#it's almost like the old eyebrow hairs had to fall out for the new eyebrow hairs to start growing?

[kenobster]

SHIT i forgot to say this, so now i feel bad for making two posts about sick things in a row, but MY HAIR IS GROWING BACK bitchessss 😍

lmao, so before I started chemo, I had my hair cut to a crewcut type of style. So my hair was about 2 centimeters long. And then when it started falling out, I never shaved it to actually be bald. I just started shedding. All over my pillow. It was so annoying. So one night, I just pulled it all out (and no, it didn't hurt - imagine pulling a clump of hair from a husky dog during shedding season) and I dumped it on my bathroom floor (my mom cleaned it up the next day because I felt too sick lol). However there were a few strands that were, for whatever reason, fall-out resistant. I didn't pull those strands out (because pulling those out would've actually hurt), so I'm not technically bald. Do a google image search of "Eleanor bald Good Place" and you'll see what I mean lol. Anyway so I have a few strands of hair just like Eleanor's, which at this point are all about 5 centimeters long. But new hair is also growing, but it's just a stubble. So, check out this faaaabulous illustration of what my hair literally looks like in the mirror right now lmao:

It looks JUST as dorkish as my drawing lmao. Makes me laugh every time.

Anyway lol, I hope you all were as intrigued about these hair anecdotes as I hoped you would be, because honestly I'm fascinated by how all of this has happened.

[luveline]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

[fireinmoonshot]

maybe one day | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Every time you wake up from a nightmare, Bob is there to help you get back to sleep. This time, however, is a little different. Warnings: Mentions of nightmares and traumatic pasts (nothing specific). It's also fairly angsty. Word Count: 1k A/N: It's been a while! I have been in the depths of a writing slump for the past three weeks or so but Thunderbolts has seemingly brought me out of it. I assumed it would be Bucky that did that but it ended up being Bob... I love him. He's been living rent free in my head ever since I saw the movie last night. I just had to write about him. This fic is just a small one, as obviously it's the first thing I've written since falling into a slump, but I'm pretty proud of it. Bob is very different to write for (especially different to Joaquín who is all I've been writing for lately) so I hope I've done him justice. I look forward to continuing to write for him!

The bedroom is still dark when you wake up. The only sign that you’re not alone in the room is the faint silhouette of someone sitting in the armchair at the end of your bed and the steady sound of fingers tapping against the material of the chair. Strangely, the presence isn’t scary but comforting. There’s only one person it could be. 

“Was I having another nightmare?” You ask. 

You’d woken up to the feeling of your bed shaking gently. It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling – you’ve woken up this way several times in the past few months. It’s Bob’s way of waking you up without shaking you awake himself.  Using the most minimal of his powers to help you.

While he’s not in control of his powers, he can’t risk hurting you. Even just holding your hand could send you into one of your worst memories. And like all of the other members of your team, back in New York you’d been forced to live through them all because of the Void. 

Since then, you and Bob had become closer. You’d all moved into the old Avengers tower now that you were the new Avengers. Bob’s room had been across the hall from yours. He’d heard your screams from the first nightmare and had been there to wake you up from them  almost every night since. Most nights, he sits by your bed to keep you company until you fall back asleep. It’s not the most efficient way to help, he knows. But the last thing he’d ever want to do is to accidentally send you back into the memories that had given you so much trauma.

“You were.”

You sit up properly in your bed and reach out a hand to turn on the lamp that sits on your bedside table. The bulb is dull, only bright enough to bring a dark yellow glow to the room but it’s enough for you to be able to see Bob. He looks exhausted.

“Have you gotten any sleep tonight? What time is it?” 

“I slept a little,” he nods. “I don’t know what time it is. Three a.m? Four, maybe.”

You stifle a yawn and run a hand through your hair. It’s thick with sweat, courtesy of the nightmare you’d been having – though you’re thankful that you don’t remember exactly what it was about tonight. “You should go back to sleep, Bob.”

“I will when you do.”

For a moment, you simply look at him. The way he looks at you despite his exhaustion doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You can see the worry in his eyes, the way his eyebrows are drawn and his lips are a little pursed. You want nothing more than to crawl to the end of your bed, reach out a hand and tug him up so he can crawl into bed with you and hold you while you fall asleep. But you know that he’d never allow himself to do something like that.

“Will you stay with me?” You ask anyway.

Bob hesitates, opening his mouth and then closing it again before he shakes his head. “You know that I can’t. I can’t until I know I can control it. I won’t put you through that again.”

“I’ll put a pillow barrier up,” you offer. Bob lets out a small laugh at your words. “I mean it, Bob. I want you to stay with me. Not on the chair at the end of my bed, not on the floor. In the bed, beside me. If you can’t hold me, that’s the next best thing.”

Bob sighs and stands up from the chair before heading around to the opposite side of the bed and pulling back the covers. You smile to yourself as you grab an extra pillow and place it in the middle of the bed. Once your head hits your own pillow again, you can look right beside you and into Bob’s eyes. It’s the closest you think he’s ever let himself get to you. 

“Can I try something?” You ask, voice soft.

He nods once, though you can see he’s a little concerned that you might be about to rip down the pillow barrier and latch yourself onto him, as if you’d ever do something like that without his consent first.

You raise a hand, palm towards him, and smile as you see him raise his own hand. He moves it towards yours, just hovering it next to your hand. You can almost feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. His hand is so close to yours that you could move the smallest bit and brush your fingers against his, though you restrain yourself. 

“I wish I could hold your hand,” Bob mutters quietly, voice a little muffled by the pillow.

“Me, too,” you hum, watching as your hands dance close together. “I want to know what it feels like to touch you. To have your fingers entwine with mine. To feel your skin against my skin. Is that weird to say?”

Bob shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I want that too.”

“Maybe one day?”

He looks away from your hands and meets your eyes. “One day.” It’s not a maybe. It’s a certainty. Once he can control his powers. He removes his hand from the air and tucks it underneath the blankets. “You should sleep now.” 

“I will when you do,” you murmur, forcing yourself to keep your eyes open as your hand falls onto the pillow in-between the two of you, a sudden wave of sleepiness overtaking you.

Bob smiles to himself as he watches your eyes flutter closed and sleep takes hold of you. He’s glad he stayed. Even if all he wants is to push the pillow away and pull you into his arms. Even though he’s probably not going to get a wink of sleep while he lays beside you, too content with just watching you sleep, seeing how peaceful you look.

But as long as that pillow stays in place, you’re safe. Until he can control his powers, this is the way things have to be. To keep you safe from the nightmares. From the Void. From him. 

[4m0r1m]

Let It Burn

SUMMARY: They were supposed to hate each other. An arranged marriage was the Black family's final game — but neither Sirius nor she were willing players. Until one night beneath the stars, he saw her smile. And everything began to fall apart.

WORD COUNT: 2,776 words

PAIRING: sirius black x slytherin!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, a little angst

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual Friday night energy — students chattering over the remnants of pudding, House banners rippling slightly in the enchanted ceiling's breeze. Sirius Black lounged lazily at the Gryffindor table, laughing too loudly at something James had muttered about McGonagall’s new hat.

But his laughter died on his lips when his eyes, almost against his will, slid towards the Slytherin table.

There she was.

The so-called Princess of Slytherin.

Poised. Perfect. Wrapped in a halo of cold detachment and veiled sneers. Her hair was sleek and immaculate, her posture impeccable, her smile — if she ever deigned to offer one — sharp enough to cut glass. Sirius swore she could curdle milk with a single look.

And he was supposed to marry her.

Betrothed. Promised. Packaged neatly by two families so desperate for control they thought binding him to her would somehow tame him. As if he would ever be tamed.

She caught him looking and arched one elegant eyebrow. A silent, disdainful challenge.

Sirius scowled and jerked his gaze away.

“I’m not bloody doing it,” he muttered under his breath, stabbing his treacle tart viciously.

James, Remus and Peter exchanged looks.

“You don’t really have a choice, mate,” said James with a grimace. “Not unless you fancy disownment.”

Sirius snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time a Black got struck off the bloody tapestry.”

Remus gave him a sidelong glance. “Still. Must be a special kind of hell, being chained to that one.”

Sirius didn't answer. He didn’t need to.

Everyone knew her reputation.

Cold. Ruthless. Uncaring.

And Sirius hated her for it.

It was a week later, late afternoon, when Sirius stumbled across something that would change everything.

He'd taken a detour through the courtyard, avoiding a furious Slughorn who was still smarting from the "accidental" potion explosion Sirius and James had orchestrated earlier.

There, by the old fountain, he froze.

The Slytherin Princess was kneeling — actually kneeling — in front of a tiny, sniffling first-year Hufflepuff. The boy clutched a battered satchel and had a skinned knee visible through torn trousers.

Sirius stood behind a stone pillar, unseen, mouth slightly open.

She was talking to the boy in a low, soothing voice, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at the wound. She conjured a little salve with a flick of her wand, smiling — smiling — as the boy giggled at the cool sensation.

Not a sneer. Not a smirk. A real, genuine, luminous smile that softened every sharp angle of her haughty face.

Sirius felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

Who the hell was that?

He backed away before she could spot him, heart pounding for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely.

That night, unable to sleep, Sirius roamed the castle.

The corridors were silvered with moonlight, empty and echoing. His footsteps were quiet against the stone as he made his way towards the Astronomy Tower — a favourite haunt when he needed to be alone.

He rounded the last staircase and stopped dead.

She was there.

Leaning against the battlements, her cloak pulled tight against the chill, staring out over the sleeping grounds.

For a long moment, he considered turning back.

But something — curiosity, defiance, stubbornness — made him cross the threshold.

She turned slightly at the sound of his approach, pale face unreadable.

“Don’t tell me,” she drawled, voice cutting through the silence. “Caught out past curfew. Again.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Could say the same for you, Princess.”

She laughed — low and surprisingly soft — and turned back to the view.

Sirius hesitated, then moved to lean on the wall a few feet away from her.

The silence stretched, but for once it wasn’t sharp or hostile. It was... companionable. Almost.

After a minute, she spoke again.

“You're lucky, you know,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “To have friends who love you. Who’d do anything for you.”

Sirius frowned. “Is that what this is? A compliment? I should frame it.”

She smiled faintly, still staring at the stars.

“You laugh, but it's true,” she said. “I watch you lot sometimes. Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew... you’d burn down the world for each other.”

There was something hollow in her voice, something brittle beneath the casual words.

Sirius found himself watching her, really watching her.

“What about you?” he asked, voice rough. “Surely you’ve got your little Slytherin court.”

She snorted. “They don’t love me. They follow me. Big difference.”

There was a bleakness in her tone that hit Sirius harder than he cared to admit.

He shifted, uneasy. “You make it bloody hard for people to like you, you know.”

She laughed again, but it wasn’t cruel this time. Just tired.

“Better to be feared than pitied, Black.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Sirius stared up at the endless, glittering sprawl of the sky, the cold biting through his robes.

“I saw you, earlier,” he said eventually.

She glanced at him, wary. “Saw me what?”

“With the Hufflepuff kid.”

Her cheeks coloured slightly, the first sign of true vulnerability he’d ever seen in her.

“He fell,” she muttered defensively. “It’s not like I could leave him there.”

Sirius smiled crookedly. “Didn’t know you knew how to smile without plotting someone’s murder.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

But the edges of her mouth twitched.

Sirius found himself grinning.

There was a crack in her armour. A glimpse of something real.

And damn it all, he wanted to see more.

The Astronomy Tower became their secret.

Neither of them ever spoke about it during the day. In public, she was still the icy Slytherin Princess and he the reckless Gryffindor rebel. They bickered in corridors, exchanged cold glares across classrooms, and maintained the careful façade expected of them.

But at night, under the silent witness of a thousand stars, they were different.

Real.

Vulnerable.

It terrified Sirius how quickly he started looking forward to those stolen conversations.

It terrified him even more how she smiled when she saw him approach, something shy and genuine flickering across her usual perfect mask.

It was the end of term when everything shattered.

Sirius returned to Grimmauld Place for the summer, and it was like stepping into a grave.

The house reeked of dust, old magic, and simmering hatred. His mother's shrill voice rang through the halls, punctuated by sharp reprimands and endless lectures about loyalty, blood, and duty.

And marriage.

Always marriage.

He could still hear her voice echoing down the corridors: You will marry her, Sirius Orion Black. You will restore this family's honour.

He wondered if she would still say it if she knew about the nights he'd spent talking to his so-called bride-to-be under the stars, trading secrets and stolen laughter.

Maybe.

Maybe she would simply chain them together all the faster.

The breaking point came one evening when Sirius found a set of marriage contracts laid out neatly on the dining room table, alongside his wand and a black quill.

Signed and sealed.

As if he were some prize animal being led to slaughter.

He exploded.

There were shouting, slammed doors, a flash of crimson light as he hexed a portrait in a fit of rage. His mother's howls followed him up the stairs and down the hall, curses in ancient tongues battering at his back.

That night, while the house slept under a heavy, oppressive silence, Sirius packed a bag.

A few sets of robes. His broomstick. His father's old dagger, tucked into his belt.

He didn’t leave a note.

Didn’t look back.

The moment he crossed the threshold of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, he felt something invisible snap inside him — like cutting the last fraying thread tying him to a life he no longer wanted.

By dawn, he was pounding on the door of the Potters’ cottage, soaked from rain and shivering.

James's mother opened the door, took one look at him, and pulled him into a hug so warm and fierce it nearly broke him.

"You’re safe now, love," she whispered. "You're safe."

Sirius sagged into her embrace, rainwater dripping onto the doormat, feeling like, for the first time in his life, maybe he actually was.

When he returned to Hogwarts in September, something was different.

He was lighter. Freer.

But the world hadn’t changed around him — not really.

She was still the Princess of Slytherin.

And he was still the boy she was meant to marry.

But now, when their eyes met across the Great Hall, there was something crackling in the air between them. Something dangerous and electric.

That night, he found her at the Astronomy Tower, waiting.

As if she knew he'd come.

The air was crisp, the first hints of autumn nipping at the castle walls. She stood by the parapet, arms folded, face upturned to the sky.

Sirius approached quietly, heart hammering.

"You ran," she said without turning, as if she could read it in his bones.

He gave a short laugh. "Couldn’t bloody stay."

She finally looked at him then.

Really looked.

There was no contempt in her gaze. No condescension. Only something deep and quiet and unbearably sad.

"I envy you," she whispered. "I don’t have the courage."

Sirius leaned against the wall beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

"You don’t need courage," he said roughly. "You just need someone to stand with you."

She smiled — that soft, secret smile he was coming to crave — and shook her head.

"No one stands with me, Black."

Sirius hesitated, then reached out, covering her hand with his.

"You’re wrong," he said fiercely. "You’ve got me."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if she didn’t know how to believe it.

Sirius squeezed her hand gently, feeling her tremble under his touch.

"I know what you really are," he said. "Not what they say. Not the bloody masks you wear."

A long silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken things.

Finally, she pulled her hand away — not harshly, but slowly, like it hurt to do it.

"This can’t happen," she whispered. "You know it can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, voice cracking, "loving you would destroy me."

Sirius stared at her, stunned.

It was the first time either of them had admitted it aloud — that whatever was between them had already taken root, dangerous and wild and inevitable.

He stepped closer, until there was barely an inch of space between them.

"Maybe," he murmured, "it'll save you instead."

And then, without thinking, without planning, without caring about anything except the way she was looking at him — like he was something precious — Sirius kissed her.

It wasn’t a soft kiss.

It was messy and desperate and aching.

She kissed him back like she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her afloat.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, she rested her forehead against his chest, trembling.

"We're going to burn the world down," she said against his robes.

Sirius smiled, threading his fingers through her hair.

"Good," he said. "Let it burn."

They kept it secret after that.

Hidden smiles in the corridors. Brushed fingertips under the tables. Midnight meetings in forgotten classrooms and dusty broom cupboards.

To everyone else, they still hated each other.

But beneath the surface, a war was raging — against expectations, against families, against fate itself.

And they were winning, one stolen moment at a time.

A/N: Lovies I don't know how I survived without writing a HP fanfic but here it is for all you lovies that love Sirius Black as much as I do💗💗💗

[kirbmey]

— s1!jayvik headcanons (＞×＜)

synopsis: viktor and jayce need the help of a new investor to keep up with their research and fall in love with his daughter <3

tw: suggestive, reader is an spoiled brat, established!jayvik, not canon obv, jayce’s lowk pathetic, reader calls her father “daddy”, viktor takes the lead, choking mention if u squint, etc.

s1!jayvik who, with sky’s help, managed to find an aristocrat in piltover who was willing to meet with them and talk about hextech.

s1!jayvik who attend to your maybe-too-big mansion to discuss terms with your father while having dinner, and you were there too (๑╹ᆺ╹)

s1!jayvik who were known all over topside for being a pair of handsome inventors and curiosity peeked trough you, fixated on meeting them.

s1!jayvik who expected your father and your father alone, jayce shy at your presence and viktor already staging ways to approach you later.

s1!jayvik who, while dinner occurs, don’t fail to notice your cute curls and your lipstick a beautiful shade of crimson, you just playing a fool even though you knew you caught their eye the first second they stepped inside your house.

s1!jayce who’s mesmerized in the way your lips wrap around the fork to take a bite, on how you push your long hair aside while drinking, maybe even how your necklace decorated your throat, thinking his hand would look better (ʃᵕ̩̩ ᵕ̩̩⑅)

s1!jayce who feels the real shame every time he has to excuse himself to your father because he didn’t really paid attention to what he said. such a silly boy :(

s1!viktor who’s a lot better at hiding his lustful gazes, having the investment a priority; after getting the accord, he can worry about how he’ll get under your garments.

s1!viktor who actually listens and actually eats something at the dinner.

s1!viktor who notices deeper details about you, the moles all over your skin, the number of little diamonds your ring had, the way one of your eyebrows was thinner than the other (how your breast almost spilled out of your white dress), you know, deeper details ♡￫ܫ￩♡

“so, I need to make sure my money is sent to smart hands, gentlemen, can you show me anything about this hextech thing?” your dad spoke in a deep voice that echoed the grand dining room, contrasting with the soft violin playing on the background.

“of course! we brought tons of sketches and studies and analysis and—” jayce implied excited, always happy to talk about the project of his life, being interrupted by viktor’s skinny hand on his shoulder while the other one passed a notebook to your father.

“that’s all you’re actually interested in, sir.” he declared with a thick accent, it made you curious to know where it belonged to.

s1!jayce who anxiously plays with viktor’s brace under the table, tracing its shape while shaking his leg, looking adorably concerned.

s1!viktor who caresses the big hand that toyed with the metal around his calf and knee, circling motions over his knuckles to calm his partner down.

your father didn’t seem to really trust the idea brought to the table, the implication of magic clashing with his ideals. therefore you leaned closer to him, head against his shoulder as you read the notebook as well, noticing viktor’s neat handwriting.

“oh, daddy, isn’t this just so so so interesting?” you voiced with a honey sweet tone, locking his arm with your own.

“look, portals to quickly travel between regions? imagine all the money piltover would make, all thanks to you investing in ‘em.” you murmured now, locking eyes with viktor, who was smirking at you subtly, jayce too nervous to even hear what you said (◕︿◕✿)

“hmm, still, darling, magic?” your father questioned with a slight disgust in his voice, putting the papers down and sighing while massaging his mustache.

“wasn’t piltover the city of progress? this really seems like progress to me…” you looked at him with a pout plastered on your juicy lips. “i think leaving old stigmas and taboos behind is really… progressy.”

s1!jayvik who watch you leave towards the gardens after making your father deal with them a crazy amount of money with just some puppy eyes and sultry voice.

s1!jayvik who catch a glimpse of your white nightgown covering the grass of said garden while you sat down, playing around with a stray cat, it almost seemed like you were waiting for them.

s1!jayvik who approach you after viktor insisted, to thank you, and maybe have an intimate conversation with you, too.

“thank you for interfering, my lady, if it wasn’t for you we would’ve left empty handed.” viktor confessed while siting down on the stone bench under the white pergola where you sat, the moonlight highlighting your angel-like features, leaving his cane on top of said surface.

jayce sat down in front of you in the floor with some distance, legs crossed and arms propped behind him, tilting his head to the side when he noticed how you scooted closer to him and blushing to this right after.

“well, it wasn’t charity, you know.” you murmur in a sweet tone, curling your hair around your manicured finger as you stood on your knees, taking support from jayce’s thick thigh to end up facing viktor from above, as if you were worshipping him.

the skinnier man scoffed at this, noticing how your cheek rested now against his inner thigh, how your hair fell down your exposed back as jayce held your hand to take place in the empty space next to you, mimicking how you rested your head to stare at you, viktor caressing his now not so put together hair in a way he seemed to be accustomed already.

“then, what is it that you desire from us in exchange, little angel?” he questioned with that accent that you started to fall in love with, his thin fingers coming down to hold your chin, making you look up to him.

“mmm, i dunno…” you feigned hesitation, reaching jayce’s handsome face to scratch behind his ear slowly, noticing how he didn’t comply, such a puppy. “maybe take me to your laboratory and show me your advances from time to time.” you pouted when you felt his thumb smudge some of your expensive lipstick away.

“wouldn’t want you two forgetting about me.” you confessed before taking said thumb between your lips, looking up to him. jayce took your smaller hand between his, inhaling your cherry scented hand cream before peppering kisses all over it.

“we would never forget about you, bunny.” he said softly against your skin, caressing your cheek while you kept on sucking viktor’s finger, adverting your gaze to him now. “you can come over anytime, maybe we can make you find science more interesting.”

viktor chuckled before emptying your mouth and leaving jayce’s hair be, gaining a whine from both of you. “so it is settled, we’ll see you tomorrow at the academy, correct?” he asked while taking his cane to stand up from where he sat, motioning his hand to order jayce to do the same.

you imitate their actions, tidying your hair before grabbing their holding hands with yours, standing on your tippy toes to leave a noisy smooch against their cheeks, decorating them with the granate of your lips. “you most definitely will, gentlemen.”

s1!jayvik who don’t notice how your father stared at the whole play from the beginning, shaking his head on disappointment at you; always playing around with men.

s1!jayvik who walk towards their ride in silence, jayce still inhaling your lingering scent and the soft of you lips against his cheeks, viktor trying to not think too much about the growing boner you gave him (*_ _)

a/n: i’m obsessed with this setting, part 2 maybe? (*^ω^)

— masterlist.

[cxrsed-angel]

Overtime

pairing: Joel Miller x F!reader

rating: 18+

w.c: 2k

summary: You stay late after work with Joel at his construction office. (I suck at summaries, Joel and reader hookup in Joel's office after everyone leaves).

warning: No outbreak AU, Smut, P in V sex (unprotected), fingering, oral (male receiving), dbf ish!Joel, mention of age difference (Joel is like 40+, reader is 20+). Established relationship

a/n: first fic of 2025 🥳this is just porn with no plot that's been in my drafts sorry not sorry. Posting this in hopes it helps me get over my fear of posting fics on here and my forming hatred of this app. this was proof read by only me so sorry if they're mistakes. happy new year :)

You've been at the front desk all day organizing Joel’s clients for the projects and renovation, replying to emails, answering phones, doing your best to answer the questions you can, or forwarding the calls to Joel so he can explain what you can’t. 

 You’ve been his assistant at his construction office since you started college. Joel is a close friend of your dad’s and he had convinced Joel to hire you until you go back to college in the fall to help him organize and with his schedule. You answer the phone, reply to his emails, get his lunch, and do everyday assistant things. Instead, you found yourself bent over at his office desk as fucked you. Almost every day, after everyone had gone home for the day. 

Once you see everyone else has left and it was just you and Joel. You go to Joel’s office and knock on his door. You slowly open it and see him behind his desk on his computer. You take a second looking at him, the gray hair mixing with his brown hair, the little bit of grey coming in on his beard. You never really had a thing for older guys…until now. You see him looking at his computer through the black frame glasses on his nose. He looks up, noticing you standing in the doorway, taking his reading glasses off and setting them on the desk. 

“You can come in, don't worry. ‘Aint too busy.” His deep voice breaks you out of your thoughts of admiring him. You nod, closing the door behind you. He motions for you to come closer, and you waste no time going around his desk. You see emails and his digital ledger on the screen. Next to the computer, he has a large brown leather book, his physical ledger, because he’s yet to feel the need to go completely digital. 

“You know you could probably make this into a spreadsheet. I could help instead of having this double thing you got going on.” You suggest as you open the old ledger, flipping through it. “How long have you had this thing, the 90s, the 80s, oh my god, since Kennedy?” 

Joel closes it, rolling his eyes at the dig of his age and the systems he currently has. His hands go onto your waist, gently pulling you down to sit in his lap. 

“My system has lasted me this long, so I’ll stick with it. Thank you very much. If it were up to me, everything would've remained paper. Damn, computer is hard to read and makes my eyes hurt lookin’ at it all day.” He turns you towards him a bit, changing your focus away from his computer. You lean down, kissing Joel, feeling the scruff of his greying beard against his face. 

Feeling the blood rush in your body, the both of you have been waiting all day to have your hands on each other. He runs his hands up your skirt, bunching it up further on your thighs. You feel his bulge under you, growing harder as you continue making out passionately. His hands squeeze your thighs harder you feel his hard cock pressing against you. 

“Seeing you in this fucking tight skirt all day was killing me, sweetheart. I just wanted to take you in here and fuck you on my desk.”  

You continue kissing him, his hands moving down to your panties, his fingers tracing over your covered core, feeling your wetness. Joel kisses his neck. 

“So wet already?…” He pulls your underwear down, tossing it with your skirt on his office floor. 

His eyebrows raise, looking at you as his fingers rub along the outside of your folds. You shift, humping against his hand for more relief focusing on how good his finger felt rubbing your swollen and needy clit. 

You whine incoherently, mumbling at his words, words failing to form as you get more aroused. He slowly slides two of his fingers inside you, slowly pumping in and out of your aching pussy; hearing the wetness forming, you melt against him, your back pressing against his chest as he spreads your legs while you're sitting in his lap. 

“This is what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to give this needy pussy attention. This pretty little pussy needed me, I can tell? Wanted me to finger fuck under the desk while I’m talking to my clients?” you moan more as he slides a second finger stretching you out. He feels your wetness coat his finger as he thrusts them inside, curling up and reaching your sensitive spot. 

You cry out more. “Joel Joel, Joel!” moaning out his name, your mouth opens, forming an O as he continues fucking you with his fingers feeling your climax building, but the feeling fades as you feel his fingers leave your dripping pussy. You groan disappointedly as you feel. You pout, looking back at him at the arousal still clouding your brain.

“Relax, relax. I’ll give ya what you want soon.” he places a hand on your shoulder, gently moving you off the familiar seat of his lap. You look at him, your face flush as you feel the room getting hotter. 

He softly kisses you quickly before his hard cock straining through his jeans as you kneel in front of him, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his jeans, and pulling them down along with his boxers. He stares down at you, his eyes full of lust as he watches you spit in your hand before slowly stroking his big cock, teasing him. He rolls his eyes back as he leans in the chair. 

After jerking him off, for a little you place his hard length in between your lips. You slowly insert the tip of his cock in your mouth, sucking on it and tasting the salty precum on your tongue.  

Joel groans as you tease him, not being able to take it anymore. He shoves his dick deeper into your mouth, making you choke. You followed his pace, bobbing your head up and down the length of his shaft, using your hands to jerk off the rest of what you couldn't fit in your mouth. 

“That’s it, that’s it. Attagirl, Take it all. Know you can.” You listen, taking him deeper in the back of your throat, your eyes watering. You relax, hallowing your cheeks; his office is filled with the sound of you gaging around his cock. 

“F-fuck, sweetheart, your mouth feels so good. You enjoy this, aren’t ya, sucking the cock of a man twice your age?”

You nod, trying to agree as he continues using your mouth; you look up at him and see his eyes rolling back closed as his chest heaves, still praising you as you suck him off. His grunts and moans get louder; he starts fucking your mouth for a bit, thrusting his cock deeper before letting you come up to catch your breath, taking his cock out of your mouth. 

“Fuck baby…bet your dad didn’t expect you to be on your knees for me every day after work when he suggested you come work for me, huh.” 

You wipe your mouth as you hear his joke, still on your knees, his hand still on your head, rubbing your hair.  “Just don't let it slip out on guys' night after a few beers. Don't know who he’d be more mad at, me or you.” 

You push the thought of anyone finding out about you and Joel in the back of your mind; you don’t want to think about what your dad will say or how he’ll scold you for sleeping with his best friend and your boss. 

He laughs as he grabs your hand, helping you stand up; he kisses you sloppy, crashing his lips onto yours. Tasting himself on your lips. “Don’t worry, ain’t gonna tell him.” 

 He holds your waist, unzipping your skirt and helping you step out of it. He moves it out of the way before moving you towards the desk; he watches you bend over the desk, can’t resist the urge to stare at your ass, he squeezes it before landing another smack on it. 

“You ready, baby girl?” he asks softly, still caressing your lower back. You nod, looking back at him. 

“Yes, yes, Joel, please. I need you,” you whine, not being able to wait any longer. Instead of giving in to what you want, Joel laughs lightly. 

“Sorry, baby, I couldn't hear you; what do you need?” He taunts you as he runs a finger along your folds, making you whimper as frustrated as his teasing. 

“Joel! Oh my god, just fuck me-” Your snappy sentence is cut short, interpreted by his big cock slowly entering the tip inside you; both of you gasp as he pushes more of his length inside you. 

“You just don't know when to shut up, do you, baby? I told you I’d give you want.” His voice is deep and condensing, which arouses more if you're being honest. 

He moves his hips a bit more, and your moans fill his office. And you feel him bottom out inside you, but he doesn't move, letting you get used to his size. After a minute, you nod, letting him know you could move. He slowly moves his hips, thrusting inside you, and you moan more as you feel him deep inside. 

“F-Fuck Joel, you’re so big. Feel you so deep,” Joel growls as his hips start moving faster; he grips your hips tightly fucking into you more. Joel’s office desk rattles underneath you from the force Joel was fucking you. 

“I know, baby, I know, baby. God, You feel so good. How’re you so tight every time? ‘Feel you clenching ‘round me, sweetheart.” his thrust gets faster. 

“Fuck-fuck Joel right there.” you moan as his hard cock stretches you out. You hear him groan as he fucks you harder after hearing the name. He pushes you down onto his desk, moving his papers and construction plans out of the way, off to the side. You feel his hand grab one of your legs, lifting it up onto the desk. The new angle has you feel more of him deeper inside your sensitive core; the arousal builds as you feel your release building, and Joel can, too. 

“Fuck…Joel…I’m-I’m.” You moan and whine as Joel continues thrusting inside you, helping you reach your release. He reaches a hand in between your thighs and rubs your clit as he continues fucking into you, bringing you closer to your climax. 

“C’mon baby, I feel you squeezing ‘round me. Know you’re close. Cum for me, sweetheart.” 

 You feel the knot in your lower stomach and hold on the desk as you cum around Joel’s cock. Your orgasm hits hard, and closing your eyes, you shudder, coming down from your release. 

“That’s it honey, that’s it. Good girl, fuck baby, ‘m not gonna last much longer, Jesus-.” Joel grunts as his thrust gets more and more sloppier. Joel presses deep inside you. He leans forward, pressing his chest against your back as cums. His warm load releases inside your sensitive cunt. You both let out a moan together before relaxing against his desk. You feel him slide out of him, you breathing heavily. 

Joel slowly pulls out after taking a couple of seconds to catch your breath. He lets out a low groaning “Goddamn.” 

He sits back on the chair. He gently grabs your waist, pulling you into his lap. You turn, pulling Joel into a kiss.

“I love you, sweetheart, but we gotta head out before the alarm comes on.” You nod, kiss his cheek, and then down his neck, feeling his hands on your waist.

“You don’t know the alarm code to your own construction office?” you ask a bit skeptically, but Joel just laughs and hands your skirt to you from the floor. 

“I know the code, smartass, just don't feel like messing with the damn thing.” he explains as he’s cleaning you off with a tissue. You nod before leaving his lap, putting your skirt and underwear back on as Joel adjusts his pants. 

“Oh shit, almost forgot. The Smiths said they want to change the hardwood they chose because they don’t think it matches the new wallpaper and wanted to expand the kitchen..” Joel turns his computer off, grabs his coat, and his hand goes to your waist, leading you out of his office. He listens to you tell him about the client from earlier. Ushering you out the door to his truck. 

“Honey… I don't work after 5 p.m., so you don't work after 5 p.m., come on.” He opens the passenger seat of his truck before getting in the driver's seat.

“I know, I just need to write it down so I don’t forget my boss is a real hard ass.” Joel rolls his eyes at your teasing, as he pulls out of the office parking lot leaving, to take you home.

[coffee-and-geto]

CAN YOU HEAR HER NAME? — part two.

“You know we shouldn’t have met, right?” “I’ve never had any luck, troublemaker. No matter who I meet, I destroy everything I touch.”

❦ pairing: professor!toji x f!reader

❦ summary: you are a student of criminal studies at a prestigious university with one goal in mind: get your father out of prison one day. but how will you react when your new professor in the subject, as attractive as he is odious, comes to replace your old teacher who has deserted the post? especially when that new teacher is keeping a secret that will jeopardize your plans. one thing’s for sure, your life will never be the same again...

❦ warnings: +18 only, dead dove: do not eat!!, smut, nsfw, violence with graphic description, vulgar language, mention of bullying/suicide/weapons/drugs/gambling, mature and dark content, toxic parental relationships, murders, yakuzas, panic attacks, heavy angst, fluff, manipulation, childhood trauma, death, grief, betrayal, hurt with/without comfort, student/teacher relationship (fictional, not real!!), depiction of the life of a hitman/appearance of yakuzas, enemies to lovers, but not a real slow burn, dark academia vibe, art by @/521jie.

❦ wc: 10,000

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

series masterlist | ao3

“Unfortunately for you, a sinner cannot afford to protect the wings of an angel. He might dirty them. Or worse, burn them in trying to help.”

His words blur within the drowning sea of memories that twist through your mind.

“Tell me something… You really like to put yourself in danger wherever you go, don’t you, troublemaker?”

His rough fingers tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, his emerald irises lingering on your figure a little too long in the lecture hall before he looks away, his arms wrapping around your waist to protect you from the vase, his lips crashing against yours just before devouring them…

All these memories swirl like a maelstrom in which you are submerged, your arms desperately trying to escape in order to flee the forbidden moments you shared. But every time you turn your head, one face keeps coming back to you.

“Can you hear me?”

From jet-black hair with strands as sharp as stalactites, almond eyes that find your gaze before piercing through to your soul and—

“Hello, Moon, this is Earth?”

Your head jerks up. “Huh?”

Shoko raises an eyebrow mischievously. “Were you listening to me?”

You blink, still a little shaken from your friend’s grounding. It feels like you’ve been pulled out of a drowning situation you thought you wouldn’t escape. The light from the library almost blinds you, and for a second, an unpleasant buzzing persists in your ear, making you grimace slightly.

“Yes, yes… You were talking about…” Your eyes fall on her medical textbook on the table, and you glance back up at her. “Your… presentation on anatomy?” you attempt with little conviction, still frowning.

Seeing your sorry face, Shoko shakes her head as you mutter a soft ’sorry’. “What were you thinking about?” And in your silence, she adds, “Or rather, who were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you mumble to avoid the conversation drifting into too dangerous waters.

It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten that you’re in the university library. Small groups of students linger in the aisles, quietly gossiping about the latest news, others immersed in their work, or those simply here to enjoy the calm of the massive room to sleep for an hour or two.

As for you and Shoko, you’ve settled into your favorite corner at the back of the library, where a four-person table is monopolized by the two of you, and a stained-glass window provides the perfect angle on the courtyard.

“I was talking about the upcoming sales. But from the looks of it, it seems like you don’t care about that either.”

You run a hand over your face to refresh your distracted mind. It’s not the first time lately that you’ve been called out for your absent-mindedness. But it’s not like you can do anything about it.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit tired lately,” you reply with a small, weak smile. “And the sales? Would you like to go together?”

“Yep,” she confirms, chewing on the blue cap of her pen before glancing at her laptop screen. “It’ll be a while for both of us, but it’d be even better if we bought a new dress or two, right? You know, for the parties.”

The idea pops into your mind, and just the thought of a relaxing trip to the mall with your friend tempts you. It’s almost as if you want to forget about the sales and swipe your credit card through every clothing store as if changing your wardrobe would erase your memory.

“Why not,” you reply, a warm bubble swelling in your chest. “It’s been a while since we did a shopping spree.”

“Perfect then.” She closes her textbook, closing yours at the same time. “Tell me,” she leans toward you so only you can hear her, but you already see her mischievous smile pulling at the corner of her pink lips, “Was it your professor again, hmm? Are you becoming like all those other girls?”

In immediate reaction, your heart skips a beat, and despite your traitorous flushed cheeks, your thick civil code acts as a weapon as you hit her arm. “Shoko!” you protest, stung.

She pulls back slightly, stifling her laughter with a hand over her mouth as the old, unpleasant librarian walks past your tables with a glare as sharp as her long nails.

Once she’s passed, Shoko leans toward you again to add, still teasing, “Come on, admit it, you’re finally drooling over him because of his irresistible charm.” She emphasizes the last word by looking up at the sky like a fangirl.

You gasp. “Absolutely not, and keep this up, and I swear I’ll make you eat my civil code,” you threaten, despite the constant warmth in your face.

“Your tomato face speaks for you anyway.”

“No, but Shoko!” you protest again.

“Shhhhhh!!” The librarian hisses sharply in your direction, her angry expression ending the conversation.

~~~~

“As for the rest of the year, your Master’s programs will need to be accompanied by alternating internships,” Professor Higuruma announces from his desk at the bottom of the lecture hall stage.

His eyelids, heavy with an evident lack of sleep, make him look on the verge of dozing off, yet all attention is on him. From his black suit to his perfectly ironed white shirt, and his sharp aquiline nose, Professor Higuruma never fails to draw eyes to himself, no matter what he says. Especially with his reputation as an outstanding lawyer at a prestigious firm.

“And so, my colleagues and I are offering to take part in this process to make things easier for some of you.”

You sit up slightly in your chair, ears more attuned than ever, making sure you don’t miss a single word.

He continues, “This means that spots with us will be limited and will only be reserved for those who prove themselves worthy of working alongside us. The rest will have to manage on their own to find internships.” He waves his hand dismissively as if brushing away the thought before lowering his gaze back to his files.

Working with Higuruma?

That’s practically a dream come true at this point.

As the bell signals the end of class, you hurriedly pack up your things, eager to join your friends in the cafeteria. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, too distracted to notice as you accidentally bump into someone while queuing up.

A broad back, wide shoulders, and an athletic yet lean build.

The person turns around, revealing a head of near-white hair and a pair of cerulean eyes, half-hidden behind round sunglasses.

“Ah, we were looking for you,” Satoru announces, stepping beside you with his tray.

“Where are they?” you can’t help but ask as you start filling your own tray with food.

Satoru grins. “Already eating. Probably talking about what we’re gonna do with Suguru,” he chuckles. And when you give him a skeptical look, he shakes his head, prolonging the suspense.

After both finish picking out your food, your friend walks alongside you toward a four-seater table already occupied by your brunette friend and Suguru, who has tied his hair into a half-bun, leaving the rest of his long, raven-black strands draping over his shoulders.

Upon reaching them, Shoko only lifts her eyes from her phone to acknowledge your arrival before immediately lowering her gaze back to her Instagram feed. “What’s new?” she asks the group without much interest, making Satoru roll his eyes.

“Kids and their phones…” he mutters as he sits down.

Suguru and you exchange an amused glance as Shoko slowly raises her head from her screen before practically shoving her phone in Satoru’s face. “Says the one who posts sixteen stories in one night?”

Just as he’s about to defend himself, Suguru steps on his foot to shut him up. “Anyway.”

“What’s got you two so excited?” you ask, taking a bite of your fish.

“Well, well, well,” the albino hums as he digs into his salad appetizer. “Suguru and I have decided to rejoin the university rugby team this year,” he announces, flashing his signature mischievous grin, mouth still full.

“To get crushed by Kyoto again?” you snicker. "Yeah, and I’m switching to medicine with Shoko."

Shoko and Suguru join in on your laughter while Satoru glares at you, holding an open yogurt cup threateningly, ready to fling it at your face.

Once the laughter finally dies down, he reaches into his bag, pulling out a brand-new rugby ball. Holding it up like a trophy, he twirls it between his long, agile fingers before tossing it to Suguru, who catches it effortlessly mid-air.

“We’re gonna beat Kyoto this year, and I even bought my own lucky ball,” Satoru insists.

“More like a cursed ball,” you mutter to Shoko, chortling a bit. Then, you turn to look at Satoru and Suguru again. “And what about that brute from last year? Aoi, wasn’t it? How do you plan to beat someone who practically smashed your faces in?”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

The two boys exchange a knowing look before directing their gazes a few tables away. You turn around, confused.

Satoru adds, “Zenin is signing up too.”

Your eyes land on Maki Zenin, a student with dark green hair tied in a high ponytail, sitting with her friends Yuta, Panda, and Toge several tables away, entirely unaware of your group’s attention.

Turning back to the boys, you frown. “Her? She’s strong?”

“Strong?” Suguru scoffs as if your question is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Wait till you see her at practice, and then we’ll see if you can find a better word.” He pauses when he notices your confusion.

How does he even know her when she wasn’t on the team last year?

“She goes to the gym, does wrestling, and Taekwondo,” he clarifies.

You let out an impressed whistle.

Shoko raises her eyebrows, equally surprised. “Have they announced the training sessions yet?”

“Coming soon, yeah.”

Satoru pauses. A smirk starts tugging at the corner of his lips as he raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me our lovely ladies will come to watch us train? Aww, I’m flattered.”

You exchange a glance with Shoko again. “More like filming you picking your nose during practice, but yeah, why not,” you reply with a mischievous half-smile, but Satoru doesn’t lose his.

Instead, he snatches the rugby ball from Suguru’s lap and starts playing with it — balancing it on his head with impressive control, rolling it across his shoulders and arms — prompting yet another whistle from you, though this time, there’s a hint of teasing in your tone.

“If you’re trying to get people’s attention, congratulations, you got it. Now stop,” Shoko grumbles, returning to her phone, annoyed by the number of eyes now on your table because of him.

It’s true; a good number of students are now staring.

Satoru is a popular quantum physics student who thrives on attention, loves showing off his strength, and — well, he’s Satoru Gojo, you know.

A tall, striking albino charismatic enough to convince the entire university to throw a party? That’s him. Flirting with literally anyone — women, men, and even objects (yeah, you heard me)? He’s practically a professional at it. Though you’ve never failed to notice the shift in his gaze whenever he looks at his own best friend.

Suguru, on the other hand, is humble but equally as cunning as Satoru. He can attract attention too, but he remains far more composed. They seem like complete opposites, yet their bond is brotherly, inseparable. And when you catch, out of the corner of your eye, the way Suguru is glaring at a group of giggling girls ogling Satoru from afar, a thought crosses your mind — an idea of—

“It’d be a shame if the whole school found out you barely drink alcohol just ’cause you can’t handle it, hmm?” Suguru mutters out of the corner of his mouth, stabbing a piece of carrot with his fork as if skewering it. His tone is dry, irritated. “Or maybe that you currently have a hemorrhoid in your right ass cheek that’s keeping you from hitting the gym?”

Immediately, Satoru’s rugby ball loses its balance on his head and falls straight onto his plate — landing right in his mashed potatoes with a sickening splat.

~~~~

From your seat in the middle of the lecture hall, the relentless rain from earlier that afternoon continues to batter against the enormous windows, giving a vague idea of how late it’s already getting for a typical student day. The deepening blue of the sky soon blends into the darkness of the swaying tree branches, shaken by the wind, which seems just as unwilling to leave.

The cold weather is reflected just as much inside the room, dragging down the general morale of the students — and, unfortunately, that of the one person everyone, without exception, wished it wouldn’t affect.

The dreaded Professor Fushiguro.

His tall, imposing frame moves sharply and swiftly between the rows, handing back graded dissertations, their pages streaked with red ink as if it had bled all over them.

It’s no surprise that yours — despite the B- circled on the first page — is riddled with red scribbles, as sharp and cutting as the personality of your criminology professor.

Determined to improve, you have always made it a habit to seek out your professors to better understand your mistakes and avoid repeating them.

A habit that has become particularly delicate since the last time you saw Professor Fushiguro under… circumstances better left buried in the grave, wouldn’t you say?

The hostile gaze he casts over every student is reason enough to abandon the idea of approaching him here and instead wait to speak with him in his office. Like before. Before he—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Even through the heavy oak door separating you from the professor’s office, you hear the irritated sigh before a nearly growled “Come in” reaches your ears.

You push open the door with a certain apprehension, your muscles tense.

The office hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here.

Bookshelves line the walls, filling nearly every available space, though you highly doubt Professor Fushiguro is an avid reader. The walls are painted in muted autumnal tones, the same Persian rug covers the floor, and the same dark hues dominate every piece of furniture — from the massive mahogany desk where he sits, to the polished hardwood floor, the black window frames, and the brown leather chair.

As you carefully close the door behind you, the fear that he might kick you out immediately grips you. The air is so thick with tension that neither of you dares to speak — just two figures frozen in place, eyes slightly widened by the sheer weight of the moment.

Fear.

Which kind?

That’s the real question.

Act normal, just like always, you keep repeating the thought in your head, teeth clenched as you finally settle into the chair across from your professor.

Today, he wears the same kind of outfit as usual, but you notice, with some curiosity, that there’s always a slight variation. Sometimes his tie is a shade darker, or the color carries a cooler undertone.

Shoving those irrelevant observations aside, you clear your throat, your throat drier than ever.

“I’d like to go over the points I might have missed in my paper that led to a—“

“A B-, yes,” he murmurs, one elbow resting on the desk, his eyes never leaving his laptop screen. His fingers absentmindedly toy with his lower lip — a nervous habit? Or stress?

Encouraged by his response, you pull out the pages of your dissertation and slide them toward him.

“Exactly. I read through your comments—“

“And is that never enough for you?” He rolls his eyes, and that single second of dismissal is enough to cool your resolve. He types a few more words on his keyboard before adding:

“Do you really think I don’t put enough effort into marking your work? Do you really need to come all the way here just to clarify what’s already perfectly clear and—“

“It’s too concise,” you cut him off, pushing your paper closer to him, hoping he’ll finally detach himself from that damn laptop and pay real attention to you. Even though, deep down, you already understand why he’s acting this way.

Your heartbeat quickens slightly as you lean in just a fraction more toward the desk, toward him, and insist, “Professor.”

The second your whisper falls between you, Professor Fushiguro nearly snaps his neck turning to look at you.

His emerald eyes are unreadable, yet filled with a chaotic mixture of emotions. His irritated expression softens, as do his furrowed brows — mirroring yours.

For a split second, his gaze flickers downward — to your slightly parted lips, waiting for his response — before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

He thinks you didn’t notice.

Hands trembling ever so slightly, you pull them back from the edge of the desk, resting them on your lap over your black stockings. You inch back just a little, re-establishing a safer distance.

Fushiguro follows suit, adjusting himself in his chair before finally picking up your paper, skimming through the pages, eyes flickering over his own barely legible notes scrawled in sharp red ink.

During those seemingly endless seconds, you find yourself watching him more closely. His dark, smooth hair — slightly unkempt, yet effortlessly striking. The shadow of his jawline, even more prominent from your angle. The muscle in his jaw that keeps flexing and relaxing as his eyes dart between the lines.

When he finally looks up, he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“Can you even read?” he deadpans.

“I just need you to explain my mistakes as you correct them. If you need to go over the lesson again, I’m willing to stay as long as—“

“You’re not supposed to stay in my office for who knows how long just to go over mistakes that are already clearly explained in my feedback," he shoots back, narrowing his eyes. “You do realize people have eyes, don’t you? There are tutoring centers with students who’d be more than happy to—“

“I don’t need that,” you interrupt, snatching your paper from his rough, calloused hands—hands big enough to entirely cover yours, making it disappear beneath his palm. "What kind of professor are you?" you mutter under your breath, irritation creeping into your tone. "If this is about last time—"

“Leave.”

The single word freezes you in place.

You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What happened last time isn’t—“

The professor abruptly rises to his feet, and the sheer weight of his presence instantly silences you.

“I said get out.” The words escape his lips faster, louder, and harsher than he probably intended.

Eyes wide, you don’t even dare to exhale, the stray lock of hair in front of your face remaining undisturbed by your breath.

Then, finally, you give up — even if this moment didn’t last as long as you had planned.

“You’re just a coward,” you spit before standing up just as abruptly as his voice had risen, grabbing your things and turning your back on him to storm out of the room.

As the door slams shut with a dull thud, Toji slowly sinks back into his chair, his body feeling heavier than it has in days. A sigh escapes his lips as he leans back against the seat, pressing his cold hands over his burning face.

~~~~

“…and this one…” You hand him your certified copies, each marked with a bold A+ or sometimes an A-, encircled neatly. Your small, hopeful smile is stiff with tension. “This was recent. I spent hours at the library studying.”

Your palm, clammy with a feverish warmth, brushes against the glass surface of the table — so cold it feels almost glacial. Your fingers, trembling in micro-shakes, nudge the papers forward just a little more, silently urging your father to take them.

His bloodshot eyes drop onto the copies, but he doesn’t bother reading the carefully written remarks from your professors. He doesn’t even pick up the sheets to grant them a semblance of interest.

“Not bad,” he finally says, one hand gripping his unshaven chin, scratching at the irritated skin as if lost in thought. “See what happens when you actually try?” he adds after an exhale that sounds almost relieved. The tension in his shoulders loosens slightly.

Your own muscles relax instantly in your chair. You retrieve your papers, though the persistent sting in your chest lingers — after all the effort you put in, the fleeting relief of not being in conflict with him lasts barely a second.

It’s a shame, really, to give your all only to receive the bare minimum in return.

“Sorry I couldn’t do better before,” you murmur, lowering your gaze to the table. Your father lets out a dry chuckle — not mocking, but lighter than it could have been.

“It’s good that you recognize your faults and are trying to make up for them by improving,” he says, arms crossing over his chest, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

As you pack up your things, a thought suddenly resurfaces, prompting you to lift your head. “My criminal justice professor is offering an internship for the top students,” you tell him with a slight smile. “I’m thinking of applying and working a little harder to be among the first selected. Mr. Higuruma is the best, you know.”

Then, in a last attempt to make a better impression, your eyes gleaming with hope, you add, “He’s one of the best lawyers in Japan.”

The words seem to strike a chord.

In a sharp, almost instinctive movement, your father jerks his head up, suddenly giving you the full attention he’s never granted before.

“Good.” He clears his throat, his voice slightly rough. “Excellent, even. Make connections.”

You nod, swinging your bag over your shoulder before leaving the visiting room of the penitentiary center.

By the time you get home, the once-dimming sky has given way to a nighttime landscape, where only the distant hooting of owls replaces the birdsong from earlier. A handful of stars glimmer in the deep blue sky — a beautiful sight, one you hadn’t taken the time to notice in a while.

In the shower, the droplets crash heavily against your skin. The water is hot, yet somehow, it feels as if it’s carrying the weight of your exhausted body.

Once in your pajamas, you feel no urge to stay up longer than necessary to study. With your hair still damp, you curl up in bed, strands sprawled over the pillow. As you close your eyes, you secretly hope that sleep will offer more comfort than certain people ever could.

People who have failed you. Irrevocably.

~~~~

In the small classroom where students start to pour in as the bell rings, Toji grabs a piece of white chalk and writes the lesson’s objective on the board:

“Acquire specific knowledge about certain criminal behaviors.”

The murmurs gradually fade, stifled by the sharp snap of the door closing as Toji shuts it behind the last student to enter. Silence settles in immediately — tense, expectant.

Toji has always had a way of commanding respect. His deep, powerful voice carries the same weight as his silence. He never has to demand authority — it imposes itself.

With a slow, sweeping glance, he scans the room, instinctively taking in every face… until his eyes land on an empty seat.

Yours.

A slight furrow creases his brow. It’s not like you to be late. A quiet inhale, a blink to push aside the unnecessary thought. It’s not his problem. It never has been.

Straightening up, he wastes no time switching on the projector and getting straight to the point.

“Today, we’ll be studying the behavior of past criminals to deepen your understanding of criminal psychology. This course is essential for those pursuing careers in law, law enforcement, profiling, or any profession related to behavioral analysis.”

A pause. Then, in a steadier, more deliberate tone, he continues:

“I’ve chosen our subject of study: Jeffrey Dahmer.”

A faint shiver seems to ripple through the room. Some students straighten up; others exchange intrigued glances. A flicker of amusement brushes against Toji. He gets why some teachers enjoy their job — when students are this captivated, everything becomes more interesting.

He crosses his arms, his expression unreadable, though a faint gleam of interest sparks in his eyes.

“Crime isn’t just blood and headlines. It’s a method. A pattern. An instinct.”

A faint creak draws his attention to the door, which hesitantly cracks open. A familiar strand of hair peeks through the gap.

For a moment, Toji refuses to believe it. But his instincts never fail him.

You.

Your figure follows, more hesitant than usual, moving through the small room under a few curious glances. As you pass him, you mumble a vague, barely audible, “Sorry,” eyes avoiding him.

Toji watches you in silence, his expression impassive. He should call you out for being late. But he doesn’t have the energy — not when he sees your unsteady steps and the unnatural pallor on your face.

Instead, he simply looks away and resumes in a neutral tone:

“As I was saying…”

Feigning indifference, he fixes his gaze somewhere in the room, avoiding yours. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

Nothing happened between you.

That’s what he’s been telling himself since last time. What he has to keep telling himself.

Yet, as he continues his lecture, he can’t help but notice — from the corner of his eye — your trembling hand gripping your pen, your shoulders slightly tense as you take notes with forced concentration, as if trying to ignore your own discomfort. Or at least, that’s what he assumes. Your dark circles look deeper.

His eyes linger a fraction of a second too long. A student catches his gaze and quickly buries themselves in their notes, uneasy. Toji’s jaw tightens imperceptibly before he leans down to display the next slide.

An image appears on the screen: Jeffrey Dahmer’s impassive face during one of his many trials in the ‘90s.

“Jeffrey Dahmer.”

His voice resonates—low, steady.

“Serial killer, necrophile, cannibal. A man who could’ve gone unnoticed but ended up exposing himself.”

A tense silence fills the air. Some students swallow discreetly.

“His method?” Toji lets the pause hang. “Targeting vulnerable victims. Isolated prey. Gaining their trust… before trapping them.”

And this time, he feels your gaze — uneasy, restless, yet futile.

A strange flush rises to your cheeks, but given your almost swaying stance and the way your eyes flicker unstably toward him, an unsettling premonition prickles at the back of his mind.

But with a slight tilt of his head, he dismisses the distracting thought — once again.

Thirty minutes pass. Toji carries on with his lesson uninterrupted. He concludes Dahmer’s biography, letting a heavy silence settle, each student absorbing his words, their attention suspended on the chilling details he unveils. Some avert their eyes, lost in thought, while others remain fixated on the screen.

He continues, diving into the psychology behind criminal behavior, ignoring both the students’ discomfort and their unwavering focus.

A brief nod. Then, his voice takes on a peculiar coldness.

“All of this falls under criminal psychology. The behaviors, the actions… the warning signs.”

He pauses, sweeping his gaze across the room — until, for a split second, he catches what he thinks is your blurred, lost expression, almost pleading for his attention.

Against his better judgment, Toji stares a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

It only takes him turning his back — to you and the entire class — for the sharp scrape of a chair to jolt his ears, making him freeze.

Footsteps. Unsteady, faltering, uneven — light yet heavy and clumsy at the same time.

Or at least, that’s what he thinks he’s hearing.

He turns back to confirm his suspicion — and is met with the dreadful sight of you, staggering, gripping tables for support as if the ground itself is tilting beneath your feet.

Chapped lips part slightly in his direction, your face deathly pale with a sickly green tinge. Your eyes are beyond pleading — vacant, unfocused.

Toji stands momentarily frozen, just as the entire class holds its breath when you murmur, barely holding onto the wall:

“Need to… infirmary…”

Your brows furrow as if battling through pain. And judging by your shaky stance, it’s as if the floor is slipping away beneath you.

Regaining composure in an instant, Toji takes a slow, hesitant step forward — then rushes to catch you just as your legs give out entirely.

In a firm, controlled grip, a distant part of his mind registers that every student is watching. Watching him. Watching the person he’s supposed to hate the most.

His strong arms brace your back, holding you upright as professionally as possible. But the moment your unfocused eyes flutter toward him, he crosses the line he’s been so desperate to maintain.

His voice drops to a whisper, low enough for only you to hear:

“Don’t do this to me…”

The near-inaudible strain in his own voice catches him off guard. But in your now unconscious state, you don’t hear it.

And Toji doubts it even matters anymore.

Exhaling at last — almost in exasperation — he slides an arm beneath your knees and hoists you up effortlessly. He barely tilts his head toward the class, masking any trace of emotion beneath a composed facade.

“A student has passed out. I’m taking her to the infirmary. Class is dismissed.”

~~~~

Your body refuses to respond. Everything seems to come from a distant place — sounds, muffled, swallowed by what feels like the depths of the ocean. Only your hearing seems to resurface, because even as you try to move your limbs slightly, none of them obey. Every part of you is numb.

“...Fuck... couldn’t wait... end... faint...?”

Your eyes flutter open gradually, your blurred vision adjusting slightly but not quite enough. A gentle, rhythmic sway of your hair tells you that you’re on a swing. Or a hammock?

A dark, familiar shirt, infused with a perfume of Yves Saint Laurent — Myself, the one you smell every time he’s around — fills your senses. Massive arms — maybe twice the size of yours — enclose you, holding you relentlessly against a warm chest.

The swaying is pleasant, like a lull. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this light.

A sinister creak nearly makes you wince. A door.

“...student... fainted...” The sound reaches you a little more clearly this time. Deep, low, and composed. A man’s voice.

Another, sharper, feminine, hurried. “...other students... no time... sugar... water... the cabinet...”

Bit by bit, the words exchanged become more than just vague sounds. You begin to process them — and that’s what matters. Especially when you realize you’re in the arms of the last person you’d ever want to be.

You’re carefully laid down onto a mattress, a bed, or maybe a thin foam pad. Just enough to keep it from being too uncomfortable.

Shadows hover over you, growing sharper. One broader, the other slimmer. A woman.

Her cold hand brushes your cheek, then your forehead, before she directs a question at the bulkier figure.

“Did she eat anything?”

Before he can answer — because he doesn’t have an answer — you force your stiff neck to shake your head, though the movement is weak. Still, she seems to understand. She shrugs on some kind of jacket, one you can’t quite make out — not because your vision is still unfocused, but because of the dim, almost eerie lighting in the room.

One of them opens a window, letting in just enough fresh air to brush against your exposed skin, reviving you slightly. The slimmer shadow — the nurse, now that you’re beginning to regain awareness — steps away, leaving you alone with a professor who looks just as lost as you feel.

A soft click of the door. And then, silence.

Pins and needles tingle at the tips of your fingers and toes — a sign that your sense of touch is returning. You swallow. Your head still aches, a throbbing pain pressing at your temples, as if your blood is rushing too fast in one place.

Your lashes flutter as the world around you sharpens, your surroundings becoming clearer. You’re definitely in the infirmary. Pushing yourself up slightly on your arms, you take in the dingy little room, right as the grumbling of a certain professor fills the space.

“Is she fucking serious? What the hell am I supposed to do…?”

Toji’s broad frame rummages through the cabinets above a tiny, chipped sink, the paint peeling in layers that must be over thirty years old. The space is cramped — just a small stainless-steel basin and a counter, half-buried under a mess of paperwork. Coffee and tea mugs, used and abandoned, are stacked haphazardly around the sink, untouched for what looks like days.

“I’m fine…” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. He doesn’t acknowledge it.

It’s already a miracle when Professor Fushiguro finally pulls a glass from one of the cabinets, along with a small box of sugar packets. He gives the glass a quick glance — just enough to make sure nothing is crawling in it — before filling it with tap water.

You focus on the sound of the running water, grounding yourself so you don’t collapse again when you attempt to sit up properly. The effort is pointless when Toji rips open a sugar packet and lets it dissolve into the glass, stirring lazily through the liquid with a spoon he probably found just clean enough.

He holds out the glass to you, his movements measured, keeping a deliberate distance — though that’s nearly impossible in such a cramped, cluttered space.

But you don’t react. Your eyes stay locked on the swirling sugar in the water, watching the undissolved granules dance in a slow, hypnotic spiral.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He grabs your hand, ignoring the way your eyes scream at him — intrusionintrusionintrusionintrusion — letting his jet-black hair fall carelessly over his face as he forces you to take the glass.

Your fingers barely manage to wrap around it. The glass trembles under your weak grip, your strength failing before you can even lift it.

Toji notices the moment the water spills over the rim, dripping onto your shoes, your feet dangling over the side of the infirmary bed.

“Fuck’s sake...” he mutters under his breath, jaw tightening as he snatches the glass back.

This time, he brings it to your lips himself, and though your body tenses at the gesture, you part your lips reluctantly, allowing the cool water to soothe your parched throat.

Your eyes remain fixed on the wall behind him, choosing to glare at the cracks in the peeling paint rather than acknowledge the smug, knowing smirk that threatens to curl at the edges of his lips.

Your silence, your refusal to react, contrasts with the flicker of amusement in Toji’s sharp green eyes. Different from the last time he’d been this close to you.

As soon as the glass is empty, you exhale, clearing your throat, your voice oddly hoarse.

“You should’ve just let me come here on my own.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, the sound surprisingly soft to your ears. Maybe one of the rare times you’ve heard him do anything other than grumble.

Straightening up, he carelessly places the glass in the sink.

“You might’ve forgotten that you passed out in my arms in front of the whole class, huh? Or am I wrong?”

You furrow your brows. “I just felt a little dizzy.”

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms while scrutinizing your face more attentively, his usual dark aura intensified by the lack of light in the room. Another cold draft runs down your spine, making the thin line of sweat trickling along it feel even more chilling.

“And a heatstroke,” you add in a muttered grumble, groggy and displeased, casting an evasive glance toward the empty cabinet in the corner of the infirmary.

“I can leave, by the way. I feel better.”

You push against your hands to stand up, only to almost collapse again as a sudden wave of vertigo assaults your skull.

“You’re staying here.”

Having a different plan from yours, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and forces you back down onto the infirmary cot. 

With a sigh that implies you are nothing but a nuisance, Fushiguro ignores your incessant murmuring, opens the cabinets again, and seems to find what he was looking for as his brows relax, accompanied by a quiet “Ah.”

You roll your eyes as he approaches once more, this time with a cloth he has just dampened, bringing it toward your face to press against your undoubtedly flushed skin.

Lifting a weak hand, you push his hand.

“I can do it myself, it’s fine…”

“Do you ever shut up?” he retorts in an exasperated whisper.

So exasperated, in fact, that you don’t even answer back. He pushes your hand down onto your lap and leans in slightly, pressing the cool cloth against your forehead, your cheeks, your chin — where the fabric lingers a second too long.

Destabilized, you hold your breath. Your eyes meet the moment he flickers up from your lips to lock onto yours.

“You’re really funny,” he comments in a low voice, a hint of mocking amusement laced in his tone.

“Do I look funny?” you snap back in contrast, sharp, cutting, despite the pleasant sensation of the cold cloth against your fevered skin.

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to get mad again if I say yes?”

A sigh escapes your chapped lips, which you refrain from wetting, fearing he might misinterpret the gesture as something misplaced and inappropriate, even though that is far from your intention.

Every single one of his movements has a way of irritating you.

“The nurse said you probably had a hypoglycemic episode. Didn’t eat this morning?” he asks with indifference, folding the cloth in half to press a colder side against your skin.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you murmur, barely audible.

He hums, his gaze as neutral as if you had just told him it was raining outside.

“Cover up and eat like the perfect girl you want people to think you are, then.” He steps away to rinse the cloth and wring it out again. On his way back, he drags the nurse’s stool closer, sits down, and resumes his task.

For a fleeting moment, you consider closing your eyes, but fearing he might make a remark, you resist the heaviness of your eyelids, longing for sleep that you stubbornly deny them.

Instead, you fix your gaze on him, scrutinizing him as if it were the first time — not the countless times too many.

There’s a faint, graying scar at the corner of his lips. Left side. The question of how he got it suddenly burns at the tip of your tongue.

“Where’s that from?” And when he furrows his brows, you make a chin wave. He instantly understands what you are referring to.

“Mind your own business.”

“You are daring.”

“As much as you, troublemaker,” he murmurs in a low, gravelly voice, his wrist momentarily freezing as the cloth lingers against your jawline.

The nickname rings out like an old cassette tape someone is trying to rewind.

A past memory someone tried to distort, to bury, to erase forever.

But no matter how deep it’s pushed away, it always resurfaces.

And you two—

You haunt each other.

Never allowing the other to forget a single look, a single touch, a single moment.

Every night, your last thoughts slip into sleep, only for sleep to act not as a relief, but as a mediator. Not to resolve your conflicts, but to bring you back together. To let your souls collide again, even when your bodies refuse to.

Forgetting is impossible.

Even if you force it.

Even if you walk away.

Even if you break, even if you hate, even if you love.

So why not give in?

Lean in. Let your breaths mix, coaxing each other closer like an unspoken spell, a pull, an inevitability — until your fates are sealed by the few inches still left between you.

Eyes locked, unable to meet in any way other than the one dictated by a kiss. A mere press, fleeting in weight, dissolving into the heat of the moment. Never truly feeling the agony of not merging, of always being stuck orbiting each other—

The torture of blinking, because closing your eyes feels like falling into darkness.

Because the second you open them, they might be gone.

Because the moment before might have been nothing more than a dream.

A distant memory, only replayed in the most desperate moments, when you feel at your lowest.

One blink, and the moment will vanish.

One blink, and—

One blink—

One—

With all the effort it would take to lift an anchor barehanded from a ship lost at sea, Toji slowly draws back.

For a brief moment, his eyelids had threatened to close.

But he won’t make that mistake again.

You were never supposed to meet. Let alone end up like this.

So he chooses to close his eyes only when, in the quietest rustle of fabric, you slip out of the infirmary — leaving behind a stolen breath, without ever having touched him.

~~~~

The next few days passed as slowly as they did quickly. A good week in bed, a treatment with medication and a good night’s sleep, always accompanied by a complete diet, your doctor had said with an insistent look at the three words.

The days are as frequently rainy as usual. The nights are just as cold. The landscape is greener, though, you mentally note, temple pressed to your bedroom window.

An exhausted sigh escapes you.

The last events at the university were, unfortunately, those spent in the infirmary with Professor Fushiguro. The torrid radiation of his body next to yours, his gaze plunged into yours, as if lost in the whirlwind of shared memories with vestiges that will never fade.

Every look, every moment gets worse and worse. Crosses the barriers of the forbidden. A ban that turns into irresistible audacity. Impossible to fight.

It’s bad. It’s wrong. And you know it.

That’s why you’ve decided to forget what happened — or at least try to — and take the day off from going back to university on Friday while you’re still on your feet. The weekend has begun, so you might as well catch up on what you’ve been missing.

It’s a better thing to do than let yourself be tormented by persistent thoughts — far too persistent to simply ignore - of your criminological theory professor.

So it’s sitting at your desk, nose plunged in front of your laptop, that your phone rings, vibrating in the corner of the cold wooden surface alongside manuals and printed documents.

First of all, it’s a masked number calling you. And you take the initiative not to answer. No. That’s not advisable, so you ignore the call until it ends.

Returning your attention, still slightly disturbed by this unexpected call, the lessons come back to you. They’re certain, safe. Rational.

Half an hour later, this time it’s a complete number that appears on your phone screen — a number for a real person like you. Just like anyone else. So you decide to take the trouble to answer it, your hand tightening slightly around your screen as you press the button to accept the call.

“Hello?” you say.

There is no answer.

A deathly silence completely paralyzes you as you try as best you can to open your now dry mouth a second time.

“Hello?” you repeat.

But only the chilling silence of the line persisted.

Then, without warning, the call was hung up.

With your heart pumping too fast and too hard in your ribcage, you put your phone back down with not your hand trembling, and your whole body shivering and your muscles frail.

It’s not your habit to panic over a call that could just have been a mistake or a scam — you never know.

But since you started school, nothing has been the same.

You’ve reached a point where every strange or abnormal moment in your life alerts you to a life-threatening danger. Adrenalin pumping more often than it should, or attention sharper than a student cheating on an exam. Every rustle, every sound, every breath is perceived by you.

And it doesn’t matter if people call you paranoid.

Your curtains are drawn. Your front door is double-locked. It’s dead silent in your apartment, and the sun has already set.

Yet the pressure has never been so intense.

Catching the breath you’ve been unconsciously holding, you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs.

Fuck.

And to break down the growing pressure on you, your phone has to vibrate on your table.

A new message.

As you lean your face close to the notification that appears, your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.

XXX-XXX-XXX : Open the door

So someone is there, behind your door, just waiting for you to open it and slit your throat or worse.

Your mouth dehydrated, your swallowing not going and your dead heart losing your brain as you try to figure out what to do.

Call the police?

What if they hear you?

What if he breaks in?

Fuck!

Your legs drag you into the kitchen, every limb shaking in ways you can’t control.

Not now, though.

Your fingers wrap around the thickest, largest knife you have and you pull it out of its compartment. No choice.

Breathlessly, with your back pressed against the flat of the door and your face half-turned towards the peephole, your right eye focuses on the tall, lanky, fully hooded figure — making recognition impossible.

Your sweaty hands grip the handle of your makeshift knife tighter, fearing it will slip from your fingers. Your pupils dilate, your lips part, then...

The shadow lowers its hood and a pair of emerald eyes stare at your door, looking nonchalant and annoyed at the same time.

You unlock the door immediately, and as the door opens on Professor Fushiguro, you threaten to drop the knife at your feet (a very bad idea).

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He ignores your flabbergasted expression to walk past you, while you stand at the foot of the door, still in shock. Meanwhile, Fushiguro unashamedly allows himself to slump heavily on the sofa like an unemployed dad, then lets out a sigh.

“Don’t you have something to drink?” he asks, wringing his neck to eye you up sarcastically. “I mean, it’s not polite to ignore your guests.”

And you want to stab him in the heart with his words. How dare he?

“I’ve got nothing. And what the hell are you doing here already?” you retort tartly, slamming the door to your apartment in the process.

“Checking if you weren’t dead. I was worried about you.” An odious smirk tugs the corner of his lips and he rests his arm on the armrest of the sofa, watching your murderous scowl. “What? Aren’t you happy?”

“It’s you who needs to fuck off, actually. You have nothing to do in my house and you don’t have to send me such dubious messages as to open yourself up with a gun,” you retort, still in the same tone, swinging your knife at the nearest surface — a small piece of furniture supporting a lamp. You rest a hand on your hip, eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you didn’t want anything more to do with me?”

He rises with the utmost laziness and rolls his eyes. “You have a way of drawing people into your troubles, haven’t you noticed?” he replies as he opens your fridge in search of a drink. When he finds his fill, his face lights up slightly with a satisfied expression. “Not bad.”

He picks up a can of beer, which he always opens with slow, nonchalant movements, ogling you with that snide scowl that makes you want to smash his head against your fridge.

It could be a good idea.

A pause sets in, uncomfortable and stifling. Of course you want to get your teacher out of your house — what if someone has seen him?

You need to break this silence as thick as molasses, so you look up at him, noting the significant distance between the two of you before saying:

“Explain yourself,” you both say at the same time.

You frown and, incredulous, you follow up still at the same time as him without being able to control it, “No, you.”

Then you lean against the nearest wall, an annoyed pout on your lips. “You’re the one with something to tell me.”

The remark pricks Fushiguro’s spine and he purses his lips. He seems caught in an inner dilemma before sighing and leaning against the wall opposite yours — the distance between you still as significant as ever. One of his arms is raised to support his freshly stolen beer can.

“Listen,” he begins in a low voice, ”what you saw at the bar you can forget. Neither you nor I were supposed to meet there, were we?” He sustains the heavy eye contact until you give in and nod. “Good.” He takes another sip. “I was on a mission, you were on yours despite my warnings.”

“Because I don’t have to listen to you.”

“And you don’t have to put yourself in danger,” he retorts in a tone that couldn’t be more serious, his eyes on you. “This witness business with the police must stay between us. Or do you want to die? Are you that suicidal?”

“Who told you I was in danger and would die? I may have looked suspicious, but that wouldn’t justify anything—”

“You were in danger several times during that evening,” Fushiguro cuts you off curtly, brushing aside your sentence with a wave of his hand. “My target was armed, another had a knife. Don’t you realize what could have happened to you?”

“No,” you simply reply with a crumpled, shameless expression — pure defiance, out of pride at not having to admit that he’s right and has shown more maturity and humanity than you.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he growls, rolling his eyes.

“We could very well be talking about you,” you retort in the same tone, folding your arms across your chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Since when did you stop being a block of ice?” you murmur. “Now you care about me?”

“Since you started messing up everywhere you go. A real bag of jinxes.”

You gasp at his words. “I could say the same for you who stick to me like a faithful dog!”

“You gave me a theatrical performance in the middle of class,” he retorts, outraged.

And seeing him so revolted makes the shadow of an amused smile pass over your lips. For the first time. But this is no time for laughter.

Despite your cat-and-dog retorts.

“Because I got sick! And what’s more, you refused to help me with my lessons.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need it, goddamnit. You’re one of the best in your class, and you still don’t know it? Or do you want to hide your snoopy nose behind a mask of hypocritical humility?”

His words hang in the air between you two. Your dumbfounded expression almost makes him chuckle.

Almost.

He finally snorts helplessly and rests his gaze on your kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in the room without trying to fill it.

Then you decide to do it.

“So can we pretend it never happened?” you mutter with less sourness.

You see his Adam’s apple twitch as he swallows. “Yeah,” he retorts before craning his neck toward you. “I have no intention of apologizing, troublemaker. But I would like to say in my defense that I was only protecting us. That must remain clear. It didn’t mean anything.”

And the way she avoids saying the word “kiss” makes your breathing slightly heavier around you.

You nod without breaking the silence in your turn. Night has fallen from your window and a bluish aspect of this early evening hour comforts you a little.

You’re not alone right now. And even though he’s the person you despise most in the world, this simple moment, this decision to come to you even to knock on your hinges, makes your heart weak.

Because even if that kiss didn’t mean anything, it marked a change between the two of you. In your relationship — conflicted, at best, but forever intertwined nonetheless. Even if that kiss will never mean anything to her, it will to you.

“How did you get sick?” Fushiguro asks in a low voice — conducive to an unsought but natural intimacy — as he takes yet another sip of his beer.

“Slept with my hair still wet,” you respond as you avert your gaze on the kitchen’s counter too. “And I haven’t eaten very well for a while.” You blow out a small exhalation. “It must have built up.” After a moment’s pause, you add, “But I’m better now,” as if answering an unspoken question.

The soft, intimate atmosphere warms a cold block somewhere-you don’t know where, or even him, on the spot. Opening up seems more likely now, despite the fact that there’s still this unknown that links you with Professor Fushiguro.

Him in his zip-up sweatshirt and an old pair of jogging pants straight from the thrift shop or the back of the wardrobe. And that’s when you notice how tall he is. Much taller than most teachers or students.

But it’s not just this factor that plays into it, or even his muscles drawn like those of a Greek statue.

No, it’s more an aura, an energy he exudes.

Perhaps it’s due to the environment he frequents, but you won’t know the answer to that today.

Finishing his can of beer in one gulp, Toji walks over to the nearest basket and drops the empty metal with a rustling sound. Your eyes devour him with every move he makes; the way he passes a slow glance over the details of your home, like a stray cat looking for something.

His expression is more peaceful, you notice, a little pensive pout on his lips and his eyebrows slightly furrowed in your torpor. He seems so harmless at this moment. His features are calm, open — a stark contrast to anything you’ve experienced recently.

It’s like a small step in the shadows, slowly but surely leading you towards the light.

Your eyes then follow his every step, leaving the open kitchen and passing between the living room sofa and the few small furniture holding lamps and other personal objects to which he pays little attention. Just one of his glances, however, manages to catch your attention.

Having approached the area of the wall you’re leaning against, Professor Fushiguro catches his gaze on the picture frames hanging on the wall. He halts his steps and stops at one photo in particular — one that makes your heart beat much faster than the reason for this proximity between the two of them.

The photo is one of many, you would have explained, but that would have been a lie.

In the shot, you appear in the middle, much younger than you are today. Two adults wrap their arms around your shoulders, staring straight ahead at Fushiguro and yourself, grinning from ear to ear — especially yours.

A woman stands to your right. The same smile to match, and the same expression and warmth that form your features.

The man on your right has the same smile, albeit with a different feel. He looks as much like you as he is different. His irises emanate a determination, a will of his own that can be recognized in your gaze.

The three figures are bundled up in winter coats with garish red scarves. The moment frozen. Impossible to erase.

“Is this your family?” Toji articulates in a low voice. He gives you a quick glance before returning his attention to the shot, eyebrows arched a hair’s breadth in concentration.

You nod, without adding to what you might have done to find out exactly where they are. You don’t feel like talking anymore. You might as well talk about every possible subject, but not this one.

So you turn your head away and whisper instead, praying that he’ll take his eyes off the pictures, “Professor...”

He turns to you, the distance between you two now reduced to a meter or so.

“Now... do you think we can really make peace?” you whisper so low that he has to read your lips to reply with the same even timbre.

“I... suppose so, yes.” He shoves his hands into his jogging suit pockets, meeting your gaze with a gleam that throws you off balance for a second.

Could this be vulnerability?

You shake the idea from your head and close your eyes for a moment. It couldn’t be. Not from the coldest person you’ve met in weeks.

So you simply nod, savoring this exchange of simple, sweet words spoken with all the simplicity in the world.

“How did you get my phone number, anyway?” you ask as he moves ahead of you towards the door.

He stops, his hand around the handle, but doesn’t turn it immediately.

He half turns his head to face you. “Higuruma has passed on to me some of the candidates’ files for the work-study offer so that I can make recommendations on the best files and those to avoid.” He pauses briefly. “I took the opportunity to get your number, as you’ve been pretending to be dead and I was afraid someone would come after me,” he adds with a tiny, sarcastic smile.

You feel the red creep up your cheeks before mumbling a soft ‘okay’.

You walk him out of your apartment and stop at the door. Your eyes remain fixed on his back as he walks down the hall towards the elevator.

A twinge tingles in the stupid organ that serves as your heart.

“Professor?”

He stops without turning around.

You hesitate for a second before blurting out, “You know we shouldn’t have met, right?”

He deliberately turns around, his emerald irises plunging into yours as if into the deepest abyss as his words — though spoken in a low voice — echo as loudly and far down the corridor as they do in your mind.

They mark something inside you that he’s letting you glimpse.

A crack in your teacher, so impervious to communication or anything to do with you.

He purses his lips, slightly hesitant, before declaring gruffly:

“I’ve never had any luck, troublemaker. No matter who I meet, I destroy everything I touch.”

~~~~

In the night, owls hoot in turn. The deep blue sky inks the sky, the wind’s breath caresses the branches and leaves of the trees as if to lull them to sleep. A few timid stars sparkle in the sky.

Tonight, you’re wrapped up in your warm blankets, looking for sleep that has deserted you for long hours. It's impossible to sleep in such brooding silence.

Your phone, resting on your bedside table, turns on and displays a new message notification after vibrating one time. 

The heart swelled with a bubble of hope, you immediately grab your phone to read the contents and the recipient. Despite the apparent disappointment on your face, a smile blooms on your lips in the darkness of the room. It’s not the one you were hoping to read, but that doesn't make the message any less valuable.

Satoru: awake?

You: what’s up?

One minute later, he replies:

Satoru: ready to watch us play? (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

You chuckle softly, an even bigger smile stretching your cheeks without you having any control over it. Then you answer:

You: more than ready

❦ a/n: lmaooooo 😂​😭​ okay okay, i’m very sorry guys for this. it’ll be soon almost a year since i haven’t updated this series but hey, we’re here now, aren’t we? 🥹 ahem, anyway funfact: i wanted to give to toji a perfume signature, so i went to sephora today and asked a salewoman (she was so sweet <3) to help me and here came my choice of Myself by YSL. the scent is extra toji, i swear! i couldn’t choose anything so if you’re curious, check at their stores! :)

i hope you guys enjoyed this part 2 and i’ll try my best to write the part 3 asap (i even started it)! (i tagged some ppl who commented on the last part and where enjoying it so i won’t feel too bad but i won’t do it for the following parts haha.)

if you want to be added in the tag list, just tell me on the series masterlist and i’ll tag you for sure!! (PUT YOUR AGE IN BIO) thank you all for reading this story <3 it means really the world to me :)

likes and reblogs are very appreciated!

❦ tags: @sutaagaaru @skunabby @mionedray @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @anathemaspeaks @hawt-dilf-sycker11 @lymsfm

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe

@bearwithmoo @mutsu422

@sanemistar @monokaix

[c0nfessions-of-a-writing-freak]

Protective Flower

Pairing: Harry Hook x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Summary: While making your rounds of the Isle making sure everyone still fears your name, you run into an old acquaintance. Someone oversees this and doesn't take lightly to others touching what is his.

Bingo: @eclipsingbingo with the square 'Jealousy'

*Gif does not belong to me

Boots clicking with every step, you had not a care in the world as you walked through the Isle of the Lost. Why would you? You were the daughter of Madame Gothel, the Mother Gothel. Everyone on the Isle knew of your mother's story and with that came protection, a blanket of safety that her name alone offered you.

That didn't mean you let the glare on your features fall or had your back turned on anyone for too long. With brisk steps you passed through different sections of the Isle, never staying for too long. It was only when you saw the back of someone's head whom you never thought you'd see again.

"Jay?" You slowly question, your voice hesitant in case who you thought was in front of you was an illusion or just an insanely good look-alike whom you've never seen before that day. It was only when the boy's head of long brown hair turned and a whisper of your name left his lips that you knew it was him. "What are you doing here? I thought you had gotten off this island and were at Auradon."

"Some circumstances have changed," He muttered with a coy grin, bounding his way over to you. The fast approach made you take a few small steps back, trying to put distance in between the two of you in case he decided to try something, though Jay bypassed this easily, one of his strides making up for three of yours as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. "I've missed you. We all have."

You froze immediately as you were engulfed, not expecting the embrace and hardly knowing what to call it. The feeling that arose from being trapped within Jay's arms was odd, almost comforting. That didn't matter though as you kept your arms glued to your side, not raising them to return the gesture.

"I'm sure it would've passed," You mumbled, voice gruff as you remembered what it had been like before Jay, Mal, Evie and Carlos left the Isle. How things have changed since then. Your words caused Jay to finally pull back, which you were both grateful for since the action was weak, though also longed for it to return, the simple contact something you have never experienced on the Isle evoking something within you. It must have been some trickery Auradon had taught them. "You never did say why you were here. And if you're here, I'm assuming so are the others."

"About that," Jay trailed off, hand sheepishly going to rub at the back of his neck. The action instantly had you quirking an eyebrow, never before seen such an action from the taller VK. Or former VK. "Carlos actually sent me to come and find you. We were wondering if we could use your help. Like old times-"

"What do we have here?" A taunting voice called out, cutting off the end of Jay's sentence, not that you needed to hear the rest of it to know what he was asking of you. You didn't even bat an eye to the new voice, coming well accustomed to it in the past year, more so than before Jay and his little redeemed squad had run off. "Runnin' into ya two times in a day has got ta be a good omen."

Jay's whole deemer immediately changed at not only the sight of him but also the sound. Turning an annoyed glare that held more heat than you knew Jay could still muster onto the newest arrival, Jay greeted him with a less than pleased grunt, "Hook."

Harry Hook, in all his glory, came out from the shadows he had previously lurking in so the deranged grin he was flashing could be seen by all.

"Don't sound so sad ta see me," Harry's laugh felt as if a harsh bite had sunken into you. It wasn't unwelcomed but such a stark contrast to what Jay had offered you moments ago. His eyes fell on you quickly, blue irises sucking you in as he walked closer, sealing his spot at your side as he wrapped a tight arm around your waist and pulled you flush to his side. "I was wondering when the two of yer would meet again. It was only a matter of time I suppose."

Jay's eyes locked in on the hand on your waist, Harry's fingers flexing at the sight as they curled in tighter. The sensation didn't hurt, not when you've felt it before. It was almost comforting, though in a different way to how Jay tried offering it. You weren't oblivious enough to not understand that Harry was staking his claim, however, making it known to Jay how things were running this time around.

"I didn't know the two of you had buddied up since we've been gone," Jay had to drag his eyes away from where the two of you were connected, never taking his eyes off of you as he refused to look into Harry's.

"Things have changed since you and the others were taken off the Isle," You shrugged your shoulders up as you spoke, giving it to Jay plainly. After he and the others left you were without a gang to call your own, leaving you to resort to other means of getting by. "Not all of us were whisked away to be Princesses and Princes."

"I can see that," Jay breathes out as if the words were vile on his tongue. You weren't ashamed of this. Just because you had grown closer to Harry and his crew in his and the other's absence didn't mean you were going to flip a switch now that they were back. "It was nice catching up with you. If you want to talk more, you know where to find us."

"I'll see you around Jay," You bid your farewell, surprised that Harry was able to remain as quiet as he did. Not sparing you another word, though his eyes flickered down to where Harry kept his hold on you, Jay turned away so he could make his way back to the hideout he must've come from.

"Now wasn't that a lovely chat," Harry chirped, rounding on you once Jay was out of sight. His other hand came down to your hip, resting there tightly as he slowly began to back you up. "I was just on my way to warn ya as well of Mal and her little crew's arrival. Somehow ya always beat me to it though."

"I must just be lucky at sniffing out people with pretty faces," You say, not a second later your back came in contact with the wall behind you, a small huff leaving your nose at the contact. With a cruel quirk of your lips, you bring a hand up to pass through some of his hair. "Maybe that's how I found you all those months ago."

"Cute," Harry barked out a bitter laugh, bringing his face closer to yours. Some of that bitterness seeped into his face as he looked down at you, his next words coming as a sting. "Uma doesn't want ya going near them. Who knows what they've brought from Auradon. And we all know how close ya were with them before they left."

"Good thing Uma doesn't control what I do then," You dipped your face to the side as Harry tried to trap your lips in a harsh kiss, his teeth ready to make an appearance. Instead, a kiss was left on your cheek, the pirate recoiling back once he realised. With a smirk of your own, you leaned in, trailing feather-light kisses across his neck and jaw. Your lips ghosted his skin, never staying in one spot for too long. "Though I'm sure an exception could be made if you asked nicely."

"Stay away from Jay and his friends," Harry spoke lowly, lips chasing after yours as you continued to evade him. With a raised brow, you stared at him as if you were waiting for more, leaning back so he couldn't reach you. With an eye roll from his dark eyes, an abundance of eyeliner smeared around them, he grinned out, "Please."

You waited a few moments, bringing both of your hands up to cup his face. Dragging him slowly, you brushed your lips quickly against his, muttering before finally giving him what he wanted, "I'll consider it."

[little-jana]

"Three Times is a Charm"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: awkwardness?, sweet kisses, use of y/n

Words: 3,5k

Summary: Meeting Spencer Reid was like stumbling upon a rare book—unexpected and thrilling. Our paths crossed not once, not twice, but three times in the most peculiar ways.

I didn’t mean to end up at that bookstore. It wasn’t on my list of errands, and truthfully, I didn’t even know it existed until I spotted the faded sign hanging above the shop door: Old Tomes & New Beginnings—Clearance Sale. There was something irresistible about it, the promise of stories hidden in dusty corners. My car could wait, and my to-do list wasn’t going anywhere. So, I pushed the creaky door open and stepped inside.

The air inside was pleasantly warm, and the aroma of vanilla candles mixed with the familiar scent of old books. I could almost hear the stories whispering to each other, nestled in their places on the wooden shelves. A small bell chimed as the door closed behind me, announcing my arrival. The shop was a maze of tall wooden bookshelves, most sagging slightly under the weight of the books they held, their spines worn from years of handling. It was the kind of place that invited you to stay for hours, to get lost in forgotten pages and dusty memories. And that's exactly what I did. I wandered, my fingers trailing along the spines, occasionally pulling a book down and skimming through its pages before deciding to leave it behind.

Then, my eyes landed on it: Pride and Prejudice —not a rare edition or a first printing, but a well-loved copy with a faded cover and yellowing pages. There was something about it that felt inviting, as if it had been waiting for me to pick it up. I reached for it, standing on my tiptoes, trying to stretch my fingers far enough to grasp the spine. But the stack of books around it was precariously arranged, and as I nudged it, the entire tower of books began to shift.

"No, no, no!" I muttered under my breath, trying to stabilize the pile, but it was too late. The books tumbled one by one, crashing to the ground with a series of loud thuds.

"Are you okay?" a voice called from behind me.

I froze, looking over my shoulder to see a tall, slightly disheveled man crouched down, his hands already gathering the fallen books. His brown hair was messy, and his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as if they might fall off at any second. He was dressed in a cardigan that looked like it belonged in an old library, and his slightly awkward but genuine expression caught me off guard.

"I think so," I said, still kneeling. "Though it seems the books have declared war on me."

The man smiled faintly, then held out a hardcover to me. "Here," he said. "This one seems to have missed the fall."

I glanced at the title. It was Pride and Prejudice. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "You have good taste."

"Jane Austen is a classic," he said, a little too earnestly. "Not to mention a master at subtle social commentary. And Mr. Darcy’s arc... Well, it’s iconic."

I raised an eyebrow. "You really are a fan of Austen’s work, aren't you?"

He looked slightly embarrassed but managed to maintain eye contact. "Guilty as charged," he said. "I’m Spencer, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Spencer," I replied. "I’m [y/n]." We exchanged a polite smile, and he moved to help me collect the remaining books. Once we were both standing, I found myself glancing back at Pride and Prejudice, wondering if I should buy it, but I didn’t want to seem too eager.

"You know," Spencer said with a slight hesitation, "I think Pride and Prejudice is the perfect book for someone who wants a little bit of everything. Romance, wit, social critique..."

I looked at him with a playful smile. "You’ve clearly done your homework."

"I suppose I have," he replied, looking sheepish.

Before I could say anything else, he gave a quick nod. "Well, I should probably leave you to the rest of your book shopping. Enjoy the rest of your day."

As he turned to leave, I couldn’t help but watch him disappear down one of the aisles. There was something about him—something intriguing, something different.

---

A week later, I found myself standing in line at my usual coffee shop, juggling my phone, keys, and a to-do list. It was a Monday morning, and the place was packed with people trying to start their day. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans and baked pastries filled the air as I anxiously checked the time on my phone, wondering if I’d make it to my meeting on time.

As I finally reached the counter to pick up my drink, I turned to make my way to a nearby table. That’s when I collided with someone. My coffee cup slipped from my hand in a perfect arc toward the floor.

"Watch out!" I cried, but it was too late. The hot coffee splashed across the table, narrowly missing the man standing in front of me.

He quickly stepped back, raising his hands in an attempt to shield himself, but the damage had already been done. I froze for a second, staring at the coffee stain spreading across the table.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry!" I exclaimed, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

The man bent down and grabbed a napkin to start mopping up the spill. I blinked. There was something about this scenario that felt... familiar.

"Twice in one week?" I asked, still stunned. "Are you following me, Spencer?"

He looked up, his eyes widening in shock. "No! I swear, I’m not stalking you!" He paused, looking around at the busy café. "I mean, I do come here often, but I don’t think it’s quite the same thing."

I couldn’t help but laugh, the awkwardness of the moment suddenly lifting. "Same here. But I guess we just keep running into each other."

He gave a sheepish grin. "Maybe we’re just... fated to meet by accident."

I gestured to the table behind me. "Do you want to sit with me? It’s the least I can do since I’ve made a mess of your morning."

Spencer looked a bit hesitant but then shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

As we sat down and chatted, the conversation turned from the coffee mishap to our work. I learned he worked for the FBI—profiling, specifically—and was part of a team that investigated serious crimes. I couldn’t help but be impressed. His intelligence and passion for his job were evident in the way he talked about his cases, even though he seemed more humble than I expected.

We exchanged stories about our favorite books and movies, discovering that we had quite a few shared interests. Despite his shy demeanor, Spencer’s intelligence and sense of humor shone through. I found myself laughing more than I had in a long time, and before I knew it, hours had passed.

“Looks like I’ve kept you from your plans,” Spencer said, glancing at the clock and looking a bit guilty.

I waved him off. "No, I’m glad we talked. Let’s do this again sometime."

As we parted ways, I found myself secretly hoping that I’d bump into him again—preferably without any coffee mishaps. Gladly, we got to exchange numbers.

---

Two weeks later, Spencer invited me on a spontaneous picnic. I was hesitant at first; after all, Spencer wasn’t exactly the type to suggest spontaneous outdoor activities. But when he mentioned his favorite park and that he'd packed us both lunch, I couldn’t say no.

We met early on a Saturday morning, the sun barely peeking over the trees. Spencer had a basket in hand, looking as if he’d stepped straight out of a vintage romance movie. His cardigan, now unbuttoned, fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. He had a nervous energy about him, which I found endearing.

“I may have overpacked,” he said, setting the basket down next to a picnic blanket.

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s in there? Enough food to feed an army?”

“Well, no. Just enough food to feed two people who might be hungry after talking about random trivia for hours,” Spencer replied with a smile, clearly amused by his own self-awareness.

We settled down on the blanket, the sounds of the park around us—children laughing, birds chirping, and the distant hum of traffic—mixing with the peaceful vibe of our little picnic. Spencer unpacked the basket, revealing an assortment of sandwiches, chips, and fresh fruit.

“Did you make all this?” I asked, impressed by the spread he’d laid out.

Spencer flushed slightly. “Well, I mean, I don’t cook a lot, but I thought sandwiches would be simple enough. The fruit is from a local farm stand.”

“You’ve got good taste,” I said, picking up a sandwich. “You sure you’re not a secret chef?”

He laughed. “I think my talents lie more in... making the perfect cup of coffee and identifying obscure book quotes. Cooking’s not my thing.”

“I’m not complaining,” I said, taking a bite of the sandwich. “Everything’s delicious.”

For the next few hours, we talked about everything and nothing. We shared little-known facts—Spencer told me about his favorite historical figures and how fascinated he was by World War II espionage. I laughed and chimed in with my own trivia, telling him about random facts I’d read in articles or heard in podcasts.

Every so often, I’d glance over at him and see how deeply he was listening, his full attention on me. It was a quiet, comfortable feeling—one I hadn’t realized I needed in my life. I hadn’t had many deep conversations with people outside my closest circle, but with Spencer, it felt effortless.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the park, we packed up the basket and sat together for a few moments longer. It wasn’t about rushing to the next activity but savoring the peacefulness of the moment. Just us, sharing a space without the pressure of anything else.

“You know,” Spencer said after a while, his voice quieter now, “I think I could get used to this.”

I looked at him, heart swelling with affection. “Me too. I’m glad we did this.”

He smiled, his eyes sparkling under the fading sunlight. “Maybe we could make it a regular thing,” he suggested, and I felt the warmth of his words settle inside me.

“That sounds perfect,” I replied, squeezing his hand, and for a moment, I couldn’t help but feel like everything was finally falling into place.

---

From that point on, our meetings became a little less accidental and a lot more intentional. We made plans to see each other every weekend, enjoying more quiet moments, long conversations, and shared laughter. Spencer’s nervousness faded as he became more comfortable around me, and I couldn’t help but fall even harder for him.

One day, after another one of our cozy park picnics, Spencer turned to me with that signature smile that always made my heart flutter.

“I think we’ve made it a habit,” he said, his voice light and teasing.

“Yeah,” I agreed, squeezing his hand. “A really good habit.”

We both leaned back against the blanket, the soft rustling of the trees above and the golden glow of the setting sun casting a warm light around us. For a moment, there was a comfortable silence between us, but it was the kind of silence that spoke volumes. I could feel the closeness between us growing stronger, like something was just waiting to happen.

Spencer’s gaze lingered on me, and there was a softness in his eyes that made my heart skip a beat. He seemed almost hesitant, his lips parted slightly, like he was debating something in his mind.

Without saying anything, I slowly leaned in, my heart racing, and before I could second-guess myself, I brushed my lips against his. It was gentle, like a quiet promise, and for a moment, everything else faded away. It was just him and me, the cool breeze, the sound of our breathing, and the feeling of everything clicking into place.

When we pulled away, I saw the same warm, amused smile on Spencer’s face. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“That was... nice,” he said softly, as if he was surprised by the simplicity and sweetness of the moment.

I smiled, my cheeks flushed. “Yeah. It was.”

“I think this might just be my favorite habit of all,” he whispered.

I leaned in again, this time not hesitating, and kissed him once more—this time a little deeper, a little more certain.

As we parted again, I felt like the world had shifted in the most beautiful way. With Spencer, everything felt natural, easy, like this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

We settled back into the blanket, hands intertwined, not needing to say anything else. The sun dipped lower in the sky, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like time was slipping away. It felt like we had all the time in the world.

[southernimpala]

sunny side up

sam winchester x waitress!reader

summary ↬ you serve the winchesters breakfast at some shitty run down diner

notice ↬ fluff ! some cutesy lil flirting, i promised a new fic tn and can't believe i delivered cus i feel like shit but enjoy !, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 1.4k

the old wooden clock mounted on the wall above the front door ticks teasingly toward the middle of your shift, the break you’ve been craving for the past four hours drawing closer as the seconds jolt in a circle. there’s already coffee staining your apron, leaving a big black blotch right on the pretty lace, there’s crumbs in your hair, and you’re sure the lipstick you put on this morning to look more put together than you really are is already smudged across your face. 

you pay no mind to your appearance as you lazily flip through your order notebook to a blank page while making your way to your new table. 

“hello, welcome to porky’s, what can i get started—” 

two boys catch your eye when you look up, one with short, dark hair almost sputtering dark roast out of his mouth, while the other—shaggier, darker hair with big, piercing hazel eyes—parts his lips at the sight of you. 

“u-um, would you like to see our specials?” you choke out, awkwardly pointing your pen behind you to the big chalkboard above the coffee bar, almost like second nature. you aren’t sure what else to do with your hands. 

the one with the odd necklace wipes the drink from his chin and clears his throat, “ahem—yes, yes we would, right, sammy?” 

the other—sammy—doesn’t seem to hear, his eyes still held solid on your face as it drifts across every feature. it’s not until you hear a shuffle, then a knee hit the underside of their table— “right, sammy?”—when he shakes out of it, nodding aimlessly. 

“sorry,” not sammy says, chuckling stiffly, “my brother here, uh… had a rough night.” 

you can’t help but eye sammy, looking his figure up and down as your brain runs through a million different ways this seemingly innocent, soft, person had a rough night. your heart jumps when he catches you, “o–okay, let me get you some menus.” 

“that would be wonderful,” his brother smiles, hard and plastered.

you twist to fetch the menus and feel the sigh of relief lifting a weight off your crushed body. those are two of the most gorgeous men that have ever walked into your shit diner in some nowhere town off an interstate, and suddenly the clock doesn’t seem so loud. instead, your heart thumps in your ears as your shaky hands grab two menus from the back.

“dean, what the hell was that?” you hear sammy harshly whisper across the table, being met with a response from dean that was too low for your ears to catch.

it takes you a minute to reach composure, remind yourself that their probably asshole drifters looking for some eight am fun, and hand them their menus with a straighter posture and higher head. 

“okay, porky’s recommends the country omelet with extra bacon or the five stack.” you inform, the rehearsed speech ingrained in your memory from training flowing easily as you avoid sammy’s eyes.

dean flashes you a shimmery smile, “well what does—” his eyes glance down to the nametag clipped to the cream colored waitress uniform, your name falling off his tongue like syrup on pancakes, “what does she recommend?” 

sammy’s lips purse. your stomach knots. 

“u-um,” you’d never had anyone ask you before, and quite frankly, you wouldn’t recommend any of the greasy diner food here, but you swallow down a warning and sputter, “i like the french toast with eggs.” 

“eggs how?” he asks, skimming the menu with eyebrows furrowed. 

at the same instant, you and sammy blurt, “sunny side up.” 

your heads shoot up, eyes attracted to the other like moths to flames, bright and burning in your pupils. the rosy blush that paints across his cheeks infectiously spreads to yours, mouth catching flies as it opens and closes, desperate to find something professional to say, when dean slams his menu closed, holding it out for you to take. 

“well, i guess i know what i’m having then,” he says, a tinge of—what was it—defeat in his tone. 

you send him a tight lipped smile, turning to look at sammy as he tries to shield his eyes from your stare, which you just can’t help. the seven thirty sun is shining against his soft, wavy wisps and smooth skin like it only burned for him, his fingers stretching against his forehead, long and slender, as his jaw flexes under the tension of him trying equally as hard not to look at you. your knees almost give out. 

“what are you thinkin?” you ask him, trying to fix your definitely frizzy hair behind your ear. 

his teeth catch his bottom lip, “the same,” he answers, voice cracking, making dean run his palm across his mouth to hide a smirk, “with another coffee, if you don’t mind.” 

“not at all,” you say sweetly, gently taking his menu, “eggs sunny side up?” 

his eyes twinkle in the sun’s warmth soaking through the large window, “you read my mind.” 

you give him a wink, hugging the menus to your chest before spinning on your heel. you can almost feel their attention drawn to you as you walk away to put the orders in, a weird, butterfly feeling settling deep in your stomach. 

it’s a game of cat and mouse as you and sammy play a staring contest across the diner while their breakfasts cook—whether it be with your pen between your teeth as you lean against the counter, or with a bunch of plates balancing on your hip belonging to another table, catching him watching out of the corner of your eye. 

the snicker you see him try to hide when you find his eyes on your figure has you crumbling, like your skin melts and blood goes cold. 

by the time their foods done, you’ve passed by their table close to four times asking if they need another refill, or maybe more napkins, or if there’s a spot on your utensils i can get you another—

the timer dings. order #44 gets called. their plates are hot under your palms as you carry one in each hand, the sunny side up eggs having you biting your lip hard to keep a smile down. 

“okay, two french toasts with eggs, sunny side up,” you announce, delicately placing down their breakfast, the smell of butter and rich maple filling your nose as it wafts in steam, “anything else i can get for you boys?” 

you catch dean nudge sammy’s knee again under the table, coughing loudly like he’s signalling something. 

sammy’s face flushes, which inadvertently causes you to do the same as you switch between the brothers. 

“u-um,” he clears his throat, pokes his fork into his sunny side eggs, “what time do you get off?” 

your body burns with satisfaction, but you won’t let him think that you're that easy, “what time do you skip out on this small town?” 

dean laughs obnoxiously with a mouthful of french toast. sam chuckles like he’s fallen in love. 

“not for a few days at most,” he answers, confidence finally laced in his tone, slick yet still soft, with a smile that kills any hard to get attitude left in you. 

you nod, accepting cruelly that he’s won you over, “i get off at one.” 

“listen,” he starts teasingly, raising his hands against his chest defensively, “don’t feel obligated.” 

a sickly sweet laugh that wipes the smirk right off his pretty face leaves you like the butter dripping down the crust of his french toast, “i think it’s out of my control now.” 

dean leans back in the ripped leather booth, rolling his eyes and sighing in a that should be me way. sammy doesn’t even bother giving him a second look, and you’ve noticed he hasn’t touched his food once since you’ve started to lean closer over the table, hovering over the half-drunk cups of coffee and unused napkins.

“sorry about that,” he responds smoothly. your elbows wobble as you hold yourself up, leaning closer and closer— 

another timer dings. you suddenly remember you’re on the clock, and it hasn’t stopped ticking well after your break that you’ve certainly missed with all the flirting. 

you clear your throat, removing yourself from over their breakfast and fixing the collar of your uniform that’s now crooked against your collarbones, “y’all let me know if i can get you anything else.”

“will do,” dean drags, halfway into the sunny side up eggs smudged in orange across his plate. 

you get out a last wink, fingers softly smudging the red lipstick painting your mouth, “see you at one, sammy.” 

dean’s fork drops in his eggs. 

sam, well, sam’s in love. 

“we aren’t leaving after this case, are we?” dean mumbles. 

sam watches as you walk behind the counter with his heart slamming against his ribcage, begging him to maybe never leave your side. 

“nope.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tags ↬ @h8aaz , @sacr1ficialang3l <33

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ sam winchester masterlist !

[whorekneecentral]

A Sandy Christmas

Sugar Daddy!Jenson Button x Fem!Reader

Warnings: the iconic sugar daddy JB, college aged reader (over 20), expensive vacations, gift giving is his love language, you're both soooo all up on each other, the use of daddy both in a sexual and non sexual context, thanking him in good way ;), oral (m!receiving), penetrative sex (p in v), hair pulling, some old man teasing at the end.

Word Count: 1,714

Author's Note: this is for my og jenson girlies that were here from the start, dedicated to the anon that sent in the first sd!jb ask cause you started all of this pookie!!

merry smutmas series

--

Jenson takes you on a dream vacation over the holidays but still makes sure you’ve got a gift to open come Christmas morning.

Exam season is killing you, mentally and physically.

Every bone in your body hurt from being hunched over at your desk for 18 hours a day and your brain felt like it was going to explode if you kept it up for much longer.

Jenson knew as much and he also knew your exam schedule; he couldn't bear to see his girl like that so he did the one thing he did best.

He whisked you away the moment your final exam was over. He knew it'd be a welcomed distraction given that you'd be returning home for the new years; your obnoxious sister was getting married to her high school sweetheart - you'd rather fall down the stairs than attend the wedding but Jenson promised to take you in to trade your car for a new one if you went.

To be fair, he did just get you the car 2 years ago but he figured he needed some sort of reward to get you to go. If he could join you at the wedding, he would but alas he can't.

Sunny Bora Bora was a welcomed distraction; the sunshine, the beaches, the endless cocktails and cock, were keeping you happy.

The first few days were you and Jenson rolling around in bed, lazing and eating whenever, barely getting dressed and spending sun up to sun down on the beach. You had everything you needed right there.

Despite it just being you and Jenson, he rented a whole villa. All the privacy in the world for you two; it was more so, so he could fuck you anywhere he liked but I digress.

Christmas morning and you're woken not by the sunshine but the feeling of Jenson's stubble on your neck.

"Merry Christmas, pretty girl."

You hum, a hand on his jaw. "Merry Christmas, Jense."

"C'mon, I have something to show you." He whispers in your ear, not giving you a moment to gather yourself. Instead he pulls you out of bed, his hand in yours as you sleepily follow him though the villa.

There's a massive Christmas tree by the windows, right in the middle but that was there when you arrived. What wasn't there before were all the gifts surrounding the tree.

"Jenson," you stop, looking at him. There's a grin on his face. "You didn't."

"I couldn't let Christmas pass without giving you a gift." He smiles, kissing your temple as he sits on the couch.

"We agreed that this trip was my Christmas gift."

"But the trip is for me too, so it can't count. Loophole baby," he raises his eyebrows, almost as high as his ego. You huff, "this is more than a gift, Jenson."

"You're a good girl, I'd buy you the world if I could." He tells you, smiling as you kiss him.

"I don't need the world, Jenson." You tell him, sitting in front of the tree. There are at least 20 bags and boxes neatly wrapped and set under the tree.

"I'd still buy it for you, princess." He smiles, taking a sip of his coffee as you unwrapped your gifts one by one; Gucci, Prada, Van Clef, Louis Vuitton - you name it, it was under the tree.

You had no idea how you'd get it all back home.

You thank him, doing a little try on haul as you unwrap the gifts. Jenson smiles, sitting comfortable as he watches you model your gifts for him.

"Happy?" He asks, patting his thigh. You sit yourself on his lap, an arm over his shoulder as you lean into him.

"Beyond happy," you whispered against his lips. "Thank you daddy."

"Anything for you, baby."

The two of you go about your day, you'll be leaving your little paradise tomorrow and returning to reality so you were trying to soak up the last of the sunshine. Lazing by the water, you watched as Jenson attempted to surf, gave up and decided on a swim instead, the man came back to kiss you, dripping the sea water all over you.

You push him away, giggling as he tries to grab at you. You rolled away, getting up and running from him; Jenson chased you down the beach right back to the villa.

Jenson planned dinner for the two of you, a little restaurant not too far from your villa. You wined and dined, chatting about his work and your plans not to strangle your sister with her veil. He assured you that you'd be fine and that as soon as the wedding was over, you could return home to him.

Upon returning, you decide to pack. This way you two could spend more time in bed in the morning rather than having to rush and pack then.

Jenson's back is to you as you bring in the last of your presents from the living room. He'd manage to fold what you had brought with you into the one suitcase opposed to the two it was in originally and had been trying to fix your gifts into the empty one.

He feels your arm wrap around his waist, fingers drumming against his midriff as you watch him put the boxes into the suitcase.

You're on your tiptoes, a kiss pressed to his jaw; Jenson thinks it's innocent enough and yet, he feels your lips drop lower. From his jaw to his neck and your fingers are pulling at his shirt collar, trying to expose more skin.

"Sweetheart," he whispers, swatting away your wandering hands. "We need to pack."

"Mhm hm," you turn him to face you, your hand on his jaw when you kiss him. Jenson leans on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into him

He was easy like that, a kiss from you and he's like putty in your hands.

He watches as your fingers trail down the front of his shirt, sliding under the hem of it. Jenson takes that as his hint to take it off, tossing it on the floor somewhere. Your hand wanders further down, brushing over the cold metal of his belt. 

Jenson smiles, pecking your lips softly. "Let me thank you," you whispered against his lips. His brows furrow, "what for?"

"Everything," you tell him, sinking down onto your knees in front of him.

Jenson undoes his belt and the button, “open.” 

Without hesitation, your mouth opens and you’re looking up at him once again. He slaps your tongue with his cock softly, waiting for a reaction. The slight curve of your lips was enough for him to know it was okay. A hand tangled in your hair, pulling and pushing you, setting the pace. 

The stifled gag was enough for him to pull back, giving you a moment to catch your breath. 

His eyes fixed on you as your lips wrap around his cock, his chest dropping and raising with each breath.

He can’t help but notice the lipstick on the base of his cock, your head bobbing up and down. Jenson's hand pulls your hair away from your face, letting you set the pace.

His hand turns over and you feel his knuckles brush along your cheek. “Like being on your knees for me, hm? My good girl.” 

The praise hits you straight in the core, only making you go faster. Your cheeks hollow as you bob your head up and down. Jenson's hips buck, your nose brushing against him. 

His head falls back against the couch, breathing out a string of explicits as you hollow your cheeks. “C’mere.” He pulls you off him slowly, savouring the feeling of your tongue sliding up the underside of his cock.

You kiss him, the moan slipping from your lips as he manhandles you.

“Turn around,” he whispers against your lips, a hand on your hip as he turns you around to face the bed. 

Your arms are propped on the mattress, holding yourself up. He pushes your dress up, bunching over your hips. His hand slips between your thighs, fingers brushing over your panties and your head drops forward. 

Panties pushed to the side and Jenson reached forward, a hand tangled in your hair to pull you up, forcing you to look at the reflection in the window. His other hand holds your hip once he pushes into you. 

“See,” he mumbles to himself, glancing down between the two of you before his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “Look how pretty you are,” he whispers, kissing along the back of your shoulder as his hips dig into your ass. 

The knot in your stomach tightens when his hand on your hip slips down between your legs, reaching for your clit. He barely moves his fingers before your own hand reaches down to rest on his. The feeling of his fingers pulls your attention.

"Please daddy-" you're cut off by a moan and by Jenson pushing you down onto the bed.

You prop yourself up on your forearms once again, eyes fixed on anything but what he was doing. 

He could feel you clenching around him, pushing back into him for more.

“Shh, it’s okay baby, I know.” He tells you, thrusts getting sloppier by the second.

The two of you in sync, Jenson's chest pressed to your back as you came down from your orgasm. He peppered kisses all over your back, rubbing your side softly. He leans to press a kiss to your neck before pulling out slowly. 

You can feel Jenson wiping your thighs and between your legs, cleaning you up before fixing your dress. You're still facedown in the mattress, too fucked out to even think about moving at the moment. He senses as much, giving you a push by the ass and up onto the bed you went.

The clink of his belt comes from behind you, the man fixing his pants - you assumed he'd be joining you in bed but instead, you heard some sort of shuffling behind you.

Rolling you, you see that Jenson had resumed his packing from before.

"You know," you start, sitting up. "Most men your age are dead to the world after a fuck like that."

Jenson laughs, walking over to you. His hand cups your jaw, "I'm not like most guys my age."

--

taglist:  @nosugarallspice @evieepepi08 @mimithepooh @koufaxx @dannyramirezwife-simpaccount @topguncultleader @molliemoo3 @aisharmi @mamako23 @ac3may @lewislcver @miahgonzalez16 @books-and-netflix-pls @wibi96 @bwddermilch @pedrisgatorade @clarasenchant @sainzluvrr // @forza55 @norrisleclercf1 @allalngthewtchtower @therealcap @burningcupcakefire @stargirl36 @brettlorenzi3 @guiseppetsunoda @magnummagnussen @flippingmyshit @savrose129 @lovelytsunoda @irda12-blog @dhhdhsiavdhaj @slytheringirlthatkillpeople @f1lovers22 @toomuchdelusion @eviethetheatrefreak @faye2029 @lillians-world-is-f1 @chalando1604 @lenaxwbr @im-obsessed @potashiuhm @lcxlerc16 @enjoythebutterflies3 @lillyfootballsworld @micksmidnights @mashtonbunny @chrlsleclerc @logischeroktopus

[i-dared-myself]

Forced to Main

Stray Kids x reader

Requested by anonymous: Hey I’ve been reading your Skz x 9th member fics And wanted to request one where reader used to be the main vocal but got tons of hate during idk maybe maxident era and after gets scared to sing any of her old lines so she like becomes a rapper and doesn’t get much lines anymore

“Are you sure you don’t want to take these lines?” Chan asks, looking up from his laptop. He’s wearing his usual soft smile, dimples forming at the corners.

“I’m sure.” You scroll through your feed, liking a post. “Rapping is fine.”

After the hateful comments you received during the MAXIDENT era, you took a backseat. You had cried for hours over the harsh words the media said about you. Now you refuse to do anything except rap, not wanting to be exposed to the cruel spotlight.

“It’s just…” Chan shifts and types something in, keys clacking. “We don’t have a lot of rapping lines. And they get taken by the others, so you don’t get a lot of lines.”

“I’m okay with it.” You stand up, slipping your phone in your pocket. “Are we done now?”

Chan sighs and shrugs. “I guess so. I’ll send you the lines so that you can prep for recording.”

“Sounds great.” You turn your back to him and go out the door, not catching the expression on his face. 

You wander down to the dance studio, where Hyunjin and Minho are working on a new dance. You watch them from the doorway, a small smile on your lips.

Hyunjin glanced up, rubbing at his buzzed hair. “Oh, what are you doing here?”

“I have nothing else to do.” You wander inside, noticing the glance they share with each other. “What? What’s that look for?”

Minho rolls out his shoulders, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “The others are working on voices right now. Why don’t you join them?”

“I don’t have my lines yet.” You shake your head. “Chan’s figuring something out for my rap verse.”

Hyunjin brightens. “Oh! What if you take some of the main vocals! Remember you used to do that?”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Minho questions. He reaches for his water bottle and uncaps the top. “You used to do it, and you’re good at it.”

“No, I’m not good,” you firmly say. “And I’m just going to rap.”

Hyunjin frowns, but doesn’t push the matter further. He switches topics, eyes flicking to Minho before back to you. “Did you want to help us with this dance then?”

Minho swallows his sip of water before placing the bottle down. “There’s a lift we need to work on.”

“A lift?” you repeat. “Uh, I guess. Who am I lifting?”

Hyunjin scoffs. “Oh, please. I’m buffer than you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Let’s arm wrestle. Loser gets lifted.”

Minho chuckles darkly, almost menacingly. “I want to see this.”

There’s a table set up in the corner, so the three of you gather around it. You and Hyunjin face off, with Minho being the referee. You struggle for a minute before he slams your arm down.

You flex your wrist, feeling spasms of your old wrist injury. “Okay, fine. Lift me.”

Minho and Hyunjin get into position, holding their hands out for you to step on. You stabilize yourself with your hands on their shoulders, wobbling slightly as they push you upwards.

“Okay,” Minho says, “now carefully-“

You fall.

Your injured wrist catches the most of your weight with a sickening crunch.

Hyunjin gags, covering his eyes. “That’s- Oh my gosh!”

Your eyes water at the pain, clutching it with your other hand. “I- It really hurts.”

Minho kneels next to you, eyebrows pinched with concern. “Yeah… Hyunjin, go get Chan.”

“It hurts.” You whimper as Minho gently touches your wrist. He retracts his hand and awkwardly pats his back.

“This is entirely your fault,” he tells you, much to your outrage.

“What?” you exclaim, pain momentarily forgotten. “How the hell is this my fault?”

“You lost to Hyunjin.” Minho points his chin to the table where the arm wrestling had occurred. “If you had won, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Chan hurries in with wide eyes, Hyunjin and a first aid attendant behind him. He motions to you and the first aid attendant bustles over to you. Your wrist is examined and you’re told to go to the hospital.

“I’ll drive you,” Chan says, patting himself down. He locates his phone (in his pocket as usual) and messages the rest of the group. “Minho, Hyunjin, go home and prepare dinner,” Chan orders. “We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

Hyunjin nods. “Will do. Uh, does preparing dinner mean getting food delivered?”

Chan waves a hand at them, shooing you out the door. “Sure. Whatever.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You broke your wrist, and are in a cast. It won’t be off in time for an upcoming performance, which means you can’t do your choreography. Yours includes a lot of hand movements, and you can’t exactly do that now.

Felix perks up on the couch. “What about if she takes the main vocals? It doesn’t have any hand motions.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Jisung says with a mouthful of dinner, which was not homemade. “Seungmin is good at rapping and could take over.”

Seungmin shrugs. “I’d be okay with it.”

Everyone faces you, and your stomach sinks. This is it. What you had been dreading.

“I’m not sure,” you warily say. “I’m not the best at it.”

“What are you talking about?” Changbin lifts the corner of his lip. “You’re great. I don’t know why you took rapping when you’re amazing at main vocal.”

You shift in your seat, glaring at your cast. Everyone had tried to sign it and you had barely kept them away.

“Give it a try?” Jeongin pleads. He blinks slowly, making sure to be as adorable as possible. “Pretty please?”

Damn him and his cuteness.

“Fine,” you relent, sighing heavily. You scowl at him and he just smiles pleasantly. “I’ll do it.”

Chan stands up, placing his hands on his hips. “Great. Now that it’s settled, we’ll practise this new arrangement tomorrow. I want everyone up at seven, and in the van by eight.”

You get to your feet, wanting to go hide in your room. Felix is watching you with a knowing look that makes you want to bury your face in a pillow so he can’t force the truth out of you.

“Wait,” Felix says before you can escape. “Is there a reason you think you’re not good enough for main vocals?”

You duck your head, avoiding eye contact. “No.”

“That wasn’t very convincing,” Seungmin remarks. “You suck at lying.”

You whip your head up to glower at him. “If my arm wasn’t broken I’d-“

“You’d what?” Seungmin taunts. He snickers to himself. “You’re too scared to sing any of your old lines.”

Your expression crumbles, and everyone sucks in a breath. You sink back onto the couch as tears bubble into the corners of your eyes.

“Too far,” Jeongin murmurs to Seungmin.

Seungmin lifts his chin. “I’m not wrong. Or are you going to lie again?”

“You’re not wrong,” you admit bitterly. “I’m scared.”

Hyunjin scoots closer to you on the couch. “We’re talking about the assholes that said you couldn’t hit the high notes, right?”

You sniffle and wipe at your face. “Yeah.”

“Well have they ever hit the high notes?” Jisung raises an eyebrow. “No. Their opinions aren’t worth shit.”

Chan smiles softly at you, handing you a box of tissues. “That’s right. Although I would’ve said it in nicer words.” He shoots Jisung and Hyunjin pointed looks. “The only opinion that matters is yours.”

“And mine,” Seungmin adds. “And I think you’re fantastic.”

Changbin holds out his arms. “Hug?”

You nod and let him envelop you in a warm embrace. Your eyes droop from the stress of everything, and he notices.

“Bedtime?” Changbin suggests. 

You peel away. “Yeah, I’ll go off to bed now. Goodnight, everyone.”

“Sorry about your broken wrist,” Minho calls after you as you go up the stairs. “It’s Hyunjin’s fault.”

You hear Hyunjin’s muffled cries of protest as the others start scolding him for dropping you. You smile, ready to sing your old lines again.

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret @hansmic @imeverycliche @iwuberic

[preqwells]

♡︎♡︎ SWEET.

simon riley x reader synopsis: you and your fiancé were settling in for the night, ready to go to bed until you insisted on doing a little skincare with him— he didn't know it'd bring about old memories. tags: fluff, slight angst/lots of comfort, mentions of blood word count: 1.8k

There you were again— another night of standing in front of the mirror, your menagerie of face products messily lined upon the white-marbled sink, the hum of a low fan serving as white noise as you got ready for bed. The bathroom’s humidity welcomed you, having just gotten out of a well-deserved shower. A white towel wrapped snugly around you as you reached your hand out to press it against the fogged glass, rubbing the condensation away in short and swift motions. You leaned over the sink in a feeble attempt to get closer to it, the edge of the sink poking at your stomach as your eyes squinted in concentration. An exasperated sigh left your lips, eyes daring to roll back into the back of your head out of sheer annoyance from the inconvenience. A sudden hand snaked around your waist, pulling you into its warmth as you jolted up out of surprise, your shoulders loosening once you put two and two together.

“Boo.” The gruff voice whispered, his voice reverberating from his chest into your frame. A huff of amusement escaped through his nose, seeming quite pleased with his ability to still catch you off guard doing such mundane things as taking care of yourself. He was met with a gentle elbow to his hardened abdomen, your elbow seeming to take more of the blow than him. “Rude, Simon.. I was busy!” You griped, reprimanding your fiancé for sneaking up on you when he was aware of how much you hated that. Years of military training seemed to only hone his stealth rather than diminish it, his tendency to loom in hallways and corners out of pure habit by now. “Uh-huh. Bet you were, love. Quite a shame.” Simon supplied simply, unphased by words that lacked any venom in them. He slipped past you with ease, extending his arm out towards the lid of the toilet seat, letting it fall as he took a seat atop it, legs spreading as he drank in your figure. Simon did this often, almost following you around like a lost puppy— dark eyes simply fixated on you and enamored with your movements. “I was! I was about to put on a face mask.” You said as your hand reached for a nearby packet, the small gray packet crinkling with each movement. Simon’s eyes narrowed in examination of the product, brows slightly furrowed as he took it from you without further hesitation, his eyes scanning it, practically burning holes into it. “Charcoal... paper mask. What s’all this for?” He asked with a hint of interest in his tone, his brows knitted in skepticism. He was aware of your interest in skincare, yet the topic remained foreign to him for the most part. He had no need for it although his skin was beyond needing care. A couple of ingrown hairs from messily shaving in the wrong direction, and purple under eyes that did anything and everything but blend into his skin. Skincare— what the hell does anyone need skincare for? Are soap and water not enough these days?

“It’s supposed to reduce oil by pulling blackheads out or something, I think.”

“Your skin’s oily?”

“Isn’t yours too?”

“Dunno. Just usually scrub the shit out of it and roll out of bed good as new...” He mused, rotating the packet between his index finger and middle, offering it back to you after he was done. Being in the military left little room to worry about the condition of his skin, the only liquid meeting his skin being water, sweat, and blood— his own... most of the time. It was a folly thought to think you believed he was informed about the condition of his skin, stifling a small laughter caught in his throat. You gently took it from him, attempting to rip the top of the plastic packaging off and absentmindedly setting it aside before an idea crossed your mind. Simon sensed this, his eyebrows slightly raised as interest peeked through his poker face.

“Si…” You began sweetly, your voice comically raising an octave in an attempt to persuade him. As predicted, Simon’s resolve slowly crumbled at the sweetness in your voice, mentally cursing himself for being such a sucker for you. “What is it?” He softly inquired, his head cocked slightly to the side as he awaited your words. “Would you want to try this with me?”

"Try what?"

"A face mask— don't act stupid."

"If I wanted to act stupid, I'd take notes from you, lovie."

"Oh, ha-ha." You stuck your tongue out at him, eliciting a huff of amusement from him. He remained quiet as he gently took ahold of your hand, getting your fingers to loosen their grip on the packet. His eyes scanned the foreign piece of plastic, reading the ingredients it contained. You caught his attention, moving closer to him as you pointed out the ingredients.

"These are just all the things it's mixed with. Niacinamide is supposed to help with oil reduction, the aloe is for calming inflamed skin..." You trailed off as you gestured for him to read the rest. He gave you a look that practically screamed, 'You don't need any of this', but he obliged in the directions you gave him anyway. Everything checked out with what you said, not that he'd doubt your knowledge. You always knew about little facts, odds and ends here and there-- maybe that's why you kept wiping the floor with him whenever you two would watch Jeopardy.

He inhaled deeply for a moment before letting the puff of air out through parted lips, finally giving you a nod of acknowledgment at your earlier offer. "Yeah, sure." He agreed, shrugging it off as if it were no big deal. The corners of your lips tugged to form a huge grin as he handed the packet back to you to rip open. You took a step forward between his legs, his dark brown eyes watching you with rapt attention. Pale eyelashes flicked up to trail your features as you struggled to open the packet, much to his delight. The shape of your lips, the way strands of your hair would fall into your face and catch against your long lashes that dropped over your eyes— Simon was by no means a saint, but God, did he want to be one for you. His hand found its way to your clothed hip, his thumb rubbing small circles over the fabric.

"Aha! Got it!" You threw your hands up in the air, fists clenched as you celebrated your small victory of getting the packet opened. "Ready?" You eagerly asked, practically teeming with joy. He stiffened slightly at your words, his eyes straying from yours for a moment. He didn't know what came over him— you had seen his face a thousand times, hell, it wasn't like he was wearing a mask now. Maybe it was the way that all these face products served as a reminder that he didn't have perfect skin. Better yet, it served as a reminder he was far from perfect himself. Scars littered his body, some from even when he hadn't been in the military— each scar on his body told a story, some nastier than others. "Yeah." He responded bluntly, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. You were his fiancé and accepted him wholeheartedly— he knew that. Your relationship had been through hell and back to get to where you are now. Countless missions he had gone on that you were convinced he wasn't going to come back from, dreading the day that you'd only have his dog tag to remember him by. You were the only person he had left and gave a promise of coming back to— everything be damned if he didn't claw his way back to you every time.

You fished the paper mask out of the packaging that was soaked in product, his eyebrow twitching in curiosity about how it was going to be applied. "Close your eyes." You cooed as he stared at you for a moment before his eyelashes fluttered shut. Your expression softened as you straightened the mask before placing it over his face, the coolness of the mask sending a chill up his spine. You began smoothing out the mask with your thumb, delicately mapping out his features. His nose was crooked from the time he told you he broke his nose at age 18 for getting into some barfight at a local pub, which served as no surprise since you were well aware of his temper when it was directed towards others. Craters of acne scarring embedded into his cheeks from his nails digging at the painful hormonal acne he had suffered from until the ripe age of 22. The scar on his chin from when he had scraped it on a rock as a rookie in training for the military. All of what made Simon, Simon.

"You're handsome." You said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know it." He replied, his voice mirroring yours. You gave him a weak smile as you shook your head, your thumb still smoothing down the edges of the mask. He always hid behind his cocky demeanor, vulnerability masked by his dry humor. "No, I mean it." You mumbled as a moment of silence fell between you two, filled by the low hum of the bathroom fan. His hand was still resting on your hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh blanketed by polyester. He didn't say anything in response, opting to say nothing as he blinked a few times, his gaze falling on a nearby bath towel that was strung up to dry. Even though his words failed him, you could've sworn you saw a hint of a smile threatening to grace his features.

The rest of the evening continued with him learning more about skincare, letting you ramble on about which products you were looking forward to getting in the future. Night fell as quickly as the evening ended, landing you two in the comfort of your shared bed. You fell asleep before he did, practically swallowed whole by the cotton blanket you two had picked out a week ago. Maybe it's too big, he thought to himself. His eyes landed on your sleeping form, watching as your chest rose and fell rhythmically. Your hair was sprawled across the pillow as moonlight filtered in through the curtains, almost giving an illusion of an aureole of light surrounding you— he could've mistaken you for an angel itself if he were half-asleep, honestly. He reached out for your hand, gingerly taking it in his as he admired the ring he had proposed to you with. His index finger grazed across the band of gold, the reality that you were his pulling at his heartstrings.

He fell asleep with you in his arms that night, peppering kisses to your temple before bringing his face down to rest in the crook of your neck with him tucked at your side. He wasn’t burdened by nightmares for the first time in a while— he dreamed.

banner credit: @/saradika

[synkqngel]

#resolutions.

pairing: non!idol winter x f!reader.

desc: 2 hours until midnight, 2 hours until you welcome the new year and 2 hours until minjeong’s 24th birthday.

wc: 1.6k

tags: slight angst if u squint; not proofread, minjeong seems like a red flag at first 💔

warnings: none really, maybe a SLIGHT implication of sexual encounters (not really but yk)

it had been aeri’s idea to throw a new year's party against your better judgement — after all, you're her flatmate, which also means you have a say on what gatherings can happen in this apartment specifically. “come on, yn, it'll only be a small gathering,” the pink haired girl had told you.

by ‘small gathering’, she meant her six of her colleagues, old friends from your high school, and her whole friend group. by no means was this considered large, but you worry about how everyone would fit in a 200sqm apartment. her friend group (which was coincidentally also your *only* friend group), consisted of jimin, yizhuo, and minjeong. you didn't hate minjeong, it's not like you weren't close or anything— you were, maybe just a little too much. unbeknownst to the other three, you had been stuck in a constant cycle of ‘will they won't they’, a cruel reminder of the nights you’ve spent in the blonde’s twin sized bed only to wake up without her.

kim minjeong is confusing.

you don't know where you stand with her. multiple times she has whispered you, ‘i love you’ underneath the covers; multiple times where she had almost slipped up and introduced you as her girlfriend in front of people she meets, only to act like she doesn't even *know* you later. confusion and hurt: the two words you would use to describe your relationship (or lack thereof), and intoxicating: the word you would use to describe kim minjeong— or maybe hesitant. countless of times you have fallen into this game of push and pull.

and it would take the heavens to keep you from doing so.

~

aeri snaps her fingers in front of your face, bringing you out of your daydream. “hellooo? aeri to n/n,”

you whip your head over to look in her direction, blinking a few times. “sorry, what’re you talking about?”

“you've been like this all day,” she continues, furrowing her eyebrows. “is something up? c’mon, spill it— im your best friend.”

a few seconds of silence follow, before you finally snap out of it for a second time. “nothing, i'm just tired, we've been cleaning the damn apartment all day long, aeri.”

the pink-haired girl began to laugh, seemingly relieved her best friend, the one she knew and loved was back. “there you are! you've been strangely quiet, i was getting worried.”

“i hate cleaning, you know that, gi,”

meaningless conversation followed, something the two of you had grown to love ever since you moved in together, before the sound of your doorbell ringing caught your attention. patting you on the back, aeri stood up, making her way to the door to see who it was. checking the front door camera, the familiar heads of wine red and black hair appeared at the door, you heard aeri animatedly greeting the two before the door shut behind them.

you stood up, moving to hug jimin and yizhuo with a grin plastered across your face. thank the lord the previous conversation with aeri distracted you from the thoughts of minjeong. “jimin, ning, thanks for coming,” you smiled, exclaiming into the material of jimin’s sweater.

the tallest laughed, fixing your top as she pulled away. “of course, if it's you guys, i'd come in a heartbeat.”

you'd always considered jimin to be the most motherly out of everyone, taking care of each and every one of you and your friends. turning to yizhuo, you find she’s already sat down at the kitchen island, pouring herself a drink as she gossips with aeri.

~

coats pile up on the rack as the night falls and the party stretches on, with more familiar faces and some unfamiliar ones, which you assume are aeri’s colleagues. however, when the doorbell rings again only to find minjeong at the door with a small present, all your emotions begin to flood your mind, the buzz of the party unable to distract your thoughts when you're faced with the root of your distress.

a beat passes.

“i didn't think you'd come. i thought you were in busan.” a mumble. you avoid her neutral gaze in fear of breaking down.

“i came back early,” she replies in a much softer tone. the short haired girl extends the gift box out to you. “merry late christmas, don't tell the others i didn't get anything for them,”

you let her in, watching as she goes through the process of hugging and greeting each one of her friends before walking off to talk to some other people. pocketing the small gift box, you slump down on the couch, watching the sky outside for a while.

“hey,” a voice beside you says. someone approaches you, glass in hand, and you recognise her from one of your classes. you turn to face her, sitting up offering a small smile. “yn, right? i'm natty.”

“oh, yeah, ive seen you around but we've never had the chance to talk before,” she smiles at your words, taking a sip of her drink. “nice to meet you.”

you return the smile; she's sociable, easy to talk to even. “nice to meet you, too.”

the minutes pass, and you fail to notice minjeong’s eyes boring into the back of your head from where she's sat on a stool. ryujin stops herself mid sentence, her eyes following the blonde’s trail of sight. “jealous, huh?“

the other whips her head around to face her. “huh? what do you mean?”

“never mind,” she smiles before changing the subject.

minjeong watches your conversation intently— just why was her face getting hot? her expression is a mix of frustration, bitterness, and confusion. just why was she feeling this way? she runs her hand through her short blonde hair, turning to ryujin. “i'll be back, i'm going to the bathroom.” the other gives her a nod as she basically dashes to lock herself in the bathroom. as minjeong stares at her reflection in the mirror; she grips the edge of the counter, her face red and eyes glossy. “fuck, i'm losing it,” she mumbles.

kim minjeong has never felt this way.

now that she has; she doesn't know how to handle it— and it's killing both you and her at the same time: two birds with one stone.

switching the faucet on, she splashes her face with the chilling water in an attempt to snap herself out of it; to collect and compose herself. minjeong looks back at her reflection in the mirror, face now dripping with water— her reflection scares her. “get it together, kim minjeong. jesus christ, what are you doing?!” she whispers before drying her wet face with a paper towel and making her way back to the party.

the time on her phone displays 11:53. 7 minutes until midnight.

after searching almost desperately for another three minutes, she finds you alone on the balcony, silently watching you as you stared at the skyline, the cold winter air blowing at your face and messing up your hair.

her breath hitches at the sight.

you turn your whole body around, leaning against the glass railing. “what?”

“we need to talk,” minjeong states, stepping closer.

“about what?” your eyebrows furrow and you look to the side briefly.

“our relationship.”

those two words hit you like a fucking punch to the gut. you freeze in place, looking her square in the eyes. your eyes widen and the words you're trying so desperately to say become trapped in your dry throat.

“you don't get to say that, kim minjeong.”

minjeong is taken aback. she furrows her eyebrows, her lips forming a slight frown. “what?”

“you heard me. you don't get to show up and tell me we need to talk about ‘our relationship.’” you scoff, stepping closer to the other. “because, let's be real, what fucking relationship even is there? we're friends, but you sometimes want to pretend we're dating for your own benefit— what's it going to be, minjeong, what am i?!”

a beat follows as neither of you talk, too afraid to continue.

those minutes feel an awfully lot like hours before she speaks again.

11:58.

“look, n/n,” she begins. “fuck, i never meant to make you feel that way, i'm- i'm just confused, and—”

“confused?“

“let me speak. now that i've gotten too close, i pushed you away in confusion— i don't know how the fuck to deal with shit like this,” minjeong continues, extending her arm to grab your hand— its cold against hers. “i'm so, so sorry, and i know you're hurt and pissed and you don't have to forgive me, but—”

the commotion from inside the party breaks the bubble surrounding the both of you, pulling you back to reality.

ten.

breathe in; breathe out. minjeong's breaths are shallow as she takes in your slightly confused expression.

nine.

minjeong swallows, looking you in the eyes before continuing.

eight.

“i'm so sorry,”

seven.

she closes her eyes for a half-second. “i really, really,”

six.

confused, you speak up. “minjeong, what the hells going—”

five.

“shush.” the blonde huffs. “let me continue.”

four.

“i really like you,”

three.

she tracks her words again, realising what she had just said. “no, i'm in love with you.”

two.

minjeong takes a deep breath, making eye contact.

one.

“i'm really, really in love with you,” she whispers, as if no one but you and her were to know it, as if it were a secret.

twelve midnight.

“minjeong, what—” you begin, only to be interrupted and caught off guard by the sensation of minjeong’s pink lips against yours. soft and gentle, she grabs the side of your face, pulling you in as you finally kiss her back, and it's all she's ever wanted. it's all *youve* ever wanted.

all the nights you've spent dreaming of this, dreaming of minjeong: dreaming of being hers, weren't in vain. no, not at all.

when she finally pulls away, she stares into your eyes, the city lights reflecting off of your irises. “happy new year.”

a few seconds of comfortable silence pass before you speak again, your voice quiet.

“and happy birthday, minjeong,”

~

a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR AND HAPPY WJNTER DAYY (in my timezone atleast) i literally wrote this in like an hour while waiting for the fireworks so i'm sorry if it's trash 😭😭

[illusionsdelusions101]

Ｄｏｇ Ｗａｌｋｅｒ☆

Guys. I kinda love this. Trying out some new stuff <3

!!!NOT PROOFREAD!!!

Charles x fem!reader

Type~Fluff

You sigh as you knock profusely on Charles Leclerc's door. You get out your phone once more for what feels like the thousandth time, and text him, when in reality you sent him only five texts. You take a step back as you hear shuffling in the apartment and a few seconds later, the door opens to reveal Charles, his eyes wide with pity and panic. "Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. I overslept, I'm late for meetings! Shit!" He leaves the door open you his apartment as he sprints back to his room to get out of his pyjamas and into proper clothes. You step inside of the grand Monaco apartment, admiring it everytime you walk into the comforting space. Suddenly, you hear fast paws, scratching on the wood floor. You smile, already knowing the small Dacshund was making his way towards you. You kneel on the floor as you see the golden fur of the dog. He runs to you, putting his front paws up on your knee has he jumps up on you. "Hey bud!" You chuckle as you pick him up, licking all over your face. "Ready for your walk?" Leo barks in response. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "

Shit, shit, shit!" Charles curses for almost the hundreth time. He fumbles with the keys as he tries to lock his door. You look at the puppy, sitting on the floor paitently, wagging his tail. His harness and his leash connected to him, the leash in your hand. You're a dog walker for the famous Charles Leclerc. You're an old friend of his, you train dogs, your good at your job, no doubt. You usually train police dogs but you have some days off. One day in particular, is when Charles is in meetings and hasn't got the time to walk Leo. You teach Leo how to heel and sit and stuff like that, small things to make Charles's life a little easier and the wood floors not covered in dog piss. "Your getting paid extra. I'm so sorry." He looks at you for a second, while still juggling the keys in his hand. He finally tries a gold one, going into the keyhole perfectly, and turning with a satisfying click. He mutters a small "aha!" under his breath, while you start giggling at him. "What's so funny?" He turns to you, hands on his hips as he cocks an eyebrow causing you to laugh louder and harder. "I'm usually the one late, I thought Charles Leclerc was always early and on time?" You cover your mouth. "Fashionably late, this time." He flips his non existent long hair, which makes you proper laugh and blush. Yes yes, you had a crush on Charles Leclerc, but who doesn't? You're just lucky he even knows who you are and that you exist. You liked him for his humour and personality, but yes, looks and charisma did also play a big part. "Let's hit the road!" You exclaim, which causes Leo bark and start walking. You walk down as far as the car park where he waves you a goodbye with his perfect smile. You return it. You and Leo make your way to a park, you watch as the leaves start falling, signaling it will be Winter soon. Christmas, snow, hot chocolate, the whole lot. You blush at the thought of it spending it with Charles, you shake the thoughts quickly as you realise a cat is across the road and Leo is barking his head off. As you were walking Leo, Charles couldn't stop thinking about you in the meetings. Your smile, laugh, your eyes, everything about you. It's corny as fuck but when he saw you again after highschool, it felt like love at first sight. You were training a dog that was quiet stubborn but you weren't giving up. When Charles saw you, he froze in his car. When you were close enough to it, he jumped out, calling your name and you started talking. If he cold go back to that moment, he would again and again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You're chilling inside of Charles's apartment after your walk with Leo, Charles gave you a key incase you were finished early or you wanted to come by. You thought of this as a nice gesture so whenever you came over, you cleaned. You always left the place sparkless and he always bought you food, win win. You hear the door unlock, the aroma of pizza makes its way throughout the apartment. You hear footsteps get louder and you see Charles come into the living room with a pizza box. "Hey." He grins at you exhaustedly. "Hey." You return it. He throws himself on the couch after placing the pizza box on the coffee table. You guys have a feast, eating, laughing and chatting. As you cleaned up, you knew it was time to tell a secret to Charles. A secret you've kept for a long time but it would be told now. "Charles?" "Yes?" "I'm moving to Argentina." Crash. "Charles, are you okay?" You step over the shards of plate and end up standing next to him. You take his hand and study it, a small cut with blood, but still producing a lot. You look up at him, his eyes were spaced and heavy with something. Dread, most likely. "We have to get this cleaned up, cmon Charlie." You tug on his arm. But he doesn't budge. "When... do you leave?" He swallows hardly. "Early morning. Everything is at home packed. I just wanted to spend my last time here, with you, before I go. Cmon, let me clean you up." You bandaged his hand, and sat on the couch with him, trying to crack some jokes but nothing. He was so.. empty. You sat on the couch, the TV playing some white noise. You looked at him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. My lease was up and one of my friends live there so I thought it would be a nice change.... I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier so you could get a new walker for Leo." You explain to him, a pang in you heart as you see his eyes well up with tears. You look at the clock. 8pm. It was time for you to go home and get some sleep, as you flight was at 4am. "I have to go, speak to me Charlie." You pleaded, desperation in your voice. "Fine." You get up grab your purse off the coffee table and walk into the hallway. You take off your slippers and place on your combat boots. You check yourself in the mirror, wiping away a tear in your eye with your nail. You turn towards the door and open it, a hand grabs your wrist and you look back. Charles. He closes the door with his other hand, and takes your hands in his. "Don't leave. I need you." He says lowly. "I...We're good friends. We can make it work over Faceti-" "Not a platonic, 'I need you'. A romantic, 'I need you.' Are you that dense? I love you. Stay. Fuck Argentina, stay with me." He slips one of his hands out of your and uses it to tilt your head up, making you look him in his gorgeous eyes. He leans down and gives you a sweet kiss, filled with love. "If I didn't convince you, I hope that did." You stand there, in shock. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him again, with fierce love and promise. A promise that you will stay. "I love you too, Char." You whisper against the ghost of his lips. "So your staying? With me? And...will you be my girlfriend?" He does a cute clueless little eyeroll, which makes you laugh and blush. "Yes, to all of those." You kiss in the dimly lit hallway one last time.

[dilfsfordinner]

𝐚/𝐧- i like to think that gojo found megumi when he was a toddler instead of six years old, so in this, megumi acts a little younger, like around four

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Going to Ikea at 7 o’clock at night wasn’t something you had ever imagined yourself doing, especially over a tantrum a particular black haired boy had thrown, and yet you found yourself roaming the aisles with him strapped into the shopping cart, your sunglass clad companion trailing alongside you, insisting on pointing out every single thing he spotted that would look amazing in your shared home.

Your slow pace of pushing the cart around the maze of a store had Megumi’s patience running thin, his already sour mood turning brattier by the minute, his chubby little face contorting into a tried angry expression, one which he thought looked intimidating but was actually just the cutest little pout, a fact you kept to yourself to prevent him from throwing another crying fit.

The whole reason for your journey occurred when Megumi’s old bunny stuffed animal finally kicked the bucket at dinner, the blue rabbit’s head unraveling from its body as Megumi just watched in horror, yours and Gojo’s mouths open in a silent gape as his favorite toy was reduced to nothing but a pile of threads. It was bound to happen one day, its drool stained fur and tattered limbs clear signs of impending death which you knew of course, but it was still quite surprising to watch unfold in real time. You’d tried to sew it back together but nothing worked, so alas, Gojo picked up the sobbing Megumi and the three of you set out to acquire a new stuffie.

Spotting the decor section, Gojo gently pulled Megumi from his seat before setting him down, ruffling his hair, an incredulous scoff leaving him at the boy’s irritated scowl. “Alright Megs, go pick one out,” you said softly, bending to pat his back, urging him forward, his expression going blank before a toothy grin pulled at his lips, eyes almost bugging out of his head at the sight of the shelves worth of stuffed animals, the cutest squeal spilling from his mouth before he darted toward the colorful display.

“Which one do you think he’s gonna pick?” Gojo said with a grin plastered to his face, both of your gazes glued to Megumi’s excited actions of grabbing a stuffed animal, testing its “quality”, and then putting it back, the cycle continuing through every animal present. “Mmm.. the panda,” you said lightly, turning away from Megumi to look up at your man, his beautiful eyes finally visible as his glasses rested on his nose. He was watching little ‘gumi, not realizing the way you admired him. “I think he’s a shark boy”, Gojo said, head tilting to you, eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips before that familiar smirk landed on his face.

“No. I know that look Satoru and I’m not doing it,” looking away from his troublesome expression, you returned to pushing the cart along the dimly lit aisle, examining some oddly shaped sculptures as you felt that warm presence looming behind you, strong arms snaking around your waist before his chin rested on your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

He knew how much you hated pda, (even though there wasn’t a soul in sight) it was his way of coercing you into agreeing to his wish. “C’mon, I promise I won’t bleed you dry this time,” he practically purred in your ear, his pretty voice almost lolling you to sleep. Relaxing in his hold, you considered his proposition, an idea popping into your head, one that would for sure make him regret ever asking. “Alright, fine. I bet 200 he picks the panda.”

At your words, Gojo’s eyebrows shot up, mouth slightly falling open at the fact that you actually agreed to gamble with him, and that that was the highest amount you had ever offered to wager. “Confident today, huh?” he quipped before clasping your hand in his own, shaking it as his eyes narrowed, that grin making an appearance again, “200 it is.”

Tsking, you shook your head, about to dig into Satoru some more to be careful when going against you but a tiny grunt interrupted, the two of you turning to see a huge brown bear being held up by two little arms, black hair peeking out from behind the massive stuffed animal as Megumi hauled the thing to your feet.

“Sweetie..” you laughed under your breath, crouching to brush away the hair from his face, “You don’t want a different one? A.. smaller one?” Megumi’s big eyes stared into your own, shaking his head at your offer, “I want him,” he giggled, hugging the bear closer. You looked to Gojo for help before he bent to pick up the giant thing, depositing it into the cart, doing the same to Megumi. “He’s a perfect choice, baby,” you smiled, kissing his cheek as he tried to grab below him to feel his new fluffy friend, the three of you setting off to finish at the front.

“Pay up, handsome” you smiled, your hand nudging Gojo’s chest as he looked down at you, eyes flitting to your open palm which rested in front of him as the two of you walked. Laughing to himself, his eyes narrowed teasingly, “We were both wrong, dummy,” he flicked your forehead, continuing to push the cart until your arm wrapped around his own, stopping his strides completely.

“A panda is a type of bear, dummy, which he chose, so pay up,” you said again, his features blanking as you just curled your fingers in a ‘give me’ motion. Surprised by your boldness, he let out an exasperated laugh, begrudgingly pulling his wallet out, fingers tightening around the two, crisp 100 dollar bills as he sighed, shoving them into your palm and grumbling at your coy expression, his tongue pushing against his cheek to prevent a smile from pulling at his lips, shaking his head as you just simpered a ‘thanks’ and took up the cart to keep walking, 200 dollars richer with a happy little boy in tow.

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