#just casually blaspheming or something

[brainwormcity]

Imagining a scenario where Aziraphale and Crowley end up having to adopt the second coming of Christ.

Aziraphale running into the next room, holding baby JC at arm's length like, "he turned his bathwater into wine again! The tannins are going to stain the porcelain!" :(

Meanwhile, Crowley's standing in the next room muttering, "gonna be useful having that kid around in the future," as he pours himself a glass from a nearly empty wine bottle.

[fuckyourtriangles]

Watched the Nun II and all I have to say is I just want ONE hug between Irene and Maurice before this franchise ends.

[parakeetpark]

Nothing more painful that watching an extremely inaccurate period horror movie where all they cared about is the Vibe of Looking Old. It's definitely not for an audience who usually engage in period type media or history.

[ozzgin]

Just read your arranged marriage kidnapped by a most post and the humor in the servants always thinking reader is in peril. The same going for monster hubby (He just thinks they're submissive and breedable)

Like none of them realize they are a moster fucker cause they hide it so well. Like just imagining reader be like "oh be gentle with me I'm a dainty maiden" and then giving him the night of his life is hilarious. Or them having dinner and the servants feel bad for them cause monster hubby is eating human meat but their just thinking about other things he can use his tongue on.

Or maybe someone comes to rescue them from the terrible monster finally. But they don't wanna leave and instead fight the knight off. The knight thinks they've been brainwashed or something. Meanwhile the servants think the knight just wasn't good enough to rescue them.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, NSFW! [Part 1] | [More Monsters]

The servants are not blind by any means: they can tell, quite plainly, that their monstrous Lord has a soft spot for you. Not only that, but the beast nearly worships you! They've come up with many theories, the latest one involving witchcraft. Surely you must have some sort of magical trickery under your sleeve in order to subdue their Master. There's no other way around it. All previous humans have been devoured, or have died in a pitiful attempt to escape, terrified to the bone upon gazing at his blasphemous Majesty.

You can't blame them. It's probably better for everyone involved if you omit the fact that your source of witchcraft lies in your...genitals. Well, not just that, of course. Your husband had started to lose hope. His appreciation of humans never came to fruition before your arrival. He was expecting you to cower in fear, not throw yourself at him.

He wondered if you wanted something from him in return, but no one could possibly pretend so flawlessly: the way you clung to him unprompted. The way you hungrily took him in, tears welling in your eyes, refusing to let go until you could feel his load avalanching down your throat. The way you'd trap his hips with your legs, despite being weak and feverish, asking that he doesn't stop yet. If that wasn't proof enough, your whines and moans were loud and clear. To think he could have his own little human, one who isn't repulsed by his monstrous form. He would've been content with mere tolerance, yet someone who begged to be fucked by him? He's been delirious ever since.

He loves everything about you, naturally, but he can't deny the shameless addiction he's now developed towards your body. He'd pound you anywhere and anytime if he could. If he needs to leave for official matters, know that the return will burn in the back of his mind.

"An important date, Sir?" one traveling servant will ask, glancing at all the scribbles in the calendar.

"Indeed", he answers solemnly. It's the times when he can finally fuck you dumb.

While the servants worry about their devilish Master being put under leash, for the other fellow humans the opposite seems to be true. You recall your last "rescuing" attempt distinctly. During one of your evening walks, burly, foreign arms swept you off in an instant. Before you knew it, you were holding onto the armored shoulders of an unknown man, as he made his way out of the traditional garden.

"I'll get you out of here", he promised between heaving breaths.

You stared in confusion. What was he saving you from? A good dicking? No matter how much you explained that you do actually like your newly appointed husband, the hero wouldn't budge.

You ended up just walking back home when the man fell asleep.

"That was quite the long walk", your monster partner remarked, polishing his weapons.

"Oh no, I was kidnapped", you state casually. "Got us some fruits on the way back."

Would it have been better to lie about it? On one hand, you do feel terrible for whoever attempted to retrieve you from the claws of the tyrant. Your husband is very possessive, and you know he'll scorch the Earth until that treacherous pest is gutted and fed to the pigs.

On the other hand...he becomes particularly savage after such incidents. You won't be able to sit properly for the next few weeks, but it's worth it.

Tough luck, you tell yourself, lounging in bed with a satisfied smirk and torn apart hole.

[fear-is-truth]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐘 . . . hc .ᐟ ⭑ 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐰

⟢ tags — fem!reader﹒headcanons﹒domestic fluff﹒nsfw﹒mdni﹒smut﹒kinky rp﹒blasphemy

a/n: requested by… i’m pretty sure i remember who sent the req but not confident enough to @

you’ve mastered the art of meal prepping for him—chicken breasts, egg whites, protein shakes etc. he’ll sneak up to you from behind while you’re cooking, kissing the top of your head as a thank you.

his “controversial” youtube channel, where he films fitness and cycling classes, is something you secretly love to watch him record. you’ll often peek from the doorway as he’s filming, watching as he passionately leads the class, shirtless and full of energy, talking about strength and spirituality.

the two of you have a growing collection of houseplants that charlie swears he’s responsible for watering (even though you know you do most of it). he’s also been talking about getting a pet dog—and he gets excited just thinking about it.

you have a ritual of watching true crime documentaries in bed. he’d throw in some commentary during the episodes, pointing out details others would miss and making sarcastic remarks about the criminals’ poor decisions. you can tell he’s fascinated by the psychology of it all, even though some of his comments make you playfully swat his arm for being a bit too dark.

he’s dedicated to his morning jogs and always tries to convince you to join him, but on most days, you’re still in bed when he gets back, all sweaty and smug. he’ll kiss you awake like sleeping beauty and tell you that he’s already done your workout for you.

he’s super buff. strong enough to lift you effortlessly, and loves showing off. charlie would sweep you off your feet at random moments—like when you’re about to leave the house, or after a long day when he insists on carrying you to bed. he always jokes about how he’ll never get tired of it, no matter how many times you roll your eyes at his over-the-top gestures.

nsfw — mdni

after groundbreaking sex, you’ll be snuggled in bed, and suddenly, he’ll ask, “so, if you had to commit the perfect crime, how would you do it?” charlie loves watching you try to come up with a serious answer, and then he’ll one-up you with some morbid trivia or a clever solution.

one day he got his hands on a nun’s habit, and casually suggests you try it on. the whole thing was more than a bit blasphemous, considering his position, but you decided to humour him. as soon as you put it on, he was all over you.

confessing (in great detail) to him in the confessional booth about how you touched yourself when he’s not there.

christening your shared apartment by fucking you in every room, and on every available surface.

when you’ve ran out of surfaces, it extended to the church.

he has fucked you in the confessional booth at least once.

charlie has crazy stamina—partly because he works out and partly because he’s “blessed by god”.

you have a stash of homemade porn videos that you’ve filmed together.

talked you into wearing vibrating panties to mass. sitting in the front row for him to admire the tiny expressions in your face.

using holy anointing oil to give you full-body massages.

rehearsing his sermons while you cockwarm him.

charlie likes to leave the bathroom door slightly ajar when he’s taking a shower, knowing you’ll peek in. more than often, you join him, the sound of your clothes dropping to the floor muted by the running water. steam fogs up the bathroom as his hands find their way to your hips, pulling you under the water.

he’d scoop you up in his arms, pinning you securely between him and the wall. you’d cling onto charlie like a koala, wrapping your legs around his waist while kissing him, fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed you back with equal fervour, him slipping his tongue past your lips and exploring your mouth lazily.

when he senses your impatience—the telltale tightening of your grip on his hair or the small whine that passed between your connected lips, he’d waste no time lining himself to your entrance and filling you with one deep thrust.

MLIST  fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[sweet-honey-fruit]

Wanted

Boothill x reader

Synopsis: Boothill has a wanted poster with your face on it

This is a snippet from what I was going to do. I might turn this into a series.

Warnings: boothill typical violence, cussing, boothill’s substitute cuss words, use of guns, mentions of splattered brains (but doesnt happen)

Masterlists: xxx

Out of bullets. Out of backup. Shit shit shit. You’re normally better than this. You are better than this. You wouldn’t have secured a job to personally work beside the Ten Stonehearts if you sucked at it. So why now? When it truly mattered, why start losing grip now?

The hallway on the space station was long and agonizing. It’s slim but somehow you still feel like prey in an open field. The grip you have on your gun is tight despite the blasphemous thing being out of ammo. How the metal is digging into the palm of your hand is the only thing keeping you grounded and focused. Focused on making it to the safe room. Focused on sending out that distress signal. Focused on the little hope you have left. Just focus.

The distant sound of gunshots urges you to run faster. Each round of shots fuels not only your need to escape but your overwhelming guilt as well. Normally you stay back and handle the threat. You stay back to help your agents and get them to safety. That's what you wanted to do. Yet the sight of seeing bodies upon bodies being thrown to the side by him, you started to, selfishly, second guess if you should.

What pushed you to get out was Jade's voice speaking through your earpiece. She specifically ordered you to run and to get to the safe room. She all but hinted that this was surely a fight you couldn’t win and you needed to get out now. She's normally calm and collected, tactical and calculating. Jade isn't one to order you to retreat for she has trust in your abilities. So when she told you to run, you ran like hell was after you.

For once, you prayed to the Amber Lord. Praying that your colleagues will make it out alive. Although, you doubted that.

The weight of your conscious is almost enough to weigh down your speed but once the familiar doors of the safe room enter your sight, all weight is washed away and it’s replaced with relief.

Finally, after minutes of running and dodging bullets, you’ve made it. You take deep breaths to calm your breathing as a shaky hand swipes your keycard over the mechanical padlock. With a loud beep that makes you internally cuss it out, you slip into the room. The moment the door shuts you collapse to your knees.

“Holy fuck.” You mumble, letting out a nervous laugh. Your gun clatters to the floor beside you as your hand loses the strength to continue the death grip. You run your hand over your uniform to try and soothe the ache that replaces the cold metal. What a shit show.

You have faced an astronomical amount of enemies throughout your line of work. Anywhere from the Anti-Matter Legion to Galaxy Rangers. All of them were a pain to deal with, sure, but this? This is something different. You have never seen someone so precise, so quick with a gun, and so cocky. Recalling everything just made your blood boil. It’s not even because he ambushed your crew. It was more of the fact that he was moonwalking while doing so. Honestly, who acts so casually in a fight?

Pass it off with humor all you want, but you know exactly why you’re left shaken. This was the work of one individual. The same individual that made eye contact with you in the lobby. His grin widened when you locked eyes, and his bullseye pupils seemed to have made you the target. It was chilling. The way your body tensed and the hairs on the back of your neck stood was foreign to you. You’re normally the hunter but in the moment you felt like prey. That feeling was followed up by Jade's command and it felt too much like an omen. Like all of this was for you. All of this was because of you.

You shake your head to get rid of those thoughts. No. There’s no reason why you should dwell on the situation. Only doing so will drag you down. With weakened legs you stand, stumbling over to the command terminal to send a distress signal out. You hesitate for a moment as you stare down at the screen. The blinking red of the button haunted your memory.

The bodies of your coworkers. The blood of the agents you were supposed to watch over on Jade's behalf. The screams of pain and terror as they tried to take down the threat that snuck onboard. No matter how hard you try, you can't push down that culpability. Your mind races at a million miles per hour, from one thought to the next, all about your irresponsibility. You tried to save who you could. You tried to take down the threat yourself. You shot so, so many bullets all for naught. Then he looked at you. Made a beeline for you. Was he here for you? Was this all your fault? Where did you go wrong? Why didn't you try harder to save the agents that were trusted to your care? Are you even worthy of saving?

Your breath hitches at the last question.

'Am I worth saving?'

Even so, that decision isn't up to you. It's up to the Ten Stonehearts. With reluctance, you press the button. There's a gentle ping that was supposed to reassure you that the distress signal was successfully sent. But all it did was make your gut twist with anguish. It shouldn't only be you in this room.

Your sorrowful eyes stare out the window with a glaze. In all of your times of need, it has always been the stars that brought you comfort. Always a shining, shimmering light in the dreadful place of your mind. For the first time since this morning, your mind goes quiet as you imagine yourself walking among the stars. You enjoy the tranquility of the safe room, taking the opportunity to worship the silence. No screaming, no commands, no gunshots.

Wait.

.

.

.

No gunshots.

Your moment of peace is ripped out of your hands and replaced with your heart dropping. Your breathing stops and slowly, ever so, you turn your head to look behind you.

Oh fuck.

There he is in all of his cowboy glory. The barrel of his gun is pointed right between your eyes and there isn’t a hint of hesitation on his face.

“Don’t tell me ya hidin’ from my welcome party.” His thick southern accent lays on thick at the realization of it all; you haven’t been fucked like this in a long time. Your gun is left on the floor. Even if it is out of ammo, you still could’ve potentially used it as an empty threat. You quite literally backed up against a wall. Alone. The only exit is being blocked by the blood-thirsty cyborg man in front of you. There’s no one left to provide backup.

That feeling creeps up your spine again as his eye pierces through you, just itching to pull the trigger on you.

"Is this what they consider southern hospitality?" You sarcastically ask, a glare settling into your eyes in hopes of masking that premonition deep within your bones.

There's a skip of a beat in your heart when there’s silence. A thick, heavy silence that only grows louder the longer you stare down the barrel of the pistol. It’s only broken by his boisterous laugh. A laugh that feels mocking. A laugh that makes you feel offended that you opened your mouth. You go from scared, to confused.

“Oh shucks! You got me gatherin’ tears in my eye! Holy fudgin shirt on a rag! It’s been a while since I had someone tell me a one-liner like that. You’re a hoot and a holler!”

He finds this humorous. He has a gun pointed between your eyes, eager to splatter your brains across the window behind you, and he finds this funny. You go from scared, to livid.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Ha! At least one of us can say it-“

“Are you fucking serious? You murdered my coworkers, you’re threatening me, and you’re laughing?”

“Don’t go actin’ all high and mighty now, you IPC scum.” His mood switch gave you whiplash. What was once a lighthearted tone was turned into a low growl. He took one step forward, then another, and another until his chest was pressed up against yours. His breath fans over your face. Your back presses up against the command terminal. The soft red blinking of the distress button reflects off the shiny metal of the gun as he presses it against your forehead. Even so, the indignation coursing through your body is enough to fuel a stellaron.

“You shouldn’t be acting all righteous either. Wanted criminals don’t deserve to act so pompous.” You snap back, huffing out a breath.

“So ya know who I am?”

“Unfortunately.”

Boothill might as well be a cursed name among the IPC. A name that brings both fear and a migraine. You never had the courtesy to meet him until now. His wanted poster has been sitting on your desk for a while along with his list of crimes. The stack was so big that his crimes were used as a paperweight for a while. While he was annoying, the Ten Stonehearts put you on missions that were ‘more important.’ His information served more as a warning rather than a task.

Now you regret not going after him when you got the chance.

“It appears my ruckus has paid off.” He whispers, lowering the gun. You had a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, that that was a sign he was leaving. That the distress signal wasn’t needed after all. He only allowed you enough relief to let out a shaky sigh.

The tip of the gun is pressed under your chin, tilting your head back to fully look up at his smug smirk.

“It’s a shame your wanted poster says wanted alive.”

Your eyes widen in his swift movements. With harsh movements, he slams the grip against your temple. There’s a burning, aching pain that spreads throughout your head and down the back of your neck. Your body falls to the floor with a harsh thud. You couldn’t help but think this is what you deserved for failing them all.

‘Am I worth saving?’ It appears the universe made that decision before your higher-ups.

Boothill kneels beside you, placing his gun back into his holster.

“Don’t ya worry. Ima take good care of ya.”

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Lucifer

For Him:

He loves it when you call him anything super cheesy. Add some heart and soul to it, and he is obsessed.

Call him cringy things like Stud Muffin, Sugar Bear, and Honey Pie. He is so into it.

He will 100% melt if you call him princess. His kryptonite is you two lounging in bed playing with his hair while you call him your sweet boy or princess.

His hard no's are anything super vulgar that borderline comes off as sexual.

He wants to keep your relationship sweet and adoring until you get to bed.

For You:

He immediately goes for Duck, Ducky, or Duckling. He just can't help it. You remind him of his second favorite thing.

If he gets out of his ducky phase, which, let's face it, he won't. He likes to use names like Doll, Buttercup, and Baby.

He loves to call you his Queen or King just because he wants you to know how serious he is about sharing everything with you.

He won't call you princess; he has reserved that for Charlie, and he would really hate for a 'pass the salt' moment between you and his kid.

He can't wait for the day he gets to call you mommy or daddy, though, in a nonsexual way.

Adam

For Him:

Adam LOVES when you call him God. As blasphemes as it is, it fuels his ego to the extreme.

He also likes the classic babe, baby, and honey. However, he wouldn't mind a private, memorable name.

He doesn't like to be overly gushy in public, so in private, you can get away with calling him something snuggly, like Teddy Bear or Honey Muffin.

A hard no for him is anything derogatory; as funny as it is, since he is the king of derogatory remarks, he doesn't know how to take the heat back.

He is a certified Lover Boy and will melt if you call him so, well, only if no one else is around.

For You:

Of course, we got the classic Adam phrases we all know and love Bitch, Baby Cakes, Sugar tits, and Baby.

However, he is unafraid to publicly call you things like his treasure, angel, or princess.

He will 100% call you a simp and Lover in the same sentence to throw you off guard.

He wont call you anything derogatory in the bed room though unless you ask for it, he feels like your alone time in the bed room is meant for him to worship you not hurt you.

He loves it when you let him call you his goddess and other high-paying names.

Vox

For Him:

He is an old timey classics guy, he is in love with Baby, Honey, and Sugar like no other.

When it is just you two alone he never wants to hear his legal government name leave your mouth

As for in public its a little odd because he does have a persona but also just look at you your his everything

He hates anything overly sweet it is very gross to him when you drop a BooBooBear or a Hunk-A-Lunk just say normal shit

He loves when you call him the light of your life though makes him feel like he is doing good by you

For You:

He wants to keep the old-timey feel for you, too, but he may get a little creative. It's casual, babe, baby, and honey, but he may add in a pumpkin cupcake or princess.

He has no problem using pet names for you 24/7, even in the public eye. He has to show who owns you, after all.

When you are alone, he will use just a simple babe to get your attention because he wants to be soft and mundane with you.

He won't call you any crazy names, either. He finds them distasteful, but if you asked, he may find it in his heart to cave in.

Thrives when you call him daddy as much as when you let him call you mommy.

Husk

For Him:

Certified Daddy Energy. Call him Daddy or Papi, and he melts like putty in your hands.

He also loves it when you call him other things, like baby or babe; those are classics that keep him going.

He doesn't mind the overly cringe-worthy nicknames that are long for no reason. Generally, the longer, the better because it eventually makes him laugh.

He refuses to be called anything relating to a cat, no whiskers, kitten, or kitty. He hears it from Al but wants to avoid hearing it from you.

If you call him something super sentimental, like the love of my life or my other half, he is a weak man.

For You:

He worships you and the ground you walk on because he believes you deserve so much better and will leave.

You are God, Goddess, Princess, Prince, King, Queen, or any high official title to make you feel good.

He loves hitting you with super sentimental pet names that show how much he cares about you.

He won't call you anything super mushy; it just isn't him. Though he likes how creative you get, he isn't much for it.

He loves calling you mommas or mommy when you two are out and about.

[discofama]

I love how comfortable Adam and Lute are around each other.

I mean, look at this

So they're casually together during the extermination, much like how friends gravitate towards each other when in an event even if they're not talking or doing anything, just because it feels easier than being alone. Or perhaps Lute flew closer because she saw the huge war machine approaching Adam and got a little worried.

Charlie and Vaggie are going to attack them, and look at what they do:

Despite being Adam the one closer to Vaggie, he doesn't move an inch. They don't say anything (besides the shit talk) and Adam doesn't even look at her, he expects Lute will take care of Vaggie with no order from him, even if he's closer.

Obviously Adam is confident and doesn't think Vaggie can hurt him at all, but he clearly trusts Lute to get her out of the way. He probably knows how bloodthirsty Lute is for Vaggie and lets her have her without a word, and Lute complies, again, without a word, leaving him to handle the strongest of the enemies at that moment (Charlie).

So in this second, Adam and Lute communicated in silence. Adam didn't move and trusted her to cut in even if it was him the one under attack, and finally Lute trusted him to handle Charlie so she could fight Vaggie, as she didn't seem worried at all of the possibility of Charlie coming to protect her girlfriend.

They're in harmony. They're just natural together.

He lets her grab him like this and is willing to listen to her. It's clear he respects her and deep down appreciates that she'll keep him from doing something stupid, even if he whines.

She also climbs him? Lol. (Look at how she holds onto his arm 🥹 she's super comfortable with touching him!)

They're always hyping each other up, like in their songs:

(Look at Lute's smug face here 👇, she's sooo satisfied with what Adam's saying)

I honestly believe that they kinda make each other worse, that neither of them would be SO mean all the time if they didn't have the other: a companion who is always backing them up, who agrees on any crap that comes out of their mouth (Lute lets him talk shit about random women and nods, Adam goes along with Lute's homophobia despite seeming to not care that much about homosexuals).

Many portray Lute being a lot smarter than Adam, but I think they're both dumbasses. I mean, we laugh at Adam for saying he never made a mistake in his fucking life, but it was Lute who first stated angels don't make mistakes, somehow keeping a serious face. I think Lute seems smart because she's more quiet and cares about the rules, but she doesn't do logic very well either and can be impulsive too, as shown in the end of ep. 1.

They're probably each other's best/only friend, because they're just so unlikeable. And it makes sense they'd deeply care for one another. They care about that person that stands them and agrees with them and actually enjoys being with them. They're always seen together, hanging out even off duty. They clearly have a lot of fun.

I'll be honest. I ship GuitarSpear, I love it, but I don't know if I want it to be canon for 2 reasons:

1. Lute might be a lesbian.

She is so repulsed by homosexuals that it feels personal. Talking about how disgusting and blasphemous Charlie and Vaggie's love is, or how many cocks were in Angel's mouth and calling him a whore. She cares too much about it for it to not be personal, and I think it makes sense that she'd be a closet lesbian with a shit ton of internalized homophobia. She probably knew about Vaggie's sexuality and held a lot of resentment towards her before tearing off her wings. Maybe she was even attracted to her and was so repulsed about it that she redirected her self-hatred to Vaggie.

2. I think it could be better for Adam's character.

Let's just think about it. This character has a very distorted view of women, he has a fixation on them and hypersexualizes them. So the idea of this horny man, who always sees women with sex colored glasses, being good friends with a hot female below him in the hierarchy with no sexual or romantic interest whatsoever is nice to me. It'd work as sort of a redeeming quality in regards of his relationship with women, and I personally think this man is very redeemable. Let's hope he gets a second chance!

Still! All of this trust and comfort and team feelings can be read as romantic and I certainly wouldn't mind if it becomes canon! They could be the best villain couple!

Summarizing, these two are soulmates, end of the story. They're worse together, but also probably provide the other of a very needed company.

I have no clue if Adam will actually come back, but if he doesn't, I'll feel very bad for Lute. Yeah, yeah, she's an evil bitch, I don't care.

[disgustingtwitches]

**MDNI**

"The closest to heaven we'll ever get"

Saw a lot of stuff about Simon helping out a s*x worker. Anyways, it reminded me of a personal experience I had so... Here I am 😃

5.5k words

*This is kind of Simon needing company and being a weirdo who needs constant validation.

Not gonna lie, it gets blasphemous at the end!

~

I always played around with the idea of being an escort. I was offered to do things while working in the strip club, but I always turned it down. I was spending every dollar I made because I could always make more, right? But when I broke up with my ex and realized I didn't have the credit or rental history to get my own place, I started panicking. The only option was to put down at least three months rent cash upfront, to even be considered. Suddenly, money was drying up at the club for me, my regulars were being whisked away by girls who would do more for less. I couldn't really get mad, it's just a part of the game really. So I knew what needed to be done.

I hit up one of my girlfriends and told her that I needed the extra cash and what I was willing to do for it. She helped me set up a website, took professional photos of me, made me business cards. The whole nine yards. Now all I had to do was wait. About a week in, I finally get my first client. It was awkward and surprisingly, both of our first times in this situation. I was sent back home in a black car and a few hundred bucks richer for just 30 minutes of my time. I felt a rush I never felt before.

As the months rolled by, the money came. Luxury was the new standard for me. Designer everything, nice dinners, even nicer dates. To my surprise a majority of my clientele were, at most, 10 years older than me, and even more surprisingly, good looking. Finance bros, guys with daddy's money, or just men who had the money to spare. They always talked about how it was more fun and less work to hire me than get a girlfriend. To get a pretty girl in their arm to parade around that wouldn't bicker and give them a hard time at the end of the night. No feelings attached, just company and good sex.

So here I am Saturday night. Instead of going out to the club like a normal woman my age in Manhattan should be doing. I am in my hotel. Waiting for a call or text from someone. Anybody. My hair in rollers, makeup half done. Just waiting. My phone lights up, a text coming in:

Hi, Gia. Was interested in spending an hour with you tonight, 11pm.

I smiled to myself. Finally, someone who reads my ad properly. Follows the instructions on what to text to me. Straight to the point.

Wonderful, just need a picture of your ID or passport.

I reply. Always a rule my girlfriend drilled into my head. Safety first. If they don't do it, then what could they be planning? Anything goes bad and all you have is a name that couldn't even be real. Any client worth your time understands your safety is a priority. So this was my way of feeling safer. A moment passes before my phone dings again.

A picture of a passport, full name and age. Along with a picture. He's cute. A little older than what I usually get but I'm not complaining. I quickly look him up, nothing out of the ordinary. Good.

Great. Thank you, Simon. I'll send an address for you to send a car at 10:20. Reach out to you then❤️

Before I start to get ready he texts,

Wear something casual.

Not an odd request. Actually most clients prefer it. Want more of a girlfriend vibe rather than an escort. I finished getting ready, helping myself to a glass of wine. Playing my usual bad bitch songs, it helped me turn into the woman I needed to be- from me to Gia.

10:25 rolls around. I get a screenshot of the Uber from him. 5 minutes out. I grab my purse and strut out of my hotel, to a nearby park. Never give your real address. Always make sure you're not being followed.

A black SUV pulls up, I slide in. Exchange pleasantries with the driver and I'm off. Headed to midtown. I share my location with a friend and how long I should be gone. My phone goes off.

Walk into the building and head to the elevators on the left. 36th floor. Apt. 4A.

I nod to myself before shooting a text of confirmation.

Got it. See you soon ;)

I pull up to the building, it's huge. Nicer than most places I've been. He must have some serious cash. I walk into the building and follow the directions he gave me. A little adrenaline rushes through me as I walk up to the door, always did when meeting someone new. I knock. He almost immediately opens the door, as if he was standing in front of it. Waiting.

Simon!

I say with a wide smile. He steps aside as I walk in, looking around. Nice place. Really nice place. Ceiling to floor windows, minimalist decor, the lovely smell of something masculine and expensive. He looks me up and down as I turn to him.

You look just like your pictures.

His voice is deep, alluring, unreadable. Sends a chill up my thighs that shoots straight to my core.

You do too.

I reply playfully. A small twitch plays at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. His face inscrutable. I shimmy off my coat before he takes it, hanging it up in a closet near the entrance. I wait for him to move. He stands, hands in his pockets, studying me. An awkward minute passes before he walks to the living room. I follow.

Really nice place you got here.

I try to make the moment more comfortable.

Hm.

He responds. He wasn't like the other men I've seen before. They are sociable, or at least try to be. I take a seat on the couch next to him, our knees barely touching.

Money's there.

He gestures to an envelope on the table. I nod, grabbing it.

Do you mind if I...?

I ask, opening it up. He nods and stands to pour himself a drink. My eyes widen. This is more than my usual rate. Much more. I'm quiet, trying not to show my shock.

Was hoping to do an overnight, if that's alright.

It was less of a question and more of a statement from him. It was more than enough for a night. I nodded.

Of course, I do wish you would've told me; I would've packed a bag.

I smiled, putting the envelope down on the table. I grab my phone and update my friend on how long I'd be gone for. I put away the phone quickly and look up at him. God, was he hot. And the way he carried himself made him even hotter, so nonchalant. He shrugged, sipping his drink before sitting next to me again, some space between us.

How long you been doing this?

He stares at me, gaze so intense I squirm a little.

Just a few months.

We're quiet again. Usually I try to carry a conversation if the other party can't hold one, but he makes me nervous. I talk again, asking mundane questions. It's like pulling teeth trying to have small talk with him. Maybe he's just not much of a talker.

I scoot closer to him, our knees barely touching. He puts his drink down, and rests his arms on the back of the couch. I lean in closer to him, resting my hand on his thigh before kissing his lips. He kisses back softly. We exchange light, almost timid kisses for awhile. He finally moves. A hand reaching up to grab at my hair, gently pulling. I moan faintly and that seems to set him off. He grabs me by the throat, not hard, just enough to stand me up and guide me to his bedroom; our kisses getting more intense. We strip each other of our clothes. I unbuckle his pants and pull them down, it feels like I'm opening a gift on Christmas. He's big. I smile up at him. He just looks down vacantly. I pull down his boxers and his erection springs up, tip drooling. He opens a drawer next to the bed, pulling out a condom and rolling it on himself.

Lay back.

He commands. I obey, opening my legs. I've done this so many times before, but this time it's different. As unceremoniously as he's treating this, I can't be more excited. His body is amazing, tattoos and scars just adding to the mysterious aura. His natural scent drives me wild. I look up to him as he crawls over me, lining himself up with me. He gives a couple lazy slaps on my slick. I take a sharp breath. He watches as he slides himself in, I tense up. Most guys are well... average. And he's well... much more than that.

Relax.

He huffs. Sliding himself in more, not giving me any time to adjust. I grip the bedsheets, clenching my jaw. I stare up at him, he doesn't even look at me. His face emotionless as he watches himself slide in and out. I try to unclench, opening myself up more to him.

Mhm...

He grunts. My nipples harden at his voice. I moan as he slams into my cervix repeatedly. It makes him shoot his eyes up at me, glaring into mine. His eyes dark pools, intense. He roughly hooks his arms under my knees, pushing them up to my chest. He digs even deeper into me as I whimper. He takes quick, shallow breaths.

You're so deep.

I say panting, the breath getting knocked out of me. I reach out to touch his muscular arms. He grunts and pounds harder into me. I throw my head back, whining. Trying to not wince in pain. He slows for a moment, pulling back, keeping my legs on his shoulders as he slides in and out. My breasts bounce up and down with each thrust.

You're hot.

A hint of emotion in his voice, he reaches down to knead my chest. My face gets hot. I tighten around him.

Fuck...

He makes a sound that almost resembles a moan. I smile up at him, almost proud of making him show any emotion. He looks down at me, a flicker in his eyes, a small smirk on his face that leaves as quickly as it came. He parts my legs and rubs at my clit in rough circles. I squirm under him.

Say my name.

He orders. His strokes picking up as I get used to him.

Simon~

As soon as his name leaves my lips, a deep rumble from his chest fills my ears. He leans over me, arms on either side of my head. I reach up to run my hands up and down the back of his neck.

Say you love me.

His request takes me aback. I pull him closer, my lips just under his ear.

I love you~

He immediately tenses up and takes a heavy breath. I could feel him twitch inside me as he finishes. He pulls away quickly, going to the bathroom to throw out the condom and clean up. He brings back a wet towel, wiping me down.

What's your name?

His tone as flat as ever.

Gia.

I responded. I know what he's actually asking me. Never, ever tell a trick your real name. Hell, he shouldn't even know your real age.

You know what I mean.

He glares at me. I shift awkwardly. Don't do it. He doesn't say a word, just stares in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Why should he know your real name anyways? I tell him my name. Stupid. Fucking dumbass. I kick myself. He nods and slides into some sweats, throwing me his shirt.

Let's watch something.

I throw on his shirt. Now this is what I'm used to. Being a temporary girlfriend. Pretending to be affectionate. Giving much needed companionship. He splays out on the couch as I lay on top of him. He turns on the TV, resting a hand on my ass and squeezing it. Maybe this is why he hires girls. Because of how distant he is. The man can't even hold a conversation. He flicks on some show he was in the middle of, a business dramedy that I couldn't care less about. I rest my head on his chest and he runs his fingers through my hair. We're like this for a while, quiet.

Tell me you love me.

He says dryly, looking down at me. I look up and kiss him.

I love you, Simon.

He gets hard immediately, rubbing himself on me. He gets up, lifting me up effortlessly, and throws me on the bed. He lays on top of me, pinning me down onto the bed. Kissing me much more passionately this time, like he was trying to taste every inch of my mouth.

Keep saying it.

His voice gruff. He moves his kisses down to my neck, pawing at my bust.

I love you, Simon.

I moan. I wanted him so badly. I don't care how I got him, I just wanted to take him. Something about him made me go crazy, deep inside. He yanks up the shirt I was wearing, moving his kisses more and more south.

You fuck other people raw?

I shake my head. I might've been a whore, but I wasn't reckless.

Never.

He nods.

Can I eat you out?

I look down at him. Something about seeing him between my legs makes me wanna say yes. The way his eyes looks almost as if he's pleading, desperate. No way. Never do that.

Yes.

I allow him to keep going. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I allowing this? Before I can think more, he plunges his tongue between my lips. Lapping up desperately, burying his face into me. I roll my eyes back, running my fingers through his hair.

I love you, Simon.

I gasp. It's the only thing he wanted me to say. I saw something in him, the way he reacted when I said that, it made me want to stay in his place forever. To never leave. Make him happy. It's just the good head talking, you'll snap back to your senses afterwards. He moans so quietly I can barely hear it. Barely. My legs on his shoulders, his arms wrapped around my thighs. Digging fingers into the soft flesh. He sucks on my nub repeatedly. It's a tortuously delicious feeling. I grip his hair a little.

I love you, Simon.

I look down at him, watching him devour me. He looks up at me, his eyes showing an emotion I can't decipher. He moves one hand down to slide two fingers into me.

I love you, Simon.

I moan, throwing my head back and smiling.

Hmm...

He mumbled into my heat. Pumping in and out before bending his fingers in a way that presses against my sweet spot. I hiss, pleasure flashing through me like a strobe light. I'm dripping wet. He pulls his fingers out and plunges his tongue into my entrance, trying to suck out every drop of my juices.

You taste good.

Voice as flat as ever, as if he isn't lost in between my folds. He drags his tongue up between my lips, from my entrance to my nub again. He slips his fingers in again, pressing up against my sweet spot repeatedly. I get lost in the feeling. God I could stay like this forever. He looks up at me, like he's looking for validation.

I love you, Simon~

I slip out between heavy breaths. He picks up the pace of his fingers and tongue. My face gets hot as I get closer, grip his hair a little harder. He goes even faster, harder, almost feverant. I roll my eyes back, panting. I whimper before crying out, tightening around his fingers in a vice grip.

I love you, Simon~

I force the words from my throat as I spasm under him. He continues, seemingly determined to draw another climax out of me. I mewled, trying to push his head away. He was unmoving for an unbearable moment. The only sounds were my pants and his slurping.

I love you, Simon.

I wailed, almost hoping it'll make him stop. He does thankfully. He pulls away, tearing off his sweats, beating off himself. Staring at me, his gaze is intense as ever. He grabs me by the thighs and drags me into his lap. He continues to stroke himself, staring into my wet core as if he was hypnotized by it.

Can I...

He starts, almost knowing he shouldn't ask the question.

Can I fuck you raw?

His voice is uncharacteristically soft and unsure. I blink at him, mind racing. ABORT! ABORT! THIS IS LIKE RULE #1 IN HOE-ING!!! He looked so delicious from this angle, his eyes still glued on my wetness. ARE YOU INSANE?? NO!! His throbbing, beautiful dick is twitching.

...yes.

I nod. You're the dumbest person on the planet. I insult myself a million different ways in my head. A brief moment of regret is replaced with pleasure as he slides his tip teasingly in and out of me. His jaw clenches, chest rising and falling faster. His voice cracks as a moan escapes him, his eyebrows furrow.

I love you, Simon.

I stare at him, eyes half lidded. The smallest smile spreads across his face, still looking at himself entering me. He inches his way in. Pulling in and out, going deeper each time. I squeeze him, make him bite his lip.

That's good.

He stated, voice quavering. He clears his throat before grabbing one leg and lifting it to my chest, digging deep into me. I take a sharp breath in. He hovers over me, arms on either side of my head again. He slides in and out, slowly at first then picking up to a punishing pace. I whimper and wiggle under him. He grabs my face, forcing me to look into his eyes that bore into mine.

I love you, Simon.

I stare right back at him, passion shooting right out of my eyes. His eyes flutter for a moment before blinking back into his cold, unnerving self. He continues to dig himself into me, slamming and grinding himself into the deepest parts of me. It's a painfully addicting feeling. I take his hand and press it up against my lower stomach so he can feel how much he fills me. He clenches his jaw so hard, it looks like his head could pop.

I love you, Simon.

I whisper. He drops down on top of me, snaking his arms around and behind my back to grab my ass. His mouth right next to my ear, I can hear his fast and shallow breaths. Little groans that slip out every now and then. I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him tighter.

I love you, Simon.

I hear him groan under me as I said it again. He goes faster than before, pretty much jackhammering me into the mattress. My mouth is agape and head thrown back. Only grunts escape my throat as I get fucked senseless.

Mhm...like that?

His words bounce around in my empty head. I replay it in my head over and over until I clench around him, he doesn't stop though. It only seems to spur him on even more. His warm breath tickling my ear as it gets more ragged.

Keep saying it.

He demands through gritted teeth.

Fuck... I love you, Simon.

I squeak out the words. He huffs and continues to rampage my body.

Can I come inside you?

He asks- No, begs. No use in turning back now. Just the thought made me close again.

Yes.

I nod and he breathes harder and harder until he pleads in a strained voice,

Say it.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside me.

I love you, Simon~

He spills inside me. His stammered breaths and moans driving me crazy. The feeling of him pumping into me driving me over the edge. I pull him closer, practically squeezing him.

I love you, Simon.

I tenderly kiss the top of his head as he nuzzles into my neck.

How often do you do this?

My head clears, a wave of regret coming over me.

Never. I never even hired anyone before you.

He says in a way so sincere I honestly believe him. How do you know when a trick is lying? Their mouth is open. Rules. Rules to live by, to be able to survive doing what I do. Rules. They all meant nothing as soon as I laid eyes on him. Somehow saw this coming a mile away in the back of my head. He pulled away from my grasp, disappointment flooded me. He leaned back, opening my legs: watching both of our cum dripping out of me.

Say it.

His eyes so focused, as if he were trying to take a picture with his mind; so he would never forget this moment.

I love you, Simon.

I say with a tender smile. His dick jumps. Good lord is this man insatiable. He stands up and does the same routine as before, cleaning himself up and then me. He hands me his shirt:

Here.

I throw it on and he leads me to the bathroom, grabbing me by the shoulders and making me face the mirror. He gently pushes my back, I lean my elbows on the countertop. I stand on the balls of my feet, trying to get my hips to meet his. As I look in the mirror, his face looks almost tender watching me sway my hips.

I love you, Simon~

I sing softly. He bites his lip, entering me again. God, I never get used to the feeling. He grabs my hips and pulls me onto him, he bottoms me out. Groaning louder this time, he pulls my hair back so I'm looking directly at the mirror, locking eyes with him.

S'it, pretty girl...

A corner of his mouth upturned just enough to know he's enjoying himself. His words make me flutter around him. He groans and starts to pound into me. The bathroom is filled with the duet of our breaths and groans. He pulls my hair so my back is pressed against his chest. He rests a hand on my throat, squeezing just enough. Moves his lips to my neck, still sliding in and out of me.

You love me? Huh?

He grunts, warm breath on the pulse of my neck.

I love you. So much.

I moaned. I repeated the phrase so many times, it started coming out of my mouth naturally. He moved his hand from my hair to my lower stomach, pressing against it so he could feel himself hitting my walls.

You love this dick, yeah? Say it.

His voice getting more demanding and urgent. I nod and look at him through the mirror, smiling.

I love it, I love this dick so much, Simon~

He nips at my neck as he continues to fuck me. His nips turn into bites. Bites that definitely leave marks. I didn't care, that didn't matter right now.

You're never fucking leaving, you know that?

A threat that sounded like heaven to me. He could keep me chained to the bed and I wouldn't care, just as long as he kept fucking me like this. I giggled with excitement.

You like that, hm?

He smiles against my skin before continuing to lick and bite my neck.

I love it~

I truly did. It felt heavenly. Better than anyone I've ever had. Ever. Something felt so familiar about his touch. As if I belonged there.

I love you, Simon~

At this point I feel like I'm reciting a prayer, the words flowing out of me like a stream. I was melting in his arms.

Turn around, wanna see that pretty face.

I did so eagerly as he lifted me up on the counter and slid inside me. I smirked up at him. He, as always, was watching himself impale me.

Looks so pretty...

He seemingly mumbled to himself. He leaned down and pressed our foreheads together, a firm hand on the back of my head. Hitting a spot so deep inside me I never knew I had. We were like this for a long minute, sloppy sounds of our sex bouncing off the walls.

I love you, Simon.

I stared into his eyes. They seem to soften for a moment before he tightened the grip on the back of my neck. A huff, and then he came undone. He stayed inside me until he was soft. He pulls out and pushes his fingers into my cunt, stuffing his seed back into me.

Hm.

He grunts in a way that sounds like approval before helping me off the counter. He leads me to bed and slips under the covers.

In my arms.

Commanding as he usually does. I press my head against his chest, his heart beating hard and fast. He wraps an arm around me, his touch much gentler than before. I fall asleep. Not too sure if he does too.

Morning comes and I'm woken up by the sun shining in my face. Sitting up, I'm in his bed, still wearing his shirt. Alone. I walk out to the living room and see him setting up breakfast on the coffee table.

You made this?

I question, surprised.

Ordered it. Good morning.

He turns to me, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks at me expectantly. I blink at him.

Good morning.

I say. He looks at me as if he was anticipating something else. I think for a moment before suddenly remembering.

I love you, Simon.

He steps to the side, inviting me to sit on the couch. I help myself to a seat and look at the plate in front of me. It's simple, French toast and eggs. I help myself.

Are you gonna eat anything?

I look at him quizzically. He shakes his head, staring like always. We're silent as I finish my plate. I grab my phone and check the time. Almost time for me to leave.

Can I book you for longer?

His voice is gruff. An underlying tone, pleading?

It'll be expensive.

I didn't want to say that. Wanted to say I'll stay as long as he likes. But I already made too many mistakes. Gotta get back on track.

I don't care.

Of course he didn't. He could probably buy me out for the rest of my life if he wanted to. He pulled out his phone, asking for my personal number so he could send the money straight to my bank account. Hesitantly I gave it to him. He probably could find out that stuff if he wanted to anyways. My phone dings, I check my bank app. My eyes pop out of my head. I look up at him bewildered.

How long would that get me?

He asks, as if he didn't send me an ungodly amount of money.

It's enough for a whole week...

Shock still overwhelming me.

You wanna stay that long?

He doesn't really ask. He knows I'll say yes. Doesn't even wait for my answer.

I'll let you get your things.

He throws some of his clothes my way and sends me back in a car to the hotel. I grab my bags and checkout. Is this really happening? A call from my girlfriend. I tell her about his extension. She says something about making sure he's not a serial killer. We laugh, tells me to have fun, don't fall in love. I scoff as if that was the stupidest idea I've heard. As soon as I know it I'm back at his place, he's grabbing bags from me, setting them to the side. Turning to me and running a hand up the side of my waist.

I love you, Simon.

We spend the whole week tangled up in each other. Taking a break before I say those four words and he has me pinned against a wall or over a dresser or kitchen counter. Any flat surface, really.

It's Saturday night and we're showering, cleaning off sweat and other bodily fluids from each other. His touch is so gentle, handling me like I was a piece of china. He liked me. It was obvious. Seemed like the only way he knew how to show it was by fucking me, though. I liked him too. Maybe not to the extent he did.

Seemed like he found something he needed for a long time. He was hungry. Famished. He couldn't just let go of me. He's not satiated yet. Don't know if he'll ever be. It was a looming feeling. Dark and heavy. A little scary. But it made me feel more desired than I've ever been before. And not just a carnal desire. It made me feel coveted.

We're laid up on his couch. Watching the show I didn't care for before, a little more invested. My phone lights up, buzzing. The name of a regular of mine across the screen in big bold letters. This is usually the time of the month he calls to set up a date. A reminder that this is all temporary. I let it go to voicemail. He tenses up. Jealousy and disappointment radiating off him.

How much for the whole month?

He doesn't even let me think of an answer before speaking again.

How much to make you quit for good?

I'm a little shook, sure I've heard it a dozen times before. Always said in jest. But he's serious. The few words he said, he always seemed to mean. No need to waste his breath beating around the bush. My heart races. I can feel his pound against mine. A number doesn't come to my head.

Let's just see how this goes.

He doesn't like that answer. He wants something solid. A promise that I'll never leave. More than a promise. But that's as good as he can get right now. There's a tense silence between us.

I love you, Simon.

The only thing I can think of saying right now. He takes hold of me, climbing into the bed and sits me in his lap. His back against the headboard.

C'mon love.

He says frigid. An underlying tone of disappointment and hurt. I slide myself down on him, a little more adjusted to his size now. He wraps strong arms around my waist, pulling me so close it seems like he wants to coalesce into my very being.

Give me a number.

A demand that seems more like a plea. We hold each other. Unmoving as he is still buried deep inside me.

Maybe it is a little toxic to spiral into the addiction to fast money. Maybe I'm a little sick of pretending to be the perfect woman. Maybe it is a little exhausting to be a fantasy and nothing more. Maybe it is a little lonely when it's just me lying in bed, when I have to comfort others. Where's my comfort in all of this? Where's my happiness in all of this? No more fake smiles. No more fake orgasms. No more fake feelings. I don't care if he's lying. I want to indulge in delusion. Even for a moment.

Ok.

I give in. He leans over, placing me on my back before adjusting himself on top of me. Touches my face, his showing an emotion that is genuine and staggering. Devotion? It feels like it.

I could almost cry, the way he takes me like I'm his. The way he talks to me like I'm not someone he hired. That didn't matter anymore. I wasn't an escort to him. I was his girl. The sex was different. Transcendant. Divine. Did I know I wanted to be saved? Of course I didn't know; for the life of sin and suffering is simply a thing to toil in until you are shown salvation. Every time he came, he baptized me. I was born again in his eyes, I was perfect and clean. Absolved of my sins.

He looked at me with so much adoration. I looked up at him, much in the same way Magdalene did to her Redeemer. He had turned a prostitute into a Saint. The unshakeable feeling of deliverance washed over as he touched me, no longer a leper. I was saved by him. His body. His sweat. His seed. Akin to taking Communion. The closest to heaven we'll ever get.

[returnsandreturns]

Crowley’s teased Aziraphale for centuries about not reading books exclusively because he likes the little crease he gets between his eyebrows when he doesn’t like how Crowley is behaving. He rarely gets to see it these days and it doesn’t show up as much as you’d think with some of the behaving Crowley does but the second he lounges against a shelf and says, “Dunno why you waste your time with all these books when television exists,” he’s sure to catch a glimpse of it. 

“They do the reading for you, angel,” he says. “And there’s–explosions and things. You know, ka-boom.”

He makes a little exploding motion with his hands and Aziraphale levels him with a look that would immediately scare off a mere mortal who just wanted to casually browse in a bookshop with an open sign right on the door. 

“This feels like blasphemy,” he says, “and I won’t have it in my bookshop.” 

“Oh, you let me blaspheme all the time until it’s about books,” Crowley says, trying not to smile too hard when Aziraphale’s glare turns into a pout. 

There’s an inevitability to books, though, with the amount of free time he’s created for himself and the amount of time he spends adjacent to them. He’ll leave the bookshop with paperbacks shoved in his back pocket, hidden by his jacket, always half expecting the angel to catch him as he’s leaving. His reaction would have been so complicated. Stealing is bad but reading is good. That’s the kind of black and white thinking you're taught upstairs. The gray of whether the virtue of reading overrides the sin of stealing is something Aziraphale is good at. A little puzzle that ends with the answer being libraries or politely asking.

The jig is up when Aziraphale happens upon him in the park, sprawled out under a tree with a copy of Tipping the Velvet, so engrossed in it that he doesn’t even notice until Aziraphale is standing over him. 

“Shit,” Crowley says, startled, dropping the book. “Since when do you loom?” 

“Since when do you read?” Aziraphale asks, like he’s just been given the most delightful gift he’s ever received. 

“. . .I steal,” Crowley says, sitting up on his elbows and raising his eyebrows. “From an angel’s bookshop, which is, I assume, doubly a sin. If I happen to glance through my stolen goods, that’s my business.”  

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, warmly, sitting a shopping bag down before moving to sit next to him. “Are there many paperbacks on my bookshelves?” 

“. . .just the occasional one lying around, I suppose,” Crowley says, suspiciously. 

“And why do you suppose that?” Aziraphale prompts. 

“. . .did you trick me into literacy?” Crowley asks, gasping.

“I merely placed books I thought you might enjoy around for you to make the choice,” Aziraphale says, adorably pleased with himself.

“Well, that’s familiar,” Crowley says, laughing. “You tempted me into literacy.” 

“Do you like this one?” Aziraphale asks, ignoring that and picking up the book, the broken spine immediately healing under his touch.

“I might,” Crowley says, defensively, then groans. “Oh, fuck, I lost my page.” 

“I miracled a bookmark before it hit the ground,” Aziraphale says, handing it back to him, and Crowley flips it open to see a black bookmark embossed with his initials and a lovely snake pattern, laughing.

“Satan help me,” he says, smiling at him, “but I kind of like this side of you. Bit of petty mischief. It’s cute.” 

“. . .could I tempt you into something else, perhaps?” Aziraphale asks, slowly. 

“Lunch?” Crowley asks. 

Instead of answering, Aziraphale reaches out to cup his cheek and kiss him, soft at first but then Crowley kisses him back, trying to hold back the impulses of thousands of years worth of not kissing Aziraphale as Aziraphale presses him down into the grass. 

Of course it was books that finally did it. 

“If I’d taken your suggestion to read all those poetry books you were pushing on me back in the eighteenth century, would you have done this then?” he asks, when they finally take a break. 

“Well, darling, if you must know, they were love poems,” Aziraphale says, despairingly, starting to sit up again until Crowley drags him back on top of him.

“I’ll read any poem you want, angel,” he says, hushed, “just don’t stop.” 

“Dangerous thing to say, darling,” Aziraphale says, kissing him softly on the forehead.

[octuscle]

Hotel room: filthy chav tf

It was an imposition. An absolute imposition. Having to spend the night in a youth hostel was unbelievable. But in a triple room? Without your own bathroom? Using a communal shower room? That had to be a joke. Yes, his company had to cut costs. There was a new travel policy that banned five-star hotels and business class flights. All well and good. But a youth hostel?!?!?!?!! He called the travel agency and insulted his colleague in the worst possible way. She just replied dryly that everything else was fully booked because of the trade fair and that she had even written Alexander an e-mail asking if the booking was okay. And he had replied with a curt "yes". Unfortunately, there was nothing more she could do, he was still on the waiting list for two hotels. But if there was no answer by now…

Alexander moved into his room. It smelled like a lad's changing room in a community school on a council estate. Of course, he had no idea what it smelled like. But that's how he imagined the stench. Without greeting or acknowledging the teenager lying on the bed playing with his cell phone, Alexander went to the window and pulled it open. "Oi, did someone crap in yer head, mate? Shut that window, innit?" the chav yelled at him. "I don't understand a word you're saying," Alexander replied and began to unpack his suitcase. I don't know how the chav could live like this, he thought to himself. He needed order. He then changed into his bedding, which he saw as a further humiliation, and lay down on the bed. The chav was listening to music so loud that Alexander could clearly hear the bass. He found it more than annoying. But he tried to ignore it. He put on his headset and called his fiancée. Alexander assumed that the chav lying in the bed above him couldn't hear anything, as loud as he was listening to music. So he complained without a care in the world and blasphemed about the young man with the disturbed relationship to personal hygiene and the impossible haircut. "Honey, I have to stop, I have to get out of here and have lunch somewhere civilized." Alexander ended his phone call. He looked up. And he was looking at a dirty white sock.

"Oi, I'm Callum, but me mates call me Cal. So you call me Callum. Did ya just say my smell's botherin' ya? I thought posh gits like you love the scent of real man's feet." Alexander almost threw up. Without saying anything, he jumped up, grabbed his coat and left the room. He had a lunch date with an old school friend at a trendy steak restaurant. It was supposed to distract him and save the evening as much as possible. As he stood in the subway, he wondered what the devil had possessed him not to take a cab. It smelled almost as bad here as in his hotel room. Suddenly he realized that the smell was coming from his armpits. Damn, had he forgotten the deodorant this morning? The journey seemed like an eternity. People wrinkled their noses. My God, that was embarrassing. In the restaurant, he went to the toilet first, wet a towel, took off his shirt and jacket and wiped his armpits. In the stress, he didn't even notice that instead of a white microfiber undershirt with a V-neck, he was wearing a worn-out, yellowed fine rib undershirt. The waiter eyed him a little disparagingly as he brought him to his table. His friend was already sitting there and stood up to greet him. Alexander gave him a fist bump. His friend looked irritated and returned the greeting. "My best man, what kind of ghetto attitudes are these? At least it goes with your casual footwear." Alexander looked at the floor. He was wearing rather expensive-looking sneakers. And white socks. He stammered something about a suitcase that had gone missing and that he'd been a bit stressed. His friend grinned a little disparagingly and poured Alexander a glass of red wine.

The conversation was somehow wooden. Marcus told stories from their school days. But Alexander couldn't remember any of them. The wine was quite tasty, the steak was too rare for him, but he didn't dare complain. With lots of ketchup, it was fine. When the waiter asked if he should pour more wine, Alexander replied with his mouth full "Oi mate, gimme a big beer, yeah? And some mayo with them chips." The rest of the meal passed in silence. All you could hear was Alexander smacking his lips. And after he had finished, a loud and passionate burp. Marcus looked horrified at first. Then he laughed uproariously and burped at least as loudly. "Blimey, mate! That was a good one. Now off for a fag and a fart outside?" "You can proper bet on it, mate. Got a spare cig for us?".

Marcus and Alexander had to put their last few pounds together to pay. The waiter looked disgustedly at the stale bills. "You got a problem, mate? Our money not good enough for ya? What's it gonna take for a blowie, eh? Would ya prefer that?" Alexander could barely stop Marcus from starting a fight with the waiter. He waved for security. A few minutes later, the two chavs were thrown out the back exit.

The evening was still young. Alex called Cal to see if he would like to have a beer in the pub at the youth hostel and watch the game. Cal replied that he had just taken a punter up to the room and had to fuck him first. Blimey, Cal was always lucky. Mack suggested he stand by the mess hall exit. Maybe you could pick up a customer there too. Alex looked in his wallet. He was broke again. He could do with a few pounds. They had at least managed to scrounge two fags from a passer-by. The evening was off to a good start. And at some point it would end with a hot threesome in their room.

Pics found @maennersneakersockenfuesseskins and @belgiquecuir

[qierxing]

A/N: An interpreted continuation of @shiny-jr wonderful fic. (checks calendar) Uhm, happy three month update to this series AND 1k notes on the first part! I would say sorry for the wait, but I really did need it LOL. Anyway, it's not super obvious, but the timeline is a bit all over the place in this part, because I'm jumping back and forth between past and present.

TW/CW: Immolation, violence, implied stalking+actual stalking, obsessive behavior, mild psychological and body horror, toxic relationships, Yuu uses it/its pronouns, we get a little meta in here, the boys are FIGHTINGGG I. II. | Isekai AU | Yan! Heartslabyul x Reader

“Who are you?” said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, Sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

“What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar, sternly. “Explain yourself!”

“I ca’n’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,” said Alice, “because I am not myself, you see.”

— Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Caroll

vi. Mourning

It is incredibly hard to get Yuu alone.

Whether it be by the forces of fate or just because so many vie for their attention, there is rarely, if ever, any time when someone is able to spend time personally alongside them. The only exception to this rule is Grim, who was practically the player's companion from the beginning.

So when Ace Trappola manages a rare chance to snag some one on one time with Yuu, he guns for it. Course, he had to time it perfectly. 

It was just another night like any other. Ace and Deuce decided to come over to hang out for a casual sleepover as usual. The four of them did initially start out studying, before the textbooks and worksheets were being abandoned in favor of more exciting things, such as the deck of cards that Ace brought with him.

Sending Deuce and Grim off to get snacks through a won bet over a card game was easy as pie.

"Hey Ace?" 

He hums in response, letting Yuu know he's listening. His nimble fingers shuffle the worn cards, flipping through them with practiced ease. Stacking them up quickly, he wonders if he should try to impress Yuu with another card trick to gain their enthralled praise.

"Do you…like…being my friend?"

The question makes him blink and look up in surprise at Yuu. It feels blasphemous to hear such doubt lingering in their words.

"Why? Scared I'm gonna ditch ya?" He teases.

Yuu doesn't respond, only giving a sheepish smile back. 

"I-It's not like I don't like being friends with you." He tries to keep his cool. "I just-"

Yuu's smile doesn't falter. "It's okay, Ace."

He's reminded of his previous girlfriend in middle school. It was more of a fling than a serious thing, but it's something he remembers vividly. Their breakup, after all, was rather dramatic.

"You're too much, Ace. Sometimes you just take it too far." 

What was even her name? Elizabeth? He could barely even remember, but for some reason, he still recalls the intense way her face was twisted in burning resentment. He tried to bury it in the past. He swore he would never fall in love or get into another relationship, preferring friendships over any kind of romantic trysts.

Now that he looks at Yuu, he already knows he's screwed up big time.

Yuu's gaze is no longer meeting his, instead staring into the fireplace that Grim had so generously set up earlier. The crackling blue flames reflect in their irises and in that moment, dread curls inside Ace's stomach. Yuu doesn't seem right.

"Hey…you okay?" He asks hesitantly, placing a hand on their shoulder.

Yuu doesn't move, still staring at the fire intently. He opens his mouth to ask again, but then they speak.

"If I wasn't acting like myself, would you still like me?" 

Another question out of left field. 

"Even if you somehow grow anemones on your head, Yuu's still Yuu, right?" His heart swells in pride at the way their lips quirk at his inside joke. 

"Yeah…" they murmur back. 

"Wanna see somethin' cool?" he says, holding out a card. Yuu tilts their head questioningly.

"It's the ace of hearts. What about it?"

"It's not just the ace of hearts!" Ace puffs out his cheeks. "Don't you know the meaning of this card?"

Yuu shakes their head.

"It means good news for yourself or someone close. Practically a lucky charm!" Ace waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "So how can things go wrong now that you have me?"

Yuu snorts and shoves him playfully. "Yeah, yeah, okay, Mr. Lucky Charm."

But it works. The foggy clouds clear from Yuu's eyes, finally returning them to the familiar luster he's used to. For the rest of the night, there is no hint of hollowness within them. And Ace hopes he will never see that sight again.

-

He should've known something was up since that night.

When Headmaster Crowley personally makes an appearance at their dorm, he should've realized it then. If there was anything that the old raven hated more, it was having to do more work than usual. 

"That person wasn't an imposter." Crowley says, coughing awkwardly into his fist.

The solemn words echo in his head on end. The rest of the Headmaster's words start to tune out for Ace. Automatically, his legs begin to move on their own. The calls of the others chase after him, but he ignores them, racing out of the lounge and towards the mirror portal.

Because if you didn't hurt Yuu-

-then what had he done?

When he first arrived in NRC, he didn't even know that Ramshackle dorm existed. Not until Yuu came to reside there; until he had to beg for shelter from them when he was chained with that damn collar. He knew that they didn't have to take him in. But they did, and maybe that's why Ace couldn't turn his back after that. 

The building before him is no longer the broken down hovel that he remembers back then. He remembers how the roof was almost caving in and wooden beams were always in danger of collapsing. Each knock on the entrance doors would send cascades of dust upon his head. Now, the walls are painted with a fresh coat of paint, the roof has new shingles, and the place actually looks like a house you could safely live in. 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Prefect! Are you there?!" He yells, desperation leaking into his voice. "Please!"

Bang! Bang!

He's gotta be out of his damn mind, acting like some crazy person. But he can't help but be blinded by his fear. So he keeps hitting the door with his fists, praying, hoping, for…well that someone would open the door.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Yuu!!" He screams, and his voice echoes around him, mocking his helplessness. His fists are becoming numb from slamming the wood so hard, but he can't stop himself.

"Yuu–!"

"Oi! Ace!!!" A rough hand on his shoulder shoves him back and before he could knock the souvnabit-

"Ace, look at me!"

He's stopped by Deuce's fists meeting his in an even match of strength. Like an illusion broken, Ace stills and yanks his hands back.

There's only heavy breathing in between them for a long while. 

"...they're not here." Ace snaps to look at Deuce, who only closes his eyes in a painful grimace.

"What do you mean, 'not here'?" Ace asks.

Deuce doesn't say anything for a beat.

"What do you mean they're–"

"They're in the infirmary." Deuce's words flow out in a breathless rush. "The Headmaster said that after you ran."

Fuck, he just acted like an idiot then. No wonder no one was responding to his absolute earth shattering door banging and yelling. Then the meaning of Deuce's words begin to sink in. Oh Seven, no–

He turns and before he could even step in the direction of the main building, his arm is yanked back.

He snarls at Deuce. "Let me go! I have to see the prefect!"

"Housewarden is calling you back." Deuce forces out through gritted teeth and closed eyes. "The Headmaster said that…they don't want to see anyone."

And like a fire put out, Ace's anger chokes to flickering embers.

He lets Deuce guide him back, all the way from the Ramshackle dorm, to the mirror portal, and then back to Heartslabyul's lounge where the other three are grimly awaiting them.

Ace half expects to be yelled at once he passes the threshold. Or get some kind of lecture on how he should have better manners than to just run off like that. It would've been just like his housewarden to only care about weird, arbitrary rules when there were other arguably more important matters.

But his housewarden sits silently on his gilded velvet throne with glassy eyes. There's no anger burning behind them, and the freshmen are terrified to see their once proud and fearsome queen reduced to this husk. He almost would rather him back to the state where he was barking out orders for them. The silence in the lounge is deafening.

Ace swears they must be all thinking the same thing.

Please let this be a bad dream.

-

He tried calling you. Texting you. Hell, he even tried messaging you on Magicam! Magicam, of all things! 

Anxiety claws at his heart with each unread message and dial voice tone greeting. He has so much to say, to ask for-

Deuce wasn't faring well on his side either. He had also tried calling and texting you, to no avail. Grim, that traitor, hadn't come back to visit Heartslabyul at all since the incident. Never mind the fact he had only himself to blame for that—he thought at the very least the cat direbeast would have some sense of pity for their friendship and throw them a bone. 

Ace tried two more times to meet you. 

First, during your infirmary stay, when you were still unconscious.

The second time was when you returned to Ramshackle dorm with Grim.

Maybe the Seven were punishing him for his hubris. Or he supposes this is just karma. Because both times, he fails spectacularly at the front door of Heartslabyul. Because of this, he's the reason why Riddle had put them all on house arrest (with the exception of academic reasons, of course).

It's a declaration that would've been met with mutiny from all of them, if it weren't for the fact that even Headmaster Crowley had explicitly forbade anyone from showing up on Ramshackle's doorstep or trying to meet you. So he understands. Really! He does. He's seen how Riddle holes up in his room, muttering to himself while carrying out boxes upon boxes of crumpled paper. When he manages to snag a stray paper that flutters out on garbage day, Ace realizes that Riddle is also just as frenzied trying to reach out to you. Even if he is going about it in an old fashioned way.

He'll chip in to help. If his housewarden is left to his own devices, they’ll all be fossils by the time he sends what he deems a satisfactory letter. 

And the faster they do this, the faster they have a chance of reaching you.

vii. Embalming

The most horrifying thing is that it doesn't seem to care about dying.

That cursed pile of ceramic shards had disappeared—no, pieced itself back together—and once again, it became the smiling face of Yuu, the being they all knew and used to adore.

Riddle Rosehearts immediately smashed it to pieces again under the weight of his magic.

No one had tried to stop their housewarden. Not even the faceless mobs. Even if they were all alarmed at the erratic behavior of their housewarden, they could not deny the fear of seeing something dead come back alive. With not so much as a dent or wound in them, for that matter.

The third time it happened, Riddle ordered for the remains to be dumped into the school’s incinerator at the highest heat level. Surely, that would be enough. 

He watched as the incinerator roared and shuddered, shaking as if the pits of hell had opened. After a few agonizing minutes, the rumbling stops, and before he can even breathe a sigh of relief, the iron hatches creak open, and out strolls Yuu, perfectly fine and pieced together again.

It's magic. Or some kind of century old curse. Of course it is. After all, it was at a higher power than even Draconia's comprehension. Why he didn't consider the possibility beforehand is something he berates himself now. 

What might be the most damning thing is that it has no fear or suspicion in its face; even after the multiple times it’s been maimed and torn apart. Not like you, who immediately closed themselves off at being hurt so thoroughly. 

The irony isn't lost on him. The temptation of letting the puppet take its place back in favor of just bringing everything back to how it was is something Riddle could not deny. But now that he's actually met you, Yuu just seems more of a shadow of what he remembers during your interactions together.

It has your face. It acts like you.

But it's not you.

When Ace asks after the commotion at the Unbirthday party on how he was able to figure out that it wasn’t [First], he had to take a moment to gather his thoughts. Ace’s face changes into something of disbelief when Riddle merely replies with: “[First] takes their tea with two sugars and a dash of milk.”

“You were so sure only because of that?”

He doesn’t want to think what Ace’s face would look like if he had explained his whole list of reasons how he realized that the puppet wasn’t you. How he soaked up as much as he could when you came over for the tea party. Your expressions, your little habits, the way you fidget…it was all filed away in Riddle's head and later, his private notebook.

But that doesn’t matter now. Now, there’s an even bigger problem than the puppet resurrecting itself.

Grim is missing again.

This alone should've been more worrying than anything for Yuu, but it merely shrugs and says it’s not sure where he scampered off to. He's more than suspicious, of course, but there is no proof, which is infuriating already.

But without Grim, they are missing the key to finding [First]. 

The others raise hell once they hear the news Riddle reports at the weekly housewarden meeting. A new wave of tension washes over NRC and with it, an unprecedented deep disdain for the puppet. It returns back to classes unannounced, making Ace and Deuce rant to him about how weird it is that it’s trying so hard to act like nothing had happened. It attends school events with their camera, drumming up conversations like normal between all of them; despite the fact it gets ignorance or violence in response (depending on the person it greets).

But none of them are really sure on how to interact with Yuu.

The nicer ones, like Trey or Deuce, entertain Yuu with frigidly civil responses, in hopes of boring the puppet and making it flit away to another victim. Meanwhile, he and Ace have finally come together on an agreed opinion: that they would rather die before letting the puppet even think it could take [First]’s place.

“Go away.”

Yuu merely smiles in response to Riddle’s annoyed voice. The puppet leisurely lounges in the chair across the table from him. The school library is vast but empty, his authoritative voice echoing down the long halls. Several floating books flit past above their heads and the chandeliers above flicker with bright candlelight.

“I just wanted to keep you company.” Riddle purses his mouth in disgust. It’s invasive, it’s gross, and most of all it feels wrong to hear those words coming from Yuu. 

“I didn’t ask for your company,” he replies coldly. “Shouldn’t you know that it’s bad manners to bother someone who wants to be left alone?”

“I don’t think you like being left alone, Riddle.” He flinches at the way Yuu’s eyes bore into him. “Well, then again, you sure like to pretend you’re fine, don’t you?”

His hand tightens around the textbook he’s reading about cursed dolls. There would be no point if he brought out his magical pen and reduced it to rubble. But he is tempted, if only to get some peace and quiet for just a few minutes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Riddle says.

“Hmm…” Yuu hums into its hand, “...then I suppose I will just let you be. What a shame, I had something entertaining to tell.”

“What? What do you mean?” 

Yuu giggles and waves him off. “No, no! You said you didn’t want my company now. Why should I tell you anything?”

He resists the urge to incinerate the book in his hands. “Fine! I would like your company. What is this ‘entertaining’ thing you want to tell me so badly?”

“Hmm…how insincere,” Yuu tilts its head coyly with a smile more akin to a smirk. “But I guess that’s the most I can get.”

“Since you’ve all been driving yourselves crazy, [First] is safe.” The floor feels like it’s been yanked underneath him. The puppet is smiling still, as if it’s all some big joke rather than the revelation it delivered. He can hear his blood roaring through his ears.

“You…” Riddle snarls, face heating into a bright red rage. “What did you do to them?”

It bursts into laughter at his face. 

“Why, I only granted their wish!”

Its laughter is cut short by the sound of ceramic being crushed, and Riddle is left shakily breathing at the pile of shards that used to be Yuu. The puppet’s words churn over and over in his head.

What did you wish for? 

-

It is currently 3:20 on a Wednesday afternoon. 

In his planner, the bullet point neatly penned on the schedule shows ‘Studying for History Test’ in bold blue ink for the time slot. ‘History of the Queendom of Roses’ is laid open on his desk, to the chapter about the local mythos of the area, just as he intended. His notes from lecture are next to it, with several of his stationary needed to jot down annotations. 

And yet, Riddle has yet to touch any of these items or actually adhere to his daily schedule—he’s too distracted by what he should do in order to reach the player.

Riddle's already embarrassed enough, resorting to handwritten letters with the best calligraphy he can muster. He's sent only a couple that passed his satisfaction, and they have all been met with judgemental silence. He’s hunched over another crumpled letter near ripping his hair out when someone knocks on his bedroom door. He quickly shoves the envelope under some textbooks out of frantic instinct.

“Come in.”

A familiar bob of red orange hair pops out behind his door, and Riddle raises an eyebrow at the underclassman who enters.

“Ace? What is it?” Normally, Ace would never be in his room if he could help it. If he was in Riddle’s room, it most likely meant he was either being scolded or punished. And Ace’s eyes are shifting side to side, as if he was trying to sneak his way in. 

“Out with it, Ace.” He’s not in the mood for the underclassman’s shenanigans.

“Housewarden, you’re writing letters to the prefect, aren’t ya?” The question completely takes him off-guard sputtering.

“W-What does t-that have to do with you?” He tries to maintain his composure, but Ace is already giving him a smug smirk for the one up on him. Of all people, it had to be him finding out. 

"I had an idea, Housewarden. Why don't we send them something with the letter?" Riddle blinks in surprise.

“...How smart of you for once, Ace.” It was so simple, yet he marvels at the idea's brilliance. Perhaps there was merit in trying this proposal.

“Hey! What the hell does that mean?!” His underclassman snaps back in a huff. “Whatever, point being, maybe we should switch it up instead of letters all the time.”

He crosses his arms, “And what do you suggest? There’s not much we can really send that hasn't been sent already by other dorms.”

Ace winces. Clearly he didn’t think about the other dorms with more affluent people; people who had more than enough thaumarks and prestige to spend it to appeal to you. Riddle can't blame him either: although he is at the top of the school and his parents are well known mages, it's not like any of that could help him here. All of them, in a sense, were stuck in that situation. 

For once, he starts to resent not having more.

"Ugh, well…maybe it doesn't need to be so fancy, you know?" Ace rubs his neck, face scrunched in frustration. "Like…uh…you know-flowers! People send flowers all the time, yeah?"

This is true. And for Queendom of Roses’ residents, it has become custom to send bouquets with subtle messages left in petals and stems. Although he is a bit loath to admit that he isn’t as well versed in the language of flowers compared to hedgehogs.

"And what do you recommend, Ace?" He asks. "What would be the best flower to send to the prefect in our circumstance?"

"We got all these roses, why not send them that?" Ace responds, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Riddle coughs in annoyance. 

"Why not just procure some from Sam's shop? Today is Wednesday. Do you not remember rule 228?" He chides. Ace groans, rolling his eyes. 

"Not the weird rules again…"

"Ace."

"Yeeesss Housewarden…" The card soldier mock salutes with a deadpan expression. "I'll see if we can get some flowers at Sam's."

"You better, or else it's–" 

"-off with my head, I got it, I got it." Riddle seethes as Ace cuts him off and dashes out of his room before he could get another word in. So troublesome…

Still, there's nothing to do except wait for his card soldier to report back. He turns back to his desk, bringing out the crumpled letter from its hiding place. Running a hand over the crumpled pages, he attempts to pick up his pen again, but fails as his thoughts begin to wander. 

Riddle only manages to pen a couple legible sentences when his door slams open, banging against the wall. He almost falls out of his chair in shock from the loud noise. How was Ace back so quickly?

"Have you not heard of knocking?!" He scowls, turning around to see Ace panting and sweating as if he had run a marathon.

"Never mind that, Housewarden, I saw them!" Ace shouts. 

“What are you jabbering…” Riddle trails off in realization. “You better not be horsing around, Ace.”

“Do you think I would lie to you about this?” Ace retorts frantically. “I saw them at Sam’s shop working the cashier!”

For a moment, his mind races with this information. If you were working at Sam’s shop, it would explain why you weren’t showing up to classes, let alone in the hallways or rooms of NRC. It’s a clever ruse—classes may be over during this time of day, but nearly all of them were participating in mandatory club activities or study labs. No wonder no one else has caught on to this. Riddle rubs his chin in thought, settling back in his chair.

“What are you going to do now, Housewarden Riddle?” Ace asks hesitantly. His eyes are filled with some kind of anticipation and hope, no doubt wondering if he could get some leeway in his own agenda. Normally, he would go right away as there was no need to hesitate about these kinds of things.

But. Crowley’s stern announcement comes back to his mind and guilt starts to creep in. 

“First, we’ll go with your idea, Ace.” He responds. “The ban hasn’t been lifted, after all.” Ace opens his mouth to protest, but he holds a hand up to interrupt him.

“But if that doesn’t work, then I’m sure even Crowley can’t say anything about coincidences.”

viii. Calling Hours

“I’m not joking around, you two.” 

There’s very few times that the vice housewarden of Heartslabyul gets truly mad. His patience seems boundless, honed by years of taking care of younger siblings at home and then dealing with rowdy underclassmen in NRC. But even his saint-like patience could only stretch so far.  

“I told you, we didn’t do it!” Ace scowls with furrowed eyebrows and crossed arms. Meanwhile, Deuce is silent by his side, face twisted with conflicting emotions. “You don’t even have proof! You just singled us out just because!”

“Who else was around the kitchen when I left it?” Trey asks, voice starting to rise in anger. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you two lurking around before?”

The two freshmen began to speak out, voices rambling over each other and cascading into a loud shouting match that was barely intelligible.

“We just wanted to see if we could get something from the fridge, how were we supposed to know someone would-”

“Me and Ace just wanted to bring something along when we deliver the Housewarden’s invitation to-”

"You dumbass, don't just say that out loud-!"

It’s at this moment that Cater Diamond strolls in, takes one look at the mess of the situation and does a 180 back round to the door. But it’s too late, because the interruption is just enough for Ace to sink his hooks into him.

“Cater-senpai, you believe us, right?” Ace shouts after the orange head, making him flinch in place. “You saw us get the order from Housewarden Riddle!”

Cater turns around slowly like a door on rusty hinges, with an expression that screams of not wanting to be involved. "Oh Acey! Uhm, you mean the letter Riddle gave you two-"

"Yes!" Deuce interrupts in earnest, already trying to barrel his way to proving his innocence. "Housewarden Riddle entrusted us to deliver the tea party invitation ourselves personally." 

Cater turns to Trey, who is rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes closed with a tiredness that seems comically reminiscent of an old man. "Well, I'm not sure what this is all about, Trey, but maybe you should cut 'em some slack and let it go."

The other senior nods in reluctant agreement and the two freshmen all but nearly trample over each other trying to run from the tension filled room. But they're stopped in their tracks when Trey calls out again.

"Wait, you two." The duo slowly looks back with cautious eyes.

"You wanted to bring something to the prefect, didn't you?" Trey tilts his head to one of the many strange topsy turvey cabinets in the kitchen. "I have some leftover cookies that I made yesterday. Take them. I'm sorry for accusing you guys like that."

Ace and Deuce exchange confused glances, and although Ace looks away in denial, Deuce nods in gratitude. They leave the kitchen just as chaotically, this time with the aroma of lavender following them.

A brief silence follows their absence, while Cater raises an eyebrow at Trey.

"Sooo…care to spill the tea?"

"Don't even start." Trey groans.

Cater seats himself on one of the stools near the counter, waiting. Trey busies himself with cleaning the stoves and counter, trying not to meet Cater's eyes. Silence falls, but it's with none of the comfort that Cater is familiar with. Giving up, he turns to his phone, refreshing his Magicam dash mindlessly. This continues for a good while until finally—

A low sigh, then– "Somebody took my candied violets."

Cater looks up from his phone. Another beat passes, and he realizes it's not a passing statement. 

"It's not like you to get this bent out of shape over your ingredients going MIA." Cater shifts his face onto the elbow meeting pristine marble while shoving his phone away. "You sure that one of the froshes didn't just end up taking them thinking they were for everyone?"

Trey lets out a rough guffaw. "You know better than I do that the others don't touch our stuff."

Cater taps his fingers on the polished white granite, hands already itching to grab his phone and check for updates, but he restrains himself. "That's…mostly true."

"That can only mean one of you guys has taken it." The hairs on Cater's neck raise at Trey's tone.

"Hey now," Cater grins, raising his hands in mock surrender, "you heard it from those two. I was with Riddle when he gave them that invitation."

"I know." Cater's fingers twitch as Trey carelessly tossed aside the rag used to clean the counter into a bucket. The soggy fabric makes a hollow sound against the wood, echoing rather loudly in contrast. "But Riddle would never do such a thing either."

Cater resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's true that their cute housewarden would hardly dare to stoop to thievery, but Trey's blind faith in him can be annoying at times. After all, didn't their little teapot tyrant threaten to kill the prefect at one point?

He supposes that was his fault, though.

"Then it's back to square one." Cater shrugs. "Besides, what were you even planning to do with them if you weren't gonna eat it?"

The baker runs a hand through his mussed forest green hair and frowns. "I was going to bake a cake with them as a peace offering to the prefect."

Cater's mouth forms an 'o' shape in realization. "That's pretty big brain."

"Yeah, but look how that turned out."

"It's fine~you were able to at least send cookies this time round." Cater finally cracks, digging into his pocket for the familiar grooves of his phone case. "All's well that ends well, right?"

Trey doesn't respond and Cater is too engrossed in his phone to look up to see his expression. He slides off the stool naturally, tapping through recent posts and comments, eyes laser focused on recent posts on his dash. 

"Cater." 

There it is. It's the most recent story reel by Ace(according to the time stamp, about two minutes ago). It's an inconspicuous black out picture with several cute teapot and teacup stickers decorating the screen. The banner message is short and sweet: 'Dorm tea party bout to get real this month 🤔😶'

"Cater." Cater's attention snaps back and towards his friend, who gazes at him with dark eyes.

"Please don't lie to me next time."

With that, Cater watches as his long time friend finally leaves the kitchen. 

Thank the Seven he did. He might have been a decent actor, but Trey has been with him through thick and thin, and it's given him the annoying ability to see through his tells.

Really now. Trey knows that he hates sweets. Shouldn't that be enough of an alibi?

It's not fair that Trey already has everything to set him up for a good relationship with you. Even if they're all set back by their violent reaction to you arriving in this world, he's sure it would only take a couple tries with Trey offering genuine heartfelt food to get to you.

It's just not fair. 

Isn't he fun to hang out with? He consistently gets compliments online for his suave looks and easy personality. So why couldn't he compare to-

He shakes his head. There's no point in overthinking it now. Cay Cay #3 had easily taken the cutely decorated jar of violets and discarded it in the dorm dumpster. Like candy from a baby.

He knows it's petty. But for once, he feels much better, knowing that he upset Trey's original plans to ensnare you.

Now, he once again checks Ace's story reel and screenshots it, while quickly pulling up the search bar. He just needs to level the playing field.

-

There can only be one fake bitch in this house and Cater has had enough of the competition.

“I wasn’t aware that you were going to visit me, Cater.” 

The puppet tilts its head with a warm smile, but there’s a frosty undercurrent to the greeting. It’s clear that he’s not welcome, if the way it’s blocking the doorway of Ramshackle has anything to say.

“Yeah, I ended up losing something here. You mind if I look for it, Yuu-chan?” Cater asks innocently. “Promise it won’t take too long.”

“Hm, sure. But I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Yuu's grin is sharp as a razor blade. It knows what he’s here for and it’s definitely taunting him. That little–

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to look~” He responds back airily. His fist curls around his phone in his pocket tightly. The puppet shrugs and walks off, leaving him standing in the doorway.

It’s been a while since he’s personally been at Ramshackle dorm. Cater remembers how Ace complained about the house being a real fixer upper, but then again, he doesn’t remember much of that, since Yuu always spent most of the time at Heartslabyul dorm. The renovations certainly made it much more pleasing to the eye and more importantly, livable by HOA standards.

There’s nothing to write home about the living room. The coffee table is bare and there’s no wrinkles in the sofa cushions at all. It’s a little eerie—as if no one even lived in the house in the first place. The only sign of living was perhaps the fact it is clean of dust or dirt. 

Nothing in the kitchen either. He gives a wayward glance to the second floor, searching for any signs of movement. Couldn’t hurt to be thorough. 

Rows of tall doors pass by as Cater opens each one of them. A storage closet, a spare room, an electric cabinet, another storage area–it all blurs by after the fourth door. There really is nothing, as if the whole house has been wiped of any trace of you. He's about to toss in the towel when an old, dusty memory crops up. His little freshman, Ace. Cater swears he had been making fun of Yuu for seeing strange things at night. Something about a mouse?

Right, their room! Why didn't he think of looking there?  

His feet take him rapidly from memory to the door that was the third from last in the hallway in the east wing. He manages to wrench the door open to see a regular bedroom, bed sheets barely stirred. Before he can even put one foot in, a throat clears behind him. 

"It's rather rude to go into other people's bedrooms, don't you think?"

You got to be kidding me. Cater turns around with the fakest smile plastered across his face. Yuu looks unamused, tapping its foot impatiently against the wooden floorboards. 

"Just wanted to make sure, y'know?" Cater replies. Yuu gives a tight smile back. It goes around him and shuts the door with a hard thunk.

"Ever heard about how curiosity killed the cat?" 

Cater shakes his head in surrender, "I guess I need to look elsewhere for my lost item."

The entrance doors slam shut behind him hard enough to startle several birds out the dead trees in the yard. Cater doesn't bother giving a look back as he strides out of the yard and past the gated fence surrounding the property. That glimpse was enough and much more. Cater smirks to himself, taking his phone out and sending a quick text message to the group chat. Yes, curiosity may have killed the poor kitty cat…

But satisfaction brought it back.

viiii. Eulogy

It might surprise people to know that Trey Clover's first real friend is Che'nya Pinker.

That's not to say that Trey had trouble getting along with others as a kid, oh no. Everyone in his neighborhood agreed that he was a very sweet boy, who looked out for others around him. When he wasn’t taking care of his baby sister, he would be asked by other parents around the block to look after their own children, whether that be playing soccer games with the more energetic kids or patty cakes with the quiet ones. So it isn’t a stretch to say that he’s friends with nearly everyone. But Che’nya was a special case.

Their first meeting is still burned into Trey’s memory.

“You see it too, don’cha?” The boy had greeted him while swinging upside down on a low hanging tree branch. Trey had half a mind to scold him for the dangerous action before he actually looked at him. 

The first thing that takes Trey off guard is that he has eyes. They’re a shiny yellow, just a shade lighter than his. His pupils are long and thin, not round like his at all. He supposes it must be like a cat’s pupils—for he’s never seen anything like it. Then it’s his unique colorful hair, streaks of light pink intermingling with dark purple, making a strange striped pattern across the chopped uneven hair. Trey faintly recalls a certain cat from their local legends, whose fur boasted those very same colors. 

“...What are you talking about?” Trey eyes him warily. The cat boy gives a cheeky grin. He vanishes and then reappears in front of him, albeit with missing arms.

“The people around us who wear the faces of strangers.” Trey’s skin gets goosebumps at the way the boy observes him. He is not looking through Trey, but at him. Their eyes are directly making contact. “But you’re different. You have the face of a friend.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Trey furrows his eyebrows. The boy's grin stretches wider in response. (His teeth were rather blunter than expected, but his canines were pointed.)

“You’re strange. I’m stranger. Together, we can both be strange,” the cat boy chirps back lightheartedly. “The name’s Artemiy Artemiyevich Pinker. But you can just call me Che’nya.”

Something in his mind had clicked then. It’s hard to explain the feeling–just that it felt like a puzzle piece put into place. He hadn’t known it then, but at that point, the hands of fate had moved. 

Whatever the case may be, Trey was grateful to have Che’nya. Because now he knows that he isn’t crazy; not when he couldn’t see his parent’s faces nor his baby sister’s or even his other friends'. Che’nya too, only shrugs his shoulders when Trey asks him about his grandfather.

“The old man? Yeah, they say I have his eyes, but I wouldn’t know.” The statement is so casually delivered that Trey can hardly believe he’s talking about his only living relative and guardian. “His face does not mirror mine in my mind.”

Staring down at you, shivering with cold and hunger, he feels something churn in him again, just like that fateful day. 

He has his orders from Riddle: bring in the imposter alive. Trey isn’t a violent sort and nor does he enjoy boasting his strength over others like a sadist. And he cannot deny the feeling of cold rage that day when Yuu shuts down, fear inundating him that he may never, ever, get an explanation for the world he was born in. Why he and Che’nya were special, why he had to witness Riddle suffer under his mother–what was it all for?

Your face. There is no blank stretched skin—he can see your wide open eyes, bloodshot and fixated on him. Your mouth too, shaped in a pained grimace, lips bruised and bloodied from previous skirmishes. Surely, surely, there must be a reason why you were here. Why you bear the same face as Yuu. You hold all the answers, if you would just cooperate.

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Trey tries reaching out, but you scurry back into the hedges, squinted eyes wary and untrusting. You remind him of a frightened hedgehog, prickly spines bristled and body curled in to protect yourself. “I just wanna talk.”

“Go away, please,” the imposter quietly pleads. “Just pretend you never saw me! I swear I didn’t even know how I got here…”

Trey swallows hard. 

“Just come quietly. Please.” He is the one begging now. “It’ll be easier for all of us.”

“For who?” The imposter barks a sharp laugh. Trey doesn't miss the way they wince in pain from their wounds. “For me? Or for you?”

He doesn’t have an answer. The sound of running footsteps has him turning, and when he looks back, you’re already gone. The only traces that you were there at all were faint splotches of red blood and crushed grass.

Trey wonders if this, too, was meant to be fate.

—

Trey’s been lovingly dubbed as someone reliable. Some consider him to be an older brother figure due to his nagging and supportive care. It's ingrained in him at this point from the years he’s spent playing babysitter. Trey knows the students around him are not his younger siblings who need constant watching (although their actions say otherwise).

But he worries.

Just a bit. Trey knows better than anyone that you can take care of yourself just fine. He's seen how you carry yourself within those hedges. 

It's just that, he doesn't know if you're okay right now. How could he know? You've been silent even in the face of Riddle's unceasing letters. So of course he's just a bit unsure if you're actually okay, or if you don't trust them enough to say so.

Trey finds himself more frustrated with the ban they're under. Not because of the inability to see you, although that is part of it. No, it's because Riddle has managed to skirt around that rule to desperately grab onto you, and that was just enough to wear you down. 

He thinks if he was bold enough, he could've tried.

As if it wasn't enough, even Ace and Deuce find their own way to get to you, snatching up the chance to deliver the monthly tea party invitation. It takes everything in Trey to clench his teeth and let go—even when Cater ruins his plans. He can't get mad here because it won't get him any closer to you. He has to be the bigger person.

If there is one thing Trey knows about Cater, it's that he absolutely hates getting sweaty or dirty. If Cater wasn’t trying to get out of running those P.E laps, he would absolutely be shirking any extra work assigned. So he's more than suspicious when Cater bounces up to him with a grin saying he could help cover Trey's science club duty of watering plants. 

Trey likes to think he can tell when Cater’s lying. His close friend's happy go lucky demeanor often throws off others, but he’s been with him long enough to pick out his subtle tells. His eyebrow twitches when he’s particularly anxious and the corner of his mouth tends to perk up if he’s feeling particularly daring or desperate. Trey figures this must be something that even he can’t trust Trey with, if he’s going out of his way to take on extra work.

So Trey considers this repayment for letting him take his violets. He watches as Cater dashes off in labwear, waiting for a minute, before following after him. His duty was in the tropical zone of the botanical garden, so he has no worries even if he does lose him. 

He nearly does a double take when he sees you walking in the courtyard hallways by yourself. And before Trey could rethink his actions, he follows behind you, eyes not leaving your form for a minute. 

You look like you haven't slept well. There's dark circles under your eyes. He hopes you're brushing your teeth. There’s no signs of bandages or wounds that he remembers you in, which he supposes is one relief. Even if he so desperately wishes to cook you a proper meal—you look like you could fall over at any minute.

The realization your path is leading to the botanical garden comes just as Trey catches sight of the glass dome. He wants to rush in after you, but he stops himself just as the door swings close behind your form.

Cater is in there. It all makes sense now. Trey has to give it to him—Cater really does know every little happening in the school. But Trey knows him well too—and if he had to guess, even if Cater manages to talk to you, it won’t end pretty. His inability to be genuine will definitely only set you on edge and less likely to reciprocate. 

The waiting game he plays is nothing compared to the silence he had to endure before. Trey doesn’t have to look to know that you’re the one slamming open the doors to the botanical gardens, labwear dirtied and face twisted in a frustrated anger. He watches as you enter Professor Crewel’s office again and after some time, pop back out in completely different clothes. 

His chest tightens in longing as he continues to follow after (more from an instinctual drive now, rather than deliberate), trying to keep you in sight within the stone pillars. He wants to call out after you so badly and ask you what’s the matter, if you need help with anything. If there was anything he could do to make you forgive him for watching you bleed out on dewy grass. The sun is about to set, warm golden rays flickering between pillars and casting long shadows. Trey’s so enamored with following after you that he flinches back when the sun directly shines into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. 

He barely manages to get a hold of himself. By the time his eyes blink away the blurry blots, he realizes you’re looking back at him. His breath stops. Your eyes are wide and frightened as they are that day, and his heart drops to his stomach. Both of you don’t move, merely staring at each other. 

You finally break the connection, turning around and quickly walking away. Trey gasps, remembering to breathe, lungs screaming for air. 

What was that?

x. Entombment

It's a nice sunny afternoon in the Heartslabyul domain. There weren't any track club activities nor dreaded remedial lessons. If anything, this free time would have been perfect for a nap. He hadn’t been up to any large shenanigans like this since the whole fiasco of [First] and Yuu. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

Ace scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You got a better one, loosey Deucy? If we don’t do this now, then all of us are stuck until Housewarden grows a pair of balls.” 

Deuce Spade bites his lips. “I just think there might be a better way around this.”

“Yeah? And the sky is blue. Keep going, we don't have much time." Ace cranes his neck to the side of the bush, eyes warily looking out to make sure the coast is clear. 

Deuce grumbles but continues plucking, some roses already tucked within his arms. They chose a bush the furthest away from the dorm, in a hidden corner where no arched windows could overlook them. It was necessary, because today was Wednesday, and the Housewarden would have their heads for plucking his beloved roses out of all the flora.

His fingers are bleeding already, finger pads torn from repetitive tugging on the thorns and stems. They couldn’t afford taking any of the gardening tools, lest they be questioned for what they were doing with them. Still, even he had his limits.  

“Why is it that you aren’t helping at all?” Deuce snipes at Ace, who scowls back. 

“You want to be caught by someone, genius?” Ace replies snarkily. “Someone has to keep look out.”

“Doesn’t explain why I have to do all the work.” 

Ace rolls his eyes, deigning not to bother engaging in another futile argument that would lead to nowhere. Deuce is about to cut off a particularly stubborn rose when Ace pipes up again.

“...Did they ever respond to your texts?” Deuce only deflates in response. Ace’s mouth slants crookedly in an annoyed grimace. The two of them know full well what the answer to that was.

“Damn that cat…” Ace mutters bitterly under his breath. Deuce doesn’t say anything. He too, is finding it hard to not feel petty towards Grim right now. Weren’t they friends? He could’ve afforded to help them out somehow. But it’s no use. Their texts went unanswered. Headmaster had banned them from stepping foot onto Ramshackle grounds. It’s like you had closed everything off from them.

It’s why he doesn’t protest this plan, as reckless as it is. He’s not any better than Ace—he needs to see you. He and Ace were your closest friends, your first friends! He loved you. That had to mean something. If it didn’t, then…

“I think this is enough.” Deuce adjusts the messy bouquet in his hands, attempting to hold them without crushing the delicate petals. Ace looks over and nods in approval. He takes out crimson ribbons and a silk handkerchief and begins tying it around the stems in a very artful way that has Deuce’s eyebrows raising.

“Where did you get that?” Ace smirks in response at the interrogative question.

“Don’t worry about it.” Ace snatches the bouquet from his hands and slips in an envelope with the housewarden’s seal. Deuce silences the questions on the tip of his tongue. For whatever Ace has planned, he’s rather not know anything more troublesome than necesscary. 

What he failed to account for was getting caught. Housewarden Riddle was beyond furious for what they did. It was only by Trey and Cater's gentle reminders that what they did was for all of them, that he only calmed down.

Deuce supposes three days with the collar is better than a week. Even if it is a heavy thing that weighs on his very soul.

He only hopes that you don't notice the thorns they forgot to trim.

—

It’s a given that although Trey is the right hand of Heartslabyul, Cater is considered the left hand of Housewarden Riddle. It’s been that way since Deuce himself enrolled in NRC, and possibly even further back. He hadn’t understood it quite then, but after some time, he realized something that he should’ve realized a long time ago. 

To never get on Cater’s bad side.

There are events where the five of them gather outside of Yuu’s influence. Administrative meetings, monthly tea parties, and the occasional casual hang out. When you’re aware of how much of your life is affected from being not like the others, it’s common to side with those who are like you. 

Cater had called the meeting this time. It was a bit out of the blue, at least for him and Ace. It’s only when they’re all gathered around the playing table in the lounge, not another soul in sight, when Deuce realizes Cater has that gleam in his eye. One that screams that he got a viral lead on a hot topic. His upperclassman must have been investigating.

"Remember how mirrors are considered to be portals?"

Deuce's neck prickles.

"Your point, Cater?" Their housewarden is impatient, not aware of what the question poses. His arms are crossed with his eyebrows furrowed in a frustrated glare. Deuce realizes that he must have been the one to send out Cater.

"There's a mirror in the prefect's bedroom." Deuce blurts out, and Riddle’s steely eyes snap over in surprise. Cater nods in affirmation.

"Yeah. I only managed a glimpse, but Yuu covered their mirror." Cater says. 

“Hold on, you went into the prefect’s bedroom? Scratch that, to Ramshackle?” Ace asks. “Why are we just getting this now?”

“Because I just came back Acey,” Cater flicks his forehead, causing Ace to exclaim in pain. Trey smiles faintly at the action. “Also Riddle told me to keep it confidential—you two would have ran straight out if we had told you.” 

Deuce sheepishly rubs his neck at Cater’s pointed sentence. Riddle rubs his chin in thoughtfulness, eyebrows still furrowed. 

“But there isn’t anything magical about that mirror, is there?” Riddle asks, skepticism coating his tone. “The puppet could have simply covered that mirror out of an odd preference.”

“Acey, didn’t you mention that Yuu always mentioned seeing things in that mirror?” Cater responds, deflecting the question upon his underclassmen. Ace straightens as he and Deuce both exchange a glance.

“Yeah…something about a mouse in their mirror,” Ace answers slowly, face scrunched in an effort to recall memories. “I always thought it was just crazy dreams but…”

“Yuu was always insisting about it,” Deuce chimes in. “Said the mouse speaks to them and everything—that there was another world it was in.”

Trey and Cater share a furtive glance together before looking at Riddle. Their housewarden seems to be taking in the new information, closing his eyes in thought. For a while, no one dares to speak. 

“What do you think, Riddle?” Trey finally breaks the heavy silence, and Deuce breathlessly releases a sigh. Leave it to Trey to speak for all of them.

“If the mirror in the bedroom is magical, then that changes things.” Riddle pronounces with conviction. “If that mirror potentially holds a dimension, then that would be the perfect place to trap someone.”

“Cater.” The orange head straightens to attention at the stern command. “Find a way to get the puppet out of the dorm for a while. We’ll need to look into this ourselves.”

Cater smirks and a chill runs down Deuce’s spine. While Cater still has an easy going look, his jade green eyes have darkened with a sadistic gleam. 

“Roger that, housewarden!” His upperclassman chirps, already taking out his phone. 

Riddle is already barking orders that each of them are to take up within this mission of theirs. But Deuce nearly misses his task, eyes stuck on Cater’s face as he scrolls his phone.

He catches a glimpse of a photo before it’s quickly clicked away. Deuce snaps back to Riddle just in time for Cater to shoot him a wary glare, checking to make sure no one else was looking. 

Deuce is very glad he is working together with Cater.

[alchemistc]

keep on dancing | bucktommy 1/1

"We actually met before, you know," Tommy says, casual as anything. "Uh, I think I would remember," Josh says, not quite able to help the way his eyes drop and scan up. "A couple times, actually." Josh is being pranked. "Pull the other one," he intones, already feeling the awkwardness start to lift away, which shouldn't be possible, but there's something about this Tommy guy, the way he carries himself, the way his expressions bring you in on the conversation. --- Josh has his memory jogged at a little gathering Tommy throws for Maddie and Chimney's six month anniversary.

read on ao3

"Josh, hey!"

Josh spins from the table with half an eggroll still stuffed in his mouth, and immediately wishes a sinkhole would open up beneath him. Just - just beneath him, though, he doesn't want to get stuck down there with Maddie's earnest as all get out brother and the man he's presenting to Josh like a prize-winning bull stud.

And.

He's still got an unchewed lumpia in his damn mouth.

Josh chews like his life depends on it, feeling mortified as The Boyfriend grins. They've technically met, although Josh doubts he remembers. Josh had still been stuffing his face with cake (a theme, apparently) and The Boyfriend (Tommy, he knows his name is Tommy, he's got to stop being so weird about the absolute hunk of a man Buck bagged by being a bumbling idiot) had been a little too invested in staring at Evan Buckley like the sun shone out his ass.

Fair assessment, really. If any of them had known Buck was bi, Josh might have shot his shot, at one point. They'd have been terrible together, but they are all intimately aware of how thoroughly Evan Buckley kisses, now.

"Josh, you remember Tommy?"

Tommy seems to clock that Josh is still chewing, damnit. And of course, of course, Evan Buckley hasn't just managed to bag the Greek-godliest, calendar centerpieceist hunk of a man in LA, he's also apparently found someone completely willing to not just ignore social faux-pas, but cover for them too. He tilts his gaze away from Josh, does something with his eyes that Josh would categorize as a flitter, if he wasn't built like a tank, and slides a hand up along Buck's back. Josh watches the big wide hand curl over the back of Buck's shoulder and seriously considers whether it would be blasphemous to pray for one of his own.

"You introduced us at the hospital," Tommy says, and Buck beams, like he's pleased Tommy remembers. Christ. The way they've been orbiting each other all evening, Josh is pretty sure Tommy never forgets anything he does with Buck.

He doesn't catch the weird phrasing until after he's swallowed, cleared his throat, and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you again," he says, and absolutely does not curse the gods when Tommy's grip is firm and crisp and gentle without being condescending.

Josh is happy for Buck, he really, genuinely is. He'd just be happier if he had his own.

"We actually met before, you know," Tommy says, casual as anything.

"Uh, I think I would remember," Josh says, not quite able to help the way his eyes drop and scan up.

"A couple times, actually."

Josh is being pranked. "Pull the other one," he intones, already feeling the awkwardness start to lift away, which shouldn't be possible, but there's something about this Tommy guy, the way he carries himself, the way his expressions bring you in on the conversation.

"You helped me through a rough call, my first week in the air," Tommy says, fingers still squeezing at Buck's left shoulder, posture open and inviting, and Josh tries to pull the voice out of his memory. It's -- distinctive, really, low register but slightly nasally, a high up-down to the cadence that Josh would have clocked in a heartbeat. Patterns of speech is a terrible way to generalize, but he's got a pretty good success rate, when he can put a living breathing face to the voice.

He doesn't take many air support calls, and really that's what does it. "The fire whirl in the Thomas Fire," Josh says, and Tommy nods, smile lines deep around his eyes. "They'd just named it, and you felt like it was a little on the nose."

Buck's eyes brighten, like he can't help but be charmed by the story.

"He saved my ass," Tommy says, bumping his shoulder against Buck's, and Buck beams, blinks, grins at Josh. "And then when I invited him for drinks with the Harbor boys he beat me at pool and bounced before I could ask him out to dinner."

"That -- that did not happen."

Tommy's head tilts, brows dancing up his forehead, expression gently insulted.

Josh desperately reaches for the memory. A vague outline of it, even. The voice, a little concerned, a lot matter-of-fact as he informed Josh that they'd hovered too low over the fire, and if Josh could please send out a radio call to anyone on the ground in the area to clear out before the bird crashed to the earth and exploded, because his radio was out. Josh, who'd talked to enough air support to have a basic idea of what mechanics were causing the issue, reminding the voice of the maneuver he could use to steer out of it.

Josh, bright red and stifling his bashful giggles when the voice informed him he was good in a crisis and he should come down to The Rose so that Tommy and his team could buy Josh a drink.

Josh squints. Oh, he'd taken one look at Firefighter Kinard and chalked that up to wishful thinking, ordered an Uber before he'd sunk his first solid, and dipped before he could convince himself the gentle teasing was anything more than a man grateful he'd had someone in his ear reminding him he was a competent pilot with years of experience under his belt.

Josh blinks. "You were hitting on me."

Tommy runs his tongue over his teeth. "Unsuccessfully, yeah. The boys gave me shit for a month about it."

Buck has clearly already heard this story. He's staring at Josh like he wants to tease him, is reining it in by the skin of his teeth. There's nothing smug about it, which Josh is grateful for merely on the basis that he's seen the way these two look at each other and he's no competition for Tommy's attention at all, anymore.

"Well that's mortifying," he admits, and Tommy laughs, head tipped back, smile lines etched deep into his skin. Buck's face does something deeply endearing, and Josh has to look away, for a moment.

Tommy tips forward again. "It was character building. First attempt I made with witnesses, taught me I had to be a little less subtle." He shoots a significant look at Buck, who dips his chin towards his chest. God, Josh wants that. He'd been pretty sure he had it, for a hot second. His gaze is annoyingly wistful when Tommy turns back to him and catches it. "Can I grab you a beer?"

And Josh had kind of forgotten who was hosting this little shindig -- Maddie'd made noise about how sweet it was for Tommy to float the idea of a little celebration for their nuptials, when he heard the Buckley parents were coming back into town, and Chimney had just grumbled that Tommy was looking for excuses to get Buck on a dance floor, but he'd been pleased about it too, under the sarcasm. Josh can't quite hide the face he makes, though. He's not a snob about his alcohol, but all he's seen floating around here are Corona's and Bud Light. Buck shifts his weight, sways his hip into Tommy's.

"We could crack open those weird cheesecake sours you got last week," he suggests, and Tommy tilts his head, squints his eyes.

"They're not weird, you just have the palette of a frat boy."

"Well, Josh definitely has more refined taste than me, the flavor won't be lost on him."

Tommy grins at Josh. "Clearly that wasn't always the case," he shoots off, even as he's slipping his hand from Buck's shoulder, shifting to the side, backing away with a smarmy little grin on his face, and Josh throws his hands up in the air, sends the parting shot before he gets far enough across the yard that Josh has to yell.

"You can't try it out if you don't know it's on the menu!"

Buck and Josh both watch Tommy saunter away. Lord, Josh hopes Buck is taking full advantage of those glutes.

"Congratulations, again," Josh says, letting some of the put-upon ire drop out of his voice. "I know I've said this already, but -- I really am happy for you."

He's really only heard bits and pieces of Buck's absolutely ridiculous jump from solid, unflinching ally to bumbling crush on a beautiful man, but just like every other person on planet earth who discovers a facet of themselves that isn't considered normal by the world at large, he knows there are bumps in the road. Moments where you question yourself, and your place within the confines of society. Buck could have called it a wash, after acting a fool, but clearly he'd found something in himself he felt was worth pursuing.

Buck smiles, and not for the first time since he'd stumbled into Howie's hospital room, face covered in soot and Tommy's hand clenched in his like a life-line, Josh can tell there's something settled in him that hadn't been before. He knows the feeling well.

"I'm not sharing," Buck tells him, tongue in cheek as he smacks a meaty hand to Josh's shoulder, and Josh is too busy pretending not to struggle under the solid weight to think of something clever to say back.

-----

"You weren't kidding," Josh says to Chimney, as he openly stares at the couple dancing across the yard. Everyone else has been attempting at subtlety, but at Josh's words at least three people guiltily dart their gazes away from Buck and Tommy swaying together under a string of fairy lights.

"I should be out there dancing with my beautiful bride," Chimney says, and Maddie holds out a hand, a challenge in her eyes.

Sometimes Josh wishes he was less of a romantic, so he could at least pretend to find the way Chim's eyes sparkle a little exhausting.

Bobby is already spinning Athena into the circle of his arms as the quiet, steady thrum of an acoustic guitar floats across the little makeshift dance floor in the orange light of the yard. When Athena says something to Buck and Tommy, tucked together and speaking in soft voices two songs ago now, Bobby grins, and Buck ducks his head bashfully into the solidness of Tommy's shoulder. Whatever Tommy says back has Bobby pressing a laughing kiss to his wife's forehead as he guides them just far enough away to give Buck and Tommy some distance.

He finds Eddie Diaz moping on one of the patio chairs under little built-in pergola that makes Josh more than a little jealous of Buck's stumble into possibly the perfect man.

Hen and Karen have joined the dancing, too.

Eddie eyes him for a moment when Josh settles into the adirondack to his left. "You tired of the love-fest, too?" he asks, and Josh shakes his head, settling his chin on his hand to watch the annoyingly hopeful scene.

"Just -- taking it all in."

Eddie harrumphs, but out of the corner of his eye Josh can see him watching, too.

Maddie barks our delighted laughter when Tommy cuts in to spin her out of Chimney's arms, and Chim and Buck take that as their cue to conduct a frankly ridiculous waltz between the rest of the group.

Josh sighs like the damn romantic fool he is, and Eddie shifts on his right.

"You wanna...?" Josh tilts his head, and Eddie's face morphs into a shrug of an expression.

"I'm good here," Josh tells him, and Eddie purses his lips. "But you should join them."

Eddie rolls his tongue against his cheek, takes a sip of his beer, rolls his neck and darts his gaze across to the rest of his rag tag family. He nods, shifts his weight, rolls his hands down his thighs to find leverage against his knees to stand. "Find me for the Electric Slide. Tommy's a nightmare about line dances."

[monstersandgirls-webcomic]

My partner's a christian but while he's not a fan of your work like I am he doesn'thate it. His main thing is "why is the angel dating a demon" and him pointing out small details bc one of his special interests is demonology and the version for angels (angelology?) but aside from that he just goes "well then" especially when I showed him your confession booth comic (he laughed!!)

I'm glad he laughed! I actually saw that criticism as well (the one about angels and demons), which is actually a fair point. I just assumed people could accept "well its a fantasy setting and not meant to be entirely accurate to the bible, otherwise the princes wouldnt exist at all". And considering the massive emphasis on the fact that the angels do treat Sera's relationship with Lili as blasphemous, it's not just something i casually ignore.

With angel and demon lore though, i'm not really as strict about it as demons have had various depictions in folklore and in religious text, so I kind of do my own thing without going completely far off from common depictions. like if I wanted to make my succubi more "accurate", they would basically be more human-looking rapists that give people nightmares, and with the story i want to tell, i personally don't want to do that.

It's pretty much like how I view Dungeon Meshi. If you read the series and expect a perfect 1 to 1 rendition of existing fantasy lore, you're going to be disappointed and annoyed. But if you appreciate how the author recontextualizing the lore in her own worldbuilding and storytelling, you'll have a lot more fun.

But this isn't me ragging on your partner, there are stories i've flat out refused to read because i didn't like its depiction of demons or bugs (especially bugs, if you write about an ant/bee colony and a majority of the workers arent women im gonna be pissed). And hell, I'm the guy who got so annoyed with Helluva Boss's Beelzebub design that he redesigned her to make her look more bug-like. So I do get that feeling of "i wish this was more accurate"

[brionysea]

a couple of demigods are just hanging around camp half-blood having a casual conversation and maybe they say something mildly blasphemous so zeus angrily rumbles some thunder about it. percy directly addresses the sky like "dude don't you have better things to do than spy on teenagers? weirdo" and then goes back to his mild blasphemy. hermes and poseidon look like they're trying not to laugh which only tempts zeus to smite the smartass child down even more

[talesofadragon]

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞

Chapter V - Synopsis: Halfway through the semester, Y/N thought the only dire changes she’d face would be a hectic schedule and a few sleepless nights. But with the arrival of a mysterious woman with flaming red phoenix hair and a swarm of butterflies in her stomach at the mere thought of her professor, exam season is shaping up to be an even bigger rollercoaster than she imagined.

Pairing: Professor!Steve Rogers x Student!Reader/Mum!Reader

Warnings: Age Gap (14 years. Both are adults), teacher/student dynamic, abusive relationship, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, terrible partner, co-parenting. 

Genre: Angst | Fluff | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Age Gap | Teacher/Student

Word Count: 4K Words

All Masterlists | Paint Me Midnight Blue Masterlist

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆, Stark University buzzed with frenetic energy. Though the campus was always lively, these last few days felt like a pressure cooker—everyone was moving, but no one had time to breathe. 

Y/N delivered her argument earlier that day in Professor Coulson's Trial Advocacy class. It went well—too well, in fact—since Coulson kept the session past its scheduled time, firing one question after another at her. Luckily, Y/N didn’t have another class immediately after; even if she did, this was the time of year when professors were more forgiving about tardiness. They called it "We were students once, too.” Y/N called it breakroom chatter about the looming doom of their upcoming exams.

But students weren’t shy about playing the game either. They knew how to take advantage of this “forgiveness” by squeezing in a little extra time for themselves—chatting with friends, smoking a cigarette, grabbing a quick bite from the diner across the street. Any excuse was good enough to show up fashionably late. Or to not show up at all.

While Y/N didn’t have a class to attend, she did need to finish some work for Steve. Call it diligence or desire, she chose not to take an extra five minutes to toe off her heels and tone down her outfit. The better part of her reasoned that she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. But the sensual part, the one she nestled in the deepest recesses of her being, wanted to savor the moment and revel in her outfit just a little longer. 

Swapping her casual attire for something as crisp and sharp as her plaid light brown skirt, off-white turtleneck, and beige blazer with brown accents was her own version of a Cinderella moment. 

Maybe it was nostalgia for her teenage years or the desire to feel like herself again—confident, empowered, even a little attractive. She couldn’t say for sure. But between her classes, work, and caring for Nyla, Y/N rarely had time for herself. She had almost forgotten the feeling of wearing heels, let alone walking in them—there was something undeniably alluring about a woman in a striking outfit and bold stilettos. Thankfully, her agility hadn’t faded with time, just like her ability to command attention in a well-cut skirt.

She met a handful of inquisitive looks on her way to Steve’s office. Students carefully assessed her, trying to guess which department she belonged to and whether they had seen her before. The university was immense, so even if she were a social butterfly—which she was not—there was no way for her to have known any of them.

Though curious, and some a little charming, the looks she received were mundane. The interest was there, but there was a glint of something missing. An intensity she had started, albeit reluctantly, yearning for. These gazes weren’t the kind that sent a thrill through her, the kind she secretly craved even if she’d never admit it. No, it was almost blasphemous to dare and compare them to those blue-green eyes she revered, a meeting point between serenity and escape—a bridge she should never, ever cross!

Steve’s office loomed ahead, commanding the distracting thoughts away. Y/N inhaled sharply, smoothing out the invisible creases of her skirt for reasons that were beyond her. Knocking on the door once, hand already on the handle, she paused, waiting for a reply that never came. She pushed the door open, eyes immediately drawn to Steve’s desk. A gasp escaped her, her heels digging into the tiles when she met an unfamiliar sight. There, sitting comfortably in Steve’s swiveling chair, was a woman.

“Excuse me,” Y/N called out authoritatively, gaining no visible response. “May I ask who you are and what you’re doing sitting at Professor Rogers’ desk?”

The woman was dressed in a pristine maroon pantsuit, exuding an air of professionalism and composure. Yet, her callous behavior contradicted the very image she tried to project. She wasn’t a professor—Y/N was sure of that. And since she had never seen her around campus, it was unlikely that she was staff. Whoever she was, whether the owner of the university or the president of the country, she had no right to be lounging in Steve’s office as if she owned the place.

With a slight arch of her dark brows, the woman’s gaze swept over Y/N’s smaller frame. “Professor Rogers is not present at the moment,” she answered as if that was the question Y/N had posed.

“I didn’t ask about Professor Rogers’ whereabouts.”

“These aren’t his office hours,” the woman commented casually, seemingly unfazed by the edge in Y/N’s voice.

Y/N’s fingers twitched at her side, irritation beginning to simmer in her gaze. She was speaking English, for heaven’s sake. What was so hard to understand? Unable to get through to the woman, she decided on a different approach. 

“My name’s Y/N. I’m his assistant.”

Though Y/N meant to assert the authority her title afforded, the reaction she received was unlike what she expected. The woman’s aloof demeanor shifted to one of intrigue. Her catlike eyes softened, and a small crinkle appeared at the corner of her lips.

“So, you’re the famous Y/N,” she said, the amusement in her eyes evident. Y/N felt something flicker within her, a small jolt of surprise that coursed through her veins. The woman adjusted her phoenix-red hair over one shoulder and leaned forward slightly, giving Y/N a more deliberate once-over. “Bucky talks about you all the time.”

Bucky? Y/N’s heart sank at the mention of her former History professor. She’d been bracing herself for another name. Swallowing the confusion, she buried it deep, down by the embers of her hope that had briefly flickered to life. Bucky was the one talking about her?

“You know Professor Barnes?”

The red-haired woman smirked, the kind that hinted at knowing far more than she let on. Her lips, however, played a different tune. “We go way back. Bucky, Steve, and me.” 

Y/N nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin, disappointed line. A sharp discomfort settled over her as she realized she'd been standing there for an awkward five minutes, talking to a stranger. 

Determined not to show any sign of weakness, even though the woman's overconfidence and cryptic remarks gnawed at her, Y/N squared her shoulders and walked to the desk. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor fueled the confidence she desperately clung to.

“If you could please wait for Professor Rogers in one of the seats across from his desk,” Y/N said as politely as she could, though a hint of disdain threaded through her tone.

“I’m perfectly content where I’m sitting.” 

The nerve of her! Y/N took a deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “It’s not a matter of content but a matter of respect,” she enunciated sharply.

The woman’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Are you calling me disrespectful?” she asked bluntly.

“Did I say that aloud?” No, Y/N hadn’t, but she was glad the woman wasn’t clueless. “If you truly know Professor Rogers, then you know his stance on conformity. He likes things a certain way.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re in his seat,” Y/N pointed out, gesturing toward the chair in question. “He’s only permitted me to sit there. So, if you wouldn’t mind pulling up one of the chairs in front of the desk, I’m sure we’d all appreciate it.”

If the woman had been perplexing before, she was downright baffling now. She laughed, her cherry-red lips parting in genuine amusement. Y/N couldn’t fathom how someone like her could muster so much energy this early in the morning. 

Gracefully, the woman pushed the chair back, the wheels gliding smoothly across the floor. She stood to her full height, her ankle boots giving her a few extra inches. She crossed the short distance between them with a mixture of assertiveness and finesse that bordered on predatory.

As she moved to take a seat, her features became clearer under the office light. Her green eyes, like a verdant forest bathed in sunlight, were striking. Her face, a masterful blend of sharp lines and elegance, held an enigmatic allure. She towered over Y/N, the age gap between them becoming more pronounced the longer they looked at one another. The woman was clearly in her thirties—like Steve.

“Natasha Romanoff,” she introduced herself as Y/N placed her books on the desk and turned on Steve’s computer. “Normally, I’d indulge in a mysterious exchange, but the scales are uneven today. I know far more about you than you know about me.”

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N hummed dismissedly.

Logging into Steve’s computer, she immediately pulled up the list of tasks for the day: updating attendance records, double-checking grades for Steve’s Intro to Artistic Visualization class, and reviewing the research papers that had passed through the plagiarism checker, among other things.

She reached across the desk to grab Steve’s binder, a languid smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of one of the teddy bears they had won at the fair. Nyla had split the plush toys evenly between her and Steve, and according to him, one of the three had to find a place in his second home—his office.

If the gesture alone hadn’t warmed Y/N’s heart, the image of Steve holding the small toy in his much larger hands, waving it around with animated enthusiasm, surely did. She could still see him playfully swaying the bear before her eyes, its stitched mouth "kissing" the tip of her nose. The memory brought a fresh wave of goosebumps to her skin—thankfully, it was still cool enough for long sleeves to cover them.

“Drink?” Natasha’s voice snapped her out of the memory.

Y/N blinked, raising her head as her mind adjusted back to the present. Is she asking or commanding? was the first thought that crossed her still-dazed consciousness.

“Oh, sorry.” Y/N quickly stood, heading toward the refreshment area. “It didn’t even occur to me to ask if you wanted anything to drink.”

Almost as if Y/N’s genuine tone had thrown her off, it was Natasha’s turn to momentarily lose herself in a stupor. Her daze, however, was fleeting. She quickly recovered, replying, “I was actually asking if you wanted something to drink. I know my way around this office, hon.”

“Nonsense, you’re a guest,” Y/N insisted, her tone polite, though laced with subtle passive-aggression. If Natasha noticed, she didn’t comment. “Let me get you something. Coffee or tea?”

Natasha hesitated, her gaze lingering on the coffee drip beside Y/N. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, still eyeing the rich brown liquid. Y/N was just about to place a mug beneath the spout, fingers hovering over the pot’s handle, when Natasha cleared her throat. “Actually, I’ll have water, please.” 

Y/N didn’t question her choice, even though Natasha looked like the kind of woman who could down two pots of coffee without breaking a sweat. Hell, she looked like liquor couldn’t hold her, not the other way around.

Without a second thought, Y/N poured her a glass of water and placed it on a coaster by her side of the desk. She poured herself some coffee, adding two sugars, and praised Steve for having a well-functioning machine, even though she’d never seen him sip a cup of coffee in his life.

Back at her desk, Y/N set down her drink of choice, drifting back to her work. Beneath her lashes, she spotted Natasha leaning back, her spine practically glued to the chair. She was gulping down her water, pressing her nose to the rim of the glass. Confused, Y/N subtly chanced a glance, sensing the evident queasiness that shook the woman’s otherwise imperturbable demeanor.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Natasha replied swiftly. Although she intended to douse Y/N’s concern, the tremor in her voice only deepened it.

“You don’t look okay,” Y/N pressed, studying the way Natasha scrunched her nose. “Let me get you another glass of water.”

“Lemon,” Natasha coughed. “Can you…do you have something infused with lemon?”

“Uh, sure. Hold on a second.”

Darting back to the refreshments area, Y/N opened the mini-fridge. She scoured the shelves of iced tea, sparkling water, and juices. While she didn’t find anything with lemon, she did find a few fresh ones on the lower shelf where Steve stored his fruits. He had a penchant for yogurt and granola bowls.

Y/N made quick work of cutting the lemon and boiling some water in the kettle. Carefully mixing both in a new glass, she ventured a guess that Natasha’s discomfort was a result of nausea—one hand stifled her discordant groans while the other rubbed her stomach giving Y/N a clue.

“Here.” 

Y/N replaced the old glass with the new one, which Natasha eagerly took from her hand.

“Thank you,” Natasha whispered, her voice void of that effortless confidence. Instead, it was laced with exhaustion, despite her best attempts to mask it.

“You’re welcome. Do you need anything else?”

Natasha nodded, languidly drinking the lemon-infused water. “Can you please move your coffee away?”

Perplexed, Y/N slid her cup to the far right of the desk. As soon as the mug was no longer close to the redhead, Natasha’s shoulders visibly relaxed, the tension evaporating like the steam coming from her glass. She sighed—almost moaned—in relief, her grip tight on the glass of hot lemon water. She hadn’t yet removed her hand from her stomach, tracing gentle, delicate circles around her belly.

A gasp escaped Y/N for two distinct reasons. The first was the conspicuous diamond ring that sat elegantly on Natasha’s ring finger—a regal emerald cut that reflected power and elegance in an iridescent interplay of blinding light. The second was where her fingers had been splayed, tracing the contours of her belly.

“You’re pregnant.”

The words left Y/N’s mouth before she even had a chance to evaluate them. Whether correct or not, Natasha’s enlarged pupils and the flare of her nostrils told her this wasn’t the right thing to say. Of course, it wasn’t! What kind of person jumps to the conclusion that a woman is pregnant based on signs that could easily indicate a different ailment or less serious condition?

Maybe it was because Y/N had been pregnant once, and the sensory sensitivity had steered her clear of even the smell of morning dew. She could pinpoint the signs easily—the slight discomfort, the twitches, even the hesitancy and over-calculation for the simplest of things, like a cup of coffee.

She was about to apologize, insisting that she didn’t mean any of it, but something in Natasha’s expression changed. Instead of the guardedness that had hugged her so tightly since Y/N first set eyes on her, a shadow of vulnerability crossed over her features.

“Is it that obvious?”

Y/N shook her head, sitting down in her seat and wringing her fingers together. So, she is pregnant.

“No. I just took a wild guess.”

“You wagered right. I better never bet around you.”

Y/N chortled at Natasha’s remark, the tension in the air gradually receding. “How far along are you?” she asked in a quiet tone.

Natasha rubbed her barely-there bump, smiling. “Two months.”

“First pregnancy?”

Natasha nodded. She stayed silent for a moment, the gears in her head practically spinning until she confessed, “I never thought I would get pregnant. It never happened in all the years we’ve been together.”

Y/N didn’t want to think of him if “him” was the person she could never stop thinking about in the first place. Instead, her mind unfortunately drifted to Paul and the first night they spent together—the night that led to conceiving Nyla. Ironic how some women wait years to get pregnant, while others are surprised by tiny versions of themselves on the first try.

“Are you scared?” Y/N ventured, watching for Natasha’s reaction.

But Natasha was unfazed. If anything, delight seeped through the cracks of her initial weariness, swiftly altering her feelings to something better, gentler. “A little bit. But I’m mostly excited. I can’t wait to grow our family. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Yeah. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, hon. If that’s something you want someday, I hope you find it too when the time is right.”

There was so much sincerity in her words, a mother’s delicate warmth harmonizing her sentences. But all Y/N could hear were the echoes of Natasha’s last words: when the time is right. Didn’t she know? Had neither Bucky nor Steve told her that Y/N, at only twenty-two, already had a daughter? A rambunctious, affectionate, social, and bubbly little girl whose eyes may have been a feature inherited from her father, but their glow resembled an infinite sky of possibilities and miracles.

The timing wasn’t right, and she would always be reminded of that when she looked at her classmates, Natasha, hell, even Steve. But she could never say that aloud, could she?

“Thank you,” she replied solemnly, busying herself with her work. She was far enough behind, and she needed to get a move on.

Natasha didn’t give her a moment of respite, though. “Is Steve available tonight?” she asked, her attention darting to the computer.

Y/N inhaled deeply, hyper-aware of the crescent moons her fingers dug into her skin for no apparent reason. “I monitor Professor Rogers’ academic schedule, but I don’t have the slightest clue what goes on in his personal life.” Hence why I don’t have a clue as to who you might even be, Y/N internally added.

“Well, does his academic schedule tell you anything about whether or not he’s taking work home tonight?” Natasha fired back, unfazed by the subtle hostility in Y/N’s reply.

Home. She said home.

“If I manage to complete today’s tasks on time, then Professor Rogers should be free for the evening.”

“Perfect! I plan to tell him tonight. I know he’s going to be excited to hear it,” Natasha stated. Y/N didn’t care to provide commentary, attempting to enter the attendance records digitally. She only hoped Natasha wouldn’t notice her slip-ups; she had already entered three records incorrectly. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately for Y/N—Natasha continued, “He’s going to think it’s a boy. He’s the type to.”

“A girl. St—Professor Rogers strikes me as a girl dad. I think he’d want the baby to be a girl,” Y/N mumbled under her breath, hoping her lower tone was enough to mask her emotions.

Natasha regarded Y/N skeptically, the tilt of her head almost personal. Y/N refused to let her scrutiny bother her anymore. Her mind kept drifting to thoughts of Steve and Nyla, replaying their interactions in her head. She knew it was wrong to think of them together, but the more Steve came to mind, the harder it was to shake Nyla’s presence alongside him. She blamed it all on Paul. If he had been a better father to their daughter, maybe she wouldn’t be sitting here thinking these sacrilegious thoughts about her professor.

She didn’t need that fickle little toad to love her, nor did she care for him to treat her any better than he ever had. She just wanted him to be better toward their daughter, like Steve was.

Steve had a tenderness, a protectiveness in the way he moved, in the way he looked at Nyla. Y/N wasn’t blind; she could see it. Steve longed for what she had. Now, in his late thirties, it was clear he was ready to settle down, to have a family. And he looked the part too—like every girl’s Christmas wish and every mother’s prayer. The way he treated Nyla, like a little princess—hell, that was even his nickname for her—showed that he was meant to be a father. A girl’s father more than anything.

“You seem so sure about that,” Natasha noted. Though her words were framed as a statement, the unspoken “why” hung in the air.

Before Y/N could respond, a knock sounded at the door, giving her a momentary reprieve. She suppressed her relief and casually invited the person outside to enter. Unfortunately, luck was not entirely on her side. It was Steve who entered the office, and his eyes didn’t find her first.

“Nat, there you are!”

Steve’s smile lit up his face, his blue-green eyes sparkling at the sight of Natasha. She mirrored his enthusiasm, and though she had shown a colorful palette of emotions during her conversation with Y/N, her expression was now purely candid—similar to when she had talked about her baby.

Y/N watched as Natasha stood and threw herself into Steve’s waiting arms. It was as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, though Y/N knew that couldn’t be the case. If her suspicions were correct, then…she didn’t even want to continue that thought. 

“I let myself in,” Natasha said, her voice muffled against Steve’s shoulder. Their arms were tightly wrapped around one another. “Didn’t want to bother you in case you were busy.”

“You could never bother me,” Steve assured her. He stepped back slightly but kept his hands on her forearms, his eyes sweeping over her. “Is that a new outfit? It looks incredible. Gives you a certain glow.”

Natasha laughed, her curtain bangs shaking alongside her shoulders. “That glow has nothing to do with my outfit.”

Y/N wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt and believe, truly believe, that she implied her secret pregnancy. But her glances felt more suggestive. And if even Steve picked up the innuendo, judging by his bright cheeks, then Y/N wasn’t wrong. 

Steve cleared his throat, letting his hands fall back to his sides, though his fingers traced along Natasha’s arms as they dropped.

“Since you’re here, did you have breakfast yet? We could head to the cafeteria, or maybe a café nearby,” Steve suggested.

“Anywhere’s fine as long as we can sit outside. It’s nice out,” Natasha replied.

“I think you’d like the café by the east side of campus. They have great bagels. I could text Bucky to join us after his class.”

“Don’t worry about Bucky. He can third-wheel another time,” Natasha joked. At least, it seemed like a joke—Steve laughed heartily. Y/N, on the other hand, stood quietly on the sidelines, feeling like the real third wheel. Did they even notice her anymore?

In classic Steve Rogers fashion, he offered Natasha his arm. “Shall we?” he asked gallantly, and she didn’t hesitate to link their arms together. It looked like Steve didn’t forget about Y/N after all. Torn between relief and frustration, she caught his gaze. He smiled softly at her, offering a small wave. “Don’t overwork yourself, Y/N. I’ll see you later.”

“See you, Professor. Enjoy,” Y/N managed to say. But as the doors closed behind them, she couldn’t ignore the fondness in his gaze when he looked down at Natasha or Natasha’s gentle glances toward her stomach. The sharp sting that followed cut through Y/N’s heart, leaving her reeling.

What was she even thinking? Of course, he wouldn’t acknowledge her in the presence of another woman—a better woman. Y/N was just his student, practically a child in his eyes, a mess of imperfections. A pretty skirt and blazer wouldn’t change that fact, not that Steve had ever noticed her new outfit. Not that she really wanted him to… right?

God, what was she getting herself into? And how could she possibly get out before it was too late?

Series taglist: @crazyunsexycool @imaginexred

Originally, this chapter was supposed to include two more scenes, but since we're already at 4K words, I didn't want to drag it further. So, Natasha has officially entered the chat, and with her comes jealousy! What do you think Twilight (reader) will do with these troubling doubts and feelings?