#i just feel nothing and i feel like a bad person for it but. there must be a reason right? why bother them then... besides the im not

[rosemariiaa]

~Obsessed~

𐙚— pairing: Paige x Azzi

𐙚— rosie’s note: hi hi there! this is one is a little short only because i was struggling with the other fic that was supposed to be posted tonight :( , so spare me i’ll work on that and drop it asap so no worries! but enjoy p being obsessed (per usual), happy reading lovelies 💌

𐙚—link: rosie’s bookshelf

𐙚— themes: fluff, obsession (kinda)

𐙚— taglist: @thaatdigitaldiary @sierrale8ne @imaginespazzi @pbaz7 @bueckersbitch @ldapper @makethemhoesmad

Obsession gets a bad reputation.

People throw the word around like it’s some kind of sickness, like it’s something to be ashamed of. They make it sound desperate, unhealthy, like the person on the other end of it has no control over themselves. Like caring too much, or noticing too much, or wanting too much makes you weak.

People might see obsession as an expression of imbalance or weakness, as though the person experiencing it has lost their sense of self or become consumed in a way that’s unhealthy. It can be painted as a lack of boundaries, as if the person is so fixated that they can no longer think clearly or act rationally.

But I don’t see it that way.

Obsession doesn’t always have to be negative.

The truth is, the line between obsession and love or passion is often blurry. It’s about how you channel it, how you manage it. When you can let yourself feel deeply without losing yourself in it, obsession doesn’t need to be something to be ashamed of. Sometimes, it’s exactly that level of investment that makes things meaningful.

Being obsessed means you see the details—the things no one else notices. It means you care enough to memorize the way someone bites their lip when they’re thinking or the way their laugh changes depending on whether they actually find something funny or if they’re just being polite.

And when it comes to Azzi, yeah, maybe I’m obsessed.

Actually, not maybe. I am.

And I don’t care. I take pride in it.

I take pride in the fact that I can pick her voice out of a crowd before I even see her. That I know the difference between her real smile and the one she gives when she’s just trying to be nice. That I know she has a playlist for every mood, even though she always pretends she’s too busy to mess with that kind of stuff.

There’s something satisfying about knowing her like that—like I’m in on some big secret that no one else has figured out yet.

Take last week, for example. We were sitting on her couch after practice, both exhausted, the TV playing some rom com movie neither of us was paying attention to. Azzi was scrolling through her phone, her face soft in the glow of the screen. I wasn’t even watching the movie anymore. I was watching her. I always do.

The way her brow furrowed a little as she read something. The way she tucked her legs under herself like she was trying to make herself smaller, even though she already takes up so little space. The way she absentmindedly played with the drawstring of her hoodie, a tiny detail that no one else would’ve even noticed.

I couldn’t help it. I had to say something.

“What’re you thinking about?” I asked, my voice cutting through the quiet.

Azzi glanced up at me, her expression unreadable for a moment before she shrugged. “Nothing important.”

But I could tell by the way she said it that it was important—at least to her.

And that’s the thing. I don’t think anyone else would’ve caught that. No one else would’ve seen the way her lips twitched like she was holding back a smile or the way her eyes softened like she was glad someone had asked.

I don’t mind being obsessed with her because it means I get to see her like this. In moments when she’s not “Azzi the stud” or “Azzi the calm and collected one.” When she’s just… Azzi.

And yeah, I’ll admit it: I look at her like she’s the only person in the room. But can you blame me?

She has this way of pulling me in without even trying. Like everything else fades, and it’s just her—her laugh, her smile, the way her curls frame her face by themselves when she’s not paying attention.

If that makes me obsessed, then fine. I’ll own it.

Because I don’t think obsession is a bad thing. Not when it means loving someone like this. Not when it means knowing someone in a way that no one else does.

Not when it’s her.

[bloodstainedsapphic]

becoming ellie williams' personal nurse was absolutely not part of your grand plan. in fact, being ellie williams’ anything hadn’t crossed your mind until an unexpected run-in left you the only one available to patch her up after a rough patrol. you’d spoken fewer than ten times before that, but after that night, ellie unilaterally decided you were the only person allowed to help her when she got injured. you didn’t fuss as much as maria, or dina, or anyone else—and that was enough for her. or at least, that’s what she claimed. it certainly didn’t hurt that you were cute.

that's how you found yourself falling into a routine—ellie 'just happening' to show up at your door, flashing those worn green eyes and grumbling about how "it's not that bad" to garner enough pity until you inevitably caved and fixed her up, sparing her yet another lecture from maria.

tonight was no different. she lingered outside, shifting her weight like she was debating whether to knock. but since this had become clockwork, you were already pulling the door open, and she shuffled inside uttering a, “don’t make a big deal out of it.”

you sighed, already moving to nab your ever-growing stash of first-aid supplies as she dropped into your desk chair. ellie had tried to clean herself up beforehand, but it was fruitless—her green jacket, the one now being hastily shrugged off, had been covering the worst of it. a deep gash on her arm, the lingering traces of a nosebleed, fresh cuts along her cheek. she’d been through hell and back.

"ellie," your voice carried a warning as you approached, reaching out to cautiously inspect her wounded arm. "this isn't just some scrape." ellie exhaled sharply through her nose, taking the accosting while settling in the chair she'd visited many times already. "it's nothing. i don't want maria finding out and pulling me off patrols."

your lips pressed into a thin line, but you didn't protest further. you knew how much patrol meant to her—how she needed it. how ellie seemed to rely on it to feel like she provided something useful to jackson. so instead, you got to work, gently cleaning the cuts along her forearm. ellie winced as the antiseptic hit raw skin, her fingers twitching against her thigh. unfortunately, the cut had grazed her tatted arm. you made a valiant effort to be delicate enough to mend the cut without disturbing the tattoo—luckily, it had missed the chemical burn ellie said she'd gotten on that arm years ago.

"oh, stop whining," you chided over her complaints. "shouldn't you be used to the pain by now? little masochist. and what's with you aiming for this poor arm so much? you've got two to work with, you know.” ellie scoffed at your chastizing, biting the inside of her cheek as her expression shifted to annoyance but not full offense. "right, lemme plan my injuries better next time."

you dabbed at a shallow abrasion beneath her cheekbone. ellie's eyes flickered up, trying to capture yours, but you wouldn't budge from the injury. she bit her crimson-stained lip, like she was weighing her next words wisely. "you keep patching me up, though. makes me wonder... i mean, i dunno..." ellie stilted her delivery, partly out of nerves, partly to grab your attention. "maybe you like seein' me all banged up," her tone took on a pitchy lilt as she kept peeking up at you.

the way she said it—less of a tease, a tad second-guessing, trying to dare a reaction out of you—made your stomach do something stupid.

"a better patient would stop causing such a distraction," you shot back, deliberately avoiding her gaze while keeping with the 'strict nurse' facade. you couldn't suppress a hint of a smirk though, briefly wiping your mouth to try and shield the small break over her nervous attempt at flirting. you just hated how right she was—no one was forcing you to do this, to put up with her maddening stubbornness and save her hide time and time again. all ellie had to do was bat those ridiculously pretty greens, and your defenses crumbled.

ellie huffed, pleased with your accidental admission but now more determined to coax more from you. she shifted slightly—and that's when you felt it. the light press of her fingers against the dip of your waist, like she had just meant to steady herself but forgot to pull away. her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt, sending a shiver up your spine. you said nothing, pretending not to notice. maybe she hadn't even meant to. you'd both insist, later, it was simply the sting of the antiseptic anyway, as if she hadn't weathered worse injuries before. neither of you moved.

ellie couldn't disguise her beaming when your strict charade allowed the gesture. she swallowed, like she was trying to decide whether to try her luck. her fingers tapped your side, hesitant.

“i think you're helping me all the time 'cause you've got a soft spot for me."

your breath hitched, warmth creeping up your neck, but you weren't about to let her win that easily. with a little head shake, you willfully regained your composure and lightly patted ellie's uninjured cheek before schooling your expression. "hush. you're being disorderly. i can't fix you up with all this blabbering."

ellie let out an exaggerated hiss, scrunching her eyes shut dramatically. your stomach clenched in brief panic, helper mode reigniting—until you realized she was full of shit, twisting her head like she'd been mortally wounded when, in reality, you had barely touched her.

"you're impossible," you muttered, smacking her good arm lightly in playful retaliation. "your life is in my hands. don't forget that." ellie leaned forward just enough to close the space between you, her voice dropping. "yeah, yeah, and every time i show up like this, i'm choosing to put my trust in you."

she wavered briefly, then added, softer still—only brave enough to say it now because she was already committed to the bit—"and that’s also why you won’t look at me."

you froze, and the second you met her gaze, it was over—long lashes framing those round green eyes, a smattering of freckles, some loose auburn strands that had escaped her barely-held-together bun sticking to her skin from the leftover sweat of patrol. with scraped skin and blood-streaked face, ellie was a proper mess—and yet, here you were, fighting every aching urge screaming at you to throw yourself on top of her.

you swallowed hard. the unassuming, bashful, loserish ellie was nowhere to be found. replaced by an ellie probably still riding the adrenaline of her close call with a horde of infected earlier, caring a little less about the consequences of her words and even further fueled by your easily cracked stoicism.

ellie seized your defeated, flustered silence to keep going. "also, as my nurse, i'm surprised you don't know the best cure for any injury."

you inhaled to brace for whatever nonsense was about to come out of her mouth. "oh, yeah? what's that?"

".....a kiss."

a drawn-out groan escaped you. "jesus," you muttered, cheeks burning. but fine—just this once. you weren't giving in completely, but you leaned in, pressing a fleeting peck to the tip of her nose.

the way ellie's face immediately split into a stupidly giddy grin was almost worth it. almost. her whole expression flushed a rosy pink, too.

"oh, on the nose? that barely counts," ellie teased, her voice dipping into something softer, more expectant. definitely hoping she hadn’t pushed her luck too much.

"deal with it, williams," you murmured, but your mind was already betraying you.

despite your best efforts, you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would be like if you really gave in. if you disregarded all medical safety and climbed into her lap and kissed her senseless, letting your hands explore each other in desperation and recklessly savoring the taste of metallic red left on her soft lips.

snapping yourself from that less-than-holy thought, you deflected under the guise of needing to retrieve more supplies for another small cut you had overlooked.

when you came back, ellie was still watching you, something unreadable in her expression. you hesitated for a moment, then finally gave her a little glimmer of hope to cling to.

"tell you what," you started. "don't be an idiot—which i know is hard for you—and let everything heal," you let the jab sit for a second to build suspense, "and i’ll grant you the other half of that kiss."

ellie's smile widened triumphantly, though her posture was beginning to laze as exhaustion from the day's chaos caught up with her.

"anything for the nurse."

"yeah, yeah. now hold still so i can finish fixing you up."

and, for once, ellie williams actually listened. pic creds @/elliesgalaxy

[b0kevi]

bestios. | Leona x gn!reader

summary: reader feels like they’re missing out because they haven’t had their first kiss yet and worries they’re a bad kisser, leona so graciously decides to help them out and teach them how to kiss.

trope: practice kissing, friends to lovers

info: gets a little suggestive at the end but nothing major. gender neutral reader they/them pronouns, leona being leona, ruggie walking in on them

characters: leona kingscholar, ruggie bucchi(for a brief moment)

w/c: 1011

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You honestly don’t remember how you got in the situation you’re in right now.

leona called you over to his room because he needed ‘extra pillows’ knowing he’s just going to lay on your lap, and keep you hostage for his daily nap.

you—not really being tired, began scrolling through magicam. maybe it was all the couple stuff you were seeing but it made you wonder how it felt to kiss someone.

“you’re telling me you’ve never kissed someone herbivore?” a deep voice mutters against your thighs which startles you, you thought he was passed out.

“and what if I haven’t?” great now leona knows you haven’t kissed anyone.

“just a little surprising, that’s all.” leona shrugs, you couldn’t really see his face as he was facing away from you.

“I’m just… waiting for the right person. but that’s not really working out… ugh they’re gonna think I’m totally inexperienced and a bad kisser, I probably am a bad kisser… ugh.” you ended up rambling more towards yourself since you figured leona already fell asleep but to your surprise again, he was still awake and heard you.

“want me to teach you?” he smirks but you couldn’t see it.

you sit up, face on fire.

“excuse me?”

“do you want to learn how to kiss or not? only offering once.” he sits up, looking lazily at you.

“why… do you want to help me…?” y/n asked cautiously while still freaking out. leona is going to kiss them. they’re going to kiss THE leona kingscholar, and it’s their first kiss. he’s definitely going to tell them they’re a bad kisser.

leona looks bored as he states, “consider it as a favor… so?”

the two of you are facing each other face to face, nervous out of your mind.

leona gently places his hand on your shoulder which shocked you. “relax, don’t be so nervous.”

he then puts his other hand on your chin, slowly lifting your head up, silently staring into your eyes. you couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking from you trying to calm down.

“follow my lead, just take it slow…” you nodded, taking a deep breath before closing your eyes.

leona leans in, inches away from your mouth,

“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

you nodded again, telling him it’s okay.

your lips touch and it’s soft. you didn’t expect this from leona but maybe it’s because he’s ‘teaching’ you. it’s so light and gentle that you didn’t know leona could kiss like this.

not that you imagined what it would be like to kiss leona because why would you?

“hmm you are a bad kisser, i think we have to try again.” he says once you two pull away. you’re embarrassed now, you were about to say something when he pulls you back in, still soft. you try your best to move along with him, it felt like a fever dream. you couldn’t help but put your hands on his chest.

“mmmm… honestly I don’t remember, do it again.”

“what-“

he pulls you back once again, more heat is added every time he pulls you back in, hand resting on your cheek while the other on your hip.

your own hands slowly made their way up to his hair.

“I think you’re slowly getting there. I thought you were a fast learner?” leona smirks

you start to think he’s just toying with you which makes you groan when he place his lips on yours.

you decide to get a little bold and tug on his hair while deepening the kiss, which caused him to groan, letting out a low growl.

“starting to get bold now are we?” smirking as he pulls you onto his lap causing you to straddle it, making you blush.

“I guess you’re not a bad kisser but i think we need a lot more practice.”

“is that so?” you challenge as you try to catch your breath.

“hey, you’re the one that wanted to practice, I’m just trying to help you out.” he gave a smug smile as you rolled your eyes.

“uh huh… because you’re so generous and thoughtful.” you said sarcastically with a smirk.

he roughly kisses you again causing you to pull and tug on his hair, letting out groans and moans from the both of you.

leona slides his hand up your shirt as he asks for entrance to your mouth,

“leonaaa seriously how many times do I have to- oh-“ a voice interrupts both of your thoughts. you immediately jump out of leona’s lap, standing up as you try to make yourself presentable, like you weren’t just sucking faces with leona kingscholar.

“out.”

“jeez lock your door next time! I’m scarred for life now! you owe me now, I’ll never unsee that…” ruggie protests dramatically as he exits the room.

“tsk, damn hyena.” leona grumbles, looking angry that he was interrupted.

you had a beet red face, you are definitely embarrassed and ruggie will never let you live that one down.

leona pulls you down on the bed, prying your hands away from your face.

“ignore him.”

you look down at his hands, “uhm, t-thank you… for yknow… helping me with…that…”

“I still think you need more practice. you’re an okay kisser right now, I thought you wanted to be a good kisser?” you look up at him.

“I think… that you just want to keep kissing me leona kingscholar.” you boldly assume, which leona smirks.

“I told you I’m just helping you out, isn’t that what friends do?” no way he just said that. he knows what he’s doing.

you look anywhere but into his emerald eyes and mutters, “what if… I don’t want us to be friends.”

he lifts your chin up, making you stare at him.

“what did you say sweetheart?” it’s like he’s staring into your soul, he knows how you feel about him and he wants you to say it.

“I… I don’t want… us to be friends…”

he leans in, “no? then what do you want?”

“…kiss me.”

“gladly.”

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a/n: heyy this is my first time using tumblr so bare with me… some silly fic I thought of so I hope someone will like it ಥ﹏ಥ remember consent is hot anyways hope you have a great day/night ! take care <3

[marshemillow]

Okay but you do realize the danger in saying, "This is an addiction because I feel good when I have it and I feel bad when I don't have it." right? Do you understand that that's a slippery slope invented by conservative purity culture to make people feel bad for fulfilling needs they can't fulfill in other ways?

Are there people who spend 22 hours a day watching porn even when the rest of their life is going well? Sure, of course there are, but the vast majority of people who claim to struggle with porn addiction don't actually watch more porn than the average person; They just feel worse about it. Pathologizing normal, healthy expressions of sexuality is how these high control groups get and keep members.

It's the same with "food addiction"; Yes, binge eating disorder is a real thing, but a lot of people who think they're addicted to food are actually eating way less than they should be, and their cravings are really just normal feelings of starvation. People go on extreme diets, binge because their body is screaming at them to stop starving themselves, and then they feel bad for binging like it was just lack of willpower that made them cave and they think it's their fault for not being strong enough to be "healthy."

My whole point is that this attitude comes from people believing that addiction is a moral failing, and also acting like anything that makes you feel better is an addiction by default when it's probably just a normal coping mechanism for needs you can't fulfill normally like loneliness. Yes, there are people who are addicted to phones, just like there are people with Pica who can't help but eat drywall, but the consensus right now is that there is insufficient evidence to prove that phones are addictive. Even if you could find thousands of people who were addicted to eating drywall, that's still not enough to prove that society at large needs to be worried about becoming addicted to drywall.

Honestly, genuine question; Why did you bother replying to me if you couldn't even be bothered to read everything I said? Did you just see a couple key words and assume you knew what I was saying? Do you know how frustrating it is to feel like people are misunderstanding you on purpose?

If you're actually addicted to social media, then I would say you deserve compassion and treatment for that, but don't act like these movements to label everything as an "addiction" are perfectly innocent. Even on an actually unhealthy level, taking people's phones away doesn't solve the root cause, and it does nothing good to make people feel bad for their coping mechanisms, even if it really is an addiction.

I wish it was easier to talk about mobile phone addiction without sounding like a boomer

[inkdrinkerworld]

Chronic Flirt

Cw: fluff, reader has a very bad sinus infection, Sirius is a flirt, they like each other, lots of pet names hehehe

Of course the day you go into the pharmacy looking a wreck, you have to see him.

You’re in a pair of jeans and a washed out Spider-Man shirt, a jacket over it to help with some chills- but it’s not the focus. You feel like crap and Sirius is on rotation today.

It’s fate. It’s how it always goes.

God damn the dust and pollen in the air for making your face blotchy, puffy and red.

God damn it a second time that you’re congested and nasally when the pharmacist around your age- Sirius- seems to get in.

Sirius is a pharmacist that’s very pretty and loves to flirt with you and it makes your skin tingle.

He smiles when you come into view, skin a little flushed when you walk straight up to the counter.

“Hi sweetheart, is that from an allergic reaction or are you happy to see me?”

God you wish he wasn’t so good looking because then you wouldn’t care this much that you’re sure there’s more hives cropping up on your cheeks. You snort despite yourself, willing your body to not betray you this once.

“Sadly the dust, nothing I’ve got is working anymore.”

You’re peeved just thinking about it. You’ve tried every single sinus medicine that they’d ever invented and if it didn’t make you tired, it just didn’t help.

Sirius frowns, his perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together. “That doesn’t sound good, sweetness. Nothing’s worked at all?”

You shake your head, “And I get drowsy off everything.”

He nods sympathetically, “Can’t take much of it either if you’ve got to be at work can you?” He tuts and flips through what you assume to be a log book.

Only then you’re only allowed to marvel at how soft his angular face looks for a moment before you’re taken over by a sneezing fit.

Sirius passes you a handful of tissues and hand sanitizing gel. A look of concern and sympathy on his face as he can no doubtedly see the redness that comes to your inflamed nose.

“Say, have you used the rinses before? I can give you something else for the hives, but the congestion is my main concern.”

You shudder as you chew the inside of your cheek, it feels silly admitting but it’s the truth, “I’m scared of them.”

Sirius lets out a little puff that you know is a chuckle, “They work better though. We’ve got this one,” he pulls a white and blue box from the shelf behind him. “It doesn’t mess up your track or anything. Would keep all that swelling outta your pretty face.”

You roll your eyes to hide how much you warm up by the compliment, “How many times can I use it in a day?”

Sirius slides the box to you as he rattles off, “Once a day should do it, two sprays in each nostril. Blow your nose before you spray, swallow after each spray and then you’re brand new.”

You eye the box dubiously. “Two sprays once a day?”

Sirius nods, a little smile on his face at how hopeful you sound. He can’t help it but lean across the counter, little black strands of hair caressing his cheek making him look even a little dreamier.

“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask, shoving your hands into your pockets to keep from reaching out to touch the loose hair.

Sirius smiles, a wicked one that’s more attractive than it should be. “Then you can come in and I’ll personally try to create a new drug that’ll work.”

Somehow, you feel like Sirius really would try his best.

“Just for me?”

Sirius nods, “Exclusively yours, doll.”

You roll your eyes again, but bite your lip to keep the smile off your face. He’s a good flirt.

“What about the hives? Calamine lotion?”

You’ve done this rodeo before.

“You’re whip smart, yknow that?” Your cheeks flush a little. “Should go away after a couple rounds of it, but if it doesn’t work you can come back for hydrocortisone.”

You nod, “Can I just go get a juice and come to pay?”

Sirius nods, reaching out quickly to tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “Take your time gorgeous, are you gonna get your usual orange passion fruit?”

It warms your heart a little that Sirius has taken note of it. You look over your shoulder with the tiniest of smiles and find Sirius with his cheek propped up watching you.

“Yeah and probably a chocolate bar.”

“I don’t have anything for cavities, and I don’t think you can get sweeter, sweetness.”

You shake your head, a little giggle following you and all Sirius can think is he has to ask you out soon.

[hrrtshape]

fifteen days and fourteen nights. . what i did for the 15 days i was there.

　　day 1 . . . ୨୧

it was a tuesday. woke up disoriented, like a victorian child revived with smelling salts. school was a blur, walls too bright, people too loud. my body knew before i did. the muscle memory of existing somewhere better. at some point, i found out i could drive. just got in a car and did it. nobody questioned it. like the laws of physics had rewritten themselves to accommodate my whims. later, i gave coryo a telepathic nosebleed, just because i could. watched him wipe the blood away, dazed and beautiful. later, walked around the city, let my feet carry me somewhere unfamiliar, found a bookshop, spent hours inside just running my hands over spines. that’s that.

　　day 2 . . . ୨୧

school still. had the best bagel of my life (which you all might know about). a religious experience. warm, toasty, slightly crisp but still soft enough to make me believe in god. i don’t even remember the flavour, i just remember the way it made me feel. a biblical betrayal of my cr bagels. they will never measure up. spent the rest of the day exploring soho, drifting in and out of boutiques, trying on sunglasses and pretending i was famous. ended up in a tiny coffee shop where i wrote bad poetry and people-watched like it was an olympic sport. walked home as the sun was setting, the city glowing, everything perfect.

　　day 3 . . . ୨୧

school, yes. moving through it like a ghost, touching nothing, absorbing everything. i felt untouchable, celestial (???). it’s just school, but it’s also an event. an ongoing theatre production where i am the lead, the writer, the sole investor. after school, went to a little diner with friends, ordered milkshakes and fries, felt like i was living in a john hughes movie. laughed until my stomach hurt. walked home, headphones in, soundtrack to my own life playing in my ears.

　　day 4 . . . ୨୧

school again. the theatre production drags on. long corridors, laughter that isn’t mine, the undercurrent of something electric. i start counting the days like a prisoner scratching tally marks into a cell wall. after school, went to the park, lay in the grass, let the sun paint freckles across my skin. read a book, let time stretch and soften around me. ran into someone i vaguely knew, ended up walking with them for hours, talking about nothing and everything. the world felt infinite.

　　day 5 . . . ୨୧

weekend. first on tried almost every article of clothing in my closet. me and lily-rose (not the actress, but also completely the same person!?!??!) go to central park. we sit on benches and watch dogs like we’re judging a competition that nobody else knows is happening. we get drunk and smoke, the city blurring at the edges, laughter sticky like honey. it’s so cutesy and intimate, i want to bottle it up and keep it forever. we wander aimlessly, end up in a vintage shop where we try on ridiculous coats and pretend we’re in a wes anderson film. later, we stumble into a tiny bar, order cocktails we can barely pronounce, let the night stretch long and sweet. they didn't ask for IDs.....which, like, great.

　　day 6 . . . ୨୧

weekend still. wake up late, the city already alive outside my window. go to a cafe with my dad, order something overpriced but beautiful. wander into an art gallery, pretend to understand modern art, make up stories about the paintings. later, meet up with friends (read: lily), go to a rooftop party, dance under the stars, feel weightless. everything is golden. weird accident happens there.......ahem....moving on.

　　day 7 . . . ୨୧

school. me and coryo (MY LOOOOOVEEEEE) giggle about our philosophy teacher. then me and my mum go to louis vuitton for absolutely no reason. sheer, reckless consumerism. we walk out with new handbags, just because. no birthday, no holiday, no excuse. pure indulgence. it’s euphoric. like a high without the comedown. when i think about it later, i start rioting internally because i want to be back in my dr so bad it physically aches. end the day in my room, staring at the ceiling, feeling the pull of something bigger.

　　day 8 . . . ୨୧

school. had the best pizza of my life. it made me emotional. it was so good i nearly wept into the crust. after school, went to a tiny record shop, spent hours flipping through vinyls, talking music with the guy behind the counter. walked home in the rain, felt cinematic, romantic, tragic. think i got a cold.

　　day 9 . . . ୨୧

school. moving through the motions, existing in the in-between. i think i’m starting to blend in. the idea scares me. went to a bookstore after school, got lost in the shelves, let the smell of old paper wrap around me like a hug. bought a book just because i liked the cover. then me and my mom went to le bernardin where we ordered four courses. gossiped. went home, lit a candle, read until my eyes burned...and then stalked coryo's instagram.

　　day 10 . . . ୨୧

school. had the best pasta of my life. like i was dining in heaven’s personal trattoria. later, watched coryo play basketball. he’s the team captain…..moan. he moved like poetry, sharp and precise. i died a little just watching. afterwards, he walks past me, sweaty and glowing, gives me this look that makes my stomach drop. the world tilts on its axis!!!!! AAAH.

　　day 11 . . . ୨୧

school. again. coryo put his arm over my shoulders. just casually, like it was nothing. like he didn’t just shake my entire existence to its core. i died. full obituary, funeral procession, dramatic weeping. spent the rest of the day floating.

　　day 12 . . . ୨୧

athens!!!!!! to celebrate my friend’s birthday. a friend from my cr, somehow scripted into my dr without me even thinking about it. like my subconscious smuggled them in past security. it feels surreal. like i brought a piece of cr with me without realising it. spent the day exploring ancient ruins, touching history, feeling small and infinite all at once. drank wine under the acropolis, the city glowing around us.

　　day 13 . . . ୨୧

birthday festivities continue. we get way too drunk, but in the poetic, filmic kind of way. like we’re characters in a movie about being young and reckless and impossibly beautiful. athens becomes ours for the night. we dance, we laugh, we exist so loudly it echoes.

　　day 14 . . . ୨୧

back in new york. good old new york city, where the skyline welcomes me like an old friend and the streets remember the shape of my footsteps. i love it here. i love it all. spend the day wandering, reacquainting myself with the city, like a lover returning home

　　day 15 . . . ୨୧

school. then, a full-blown bpd overstimulation attack. the kind that grabs you by the throat and shakes you until reality bends. my brain turns up the volume on everything, too loud, too bright, too much. the walls close in. i shift back. unceremoniously. like being kicked out of paradise for knowing too much.

i simply adore how i managed to do absolutely nothing in my DR. a real stroke of genius. i kept thinking, oh, there’s time, there’s time, and then in the same breath, this is the final act, the curtain call, the last pathetic hurrah. so what did i do???? i oscillated…no, i languished…between school, home, and the occasional social gathering, like a sims character with low free will. and to top it all off, it was september. meaning: cold. meaning: the air had that sharp, academic cruelty to it. meaning: i should have been having moments but instead, i was merely existing. tragic, really.

[bunji-enthusiast]

thought of another request !! (Obviously platonic, love being used in a more parental manner bc yk,, found family)

so, doey is one of the few toys you managed to save and bring back home. He unfortunately has a anxiety meltdown from being outside for the first time in years and reader having to comfort him, talking to him softly and holding him in their lap while he just sobs bc it's so much at once,,

They're like "shh, it's okay, i know, love, i know.."

Idk if that would make sense for a one shot 🙏

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫

Sypnosis [Being outside for the first time in years can take a special toll on a person, especially if that someone is Doey in particular.]

Character [Doey]

Note || I believe I understand what you mean, correct me if I don’t lol.

The day had been quiet, almost too quiet. The toys, having found their way to your home after months of struggling for survival, were finally beginning to settle in. The factory was far behind them now, the haunting memories of the place slowly fading into the recesses of their minds. The Safe Haven was a place where they could breathe again, feel safe. You, having escaped the nightmarish grip of the factory, had taken it upon yourself to provide for them, to help them heal. You had promised yourself that no matter the cost, you would make sure they were never subjected to the horrors of the factory again.

But even in the safety of this new home, some wounds never healed. You watched as Doey, the plump dough creature, sat at the corner of the living room, his normally playful demeanor replaced by something more distant, more uncertain. His eyes—holes in his head, just faint shadows in the dim light—seemed lost, unfocused. He was far from the carefree toy who had led the Safe Haven group with bravery and kindness. No, this was a side of Doey you had never seen before, and it was clear that something was wrong.

You walked over to him, kneeling down so that you could meet his gaze. He flinched slightly at your approach, and you noticed the subtle trembling in his yellow and orange arms. You had seen toys face the horrors of the factory, but nothing quite like this. Doey had always been strong, calm, a beacon of hope for the others.

But today, that strength had crumbled.

"Doey," you said gently, your voice low and calm, "hey, what’s going on? Talk to me."

Doey's mouth, that simple line of dough, quivered slightly as he took a deep, shuddering breath. He could barely hold it together, his usual bubbly nature drowned under the weight of something far more sinister.

“I... I’m not sure I can do it anymore,” Doey muttered, his voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t like him to sound so fragile, but you recognized the desperation in his tone. “I’ve tried. I’ve always tried... But it feels like no matter how hard I try, I’m just going to fall apart.”

You frowned, reaching out to place a hand gently on his arm. The warmth of your touch seemed to help, though Doey flinched at first. He wasn’t used to being touched like this, not in such a vulnerable state. You could see his struggle, the fear of being broken, of losing himself to the horrors of his past.

"Hey," you said, your voice steady despite the situation, "it's okay. You're safe now. We're all safe."

"But I don’t feel safe," Doey whispered, his eyes downcast, avoiding yours. "Every time I close my eyes, I see... I see them. The factory. The screams. The things I did... the things I couldn’t stop. And now I can’t stop feeling like I’m just one bad thing away from falling apart. What if I’m just a... a toy? A toy made to be broken? What if I’m not strong enough to lead them, to keep everyone safe?"

You could feel the weight of his words, the burden he was carrying. Doey wasn’t just a toy to you. He was a friend, a confidant. His strength was a shield, not just for himself, but for all the toys in the once Safe Haven. And now that shield was cracking.

You knew that the other toys were counting on him, but even they didn’t know the full depth of the struggle he was going through. Doey was made up of the memories and personalities of three children—Kevin, Jack, and Matthew. Each piece of him brought its own light, its own shadow. And while Matthew's kindness and gentle spirit were a dominant force within him, there was also the fiery temper of Kevin, and the deep yearning for something lost within Jack. It made Doey... complicated.

"Doey, listen to me," you said softly, but firmly. "You're not alone in this. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to keep going. And we’re all here to help you. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

Doey's right arm—yellow and thick—shuddered as he reached up, his hand going to his face, his body folding in on itself as though he could hide from the world. A soft sob escaped him, and your heart ached. You had seen him lead, seen him face danger with a brave face, but this... this was something entirely different. The weight of the factory’s horrors, the responsibility of being a leader, had taken its toll.

"Doey, it's okay to feel broken," you said, your voice trembling just slightly now. "We all have our broken pieces. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still be whole. You’re not just a toy. You’re not just the past. You’re Doey. You’re the one who stood up for all of us. You showed us what it means to keep fighting. And we’re not going to let you fall now.”

Doey looked up at you, his doughy face streaked with tears—tears made of the very clay he was formed from. You could see the conflict in his eyes. The fear of what might happen next. The anger bubbling up from deep within, the fiery Kevin side of him, just waiting to lash out.

But you didn’t let him retreat. Instead, you gently cupped his face in your hands, the warmth of your palms pressing against his cool, doughy skin. “Doey, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. We’re all here.”

A long moment passed, where Doey simply breathed, shuddering in your hold, trying to steady himself. Slowly, his trembling ceased, his body slowly relaxing into your touch. There was still an undercurrent of fear within him, but you could feel him starting to regain control.

“I... I don’t know if I can lead anymore,” Doey said quietly, his voice still uncertain. “But I... I don’t want to let anyone down.”

You smiled softly, your hand brushing his long orange arm. "You don’t have to lead alone, Doey. We’re all here for each other. Here—it’s not just you. It’s all of us, together."

His yellow and orange arms hung limply at his sides for a moment before he slowly, carefully, wrapped them around you, his stubby red legs shaking beneath him. His embrace wasn’t strong, but it was filled with a sense of quiet gratitude. He was fragile, yes, but he wasn’t alone.

And that was enough. For now, it was enough. You’d be there to help him, just like he had helped so many others before.

"Thank you," Doey whispered, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I’ll try. I’ll try to be strong. For them. For you."

And as the two of you sat there in the quiet of the room, surrounded by the other toys, you knew that, despite everything, Doey would find his way. Because sometimes, strength wasn’t about never breaking—it was about finding the courage to put the pieces back together when everything felt like it was falling apart. And you’d be there to help him do just that.

[gojozballs]

Gojo Satoru x Freaky Fiancée Reader

Warnings: [Mature themes, explicit content, sexual innuendo, public displays of affection, jealousy, and suggestive humor.]

Materialist

Gojo meets a woman who’s even more of a chaotic mess than he is, and somehow they end up in a whirlwind of teasing, jealousy, and bad decisions, all while trying to out-crazy each other.

First date? More like first attack.

Satoru thought he’d be the one to take the lead, but you proved him wrong when you yanked his collar and pulled him in for a deep, heated kiss before he could even flex his charm. The man was stunned eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks slightly dusted pink but of course, he recovered quickly, smirking against your lips. "Damn, sweetheart. So much for a first date should I just propose now?"

Can’t keep your hands to yourself?

Neither can he. The moment your relationship became official, you turned into an absolute menace. Satoru loved physical touch, but he didn’t expect you to constantly grope, squeeze, and tease him at every given moment. Whether it was sneaky ass grabs while walking or sitting in his lap with zero personal space, he was in heaven. "Baby, you're gonna kill me at this rate."

Public menace? Absolutely.

Your favorite past-time? Randomly grinding against him in public—just to see him malfunction. Whether it was in crowded subway stations, fancy restaurants, or even at Jujutsu High, Satoru’s poor self-control was constantly tested. "B-baby—?! W-we are in public—!!" He stammered, gripping your waist to stop your subtle movements. But did he actually stop you? No. Because next thing you knew, risky quickies became a thing.

Flash attack, incoming.

Satoru was in the middle of an important call when you casually walked up to him, pulled your shirt down, and—BAM. Boobs. Right in his face. "Satoru, look." His reaction? "W-what—?! Uhuh, yeah—uhm, I gotta call you back—" Click. He’d give you a scolding (which was completely useless) and five minutes later, he’d be dragging you to the bedroom.

Jealous Y/N is a nightmare.

The one time Satoru had to save a random girl from a curse, you hit him with the most petty, soul-crushing punishment. "No touching for a week. Actually, two weeks." Satoru looked like you just told him candy was outlawed. "B-baby—please! I didn’t even look at her!" "Why don’t you ask that girl for kisses, then?" you huffed, dodging his hands. "Baby, her whole existence is nothing to me! I was just doing my job!" "Well, saving her means you wanna marry her. So off you go." The only way you’d fold? If he fucked you in every position and in every corner of the penthouse. And believe me Satoru put in the work.

Satoru? Stressed? For the first time in his life?

He thought he was the freakiest person on earth until he met you. You were a literal walking thirst trap with zero shame, and for once, he was the one getting overwhelmed. "Baby, I can’t anymore—" he groaned, head thrown back against the couch. Did that stop you? No. You had one goal: ruin him. And you did. Every. Single. Time. "What happened, Toru? Thought you could handle me?"

Nanami’s Daily Suffering

Y/N sauntered over and plopped onto Gojo’s lap like she owned it. Arms around his neck. Zero shame. Gojo smirked, hands immediately settling on your waist. “Well, hello there, baby.” Nanami, sitting across from you, exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Must you do this here?” Gojo leaned into Y/n, voice dripping with mischief. “What, Nanami? Jealous?” Nanami stood up with a look of pure exhaustion. “I’m off.” Gojo chuckled. “C’mon, Kento, don’t run from love!” Nanami didn’t even look back. He was done.

Wake Up Call

The moonlight spills softly into the room, illuminating the tangled sheets. Satoru stirs in his sleep, feeling movement from his fingers. His eyelids flutter open to find his hand tucked inside Y/N's undies, seeing how she moves his fingers inside her. "Aww, baby... why didn’t you wake me up?" His voice is husky, a mix of teasing and concern, his thumb brushing over her clit as he speaks. Y/N gasps when his fingers move, inching deeper, his touch igniting something inside her. The moment feels charged, electric. "I... I didn't want to disturb you," she whispers, her breath catching in her throat. But Satoru’s smile only widens, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Let me help you," he murmurs, his voice low and velvety as he leans in closer, his fingers pressing deeper with a slow, deliberate pace, making sure every movement is felt. The teasing warmth of his touch makes Y/N’s heart race, and she can’t help but let out a soft moan. Satoru's eyes gleam with mischief, his fingertips curling just right. “Aren’t you adorable, baby? We’re not sleeping until I’ve made sure you’re completely taken care of… every single inch of you.”

Finally

Satoru and Y/N were a match made in absolute chaos. The first-years had long started placing bets on who was more of a menace Gojo or Y/N and at this point, even the students were giving up trying to figure it out. Shoko, ever the skeptic, was just glad her best friend had finally found someone who could match her madness, or at least try to.

At their wedding reception? Let’s just say they’d officially traumatized everyone in the room.

Satoru stood up, grabbed the mic, and flashed that signature grin. "I never thought I'd meet a woman who could keep me on my toes every day and night,” he said, voice oozing with mock sincerity. “But here we are."

The room collectively braced itself, already knowing where this was going.

“You bet we’re gonna have five babies or more!” Satoru shouted, throwing a wink at Y/N, who immediately gave him a deadpan stare.

Y/N rolled her eyes, giving him an exaggerated look of mock horror. "Five, Satoru? What, are we trying to break the world record?" she shot back, making sure everyone heard her.

Satoru shrugged, unbothered, leaning into the mic. "Hey, I’m not saying we need more, but the more the merrier, right?" He flashed a grin so devilish it could’ve set the whole room on fire.

Shoko, sipping her drink in the corner, muttered, "I need a second drink after that one..."

Y/N leaned in, her voice dropping low, barely a whisper. “If you really want five, we’ll need a bigger bed. You ready for that, love?”

Satoru raised an eyebrow, his voice teasing. “Oh, I’m ready for whatever you throw my way, baby.” His eyes sparkled with a dangerous promise.

From the back of the room, someone whispered, "God help us all."

And just like that, the chaos continued. The couple carried on with their day, leaving the guests equally horrified and entertained somehow, somehow... happy for them.

[grandline-fics]

For your Valentine's Event: Single Red Rose with Benn Beckman. ❤️

DESCRIPTION: Single Red Rose- When your date goes wrong, they come to your rescue

WARNINGS:  mutual pining but it all works out.

CHARACTERS: Benn Beckman

WORDS: 923

A/N: Thank you @thecrimsonacademic for this request for the Valentine's Event! I hope you like what I came up with for Beck. This is my second time writing for him so I'm still trying to get the hang of getting his personality down

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI | VALENTINES EVENT MASTERLIST

————————

When you’d returned to the Red Force, Benn immediately noticed the extra bounce in your step and unshakable smile. His eyes always seemed to find you regardless of what was going on around him but when your mood was this good, it was impossible for him to not notice. You must have encountered something very fun to do on the island they’d stopped at. Still it didn't explain why you were back so soon. He was one of the few on watch duty. You were part of the group out exploring the island. Curious he stepped up beside you as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink. “What’s got you so upbeat? Yasopp get drunk and fall asleep in a flowerbed again?”

“No! It's too early for that, even for him.” You grinned, leaning against the counter while Beck grabbed a drink of his own. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

Not a lot surprised Benn much anymore but that declaration did make him pause and the once delicious mouthful of ale in his mouth seemed to become heavier and harder to swallow. While nothing ever explicit had happened between you both, Benn was very aware of his feelings that had been growing for you to be beyond just crewmates and friends.

You’d both flirted more times than he could count and been affectionate but nothing ever romantic or sexual since Benn believed letting things take the natural course to be the best plan of action. Seemed while he was on the ship and you were out on your own, someone caught your eye. He was a realist to know this wasn’t love for you and this random person. The ship would be setting sail in a couple days, this was just something to pass the time. Regardless of the meaning, the word ‘date’ twisted something unpleasant in him. 

“A date huh?” Beck asked, keeping an air of calm and lightheartedness in his words because the last thing he would ever do was sour your happiness. “Hope they’re able to show you a good time. You deserve it.”

“I hope so too.” You smiled warmly as you finished your drink and sighed with a light shrug. “But if turns into a bad time, I’ll not cry over it. They’re cute, but not that cute. I’m going to get ready.” You stepped away and walked towards the door only to stop and quickly turn to look at Benn warningly but still with a touch of playfulness in your stare. “And if Shanks asks-”

“I know, I know. ” Beckman chuckled, knowing the last thing you'd want on a date was for Shanks to lurk nearby or tease you and disrupt things. “I won’t say a word until we set sail.”

“You’re the best, Beck.” You beamed before disappearing down the hallway to get ready for your night.

It wasn't long after you’d left to go meet your date when Lucky and Hongo returned to allow Benn and the others remaining on board to go out and see the island and have some fun. Beck knew he wouldn’t need to search far to find at least someone in the crew, knowing their lively presences would make themselves known without any effort. He was right because someone in the crew did appear, he was just surprised to see it was you and even stranger still you were on your own and the bounce you had in your step earlier was gone. “Hey you.” Beck greeted, his voice snapping you out of your thoughts. “What happened?”

“Guy never showed.” You explained with a small shrug. “Left a message that had he known I was a pirate he wouldn’t have asked me out.”

“You’re kidding.” Benn asked with eyebrows raised and a disbelieving shake of his head, some people were so gutless. “I’m sorry-“

“Don’t apologise, Beck. Like I said he was cute, but not cute enough to cry over. I just wish I hadn’t wasted my time getting ready for it to go to waste.” You shrugged, smiling softly at Beck’s sympathy. “Have a good night. I’ll see you on the ship.”

As you moved to head in the direction of the ship you were swiftly caught by Benn’s hand and stopped. You looked up at your crewmate and let out a sigh to see him looking at you with a serious look. Truthfully you weren’t in any way hurt by what had happened. You’d mostly agreed to a date with someone else because you thought it would take your mind off of your feelings for the man in front of you. Now you hated that he looked upset on your behalf.“Beck, honestly I’m fine.”

“Fine or not you look too good to let it go to waste. C’mon you wanted a date, you’re getting a date.” Benn instructed, leading you back towards the town. When you opened your mouth to protest he grinned at you. “Don’t worry I’ll make sure you have fun.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” You huffed out with a smile, finally letting him lead you wherever he wanted. “Fine, I’m curious now to see how Benn Beckman operates on a date. Show me what you got Beck.”

“Oh that’s a tall order.” Benn laughed, adjusting his hand to lace his fingers with yours. “Y’see to really get the full experience it’ll take a lot more than a single date. Could take a long while.”

“That so?” You grinned walking side by side with him. “I’ve got the time.”

——————————————-

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[notmorbid]

mouth.

dialogue prompts from mouth: stories by puloma ghosh.

you've been alone a long time.

____ is always watching you.

you're so lucky. you can be anything.

there is no forever.

it's beautiful, the way you fall.

people weren't always afraid of me.

if i disappeared, would anybody bother to search for me?

we have to accept the logic of the world we were given, and learn to live in it.

you don't smell like anyone else.

pleasure is another form of taking.

i don't live anywhere.

i want to die here.

i did something i shouldn't have last night.

will you tell me something, before you go?

i don't think ____ is coming home.

everything and nothing can look the same.

i have no idea what to do with you.

ghosts are just memories.

i should have been kinder to you.

why are you asking me such american questions?

this house is bad luck.

i thought it was just a story.

it's good to stay careful.

i keep seeing ____ everywhere.

it's been a long time since you've been home.

this place gives me a bad feeling.

don't be afraid. you know me.

you don't have to miss me. i'll stay with you.

everything you try to hold is sharp.

do something. make it stop.

you shouldn't be walking around.

kids like you worry me.

i keep forgetting things.

hurry home. it's getting dark.

i thought we were happy.

don't you ever want to go somewhere else?

loving has many configurations.

what will you do when you run out of _____?

i can drive you wherever you need.

i've tried my best to be like you, but i'm not.

we're happy, right?

what have you done to me?

everyone feels uneasy around a person they can never truly know.

of course it's not true, but isn't it fun?

the best lies are half-truths.

you're not the first person to ask.

i don't have time for your bullshit today.

i've run out of people who take me seriously.

i don't know if 'love' is even the right word.

i thought you'd be stupid enough to come.

be careful with words that aren't yours.

i have the book, if you want to read it.

i don't 'have' to do anything.

don't hate me for this.

i don't do this with anyone.

i'm more comfortable on my own.

you're allowed to be happy.

none of this is real, to begin with.

i didn't even know there was an underground party scene in _____.

i'm too tired and broke to fall in love.

there's nothing worse than being scared alone.

why did you come looking for me?

it's not the same for you, is it?

i can wait until morning to hate myself for this.

you're not human. i don't know what you are.

i don't exist. i can do whatever i want.

i thought you'd tell me everything, eventually.

there's nothing to tell. nothing you'd want to know.

is there a difference between fear and worship?

you brought me to life.

karaoke is when we're most human.

you can't choose the things you'll remember. the important things will find you.

____ doesn't know about you.

what are you afraid of?

you have to be afraid to live.

i'm sorry i never said goodbye.

this house is too big for us.

our planet is really strange.

you heard, then.

things were always fun with you.

good or bad doesn't matter anymore.

you've hardly looked at me all day.

can't you act like you want to be my mother? just for today?

are you listening? have you ever heard me?

you were never mine.

[crescentofthegods]

ALL TOO FAMILIAR!

pairing: harry potter x fem!reader

request: cormac gets a little too touchy, but harry finds you just in time.

word count: 2,084

warnings: FLUFF, angsty bc cormac is a DOUCHE, cormac being weird creepy touchy etc, few swear words, not proofread!!, (lowkey suck at warnings pls tell me if i've missed anything)

author's note: OH MY GOODNESSSSS i haven't uploaded anything for like two years straight i sincerely apologise to all of my followers please forgive me. i also apologise to the anon who sent me this request bc i took so long to freaking answer it😭😭😭 feel like this is RUBBISH but i hope you all enjoy! xx

taglist: @floweringrott ♡

more harry potter | masterlist | navigation

THE GREAT LIBRARY had always been a solace to those who required it. Especially to you, who found comfort in the smell of parchment since Hogwarts’ supply seemed to always be fresh. The quiet lull of the area managed to put you in a state of peace too, the way everyone’s voices resounded to whispers and murmurs rather than loud babbles of laughter. There was nothing wrong with laughing, of course—it just happened to be distracting. You were actually waiting for someone, both of you having the intention to study. In front of you was your Potions revision; you were simply making notes on Everlasting Elixirs, taking your ideas from your copy of Advanced Potion Making. Crumbs of strawberry cheesecake lingered on your tongue since you had come straight from lunch, eager to get these done for Slughorn so you could finally rest. Your fingers were clasped around your favourite quill, your spare hand keeping your parchment still as you quickly wrote down every thought your mind was firing at you—

            “There you are!” a voice snapped you out of your reverie, your body going slightly rigid, reluctantly lifting your gaze to see the last person you wanted to converse with. “I’ve been looking all over for you…”

            He never gets the hint, McLaggen. Always stalking following you, always standing outside every room you exit, always loitering too close whenever you’re trying to get back to your House—never taking no for an answer. Everyone knew you as the quiet girl, rarely taking part in things like extracurriculars or school clubs. For the life of you, you could not figure out why Cormac had suddenly become… interested.

            You kept to yourself just because it was a personal preference, you barely had any friends—you were a loner.

            And that was how you liked it. Being a people person had never been your thing entirely.

            But, Cormac didn’t seem to get that.

            “Really?” you replied, your tone almost resembling the bored purrs of your very own tabby cat, who was probably lounging around in your dorm, messing up your pillows…

            How you wished you could be in her position right now.

            “Yeah…? You sound so unsurprised,” he bit his bottom lip, the light of his green eyes dimming when he noticed how quickly you stood up. You almost felt bad… Though, you remembered the way he disgustingly pursued Hermione Granger a few moons back and, fleetingly, shook all feelings of regret from your body; Cormac McLaggen was a creep.

            “Haha, right…” A half-assed chuckle escaped you, clearing your throat as you shoved the remnants of your work into the new satchel messenger bag you bought before beginning sixth year. Discerning the dire, hardened gaze of Cormac falling upon you never failed to make you shudder inside; his eyes were always so intense. So scrutinising. So… unnecessary?

            “So, uh… Potions,” Cormac began, attempting to look unbothered at the sight of you slinging your bag off your shoulder. “Wait—are you leaving already?” A sigh stumbled from your lips, your fingers moving to tuck the shorter strands (the ones that fell from your ponytail) behind the broad space of your ear, praying to Merlin himself for an escape route.

            “Yeah, um, my cat—well, she…” Kill me now. “She’s… alone in my room,” you tried to explain, pushing your chair under the desk you sit at on a regular basis, refusing to even glance Cormac’s way. “And she probably misses me—” His scoff interrupted you, your eyes flitting towards his expression, seeing the smugness in his bemused smile—what the fuck?

            “Your old, moody cat, the one that slumps around every window seat she can find, misses you?” Cormac laughed, his hand cradling his chest like he found himself funny. “This is the first time I’ve heard an excuse like that.” All you did was furrow your eyebrows, confused as to what he was implying.

            “Are you… insulting my cat?” You asked, genuinely perturbed because of his peculiar behaviour. Perhaps you were being a little peculiar yourself, but was this Cormac’s way of flirting? It made no sense whatsoever. Anyhow, your words seemed to knock some sense into the Gryffindor, regret latching onto his countenance. You were quick to turn away, murmuring an almost noiseless ‘excuse me’, speeding walking out of the library like nothing had happened.

            Legs moving as fast as they could, Cormac was right after you—he, annoyingly, had quite the Beater’s build. 

            “Wait! I’m sorry—I wasn’t insulting your bloody cat!” He always seemed to persist, much to your misfortune; Merlin, he was thick in the head. When you turned your head back around, you almost tripped, unable to comprehend how he caught up to you in seconds. “I-I was just saying that your excuse for leaving was rubbish—”

            “I’m just busy, alright, McLaggen?” you brushed him off, trying to muster up a polite smile, but it vanished from your face immediately when Cormac grabbed your arm, roughly pulling you back—a spasm of pain shot up your arm and whilst it only lasted for a moment, it still caused you to freeze, the light in your eyes disappearing entirely.

            The light in his brightened.

            “You don’t seem busy,” Cormac mumbled, his digits firm and enclosed around your flesh like a vice, your gaze lifting to his once again. Why were you always looking up? It made you feel… wrong. Like you were submitting yourself to him. McLaggen.

            He would like that, wouldn’t he?

            “McLaggen,” you said his name, your voice quiet; an eerie sort of quiet. He didn’t say anything, studying you for a moment. Suddenly, you wanted the laughter of those pestering first years, the bellows of the fourth year boys, the giggles of the third year girls to wrap around you like a blanket—you would prefer any sort of noise over the gratingly abnormal silence wafting over the empty hallway.

            The one time I don’t want to be alone.

            “You’re still calling me McLaggen? I thought we were way past formalities,” he uttered (moreso questioned), the Gryffindor’s expression changing to one of irritance, his jaw ticking as he tried to maintain his smile. He looked like he was about to barf all over his new fancy boots his father got him.

            Whatever his father’s name was.

            “Uh… No,” you retorted quite bluntly, irritation overwhelming your expression in response. Who did he think he was? “Now, if you could please let go—”

            “I don’t understand what the problem is, though,” he interjected, again, his perplexity at the situation making you want to explode as you opened your mouth to speak, but Cormac was faster. “I just want to talk. We’re having a conversation and you just walk away?” His grip tightened minutely, but it was enough to make you wince, pain submerging your irritation away.

            “Ow—Cormac, you’re hurting me,” you struggled to remain confident, feeling a sense of dread engulfing your body, your mind, your soul.

            This position was all too familiar. That same thundercloud hovering over your heart, waiting to strike where it hurt the most. Even though it was protected by your lungs, your ribs, your flesh—the thunderclaps were enough to compel the chambers of your core to quake.

            “Oh, don’t be daft,” he mumbled, rejecting your plea. “You’ll live.”

            “Listen, we can talk, but can you just let go—”

            “She said let go.”

            An abrupt, deep voice broke the uncomfortable tension between you and Cormac, his grasp loosening perceptibly since he was caught. Inhaling sharply, you took your chance to rip your arm away from him completely, stepping back, rubbing your arm as your eyes stayed downcast.

            Calm down, calm down, calm down—

            “Potter.” What? Hearing Cormac’s one-word mutter led you to look towards the source of the original voice, your eyebrows crinkling in relief when you saw him.

            Harry.

            You were supposed to meet someone in the library… That someone was Harry. During the course of the year, you had been struggling to keep up with Slughorn’s lessons and Harry, kind as always, offered to help you (you didn’t know about his little cheat notes from the Half-Blood Prince and he intended to keep it that way). However, you had left early because of Cormac… prompting Harry to go look for you.

            “Thank Merlin,” you breathed, your lips pressing together when Cormac turned towards him.

            “We were just talking,” he ‘clarified’, but his words fell on deaf ears.

            “Didn’t look like it,” Harry said simply, and you took this moment to actually examine your friend. He was still in his school robes, of course, the infamous Gryffindor crest plastered upon it. His glasses rested on the crook of his nose, his blue eyes unblinking, fixed on Cormac. Jaw clenched, as was his fists. Lips pressed together in annoyance, unlike yours which were pressed together in embarrassment.

            Embarrassed because you couldn’t believe Harry had found you in this position—unable to fight back.

            You could’ve sworn there was a glint of murderous intent within the emerald hues of his eyes; even from a distance, you noticed everything about Harry.

            “Well, we were,” Cormac stated in his matter-of-fact tone, angering you further—but, Harry had it covered. It genuinely baffled you that they were both in the same House.

            “Oh, just—come off it,” Harry scoffed, pushing past him to get to you—he had been the person you wanted to see at the Great Library.

            Not Cormac McLaggen, but Harry Potter.

            But, why? Even now, as he approached you, you felt those thunderclouds morph into wisps of the sun, warmth blooming in your chest as his fingers delicately brushed over your arm, specifically the bit where Cormac had grabbed you so roughly. For some reason, Harry’s touch didn’t disgust you like Cormac’s did.

            It was because he was your friend… right? You didn’t know Cormac like you knew Harry.

            You didn’t know anyone like you knew Harry.

            “You alright?” He asked softly, his tone changing so he didn’t frighten you further; you weren’t frightened per se, but he knew situations like this made you uncomfortable. Conflict. Arguments. Loud voices…

            All too familiar.

            “Fine,” you murmured in return, grateful for how the pads of his fingers massaged your flesh, the pain which had formerly bloomed now beginning to dissipate. Lowering your gaze, Harry turned his head to see if Cormac was still standing there like a fool.

            Thankfully, the creep took one look at Harry’s six-foot-form and fled the scene, probably wanting to maintain his golden boy reputation. He may have been taller, but Harry—

            Everyone knew what Harry was. Who he was.

            A few moments passed. Both of you just stood in the vacant hallway, your expressions paired with… serenity. You preferred silence. As did Harry, especially with the Dark Lord penetrating his mind every damned hour. You didn’t know when you developed this dynamic with him out of all people—others, girls to be precise, would wonder how you ‘bagged’ the Chosen One, how you managed to get him to pay attention to you.

            But, that was the thing. You didn’t do anything.

            “We were supposed to meet at the library,” Harry spoke, his voice synonymous with the stillness of the atmosphere, his lovely eyes trying to meet yours.

            Eventually, your eyes left the floor, trailing up his uniform—his broad chest; the Adam’s apple of his throat; the sharp contour of his jawline; his rosy-coloured, heart-shaped lips; his hawk nose—and then, finding his two orbs. They reminded you of the sea, his eyes. His black pupils were like jagged basalts, a form of rock, fixed within a circle of the Atlantic. They were quite pretty, actually.

            You preferred them over the dull green of McLaggen’s eyes.

            “I got… sidetracked,” you murmured in return, nibbling your bottom lip as Harry’s hand left your arm—you almost swallowed your disappointment, but you thought too soon, his fingers finding yours instead.

            Intertwined they became.

            “I know,” he whispered. “Sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

            “You couldn’t have known,” you were quick to reply, a little surprised that he was apologising. Yet, Harry simply shook his head, a small, soft smile finding his even softer lips.

            “Actually, I think I did.” You furrowed your eyebrows, having no choice but to follow him as he began the journey back to the library, where you were supposed to be all alone. “I just… had a feeling. You know—when your chest gets all clouded and… your heartbeats start sounding like thunderclaps.”

            Oh.

            Merlin.

            “Mhm…” you hummed, looking away, your cheeks flourishing with delightful shades of red. “All too familiar.”

thank you for reading!

[defectivevillain]

wicked irony

pairing: Joe Goldberg/Reader

The reader is not a woman. Otherwise, no pronouns are used and race is ambiguous.

The end of class doesn’t seem to come fast enough. But finally, finally, everyone files out of the classroom. A few of the students send Joe lovelorn gazes, but he only has eyes for you. And you only have eyes for… the bookshelves around the room, apparently. It’s horribly ironic, Joe thinks, that you’re so blatantly restless and disinterested. You’re barely even looking at him. He thinks he loves it.

Joe is underwhelmed and unimpressed with the wide majority of his students, and this semester is no exception. At least, until he reads your first paper…

word count: 7.9k | ao3 version | joe playlist

Warnings: stalking, kidnapping, threats/blackmail. gory imagery.

Sigh. I have a weakness for charismatic and popular characters being frustrated and intrigued by the one person who isn’t affected by them. (cough cough, Felix fic, cough couch, Finnick fic, cough cough, this one…)

This fic is Joe/Reader centric. Again, the reader is either masculine/male or nonbinary. They’re written to not be a woman, basically. I especially love the idea of Joe breaking his pattern and falling for a super queer-presenting person and falling HARD. Come on, we knew this was coming.

I have almost zero canon knowledge. I’ve never actually watched this series—I’ve only seen Trixie and Katya watch it. Canon does not exist to me.

Joe has finally escaped his past. He’s creating something of a life for himself in London. Here, he isn’t Joe Goldberg, obsessive stalker and murderer; instead, he’s Jonathan Moore, literature professor at Darcy College. It’s a humble life, compared to what he had before. Surprisingly, he’s starting to enjoy it.

Except… his students aren’t the brightest. Joe isn’t sure what it is—if he’s distracting them, or if he just isn’t that great of a professor. (The mere thought amuses him. He knows he isn’t the problem.) Ultimately, though,  no one seems very engaged in his class. And, even worse, hardly anyone has a grade above a C. 

Joe sighs as he reads through another mediocre essay, red ink littered across the margins. He shakes his head in annoyance and writes “D” in the top right corner, before adding it to the pile of graded papers. It’s abundantly clear to him that this semester’s batch of students are just like the last group: unmotivated and incompetent. 

Joe grabs the next paper, taking a deep breath and preparing himself for more mediocrity. He’s so accustomed to skipping over the introduction that he nearly neglects the thesis. Joe thinks he’s seeing things at first, but there it is: a well-constructed thesis. He reads through it once, twice. It’s not bad.

But Joe’s not going to get his hopes up, so he continues reading skeptically. It only takes him another paragraph to acknowledge that this student is a good writer. Perhaps even a great one. He only feels more satisfied with each additional page he reads. By the time he gets to the end of the paper, his heart is nearly racing. He’d been waiting for something to ruin it, but nothing happened. That essay was… quite good. 

Joe goes back to the first page and stares at the heading, scrutinizing your name at the top of the paper. It bounces around his mind even after he grades the paper and attempts to put it back in the pile; even as he takes it back in a few minutes to read it again. 

He soon finds himself looking forward to his next class. You haven’t left his mind, despite the fact that he has no idea what you look or sound like. Regardless, your name lingers in the back of his mind as he carries on with his day, crafting lesson plans and responding to the occasional email. And he finds himself distracted with contemplating just what you could look like. 

During his next class, he finds himself actually paying attention during attendance, if only to put a face to the name. You’re near the end of the list, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to speed through the list and just call out your name. 

Finally, he gets to you and says your name. You raise your hand. His chest lurches as he looks at you, everything clarifying and blurring around you. It’s such a nonchalant gesture. Hell, you didn’t even care to speak. “Welcome.” Joe says before he can stop himself. Your lips are pulled into an awkward, completely ingenuine smile and you nod. You seem confused at the thought of him welcoming you when he didn’t do the same for the other students; and annoyed at the brief attention the remark garners you. Joe updates the attendance, fighting off the urge to smile for some reason. 

He can’t fight off his curiosity for long. Twenty, then thirty minutes pass. And he reaches the brink of his patience. His lectures are meant to be interactive, but the majority of the class doesn’t care to participate. You aren’t necessarily vocal, but you’re clearly listening, at the very least. And Joe finds himself eager to hear what you have to say. He asks a question. No one answers. And he lets the room descend into a tense and uncomfortable silence. 

Joe looks at you, sharing something of an apologetic grimace. You stare for a moment, before slowly raising your hand. It’s hard for Joe not to acknowledge you within the millisecond, but he waits a few moments before calling on you to make things seem more authentic. 

Your answer is nearly perfect. You cite direct evidence from the text in your assertion, referencing multiple implicit themes present from the beginning of the book. Joe nods and thanks you for your answer, internally satiated with the knowledge that his preconceptions about you were correct. You’re brilliant. This class is probably too easy for you. 

He manages to exercise inordinate patience and stop himself from keeping you after class. Instead, he resigns himself to a night spent searching for anything and everything he can find on you. Joe’s actually looking forward to it. He wants to learn more about you. You’re clever; you’re undeniably attractive; and you’re entirely unaffected by his machinations. (Joe wants to eat you alive.)

He’s never felt this way about someone before. And his previous infatuations had all been women. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, does it? The feeling he gets in his chest when he looks at you is undeniable. And within the next few classes, he’s surrendering to the urge to get you in a room alone with him. 

“Stay behind for a moment?” Joe asks you near the end of one class. He allows his eyes to wander across the room as he asks, making sure his voice is just loud enough for the other students to hear.  

“...Sure.” You agree hesitantly. Joe knows he’s left you virtually no choice—asking you in front of the entire group. He did that on purpose, of course. You almost seem to recognize that, as your eyes flit about in recognition of the spotlight he placed you under. 

The end of class doesn’t seem to come fast enough. But finally, finally, everyone files out of the classroom. A few of the students send Joe lovelorn gazes, but he only has eyes for you. And you only have eyes for… the bookshelves around the room, apparently. 

It’s horribly ironic, Joe thinks, that you’re so blatantly restless and disinterested. You’re barely even looking at him. 

He thinks he loves it. 

Joe takes the proffered opportunity to study you, amused to find that you’re wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. A lot of his students dress up—probably to impress him, he thinks to himself wryly—but here you are, wearing what he can only imagine to be comfortable clothing that you practically threw on. Your hands fidget ever so slightly in your pockets as you explore the room around you, showing no indication of even noticing his presence. Joe studies you for a while longer before finally saying your name to catch your attention. 

It’s gratifying to see the way you almost force yourself to drag your gaze towards him. Your eyes meet his and, for a moment, Joe just stands there. Every word he means to say falls to dust on his tongue as he looks at you. You look so fucking bored , as if you’d quite literally rather be anywhere else. 

Finally, Joe thinks to himself. A challenge. 

He taps his fingers against his desk a few times in faux restlessness, seeing your eyes track the movement. “How’d you like the book?” Joe asks after a few moments. He doesn’t even really need to ask—he knows exactly what you thought of it, because you had written about it rather transparently. Somehow, he still wants to hear your answer anyways. 

“It was a book.” You respond vaguely. And Joe feels a genuine laugh crawl out of his throat. He’s just as startled by it as you are. 

“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, yes.” He agrees. You were the only one to genuinely analyze the rhetorical style and consider how it impacted the story. You were the only one to find fault with the author’s pretentious language and shitty metaphors. “I must admit, I was impressed with your essay.” Joe continues. He reread it several times. He closed his eyes and imagined you sitting in the library—or perhaps even in your apartment—writing the paper, a concentrated expression on your face. He stood outside of your building and stared up at your drawn curtains, envisioning you typing away on your laptop. But you don’t need to know that.

Truthfully, when Joe began looking into you, he was annoyed to find that you have little to no social media presence. The few accounts you have are private. Joe had to do a bit of work—and, even then, he doesn’t have nearly as much information as he should. He’s forced to actually pay attention to your answers now. 

“Thanks.” You say, seeming surprised as you blink at his compliment. He’s broken out of his thoughts.  

Joe doesn’t bother responding to your gratitude. “You’re doing well in this class,” he states instead. You’re the only person with an A. Joe has earned himself something of a reputation on campus for being the strict and exacting American professor with rigorous standards. Yet here you are, passing his class with ease. He would be annoyed, if he didn’t find you so intriguing. 

You don’t seem to know what to say to him. Joe continues speaking. “What program are you in?” He asks, despite already knowing the answer. Communication. Transfer student. Perfect GPA. Peer tutor at the writing center on campus. 

“Communication.” You respond, unknowing of his internal dialogue. Joe hums, pretending that information is new. 

“And how do you like the program?” He continues, secretly a bit entertained by your short answers. 

“It’s good.” You respond. And wow, you’re giving him absolutely nothing to work with. It’s almost amusing. Joe feels his lips quirking at the edges. You’re not even trying to hide your disinterest. It’s fascinating. 

“Just good?” Joe prompts you. 

“I’m enjoying it.” You answer. There’s an awkward, tense silence for several long moments. Joe doesn’t make a move to break it, and neither do you. Then, just as he begins to think he’ll have to keep it going, you continue speaking. “Did you need me for something, Professor?” You eventually ask. 

Joe’s almost impressed that you had the courage to say that to his face. He was convinced he would have you trapped in conversation for a few minutes longer. It appears he’s underestimated you. 

“I was just curious about you,” Joe admits. You have no idea how dangerous his curiosity is. He is going to pick you apart. (And, if he’s feeling particularly merciful, he’ll even put you back together.) “Your writing is quite well-developed. I wanted to inquire about your career goals, see if there was anything I could do to assist you.” 

“Oh.” You say. You’re shifting your balance ever so slightly as if uneasy. Your backpack’s on your shoulders still, as if you’re going to just bolt out of the room at a moment’s notice. You really don’t want to be here, do you? “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I don’t think I’m going to be pursuing literature, necessarily, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Damn it, you are good. You buried your disinterest in faux gratitude. Joe was almost fooled for a moment. He’s suddenly scrambling to find something to say, something to force you to stay in this room, if only so he can pick you apart more-

But you’re already walking away, taking the opportunity you’ve created for yourself to escape. Joe stares after you for a moment, almost in disbelief. He hardly got anything out of you. You pretty much brushed him off and continued on about your day. You threw him off for a fraction of a second, long enough for you to get away. 

Did that really just happen?

Joe must be getting rusty.  

Joe is quickly learning that you’re a bit of an interesting case. You’re a lot different from the people he would usually go after. He’d almost venture to call you reclusive, because you’re not one to go to parties on campus or hang out with friends very often. You’re independent, which he would ordinarily appreciate—if it didn’t make tracking you down so damn difficult. You’re an unobtrusive presence on campus, clearly content with fading into the background. And your efforts work rather well for you, it seems. Of course, you can’t fool Joe. He would never be bored by you. Anything and everything you do just fascinates him. You’ve been fixed in his sights since that first paper you submitted to him weeks ago. 

This fascination is how he finds himself walking into one of the humble coffee shops on campus, pretending to look at the menu when he’s really tracking you down. He knows you tend to come here after your Intercultural Communication class on Wednesdays—and, after a few moments, he finally spots you. You’re nestled in one of the booths in the corner of the room, typing away on your laptop as usual. That’s one of the least surprising things he’s learned about you: you’re rather studious. He didn’t even need to glimpse into your apartment window to learn that, although he did anyway. 

Joe feels himself moving before he can stop himself. A few steps and he’s standing at the edge of your table, waiting for you to tear your attention away from your busywork. It takes a few seconds longer than he’d like, and he eventually abandons his patience. “Fancy seeing you here.” He remarks. 

You finally look up from your laptop screen, your eyes briefly finding him. “Professor Moore.” You say, momentarily startled by his presence. “What brings you here?”

“Just stopping by for some coffee before my office hours.” He answers with a slight smile. 

“…Well, I should leave you to it, then.” You say smoothly. You predictably don’t take the bait—the reminder of his office hours—and instead practically dismiss him. His hand twitches at his side. “It was good to see you.” Liar. You look so uncomfortable. It only makes Joe more persistent. 

“Nonsense, I can spare some time for my best student.” Joe waves off your concern, before promptly leaning down and taking a seat in the booth across from you. You’re stoic for the most part, but a flicker of surprise and bewilderment passes across your face. Joe resists the urge to smile at the sight, instead focusing on you. 

“How’s your paper coming along?” He asks. You look suspicious and wary. Damn it, that’s right. Joe’s not supposed to know that you started that, is he? Finding the password to your school account had been far too easy, though. From there, he was free to browse your many assignments. And Joe devoured them all—especially the ones for his class. (God, that sounds pathetic, even for him.) “Don’t tell me you haven’t started it yet,” he adds jokingly, jabbing at your quick work pace. You’re at least a few weeks ahead of the course schedule. He can’t bring himself to be irritated by it. 

“I have some ideas, but nothing concrete yet.” You answer.

“Good, good.” Joe says. “And what are you working on now, may I ask?”  

“Something for my Digital Activism class,” you respond. Joe looks at you expectantly and you continue. “We have to pick a digital activism movement and use content analysis to determine its efficacy.”

He sits for a bit, watching you continue to ignore him. He’ll occasionally take a sip of his drink but, otherwise, he’s unabashedly staring. Either you’re particularly good at ignoring him, or you just haven’t noticed. Joe gets the feeling it’s the former. 

“I have to get to class,” you announce at some point, closing your laptop and slipping it into your backpack. Joe almost laughs. You’re not getting out of this that easily. Absolutely not. Not again.

“Are you going to Winslow Hall?” Joe asks. He knows you are. Even if he hadn’t checked your schedule—which he did—he would be able to come to that conclusion. The college isn’t huge, so a lot of the liberal arts classes are in the same collection of buildings. “I can walk you there.” He offers politely.

“...Okay.” You’re clearly displeased with this turn of events, and confused by the gesture. Joe doesn’t give you any time to retract the remark, instead putting his jacket on and waiting for you to do the same. You’re sneaking suspicious glances at him every few moments. Usually his charismatic attitude isn’t met with such disregard and wariness. It’s a strange departure from the past. Then again, he’s sort of reinventing himself here in London. (Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.) 

Joe heads out of the coffee shop with you, walking at your side and taking note of how you almost seem to shrink on yourself as passersby stare at the both of you. No doubt they’re wondering just who you are—Joe hasn’t earned a reputation for being particularly social. And he has quite a few admirers across campus. You’re almost wilting under everyone’s gazes, your hands fidgeting with the straps of your backpack restlessly. You probably haven’t realized, but your somewhat alternative appearance is only making you stand out more when next to him. It’s kind of funny. 

“Here we are.” Joe announces after your rather uneventful walk. “See you in class tomorrow.” He says, letting a charming smile slip onto his face. 

“Bye.” You say with an awkward, strained smile. He’s caught your genuine smile from afar—this tense pull to your lips is the furthest thing from it. It’s like you’re determined not to let your guard down in front of him. And within moments, you’ve already entered the classroom—as if you’re fleeing from him. 

In the coming weeks, as the semester starts to wind down, Joe decides to adjust his curriculum slightly to make the final assignment a partner project. It’ll boost some of the slackers’ grades—assuming they actually put in the work. But he knows that’s not the real reason why he’s giving the class this work. The real reason is sitting in the back of the class: you. Inexplicably, Joe wants to observe you speaking to someone else. He wants to see how you act when you’re forced to speak to someone else, to a peer. How will it differ from how you speak to him? Are you naturally wary, or is he special? He’s smirking at the thought. 

This partner project is how Joe currently finds himself in between the bookshelves of the campus library, subtly peeking through the gaps in the books to look at you and your partner. He’s hanging on to your every word, regardless of how mundane or unassuming it may be. There’s something positively captivating about you. (And this feels like it should be a blow to his pride, somehow. Joe has watched people before, many times. He’s never sunk to such depths: watching you do virtually nothing as you complete your schoolwork.) 

Then again, you’re not a particularly scandalous or public person. This is the best he can do. You like to keep to yourself, after all—spending hours in your apartment with your eyes glued to your laptop, or your phone, or a book. Joe shakes his head in annoyance, forgetting himself for a moment.

“What do you think of Professor Moore?” Your classmate asks curiously. Joe suddenly snaps back to attention, feeling himself lean forward and peek through the gaps in the bookshelves to study the look on your face. That was rather fortuitous. 

You’re frowning at the question. “I’m not sure.” You say after a moment. The fluorescent lights of the library hum in impatience. Joe breathes slowly. “He kind of gives off serial killer vibes.” 

Joe is sure there’s a huge chunk of context he’s missing, but he still has to duck below the shelves to hide himself as he laughs. Oh, you have no idea. His shoulders are shaking with mirth. It takes concerted effort for him to reel himself back in. 

“How?” Your classmate asks, clearly thrown by your honesty. 

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. You’re acting a bit uncertain, but Joe gets the feeling you’re just pretending for your classmate’s benefit. After all, you’ve made little effort to hide your skepticism whenever he speaks to you individually. “He fits the demographic. White man, conventionally attractive. Kind of emotionless.” Conventionally attractive. That’s not even a compliment—it’s just the truth. But it somehow satisfies Joe anyways. 

“I guess.” The woman responds, clearly unconvinced. 

“Why do you ask?” You question her. 

“Just wondering,” she shrugs. “He seems to talk to you a lot.” 

Joe can see your eyebrows furrow from his position behind the bookshelves. You don’t exactly look pleased at the thought. “I don’t think so,” you say to your classmate. You don’t have anything else to say on the matter, supposedly, because you turn your attention back to the project.

This is fun, Joe thinks. Surprisingly so. 

Unfortunately, you soon part ways with your classmate to return to your apartment. Joe follows you on the way back, annoyed at the knowledge that he’ll never get another chance like that again: one to hear your honest, unfiltered opinion on him. At least, not without asking you directly. Your words ring in his ears, even after he returns home that night and gets ready for bed. 

The next few weeks are par for the course. Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite seem to get you alone—save for your regular visits to the coffee shop. But that’s not enough for Joe, and he knows it. He needs so much more. He needs to sink his claws into you, rip your rib cage apart until he can finally see that damn heart of yours. And then maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally understand you. 

He’s… not doing well with this whole “reinvention” thing. Ah well. 

It isn’t until one early afternoon that his resolve finally starts to weaken. Joe’s sitting in his office, scrolling through his inbox when he finds an email from you—buried between the bureaucratic nonsense sent from the university and automated notifications from the grading system. His heart jumps unpleasantly, until he sees the headline of the email: “Class Tomorrow.” That doesn’t bode well. You’re probably not going. 

Indeed, as he opens the message and skims through it, his eyes find the important parts: “sick” and “absence”; and then, “apologies for the inconvenience.” Despite it all, you’re formal and polite. He appreciates the fact that you notified him of your absence: so many of his students will ditch class without warning. It’s nothing more than a common courtesy, but somehow, it’s still rather rare. He has an attendance policy on his syllabus, but it is often ignored. Joe shakes his head and returns his attention to your email. Then he reads it again. And a third time. 

He scoffs at himself. What the hell is he doing, reading a simple email over and over again? Is that really the best he can do? Joe sighs and refocuses his thoughts on the remaining emails sitting in his inbox, fighting off thoughts of you. 

As it turns out, rereading your email is far from the best thing Joe can do. He can do much better, like stand outside of your apartment and look through your windows. His eyes explore the scene: the tissue box and unusually cluttered table near your couch, the somewhat exhausted look on your face, the uncharacteristic lethargy to your movements. You look kind of miserable. 

You must have a fever, because you’re only wearing a tank top and shorts. Joe doesn’t think he’s seen this much of your skin before—this fall hasn’t been a particularly warm one, so he’s used to seeing you in sweatpants, jeans, sweatshirts, sweaters… He is absolutely not used to this—was not prepared to feel this uncomfortable stirring in his gut, this horrible restlessness and urge to get moving, to do something to distract himself from whatever this is-

Joe rubs a hand over his face and takes a slow breath. Get a hold of yourself, he admonishes himself. He continues studying your apartment from his vantage point, finding that, even in the throes of your sickness, you’ve still kept it relatively clean. That’s admirable, if a bit foolish. You head to your couch and throw a blanket over yourself. Joe watches as you drift off, checking his watch. It’s not very late yet—you usually go to bed later. You must be rather fatigued. 

Joe eventually leaves, if only because the night air is getting uncomfortably chilly. He spends the rest of the night grading and preparing for his next lesson. He wonders when you’ll get better, when you’ll return to his classroom. You’re not the type to miss lectures, Joe can already tell. So the fact that you’re absent is… a bit worrying. Or, it would be worrying, if he were the type to get stressed about things like that.  

Days pass, and Joe is forced to settle for your occasional emails—and the glimpses of you he catches from outside your apartment building. You’ve missed three classes at this point, interspersed across a week and a half. He isn’t sure whether to expect you today. You didn’t send an email like normal, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. 

The universe almost seems to be poking fun at him, because as he settles at his desk and muses, you walk through the door. “Back in the land of the living, hm?” Joe asks in lieu of a greeting. You sigh and place your backpack down, getting to your seat. He takes in your appearance, finding that you look worn out but still marginally better than before. He hopes you took those antibiotics your doctor prescribed. 

“For now,” you respond with a tired smile. You look exhausted. Joe doesn’t realize he utters that thought aloud until he hears you respond. “I know.” You say. Another student would be embarrassed at the thought, but you don’t seem to care. 

“Well, don’t go falling asleep on me,” Joe says teasingly, if only because social etiquette demands it of him. Secretly, he wouldn’t mind if you fell asleep. The thought of your wariness and skepticism slipping away, leaving you entirely vulnerable… 

“No promises,” you huff as you get your laptop out, entirely unaware of the dark turn his thoughts have taken. 

“Let me know if you need any assistance with catching up.” He offers. You both know you won’t need it. 

“I will, thanks.” You respond amicably. Your attention is focused on your screen for a moment, your eyes shifting ever so slightly as you read something. Then you blink and look back up at him. “I watched the lectures, so hopefully I’ll be okay.” 

“Ah, very good.” He smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine, then.” 

Soon enough, the other students begin to file into the room. He allows them a few moments to get settled, before diving into today’s shorter lecture. Joe had allocated some time at the end of class for the partner projects, if only to make things easier on himself. Now, he won’t have to sneak around in the library to hear your conversation with your classmate. (Although, last time was certainly interesting in its own right.) 

Joe fights with the urge to stare at you the entire time, instead letting his eyes wander across the room as he subtly eavesdrops on your conversation. 

“Are you feeling better?” Your classmate asks.

“Yeah, sort of.” You answer her. “Just tired. I got the analysis done before I got sick, though.” Of course you did, Joe thinks. Of course you did. 

“Well, let me know if you need anything.” She says, in a voice dripping with concern and something more… intimate. Joe feels an ugly feeling settle at the pit of his stomach. 

“Okay, thanks.” You say blankly. Jesus, you’re a brick fucking wall. She’s clearly flirting with you. Either you’re oblivious—which Joe somewhat doubts, given the perceptiveness you’ve exhibited in the past—or you’re just uninterested. It’s intriguing. Almost impressive, actually.  

As the two of you continue to work on your project, Joe catches bits and pieces of your conversation—interspersed between his unfortunate lapses in attention as he’s forced to answer a few students’ questions. But then the class is ending and you’re leaving. He can’t quite stop himself from staring after you as you go, nor can he convince himself to stop going to that coffee shop every time you go. 

He finds you there the next day, in the same booth you’re always in. Joe is almost ready to think you’re doing this on purpose. You’re not even making it difficult. The same time, the same place, the same day of the week… Come on. He thought you were a bit of a challenge. Joe slides into the booth across from you, settling into the seat that is starting to become his. 

“Hey, Professor.” You say, not even looking up from your screen.

“You can call me Jonathan, you know.” Joe says with a bit of friendly inflection. He very nearly slips and introduces himself as Joe. Something about you makes him want to be honest with you, if only to provoke you into some sort of reaction. 

“I’d rather not.” You respond seamlessly, a pinched expression on your face. Usually, that would be more than enough for a student to fall at his feet. He almost frowns, but manages to resist the urge. Perhaps he needs to try a different tactic. 

“Is your schedule settled for next semester?” He asks instead. 

“Yeah,” you confirm casually. 

“What classes are you taking?” He asks. It’s like pulling teeth. Are you doing this on purpose?

“Just communication classes,” you answer. “And a history class, I think. Some gen-ed, I don’t remember the name of it.”

“Exciting.” He raises his brows, willing you to look at him. You spare him a momentary glance, before returning your attention to your schoolwork. Is whatever you’re doing really more intriguing than he is? He almost wants to be offended. Almost.  

“Not really.” You dismiss the remark. 

He sits with you silently for a while, just watching you write. Joe has to admit, he’s stewing a little bit. You’re not even giving him the time of day. But his patience starts to pay off, as he catches you sending him confused glances. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, finally addressing him. You close your laptop screen and give him your full attention; and Joe gets a sudden rush of adrenaline. 

“Pardon?” He manages to ask, his tongue feeling slightly thick in his mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” You repeat yourself, gesturing to the two of you and the coffee shop around you. “Sitting here, asking me these questions.” 

“I want to get to know you.” He answers immediately. That is the complete truth, for once. Unfortunately for you, that desire is far from harmless. 

“Why?”

“Is it really so hard to believe?” Joe counters instead, tactfully avoiding the question. He lets a charming smile rise on his lips. The gesture only seems to disconcert you. 

“Yes, it is.” You answer flatly. “What’s your endgame?”

Bold of you to assume he has an endgame. You’re absolutely right, of course. He absolutely has an endgame. He always does. “I’m just making conversation.” Joe says innocently. 

“Okay.” You’re clearly unconvinced. 

“It’s getting late,” Joe observes, casting a pointed glance through the dark windows at the front of the shop. “I’ll walk you home.” He offers. 

“No, it’s okay.” You deny him. You’re too smart for your own good. “I’ll be fine.” You say. And oh, you really, really would be. You would be so much better off walking home alone. But that’s just not in the cards for you tonight. 

“I insist.” Joe says firmly. You’re silent, clearly annoyed but sensing he isn’t going to relent. You know he’s got you trapped now. He shrugs his jacket on and watches you do the same, waiting for you to gather up your things before heading out of the coffee shop. 

The two of you are quiet for a few minutes. Joe has his hands shoved in his pockets and he’s walking ahead of you, anticipating what’s to come. He can’t say he’s been this excited before. But you’re different from the others. 

“You seem like you know where you’re going.” You say suspiciously.

Shit. That’s a harsh reality check. “I assume you live in one of the residence halls on campus.” Joe thinks quickly. “Am I incorrect?”

“The dorms are back there.” You point out, glancing behind you momentarily before returning your attention to him. “And you’ve been walking ahead of me.”

“I take long strides; I’m tall.” Joe justifies. 

“You’re not that tall.” You roll your eyes. “And I can walk quickly, so it’s not that.” You seem completely convinced, confident. You’re difficult to throw off, almost unshakeable even as you unknowingly approach a line you can’t come back from.  

“You don’t seem to trust me.” Joe eventually remarks, after sensing that your doubt is still very much present. 

“I don’t.” You agree. 

“Why not?”

“You don’t make sense to me.” You admit. “You’re… I don’t know.” Joe waits patiently. He’s curious to hear how far you’ll go. “You’re elusive. You’re constantly acting, pretending. I’ve never seen you look authentic.”  

“A professor has to act a certain way, you understand.” Joe says somewhat dryly, secretly a bit annoyed by your stubbornness. You’re treading on thin ice and you don’t even realize it. His hand is twitching at his side. 

“Sure,” you acquiesce. “But you’re always acting. Even when you think you aren’t.” That’s… more accurate than you could ever know. 

“I see.” Joe says. 

“You act like… you want something from me.” You continue, studying him for a moment. “And I have no idea what it is.” 

“Maybe I just want your company.” Joe replies. 

“That’s not enough.” You respond far too quickly.

“Why not?” He asks. 

“Don’t pretend to be offended now.” You scoff, shoving your hands in your pockets. You look very restless and apprehensive, your eyes flitting around him as if waiting for him to make a move of some sort. 

You both walk in silence for a few more minutes. 

“I don’t know anything about you, you realize.” You continue. Joe’s so surprised to hear that remark that he just stares in disbelief. “You’re hard to track down. Practically nonexistent on university websites. It’s like you just… appeared.” 

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on Joe, but it will certainly be lost on you. Because you’re just as difficult to track down. Getting to this point—spending time with you, alone and unguarded—took him practically the entire semester.

“What do you want to know?” Joe asks, because he’s nothing if not charitable. His heart is roaring in his ears. Things don’t typically go like this. He’s not supposed to be the one being interrogated. 

You shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. Something, I guess. Something to prove you’re an actual human being, not just an empty husk.”

Damn. Damn. 

“Did I hit a nerve?” You ask. Joe blinks and there’s an entertained quirk to your lips. Another blink and it vanishes. “Whoops.” You say carelessly, clearly not very bothered by it. 

“You don’t seem very apologetic.” Joe notes calmly. 

“I get the feeling you’re not that great of a person.” You say. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Joe genuinely freezes for a moment, forgetting to walk alongside you. This entire interaction is giving him whiplash. Joe is so used to dominating the conversation—steering it at his will, until he gets exactly what he wants. But here you are, casually demolishing his plans and laying him out to dry in the same breath. Is he really so predictable, for you to take a simple glance at him and break through all of his defenses? Surely not. 

Joe shakes his head and catches up to you. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to a person.” He eventually says. That’s about what a normal person would say in this situation, right? Sure. 

“Yeah, you’re probably not used to hearing that, are you?” You huff. You’re smiling now—honest to God, smiling. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile so genuinely before. What the fuck?

“You realize I have control over your grades.” Joe says, the statement leaving his lips before he can think it through. It’s… not the best response he’s crafted, but he supposes it’ll do. 

You don’t seem the least bit affected by the implicit threat. “Are you really threatening me?” You ask, clearly amused. “Everyone else in your class is failing. Tanking my grades would only reflect poorly on you.”

You’re perceptive. Super perceptive. And yet you have no idea just how much danger you’re in right now. And yet you’ve never even noticed the persistent shadow following you across campus, lurking outside your apartment. “You’ve thought this through.” Joe remembers to say. 

“Not really.” You dismiss the thought. “Just saying. Besides, it’s near the end of the semester.”

“It is.” He agrees. Somehow that remark is what ushers in the finality for him. You’re right: finals are next week. His class doesn’t have a final. With the end of the semester, Joe won’t have an excuse to see you regularly anymore. He’ll track you down at that one coffee shop, lurk near your apartment, sure. But that’s not enough for him. 

“You almost sound disappointed.” You notice. Because of course you do.

“Competence is increasingly rare these days.” Joe says. The night air almost seems to warn him after that comment, rustling through his hair and sending a persistent chill through his bones. 

“You do have something of a reputation for being a stickler, don’t you?” You murmur. 

“No one here knows how to write.” He huffs. 

At that, the air between you falls silent once more—complete with a tangible, stifling tension. Your eyes flit about restlessly, never seeming to settle on any one thing for long. You’re steadily avoiding his gaze, as if meeting his eyes will confirm your suspicions. (It certainly will.) Joe allows it, if only because the sight amuses him. 

“This is me.” You then say, as the two of you stop in front of a nondescript building. It’s not you—you don’t live here. Your building is down a block or two. Joe just arches a brow. 

“You don’t want me to know where you live?” He asks casually, before he can stop himself. Joe’s getting closer and closer to crossing that same line he knows he can’t come back from. But damn it, what else is there to do? Moving to London, adopting this new identity… none of it quelled that visceral, manipulative desire in his chest. 

“What do you mean?” You ask slowly, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Joe has a choice to make. He can play dumb, let the conversation fall to silence and allow you to walk into that building you certainly don’t live in. He can turn his back, pretending not to see you sneak out of the building minutes later and head to where you actually live. He can give you that small mercy. 

…or… 

“You don’t live here.” Joe asserts. You’re frozen in front of him. He finds himself satisfied to know he provoked a reaction in you, no matter how small. He can’t quite give up the game now—he’s just getting started. “Come on, then.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder and steering you away from the building. 

“Where are we going?” You question. 

“To your apartment.” Joe answers. 

You look unsettled, genuinely nervous. Joe feels a smirk rising on his lips before he can hide it. He grabs your forearm and leads you out of this building, heading down the sidewalk and towards your apartment building. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” You say at some point. 

You’re going to wish you did. “Not exactly.” Joe settles for saying, when he senses you’re still waiting for an answer. 

You stare at him for a moment, before stiffening. You almost seem to find something in his eyes. “I can walk without your assistance,” you snap, trying to break out of his grip. Joe just tightens his hold on your arm. He’s never been this close to you before: close enough to see the streetlights reflecting in your eyes, the unnerved pull to your lips, the tension stretching across your shoulders. 

“Don’t be difficult,” Joe says patronizingly, if only to irritate you a bit more. You look furious at the remark and he smiles, continuing to lead you towards your building.   

“Should’ve trusted my gut.” You mutter quietly, talking to yourself. 

“You should’ve,” Joe agrees, ushering you into the lobby and guiding you to the elevators. With the elevator’s arrival, he leads you into the elevator before finally, regretfully, removing his grip. Upon pressing the button for your floor, he’s satisfied to find fear flickering across your face—as you evidently realize he knows exactly where your apartment is. Joe wants to burn that memory into his mind forever, watching your reaction over and over again to pick it apart. 

The elevator ride is quick and painless. At least, it is for him. Joe notices that you’re getting fidgety, though. And when the doors slide open to reveal your floor, you hover in the doorway. Joe just sighs, putting a hand on your back and leading you to your apartment. You only seem to be more disturbed as he does so. 

“Well?” He demands somewhat impatiently, after a few moments pass and you don’t say anything. You haven’t made a move to unlock your door yet. 

“I don’t have my keys.” You answer. He huffs at the attempted lie.

“Left pocket of your jacket.” Joe hums, looking at you expectantly. He watches as your hand explores your left pocket, emerging with your keys in your palm. “There you go.” He says with a nod. And if you looked afraid before, you look completely terrified now. 

“Go on, then.” He urges you. After a few seconds pass and you don’t move, he takes the keys from your hand and swiftly unlocks the door. “After you.” Joe says, gently pushing you into the room and following after you. 

He takes in the space greedily, connecting the objects to how they looked from outside. “Nice place.” Joe eventually says. You’re silent. 

Truthfully, things don’t usually go this quickly. Usually he gets into a relationship first, then manipulates the other person until he’s satisfied. But Joe can’t discredit you—he knows you’re not foolish enough to fall for that. You were suspicious from the outset, so he had to abandon his typical methods. It’s a nice change of pace, though: you know exactly how dangerous he is. 

And he doesn’t realize he’s uttered that first sentence aloud until he sees the look on your face. “You do this frequently, then?” You ask. “What, did you do this in America before you got here?” 

Joe keeps silent, knowing you’ll decipher the truth. Indeed, your face falls and you bury your head in your hands for a moment—clearly sensing the gravity of the situation. He gives you a moment to yourself, instead directing his attention to the space around him. It does remind him of you, somehow. And isn’t that a frightening thought? 

“What happens now, then?” You ask quietly. You don’t appear nearly as confident, now that you’re pinned under his gaze. “Will you kill me?”

“No.” Joe responds far too easily. He doesn’t ever want this game to end. No one has challenged him quite like you do. And he’s certain that, even when he seems to have you under his thumb now, you’ll find a way to make things interesting. 

“Why not?” You whisper. 

You’re too interesting. Joe keeps the thought to himself, his hand exploring the adjacent wall and running over the various posters and photographs you have hung up. He’s seen your apartment from the outside, but this is the first time he’s actually been inside it. 

“This apartment isn’t big enough for two people.” You state, as if that’s your most pressing concern. Joe chuckles. 

“Mine is,” he remarks, watching in delight as you process the implications of that statement. Several emotions pass across your face: dread, fear, anger. Then something like resolve gleams in your eyes and you move to get up. But Joe’s standing in front of you before you can even begin to head for the door. “Don’t bother. You won’t escape me.”

And you wouldn’t know, but you lost your chance at escape from the very moment you turned in that first essay. You surrendered yourself to his surveillance as soon as you walked into the classroom the next day. And your efforts at subverting his attention have only drawn him closer. 

Joe stands in front of you for a while, before guiding you to sit on your couch. He bustles about the room, grabbing an empty backpack and beginning to explore the room. He goes to your closet first, taking a few outfits and folding them up before placing them in your bag. 

“What are you doing?” You eventually ask, clearly unnerved by his silence. 

“Gathering your things.” He answers easily, grabbing a few things from your bathroom and stuffing them into the bag. “You won’t be back here for a while.” 

Joe knows he’s only unnerving you more, with the way he’s mechanically making his way through your apartment as if he knows it like the back of his hand. He hears a startled inhale of breath as he grabs your medications and fights off a smile. Yes, you have no idea just how much he knows about you. You’re only beginning to grasp it, because he wants to unsettle you. 

“Shall we?” Joe hums a few minutes later, slinging the bag he prepared for you over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to wait for your response before latching his hand on your wrist and tugging you along after him. 

The elevator ride is silent. Joe realizes you’re finally looking at him. To think… all this time, all it took was a few drastic measures to thoroughly ensnare you. It doesn’t quite matter that you look disturbed—the fact of the matter is that you’re staring at him, trying to pick him apart the same way he’s been dissecting you. 

When the elevator reaches the first floor and the doors slide open, Joe’s hand finds your wrist again and he leads you after him. The cool night air meets you once more. There are only a few people out this late at night, but he’s brutally aware of how uncomfortable you must look. Coming to an idea, Joe’s hand slips down to your hand and he interlaces your fingers. He can nearly feel your hand trembling in his. Your discomfort can now be interpreted as uneasiness being spotted on the street, holding hands with him. No one will understand just how much danger you’re in as you walk alongside him, pliant in his grip as he leads you towards your new cage. 

Joe looks up to the polluted night sky, entirely void of stars, and smiles. 

Reader, chuckling: I'm in danger.

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[marril96]

Mirrors

Chapter 2: Broken

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: While Agatha is resting, Billy engages you in a heart to heart.

Editor: @fruityhahn

Previous chapter.

Agatha looked so peaceful when she slept. There was a calm to her, a peace that wasn't often known to her. Her head lay in your lap as you caressed her hair with utmost tenderness, your eyes glued to her face that was still unnaturally pale. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of her chest, and the gentle beats of her heart that reverberated against your forearm, you would have thought her dead.

Thankfully, she was very much alive.

You swore to do whatever it took to ensure that it stayed that way.

While the rest of the coven had gathered around a fire and engaged in chatter and laughter, you had made a fire of your own, hidden away behind the trees and away from prying eyes. Giving Agatha some privacy as she rested. Giving you some time alone with her for the first time in three long, long years.

You'd draped her coat over her, covering every inch of her, hiding it away from the cold that was eating away at her. Every now and then your hand would slither down to her side and feel the flesh that, mere hours ago, was pierced deep, almost to the bone. Just to make sure that the wound was no longer there. That for some strange reason, hadn't reappeared. That she wasn't in danger of bleeding out again.

You'd come so close to losing her. It was worse than the last time since then at the very least you knew that she was alive. She wasn't in your life but, to the best of your knowledge, she was among the living.

She almost wasn't that lucky.

You're such an idiot, you thought, shaking your head in disapproval. She could have told you that she was injured. She could have asked for help. No matter how awkward things were between you, you would have rushed to her aid, no questions asked.

Which was exactly why she'd kept it to herself.

This was just another problem that she could avoid addressing. Just another problem that she could ignore in hopes that it would go away.

Things like this never did.

Which, in turn, had only made her even more keen on pretending it wasn't there.

Even as the pain got unbearable (it had to have been; that wound was pretty deep) and she was barely able to keep herself on her feet, she'd kept on a brave face and insisted that nothing was wrong.

Had she not collapsed, she would probably still be at it, pale as a ghost but insistent that she was okay.

You fucking bitch.

If only you could hate her. Even when she did things like this, you couldn't muster an ounce of hate towards her. You hated that she did it, hated that she'd put you in a position — once again; this wasn't the first time she'd done this in your centuries together — where you feared for her life. Hated that she couldn't put her pride aside and let you help her before things got this bad.

But her, you could never hate.

You loved her too much for that.

Yet another thing you hated.

A rustle prompted you to twitch, shaking you out of your thoughts. Your hackles rose, firm as needles. Instinctively, you bent over Agatha's sleeping form and pulled her closer against you, shielding her, protecting her. Keeping her safe from whoever and whatever could possibly pose a threat to her wellbeing.

Teen's thin form slowly padded closer, his hands up to signal that he was here in peace.

A breath you'd been holding in left your mouth, almost painfully. Relief flooded your veins, lifted heavy weight off your shoulder. "Sorry, I thought…"

I thought you were Rio.

Out of everyone, she was the last person you wanted around Agatha at a time like this.

"You're good," Teen said, offering a smile that proved he meant it. "I just wanted to see how she's doing."

"She's still asleep." Your hand resumed its place on her hair, fingers twining into chocolate locks. "Unconscious. Whatever."

Teen gave a nod of understanding. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go for it."

You didn't exactly want company, but there was no harm in letting him join you, if only for a few minutes.

The kid cared about Agatha; that much was clear. Be he the Scarlet Witch's son or not, he was a kind soul. He meant no harm.

Agatha was quite fond of him, as well. When he had gotten injured, she was the one who'd urged Jen to act. She was the one who'd sat by his side until he'd woken up.

She could pretend all she wanted — she cared about this kid. She cared too much for her own good.

He reminded her of her own kid.

Not that she would ever admit it out loud.

"You're very protective of her," Teen remarked.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, staining them flush. "Someone has to be."

Especially now that she was powerless. She needed someone in her corner, someone to have her back. Someone to defend her when she couldn't do it herself.

"She doesn't exactly have a stellar reputation," the kid said with a chuckle.

"Nope." Understatement of the century. "Most people aren't her biggest fans."

"I've noticed."

Who wouldn't?

"Everyone either wants her dead or hurt."

"How come you don't?"

"Because I got to know her."

Because she let you get to know her.

Because she let you fall in love with her.

Because, behind closed doors, she wasn't the cold-hearted bitch everyone thought her to be.

"She does grow on you," Teen said.

It was your turn to let out a chuckle. "She sure does."

His face suddenly grew serious. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you know what happened to her son?"

Yes. You did. She'd told you once, two centuries ago, and had spent the rest of that night crying her eyes out while you'd held her and assured her that she wasn't a bad mother, that Nicky had loved her and had known that he was loved in return.

"That's not my story to tell."

Agatha had sworn you to secrecy. She didn't care about what people were saying about her. Didn't care that they'd spread around a tale of her having murdered her son or sacrificed him to the Devil. Didn't care that they'd made her out to be a monster.

As much as it pained you to listen to the rumors, you had to let it go. 

It was her life. Her character. If she didn't mind having it assassinated, who were you to say anything?

"Just… don't believe rumors, okay?" You couldn't tell the truth, but you sure as hell could point in its general direction. "People say awful things. None of it's true."

"Jen said—"

"That's definitely not true," you cut him off, setting the record straight. You'd wanted to strangle the other witch, especially after her gossip had resulted in Agatha getting that awful hallucination, but Agatha had ordered you to back off. "I can't say much. Just… it wasn't her fault."

That was what made that situation so tragic.

Agatha had done right by her son, had loved him and cared for him the best way that she knew how, and that still hadn't been enough. She'd still lost him.

Teen nodded, taking your words in.

"Don't prod her," you told him. "She doesn't like talking about it."

"She closed off when I asked her."

"She has a tendency to do that."

Of course, you had ways of making her talk, regardless.

Most times.

If she was being really stubborn, not even mind control could get the words out of her.

"Any other Agatha tips and tricks?" Teen asked with a hint of amusement in his tone, trying to lighten the mood.

Your response, on the other hand, was as serious as a heart attack. "Give her some grace. She's not bad. She's just… her. She may say or do some unsavory things, but that's not who she is."

Your eyes fell to her face in your lap. She looked so serene. So soft. The picture of the woman you fell in love with, once she'd lowered her walls and let you in. Once she'd allowed you to meet the real her.

Yes, she was selfish, yes she was wicked, but there was good in her. It was there in traces, present in every touch of her hand, every brush of her lips against yours, every comforting embrace and loving word that came out of her mouth in times when you most needed it.

Your Agatha was no angel, but she was a person, with all the good and bad that came with it.

She was your person.

"Don't take it to heart when she pushes you away."

"Is that what you did?" Teen asked, contemplating his words for a few moments, unsure whether to dare to prod.

One look from you was enough to assure him that it was okay.

It was only natural to ask.

After all, he had been there when Agatha had shown up at your house — the house that the two of you had used to share — and started reaming you out for having abandoned her, and you, giving as good as you'd gotten, had screamed how she had been the one to abandon you.

In reality, you'd both abandoned each other.

You'd both suffered, each in your own way.

"Yeah."

It would be a lie to deny it.

You'd been doing so for long enough.

"Can I ask what happened?"

You thought it over for a moment, then decided, what the hell.

Maybe telling someone would help lift this enormous burden off your shoulders.

"Three years ago we got into this massive fight. She left and…" The lump in your throat hurt to swallow. It burned its way down. "She didn't come back."

Fights like that were a yearly occurrence in your relationship. Usually, one of you would leave in a huff, pissed to high heavens, in desperate need of space, of time to cool off and clear her head. A few days would pass, and the angry party would return home. There would be tears and a conversation filled with apologies from both sides, and the truce would be sealed with a kiss.

There was none of that this time around.

Agatha hadn't returned home.

She hadn't responded to text messages or picked up calls.

It was like she had disappeared off the face of the planet.

The words that had left your mouth that day had been foul. You'd never spoken to her like that before. Had never known you'd had it in you to even attempt to.

Agatha, true to her character, had given as good as she had gotten. Her sharp tongue had made sure to make every insult sting like a slap to the face.

It had, by far, been the worst fight the two of you had ever had.

When she hadn't returned and had — it seemed — ignored all of your attempts to contact her, you'd thought that that was it. She'd had enough. She'd decided to cut you off for good and go her own way. She'd decided to find herself a girlfriend who wouldn't yell at her and call her names. She'd decided you just weren't doing it for her anymore.

So you'd let her go.

You'd moved on.

Well, theoretically.

One didn't move on from Agatha Harkness. One didn't just stop loving her. It would be impossible.

But you'd learned to live without her.

For the past couple of weeks you hadn't even cried once.

It was progress, of sorts.

Then she'd shown up at your door and, instead of hurt, there was guilt, and it was there to stay. For good, it seemed.

Just as you deserved.

As much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, the brunt of the blame was on you.

You shouldn't have given up on the woman you loved.

You should have looked for her.

You should have fought for her.

"And you didn't look for her?" Teen said softly, as if afraid of offending you.

The truth itself was far more offensive than any perceived slight.

You gave a small shake of your head. "I thought she'd moved on."

"Did you move on?"

"I thought I did."

Your hand slid to Agatha's side again. All clear. No wound. You allowed yourself a breath of relief, a welcome distraction from the turmoil that was eating you up inside.

"Sounds like you guys just had a misunderstanding."

That was exactly what it was.

A misunderstanding.

A case of mixed signals. Something a simple conversation should be able to fix.

It would have, if not for what had transpired as a result.

Oops didn't even begin to cover it.

"Yeah, well, that misunderstanding cost her three years of her life," you said, angry at yourself, at the dire situation that your inaction had contributed to.

"That wasn't your fault," Teen pointed out.

It was your mother's, you thought bitterly.

Wanda had inflicted unparalleled damage upon Agatha.

And you had let her.

You were none the wiser, pissed at the woman you loved instead of directing your anger where it actually belonged. Too busy resenting her to consider unforeseeable circumstances might be at play.

"You don't understand, Teen." You almost said Billy, but you caught yourself at the least moment. Agatha was way better at this stuff than you. "That spell that she was under… it was torture."

Even short-term exposure to such a spell could leave permanent marks on one's psyche.

Agatha had been under it for three years.

Three years of pain. Three years of anguish. Three years of torment.

Your hand gripped her shoulder. You pulled her closer, relishing in the fact that, despite everything that had transpired, she was safe. She had people to help her when she was in need. She had a coven.

She had you.

"She was suffering for three years and I had no idea."

Teen shifted uncomfortably. His gaze briefly fell upon Agatha's sleeping form before returning to you. "I'm sure she knows it wasn't on purpose."

"It doesn't matter. She was still hurt, and I wasn't there to protect her."

"You couldn't have known."

"Yeah, well, I should have!"

Teen flinched, startled by your outburst. Uttering a small apology, looked down at Agatha's tranquil face. Still pale, still deathly cold. No healthy blush that usually adorned her cheeks.

"I can't even imagine what it must've been like." You brushed your fingers across her cheek, tenderly, softly, as if she were made of porcelain. As if one careless touch would shatter her into a million pieces. "She won't talk to me."

Even if she did, there wasn't much that you could do.

Something like that didn't leave one's mind unscathed. The damage, once inflicted, was done. She would bear that pain for life.

The only thing that you could do was have her back. Assure her that it was okay, that you loved her no matter what.

This was just another scar in her collection. It didn't make her weak. It didn't change how you saw her, how you felt about her.

She was still your Agatha.

The problem was she was stubborn and would die before allowing herself to be vulnerable yet again.

"You can still be there for her," Teen said.

If only it were that easy. "She won't let me."

"Make her," he said with a shrug. As if it were that easy. As if Agatha would admit defeat and surrender without a fight.

You had to laugh. "You think anyone can make Agatha Harkness do anything?"

There was that time she'd caught the flu, and she wouldn't take Tylenol to lower her fever because human medicine was beneath her. You'd ended up crushing it into her soup, which, when she'd realized the white, gritty substance weren't spices, as you'd adamantly claimed, had ended in her dramatically proclaiming that you were trying to poison her.

Granted, that could have been the fever talking; Tylenol hadn't yet kicked in. But still.

"You're here now, aren't you?" Teen said.

"Only because she's unconscious." You stroked Agatha's hair, thick and beautiful. Silk between your fingers. You missed it. "I'm fine with her not wanting me around. I just want her to be okay. That's all. I don't wanna force myself into her life."

"Something tells me that you wouldn't be here if she didn't want you to be," Teen pointed out. "Even if she's putting up a front."

A smile broke out on your mouth. "Maybe."

She did say she didn't hate you.

Maybe there was still hope.

Maybe she could find it in her to forgive you.

"You said it yourself: she's not bad. She's just… her. Give her some grace."

You had to laugh. "Using my own words against me? That's very Agatha of you."

"It's true," Teen said with a chuckle.

Yeah. You supposed it was.

Agatha could do with some grace.

She didn't have people — friends, loved ones — out there to look out for her, to have her back even when she was in the wrong.

For three long, long years she didn't have you, either.

You wanted to make it right.

Agatha deserved that much.

"I should get back," Teen said, motioning to the rest of the coven out back, their chatter and laughter a distant echo.

He glanced down at Agatha; at her face being caressed by your fingers, at the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, concern etched all over his face like a tattoo.

He didn't want for her to be hurt any more than you did.

"She'll be okay," you said softly, offering him the same guarantee that Lilia had given you.

Agatha was strong. Resilient.

She would survive this.

She would recover in record time, as if she'd never even been in this predicament.

"I know," Teen said. "She's the baddest bitch in South America and Europe. Nothing keeps her down for long."

A laugh, loud and hearty, tore from your throat.

He was right; this was just an injury. One of the countless she'd acquired over the centuries, that she'd lived through with relative ease.

Who was to say she wouldn't do so again?

Your Agatha was nothing if not a fighter.

No sooner had his footsteps faded in the distance than Agatha's voice, coarse like beach sand, broke the silence that had settled over you. "Wasn't that disgustingly sappy? Lifetime channel would be proud."

How could you forget?

Your Agatha was nothing if not a sneaky bitch, as well.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @miss-moon-guardian @hermslore @uniquelesbianidiot @natashamaximoff1 @alsoknownasmel @swan-queen-is-magic @tardisesandtitans @ahintofchaos @fruityhahn @midnight-lestrange @lift-heavy-be-gay @katieswain123 @riovidalharkness @revleftshark

[stvrnloghost]

————————————————

How fratboy!Chris and innocent!reader met!

⚠︎ - not really much just some fluff, alchohol, and drugs!

in which the most popular guy in campus somehow ends up with the most innocent and sweetest girl at a party?

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ever since you were younger, you were sheltered your parents not daring to even let you lose your innocence. Which resulted into you falling behind in trends, and growth. Which also made an impact with your friends as you grew, you practically didn’t have anyone besides well, your parents. Just how they liked it. Their sweet little innocent girl, who never ever would do wrong.

So when you went off into collage it was like a whole new world. There was so many parties, alchohol—which you knew you never would even touch it, right? But other than that it was just a lot overwhelming for you. It was hard fitting in that’s for sure, you didn’t know how to make friends really so your dumbass thought it would be a smart idea to go to a party.

————————————————

Somehow you eneded up having one drink, trying to fit in. Which quickly escalated to two, ofcourse you not ever drinking before you were a lightweight. Feeling the buzz and claustrophobic you needed to find a room to go—anywhere.

After a while of stumbling past people, upstairs, and finding a door that you were sure was the bathroom you opened the door. You were quickly met with the sight of a boy—who you knew as Chris. He was smoking some type of drug sprawled out on his bed, in nothing but plaid pj bottoms, and his hair messy. “M’ s-sorry.” You manage to slur out your vision slightly blurring as you clutch the door frame.

The boy sat up tilting his head taking in your appearance. You didn’t even look like you belonged here. You were wearing leggings and a hoodie—definitely not the typical thing a girl wears to a party. You just had this innocent aura radiating off you.

after a beat of silence—mixed with your heavy breathing and some hiccups. He rolled his eyes and sat up placing his blunt in his ash tray. “Yeah s’ whatever kid.” He grumbled out though his tone was definitely bitchy his features had some concern in them.

————————————————

Honestly the rest of the night was a blur for you, you kinda remember throwing up, him helping you, then it was all black. So you were slighlty confused when you woke up in another persons bed—thankfully fully clothed, but in different clothes, boy clothes. And that’s when you saw him—Chris you’d heard about him a few times. He was cute, but you knew you’d probably never even speak to him—now you’re in his bed?

You immediately shuffled up quietly. Starting to grab your stuff. Your gaze lingered on his peaceful face as he slept, the way his chest rose and fell, his arms. You quickly snapped yourself back to reality and grabbed the rest of your belongings and left.

The whole day you couldn’t keep your mind off Chris, ue was consuming your mind. You felt bad for leaving but he probably didn’t care did he? He probably woke up with so many girls in his bed.

As you were walking down the sidewalk, your favorite latte in hand, music playing in your ears through your headphones, and your head down as you held your book in your free hand. You accidentally bumped into someone your coffee spilling all over you. You immediately spilled out a bunch of apologies before looking up and meeting his gaze—Chris.

“Nah..uhm s’ okay kid, m’ sorry about your coffee.” He mumbled out, his blue eyes staring into your pretty eyes, a red tint spread over his cheeks as you took his hand helping you get up. “No no it’s okay I just, I wasn’t paying attention.” You whisper out quietly suddenly feeling nervous.

“Uhm..yeah you uhm I—uhm I think you left your lipgloss in my room last night.” He mumbles out softly his hand still in yours. “I swear we didn’t do anything I just…uhm you were pretty wasted and…uhm tired.” He added on quickly.

“Oh..I uh thank you—for the help and uhm…I’ll get my lipgloss another time.” You whisper out shyly, your eyes flickering across his face. “I should get going..gonna go get a new coffee.” You add on quietly.

“No no, you should uhm let me pay and..here.” He quickly takes his jacket off wrapping it around your form that had coffee spilled all over it. “Let’s go I’ll buy you a new coffee, I was headed that way anywyas.” He mumbled out leaving no room for protest. His hand that was still in yours dragging you along with him.

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A/N: hi so this…SUCKS but I’m also tired as fuck and have so many assignments but meet Fratboy!chris and innocent!reader!! Thank you for reading this shit I’m sorry 😭 anywyas have a nice day my little ghosts! (It’s not proofread either)

Taglist: @sturnsrecord @chrepsi @drewswife @crtlness (sorry if I’m missing anyone!!)

[marvelousels]

THE GRAVITY OF YOU

FIRST CONTACT | 1

authors note: currently obsessing over that one caitvi nasa fic, so i just decided to write a quick little something, lmk if yall want me to continue (probably no one)

pairings: caitlyn x vi 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

hello? by clairo (ft rejje snow) playing!

Vi had never been one for rules, which was why it was kind of hilarious that she now worked for an organization with "Aeronautics and Space Administration" in the title. NASA wasn’t exactly known for its leniency when it came to reckless behavior, but somehow, she’d landed a spot as a mission specialist. She blamed Vander. He always said she should put her energy toward something bigger than herself.

And space was pretty damn big.

But she wasn’t the only one who took this job seriously. Caitlyn Kiramman, lead flight director, was a stickler for protocol. She was precise, intelligent, and—to Vi’s eternal amusement—completely incapable of tolerating her disregard for rules.

The first time they met, Vi had been leaning back in a chair at orientation, arms crossed, smirking while the trainers droned on about safety regulations. She caught sight of Caitlyn, standing at the front of the room in her neatly pressed uniform, dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Everything about her screamed discipline. The way she listed off procedures, her sharp blue eyes scanning the room, the way she carried herself like she could handle anything NASA threw at her.

Vi had made it her mission to make her crack.

“You look like you got the stickiest stick up your ass,” Vi had whispered during a break, sidling up next to Caitlyn at the coffee station. “Must be exhausting.”

Caitlyn had barely spared her a glance, stirring her coffee with infuriating patience. “And you look like you take nothing seriously. Must be dangerous.”

Vi had laughed. “Only for people who don’t trust me.”

That was months ago. Now, Vi was one of the best mission specialists NASA had, and Caitlyn—whether she liked it or not—had to work with her on almost every assignment. Their relationship had settled into something of a routine: Caitlyn scolded her, Vi teased her, and somehow, everything got done perfectly in the end.

But something was different about this mission.

This time, Vi wasn’t just another cog in the machine. She was set to be part of Piltover-9, an upcoming lunar mission that had everyone at NASA buzzing. And Caitlyn? She was the one leading Mission Control.

“Piltover-9, this is Mission Control. Status check.”

Caitlyn’s voice crackled through Vi’s headset, cool and professional as always.

Vi smirked, adjusting the panel in front of her. “Control, this is Vi. All systems are green, looking good.”

A pause. Then, a sigh. “For the last time, you need to use proper protocol.”

“You’re no fun, cupcake.”

“I have a job to do, and so do you,” Caitlyn shot back, irritation laced in the crisp accent Vi had grown to adore. “Now, confirm your final diagnostics before launch.”

Vi rolled her eyes but scanned the numbers anyway. Thrusters were good, oxygen levels optimal, everything running smooth. It was kind of a miracle, considering how fast she’d had to run pre-checks. Not that she’d admit it, but Caitlyn’s meticulous nature saved her ass more times than she could count.

“Diagnostics confirmed. We’re golden, Control.”

“…Thank you,” Caitlyn said, and Vi could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“Don’t sound too happy about it, now.”

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to contain my enthusiasm,” Caitlyn deadpanned. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t improvise the checklist.”

“Come on, you know I like to keep you on your toes.”

“More like give me a premature heart attack.”

Vi chuckled, stretching in her seat. “If you wanted my attention so bad, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

Caitlyn went silent for a moment, and Vi swore she could feel the exasperation through the comms. “I will personally ensure you remain on Earth for the rest of your career if you keep this up.”

“Oof, that’s cold. And here I thought we had something special.”

“Vi.”

“Yeah, yeah. Focusing.” Vi grinned, biting back another remark, and let the silence settle. The countdown had begun, and her heart pounded faster. Adrenaline surged, thrumming in her veins. Through the static and the distant, muted voices of mission control, Caitlyn’s voice was the only one that mattered.

Then, quieter, almost as if she didn’t want the others to hear—“Be safe up there, Vi.”

The words settled in Vi’s chest, warm despite the void she was about to plunge into.

She grinned, strapping in as the engines roared to life. “Always, cupcake. You better miss me.”

And then, with a force that stole the breath from her lungs, she was gone—propelled into the stars, Caitlyn’s voice still echoing in her ear.

[thatguyjam]

Hab!Oscar Piastri headcannons

Because of how fucking hot he looks in this picture. God I'm gay.

Gender Neutral reader, no sport specified but not f1

I'm gonna use the word game but not go into too many details, so meets, matches, races and other formats also fit :)

Like he will finish a race and be on route to you as soon as humanly possible

He always tries to make as many games as possible

He probably has easier access to a private jet than you, so he doesn't want you to worry about making his races, he'd rather go to you

He almost doesn't want to win just so he'll be able to see you sooner

Whenever you win or score well, he is instantly as close to you as possible to give you just so many kisses

During games he watches you very closely, and gets very invested

He will get upset at judges or refs for calls that don't favor you

And again after you finish changing or showering he will be there to hug you

Like he'll appear out of nowhere just because you looked so hot during the game and he needs to tell you

No matter if you won or if you loss he'll always make sure you eat a big dinner and he'll draw a nice bath for you with nice bath salts and all

And then it is cuddles galore in bed <3

He understands that you are also very busy, and probably can't make very many races, especially if you are playing in Europe during his home race or something

But whenever you can make it, of if you tell him that you can't, and surprise him, he will just be so happy

He will not leave your side until he has to race

If you guys are in the same area but your game and his race overlap he will always make sure you stay in the same hotel

Nothing makes him race better than knowing he gets to see you afterward

The faster he goes, the faster the race ends, and the faster the race ends, the faster he gets to see you!

SURPRISE!!!

Wag²!Lily Zneimer x Reader x Oscar Piastri (except we're not really talking about him anymore)

Lily knows she's more likely to be at a F1 race because she's an engineer, so she tries extra hard to make it to your games

She does team up with Oscar to go to you games too, especially if you play a winter sport

Basically the Tennis matches they went to earlier this year but just so much more common

If you have a bad loss, even if she's busy she will drop as much as she can to be there either in person of over call for you, both to comfort you and to make sure you take care of yourself

She either finds or makes cute merch of your team/country for her to wear day to day

I feel like Hattie would be good at sewing for some reason

(Oscar gets pouty about it but she just reminds him that he races for a team with a terrible color scheme)

pApAyA

She is fully willing to come out so that she can openly support both of you as your girlfriend

She makes sure to do as much as she can to make sure you don't think she has a favorite though <3

Taglist: (Comment or DM to be added)

@koalapastries @justaf1girl