy finds you, shuffling and reorganising reading materials near the altar.

“You’re good at this.” Billy murmurs.

You smile.

“I’m just doing what he commands.”

Jealousy stirs in Billy’s chest.

Before he can stop himself, he’s stepping into your space, you look up at him with wide eyes, as you try to back away.

“You’re so selfless, don’t you know what people say about you?”

You blink in surprise, your body lowering as you descend the stairs, away from the altar and toward the pews.

“It- why should it matter what people say?”

“They call you a temptress, you’re the reason Wade’s burning in Hell. I heard his wife say it herself.”

“That’s not my fault.” You defend.

“It’s not? You’re telling me you have no idea of the effect you have on men?”

You go down another step, he follows.

“I- I don’t- I’m not-”

He feels so large, looming over you, frightening you.

“You don’t?”

“I only want to serve.” You whisper.

“Who?” Billy taunts.

“What?”

“Who do you serve?”

“The Lord.”

The back of your legs bump the wooden pew. Billy watches you gasp.

“And what if I wanted you to serve me?”

He doesn’t let your confused expression last for too long.

Billy acts fast, sitting on the pew, and gripping your hips to drag you onto his lap. He guides your legs over his, spreads his thighs so that you’re forced open too.

You suck in a deep breath, head falling back onto his shoulder. You look up at him, mouth parted, eyebrows drawn together.

“What are you doing?” You ask, your body still on top of his own, he realises that you’re not fighting him like he was worried you would.

He shushes you, gently presses the tips of his fingers right above your knees, takes his time dragging them up.

You reach for his hands, covering them, unsure if you should stop him or not.

“I’m giving you what God can’t.” He simply says, looking up at the altar before them, listening for anyone walking in as he brings a veined hand up to cup your mound.

You let out a little whine, fingers gripping his wrist, unable to pry his hand away.

“This is wrong.” You whisper, tugging at his wrist.

“I’ll make you feel right in a minute.” He answers, moving slowly to push his hands into your panties.

This is what your cunt feels like, is his first thought. Billy bites down on his bottom lip, his fingers feeling over your pussy, exploring, learning, and when he finally dips his hands lower to find you wet, he can’t help chuckling to himself.

The wrongness of your situation turns you on, and Billy uses it like fuel, lights a fire so readily, eager to watch everything burn.

“This is all an act, isn’t it?” He jabs, “You pretend to be so pure but that little cunt is dripping on my fingers.” You shake your head in protest.

He’s gentle when he finally touches your clit.

You gasp, let out a strained moan, trying to fight a losing battle with your body.

He circles his fingers on your little bud, pulls your legs open wider when you try to shut them. He’s slow, he’s careful, he feels you tremble, feels your breaths get faster.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already.” He chides, “I’ve only just started.”

A soft cry is your only response.

When the sun is at the right angle, it shines through the stained glass and paints you both in multitudinous colours. He looks down at you, your face is one of mindless pleasure while the hues dance on your trembling skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs reverently, “sinning in God’s light.”

Your eyes roll back in your head, mouth parting with the start of a loud cry, he slips his free hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds of pleasure you make.

You rock on him, cunt spilling more and more onto his fingers, his mouth begs for a taste.

Your nails dig into his wrist, he welcomes the feeling, delighted to have given you something only he could give.

When he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he slips his hand from your mouth, and after a few moments, he pulls his hand from your panties.

His fingers go right into his mouth, eyes closing in bliss at your tart taste, he licks his fingers clean, runs his tongue over them one more time to make sure he’s gotten every drop of you.

You look at him with parted lips, caught in your own amazement, coloured light still spilling onto you.

He smiles, pulling your skirt down, closing his legs which close yours.

He pauses when he feels your fingers touch his chin, he looks at you in surprise to find something calm in them. You part your lips, like you’re about to say something, and then you startle when the doors to the church are pushed open.

You slip off his lap, rising to a stand, you smile, welcoming the people coming in.

Billy is waiting in the confessional booth for you to pass by. You’d been so exhausted recently, trying to help the newest preacher get settled, and then someone else had been murdered. A woman working at the bank had been stabbed repeatedly in the face inside the bank vault. Her body had been found on a pile of money.

It was odd, Billy thought he was the only one of his kind in town, to know there was another out there, made him want to look out for you more than ever.

This, was not him looking out for you.

Rather, he was waiting to pull you away, to be your distraction from another funeral, to save you, if he so dared call it that.

He hears footsteps, identifies you from the click of your familiar shoes on the church floors.

He hears the large wooden doors at the front open to allow the coffin in, and while everyone looks in the direction of the doors, he slips out, wraps his hand around your mouth, and pulls you, struggling into the confessional.

You stop fighting when you see him, and he smiles, bolting the doors closed from the inside.

He looms over you, cock hardening in his pants, presses a finger to his lips with a smile.

Your mouth parts, curious about him, and when he presses you back, settling your body onto the wooden bench, you don’t have much choice but to obey.

He watches you, fire in his veins. You look up at him with the sweetest eyes, and he knows he’s ready to defile you right here.

Instead, as the funeral begins, he drops to his knees in front of you, pulling your panties down your legs so that he can worship you with his tongue.

He keeps you right on edge for the entire sermon, licking you slowly, your hands in his hair, your breathing deep and low to avoid attracting attention.

He edges you, echoes the prayers being said outside into your heated core, licks at your sweet bundle of nerves, doesn’t stop for a single second.

When the congregation takes up a gospel in praise, he waits till the voices are at their highest point to let your orgasm take you.

He tastes you greedily, thankful to have ever crossed your path.

He closes his eyes, decidedly not done with you, peeling at your virtue until nothing remains.

He takes you home that night, helps your exhausted form like he did before, hands gripping your waist to support your fumbling steps.

“You need to stop expending all your energy like this.” He chastises, lips in your hair, breathing in your scent.

“I’m fine, I just need to sleep.” You protest.

He guides your key into your door.

“Will you stay again?” You ask hopefully.

“If you want me to. But if someone sees me leaving-”

“I know, they’ll have reason to call me a whore.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.” His voice is maybe too sharp with you.

You let out a little laugh.

“Right. Sorry.”

He gets you up the stairs, feels you take a deep breath as you yawn.

“Help me get out of this dress?”

God, you really were tempting him.

He watches you fall back onto the bed, clad in only your underwear. He finds it impossible to look away, when your body looks so divine.

He gulps, wants to kiss every exposed inch, wants to make you see heaven any way that he can.

You watch him while he watches you, he’s transfixed by you.

“You want to touch me, don’t you?”

He curls his hands into fists.

“I always want to touch you.”

You give him a sleepy grin, arching your back, reaching behind to unclasp your bra.

“Can you bring me a dress from my closet?” You ask softly, and he stiffens to obey.

He pulls the door open, searching through the delicate things suspended from hangers for something for you to sleep in. He finds a sheer dress, smiles as he pulls it from the closet, he glances back at you to find you already asleep, your breasts exposed to the cold air.

He smiles, turns back to close the door, pauses when something shiny catches his eye.

It’s behind the wooden walls of your closet, shining through the slats. Billy’s eyebrows draw together, leaning in to press against the spot, the entire panel of wood shifts, and he realises that the closet has a false back.

He tosses your dress over his shoulder, reaching for either side of the wood, he presses down gently, and the entire thing shifts upward, allowing a space for his fingers to fit in.

He pulls, the piece of wood is heavier than expected, turns, and tucks it against one side of the closet.

What he finds… washes his mind blank of any rational thought.

It’s an altar, but it’s not for God.

There’s an inverted pentagram painted onto the wall in something that Billy, with his years of experience in the matter, knows to be dried blood. On the pentagram, there are photos pinned, polaroids of him that he’d never seen you take, taped to your wall with little hearts scribbled on. There’s other things as well, the dog tags from his bedside drawer, the pocket square he’d thought he’d misplaced after Wade’s funeral. So many little items of his, in this space, and he realises that he has no idea who you are at all.

On the floor, is the pink cardigan soaked in Wade’s blood, half burned from where he’d tossed it into a quick fire in the woods behind the church. Billy kneels, fingers brushing the handle of a knife with a blade embellished with flowers, stained with blood. The skull of a goat, surrounded by black and red candles.

He knows he should be feeling fear, but there’s no ounce of it anywhere in his body. He licks his lips, plucking a photo of himself from the wall, he feels his lips curl up involuntarily.

He stands, turns to wake you, to confront you, and halts when he finds you already behind him.

You look sleepy still, swaying on your feet, body still bare, and before he can say anything, you raise a fist, and blow a strange powder directly into his face.

It stings when it touches his eyes. He groans, drops the photo of himself he was holding, presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and stumbles. His throat tickles, he coughs, body trying to expel whatever you’ve dosed him with. He can’t see, and he reaches for where he knew you were last, only to find formless air.

He tries not to panic, if you wanted to actually hurt him, you would have by now. Perhaps you just didn’t know what his reaction was going to be and you were safeguarding yourself.

He feels the handcuff wrap around his wrist, but he fights it, his eyes sting too much for rational thought.

“I’ll help you if you cooperate.” He hears you say.

He huffs out a breath, extending his cuffed arm for your guidance.

You pull at him, bringing him to your bed, and cuffing both his arms to the frame. His eyes sting when he tries to see through them, his face burns too, like it’s on fire.

The next thing he feels is a cold cloth on his face, and then there’s instant relief.

You place a damp rag over his eyes, and on the lower half of his face, leaving his nose exposed for him to breathe.

“Let it sit for a little, it needs to neutralise the poison.”

Poison? He thinks in shock.

He tries to calm himself, tries to tug on his restraints as little as possible. He tries to run through everything he’d learned in the past few minutes, sort them into his head, solve puzzles he didn’t even know existed.

You were entirely not who he thought you were, not even a little, not even at all.

No, not true, he’d seen it, glimpses of the real you from the very start, too pure, he’d thought, too pure that there must be something wrong.

He should have seen it from the minute you took his hand, from the minute you sat on his lap, when you felt his erection and still flocked to him. Billy should have known. It was in the way you thrived under the attention, the memory of you holding your fingers over the candles in the church. He’d seen it all, and had been unable to put the pieces together.

He hears movement, feels the bed dip as you come closer to him, feels your weight settle on his hips, straddling him.

The rags are pulled from his face, and you use the edge to wipe the remnants of something he can’t see.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t want to hurt you, but it was this or hitting you over the head with a bat.” You smile down at him, he can still see you there.

You don’t look like a new person, you only look more relaxed in his presence, his eyes drop down to find you wearing the dress he’s picked before he’d discovered your secrets.

“You don’t worship God.” He starts.

You smile.

“No I don’t.”

“But you go to church, you help other people find God.”

“You think that saves them? No one in that church is free of sin, no one is made better by being there, they’re only better at hiding it.”

He blinks, tilts his head, waits for you to continue.

You reach for a box of matches, striking one, you light the candle sitting on your bedside table.

“I go to church, because every time I step in there, I spite God.”

He watches you reach to strike another match, lighting the candle on the other side of the bed.

“My Lord, the only one I pray to, is the Devil himself.”

Billy blinks, tilts his head.

“You tempt everyone there with your innocence on purpose.” He says, thinking out loud.

You make a sound of disagreement.

“Not exactly, I’m just charismatic, and the fruits fall where they fall. My intention isn’t to tempt, it’s not my fault that men are so easily… tempted.”

He raises his eyebrows in amazement at your point.

“Look at Wade for example, I was only as nice to him as I was with everyone else, but he took it another way, I’d finally decided to kill him when he touched my thigh for too long… I was watching him from a small space in the roof when you came in.”

Billy watches, hypnotised as you drag your palm over your stomach, your ass grinding gently against his semi-erect cock.

“I watched you stand behind him, waiting for the right moment.” You whisper, hand slipping under your sheer dress, working its way down the front of your panties. Billy’s teeth clench, pulling at the handcuffs.

“I watched you cut his throat,” You groan, “There was blood everywhere.” Your head tilts back as he watches you touch yourself to the memory of his past crimes.

“You took my cardigan. I knew there was something about you before, but it was only then that I knew I had to have you.”

He watches you, fingers hidden from his view as you pleasure your little cunt. He feels rage at not having any control.

“The woman in the bank,” Billy tries to think with you so close, “That was you.”

You nod, smiling down at him.

“She was a bad person. I wanted to give Satan someone to play with. Just like he gave me you.”

Billy’s hands are in fists, blunt nails pressed to his palm.

“Let me go.” He grits out.

You smile dreamily, shake your head.

“Not yet. I want to have you first.”

His breath halts in his chest, desperate to ask you what you mean, but he thinks your intention is clear enough.

He pulls harder on his restraints, not wanting to be bound the first time he feels you.

“Don't fight it, Billy. Let me have you how I want, and then, maybe we'll see about those cuffs.”

He stops struggling, takes a deep breath, goes still.

You smile, undoing his belt as quickly as you can, and then tugging at the buttons of his shirt until his torso is bared to you.

He listens to you hum with delight, feels your scorching tongue lave at his chest, over his heart, flicking at his nipple.

He begins to understand how feral you are, listening to your hums of appreciation as your tongue drifts over his neck. He realises, that you’re just a small thing, searching for someone exactly like you in a world full of people pretending.

When you open his pants, his mouth goes dry, his jaw drops open as you suck on the tip of his cock for just a small moment, enjoying the taste of him before you’re slipping your panties to the side to take him in.

Billy closes his eyes, swears, low in his throat. You feel better than he’d imagined, your walls fluttering around him, pulling his cock deeper into you so naturally that he swears it was always meant to happen.

You moan loudly, head tossed back.

“I would have let you fuck me in that church.” You confess, “I would have let you fuck me in a pool of Wade’s blood.”

Billy groans.

“I’d fuck you in the bare earth.” He grunts, supporting your conversation, “I’d make you beg me to.”

You clench tightly around him, and Billy swears he sees stars for a moment. Your breasts bounce as you roll your hips on him, and after a moment, you pause, reaching for one of those lit candles beside your bed.

Billy looks at you, keeping your steady gaze, trying to prepare himself for the possibility that you might drop hot wax onto his skin.

But you spare him, instead, you tilt the candle, letting a few drops of molten wax fall onto your thigh.

He feels you tighten, grunts in pleasure at the vigour your pace takes on.

He’s so captivated by your enjoyment of it, that he can’t help but ask.

“Do it to me.” He asks.

You smile, hovering the candle over his chest, and when the first drop hits, he gasps. It stings, burns like fire, but then something sweet fills the space, his body somehow asking for more.

You don’t give him any more though, placing the candle back in its original spot, and beginning to rock your hips in tandem.

You’re struggling to achieve orgasm in this position, and he feels amusement rise within him, knowing more about your own body than you seem to know.

It finally makes him relax, knows that no matter how hard you try, you still need him to get you off.

He waits, and waits, and finds that he can be patient when it comes to pleasuring your cunt.

You pause, pouting.

“Poor little girl,” Billy chides, “Can’t manage to come on her own. You need my help, don’t you?”

Your eyebrows are drawn together When you look down at him, trying to make sense of his words.

“N-no, I can, uh, do it myself.”

He grins sharply, relaxes.

“You’re so out of your depth.” He taunts.

“Nuh uh.” You hum, still trying to use his cock to pleasure yourself. Billy turns his head to study his restraints, the wooden pillar he's cuffed to on the headboard is wobbly, he figures one sharp pull at just the right angle would get that hand loose. The other pillar however, is too sturdy for a move like that.

He has to move fast when he does it, find a way to get you to release his other hand.

But first, a distraction.

“You're beautiful like this,” he says truthfully, “Your true self is so much more than I'd imagined and- well maybe we are right for each other.”

He watches you nod eagerly, still trying to reach your peak, your head tilts back, lulled into a false sense of security.

Billy takes his opportunity to strike.

He pulls as hard as he can on the wooden pillar of the headboard, muscles flexing almost painfully. He almost thinks he's going to fail but right at the last second, the wood gives, freeing the handcuff and allowing movement.

Your eyes fly open, and you reach for something behind you, pulling out a knife.

He catches your hand, twists your wrist so that the knife falls free, and pushes it off the bed.

Before you can scramble off of him, his hand grips your hair harshly.

“Unlock me.” He hisses into your terrified face.

Despite your obvious fear, he still feels you clench around his cock, and his desperation to have you exactly how he wants, increases.

“I'm not going to hurt you.” He clarifies, “But you're mine now, so unlock me.”

Your eyelids flutter, your eyes glancing at a spot beside him. He doesn't turn to look, simply leaning his body with yours, hand still fisted no doubt painfully in your hair.

He looks from the corner of his eye, as you tug the bedside drawer open and stick your hand in.

“You better not be reaching for another knife. It wouldn't take much for me to squeeze the life out of you, even with one hand tied.”

He feels you clench around him again.

“You like that? That I could kill you without a second thought? Your cunt’s gripping me so tight, baby.”

You let out a little whine, withdrawing with just a metal key pressed between your fingers.

“Good girl,” Billy praises, feels even that go right to your cunt, “Now unlock me.”

You do his bound hand first, and then pull the other cuff from around his wrist. Your eyes cling to the reddening bruise on his wrist from pulling too hard.

When he's finally free, he grins, right in your face, before pulling you off his cock and flipping you over.

You gasp in surprise as your back hits the bed, Billy leans away to get a good look at you.

He can see your delectably shaped tits through the white sheer dress, he admires the way it looks- like innocence and somehow pure sin wrapped all in one.

He thinks, for the first time, he finally sees you, finally understands what he has, looking up at him with careful eyes.

“You said something earlier. That the Devil sent me here for you,” he leans forward, cups your breasts through the dress, stiffening your nipples, watches you writhe beautifully under him.

“But I'm not your plaything, little girl,” His fingers pinch down, pressing your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, watching you gasp in pain and pleasure, “You're mine.”

It sets off something inside of him, and like an avalanche, any semblance of self control he'd ever had, just crumbles.

He leans down, lips pressed to yours, he feels an ache inside of him lessen.

You kiss back, with forceful lips, your hands gripping the back of his head, fingers in his hair to stop him from pulling away.

His hands press against your shoulders, feeling their way over the sheer sleeves of the material, gripping your hips, fingers catching on the fabric as he touches your body for the very first time.

Your legs wrap around him, it makes him so delighted, that you want him, that he's going to use that against you.

He pulls back, grinning when you whine, reach for his mouth once more, his hand finding your throat too easily, gripping it to push you back.

“Where did my little fighter go, hmm?” He leans forward to lick your cheek, enjoying the surprised expression on your face.

“Please,” you whisper, “I need you to make me come.”

His nose brushes yours.

“Why? Don't you touch yourself all the time?” He taunts, already knowing your responses before you say them.

“I haven't been able to- since you touched me.”

He laughs, watches you get more and more demure with each moment.

“You haven't been able to come since I put my hands on you? I wonder why?”

“You feel too good.” You confess to him.

He tries to fight it but it makes him laugh again, he buries his face into your neck, amusement so heavy in his body and he has to let it out.

“Sorry, It’s just that- you haven't even seen what I can really do yet.”

“Show me.” You beg.

His hands caress you gently, he nods his head, and then, tears your dress into pieces.

You’re so turned on, aching for him, you shudder as he pulls the remnants of your dress from your skin.

His touch is frantic, his palms skate over your skin, gripping, feeling, your thighs, your legs, your arms, it makes you so much more aroused to be felt like this. No part of your body is safe from his wandering hands, it feels as though he’s trying to learn you, and you are so eager to let him.

His lips are next, kissing the top of your breast, working his way between them, the feel of his lips on your skin makes you feel more connected to him than before. He pulls your panties off in a swift rush, kissing at your knees when he finally gets them off.

“Want to know why my touch feels good? Because I know you. I know what your body likes.” Billy says, you lift your head to look at him, his hand sliding up between your thighs, the tips of his fingers making delicious sparks.

He touches your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt so gently, desperation pooling under your skin. He presses a single finger against you, until he just brushes your clit with the very tip of his finger.

“You need this little bundle here touched, kissed, and it can’t be too harsh.”

You cry out when he just softly strokes your clit. Pleasure burning through you at just the simplest move.

“You think that just because you like pain, that this has to be rough too, but no, your pretty body craves a soft touch.”

He proves it to you, his gentle fingers massage your clit, he makes it look effortless, eyes drawn to your centre, looking up at you with dark eyes every now and then.

It’s the burn of his slow movements that make you lose your mind. The worst part is that he’s right, you’ve never touched yourself so gently before.

“Does that feel good, baby? I’ve killed so many people with these same hands. But I bet that makes your little cunt even wetter.”

You mewl, nodding, remembering the way you’d seen Billy kill. The amount of blood he’d left behind, such a messy crime scene.

You bite down on your bottom lip, back arching, hands gripping your sheets.

Just a little bit more, you think, gasping, quietly urging him on, hoping that he doesn’t stop his movements.

“That’s it,” Billy praises, “Just like that, show me exactly who owns you.”

Your breath stutters in your chest, your vision goes white as pure euphoria overtakes you. It comes in waves, cunt fluttering around nothing, your body shudders as your brain tries to process pleasure beyond your comprehension.

It takes you a moment before you can breathe through it, and like before, it feels like you’re floating, somewhere deep in your subconscious.

His face comes into your line of sight, a proud smile on His lips, beautiful in every way as He hovers above you.

You suck in another breath, it helps you feel your body, and the remnants of your still occurring orgasm.

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t look away. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I wanted you all to myself. Now that I have you here, now that I see you, I want you forever.”

You nod eagerly, smiling up at him, gripping his hand to press your cheek into his palm. You wanted that, you wanted to be His as well.

“Now be a good girl and stay still.” He whispers, lowering his body once more, burying his face between your thighs for the second time in your life.

You almost want to scream. His tongue pushes its way to your clit, flicking softly, dipping down to lick at your entrance.

You hear Him moan between your thighs, you shudder, arching your hips into his face.

He slaps your thigh, a warning that he intends to uphold the discipline of His instruction, you simply clench in response.

You wanted- so much more than you could admit.

You'd thought, for a brief moment, that he was the personification of Lucifer himself, that Billy was a reward for your years of devotion, but somewhere in the back of your head, you were starting to feel something different, new, that not even your devotion to Satan himself could match.

He licks you like he's starving for it, hands on your thighs, tongue in your cunt you want to struggle just so He has a reason to hold you down.

You say His name, you feel your thighs tremble, His lips kiss at your swollen clit.

You don't know what you're feeling, something in your chest, that tugs everytime he touches you.

Drunk on His mouth, you hiss when his pace increases, unsure if you'll even be able to have another orgasm so close to the last.

He's careful, dexterous, precise, he licks cunt the way he kills- with careless precision, a spectacle to be admired, spoken about in hushed tones.

Billy doesn't ask, he simply manipulates your body until you're wound so tightly on edge once again, unable to comprehend how you got here in the first place.

You groan, your grip on sanity crumbles away, all you can think about is Him, and the way his beard feels, scratching between your thighs, and the darkness of his hair and the grip of his fingers on you, holding you to him, daring you to struggle.

There’s a loud rushing in your head when your next peak finds you, your back bowing off the bed once more, something pinches in protest but you can’t focus on it, the pleasure too important to give up just because you’re a little uncomfortable.

He licks at the arousal spilling from you, moans into your body with each taste, making you see stars, or fireworks or maybe even just flashes of bright lights and colours.

It somehow reminds you of the stained glass of the church, makes you feel adjacent to something that’s on the tip of your tongue but you can’t find the right words for it.

He draws back, beard wet with your slick arousal. It’s gorgeous, and you watch him tug his black shirt off- that he’d worn to the funeral of the woman you’d killed- and use it to dab at his chin.

Your eyes roam down his body, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen a man as sculpted as he is, lean and muscular, small bits of hair on his chest and a spot right below his navel that your tongue aches for.

You sit up, looking at him, pressing your thighs together as he pushes his pants all the way down his legs, his cock already solid and leaking for you.

You remember the first time you felt Him, the way you knew without a doubt that you were going to have him, before you even fully understood what he was.

He reaches for you, grips your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the bed. You gasp at his easy display of strength, watching as he strokes himself for a few moments before lining his cock up with your dripping entrance.

Your past orgasms have made you more sensitive, each inch of him he presses in makes you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to breathe through the overwhelming pleasure and the stretch associated.

“You're so tight.” He utters with a strained voice.

You can only moan, reach to touch Him, the light of the candles flickering on his bare skin in the dead of night.

Your fingers graze a circular scar on his lower abdomen, and at the same time, he thrusts the rest of his cock fully into you.

You cry out, the sudden bliss of being stretched, goes right into your head, you gasp, your body begs for more, begs to be undone by him.

You swear you can taste blood in your mouth from biting down on your bottom lip too much, unable to vocalise your appreciation of him, he draws his cock out, before making another harsh thrust.

Your back arches, you don’t feel like you’re in your body, or maybe you feel too much in your body, the only thing you know for sure is the pleasure that fills you, that threatens to swell under your skin and explode outward.

He keeps his motions swift, harsh, deep, following through with each shift of his hips fully before beginning another.

“Who’s your God? Tell me.”

“L-Lucifer.” You utter automatically, but it’s the wrong thing to say. He stops, hands gripping your jaw tightly, bringing all your focus to him.

“What was that?” He grits out.

“Lucifer?” You whisper, voice light with pleasure.

He shakes his head, leaning away and reaching for something nearby.

You tighten around him when you spot the burning candle in his hand.

“Say that again.”

“Um…” You stutter, unsure of what to say.

You gasp in surprise when the first drop of hot wax hits your hip. It stings, just for a moment, before leaving the sweetest tingle in its place.

“Please.” You moan, pressing your hips upward for more of his torment.

“Can Satan do that?” He asks, rutting his cock into you at a slow shallow pace. When you don’t respond, you feel another heated droplet sting the skin of your hip.

You peek at him through parted eyelids, watching the way he looks at you in amusement, before tilting the candle again, this time to allow hot wax to fall onto the opposite side.

“Billy.” You moan, and you watch him grin.

“Answer my question, little dove.”

You shake your head.

“N-no. Satan can’t make me feel like this.” You whisper.

He moves, drips wax onto your thigh, making you gasp in pain, feeling it heighten your euphoria.

“Do you like feeling this way?” He asks, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re nodding, raising your hand to your chest to roll your nipples between your fingers for his appreciation.

“I like it, Billy, I love it.”

“Then tell me who your God is.”

You think you finally understand what he's trying to say, his cock pressed deep inside of you. He's the reason you feel so good, he's been the person occupying most of your thoughts from the day you met. He's someone you'd be willing to kill for.

“You.” You finally answer, and he smiles, moves his hand, still holding the candle, wax dripping onto his fingers, he tilts the candle and lets a few heated droplets touch the skin over your womb.

You gasp, the skin there is a little more sensitive, the burn is more intense, more pain than pleasure but He doesn’t seem to care, simply continues to smile as he blows the candle out, putting it back on your nightstand.

There's still another candle on the other side, allowing you to see, though everything is just a little dimmer now.

Your skin tingles, warm, the dried wax on your skin cracks as you move, but you don't get a chance to focus on it too much, because as soon as Billy lets go of the candle, he's pressing into you with renewed vigour.

Your thighs tremble, tears pool in your eyes, He's rough, grunting with each stroke he makes, earning a reciprocated cry when his cock bottoms out inside of you each time.

Skin against skin, sweat glistens on his chest, you want to taste him.

“Say it again.” He commands, leaning over you to brush his lips to your ear, “Who do you worship?”

“You, Billy.” You respond eagerly, gripping his shoulders, pressing your nails in, listening to him hiss in response, gripping your jaw to bring you into a bruising kiss.

It's messy, his tongue dipping forcefully into your mouth like he owns you, his cock doing the same, taking everything as if it's owed.

You bite down on his bottom lip, hears him grunt out a manic laugh in response.

“You're all fucking mine.” He grits, leaning back and pulling your boneless body up until you're on top of him, his hands gripping your hips to keep you moving on his cock. You tuck your head into his neck, unable to be anything more than a receptacle, to take Him, over and over until he's finished with you.

“How does it feel to be saved by your new God?” He grunts between thrusts.

You can barely find the words to speak.

His hand slaps the flesh of your ass hard, demanding a response.

Cruel, you think, that He wants you to speak, that He thinks you're even capable of thought.

“Feels good.” You hum, fingers gripping his neck, nose to his jaw, taking what he gives, you tears dripping onto his collarbone.

He groans into your ear, it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard and you finally begin to understand true devotion.

“Please,” You beg, “Please.”

He grunts out a chuckle between thrusts.

“You don’t have to beg, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

You tilt your head up, vision hazy, your body tingling with something too intense to be just bliss.

He kisses you softly one more time before dropping you back onto the bed, pushing your knees upward so that they’re almost to your ears.

He feels so much deeper this time, fucking you hard, merciless thrusts that has your cunt fluttering again, warning you that you’re on the right path to an orgasm.

He doesn’t stop, looking right into your eyes as he pushes his cock into you, over and over and over. You see stars, you see him, you see nothing else.

He licks his thumb, lips wet with saliva, he slips it between your bodies, angles it right against your clit, swipes gently from left to right.

You make a loud sound, followed by a flurry of pitiful whines, trying to warn him, to implore him. He doesn’t stop fucking you.

Your toes curl, one small breath of air before the most intense rush of ecstasy takes root in your body. You’re lost in the rapture, taken by the experience to even register the sounds you make.

You feel fire, you feel sparks, tingles that rush all over your skin, your inner walls gripping him so tightly as you’re forced to experience bliss at His hands.

He groans loudly, and before you know it he’s fucking into you rougher than before only for a moment before he makes a sharp sound of relief, cock pulsing as he spills himself into you.

You clench around him, making sure he gives you every drop of himself. Knowing that this is the right way to show your devotion.

There’s a moment of insecurity, when he crashes to the bed beside you, eyes closed, his breathing is quick, as if he’s just run for miles. You worry that once he’s had his fill of you, that he won’t be interested any more.

Your head is turned to look at him, lungs still heaving, the bliss of your orgasm hasn’t left you completely yet, and you watch him, curious to observe what he does next.

He peeks an eye open, mouth pulling into a smile that bares his teeth, he pushes himself up, crawls closer till he’s in the space between your body and arm, kissing at your cheek and shoulders softly.

It opens something inside of you, to feel that, to know without a doubt that He meant every word He said.

You raise your hand in wonder, fingers gently brushing His cheek, before pressing your palm to His face.

He looks down at you, moves his own hand to run the backs of his fingers against your face, two people, finally seeing each other, finally showing themselves, unafraid.

It’s more than you could have ever hoped for.

Billy stands in the shadows, waiting.

He watches his targets leave the bar, two men, laughing with each other as they head to the nearby bus stop.

He follows, observing the way they move, trying to figure out just exactly how drunk they are. One wears a leather jacket, with his hair slicked back, the other wears a plain white t-shirt, and jeans.

They talk loudly, confessing to things Billy already knows about.

When one of them looks up, and sharply elbows the other, nodding to a place ahead, Billy knows what they see.

You lean against the bus stop, face buried in your phone, too occupied with it to notice that you’ve been spotted.

You’re beautiful, Billy muses, white dress, denim jacket, a little purse hanging from your elbow, standing under a small streetlight. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

The man in the leather jacket gets to you first, looking over your shoulder, peering into your phone looking at what you’re doing for a moment before saying something to you.

He watches you startle, look up at both men as they approach.

It’s like a dance, the way your fright gives them confidence, the manner in which you step back, warning them that you’re going to run before you actually do.

He smiles as you slip from their reaching grip, running into the nearest alley, he watches them take chase.

He moves faster, making sure there’s no chance of putting you in any real danger.

When he gets there, they’ve got you cornered, your back against a wall with them closing in. They’re too focused on you to ever notice him.

He takes a breath, waits for a moment, enjoys the thrill of what he’s about to feel.

When one of the men reaches to put his grimy hands on you, Billy strikes.

The man in the leather jacket makes a gurgling sound as his throat is cut wide open, splashing mostly on himself, but some of it gets on your dress and he knows he’ll get on his knees later to apologise for getting your dress messy, even though he knows you like it.

The other man can only make a single sound of terror before he’s falling to the floor, mouth agape as the handle of a knife protrudes from his eye.

He’s still alive, though not for long as Billy watches you drop to one knee, pulling the knife from his skull to plunge it into his vocal cords next.

You look up at him, with bright eyes, excited to be doing this with him. He bites down on his bottom lip, thinks you look adorable when you’re seeking his approval.

He doesn’t care if the men are in their last moments, he reaches for you, grips the collar of your jacket and hauls you up, manoeuvring you until your back is pressed against the wall of the alley.

He drops his head, angles to place a fierce kiss on your lips, smearing blood on your face when he grips your jaw.

Billy pulls away, breathless, heart hammering with the thrill of murder, he looks into your eyes, and finds himself looking back.

He’s not surprised- simply acknowledging to himself that it’s what he’s been seeing the entire time, what he couldn’t put a name to when you first met, he now knows.

“And the lord said ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’”

It makes you look up, to meet Billy’s eyes.

You watch the corner of His mouth twitch in amusement.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #the punisher #my writings #billy russo smut #dark!billy russo #serial killer!Billy Russo #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #just overall bad #everyone is evil #there is not a redeemable character in sight #Forget 'I can fix him'#reader just said 'watch me make him worse'

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gremlin-girly · 8 months ago

Text

Thin Walls

BBF!Lloyd Hansen x f!Reader

Part of @steviebbboi 's 200 Follower Submissions 💥💥

Prompts: Then I guess we gotta be quiet, huh? + "Nope. Again." + "Aw, does it feel good right there?" + BBF!bb + Daddy/Princess kink

Warnings/Tags: SMUT, oral (f recieving), p-in-v (wrap it), almost quickie sex, rough-ish sex, wall sex, dirty talk, pussy spanking (just one), Daddy/Princess kink, praise (good girl), a hint of possiveness (my girl), petnames (it's Lloyd so there's so, so many... sweet thing, princess, gumdrop, baby cakes), secret relationship, alcohol consumption (brief), orgasm denial, brat taming, begging

Not beta'd. MDNI. I do not give permission for my work to be copied, reposted or translated (or put through AI)

Summary: Your brother's wedding rehearsal and wedding would be a lot more exciting if you didn't have 20 questions about your relationship; luckily Lloyd has all the answers for you.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Hello, hello! And welcome to the second installment. Took me longer than imagined and I'm guess ing the word count is in the 3k zone (rip my computer). I'm working deftly to get the final story for this challenge (more on that in the notes after the fic!!) Enjoy! - Love, Grem x

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

Ionian Sun | Bubbles | Masterlist

You'd spent the hours of your morning rushing around with the women of your family, fussing and cooing over the bride, the dress, all of the excitement. By the afternoon, you were already mentally drained and the thought of the rehearsal lunch sat next to your cooing mother and father filled your bones with dread. Worse yet, you were seated next to your brother's best friend Lloyd Hansen, who seemed more smug than usual.

You gritted your teeth as you made your way through your starter, Lloyd and your dad chatting and drinking away. Your mother leans over to you, her eyes gleaming mischieviously as she looks between you and Lloyd.

"He's quite handsome," she says keeping her voice quiet as she sips her wine.

"Mom-" You hiss back at her warningly. You did not need this right now.

"I'm just saying!" She rolls her eyes dramatically and taps her hand over yours. "Handsome, good job, we've known him all his life pretty much." She takes another sip of her wine, eyeing Lloyd as you narrow your eyes at her. "You always used to say you'd marry him."

"I was five years old." You grit at her, feeling your cheeks burn with embarassment.

"And it was so cute." Your mother sighs wistfully, remembering exactly how adorable you looked in your princess gown, declaring your intent to marry your brother's friend. More than once. "And he'd be so proud about it. You were his princess to rescue when you'd play together."

Lloyd’s piercing blue eyes meet yours across the table and you shift in your seat uncomfortably and clear your throat.

"Can you not do this-"

"Lloyd!" Your mother leans her elbows onto the table and his gaze moves to hers, giving her a grin. You sigh and rub your temples, wishing you could be anywhere else. "You're single right? No important woman in your life?"

"No," Lloyd says casually, his moustache twitching upwards. "Not particularly."

Your mother nudges you under the table and you fight the urge to combust on the spot.

"What about coincidence! Y/N isn't either. I thi-"

"I think you've had enough to drink." You say curtly, scowling at her but your mother ignores you.

"We were just reminiscing about when you were all kids." Your mother says brightly. "Playing knights and make believe."

"You were all such troublemakers." You dad chimes in, shaking his head with a chuckle. "I had to close up my study more than once to stop you kids stealing my 'treasures'."

Lloyd chuckles lightly before glancing at you. "I remember.... And I remember princess here was always intent on marrying me."

"I could hardly marry my brother." You snap, sending a glare his way but Lloyd sneers over at you. But your parents don't listen to you, only laughing at Lloyd’s comment.

"We thought you'd end up together. The family all had bets." Your mother adds, nonplussed. Her hints were the furthest from subtle but one of the major cons of a secret relationship was that no one knew you were together. And keeping up the act that you didn't want to lunge across the table and sit in his lap was tiring at times like these. Although, maybe interrogations about your supposed single-life and setting you up with your lover was better than probes about marriage and kids.

"Mom!" You balk at her. At least you could be embarassed by her meddling and use that for your top tier acting skills; much to Lloyd’s annoying amusement.

"What?" She says, waving a hand dismissively at you. "We did! You were both so cute together."

"What do you mean were? Oof." Lloyd bites back a yelp of pain and glares over at your smug, sneering face as he nurses the shin you kicked under the table.

You don't really remember how the secret relationship started, or why you'd fought so hard to keep it a secret, but Lloyd was your favourite person. Always had been, always would be. Maybe it was because you thought your meddling family wouldn't be as open to you dating your brother's best friend, especially your brother, as they so claimed.

Your brother's wedding only added more stress to the mix.

"I'm going to get a drink." You pull a face as you stand from the table making a bee-line to the bar. Lloyd excuses himself quickly not long after and follows after you, ensuring to stop by your brother's table for a quick chat so not to arouse suspicion.

When he finally joins you at the bar, you're already sipping at a rum and coke and slide a glass of the same over to him. You're half slumped in defeat on the counter, elbows aching against the hard wood as your rest your chin on one of your palms. You glance over at Lloyd with a small, wry smile.

"I'm sorry about that." You huff, brushing hair from your face. "She would not let up."

Lloyd shrugs, taking a swig of his drink, smacking his lips at the sweetness. "It's alright. I know your mom. Nothing I couldn't handle, princess."

You give him a withering look but he only gives you a shit-eating smirk in response.

"You didn't help things along either." You point out, standing a little straighter.

Lloyd shrugs, leaning his back against the counter. "What can I say? Weddings make me emotional."

You glance down at the opaque brown liquid in your drink, studying it for a moment. Your mind wanders, an almost excitable feeling rises in your chest and you quash it quickly.

Annoyingly, you couldn't always tell what Lloyd was thinking. The initial elements of secret dating (the sneaking around, the quickies) had ignited all of the dormant feelings you'd possessed for him eleven-fold but as time progressed, they hadn't waned and only left you wanting... something. The sneaking and quickies seemed to do Lloyd just fine but whether or not he was thinking of next steps like you had been made you wonder whether the entire relationship had been one sided. Even if he had flown you out to luxurious hotels across the globe multiple times to stay with him.

Downing your drink hurriedly and slamming your glass down with an audible thwack, you whistle a breath. Lloyd’s eyebrows raise as he watches you but he doesnt flinch. He sips at his own drink, saying nothing.

"Don't you have any best man duties to attend to?" You ask, pushing away from the counter to stand straight. "I don't think you're supposed to be hanging around the groom's sister all night."

"I'm right where I want to be, honey. You know that." He picks up a peanut from one of the bowls that litter the bartop and pops it into his mouth. "Besides I've been dismissed until tomorrow."

"Ah." You finally look over at him with a nod and clear your throat awkwardly.

Lloyd doesn't waste a moment more to speak what's on his mind.

"You look radiant tonight, gumdrop. And I can't wait to see what you'll look like in your dress tomorrow." His eyes roam over you shamelessly and you can see his tongue darts over his lips. "And I can't wait to see both of them on my bedroom floor."

"Lloyd," You warn under your breath.

"You know I love it when you get all riled up, cupcake." He teases, grinning at you over his glass. "Serves you damn right for kicking me earlier."

"You deserved it." You say firmly, fixing him with a glare.

Lloyd casts a glance out over the guests. All of them were too busy talking with one another, intermingling and excited for the ceremony and celebration tomorrow morning. No one, not even your parents, is paying attention to you and Lloyd.

"Will I get a dance off of you tomorrow?" He says still overlooking the dining hall. The hotel had been a great choice of venue, save for the fact the groomsmen, bridal parties and close family were situated on the same floor. Lloyd's slightly furrowed brows indicate he's making a mental note of something but you don't know what of, though you could guess.

"I don't see why we can't dance together." You say lightly but your heart is beating up a storm again knowing you'd love nothing more than to dance with Lloyd for the whole day, not just one measly dance.

"Just checking it's all ok with your plan," He says as little curtly and offer a dejected sigh in response.

Your eyes dance around the room, to your smiling brother and bride-to-be, to your parents and family, then back to Lloyd whose blue eyes are fixed on you again. You take in a long breath your chest heaving slowly before murmuring,

"So... nothing else on your agenda this evening?"

"Lloyd, the walls are thin. Everyone will hear."

The cool wood of the door presses into your back Lloyd’s form crowds around you, kissing at your face and neck, his hands wandering to find the zip of your dress.

"Then I guess we gotta be quiet, huh?"

You click your tongue and roll your eyes, trying to unbutton his shirt; why are you not surprised that would be his answer?

"God, you looked good today." Lloyd murmurs, kissing down your neck. "Couldn't wait to have you all to myself, princess."

The sound of your zip rolling down your back fills the silence as you pry three buttons free while kissing Lloyd. Warm fingers tug the straps of your dress over your shoulders, peeling your dress from you until it's a slinked pile of tule on the floor.

"Same to you, daddy." You murmur against his lips, smirking when you yank the bottom of his dress shirt out of his slacks and he gasps softly.

"Hey now, I was careful with your dress." The chide is half-hearted as Lloyd undoes the last of his buttons to remove the shirt entirely. "This shirt was expensive."

The shirt is quickly discarded into a creased pile next to your dress and you take a moment to admire Lloyd in all of his moustachioed glory. His muscles are taut and the hair on his chest matches his 'stache; dark, thick and well-groomed. He flexes slightly when he catches you staring, not bothering to hide the smug satisfaction he has knowing you're admiring him. That hasn't changed from when you were kids.

Reaching out, your fingers slip over his belt and tug him closer to you. Warmth radiates from Lloyd his strong arms wrap around you, his lips attached to yours again. He's left enough space between you for you to skillfully undo his belt and slacks, pushing them down to join the clothes pile growing at your feet.

Ditching his shoes Lloyd pushes against you, pinning you against the wall with his body. You can already feel how excited he is through the thin fabric of his (expensive) boxers and grin smugly into the kisses.

"Don't think you're going without punishment, cupcake." He murmurs against your neck, one strong arm hitching under your leg to squeeze at your ass and press the outline of his cock against the damp heat between your legs. You gasp quietly and roll your hips upwards loving the feeling of friction against your folds.

"Patience princess," he chuckles, grinding into you. You pout your pretty lips at him and he has not choice but to kiss them.

You can feel Lloyd’s hand dip between your bodies,tugging your underwear to the side and swiping upwards gathering slick to press against your clit. You sound a heated curse, watching as Lloyd rolls his finger over your clit, making your body heat almost uncomfortably and pressure in your core grow. You needed him inside you badly. Lloyd changes the grip of his hand, feeding two fingers to your pussy and rubbing at your clit with his rough thumb whilst you mewl his name.

"Aw, does it feel good right there?" Lloyd sneers, grinding against you as his thumb lazily swipes over your clit. "Is it gonna make you cum, princess?"

"Yes daddy," you roll your hips onto his fingers and your eyes flutter. But just as soon as the delicious pressure is building to overflow, it's gone.

You pout at Lloyd whose busy sucking his fingers clean and shucking his boxers down.

"Don't look at me like that princess," he pouts mockingly back at you, pumping his thick cock a few times in front of you. "I'm giving you something better than my fingers."

Lloyd lifts you leg again but instead of teasing you, he pushes the hard head of his cock up into you. Your walls pulse as you take him at this angle; it was a gorgeously tight squeeze that you couldn't enjoy for long as Lloyd began to fuck you brutally into the wall.

Your breathing hitches and your hands fly to Lloyd's shoulders in an attempt to steady yourself. The furious push and drag of Lloyd's cock was second to none, the filthy hushed moans and cries that emanated from your mouth only added to the ecstasy.

You bit down onto your bottom lip, gripping Lloyd tighter, as your orgasm threatened to spill yet again. Lloyd watched you with a smirk, continuing to pummel your back into the wall.

"Oh, does my princess wanna cum again?"

"Yes, fuck, daddy please." You beg breathlessly, your legs trying to squeeze around him as your cunt milks him hungrily. Lloyd grunts but halts his movements as he's balls deep inside your pussy, making you throw your head back with a short-lived moan as you remember yoi should at least make an attempt to be quiet.

"Too fucking bad." He grits out into your ear, and with one hard squeeze to your ass, your other leg lifts from the floor. You squeak but wrap your arms around Lloyd's neck to steady yourself as he lifts you and half-carries-half-rushes you to the bed. "You're not cumming yet. You don't get to be a brat at the rehearsal and get away with it."

Splayed on your back, you relish the soft covers for a few moments before Lloyd begins to fuck you again. In comparison to the wall - they're much more preferable, but strangely not as hot.

Lloyd’s hands grasp your wrists, using you as anchor as he fucks into you. Your legs obediently wrap over his hips and you fight back a few pitiful mewls of pleasure before giving in entirely. Moaning louder, you let your eyes roll, your pussy clamping down on Lloyd's cock harder than before. You don't need to look at Lloyd to know he's smirking triumphantly. It never took long to break you but he enjoyed doing it all the same.

"'M gonna cum," you whine, balling your fists as you meekly try to focus on holding back your orgasm. But there's a swift, wet smack to your clit that makes your back arch from the bed.

"Nope. Again." Lloyd huffs impatiently. "You know I want to hear you say it."

"Daddy," you whimper, your crescendo fast approaching. "Please, please, please let me cum over your cock!"

Lloyd pretends to mull it over, enjoying how you wait patiently for his answer as his sac slaps against your wet hole.

"Hmm... how could I say no to this sweet cunt. Cum."

You cum with a choked shout. Your body obliges his command by gushing over him, your pussy sucking his cock hard as he fucks into you just as brutally as before.

"That's my good girl," he coos watching you writhe in pleasure on his cock as you cum, sighing at how well you squeeze him. There's a moment, as Lloyd pins your hands above your head and gazes down at you, where Lloyd’s face softens slightly. A twisted contrast to how hard he's fucking you.

"How would you like to be mine forever, sweetheart?" His voice is just above a whisper, his lips and moustache tickling the flushed skin of your cheeks. "Pretty ring on your finger, perfect white dress?"

"Oh," you can feel yourself grow light headed at his words, second orgasm bubbling to the surface. Your chest heaves and you try to chase Lloyd's lips but he only allows you one peck before tutting delicately.

"Oh no princess." His voice is still quiet, gentle enough to lure you into sweet obedience. "Not till you tell me your answer."

"Yes!" You cry out, palms opening and closing rapidly trying to hold something to anchor yourself as your second orgasm begins to descend upon you.

"All mine. Forever?" Lloyd presses with a growl. The wet, echoing slaps are longer now; almost languid but you know from the twitch of Lloyd’s cock deep within your pussy that he wants to cum.

"Yes daddy yes! Please Lloyd - forever-" Your last word is clipped with a loud gasp as the floodgates of your second orgasm wrack your body; your pussy convulsing and gripping Lloyd's cock so tightly he has no option other than to paint your insides with a groan.

"Fuuuuuck," he curses, his hips still slowly driving his cock into you slowly and he watches proudly as his and your cum coats his cock. "You're amazing as always, princess."

Lloyd slowly pulls himself from you fully and chuckles at the pout you give him before settling beside you. Tugging at your limp body, he pulls you towards him, and you happily comply. You nuzzle into his chest and entwine your legs, the room silent apart from your breaths.

"So...?" Lloyd begins playfully.

"So?"

"How about it?" He peeks down at you, tickling your lips with a soft kiss. "You. Me. Forever?"

"Are... Are you proposing to me?" Still hazy and fucked out, you glance upward, your one eyebrow quirked to hide your wide eyes.

"No," Lloyd says grinning down at you. "I'd need a ring for that. I just want to get your thoughts. See if it aligns with your plan."

The wedding goes off without so much as a hitch, which was surprising.

The ceremony was gorgeous and many tears were shed, among stolen glances at Lloyd who was stood off to the side behind your brother. Your brain rattled from your brief conversation the night before and you gripped at your small bouquet of bright flowers tightly. Maybe Lloyd was on the same page as you after all; maybe even a few chapters ahead.

When it came time for the bouquet toss, you sneakily edged away from the other women and bridesmaids, intent on finding Lloyd. He was watching the excited trills of the women with a smirk, growing into a teasing grin when he spotted you approaching.

"Oh? No bouquet toss for you, sweet pea?"

You roll your eyes at him, stepping to stand by his side and watch the brawl that was about to happen for a bunch of flowers. "Not really my thing; and I'm worried that old biddy with a cane would do damage."

You nod at your Aunt Ethel, who was armed with her cane ready to thwack anyone who came near her for the bouquet. Lloyd snorts.

"Did you mean what you said?" You ask suddenly, surprising yourself. You should have confronted him after round one, maybe even after this morning, but your tired fucked out brain was too elated and excited by the prospect and the day to care.

Even though your brain was full of questions and distracting thoughts of Lloyd the whole day, you'd still managed to be a good bridesmaid and sister.

"When?" Lloyd wiggles his eyebrows at you and you give him a sideways glance.

"You know when." You huff impatiently.

"I just wanted to hear you say it." He chuckles, straightening his pocket-chief. "Last night."

"Yeah. Last night."

"Of course I did." Lloyd’s gaze fixes on you again. "I'm not anything but a man of my word, sweetcheeks."

"Right." You nod.

Your heart thuds against your ribs and a tingling sensation from the tips of your toes to the top of your head rushes over your body before you repeat three words that had only ever been spoken in hushed murmurs in the security of the bedroom or the comfort of your home.

"I love you." You say quietly.

Lloyd stiffens for a moment. It's brief but you notice in you peripheral, feeling a little smug you caught him off guard. But after the moment passes, he relaxes like butter on a hot day.

"I love you too, princess."

The boquet careens in the air, perfectly arching semi-circle. You new sister-in-law seemed to have a real gumption for tossing bouquets. In fact it careened closer, and closer. On impulse, you reach out your hands and bend your knees slightly, catching the bouqet upside down.

Silence falls for a moment and you glance at Lloyd, whose grinning ear to ear. Red rushes to your face as cheers erupt around you.

Maybe you'll let your parents take credit for pushing you and Lloyd together at your brother's wedding.

Or maybe, Lloyd will finally tell you that he'd asked your brother permission to marry you months ago.

A/N 2: HELLO

How are we feeling? You good?

I have been writing a lot for Jake and Lloyd recently (for both Kinktober, and other WIPs). I tried avoiding making this 5k this time unlike Ionian Sun, however, the final installment that I'm trying to finish for this challenge may miss the deadline.

But if it doesn't that's okay as it is actually part of a 5 part collection! But you will have @steviebbboi to thank for the prompts ;)

Thay being said...who wants to talk merpeople with me?👀

#gremlin girly writes #gremlin girly #lloyd hansen smut #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen fic #steviebbboiwritingchallenge

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gazstations · 4 months ago

Text

We'll Meet Again

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SUMMARY

You tackle your emotions regarding grief after you lose someone you love dearly.

FANDOM: Call of Duty

PAIRINGS: John MacTavish x reader

WORD COUNT: 2,166 words

WARNINGS: Mentions of main character death, spoilers for MW3, grief central, no defined happy ending??? No use of y/n

◇ Notes: I have been writing fanfic for over 11 years, and I am terrified to post this y'all. I have never written for the COD fandom, and I am going to combust. Y'all absolutely slay me with your writing. If this post is seen, hello guys. I am going to retreat into a hole now.

This is just a dabble and release of some intense emotions I've had using our favorite Scot.

○●○ NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

THE AFTERMATH OF LOSS WAS THE STAGE PEOPLE NEVER WANT TO ADDRESS. Perhaps for a valid reason. Every simplicity of life becomes a breeding ground for perpetual sadness. And with it comes the realization that a part of your life is now lived through foggy memory as you try to grasp every detail before it’s inevitably whisked away. It’s the pleading to remember, even just a small fraction. That’s the most heart-wrenching feeling.

Grief is usually defined solely by the main events–the actual loss and then the funeral. Closure is important; the act of moving on and accepting what has happened. Though, the lull of stagnancy is the stage after that threatens all the acceptance you think you’ve managed. A morning cup of coffee becomes a quiet sobbing fest at the kitchen table. Your favorite song is now the bane of your existence. Certain scents linger about and grip at your heartstrings until your muscle is nothing more than shredded material. The dullness is worse than the initial grief because that’s when you know there’s a void that once was whole.

That cup of coffee becomes the bitter reminder of all the times you sat at the same table, but you weren’t alone. The seat across the way was taken over by a mass of flesh and bone–a lively beautiful thing. Now, that seat remains forever pushed against the table, weeping with the lack of use.

You can no longer hear the chords of a sweet melody sing from the radio because the lyrics hit too close to home. Because when you claimed that song, you thought of someone else. It captured their essence and everything whole–almost like it was perfectly crafted for the both of you to whisper well into your years of life.

The scents are the worst part because those can show up completely unexpectedly. It can be anything–the cologne, the laundry detergent, or the shampoo and conditioner–that attacks you. But you can’t bring yourself to throw any of it away because it feels like you’re erasing something that should never know what it’s like to be forgotten. So the clothes lying in a heap on the bedroom floor remain untouched to not disturb their authenticity. The cologne sits on the corner of the dresser, the liquid inside never going down. The shampoo and conditioner sit on the shelf in the shower as if the plastic tubing will be squeezed by its rightful owner.

And the thing about life is it does not wait for you to bounce back. You must set aside your grief to contribute to the wider universe even when all you want to do is set yourself ablaze until you feel absolutely nothing. If you could burn out the parts of you that cave under the pressure of insurmountable agony, you would. You don’t want to be burdened by a wave of sympathy for a world that didn’t stop for you; a world that took selfishly from your puny hands simply because it could.

And yet, like a lost child, you come out into the world again because now you must find a space to fill the void that now resides in you. You never learn your lesson because even if you try to sever all ties with this existence, you crawl back naively. Thinking that this time when you give your soul out, you won’t be hurt. It’s an endless cycle, and you’re the only one crushed in the end.

It had been a week since your love died in the winter freeze. And since then, you felt stuck in limbo. Wake up, remember, drown, sleep. Wake up, remember, drown, sleep. Over and over. The buds of life can’t be planted again, not when the seed was made to be harvested by calloused hands that remain no longer.

John MacTavish filled your world with the golden light that caressed your skin. He was everywhere. Because that’s who he crafted himself to be. He burrowed his essence into your life because to him, he deserved to be there. And he did. His body was crafted by the same petal that made you. Your flowers bloomed on your own branches, but together, you created an existence that could be marveled at.

He lived his life with an infectious purpose. Johnny did not do things in halves. When he stitched himself to your side, he did so wanting and knowing that one he was there he would now have to stay forever. When you so lovingly joked that you could break up with him, he proved why that would never be an option.

He knew you would be devastated to live without him.

So it was almost cruel irony that all that intent to stay soon led to the departure. But perhaps Johnny did that with a purpose as well. For a man who was so adamant about existing in your world, he sure was eager to leave. Or maybe that was the bitter part of your heart that wanted to pull on the rubber band until it snapped. Once it snapped, maybe you wouldn’t feel the yearning that burned through every nook and cranny of your body. If you could be bitter, you couldn’t be agonized. Right?

No, bitter people were always agonized. The two went hand in hand. Pain flirted with anger.

It had been too early to see past your bubble of sorrow, but long enough to know in some way you were numb. Life became a monotonous gray world without your Johnny. This was the outcome he was always so afraid of leaving you in. Some part of him always prepared for that chance.

You refused it. You spat at the idea. It won’t happen. But you knew it would. Pretty things always got snuffed out once the freeze came. The petals died, the flowers weeped. Until they were ready to bloom once more.

Your spring wouldn’t come.

Johnny’s team burrowed their way around your ribs. To the world, they were killers, weapons of destruction. To you, they were just men. It was hard to think of them as anything else when you analyzed them through the dull filter of your eyes.

His captain, John, always had fingers itching towards temporary vices, amber liquid more accustomed to his liver than regular water. He was strong. Had to be when his other boys were busting at the seams. But even he could not stop the natural flow of grief that plagued his body. Years of training to be detached were naught, especially when someone said his name. A flinch, a sorrow, before he schooled his expression. The team adapted to only call him “Cap.”

The other sergeant, Kyle, was the peacemaker. He was a quiet presence, but not for lack of talking. No, he was the reason the house stayed standing. Dishes were done before the thought to do them crossed your mind. He helped you muster the strength to cook, adding small touches that made the flavors pop. He was sassy. He made you laugh even when your heart felt like it was caving in.

Then there was Simon. The watchdog. He sat by your front window for long hours. Observing. Analyzing. For what? You never knew. But he always was on guard, protective for the occupants in your cottage. You never said anything, just like nobody said anything when you dragged him to the bed you shared with Johnny. You slept better with the heavyweight nearby, and Simon got to protect Johnny’s muse.

It was difficult not knowing the full detail of Johnny's demise. You were a civilian and would always be on the outside looking in. You could tell the truth danced on the tongues on your new housemates, but they remained tight-lipped. John almost told you once before he shook his head and bid you goodnight.

Bullet through the head. That's all you knew. Bullet severed all his synapses so quickly, he was gone in the blink of an eye. It should've comforted you. Should’ve offered you some reprieve in your tormented heart. But it didn't.

For some reason, your grief festered then. He didn't even get a chance to fight his way back to you. What would've been the alternative? A man who functioned only half of what he used to be? Would that have been mercy in your eyes? No, it might not have been better just to say he was one of the rare victims that survived a killing shot.

It was after his death that your birthday eventually rolled around. You weren't even sure your housemates knew, so you didn't say anything. The day was like any other. The one time it landed on a weekend, and you wished you were at the monotonous ebb and flow of your job.

Kyle was gone doing god knows what. He had been gone when you woke up and hadn't returned by noon. Simon was around. He had his tea, disappeared into the home gym Johnny had crafted for himself, took a shower, and then helped John with some paperwork. John, he had been shut inside a room he claimed as his psuedo office all morning. You heard him on the phone at one point, but other than that, it had been quiet.

You found random things to occupy your time with. As if your melancholia wasn't leaking out into your home. You cleaned, you ate, and you sat outside. But nothing quelled the ache that nested into your chest cavity. Your birthday was a clear-cut tragedy.

However, you should've figured Johnny would find a way to make sure you were noticed. At one, Kyle returned bearing gifts. He seemed chirper despite it all. His chest was puffed out in pride like he had a new purpose. Undeniably, part of his uplifted attitude seeped into your pores. Kyle was good at that.

Like clockwork, John and Simon emerged from the depths of their isolation. John made a comment or two about Kyle being late, to which Kyle responded that the bakery messed up your dessert and he had them start over. Fondness filled your heart at that. They knew it was your day and were trying to make it something.

Kyle presented you the cheesy gift of a teddy bear and flowers, saying Johnny demanded it was tradition. It made you wonder how often Johnny spoke of you and when he even mentioned what he did for you every birthday. Even if you rolled your eyes at the collection of stuffed creatures throughout the years.

Johnny really had taken care of you.

This year, however, your gifts were accompanied by a mixtape. Johnny's small chicken scratch writing greeted you. You turned the CD case over in your hands, hesitant despite it only being music that would probably greet you.

The men surrounding you understood your reservations. John put a hand between your shoulder blades, a silent offering of assurance. It was almost a fatherly touch. In the time you have come to know him, you understood why his men looked up to him. He was an energy you naturally wanted to gravitate towards.

An almost inaudible expression of grief left your lips. You wondered when it would get easier to not have Johnny in your life. You wanted him back so deeply that your heart was shattering into little glass shards.

Would John care if you clung to him like a wounded child? Your eyes flickered up to the captain's, asking for something. Help? Something. You were never sure these days what you wanted.

“Go on then, love,” John spoke for you, urging you to pick yourself up from your brooding heap and figure out what was on the CD Johnny burned just for you.

You did. Your muscles still operated as you stood to your feet and carried yourself over to your CD player. Those things were collectables now, you cherished yours heavily.

The men took their spots respectively across the room. They were nearby in case you stumbled and never found the drive to get back up, but they also knew you deserved the time to yourself. They watched as you popped the CD into the player and pressed start, sinking into a cross-legged position on the carpeted floor.

The first song came through clearly. Johnny Cash and his guitar serenaded you. It sucker punched you right in the heart, made your heart let strangled, pumping breaths, but stole them at the same time. It was so Johnny. To know how to burn your world and then repair it.

We'll meet again. Don't know where. Don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day.

You looked up at the ceiling, falling back until your legs needed to stretch out in front of you. Tears collected in your ducts, making your vision turn wobbly. Your nose filled with congestion as you listened to the song.

Are you with me, Johnny?

You had a deep-rooted feeling he was.

#john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john price #call of duty #call of duty x reader #all i know is angst #john soap x reader #soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader

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sisterspooky1013 · 7 months ago

Text

A Christmas Story, Chapter 1/2

2409 words | Rated X | Read it here on AO3

The opening chords of Jingle Bell Rock are barely audible beneath the din of a dozen conversations, but it’s at least the third time the song has played, by Mulder’s count. He’s managed to stay in the same spot for the majority of the evening, holding the same half-empty bottle of warm beer and making the same glib conversation with Maggie Scully’s church friends, who all raise their eyebrows knowingly when he introduces himself as Dana’s coworker. That’s something he’ll have to ask Scully about later.

Scully herself has been milling around the room explaining time and again that no, she isn’t married yet and no, she’s not seeing anyone special. In return, each congregant, aunt, or cousin tells her how lovely she looks and how easily she could find a nice man to settle down with, and Scully smiles politely before changing the subject.

Mulder isn’t even sure she wanted him to come, but Maggie issued the invitation directly and he didn’t feel right saying no when it’s not like he had somewhere else to be. And a month ago when he got the invite, things between him and Scully were different than they are now, which he couldn’t possibly have anticipated. Not different enough that her saying she isn’t seeing anyone special is hurtful, but different enough that when she said it within earshot, she glanced at him to gauge his reaction.

He catches Scully’s eye across the room and throws her a reassuring smile, to which she draws in a deep breath and then takes a gulp from her wine glass. She’s refilled it at least as many times as Jingle Bell Rock has played, by Mulder’s count.

“Are you having a good time, Fox?” Maggie asks, appearing beside him and giving his arm a squeeze.

“You definitely know how to throw a party, Mrs. Scully,” he says sincerely, and she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind his artful avoidance of the question.

Maggie surveys the room and clucks her tongue.

“Would you mind helping me round up some of these empty glasses and bringing them into the kitchen?” she asks in the rhetorical manner that a mother does, and Mulder dutifully abandons his beer so he can make himself useful.

He has four champagne flutes and a teacup in his hands when he crosses paths with Scully in the hallway, and she smiles at him affectionately with pink cheeks and shining eyes, markedly more relaxed than the last time he saw her.

“Is Mom putting you to work?” she asks, taking the teacup.

“I’m happy to have something to do,” he assures her, taking advantage of their relative privacy to give her a long look from head to foot. She’s wearing a velvety green dress he’s never seen before with opaque black tights underneath, which isn’t objectively sexy but does give him a little thrill, given that he rarely sees her in anything but a suit or pajamas. “You look really nice,” he says as his eyes wander back up to her face. “Did I tell you that already?”

Her dress has a V at the front that he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to appreciate, and her lips are stained red from wine. He meets her eye and she just looks at him for a beat before slowly shaking her head. Something hot coils in his lower belly, threatening to embarrass him, and he swallows hard.

If his hands weren’t full of champagne flutes, he’d kiss her. If they weren’t at her mother’s house surrounded by people, anyway. And if they weren’t in public. But if they were at his apartment, or hers, and she was looking at him like that, he’d absolutely kiss her.

“Dana, come say hello to the Campbells,” Maggie calls from the far end of the hallway, and Mulder makes a run for the kitchen before he spontaneously combusts and ruins her nice carpet.

Two Jingle Bell Rocks and as many glasses of wine later, he’s on the back porch separating the recycling and enjoying the cooler, quieter atmosphere as the party begins to wind down.

“There you are,” Scully says with a thick tongue, and he looks up to see her peeking around the open door with a wide, wine-drunk grin on her mouth that he can’t help but return. She shivers and scrunches her shoulders up as she leaves the warm house, quickly shuffling over to him. “It’s freezing out here,” she says, stepping up close, and he immediately wraps his arms around her.

“Then why’d you come out?” he teases.

Scully tips her face up to look at him. The weak yellow porchlight doesn’t allow him to read her expression, but he can smell the sweet wine on her tongue and feel the press of her chest against his sternum as she leans heavy into him. From inside, he hears the sound of breaking glass followed by a round of applause.

“Because you’re out here,” she says, and the white vapor of her breath blinds him just enough that her kiss is a surprise.

They have yet to do more than kiss, but Mulder is far from complaining; Scully kisses with such diligence and intensity that it feels like a sex act. And drunk Scully, he’s currently learning, makes kissing feel downright pornographic. She sucks on his lips and tongue, hums into his open mouth, cants her body forward and back. When he feels her fingers fumbling with his belt buckle he panics and breaks the kiss, taking a step away from her.

“Whoa there,” he says lightly, very aware that he’s at least half hard. “Danger zone.”

He cringes at his own ineloquence, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She steps forward to close the space he created and touches the waist of his jeans at the hip.

“There’s nobody out here,” she whispers with a smile in her voice, then kisses the corner of his mouth.

“That’s not—” He sighs and lets her kiss the other corner, and then his cheek. “You’re drunk, Scully.”

She shivers, and he wraps his arms around her again.

“Only a little,” she slurs coyly, and he feels her fingers creeping back toward his fly.

His brain knows he can’t let her do this, but his dick has no such moral misgivings and she’s dangerously close to learning that firsthand.

“You have no idea how much it pains me to turn you down,” he tells her gently. “I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret tomorrow.”

Scully groans in frustration, which does absolutely nothing to help his situation below the belt.

“I won’t regret it,” she says, a bit petulantly.

He’s about to tell her again that it’s a hard line for him, all puns intended, when two things occur almost simultaneously: Scully slides her open palm down the front of his jeans, and Maggie steps through the back door with a bag of trash in her hand.

Mulder lets out a sound that’s part gasp, part moan, and snatches Scully’s hand by the wrist, pulling it away from his body. Maggie mumbles a surprised, “Oh! Sorry,” and the door closes again before either of them have an opportunity to address her.

For several agonizing seconds, nothing happens. Mulder keeps hold of Scully’s wrist, and she stares at his chest, not speaking.

“Scully—”

“Excuse me,” she says urgently, shaking free of him before she rushes unsteadily back inside.

Mulder stands on the porch until he can no longer feel his extremities, then finally bites the bullet and returns to the heat of the house. He can hear Maggie’s voice from the foyer saying goodbyes, so he ducks into the bathroom and spends a few minutes collecting his thoughts. If not for the fact that he drove Scully here, he would probably just sneak out and hope the whole thing blows over by Monday.

“Fox, is that you in there?”

Reluctantly, Mulder leaves the bathroom and finds Maggie in the kitchen washing dishes. There’s no sign of Scully.

“What can I do to help?” he asks, and Maggie briefly looks at him over her shoulder.

“Dana went to lie down,” she says. “I think she had a bit too much wine. She’s upstairs, if you’d like to check on her.”

Mulder takes her direction and quietly creeps up the stairs, making his way to the bedroom at the end of the hall he knows once belonged to Scully. The door is open a crack and it’s dark inside, so first he just listens, though he’s not totally sure what he’s listening for.

“Scully?” he says softly, but there’s no response.

He pushes the door open a bit wider and light from the hallway falls over her velvet-covered hip on the bed. She’s curled up on her side with her back to him, and he watches her even breathing until he’s confident she’s asleep, then heads back downstairs.

“She’s out cold,” he says, reentering the kitchen. “Is it okay if I let her sleep it off for a bit?”

“I think that’s for the best,” Maggie says ambiguously, and Mulder takes over washing while she dries.

They work quietly, and the silence makes him think that she is also replaying what happened outside over and over in her head. He’s not sure exactly what she saw, but lord knows he isn’t going to ask her.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt something…new,” Maggie says, apropos of nothing, and Mulder freezes for half a second.

Scully feeling him up actually was new, but he doesn’t imagine that’s what Maggie means. He also doesn’t imagine that Scully would appreciate him filling her mom in on their budding romance, private person that she is.

“Uh, no, not quite,” he says. He feels his face getting hot, so he keeps his eyes on the dishwater.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Maggie says. Another loaded silence. “Dana has never been very forthcoming about her personal life, but I’ve always wondered…” Mulder keeps his head down and keeps scrubbing. He can’t even explain the nature of his and Scully’s relationship to himself, much less could he begin to explain it to her mother. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. “Well, for the record, I think it’s wonderful. I’ll just leave it at that.”

Gratefully, she doesn’t bring it up again. Mulder helps her get the house back in order, including taking the chafing dishes to the basement, and they’re watching It’s A Wonderful Life with steaming mugs of tea when Scully comes plodding down the stairs in her party dress and stocking feet, pillow lines on her cheek and her hair fluffed up on one side.

“There she is,” Mulder says affectionately.

Scully stops in her tracks and regards him with surprise, though she quickly tries to mask it.

“Hi,” she says demurely, smoothing her hair down with her hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to wait around for me.”

Mulder shrugs dismissively, but Maggie doesn’t pass up the opportunity to give her daughter a hard time.

“It’s lucky he was here; the girl who was supposed to help me clean up got drunk and passed out in my spare bedroom, if you can believe it.”

Her delivery is so flawless that Mulder snorts in his attempt to suppress a laugh, and Scully glares at him half-heartedly.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I have a raging headache, if it’s any consolation,” she says miserably.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol,” Maggie says, standing and giving Dana a pat on the arm as she leaves the room.

Scully stares intently at the TV screen, which makes it fairly obvious she’s avoiding looking at him, given that the movie is paused.

“Hey party girl,” he says, and she cringes before she reluctantly turns her head. “You okay?”

Scully sighs and looks at the floor. “Technically, yes,” she says, “though I think my ego may have suffered irreparable harm.” She slowly lifts just her eyes, looking at him woefully from beneath her lashes.

Mulder just smiles at her, because she looks so cute, all sleepy and embarrassed, and because the idea that her getting drunk and frisky would negatively affect his opinion of her is so outlandish it’s laughable.

“Here you are, dear,” Maggie says as she returns and drops two Tylenol into Scully’s hand. “We’ll have to take a raincheck on the rest of the movie, Fox.”

Mulder takes the hint and brings his teacup into the kitchen. He can hear the murmur of their conversation in the living room and does his best not to eavesdrop, but when they move into the foyer the acoustics make that difficult.

Mumble mumble not my best moment mumble mumble

Mumble mumble not the first time I’ve walked in on you with a boy, Dana

Mumble mumble Mulder mumble mumble mistake

Oh, honey, don’t mumble mumble mumble

Mumble mumble mumble

I’m sure it’ll be fine

Mulder’s heart sinks. He makes a point of clearing his throat as he rounds the corner into the hallway, and the conversation abruptly ends.

By the time they reach the end of Maggie’s street, Scully is resting her head against the window with her eyes closed. Mulder knows she isn’t really sleeping, but he plays along. He even pretends to wake her up when they pull up outside her apartment building, and she pretends to be surprised that they’ve already arrived.

“Thanks for driving,” she says, already pulling on the door handle.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out to touch her arm.

Scully stills, then sighs, then looks at him.

“Do we have to talk about it?” she asks reluctantly.

Mulder cracks a smile. “I was just gonna ask if I could kiss you goodnight.”

She heaves an even bigger sigh, which means something else entirely. He’ll have to catalog them someday.

“To be perfectly honest, between the wine, the vomiting, and the four-hour nap, I think it’s in your best interest to take a raincheck on that, too,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Aw, Scully,” he says, pity on full display, which he knows she hates. “You’ve got a toothbrush up there, don’t ya? Let me walk you up.”

She gives him a long look and he decides not to push it any further. He just doesn’t like the idea of her spending the rest of the weekend feeling like she committed some kind of unforgivable faux pas.

“Okay,” she finally acquiesces, and Mulder does his best to conceal his delight.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #x files

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