#millions will exorcism

[vh-rasz]

Hi, sorry for being gone. i keep breaking technology apparently. or im inexplicably cursed .

Also thank you for 1k on pinterest. We did it! we got I NEED AN EXORCISM to show up first when you search I NEED AN EXORCISM on pinterest. or maybe theyre lying to me. YAY!!!!!!

[gingeralecranberry]

CHAPTER 1

𝟐-𝟏 ; 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

AS YOU’RE RIPPING ME TO SHREDS

☺︎ cw:

mentions of death, fighting, canon-typical violence, gojo may be ooc he's a lil bit of a weirdo, sukuna and gojo both deserve their own warnings, scarring, brief mention/description of injuries, Megumi is an edgy teen, that one scene were itadori is chained to that weird ass pole, mentions of executions, semi-graphic descriptions of Sukuna's finger (cause it really is disgusting)

"Under Jujustu regulations, Itadori Yuji, I will exorcize you as a curse!"

Under the shrouded night sky, the moonlight blanketed the scattered chunks of jagged debris strewn across the school rooftop in a soft radiance. The holes in the structure croaked with a melancholy groan, the noise swept away by the sound of the wind. Spiderweb-esque cracks stretched their slender fingers across the concrete, across the pale gray walls, across the splintered siding of the building.

"Wait, really, I'm fine!"

Across the expanse of carnage, the two teenagers stared each other down.

The older of the two boys sat on the far end of the building, laying in a pool of his own blood. Spiky black hair matted to his forehead, both from sweat and his injuries, he raised both his fists in a false circle. The heightened collar on his gakuran cast an intimidating shadow over the lower half of his face, highlighting the kindlings of desperation burning in his muted green eyes.

The younger of the two, a much more spritely and jovial personality, raised both his hands in mock surrender. The pink hair that's previously been ruffled to stand up nearly straight cascaded down towards his forehead again, the ominous black markings all over his body seemingly being swallowed by the flesh tone of his skin. The sharp black talons on the ends of each finger dissolved, almost as if they'd never been there in the first place.

"More importantly, you and I are both pretty beat up, let's get to a hospital."

Stuck at odds with his logical rationale and his gut feeling, Megumi Fushiguro could feel the familiar feeling of frustration welling up in his throat.

'I can't tell if the one speaking right now is Itadori or the cursed object! Damn it...'

His hands were stationary, still in the same faux circle he'd arranged them in earlier. He hesitated to drop the stance, fearing an ambush.

'...What should I do?!'

In the near deafening silence, both of the combatants failed to notice the presence of a third person on the roof. As if it were just any other day, the new guy waltzed in seemingly without a care.

"What the situation?"

Fushiguro immediately dropped his hands in favor of whipping around to look behind him, jaw dropping open as his eyes settled on the familiar sight of his teacher. His internal wheel of emotions seemed to spin back and forth between horror, relief, and utter mortification. Eventually, his wheel settled for a nightmare cocktail blessed by all of the above! "Wha... Gojo-sensei?! What are you doing here?!"

Kitted up in his signature gakuran, blindfold, and a bag from the local pastry shop, his white hair stuck up from the pressure of the blindfold on either side of his face.

Leisurely, he greeted his student with a smile, "Hey." He stood idly on the sidelines with his hands shoved in his pockets, "I wasn't planning on coming, but man, you're roughed up..." As though a million dollar idea flashed on a big screen behind his blindfold, a cruel grin ran its way up the man's cheeks, "I should show the second years."

His student grimaced, doing his best to twist his broken body away from the camera. He hissed through gritted teeth, swallowing both his physical AND mental pain in an effort to keep his dignity. Still, Gojo persisted, leaning in close as he began to snap what the Sendai-student assumed were dozens of pictures. "Hahaha! Face this way!"

Itadori could only stand by and watch in what he described as abject horror-fascination.

Eventually, when it seemed the older man got his fill of amusement, he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "The higher-ups wouldn't shut up with a special-grade cursed object gone missing, so I stopped by while doing some sightseeing." Curiously, he examined the surrounding area through the confines of the black fabric pressed over his eyes. "So, did you find it?"

"..."

"..."

The teenagers exchanged glances momentarily.

"Um..."

Oblivious to the situation at hand, Gojo tilted his head to the side, "Hm?"

"I-"

"He ate it."

Collectively, all heads turned towards the voice originating from the huge hole in the concrete wall of the school.

"Huh?"

Quiet footsteps resounded against the desecrated rooftop in the dead silence of the encounter. Peeking from the shadows cast by the ruined architecture, a tall man in strange attire stepped into the low light of the moon. Donning a pair of black hakama pants and a matching plain black haori jacket, he traipsed towards the trio missing the common trepidation one would have when confronting the strongest curse alive.

He raised a finger, matter of factly, "The finger, he ate it."

The two teenagers blinked at him stupidly.

Gojo's posture, on the other hand, straightened with excited recognition, "Sensei!"

'Sensei? That guy barely looks any older!'

Before Itadori could think about it any further, the white-haired teacher disappeared from view before reappearing on the other side of the rooftop. In the blink of an eye, he was already falling into stride alongside the newcomer with an eerily calculated ease. "What are you doing here?"

Still, the stranger paid no mind to the sudden change in position, walking forward at the same measured pace, "It's been 10 years since you graduated Gojo, I'm retired. You don't need to call me Sensei, especially since we're coworkers now."

The other sorcerer hummed, "Well, calling you by your last name feels too formal, but I don't wanna say your first name since you don't call me mine..." He trailed off, letting the silence hang in the air for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

"..."

Finally, he tacked on, "So... What are you doing here? Did you miss me so much you had to visit? No need to feel embarrassed!"

Fushiguro could feel his nose crinkle in disgust.

'God, he's humiliating.'

Completely unphased, the older man's eyes were still trained forward and locked on target. "When one of Sukuna's fingers goes missing, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the higher-ups are going to panic. I was sent in as back-up." Finally he came to a stop in front of the pink-haired teen in quest, "Itadori, was it?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

The 15-year-old gulped down a lump of spit, tilting his neck to look up into the other's (eye-color) pupils.

Instead of trying to kill him (like expected), the stranger offered a hand, "(name) (surname), may I?"

"..."

"..."

"...Huh?"

"Oh, uh-" The man shook his head, chuckling sheepishly, "Sorry, I should probably explain myself first." He retracted his hand in favor of letting it fall to his side again. "I'm a cursed object specialist. Since you swallowed a cursed object, I want to do a quick check to make sure nothing's wrong with you."

"Oh," Yuji murmured, "Yeah... yeah, that's fine."

(name) smiled gratefully, doing a quick visual inspection first.

'No signs of markings... but what are those?'

Without warning, the older man's hand gripped the teen's chin gently, tilting his head to the side to scrutinize the new scarring on his cheekbones.

A moment of silence passed among the group.

Finally, the specialist's arm returned to his side, "Fascinating..." He placed a hand on his chin, sitting on any potential questions before asking, "Does anything feel off with your body?"

The teen glanced over his appendages, looking for any injuries, "Not particularly."

He hummed again, satisfied, "Truly fascinating."

Laying a hand on (name)'s shoulder, Gojo moved his former teacher out of the way before inspecting the teen himself. "Damn, it really did combine with you... That's hilarious!" He trailed off, continuing to scan the composition of the teen's newly concocted and brewed cursed energy. There seemed to be a particularly mischievous idea forming in his head, indicated by the curling of his lips. "Say, can you swap out with Sukuna?"

Itadori blinked, "Sukuna?"

Gojo nodded, "The curse you ate."

The teen paused, "Oh... Yeah, I think I can do that."

Upon being given the greenlight, the white-haired menace started to stretch. Rolling his shoulders and squatting to open up his legs he continued, "Then give us ten seconds."

Megumi opened his mouth to voice protest, but (name) simply shook his head in response.

The teacher righted his posture, shaking out his arms, "Once ten seconds are up, come back to us."

Seemingly already familiar with the danger pertaining to the entity inside him, the younger teen also seemed hesitant to comply, "But..."

Immediately, he was cut off, "Don't worry. I'm the strongest." Upon seeing the boy's shoulders relax a little, he called over his shoulder. "Megumi."

Fushiguro gave a small grunt in response.

"Hold on to this."

Despite tossing it to his student, (name) ended up catching the bag in one hand and shifting to wedge himself between Megumi and where the fight was going to take place.

Fushiguro's eyes trailed up to the bag, gesturing towards it with his less injured arm, "What is that?"

"Kikufuku from Kikusuian!" As if he wasn't about to go up against the King of Curses, Gojo smiled eagerly and started to make over the top gestures with his hands as he spoke, "It's Sendai's speciality, and it's super good. I personally recommend the zunda and cream flavor!"

Quietly, the eldest of the four released a tired sigh, holding the twine straps in one hand. Megumi, though, narrowed his eyes, mumbling a rather pissed off, "This guy actually went and bought souvenirs when people were out here dying...!"

As Gojo went on to argue about the specifics of his souvenir shopping with his student, (name) closed his eyes, allowing the thrum of cursed energy to trace the outlines of his feet where they connected with the ground. Despite having fought special grade curses as a special grade sorcerer, the man still hadn't ever faced such... malicious decadence twisted into the very source of the energy itself.

Undoubtedly, the King of Curses was only a handful of yards away.

Then he wasn't.

Megumi's body surged forward in alarm, "Behind you!"

His teacher paid his cry no mind, wagging a finger at him with a hand on his hip, "Kikufuku's not like other souvenirs-"

The large cloud of dust exploded from what little remained of the concrete floor, brushing against your closed eyelids. As if tapping into your third eye, the outline of the battlefield appeared like a blueprint before the expanse of darkness in your head...

...two large husks of cursed energy gave particularly strong outlines.

"--And the whipped cream inside is simply exquisite."

You fanned away some of the aftershocks of the explosion with your hand, opening your eyes.

Not even a foot in front of you, the Ryomen Sukuna was hunched over... with your former student perched on his back.

The curse gave an angry laugh, immediately weaving to strike Gojo again. He wasn't expecting the man to match his pace, ducking and sliding out of the way with every fist that came soaring his direction. Eventually, instead of dodging, the man parried, sending the Curse hurtling through the air to the other end of the rooftop.

Another plume of dust flew up like a smoke wall, obscuring the King from view.

"My student's watching, so I'm going to show off a little."

Ah... something about hearing his own former student saying that made a little memory in the recesses of (name)'s heart flutter with nostalgia. He remembered when he would've done the same thing.

Oh, to be young and stupid.

With something akin to a groan, Sukuna advanced again.

'He's unbelievably fast? No, that's not it.'

The two met midair, the curse finding itself on the receiving end of a fist straight to the face. Once agaain thrown nearly head first into the decaying building, he clicked his tongue in annoyance, just barely managing to correct his footing before landing, "For crying out loud... You jujutsu sorcerers are always trouble, no matter the era!"

Following his proclamation, he leapt into the air, bringing his wrath down onto the roof where his opponent stood. Before he could make contact with the floor however, it seemed the concrete hardened and reinforced itself with an electrifying concentration of cursed energy. Two of his four eyes glanced to the source, widening.

'That volume of cursed energy... and yet it doesn't feel as though he has any.'

(name) stood to the side, hands behind his back. His eyes were, once again, closed.

"Seven... Eight... Nine..."

Sukuna let out an exasperated growl, chest heaving with the excessive exertion.

"Should be time."

Instantaneously, all muscle control seemed to slip through the curse's fingers like sand through a sieve. Any attempt to grasp at motor function only served for it to escape him quicker.

'Damn it... Again? I can't take over. Who the hell is this... Itadori... brat?'

(name) peeled his eyes open, enamored as he retracted his own cursed energy from the environment. He watched the malevolent aura of the King dwindle and dwindle until it was no more than a blot of the outline of Itadori's soul.

The teen's body slowly returned to normality, tattoos and nails regressing to that of the average human. The eyes on the side of his head closed into scars once again, "Oh, was everything okay?"

From the heart of the explosion, the remaining sorcerer sauntered back over the group. Gojo gave a lopsided smirk at the sight, looking over Itadori again with his Six Eyes. "I'm shocked. You really can control it!"

The pink-haired teen nodded, hitting at the side of his head with furrowed brows, "He's kind of annoying though, I can hear his voice."

(name) hummed, "That's to be expected when you're a vessel."

The other teacher expressed his own agreement, "It's a miracle that's all he's doing."

Just like the cursed object specialist had done earlier, when Gojo approached and outstretched his hand towards Yuji's face, the highschooler didn't pay any mind. This time however, when two fingers made contact with his forehead, something didn't quite feel right. With maybe a millisecond to register the strange sensation, his eyelids started to droop. Fighting to keep them open, he made a noise between alarm and discomfort, instantaneously confronted with the creeping, rapidly expanding feeling of his body turning to lead.

"What did you do?"

The youngest of the four crumbled, chin unceremoniously knocking on the sorcerer's sturdy shoulder.

"Knocked him out," he rearranged the Sendai student's body to drape across his back. "If he isn't possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel. Now, Megumi, I have a question for you."

"..."

"What should we do with him?"

(name) grimaced, watching the uncomfortable bend of the teenager's spine over the curvature of the other man's back.

Like the responsible kid he was, Fushiguro ruminated on his thoughts before he made a final decision. It was almost as though his eyes reflected each and every one of the potential outcomes while his brain parsed through the best and worst what-if scenarios.

"Even if he is a vessel, Jujutsu regulations demand Itadori be executed."

The cursed object specialist hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath the entire time he observed the first-year. His stomach sank, a heavy heart pushing it down until it felt like it was in his feet. Still, he offered a small sigh.

"...However,"

(name) paused.

Fushiguro's eyes met Gojo's, piercing through him with a thousand-yard stare, intense and packed with conviction, "I don't want to let him die."

"..."

"..."

His teacher's lips peeled back into a coy smile, "Personal feeling?"

The young man nodded, completely resolute in his decision, "Yes. Please do something about this."

His teacher's smile only grew wider, a single hand reaching up to brush through his untamed white hair with a quiet snicker, "Now it's a request from a precious student... Leave it to me."

"Wait."

Teacher and student whipped around to the other man situated just a few feet away.

The man cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed that all attention was situated squarely on his shoulders.

"..."

"..."

"...Let me carry him, Satoru."

"..."

"..."

A breeze drifting by was seemingly swept up in the silence that wrapped up the destroyed rooftop like a blanket.

There was a snort.

Then Gojo broke out into laughter.

(name)'s cheeks sprouted a flustered pink hue, extending from the roots to fan the flame over his nose and cheekbones. "You're holding him like a sack of potatoes," He averted eye contact, looking towards the waning moon, "he's already going to be sore after being thrown around like a ragdoll, I thought I would at least spare him the unnecessary back pain."

The sorcerer, despite his blindfold, made the motion of wiping a fake tear from his eye as his boisterous laugh echoed into a near silent chuckle. He took another deep breath, resting his hand on his stomach, "Always so doting to students... I wonder where all that was when you were teaching me."

Fushiguro felt like he wanted to vomit.

'God, he's so fucking cringe.'

"But... the recap and current events don't line up."

The room was dark, its only challenger being the gentle light offered by a generous collective of candles haphazardly stationed around the gloomy chamber. While their burning wax dripped onto the dirty concrete floor, the flame dancing at the end of each wick revealed the hundreds--thousands--of sigils and talismans looming above. The pages, yellowed with age, acted like impromptu wallpaper. A few corners beginning to peel, a few ink-stained fingerprints on others, the imperfections in the calligraphy didn't stifle the atmosphere in the slightest. The energy seeping in from the unknown, shadowy corners of the room was suffocating.

“Hey, I did my best.” 

Sitting with his front pressed against the back of a plain wooden chair, Gojo observed the teenager through his blindfold.  His Six Eyes traced over the intricacies of newfound cursed energy, almost mesmerized by the twisting, turning, warping of the two souls manifested in his singular body.  He rested his forearm against the back of his seat, “The execution’s still on, but I managed to get your sentence suspended.” 

“Suspended?”

Itadori sat flat on the ground, leaning against the room’s singular pillar.  Large, steel manacles weighed heavy on his wrists.  The chains that bound his cuffs to the room’s far wall were thick like pythons.  Wrapping around the pillar like a pair of constrictors, they criss-crossed over one another in an x before melding into their respective anchors. 

“So you’re not killing me right away?” 

Staring into Gojo’s blindfold felt weird and unnatural, but the teen didn’t really have any other options. 

“Yup,” The man would be the one to break eye contact first, maneuvering to reach into his gakuran’s pocket, “I’ll explain it from the top.” 

His slender hand returned with something that looked very familiar.   He presented the object proudly, holding it up in front of Itadori’s expectant face.  “This is the same as the cursed object you ate.” 

Amber eyes raked over the grotesque appendage.   Ugly, wrinkly purple skin scrunched around the knuckles in an uncanny manner that sent uncomfortable tingles down Yuji’s spine.   The texture was only made worse by the lack of a clean cut, bits of flesh left hanging off the finger.  Being this close to it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“There are twenty in total.  We currently possess six.” 

Looking at it was like watching an accident.   It was deeply disturbing but it retained this all powerful magnetic quality that made it near impossible to look away. 

“Twenty?” 

Fighting his compulsion to stare, Itadori made eye contact with the sorcerer sitting in front of him, “Each finger and toe?” 

Gojo’s smile only grew wider and more unsettling in the low light, “No, Sukuna has four arms.” 

Without a heads up, the older man tossed the cursed object into the air.  In the nanosecond it took the Sendai Student to glance at the sudden movement, an abundance of cursed energy crackled to life like electricity.  It snapped like a whip, launching the finger in a cloud of smoke. 

“...”

“...As you can see, we can’t destroy them.  The curse is just that powerful.” 

The boy’s jaw hung open like the fat koi fish in the pond he’d pass on the way home.  Staring at the fresh crater in the previously unblemished wall of talisman, he failed to notice the teacher standing up from his seat. 

Delicately plucking the curse from the steaming indentation he’d lovingly branded into the side of the room, he sauntered back over to his wooden chair.  Completely relaxed, his airy lilt carried through the room, “The curse grows stronger every day, and the seals of modern-day jujutsu sorcerers just can’t keep up.” 

Tucking the finger back into his pocket, he threw his leg over the wooden seat, “That’s where you come in.” 

Finally closing his mouth, the teenager blinked at him. 

“...Huh?” 

“You see, when you die, the curse inside you dies as well.”  Dramatically, the sorcerer slumped forward with a sigh, “Our elders are total cowards, you know? They’re demanding we kill you right away.” 

“...”

Gojo pursed his lips, “But that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” 

Itadori cocked his head to the side, struggling to process the clusterfuck of information he had unceremoniously dumped onto his unsuspecting lap, “A waste?” 

Resting the side of his face against his palm with an awkwardly cheerful ‘mhm!’, the white-haired stranger went on, “There’s no guarantee another vessel capable of handling Sukuna will ever be born again, so this is what I proposed,” he held up a pointer finger, waving it around to punctuate his statement, “If we’re going to kill you anyway… why not kill you after you’ve absorbed  ALL of Sukuna?”

“...”

“...”

Gojo crossed his arms over the back of his wooden perch, offering a non committal hum, “It took a lot of convincing, and Sensei had to pitch in, but eventually, the higher-ups agreed… so now you have two options before you.” 

Staring into the blank darkness of the black blindfold, Itadori finally seemed to notice how dry the inside of his mouth was.  

“You can either die right now…”

He swallowed.

“…or you can find all the parts of Sukuna and die after you’ve absorbed them.” 

JAZMIN BEAN : FAVORITE TOY

☺︎ taglist:

@angelkazusstuff @ahoeindeedinneed @wutap @mysouleaten @ilovebattinson @satansdaughter123

masterlist ☓

[scribefindegil]

The thing that really gets me about Separation Arc is how utterly mundane it is. One exorcism at the beginning, a call Reigen shouldn't have made leading into all those words he shouldn't have said, and then nothing until the cameras at the press conference start floating like some kind of miracle.

Which makes sense, of course. The arc follows Reigen instead of Mob and he doesn't have powers so there aren't powers. But there's more to it than that. It's a deliberate choice; it would have been easy to show that Reigen needs Mob for practical reasons, for him to come up against an actual spirit and end up scared or hurt because he couldn't exorcise it on his own. But the show doesn't do this. His business is fine. He's savvy enough to stick to jobs that he can actually do, and he gets enough of them that he's busy (and contrary to the fanfictions, truly dangerous jobs are a rarity to begin with). Practically, Reigen is doing perfectly fine. It's the mundanity that breaks him.

I've made a million posts about how Mob Psycho being a story about connection means it's also a story about loneliness, and I don't ever feel that more deeply than I do here. When there's a metaphor or a layer of fantasy obscuring things, no matter how awful they get, it feels safer. You don't actually have to worry about an evil ghost trapping you in a nightmare dimension. You don't actually have to worry about a giant vegetable brainwashing all your friends. The emotional impact hits, and it hits hard, but there's a layer of distance to it.

But there's no distance to Separation Arc. There's just the awful crushing inescapable everyday loneliness, the kind that it's so easy to fall into. The feeling of being in your late twenties, at the point of your life where you've finally had a few years of making your own decisions--and feeling like every decision you've made with that agency has been wrong. The feeling of having drifted away from the friends you used to have and not knowing how to make new ones. The feeling of getting emails from your parents and not answering them because you don't have anything to say that wouldn't make them even more disappointed and worried. The feeling that you've thrown away anything good or important in your life and not knowing how to fix it. That you're stuck. And not having anything or anyone else to blame. Only yourself. It's all so real and so overwhelming.

And the arc shows you all of this, unvarnished and unblinking, and then says It's okay. It can still get better. This isn't the end. No matter how lonely you've been, no matter what you've done, you can find people who will love you. You can make better choices. And no one has to stick around if you've pushed them away, no one has to forgive you if you've hurt them. But maybe they'll choose to anyway, and it will feel like a miracle.

[forthegothicheroine]

Movies from a universe where Gef the Talking Mongoose, rather than the Amityville Horror, was the "real" haunting that spawned a million movie titles

Gef II: The Possession

Gef 4: The Evil Escapes

The Gef Curse

Gef: It's About Time

Gef: A New Generation

Gef's Asylum

Gef: Vanishing Point

The Gef Legacy

Gef: No Escape

Gef's Exorcism

Gef: Evil Never Dies

Gef Against the Night

Witches of Gef's Academy

Gef's Harvest

Gef's Moon

Cult of Gef

Gef the Vampire

Gef's Scarecrow

Gef Uprising

Gef in Space

Gef in the Hood

Gef's Christmas Vacation

I could go on.

[iwishf1wasreal]

F1 Driver NSFW Profile: ✷ Lewis Hamilton ✷

smut ✷ 18+ readers only

I. Flirt. He’s a shy sort of suave. He wants to come off cool and laid back. Thank God he never has to worry if he’s dressed well. Lewis is all about eye contact, making sure to look over the frame of whatever sunglasses he’s wearing so he can hold your gaze. It’ll be hard for him to look away; maybe he’ll keep your eyes for as long as he can by looking back or walking backward. He’ll flash his million-dollar smile at you; make sure you know he’s noticed you too. If there are cameras around, he’s pretty much going to stand 40 feet away from you, but if it’s amongst the trusted inner circle or just the two of you, he is stuck to you like glue. When you first meet, he’s flirty in a relaxed sense; it won’t come across as him being particularly interested, just friendly. He takes his time sussing you out and getting a feel for you. But once he’s ready to make his intentions known, he’s laying on the charm. Making you laugh, taking any excuse to brush against you. II. Propositioning.   Warm hands caressing down your back, spending a generous amount of time on your ass before smoothing down your calves. He’ll peck kisses anywhere he can reach, his endless brown eyes meeting yours as his lips roam your body. Lewis wants to seduce and be seduced. He likes kissing–[loves] kissing. Has a hard time having sex [without] kissing. He wants your tongue hot and heavy in his mouth. Lewis likes to tease too. If the mood strikes and you start to put the moves on him, he'll play dumb. Straight up pretends not to notice, wait and see how far you’ll go before you push him down onto the sofa and straddle him.

III. Libido. It’s relatively high, but he’s also creeping up to his forties. Don’t get me wrong, he has no trouble getting (or maintaining) an erection, but it takes him a bit longer to get him up and ready…especially if it’s a night after drinking. So, he doesn’t mind a bit of soft play, whether it's your mouth or the soft glide of your hand. He’s not too picky. He feels so much closer to his partner during and after sex. Lewis feels like there’s no other connection in the world like it and would probably even be down to try sex magic if you were into that kind of thing. 

IV. Turn-Ons: tame & nasty. Tame: Expensive clothes. When you hold him close to whisper in his ear. Laughing with your head thrown back. A nice fitting pair of trousers. Pretty, fast cars. Private beaches and cabanas. Outdoor showers. Spoiling you. Facetime calls to show him what you’re wearing. Getting along with his mum and step-mum. Having inside jokes with his brother. Fitting right into a game of footy with his nieces and nephews. Musicality in any way, shape, or form. Shy silliness that he gets to draw out of you. Diamonds on bare skin.  Nasty: When he fucks you so good you can’t even get out a moan, and it looks like  you’re having a sexy exorcism. Pulling your panties to the side instead of just pulling them off. Lowkey always wants to get caught; fucks you with the windows of your cabana wide open, or herds you into the single stall. Tender love and care to his balls. When you tell him that his dick is the best you’ve ever had. Receiving unsolicited your nudes. Mutual masturbation. Lingerie sets with lace bras and satin panties. The way your ass kinda makes a heart-shape in certain positions of doggy. Titties in his mouth. Topless beaches with wandering hands. V. Self-stimulation. Ideally, he would be able to Facetime you, and you could figure out a solution together. He'll use a video if the timezone doesn’t permit that, and he’s not desperate enough to wake you or disturb you at work. He can still appreciate porn, but if he wants to finish, he’d prefer to do it to you. VI. Foreplay. He almost pays too much attention to foreplay. It’s like he’s in some kind of competition with himself to see how wet he can make you before he finally slips inside. As he’s come into adulthood, he’s realised how powerful the act of cunnilingus is. He has his own version of getting drunk off your sex, usually in the form of semi-incoherent philosophical babbles of how we’re all connected and how beautiful your pussy is.

VII. Rhythm. He likes to keep it fresh but prefers deep, unhurried sex. Taking your time getting to know each other and savouring the feeling of the two of you together. He’s not afraid to moan or let his nastiest thoughts roll off his tongue. Most often he’ll be asking how it feels, for you to be louder. He likes egging you on. VIII. How He Likes It He’s a classic man. Doggy has a special place in his heart. He likes plenty of other positions, too, of course. But there’s just something about getting to watch your ass shake as he disappears inside you. You bent over, wet and moaning and rutting back against him. Rarely do you get to feel like you have the upper hand on him–he’s got lightning fast reflexes, strength and confidence that often make you feel like he’s not even real. Except in the bedroom and he has your front pressed into the bed and you start to work to throw your hips back to meet his thrusts. He nearly busts right then and there every time. 

IX. Location, location, location. A hopeless romantic, ideally, he’d have rose petals all over the floor and candles littering the entire place. But that’s not always feasible, though he still tells you it’s what you deserve. And though he’d deny it, ducking his head to hide the burning on his cheeks but the hot tub seems to hold a special place in his heart. To the point where his buddies will point and giggle at it the second you’re aboard a yacht for the week or they notice it on the balcony through the curtains. Somehow, they always seem to be one on your holidays or hotel rooms. And you both do you best to use it to the best of your abilities.  X. Kinky. He’s open minded and easy to approach. He likes experimenting when he feels safe and he feels safest with you. Depending on the mood, he can be gently encouraging, complimenting and worshipping you into bliss. Or, he can be a little more demanding, a little less lenient and a little more mean. He’s good at playing. He likes playing…as long as you seem like you are too. Any fantasy you feel like trying, he’s all ears. Rarely will he outright deny you–about most things–especially sex.

XI. Bedroom aids/Toys He’s not stupid, obviously you use toys whilst he’s away or busy. He doesn’t mind adding them in with the both of you either. It really only took one time for him to watch your eyes roll back in your head after just two minutes on the second to highest setting. Lately, his latest exploration in the bedroom has involved plugs. Nothing gets his heart pumping blood to his crotch quite like when you bend over and reveal you’ve decided to surprise him with one. Something about the shimmer of something in your ass while he sheeths himself deep inside you feels like ecstasy. 

XII. Cum. He can go for a while. He’s old enough where he doesn't need to lay back and think of England. He would prefer to finish after you though with the ferocity of your sex life, it’s quite literally always a competition to get others to cum first. Ideally, he’d finish inside of you but obviously sometimes that’s not always fisable. Though, more than enough times have you two snuck off for a quickie and you’re left uncomfortably wet in your panties after.

XIII. Pleasure reciprocation. Lewis loves to go down on you. Likes hearing all your moans and whines and any other noise he can get you to make. When his focus is on you and getting you to cum, he turns into an assertive yet gentle figure. He has plans for you, he’d like for you to follow them. But he’s not above giving into your desperation or gently teasing you for how worked up you get. He can teeter more towards mean when he feels like it though rarely can keep it up. By the time you’ve finished, he’s melted back into his true self. Making sure you’re not too far gone or nothing got too out of hand. Despite it all though, he makes you feel like he’s hungry for you. Like just the site of you or your body could drive him wild enough to cloud all his thoughts.

XIV. Bonus.

“I wanna show you something,” Lewis tells you, head down with his eyes focused on his phone. You approach him in the living room but don't make it to him before the TV on the wall above him blinks on. It shows the generic home display before it goes black again. But it's only for a moment. Then, a grainy, night vision video starts to play. 

It takes you a moment to realise what is. It’s not until you hear the video playback what sounds like Lewis’ laugh. On screen, now  in clear view of the camera, you dragged Lewis to one of the outdoor sofas. Suddenly, you recognize everything in the video.

It from the boat trip you took a few weeks ago, traipsing around Greece with some friends before Lewis had to get back in race mode for the foreseeable future. It was late, all your friends had gone to bed and the crew had been tipped heavily to give you some privacy on deck.

You’re standing there watching yourself, watching your mouth meet his and moan in pleasure. In person, you don’t realise he’s even standing behind you until a gentle hand on your middle startles you out of your gaze.  

“You remember that?” he asks softly, with a small nod towards the TV. You nod, letting out a distracted ‘mmhmm’ as you keep your eyes on the screen. His other hand meets your other side, palms softly caressing against the t-shirt you wore. 

Back on the boat, you had already pulled Lewis free from the confines of his joggers. You were on the floor, on your knees. Even with the state of the art speakers Lewis had installed, you can’t make out what he’s saying to you on video. Just the soft rasp of his voice as he eggs you on.

“How did you get this?” you ask, your throat dry. You had taken him into your mouth on the boat, Lewis throwing his head back in pleasure on screen. It was nice to see him–actually see what he looked like while you gave him head. Up close was one thing, but watching the effect you had on him has your insides somersaulting.

“I told you I’d have them get rid of the footage.” 

Neither of you were stupid. You both knew something as risky as this would require some damage control but Lewis promised you he’d take care of it.

“Yes, but how do you have it?” you gulp after a particularly loud moan vibrates off the screen. 

Lewis doesn’t answer you, just laughs softly as he moves to start placing kisses on your neck. His hands move from your waist, roaming over your arms, then your shoulders. The roughness of his skin against the softness of your skin feels euphoric. But he stops the motion all too soon, one his hands clasping over each of your wrists. In front of you, your past self is already mounting your boyfriend, his hands eager to expose your breasts from the bikini you were wearing. 

Loud, lewd sounds fill the room, echoing off the TV and bathing the both of you in a symphony of your own moans. You can feel Lewis’ breath against your neck, his hands still holding your wrists. You watch as his hand slipped over your core, pads of his fingers finding the perfect spot to send you over the edge. The sight of it makes you hotter, your skin starting to feel clammy and stomach somersaulting. Instinctively, you lean further back into Lewis, trying to instinctually rut yourself against him for some kind of relief. 

But he’s not taking any of it. Just tightens his grip on your wrists and moves so you can’t roll your hips back against him. 

The sounds on the TV get loud. You can hear the sound of your bodies meeting amongst the huffs and moans. It doesn’t matter how much you beg, how pathetically you mewl at Lewis to let you do something. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t even really let you look at him. At best you can get is the cocky smirk and devious gleam in his eyes before he’s gathering both your wrists in one hand and fixing your gaze ahead by your chin. 

Your heart feels like its beating out of your chest. Your skin is sticking to your clothes, working up a sweat from how hot you feel underneath your clothes. Lewis makes you watch the whole thing like that. Forced to watch both orgasms he gave you. Forced to listen to the defeated sigh of satisfaction Lewis gives as you pulled yourself off of him. Forced to watch the glistening trail of yourselves that even the shitty security camera could pick up sliding down your leg.

You don’t even have to move to tell how wet you are once the TV finally turns off. Looking (and feeling) like you’re in a trance, Lewis chuckles proudly and presses a kiss to your hair. 

“Now, go upstairs. Take all your clothes off. And wait for me.” He says, pressing one more kiss to your temple. He pulls away just a touch so he can look you in the eyes. “But do not touch yourself.” He taps his pointer finger to the tip of your nose and pats your ass as your single to get moving. 

You do as you're told and head upstairs. Meanwhile, Lewis gets working on some drinks for the pair of you. He only gets as far as pulling his mock-Tequilas from the cabinet before he hears what at first sounds like your phone going off. But the buzzing he hears through the upstairs floor doesn’t stop. He freezes in place to listen. The buzzing keeps going, far longer than any ringtone would. 

As soon as he realises what you’re doing, he drops what he’s doing and makes a break for the stairs. You can hear him calling your name through the bedroom door as he takes them to at a time to get to you.

[888xii]

More people use Reigen's®! Get your package of Reigen's® Impure Salt at your local convenience store today to get 15% off your next exorcism at Spirits and Such Consolation! [Disclaimer: This salt is ineffective in exorcisms and should not be used to purify or exorcise spirits.]

This art has been stolen probably half a million times. If you find it for sale on apparel or other merch anywhere outside of my stores/shops, it is stolen and should not be purchased. Redbubble was the only place I sold this design, but they removed it from my shop. Please report any stolen items you see and do not support the thieves.

⊘ NO NFT, REPOST, or AI ⊘

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[tsuyoiqueen]

Peaceful Property EP 6 Analysis: Why Didn't Peach Take The Money

Alright, I've seen a lot of criticism towards Peach's decision not to take the money offered by Home's family lawyer to buy his silence and do damage control after the footage of the accident got leaked. Now, I'm all about bashing GMMTV for their mistreatment of TayNew and other actors under their label, as well as for their lazy storylines and plot holes on the final episodes of their shows, but for once I don't think you guys are seeing the whole picture. Yes, GMMTV is notoriously bad at depicting poor characters, but Peach's decision is not out of pocket. It's actually very characteristic of him and the progression of his friendship with Home.

Hear me out: First, in the beginning of the series, we see Peach and Home fight about money many times – From Home accusing Peach of trying to sabotage his Real State business by faking a paranormal event in Best's house for the sake of going viral to Home later on trying to hire Peach to exorcise said properties even though they'd just met.

Peach sees Home as a spoiled, privileged rich kid who was raised to believe money could buy anything. This conflict is explicitly shown on Episode 2, during Rak's exorcism when Home repeatedly attempts to buy his way out of a bad situation and Peach confronts him about it. First, when Home makes fun of Peach's attempt at making Rak a sandwich based on the manager's instructions and questions his abilities, then buys a feast for the ghost after Peach quits the job, arguing that she must've refused to pass on because the food wasn't to her liking. The second time it happened it's a more pronounced attempt, with Home slapping a pile of cash on the table during the commotion and Peach becoming outraged at it.

But this conflict is brought to light again, on Episode 3, when Peach and PangPang sign the ghost-hunting contract and Kan tells them they've essentially sold their souls to Home in exchange for a paycheck, as they need to heed all of his orders from now, which Home takes full advantage of right away. Now, PangPang is fine with the deal – as she's been since the start. She was the one who got Peach to agree to the exorcisms in the first place and it was her idea to go to Home and ask if he could lend them one of his properties. As long as there's something good coming out of it, she doesn't mind. Peach, however, is reluctant to agree to Home's unreasonable requests but eventually caves in and swallows his pride.

Yet, on Episode 5, we see him once again stand his ground. It doesn't matter that Home will cut his paycheck, he refuses to go back into the restaurant where his former mentor passed away (seemingly by his fault). Home has to push him to the brink, remind Peach of his current living situation – He has no place to stay in, he's sleeping under Home's roof – and consequently hurt him to convince him.

But by the end of Episode 5, Peach knows Home never cared about the money or intended to demolish the restaurant to build a 50 million baht condo out of it. Home confesses to Peach that he only acted the way he did because he knew Peach wouldn't have come otherwise and he really wanted to help Peach overcome his fear. So when Episode 6 rolls around, money is no longer a point of conflict in their friendship, right? Wrong.

Money (as well as influence) is the reason why Home is able to make Peach's dream come true in a heartbeat, after barely a day of knowing about it. He does it in grand style, in a palace, with cameras broadcasting it live and even getting Peach a do-over with Chai-Un as a bonus. But Peach doesn't feel like he owes Home, like he has to bend to his will, anymore because he knows where they stand now: they're family and family looks out for each other. Peach knows Home went through all this effort to make him happy and he rewards Home with his full trust. First, by leaving him on charge of the trickiest part of the dish that could ruin his career all over again. And second, by showing his gratitude and considering Home part of his and PangPang's family (They're the parents and Pang's the baby, as said by her).

So, he asks about Home's dream and when he realizes it's something that he can give him, Peach doesn't hesitate to do so. Home, who's grown up in a mansion, never had to fry an egg or find a job to survive, simply craves the love and comfort of a family and Peach welcomes him wholly.

So, then I ask you, why would Peach refuse the money Home's family lawyer offered him and give back what he got from the exorcisms? Well, the moment Peach found out (or rather assumed) that Home had been lying to him all this time, their friendship left a sour taste in his mouth. What Peach was led to believe Home had done out of care had turned out to be just an attempt at relieving himself of the guilt of the hit-and-run situation. Peach could be thinking Home sought him out on purpose with ulterior motives from the start, that it was all a game to him.

That only escalates once Home's family lawyer, and not Home himself, walks in with yet another contract for him to sign and an order of eviction. That is what puts up a wall between Home and Peach again and reminds Peach of their class disparities: he is poor and Home is rich. Three years ago, Home hit him with his yellow sports car while Peach was on his way home from work. Home's family took care of everything, bribed the police and buried the evidence while Peach was left with pain, guilt and trauma. Home was sent abroad to lay low while Peach lost his mentor (and mother figure), his job and his self-confidence. They couldn't be more worlds apart than they are.

One of Peach's fatal flaws is his pride. He doesn't care if he's going to have to go back to the "rat hole" he came from. He doesn't care if he's losing the chance of living a comfortable life. Peach went his whole life without generational wealth, he can continue to do so now.

So of course, not only doesn't he take the money but he goes even further and intends to give back all that he got from Home's family. Peach wants to be far way from Home and that includes his money. He doesn't care about being reasonable right now, he's just protecting himself.

[arcanarix]

Come What May (Suguru Geto/F! Non Sorcerer Reader)

AO3

Word Count: 6.7K

CW // cunnilingus, penis in vagina sex, geto being a pining mess, mc being oblivious

Dark, sinister storm clouds rolled over the sky; the distant sound of thunder rattling your bones as you approached Star Religious Group’s temple. Its reign as high and mighty as the local legend foretold.

For the past few months, you encountered a strange phenomenon. Millions of eyes staring at you wherever you went. Invisible hands roaming all over your body. Moments where you couldn’t breathe—almost like you didn’t know how to anymore.

A local suggested a visit at this temple. Suguru Geto, the organization’s leader, successfully exorcised clients in the past. Many considered his gift to be one from God.

Somehow, you weren’t so sure. It seemed more like a curse to see things others couldn’t. A curse to carry a burden like that alone. To see demons. To see the worst in humanity…

You exhaled slowly. This could either be the smartest or stupidest decision ever. That would only be determined when you met the man in question.

You decided to take a leap of faith, entering the exorcism room when someone allowed you inside. You waited, bouncing your leg as the anticipation began to kill you inside a little bit.

Finally, Geto entered the room, slipping past you as if you didn’t even exist in the same area as him, stepping onto the raised platform before taking a seat.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Guess all of those rumors were true: he was the handsome devil. With a charming smile and long, luscious locks of thick black hair cascading down his back. And so tall. You noticed some areas of his hair had been braided, likely by his adopted twins you heard rumors about from locals as well. He clearly took pride in his appearance, using it to gain more followers to his absurd cause.

With a face card like that? You couldn’t blame the guy.

A part of yourself imagined nasty scenarios already.

“So what brings you here today?” That charming smile of his, while inviting at first, began to feel more strained and plastic under your gaze. You ignored the uncertainty pricking at your insides like pins and needles. “Haunted, are we?”

“Y-yes,” you began, twiddling your fingers in a vain attempt to soothe your nerves. “I haven’t been able to shake it off. Whatever it is—!”

He raised a hand, signaling you to silence your babbling. You obeyed, a bead of sweat dripping down your brow, no questions asked. He studied you, his smile melding into a frown.

“Try not to move,” he instructed in a bored tone as his hand struck out.

Within milliseconds, the weight on your shoulders lifted, and you gawked at him. He looked like he grasped something in his hand.

“Wow,” you breathed, feeling a wave of relief wash over you.

The sky split with a deadening crack, followed by a loud clap of thunder.

He chuckled as you jumped in your spot.

“Feel free to stay until the storm goes away,” he stated, “The temple is off the clock now.”

You quirked an eyebrow. From what you’ve heard, he rarely allowed clients to overstay their welcome. Once his business with you was done, he didn’t have much need for your presence. Yet he allowed you to remain.

“Thank you,” you replied, allowing yourself to get comfortable on that pile of red cushions. Your hands took note of how smooth and soft the fabric was.

“Ah, forgive my lack of manners. I didn’t get your name.”

You peered at him with curious eyes.

You told him.

“A pleasure,” he responded, his eyes prying open and revealing stunning pools of violet, gazing upon you like he was king, and you were a mere peasant. But something else flickered in his stunning gaze—intrigue. Why, pray tell? You hadn’t the slightest idea until he went on: “Those were some powerful spirits attached to you. I’m surprised you survived as long as you did with those aforementioned symptoms.”

Eh? But you didn’t mention anything to him. Not a single word of your symptoms.

How would he know? (Then again, he likely saw this millions of times before. It might not be so shocking of a revelation.)

Not soon into the proper introduction, a lady with bouncy pink wavy hair interrupted you, entering the room and alerting Geto of a matter of, to him, minimal importance. He excused himself for a few moments, brushing past you with an unreadable expression on his face.

With your own curiosity getting the best of you, you zeroed in on as much on the matter as you could.

Your eyebrows scrunched together as you could make out a bit of the hushed conversation between the secretary and Geto. His voice had an edge to it as he spoke, like a blade, muttering some monologue to her about how he’d been exorcising “monkeys” for the entire day but this particular one—of course he meant you—decided to stay behind until the storm outside died down. Surprise etched across the secretary’s face from his sudden hospitality, but Geto dismissed her, and slid the door shut behind him before turning his attention back on you.

That look in his eyes came back. Not of disdain necessarily, but of curiosity. Like he sensed something unique about you and wished to covet it for himself.

Should you whack the wasp’s nest?

You cleared your throat, twisting around as he returned to his raised platform to settle back down.

“What inspired you to do what you do?” you inquired. You bit your lip as he only stared at you, perhaps annoyed.

“It’s a natural talent of mine, to purify that which is impure,” came his simple answer. “If you are referring to my otherworldly beliefs, that is a matter personal to me, and nothing someone like you could understand.”

“That’s a bold claim,” you quipped, offended. “But you do have a point, I guess. Not everyone is so open to such…ideals.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, only hummed in contempt.

“Of course I have a point,” he replied, “There is always a purpose in everything I ever do, say, or think. Other humans…such monkeys, they’re just running a circus out there.”

Well, you thought. Not like he’s wrong about that.

You shared some of his disdain for society (definitely not for the same reasons). Part of why you moved far away from home and came to Japan. You hoped to leave it behind, and maybe lead a more fulfilling role. You didn’t have much to go on other than pure ambition. You wanted to channel it somewhere.

And somehow, something compelled you to explore your potential in this realm. Something bigger than yourself.

Suguru Geto didn’t seem to mind the temporary babysitting of some ‘lowly monkey’. Was he lonely? Got fed up with his mindless legion of followers? Perhaps he missed challenging conversations? Or if not challenging, at least engaging ones?

Perhaps he just needed a friend. Though you doubted he’d see you as anything other than a speck of dirt.

You ended the silence that fell around you both for a minute too long. Never mind the storm brewing outside.

Pitter patter. Pitter patter.

CRACK!

“You seem to hold quite a bit of contempt for humanity,” you observed, tilting your head while locking your eyes with his steely violet gaze, assessing him. Reading him with an open mind, and like an open scroll, and not at all fazed by him equating humanity to monkeys, which given the theories of evolution, you couldn’t even call his belief entirely false. “I can’t say I blame you. Humanity has been responsible for all of society’s shortcomings.”

Geto raised an eyebrow at that statement, as he hummed in amusement. Your lips pursed. Perhaps he believed you, like him, became disillusioned to society.

“Do you now?” he sighed, resting his chin on his hand. “Do you dare to insinuate that we share the same belief? That humanity cannot be saved?”

And better eradicated? Wiped out? Not necessarily, you mused to yourself, but dared not utter those musings out loud. You didn’t want to risk death.

Yet here you still were… whacking the wasp’s nest for the sheer fun of it. Because you wanted to see how far this could go.

Because you desired a bit of brain stimulation.

Because maybe you sought some kind of companionship, too—in whatever form that may come. You were lonely too. That was part of why you came here.

A fresh, new start. A fulfilling purpose. Something to keep you on your toes. A reason to keep going.

“On some levels,” you conceded, remaining seated on those plush red cushions while picking at the dirt between your nails. Suguru Geto—the notorious leader of the Star Religious Cult—whose reputation preceded him. You showed indifference, which got under his skin. Maybe because you wanted to see what he would do in a position where someone beneath him further enabled his cause, but not in the way his mouth-breather followers had.

Your gaze never left his, cold, scrutinizing. “Perhaps your grand scheme could use some refinement, though. I’ve heard much of what you preach. Through your sermons. Through the locals here. The mass extinction of humanity is ultimately futile.”

“Then what do you propose?” he countered, irritation laden in his tone. You were impressed he didn’t slaughter you on the spot for questioning his grand scheme; instead, he seemed fascinated, intrigued—a little spark in those stunning pools of amethyst.

“Rather than extinction,” you began, shifting in your seat. “Which will ultimately fail due to the population of weak humans to the strong, by the way. Revolution. That is more effective. Advocate to cleanse the filth in a way where the chosen ones you claim to wish to protect can co-exist with their lesser human counterparts. After all, who is to say you even need to acknowledge them?”

His expression didn’t budge, driven by a hunger to dissect your thoughts further.

You humored him. He humored you, after all.

Why not even the playing field?

“Is it really so simple?” he scoffed at the absurdity of your suggestion. “How do you propose we do that?”

Now you were getting somewhere! All you had to do was lay a few more of your cards on the table.

But not so soon!

A smirk played at your lips. “Are you suggesting a partnership, Geto? My…suggestions don’t come for free.”

Geto rose from his spot on the raised platform. He stepped down, approaching you in a few long strides. He gazed down at you, still not with the same contempt which he possessed for the rest of humanity, but with fascination.

Every nerve in your body sparked to life, pulsing with anticipation and the heady rush from it all. Challenging a powerful, ‘magical’ being? You might have had a death wish.

No, you definitely had a death wish.

You just didn’t find yourself minding that about yourself anymore.

“What do you want?”

“Some cash is nice, since I’ll need a stream of income, but not just that,” you replied, tone wavering. “Make me strong. Make me your partner. And in return, I guarantee your success in making the world the way you want, Geto.”

Silence hung over the two of you once more. He tilted his head, resting it against his long, slender fingers, his lips pressed into a thin line. Was he genuinely considering a new recruit to his cause? Did he sense something in you that you didn’t even see?

After what felt like a lifetime, he finalized the deal.

“Suguru,” he corrected quickly. “Partner.”

Your smirk widened, impressed with his willingness to cooperate and to humor you; your eyes twinkling, and he matched yours.

Ah. He played right into your grimy, scheming hands, just as you hoped. It spared you on the spot slaughter. Or maybe you fell face first into his trap, caught by the leg, and now you would pay the price for trusting his word so openly.

Aw, what the hell? You needed a little spice in your life, and you held little regard for your past way of life some time ago. Maybe you wanted to seek salvation. Maybe you just wanted to live a little—see if you could breathe some life into your dying heart.

Suguru Geto hired you as a strategist in his family—a decision which drew contempt from everyone in this temple. Unsurprising, given Geto’s infamous reputation and the nature of his ambitions. But the disapproval didn’t faze or deter you. You saw the opportunity for what it was: lucrative, and with handsome payment. For as long as the arrangement was mutually beneficial, you had no issue working alongside the notorious leader of the Star Religious Group.

Though others bristled at your presence, Geto seemed unbothered. He remained immeasurably close at your side, neither ahead of you nor trailing behind. Always there, like a damn leech. You ignored the glares or whispers which followed the two of you, because frankly, you didn’t care.

At first, you chalked it up to formality or perhaps an attempt to display some kind of begrudging respect toward you. But that conclusion didn’t sit quite right in your gut. You knew his kind—his worldviews didn’t leave room for genuine equality, especially between someone like him, and someone like you. You doubted he would ever truly view someone like you as an equal.

Yet none of his actions got past you. Always watching, always waiting. It wasn’t always obvious of course, and anyone else might have missed it, but you definitely noticed. His gaze lingered on you, often longer than it did on others. He didn’t seem as appalled by touching you like he did his other followers who were human. He observed your every move, fascinated by how you remained untouched by the animosity aimed at you. Not only did your indifference intrigue him, but it was also likely the cold calculation behind your eyes, how you seemed to operate purely on logic and reason—a trait he found lacking in other humans. Which, truthfully, he wasn’t wrong. You, too, found most people infuriatingly devoid of reason.

Whatever. You had better things to do than to ponder on something like what else Suguru Geto could possibly want from you. You focused on the task at hand, and you weren’t about to allow idle conjecture to distract you from it. If he threw challenges your way, you would strategize your way through them alongside him.

Yet, you still caught moments where his lingering stares felt like they had no place. You couldn’t pinpoint why and dismissed it as nothing more than curiosity.

He saw value in your insights; that was all it was. Nothing more, nothing less.

During your one-on-one meetings, Geto gave you a high-level overview of his world—the world of jujutsu, cursed spirits and how they came into existence. From negative human emotions. If you had to be honest with yourself, it all sounded like total bullshit. Well, until Geto handed you a tool imbued with cursed energy for you to see spirits yourself. The moment you wore those glasses, the sight of those spirits roaming around him left you speechless. He casually explained his cursed technique to you; he had the ability to manipulate the spirits he exorcised to his advantage.

It took about a month or so into your new way of life before he began to drop a few more bombs about himself and his past. To your surprise, you felt indifferent toward the countless unforgivable crimes he’d committed for his cause. In a strange way, you even found his devotion… admirable.

Most people were afraid of going after what they wanted. You weren’t one of them. Perhaps that was why he found comfort in your presence.

More months passed. You learned more about jujutsu sorcery and curses—and more about Geto. Often, against your will, but he seemed oddly open with you. You didn’t care one way or another. As long as he found use in your insights and your ‘refreshingly’ open mind, you would remain.

Over time, you found yourself becoming more loyal to him.

He definitely seemed pleased by the development.

During one of your debriefs, Geto shifted from his usual ramblings to engage you in a philosophical debate. You humored him, of course. You weren’t in a position to dismiss the chance to learn more about his grand plan. He spoke of creating more conflict between sorcerers and non-sorcerers, of going directly to the source of the problem.

“Humanity as a collective is perplexing,” Geto began, meeting your eyes. “Humans try so hard to be as boring as everyone else yet also condemn those who want to remain the same. They also punish those who succeed and crush those who dare to be different, who dare to challenge society. Whether they show a speck of talent or something extraordinary like us sorcerers…well, like me, not you. Humans would rather cram everyone and everything into that same miserable, broken little box. Why do you believe this is the case?”

You nodded, sharing his disdain. Even if to him, in spite of your intellect, you were just another one of those monkeys.

“It’s simple yet complex. Humans cling to what’s familiar. Whatever threatens that familiarity becomes a target.”

What was that old concept? The Uncanny Valley—where people got creeped out by something that appeared human, but somehow wasn’t. In a way, Geto definitely embodied this concept—human by birth, perhaps, but gifted with abilities far beyond the average mind’s comprehension.

However, you weren’t an average human mind, either. He had come to accept someone on his level—your non-sorcerer status aside.

“Exactly,” he replied in a whisper, as a lazy smirk graced his features. “So why bother playing their little game? Utterly asinine, is it not? We sorcerers in jujutsu society were sworn to protect humanity, yet they show no gratitude for the blood, sweat, and tears we shed, or the lives we lost. In fact, often, we were shunned for it. Ostracized. My twin girls were about to be killed for actions they were not responsible for simply because they possessed a gift, not a curse. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

“It’s completely understandable you feel that way,” you replied, keeping an even tone. Had you been in a similar position, you would probably arrive to the same conclusions Geto had—should you blame the man? Honestly, you still found him admirable in spite of the havoc he wreaked upon both jujutsu society and humanity. “However, your methods in changing the status quo are obviously questionable. Ultimately fruitless. But the longer I’m with you, the more I wonder if you are aware of this.”

“I am,” he answered without skipping a beat. You quirked an eyebrow at that; you didn’t miss how much more open he became with you, and this was one of those moments where that became more apparent. Not only in how he engaged with you in these discussions, but with how much touchier he became around you. You weren’t sure if you could call it endearing given the kind of person he was, but it was close enough. “Let me let you in on a little secret.”

He leaned in, so close that your breaths mingled. You held your breath.

“I never intended on this plan to succeed.”

Huh? That came out of left field. Your pulse accelerated, struggling to steady your gaze with his, unwilling to let him see the ripple of shock his confession rushed through you.

You averted your eyes, hand over your racing heart.

“So you know you’re going to accomplish nothing.”

So then why hire you in the first place?

“Indeed,” he responded, pulling back, his intense violet gaze never leaving yours. Not only did you find Geto a bit insane, you also found him fascinating. He drew you in like a moth to a flame. “The Night Parade of 100 Demons is merely my stage exit.”

“So,” you cleared your throat, prepared to face certain death at your next line. You were surprised you lasted as long as you had here. “All of this time, all of these acts of extremism were a cry for help?”

Geto’s chuckle came soft, almost…sullen. The vibrant purple in his eyes dulled.

“You could put it in that way,” he sighed, brushing his fingers through his hair. “But no. I don’t wish to be saved. Not in the way you think.”

For the moment, you saw past his sharp words—the exhaustion, soullessness evident in his eyes, the flicker of something buried deep inside of him. Years of torment and confusion simmering just beneath the surface. You hadn’t realized how vulnerable he allowed himself to be around you.

He didn’t see you as a threat, after all, did he?

“I see.” Something about this tugged at your heartstrings in a way you didn’t fully fathom, but…your fascination for Geto seemed to have evolved into something beyond it. You became loyal to him over the course of your ‘partnership.’ He showed you sides to him he never showed even to his most devout followers or to his ‘family.’ Not even his twin girls, who you met on several occasions.

Your face went bleak. Had he been searching for a way out of here all of this time—out with a bang, perhaps? Much like you have if you couldn’t find a real purpose to your life anymore? Had that been…all along, had that been why he went to such extremes? Did he want to see reform? Much of his past had been slowly revealed to you these past few months working under his organization as his strategist.

“Something troubling you, my dear?” His question snagged you back to reality, and when you met his eyes, shining with concern, your heart fluttered. His hand brushed against your cheek, warm, sizzling. Your eyes widened as you pulled back. The action caught you off-guard. Even the term of endearment. But to top it all off, it was the look in his eyes that knocked your soul out of your body.

Unshielded, raw.

You’d never seen him like this before. Or maybe you had and blocked it from memory, deeming it as nothing more than curiosity, intrigue.

This relationship was professional. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You’re conflicted,” you realized, voice hoarse, a lump forming in your throat. “Aren’t you?”

The silence that followed your question was deafening. Then, after what felt like an eternity, Geto hummed in response, his gaze softening as he twirled a strand of his hair around his finger. You stiffened at his touch, but didn’t pull away this time.

The bags under his eyes peeked through. His lips curled into that trademark dangerous smile of his. By now you would have thought you had been desensitized to his dramatic antics, but this proved otherwise.

“Perhaps,” he mused, his voice a lower octave, “not all of you monkeys are ignorant fools.”

You blinked, not in surprise by the insult—he openly called humans that countless times before—but by the warmth in his words. Your gaze flitted to the long, slender finger of his twirling your hair, tugging gently as if testing the waters.

You hadn’t even noticed how close he had gotten.

“Suguru?” you inquired, your voice softer than intended, eyes half-lidded as you fixated on the way his fingers fiddled with your hair. His touch gentle, light, delicate.

“Yes, my dear?” he purred, voice like velvet—smooth, dangerous.

That term of endearment again, laden with something heavier.

That finger traced a slow path down your arm, grazing your skin, making you tingle. His hand shifted when he reached your elbow, fingers wrapped around it with a gentleness that bordered on tenderness. Your heart skipped a beat; your mind grappled with trying to understand this sudden shift.

This felt too intimate in business between colleagues, if you dared to even call yourself that.

The softness in his touch was undeniable.

Lonely. He was lonely. The word slipped into your thoughts. You wondered if this was all it was about. Loneliness. Isolation. An emptiness he refused to admit to, seeking solace in someone who was—and this was mere conjecture on your part—much like his unrealized self.

“Is this appropriate?” you questioned, your voice a little strained.

The corner of his mouth curled, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he leaned in closer. So close that his minty breath ghosted over your lips, warm and dangerously inviting.

“Do you wish for it to be?” he countered, his voice barely above a whisper—an invitation if anything else. His thumb began to draw slow, idle patterns on your arm.

You swallowed on a thick wad of nothing. A loaded question, indeed.

But did you actually want this? You hadn’t considered the possibility before.

“Do I have a say on the matter, sir?”

His expression darkened, eyes narrowing into slits as he tightened his grip on your arm.

“Suguru,” he corrected you. He never did want you to call him anything else.

Now you have found out why. Now you have found out why he let you in so easily. It had been right in front of you all along. You just elected to ignore the signs in favor of a decent living.

“Suguru,” you affirmed, his name sounding more intimate for some reason. You continued to ignore his still thumb tracing idle patterns on your arm. “Do I?”

His violet eyes bore into yours, observing, assessing, waiting, like always. His lips hovered dangerously close to yours, almost brushing against each other, a fleeting kiss. More of one if you dared to close the distance.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered with a non-committal hum. His hand moved from your elbow to your wrist, gripping tight. “But do you know what you want?”

Your breath hitched.

His grip tightened on your wrist, pulling you closer to his orbit. It wasn’t just about what you had to say. It was about control too. His control.

You could push him away, reassert your own agency, reminding him that what you had was nothing more than a professional relationship.

But then his free hand cupped your face, his touch gentle, tender, making you hesitate.

“Suguru…” you breathed, his name feeling more intimate on your lips than before. The distance between you closed even further, and you found yourself unable to resist the magnetic pull.

“Tell me what you want, my dear.”

That wasn’t fair! That absolutely wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t. It didn’t stop the tidal wave of emotions washing over you. The walls you worked so hard to build around your heart and mind began to tumble down.

You should know better.

“I—!” The words caught in your throat as you caught the weight of his gaze. Before you could properly answer, the final sliver of distance between you closed as Geto leaned further in.

His lips met yours in a frantic rhythm. Desperate, yet measured—a push and pull of fervor and restraint. His tongue slid past your parted lips, coaxing a soft sigh from deep within your throat. You allowed yourself to melt into the moment, not caring to resist the magnetic pull between you.

The transition from the temple’s meeting room to his bedroom went by in a blur. You weren’t sure how or when you’d been led here, but the warmth of his arms around your waist kept you grounded in the present. His room at the temple’s top floor seemed worlds away, that faint scent of sandalwood and smoke lingering in the air. You allowed yourself to indulge in this. You never allowed yourself such luxuries before, believing you to be above them, but truthfully, they weren’t. You desired connection just as much as anyone else—you just threw yourself into work to ignore the fact that you did.

Was that yet another reason he found comfort in you?

Soon, you found yourself lying on his bed, the cool silk sheets beneath you a start contrast to the heat building up in your core. He trailed open-mouth kisses down your jawline and along the curve of your neck. Each kiss awakened something in you—eliciting a sharp breath out of your lips as his teeth grazed your skin.

Your lips met his again, slower this time, more languid as his hands freely explored your body. The pads of his fingers traced the outline of your hips, feathery light and teasing, before they settled at the waistband of your skirt. He tugged it down in a smooth motion, the fabric sliding easily down your legs.

His calloused hands felt rough yet reverent against your bare skin. They rested on your thighs, spreading them apart with effortless authority. Your breath hitched, the anticipation coiling tightly in your body. You squeezed your eyes shut as his breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

His lips followed the same path as his hands, brushing feathery light kisses up your thighs—closer and closer. Another breathy gasp escaped you when his teeth caught the delicate fabric of your panties, ripping it through the middle.

“Suguru!” you shrieked, your voice breaking, more from shock. Instinctively your hands flew to your mouth, muffling the embarrassed cry as heat rushed to your cheeks.

He glanced up at you with a smirk, dark violet eyes gleaming with amusement.

“What is it?” he purred, feigning ignorance but he knew exactly the effect that had on you, as his tongue licked a line between your slick folds.

Another broken whimper escaped your throat, the sensation so intense it had you squirming beneath him. Your hips instinctively shifting closer to his face, chasing the friction. Every inch of your body awakened—hyper-aware of each flick of his tongue, each graze of his teeth or lips.

“Mean,” you chided between gasping breaths, but it was all you could muster.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your core.

“I haven’t been close to mean yet, my dear.”

Without another warning, his tongue returned to lapping at your folds, twirling around your little nub full of nerves. Every flick and swirl against your swollen nub made you keen. You gripped the sheets tighter, knuckles whitening as you arched into him, back bowing. It was unbearable. Now you were completely at his mercy—helpless yet utterly complacent.

Instinctively, your hips pressed against him, chasing after that friction you craved; every nerve ending singing like a choir with need. You lost yourself in him, in the moment, chasing your release until finally, you found it. The crescendo hit you like a tidal wave, knocking the wind out of your body as your orgasm washed over you. You were left trembling and panting, catching your breath as you came down from the high.

“You look beautiful when you let go,” Suguru murmured, his voice reverent, as he lifted his head to watch you.

Something caught in your throat at that statement. He said it like it was the truth. Could you allow yourself to believe it? Could you believe anything he ever said, when you never knew what his motives were even now? Months working for him? A part of you to believe it, craved the affirmation, yet those shadows of doubt lingered. Could someone like you let yourself fall for his sweet nothings? You weren’t immune to the lies people told in moments like this, when you desired intimacy and connectedness as much as anyone else.

Fulfilling intimacy.

The sound of him rummaging around ripped you out of your thoughts, yanking you back to the present. His words were no longer tender, but matter-of-fact, as if what came next was inevitable.

“However,” he began, his voice a little more stern now. “you need a bit more preparation before you could take my size.”

Your mouth dried at the prospect. He said it so casually.

“S-Suguru?” your voice quivered, barely a whisper.

More fumbling, the distinct sound of him searching through the drawer beside the bed. Your heart pounded erratically. Then he pulled out the bottle of lube, setting it aside for a moment.

Ah. Proper lubricant. How considerate.

“Before that,” he went on, his voice a low purr, as if reading your thoughts. “How about one more before the main event?”

You barely had the time to process his words before his tongue was on you again, finding your clit. The tip of it circled around, teasing, making you gasp sharply as your hips bucked into his tongue involuntarily. You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding into his mouth, seeking that release once more.

“That’s it,” Suguru whispered between flicks of his tongue. “Get your release.”

And you did, your body trembling as another orgasm washed over your body. Everything almost too much to bear as your walls clenched around nothing, aching for more. You were panting now, legs quivering, but he was far from finished wth you.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he squirted a liberal amount of lube onto his hand, the lewd squelching of its slick overwhelming you. His hands moved with purpose, massaging the cool liquid into your already sensitive cunt. The tip of his finger teased your entrance, allowing it to catch inside for a moment before retreating.

“Don’t be mean,” you pouted.

“I’ve been nothing of the sort,” he teased bac, his tone smug as he inserted a lubed finger into you. More lewd squelching making you flush. “Far from it.”

He moved inside you, at first slow, delicate, stretching you in the best ways possible with just that single digit. Another finger soon joined the first, the stretch almost too much, with that satisfying burn, but not quite. He was careful, gentle, but there was a hunger in his eyes. His pace gradually increased overtime, his fingers working to coax yet another orgasm from you for the sake of it.

The sensation was both too much and not enough. The heat pooling in your legs, your body responding to his every moment as though you were made for him. Before you knew it, you were coming again, your body trembling quietly as you cried out.

Suguru reluctantly withdrew his fingers, as if savoring the way your body clenched around them one last time. He wiped his hand on the sheets before standing, reaching for his belt and in one motion, disrobed.

When he revealed himself to you, your eyes widened and you gulped. He truly hadn’t exaggerated.

His cock stood erect, thick and heavy. Beads of pre already leaked out of his tip. Your breath hitched in your throat. He prepared you for this, made sure you were stretched and ready to take him, and yet, the prospect of it still made your gut twist.

“Is that thing going to fit?” The words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them, your voice wavering. Suguru’s response was a deep, rich laugh that seemed to echo through the room, full of amusement.

“You’ll be fine,” he assured you, his tone teasing. As if to prove his point, he dipped the tip of his cock between your slick folds, rubbing it lightly against your entrance. The contact elicited a breathy whine from your lips that you couldn’t hold back.

“You aren’t going to wrap it?” you inquired, the incredulity in your tone impossible to miss. Despite the heat pooling in your lower abdomen, a surprising sliver of logic remained, true to your nature.

“Like a present?” Suguru chuckled again with a quirked eyebrow, shaking his head. “Do you know the pleasant thing about utilizing cursed energy?”

He clearly enjoyed your confusion. His eyes twinkled with mischief, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Not necessarily,” you admitted, “I’m no sorcerer. Even the basics are lost on me.”

He hummed in thought, his hand gliding over your thigh, fingers grazing over your skin, making it impossible to focus on anything else but the heat pooling between your legs.

“Let’s just say there are certain…perks to it.”

Huh? Perks? Did he mean…preventing pregnancy? Even with unprotected sex? At this point, you were willing to believe just about anything if it meant trusting him. And naively, a part of you did. You became fully lost in him.

Still, Suguru must have sensed your doubts. With a sigh that bordered on indulgent, he reached into the side drawer again and pulled out a condom.

“But if it’ll give you some peace of mind,” he went on with a smile as he tore the package open with his teeth and began to slide the condom onto his impressive length. “Then I will.”

He cared about making sure you felt safe…as long as it heighted the pleasure.

Once he wrapped himself, he guided the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your breath hitched again. He pushed himself in, and you gasped, your hands clutching the sheets tighter. Hist hick cock stretching you overwhelmed you—making your head spin.

“Relax,” he murmured. He inched more of his size into, inch by inch a gradual stretch that rubbed your walls in a delicious way. The friction of it unbearable. His dark eyes drank in every gasp and moan that slipped from your lips as he filled you up.

Soon, he was buried completely inside of you, his body flush against yours. His fullness inside of you was a sweet ache. He stilled for a moment, allowing you time to adjust, his hand trailing up your body until his fingers found the crook of your neck, brushing against your pulse point.

Pressing a soft kiss to your neck, he whispered, “You feel amazing.”

He moved. Slow at first, deliberate. He wanted you to feel every inch as he pulled out almost entirely only to piston himself back inside. He set a steady rhythm, the intensity of it gradual. Each thrust of his became deeper, purposeful, rubbing against your walls just right.

He groaned, whispering an endless slew of sweet nothings. Each word punctuated by the deep, rolling thrust of his hips. He angled himself a bit; the shift of his position just right.

The heat began to build inside of you again, coiling tight in your core, threatening to snap at any given moment. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, knocking his nose between your breasts as you lost yourself in him, all of him. Inside of you, around you, filling you completely.

“Suguru…” His name fell from your lips in a broken moan, and that sent him over a dangerous edge. He thrust into you harder, sharper, deeper, his rhythm in perfect sync with your needs. Both of you were close, teetering on the edge together.

Finally, it crashed over the two of you.

Your orgasm washed over you, body trembling violently as you clenched around him. He followed close behind you, his thrusts growing erratic as he plunged himself inside you one last time, groaning your name as he found his own release.

For a moment, neither of you spoke nor moved. Both of you still breathing hard, still tangled in each other. The heady scent of sweat and sex filled the room. Slowly, Suguru pulled out with a satisfied sigh, his body still tented over yours as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I told you you’d be fine” he murmured, tip of his finger brushing along your cheek.

As the heat and passion of the moment faded, Suguru shifted to lay next to you and pulled you into a warm embrace.

You glanced up at him through your eyelashes. For a few more moments, neither of you said anything. The usual dullness in his eyes from exhaustion became a softer expression.

Here, he could just be Suguru Geto. Not a sorcerer, not a criminal. Just Suguru Geto.

A tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice a quiet murmur.

You nodded, your own lips curving up in response.

“More than okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

With a hum, Suguru snuggled you closer and pressed kisses into the nape of your neck.

For now, the raging world outside could wait, just for a bit longer. You allowed yourself to embrace the silence, your breaths and heartbeats syncing together, closing your eyes and drifting to blissful sleep.

[rosesradio]

hii can you do a leo x nyx!reader? if u dont feel like adding the nyx part that’s completely fine :) ty and take ur time!

hi !! here’s a bullet point fic for you 🫵💌

word count: 1,045

You thought there was no such thing as an abnormal demigod. All demigods were vastly different from mortals, so why would they hold each other to some unattainable standard of normality?

You were wrong. Ever since your first day at Camp, you were ostracized by the others. They avoided you, pretending you didn’t exist on a good day.

Being ignored was…manageable. Being whispered about, with lingering gazes, was less so.

You knew why they treat you this way. You are a child of Nyx. You were born of the goddess’s desire to embrace the stars, and so, starlight danced in your eyes. The mortals were less than intrigued by your appearance, always assuming you to be smug or mischievous.

You didn’t have a mortal parent. A tether to humanity. Based on what your mother told you before you had ran away to the Doors of Death, you had a mortal lifespan. Still, you are much more akin to a faerie child than a human or demigod.

The Hecate campers are a bit warmer towards you, all things considered. They share their magic with you, and you are able to perform small spells here and there.

Nico is also a good friend. It is a little odd to see him treated so warmly by others despite the similarities between the two of you. He never asks others to show more kindness to you, as you never break down and ask for his help.

You reflect on this, at first, when Leo sits across from you at breakfast one morning. He’s much more of an extrovert in your eyes, always outspoken and joking. His curls are messy, his eyes sparking with interest. In short: he’s cute, but his presence screams trouble.

You ask if someone sent him over, for kindness or cruelty or both.

Leo shakes his head. “I just wanted to see what your deal was, y/n.” He says, cocking his head to the side as he meets your eyes. Where his head is momentarily still, his hands are moving, nimble fingers fiddling with a piece of Celestial Bronze.

“This is my deal,” you shrug, nodding noncommittally towards your breakfast plate and open spell book. The current page displayed ‘Demons: How to Befriend Them After an Exorcism’.

“I don’t see why people avoid you, then,” Leo says. He makes a final touch on his momentary project and hands it to you. It’s a small, spiked sphere that appears to be glowing. It looks like a star—and you would know.

“You have, like, a million of those in your eyes.” Leo points out before his voice falters, and he looks down at the table with a flushed face. “I mean—sorry, that sounded weird, but—“

“It’s okay,” you shake your head, starting to smile. “I know it’s just a fact…most people don’t like to look at me because of it…”

Leo’s eyes lock with yours at that, an incredulous look on his face before his features soften. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile the entire time you’ve been here.”

You shrug. “I guess I’m just not used to people being that nice to me.” You hate the words as soon as you say them; they’re true, though there’s no need to guilt Leo about it.

Leo glances back down at the little sphere before meeting your eyes again. “Well, I’m here to change that. I think that’ll be some good decor for your cabin.”

You frown. “They haven’t, uh…they haven’t quite finished my cabin, yet.”

“What?” Leo asks in disbelief.

You nod. “I don’t mind. It’s in the queue, but seeing as I’m the only child of Nyx for now, it’s a low-priority thing. Really, I’m fine staying in the Hermes cabin. I think this little light will look good on my bedside table, anyway…that is, if the others don’t mind…”

Leo let out a hum, holding his face in his hand, his elbow on the table. He appeared to be…pouting. It gave you an abnormal sense of warmth and amusement to see it.

“The Hermes cabin is always overcrowded, even with the new cabins,” Leo said. “If you…if you promise to be chill about it, you could stay in the Bunker. It’s full of stuff, but it should be no problem getting your cot in there. Then, you won’t have to follow the Hermes cabin’s rules.”

You ponder the notion. “I’m sure you have rules, though.”

Leo shakes his head. “Um, I don’t think so. It’s an absolute fun zone! The only things I could think of would be…don’t touch the dangerous equipment, no dark magic past ten, and, uh…you have to hang out at least once a week. If you start rotting in the corner, I’ll have to kick you out like they did with the old Oracle in the attic.”

It was such an odd proposition. It wasn’t as if this boy you barely knew was inviting you to live with him—it was just him giving you a (presumably) quiet place to sleep. He was being nice…and he wasn’t being sent by anyone. Presumably.

“If this is some sort of prank,” you start uncertainly. “I will perform dark magic on you.”

“No pranks,” Leo promises. “At least, not yet. I’m not liable if I do a little hand-in-a-bowl-of-warm-water, but you don’t have to worry about that until you least expect it. Maybe…you could do a trial run. Come by and take a look around, watch a movie. I made a new projector, and—“

“You made a new projector?” You ask incredulously.

Leo nods, curls bouncing, his eyes alive with interest. “I’m still working on the popcorn machine, unfortunately…it keeps combusting, and the popcorn gets absolutely obliterated…”

For some reason, his utter melancholy over combusted popcorn makes you laugh. The sound surprises you so much, you cover your mouth with your hand.

Leo looks at you in disbelief, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That settles it, then. We’re watching a comedy—I gotta hear you laugh again.”

You shake your head, cheeks flushed, positive the other campers are staring at the pair of you. For some reason, though, you can’t bring yourself to care. You are just beyond relieved to find yourself with a new friend…especially one as cute as Leo.

[officerrrfriendly]

The Taken, First Strike.

stranger things conjuring!AU, priest!steve harrington x demonologist/clairvoyant!fem reader.

With an abundance of reluctance, your feet found themselves taking brave steps one after another as they eventually met a birch-wood doorway. But it wasn't any ordinary doorway, inside sat her. The frail and misfortunate Maxine Mayfield, who you still referred to as such- out of a habit of profession- much despite her insistence on "just calling her max, she doesn't go by Maxine anymore."

And in that moment, all of your previous doubts from earlier flooded back into your brain, before you could give into them and turn back, she spoke out. She called your name, a glint of hope present in her tone with some desperation, too.

You sigh heavily to try and alleviate all the weight you suddenly feel pressing against your chest before you eventually reply.

"Hi, Maxine," you mutter, smiling softly before slowly approaching the vacant armchair beside her, full of funky patterns and colours. She sat timidly, her hands held onto one another whilst fingers from each hand wandered over freckles on the backs of her hands she had forgotten she had. Her hair was shorter now, bobbed and fell just below her ears but she was still so beautiful. You tried your hardest to avoid looking into the milky white orb of her left eye and the thick bandage that covered the gaping wound on her right.

If you thought about that night for any longer, you thought you would just about lose your mind- so you shook your head of protruding thoughts and focussed on the topic of importance here, which was the girl beside you.

She laughs, and this time it wasn't humourless or dry but it was real, amusing. "How many times have I told you to just call me Max, hm?" she pokes, she sits further up in her seat as you laugh along with her.

"If I had to guess...I'd say only about 100 million times," you say, with a sigh. Your answer makes her smile for a moment but then she sighs, something is clearly bothering her.

Unexpectedly, without needing encouragement to open up, she speaks. "No one's visited in a while, Lucas...he finds it hard coming here, seeing me like this. He's never said it- but..." she huffs, lowering her head down to the floor. "I know that every time he's here with me he's just stuck in that night, what happened to Billy...me. Even though I can't see him, I can sense it, he's terrified to be around me and I hate it. I hate it because I love him so much...do you have somebody like that?" As the forbidden question leaves her tongue it triggers thoughts you had wished to never think about again, you think of him- and how neither of you haven't seen or spoken to each other since that very night.

Your head shakes, wishing to be done with the thought of Father Steve, and how you've treated him since after the night of July 4th 1983...at the exorcism of Billy Hargrove.

"I'd rather not answer that question... Honey, tell me more about what's been going on with Lucas!"

.•.•.•

You wipe desperately at your tears as they fall on your way to your ocean-blue Austin Maestro car. Your fingers struggle to keep up with the vast amount that began to flood out of your tear ducts.

You harboured a considerably brave face - despite Max not being able to notice it- throughout the entire hour after Max had asked you that god-forsaken question to which you had no answer.

She had talked about Billy, her nightmares, PTSD, her love life and even her mom running off to the other side of the world with her new young boyfriend and a bottle of Jack...she lived a sad life, one you had hoped to someday be able to save her from. You wanted her to come and live in your miniature, yet cosy townhouse you had inherited from your late father Richie, god bless his soul.

Seeing her so frail and lonely, woke a sadness inside you that hadn't long gone away, however that sadness also carried a fuckton of guilt. The guilt of knowing that if you had actually, fully prepared for what you were getting into, perhaps you could have saved Billy Hargrove, Max's eyesight (and her sanity), along with her family.

CLONK, you pull on the door handle to the driver's side door and hop inside before taking one last pitiful glance at the hospice. "I'll be back for you...Max," you mutter.

You turn the rusty key into the ignition. The engine fires to life.

.•.•.•

Days had passed and now you were sitting, pondering in your office inside your humble abode. Max hadn't left your mind since your previous visit and you were thinking through the idea that has floated into your noggin and is actively refusing to leave.

A THUD snaps you out of your daydreams and you quickly glance up from your oak-stained desk to see the culprit who dropped four thick textbooks in front of you, stacked on top of one another. You groan when you realise that it's just Robin, the nosy librarian-now-assistant with a child-like grin on her face. 'Oh, she's up to something' you thought, rolling your eyes before asking- "What is it now, Roberto?" you ask, intrigued as you sit up in your seat.

"I think I may have a case for you, Psychic Sally." she grins smugly, pulling a picture of a young boy out of her pocket.

Now that caught your attention.

"Tell me everything."

And she does, she tells you about how a 'Joyce Byers' had called several times today whilst you were out buying groceries begging to speak with you, for your help and assistance as she believes something is gravely wrong with her 11-year-old boy Will and has been ever since they moved into their house two weeks ago with her fiance, Bob.

She claimed a fever, a change in behaviour, sickness and bruising randomly appearing all over his body seemingly coming from nowhere. OH! And not to mention whatever 'entity' is wreaking havoc among them is causing a putrid, rotten smell to linger throughout the entire house...and her dog suddenly died the first night living there after it refused to enter the home.

You were going to visit the Byers' residence...but not alone.

You had somebody to visit.

"Call Father Steve and tell him I need to speak with him immediately, please Robin," you demand, sighing nervously. as your right foot begins to shake uncontrollably under the table.

"Are you sure that's a...I...uhhh-yes! yes, I will go and do that for you right now, if that's...are you sure that's what you want to do because you know I can totally-" she rambles, her voice high-pitched and unsure.

You can't find words so you nod repeatedly, sporting a polite smile and motion at the door. She nervously laughs, gulping "Ha ha ha ha, well! I am just gonna - yep! Haha! Going," she begins to back out of the room pointing to the door, "going..." she reaches the handle before forcibly chuckling, "and gone!" she shuts the door and you can hear her scold "What the hell is wrong with you?...freak!! god...how do I still have this job?"

.•.•.•

"God...how do I still have this job?" Robin questions, huffing embarrassedly. She treks down the terracotta-painted hallway, full of plants and pictures of who Robin had learned to have been your late father. She had found that out accidentally on the first day of moving in with you when she asked, "Is that your husband?" which sparked a very awkward, tense conversation that you both had very quickly laughed off.

She had reached the coffee-coloured door with the cream handle and twisted it, opening the door to her room- filled with posters of Molly Ringwald, Phoebe Cates, Lisa Bonet, Madonna you name it and she had it!!

Full of purpose she sits on her side of the bed, cross-legged and grabs the telephone from her bedside table and dials Father Steve's number carefully before knawing on her lip and impending an answer.

The phone rings a good three times before there's an answer.

"Hello?"

A/N - Hi babies!! how was that?! I know it wasn't the longest but its just to give the story a good push before we really dive into the plot and have some fun. Poor Max :(( SHE DESERVES BETTER!! and poor Chester, such a sweet dog.

LMK how you found this chapter!!

current taglist: @stveharringtn

comment to be added loves :))

[purpletyrant]

au chises that have been bumping around in my brain like my own personal multiverse of madness. they needed to be exorcised. i recognize and respect the adage that your au may as well be an oc at a certain point, and i think these two cross the threshold, but consider this: i like to play with chise like a paper doll and see how she reacts to situations. so there

for their faces i sorta referenced off of haruka kudo, who played chise in the stage play

attack dog chise is the "living weapon" trope. i imagine that the witch bought her just as elias did, but chise is under the impression that she was taken in out of the goodness of her heart. her master has taught her very little in the means of practical magic, instead focusing all of her training into inflicting as much damage as possible. the witch has no expectation that chise will live very long, so has no intention of raising her up to be an equal. so, this chise has only been taught the power of incredible violence. if she isnt using her fists, shes using low-level curses and other magic considered to be kind of a dick move

design wise, all the o-rings are meant to evoke arc 1 chises adder necklace. she was probably inspired by the knife-wielding punk chise with attitude from the merkmal. since this chise has no ruth, you could say that she sort of embodies both of them

i imagine the dynamic between her and her master as sort of a ~*twisted and dark*~ version of kimihiro and yuko from xxxholic... which ive never read, but still. i dont have a design in mind for the witch shes beholden to, but she isnt dissimilar to hiroe ando from the she who travels au. maybe she IS hiroe. hm

soothsayer's daughter chise is the golden child of her family and has lived a life of relative comfort since being taken from her mother. still, her bleeding heart causes her guilt when she thinks back on the mother she can barely remember. in the last couple years, this chise has tracked her down and set up the means to meet in secret with the intention of apologizing to her and gaining closure. her family does not take kindly to this, and when chise meets chika in the tiny, filthy apartment shes living in, magic is used to force chises mother to commit suicide in front of her. chise is left shaken to the core by this event, especially by chikas words that she "should have never come back." she attempts to maintain a brave and serene exterior, believing that no one else knows of chikas death

since yuuki is still considered a traitor to the family, this chise has a polite if distant relationship with him, having been mainly raised by uncles and aunts. fumiki is supremely annoyed by her. shes very protective and patronizing

her silhouette is based off of a shrine maidens, but i didnt want to dress her exactly like one, since thats... kind of on the nose, isnt it? regardless, the focus of her magic is in purification and exorcism - her soothsaying skills are not quite so refined

she who travels chise is she who travels chise, she comes with her own fic series, read it or dont. i do have thoughts about her older offshoot, though. this chise is in her 30s. she picked up smoking from master onishi - HE TRIED NOT TO INFLUENCE HER, REALLY - and took over the theater when he died. even though she owns it and its a good source of income, shes moved on and is trying to be a more respectable mage beyond the sideshow reputation of her early career. shes essentially cosplaying a put-together businesswoman, and is kind hearted but comically serious. she probably has a niece or nephew and is constantly giving them enchanted gifts. her elias received an untraceable check for five million pounds - adjusted for inflation - several years ago and has not been able to track her down. her anger has cooled, but its now been so long that she feels too awkward to contact him. she still maintains contact with angelica and simon, though - maybe one day shell show up in his yard in a shiny black car

i think it would be soooo fun to throw them all in a room together with canon chise and watch them fight. or maybe they would just cry it out? soothsayers daughter thinks shes above all of this and will condescendingly preach about how attack dog has a "wounded heart"... until attack dog roundhouse kicks her in the head

[bugcatcherkit]

very curious about your thoughts on a tome teru ritsu shou friendship. you are one million percent correct but i am also extremely curious what you think her individual dynamics would be with everyone in the group, how she starts hanging out with them, and the general vibes of their private minecraft server

oh my god thank you hfhhehvhe i lovee having space to ramble about my interpretations !!!!!! I am trying so hard to make this short and coherent (I didn't sleep at all last night) so bear with me ok. This got long sooo ...

Tome and Teru bond first by virtue of being work besties turned regular friends. Well, work besties as in Teru hangs out there and helps out a lot but would never officially take the job. Anyway they get along great because they can match each other's weird and eccentric vibe while also having an underlying bit of Understanding between them due to the whole "tried to rationalize their isolation with specific escapist fantasies that indulged it instead of addressed it" thing. I think they help each other bridge whatever gap remains from their difficulties in connecting the supernatural/extraterrestrial/super-powered world and experiences with the regular/normal/ordinary world. like theyre a good balance for each other. Theyre both So Much that it kind of cancels out. I just like to think they help ground each other. This is very important for their enrichment.

Some of their enrichment activities include: Tome trying to get Teru to fucking Relax For Once by introducing him to video games like pokemon but it kind of backfires when he gets Way Too Into It (this is where minecraft comes in also). Making a super expansive OC world and continually referencing it to each other much to everyone else's confusion. Trying to cure their intense boredom by hanging out together but never really knowing what to do, so they're just bored together. Their text messages are mostly funny images they found, not actual conversations. Their solidarity with each other is almost unmatched. They have a warriors bond.

Anyway. ANYWAY. I think Tome is just kind of absorbed into the Teru-Ritsu-Shou friend group mostly because of Teru, and partly because sometimes, very occasionally, Shou will be at S&S because of Ritsu, who is usually there only as a favour. Ritsu and Teru do the exorcism stuff and Tome and Shou have to sort the filing cabinets for the 5 millionth time because Reigen is running out of things that Tome can do. Shou does not mind these tasks. I think Teru and Shou both like having little menial tasks to do whereas Tome doesn’t. For Ritsu is depends on the task and who it’s for a think. But ANYWAY. Anyway they just grow closer from there probably unless I think of something better.

I like to think of the Tome and Shou dynamic for similar reasons as the Teru-Tome dynamic (character comparison reasons). Shou craved normalcy and decided to chase it post-canon. Tome wanted the complete opposite. So I don't think they would exactly see eye-to-eye immediately (why would she want to give up that normalcy vs why would he want mundane normalcy). I think Shou might even find her View of Things a little bit annoying, mostly because I think he'd be high-strung post canon and she is just not helping that, as opposed to him actually disliking anything about her. But because they are both quite considerate of other people, they work through these things and become bros. He actually probably really appreciates her Severe Genuineness and (mostly) unwavering will regarding her passions/beliefs. She probably likes his appreciation for simple normalcy and relaxation because it hammers in again that doing stuff like that isn't a waste. They love doing so much Nothing together because they both like to take it easy. I think they would enjoy parallel playing.

When they hang out they have to stop EVERYTHING they're doing to watch an ant carry something 4x its size across the sidewalk because it is so exciting to them. Shou is in on the OC world by the way. Tome and Teru and Shou develop it like they're in the writers room of a high-budget TV show. He updates her on every little thing his hamsters do.

For some reason I found the Ritsu and Tome dynamic like the most difficult to think about out of all of them. They're probably the least close? Ritsu treats Tome as Mob's friend in the same way that Mob treats Shou as Ritsu's friend -- with immense care and consideration, but not a lot of close contact outside of a group. He tries to be sooo polite with her but she Does Not match his energy. So after a certain point Ritsu just kind of gives it up. Then they start annoying the shit out of each other. I do think that Ritsu looks up to Tome based on what he knew about her in middle school and how he knows her post-canon. Because she never conformed to people’s expectations in the way that he did, and she is committed to a Fun and Meaningful Existence in similar ways that he wants to be. My ideal dynamic is a Ritsu who gets Weirder and a bit more childish around her, because he deserves it I think. I know I said they wouldn't be close but this is how they can bond more.

I HAVENT EVEN GOTTEN TO THEIR MINECRAFT SERVER YET. Tome and Teru are the powerhouses of the server because they are so cracked at the game. the only difference is Teru takes it so damn seriously and Tome actually likes fucking around. She's putting herobrine portals around and convincing Ritsu he's on the server. Teru is doing it all he's farming he's mining he's building elaborate builds he's setting up economies because probably has the most consistent resource supply. Where's that post where it describes him and Ritsu as "they keep making more elaborate redstone powered industrial farms" I swear I saw something like that. That is them.

I wouldn't say Shou sucks at survival mode but he probably isn't terribly good at it either. He seems like a "load in a flat world and build stupid things and spawn in the max number of mobs allowed in any given range." He's always asking people for stuff because he keeps dying and losing his. Or he gets lost frequently. He's followed by at least 7 tamed wolves at a time and every time he loses one he makes everybody stop whatever they're doing to come to the funeral he puts.

The only thing stopping Ritsu from basically speedrunning the game is the fact that he is scared of the cave noises/the monsters/the nether. Also him and Mob have to share an account so sometimes he'll load in with nothing because Mob got them killed last time he was on. Tome and Teru both suck at bringing beds with them when they go out on in-game days long adventures and everyone else is soo mad at them. Is this too elaborate. I could probably go on I just haven't played minecraft in a while.

[actuallysaiyan]

I Think You're Holding The Heart Of Mine(Part Eight)

warnings: mentions of death, graveyard, crying, some swearing, kissing word count: 1.4k pairings: Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: you and Gojo get to talk while on your mission, and you soon realize you've just run from your problems. a quick trip to Haibara's grave soon gives you the insight you need. taglist: @beneathstarryskies

Masterlist

“You’re fighting like you want to kill someone!” Gojo comments, watching you use Aries the ram’s power over and over again.

“We’re here to exorcize this curse, aren’t we?”

Gojo can’t even argue with you, but he knows you could tire yourself out before you’d like to. He can tell you’re using this mission as an excuse to blow off some steam. Everything that’s been going on with Nanamin has you completely fed up.

Then you switch it up, and Gojo watches in awe as Aries dissipates, and from within the cursed energy that remains is Taurus that emerges. It charges towards the curse, one of the horns imbued with deep blue cursed energy. It penetrates the curse, causing it to let out an ungodly shriek. Gojo chuckles before he finishes the job. The curse melts away into a sort of liquid for a few moments before it turns into a million pieces of ash.

“Usagi-chan, you sure you’re alright?” Gojo asks you as he approaches you.

But you can’t even answer. You’re feeling so drained right now. How could you have not noticed the signs? He had pretended to be so good to you…and yet he played you for a fool. Without warning, you throw yourself into the stronger sorcerer’s arms and you begin to sob.

“I fucked up,” you cry. “I fucked up and now I’m heartbroken.”

Gojo hums softly, “No, you didn’t fuck up. If anyone fucked up, it’s Nanami.”

You shake your head, “I don’t know what to do, Satoru. I love him so much. It hurts.”

He pulls back a bit and holds you at arms length. Your beautiful eyes are wet with tears. Gojo takes a moment to pull a monogrammed handkerchief and wipes away your tears so gently. You laugh when you see his initials imprinted onto the soft fabric.

“You fancy ass,” you mock him, but you’re so quick to wrap your arms around him.

“Listen to me, you really didn’t fuck up. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.”

Satoru begins to rub your back soothingly, and for a few minutes, you’re reminded of when Nanami had returned home with Haibara’s dead body and you had been plagued with nightmares for so long. Satoru had been the one to try and help you recover, despite having issues of his own at the time. He had often come to your room late at night, and held you close while you cried yourself back to sleep.

“I promise,” Satoru says with a kiss to your forehead. “Things will be okay.”

You frown, “How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

Gojo smirks, “Cause if Nanamin is being an asshole, I’ll beat him up for you.”

He flashes you such a shit-eating grin and throws his hand up for a big thumbs up. You laugh softly, feeling a little more soothed than before. Then you two exit the abandoned building you were fighting the curse in, Satoru’s arm wrapped around your shoulder to keep you close.

“Hey, you think we have enough time to get some ice cream?”

You smirk, “Of course we do. We’ve got all the time to get ice cream.”

Gojo laughs, “You know, if Nanamin doesn’t wanna date you, maybe I will!”

This causes you to pull away, your nose wrinkled. Satoru assures you he’s joking, but in reality, he wants the best for you. 

“Take a joke, will ya?!”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

You cleanse your hands, approaching the grave with your bucket and ladle. Tears sting your eyes as you finally arrive in front of his stone. It feels like it’s been much too long since you’ve been here, but you know you need to talk to him. You need his guidance more than ever.

You begin cleaning the grave, thinking of his sweet smile and cheerful voice. Then you begin to pour water on the gravestone, cleaning it with vigor and with love. Lighting the incense, you place it down nearby. The smell of jasmine, frankincense and cherry blossom fill your senses. You bow your head, looking at your clasped hands.

“Yu, I just wanted to say…” you begin, but then you start to pray silently.

The wind begins to blow, rustling the branches in the trees. You’re slightly startled by a leaf landing on your shoulder. You smile softly, wiping away a few stray tears. Then you place a beautiful sunflower in the vase that’s neatly settled near his gravestone.

“I wish you were here. You were always so much easier to talk to than most people…” you continue to talk to him. “It’s about…well, it’s about him.”

You sigh as you rest your back against the tomb, feeling the weight of everything on you begin to dissipate. It was almost like those days when you were a teenager and you’d find Haibara to be able to chat with him. He’d listen to you, no judgment and always some kind advice or a smile.

“It’s always about him, yeah? You know me, always in love with him. My head is in the clouds so often, and I’m always such a fucking chicken. I can’t even fucking tell him how I feel!”

There’s a bit of an echo when you yell out. You look around to make sure you’re not bothering anyone, but it seems like you’re alone for some distance. Nobody is in the vicinity. Your eyes look up to the skies, noticing the small little clouds hanging around.

“Yu, I’m in love with him. I can’t hold it back anymore, but now I’ve gone and found out…I’ve found out that he may be hurting me. He might have lied.”

More wind blowing and gentle rustling pulls you away from the one-sided conversation. In a way, you were beginning to think that Yu was here with you. You smiled once more, enjoying the gentle embrace of this breeze.

“I have been in love with him since we were kids, ya know? And now that he’s almost out of my grasp, I just wonder if I waited too long.”

Your eyes close and you feel the gentle breeze caressing you all over. You are sure now that Yu is here with you and he is listening. Tears sting your eyes once more. You wish your beloved friend could truly be here instead of as a spirit. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around the sunny boy and hug him tightly.

“You always used to tease us, calling us stubborn. You knew that we were into one another, yet we were two scared kids. We never had a relationship before…”

Your eyes scan the area, and you begin to think about your relationship with Kento. He’s always been your rock. Even when things got tough, you two could always lean on one another. And even when Haibara passed away, you and Kento found solace within one another.

“So when I found out that he might have a wife, you can obviously guess that I panicked. I panicked and pretty much ran away. I didn’t even tell him how I felt or even let him explain.”

“You can let me explain now.”

Your eyes widen when you hear that deep voice. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you look up at the man you’ve been in love with since you were fifteen. He looks worse for wear, which makes your heart clench. All of this misunderstanding has been hurting you both.

Kento kneels in front of the grave, lighting another incense before he clasps his hands together. He bows his head in prayer and you join him, asking Haibara to give you both courage to be able to hash this out. Then Kento turns to you and smiles shyly.

“I don’t have a wife.”

You feel a wave of relief wash over you. You had prayed for it all to be a misunderstanding, but you had been so scared. You were worried that you had been played for a fool.

“Oh Ken…” you whisper softly, pulling him closer so you could hug him. “I was so stupid. I got scared and I—”

Kento doesn’t let you finish. He cups your face, wiping away a few stray tears before placing his lips on yours. It’s the softest, most tender kiss you’ve ever felt in your life. Warm winds blow around you, embracing and caressing you both. When you pull away, you’re smiling shyly. 

You look at the grave, “Thanks a million, Yu.”

Kento laughs, “Thanks buddy. It means a lot to us.”

[esoteric-chaos]

Ferns - The Mundane and Magical 101

Working with my local land more has taught me to source local plants and connect with them. By properly taking care of it and working the land. That also means connecting with local plant spirits.

The Fern is one of those species of plants. This wonderful herb is abundant, protective and hold much wisdom for they are very old. With some dating back to 360 million years (or so they say). It is known some species can live up to a hundred years.

They are full of wisdom, you might just learn something from them if you actively work with them as a spirit.

Scientific Name:

Family: Pteridophyte

Parts used: For species of Fern it varies

Planet: Mercury

Element: Air

CAUTIONS: ALWAYS check with your local herbalist and doctor before consuming any medicinal medicine as they will be able to direct you on proper dosages. Some medications can also interact and so can some conditions with certain herbs.

IMPORTANT: Some Ferns are harmful (like the Pteridium genus aka Bracken Fern) to the airways and can let off spores that can harm or cause death in immunocompromised people. Always be wary of Fern species around pets as well. Source and research responsibly.

Uses in Herbalism and Healing:

Certain Fern species are used to treat different ailments. Ex. Sensitive Fern (Onoclea sensibilis) used for arthritis while Maidenhair Speenwort (Asplenium tricomanes) is used for coughs.

Always check which fern species is used as some can counteract and aren't always used for the same ailment.

On a fun note, Fiddlehead Ferns are used from a culinary standpoint and are quite delicious when prepared correctly.

Uses in Magic:

When placed in the home, it is said to hold protective properties, and when planted at the doorstep.

Dried Fern, when burned, carries exorcism properties.

Some folklore speaks that when Fern is burned outside, it causes rainfall.

When carried or worn, Fern has the power to guide to treasure.

Some Celtic and Irish legends speak of Ferns being used in from healing to magic.

A Slavic folk tale speaks of a flower on a fern that blooms for a very short time on the eve of the summer solstice. It is said it brings fortune to the person who finds it. In some tales, it allows humans to understand animals talking. It is guarded by malevolent entities. Though the one who succeeds in gathering it can receive earthly riches, that attainment has always brought unlucky energy to the poor soul, so some leave it alone.

Recipes:

A very yummy recipe using Fiddlehead ferns. Check it out!

Sources and extra reading material:

Please remember while I provide sources, some content is my own UPG from working for years intuitively with this herbal ally. What you do not see from my sources assume it is my UPG and take what information you will. Always cross-reference and research yourself. All medical knowledge will be sourced.

Medical Links:

Cao, H., Chai, T., Wang, X., B. Morais-Braga, M. F., Yang, H., Wong, C., Wang, R., Yao, H., Cao, J., Cornara, L., Burlando, B., Wang, Y., Xiao, J., & M. Coutinho, H. D. (2017). Phytochemicals from fern species: Potential for medicine applications. Phytochemistry Reviews, 16(3), 379-440. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11101-016-9488-7

Spiritual:

Books:

Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs by Scott Cunningham

Links:

Want to check out my other posts? Here’s the Masterpost

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER THREE: Broken Glass

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You have a really shitty night, and it only gets worse until a man in a black mask saves your life.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic description of domestic violence (flashback), panic attack, mention of blood & injury, alcohol abuse, sexual assault, Reader tries to play the hero and it backfires (might piss you off)

Word Count: 7.6k

A/n: I worked very long and hard on this one, that's why I didn't post it last week. This is very heavy, so heed the warnings. I hope you all had a lovely Christmas! I’m spending New Year’s in London, and I won’t have my Laptop, so I’m already wishing you guys a happy new year! Spend the day with people you love. Do something that you love. Just enjoy yourselves and we’ll see each other again in 2024!

Read Chapter 3: Broken Glass here on AO3

The loneliness eats you alive like a parasite. As soon as the door of your apartment shuts behind you, the noise coming from the city disappears into the distance, and you are faced with the silent reality of being utterly alone. 

It feels like you are living in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere, not a small apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

There are no picture frames on the dresser in the hallway. The two plants you bought for yourself are slowly dying of thirst. The fridge is empty. You don’t own any decorations—you don’t even have a shelf for all of your books, and more than half of them are medical research material, anyway. 

You may be living in this place, but it isn’t yours. After two years, you are no closer to settling down than you were when you first came to New York.

Every day, you ask yourself how long this peace is going to last, and every day ends the same—you’re still safe, but you are deeply unsettled. Your thoughts keep turning against you like demons that you can’t exorcize. Every day, you wonder when you will have to run away again because your past has a way of catching up to you when you least expect it, so you remain on edge. That’s how you live your life. 

If you knew how to accept peace, maybe you would have settled down and personalized your apartment by now, but then again, do you even know who you are? Do you remember the girl you once were? Your memories of the past are scrambled.

You can only remember what it was like to live in a bubble, to be forced into a cage like a bird and turned into someone you never thought you would become. You remember running. You haven’t been yourself in years. Even if you wanted to, there is nothing left for you to put up that would feel like it belongs to you without feeling like pretentious bullshit at the same time. So, you don’t even bother. 

It’s lonely though, having nothing and no one. Claire is your friend, sure, but you had nothing and no one back then, and you still barely have anyone now. She’s your friend, but that’s all she is.

You can’t admit it out loud, of course. You can’t admit that you feel lonely, and you can’t pick up your phone and call the one friend you do have to take up on her offer because of reasons not even the rational part of your brain wants to understand. 

The lamp in the living room casts a dim light over the main area of the apartment and the open kitchen. You place Matt’s business card on the kitchen counter.

Should you call him? A million questions go through your mind, firing rapidly like bullets from an automatic gun. You’re not even sure if you want to call him. You felt comfortable around him, but enough to abandon all your principles? If you call him, he might ask you out, and what do you do then? You don’t date, not anymore, and you definitely won’t let a stranger into the mess that is your life. You can’t do that to a kind soul like him. Matthew is special in a way that you can’t put into words, and that makes the decision so much harder. 

You know exactly what’s holding you back. It’s the same invisible string of feelings that is keeping you from personalizing your living space. You don’t know when you might need to run, and then what? 

Your lungs contract. Air is a lot harder to come by when you’re all wound up. You hope that a nice glass of white wine will help put some things into perspective. Fooling around with someone can’t hurt, but anything more than that could lead to a catastrophe. You have had enough of those for a lifetime. 

You like keeping to yourself. It keeps your heart safe. What happened today, meeting Matthew after you so miserably sought a place to be alone, it was a coincidence—a welcome distraction. And you seemed so like-minded at first glance. He was intriguing and you’re still wondering about his injuries and how he got them, but that’s not the point. None of this is. 

The point is that you are not the kind of person he thinks you are. That’s why you can’t call him. And strangely, that hurts a lot more than simple heartbreak, knowing that you have been ruined for all relationships to come because you made one wrong choice and fell down the rabbit hole—unfortunately not into Wonderland. 

“Shit!” you curse when a drop of wine lands beside the glass.

You lick your finger, trying to wipe the liquid on the counter with a paper towel. In the process, your hand accidentally brushes against the glass, and the sole touch sends it hurdling to the floor. You try to catch it, but the fragile glass has already hit the tiles of your kitchen floor. It shatters into a million pieces. 

The sound reverberates in your ears. Like a shot in the dark, your body is jolted awake into a state of panic. The crash reminds you of hell, and the all-too-familiar flames start touching your skin again, set out to burn you alive. It’s a feeling you know by heart—a feeling you wish you weren’t so painfully aware of. 

Glass breaks before your inner eye. 

You were trying to make him a drink, you remember. He wanted Whiskey, no ice, and at perfect room temperature—it was always the same. After the first black eye that you had to hide under mountains of concealer, you taught yourself to perfect it. You didn’t want to disappoint him. You didn’t want to get into trouble. 

You spent more money than you could afford on the one brand of Whiskey he always told you to get, even if that meant traveling to a store miles away from home. He always wanted that Whiskey, and who were you to deny him?

You didn’t pay attention for one second, and the glass shattered on the kitchen floor. Your heart stopped. The last drops of the brown liquid spilled everywhere, including your clothes. The glass was his favorite. Expensive, too. It broke because you weren’t looking. You were so stupid. 

Fear froze the blood in your veins. Your heart stopped beating. You couldn’t breathe. You reached for a cloth with shaky hands, trying to pick up the pieces in time, but the sound of the glass breaking—that godforsaken loud sound that reminded you of obnoxious screaming—was instantly followed by an even louder echo of angry footsteps. 

Over time, you became painfully aware of those footsteps. You knew how they sounded on wooden floorboards, carpet, and the stairs in the hallway of the apartment building. You still remember how they sounded when he was wearing those squeaky sneakers on the linoleum floors of the hospital.

It’s a sound that always sends shivers down your spine; everyone has those sneakers, but his footsteps were much heavier, much more demanding even when he wasn’t demanding anything. 

And back then, you knew what would follow as soon as you heard them.

“What is this?” his voice reached your ears. 

Your throat tightened. You didn’t even dare to look up. If you had met his eyes, you would have seen your fate in them, and the empty black hole that was his soul. “I’m sorry, I– I lost my grip and–and I dropped it,” you said. You thought that would fix it. How foolish of you, to have faith in someone who never had faith in you. “I’m so sorry,” you couldn’t stop repeating it. 

You thought this time, he would listen to your apology. He would let you fix what you broke. You would have done anything for his approval, for his praise, and for him not to be mad at you. You didn’t want to fight. The evening had started so well. He even kissed you when he came home because you finished dinner in time. He smiled because you managed to clean even the last crevices of his apartment after your shift. He promised he would reward you. 

You fucked up. You knew you fucked up, but you prayed to God that his good mood would keep you safe this time. That he would give you a pass because you have been so incredibly good. You’ve been the best girlfriend he could have asked for, so obedient, never questioning, and always on his side—you were wrong. So, so wrong. 

He saw the empty bottle of Whiskey. He picked it up. “That was the last sip of my good Whiskey,” he remarked. 

You stopped moving. 

“I’ll pick up a new one,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “Stores are still open. This is my fault. Let me clean this up and I will–”

“You had one job.”

The sound of his voice turned cold, colder than usual. You exhaled a shaky breath. 

“You had one job,” he said. “I go to work, I save lives, and I teach young, useless doctors like you how to do the same. All I asked of you was to cook dinner, clean the apartment and make me a fucking drink.” 

With each word, his volume ascended. Your shoulder started vibrating, but you forced yourself to hold your breath. You couldn’t let the fear show. Being afraid, in his eyes, equaled weakness, and he would prove to you time and time again what weakness truly meant to him. He would turn you into a weak mess and laugh about it. You were trying your hardest to avoid any more unnecessary punishment. You had to tread lightly. He was in charge, not you. 

And you breaking the glass was so stupid, all you wanted was to surrender. In your twisted mind, he was right. It was just a glass, but he told you how useless you were many times before, and you were slowly starting to believe it. 

Without him, you were nothing. No one else could have possibly put up with you.

“What do you do?” He reached out and slammed the empty bottle on the ground. 

You barely had time to react before some of the bigger shards hit your cheek, slicing the skin. It took you a second to process, the pain not even kicking in because you expected his hand to come down on you, not an entire glass bottle. The trajectory almost hit your eye. Almost. 

“You spill my fucking drink!” this time, he yelled. 

A sob escaped your lips. There it was, the smallest sign of fear and pain. 

He rolled his eyes. You shouldn’t have sobbed, you knew that. “Get up,” he said. 

You winced when he grabbed you and yanked you off the floor. The trail of blood ran hot on your cold cheek. It stung. Your heart was pounding in your chest, hammering against your ribcage and the fresh bruise that still hadn’t healed. 

You were scared, and the tighter he grabbed you, forcing your chin upward to look him dead in the eyes, the harder it got to hide what you were truly feeling. In his eyes, you were nothing. And you were so weak, all you could do was to submit. 

“Look at me,” he said. His eyes roamed your face. 

You couldn’t not look at him. It was impossible. What you saw made you sick to your very stomach. It tied a noose around your neck, threatening to kick you off the high chair. Your feet were dangling dangerously close to the cliff. 

“You’re pathetic, you hear me? Useless. You had one job. One. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

You opened your mouth, but instead of letting you speak, his hand tangled in your hair and he pulled, hard. “No!” he bellowed. “You have lost the right to speak to me.” 

He said your name. He always said it in a way that made you want to vomit. Your first and last names were tainted because of him. He used them in vain. He used you. He used everything as he saw fit and believed he was entitled to it. 

You hated him, but you also loved him.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made, and then you’re going to go to the store, buy me another bottle of Whiskey, and you’re going to make me another drink. I don’t want to hear a single word out of you,” he said. “Are we clear?”

You nodded. He pulled a little harder. 

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir,” you choked out. 

When he finally let you go, you fell to the floor, your chest heaving with dry sobs. Perhaps he was too annoyed or maybe leaving you alone, finally, was a display of humanity. 

The man you once believed to have loved you turned out to be a monster that would not have wept, not possibly, if you had died. He only wanted to control you, and whenever he felt like he couldn’t, he punished you. You stayed way too long because you believed in someone who was never there in the first place. The real him you believed to know once had never been real. He had been a fraud. He did anything he possibly could to lure you in, and then you were stuck. 

But even knowing this, you wanted to please him, and you took what he gave you. You ate it up like a starved cavewoman. You had no one else but him, and that alone is a sad thought that you keep entertaining now. 

The sound of broken glass has haunted you since that day. Whenever it happens, either to you or someone else, you find yourself in a state of shock. It’s never the same memory, but always alike. And it hurts. It hurts so much, you can’t breathe. 

You touch your left cheek. The scar is barely visible anymore, but whenever you touch it, it feels like a mountain of regret. You can still feel the blood pooling under your fingertips, the liquid as sticky as it was hot. 

You stumble over to the sink, circling the broken glass. Cold water; your senses need a sudden slap across the face or you will cower in a corner and surely die. Your heartbeat is racing in your ears, and your fingers shake as you form a bowl with your hands to catch the water from the tap. 

Air returns to your lungs. Burying your face in the cold water, you focus on the way it seeps into your hot skin.

Broken glass triggers you. Squeaky footsteps in the hospital hallways trigger you. You zone out so easily. You can’t talk to strangers without suspecting the worst. Every time you pass the hospital administrator’s office, you’re scared you will get fired—that you will lose your job and your entire career. 

He took everything from you. He broke you and the optimistic young woman you used to be. You were so bright, so ready to change your life for the better. You worked hard to escape the toxicity of your childhood, and you still managed to run into the arms of an abusive narcissist who saw you as nothing but his property. 

It’s sad, and it’s utterly ironic; you told yourself you would never make the same mistake your mom made before she died, and you still did. You were foolish, and you’re still foolish now. 

You can’t call Matthew. You can’t trust anyone, not even yourself, and even if he is trustworthy, he doesn’t deserve someone as damaged as you. 

The business card lands in the trash can under the sink. You give it one last teary-eyed look before slamming it shut. It’s better this way. The excitement you felt when you first held it in your hands was bound to only be temporary. You knew reality would screw it up, maybe it truly is for the best. Or maybe this is the trauma talking and you’re sabotaging yourself, but even then it’s better this way. 

It’s early in the morning, and you leave the broken glass on the sticky kitchen floor. You can’t touch it, not even with gloves. Every time you do, the scar on your cheek stings, and you lose your breath. Every bone, muscle, and nerve is hurting in your body, and every breath tears right through your soul. 

You don’t want to live like this anymore.

The warm water of your small shower rains down on your clothes frame. The bottle of wine in your hand is no longer cold and mixed with water, but you don’t care. Your mind is fuzzy, intoxicated, and in agony. It’s a raging wave of anger with no possible point of release. You’re drowning in despair, buried in a grave of your own making. Alcohol knowingly doesn’t mix well with heartache, but it’s the only thing that will make the voices go away. It silences your thoughts just long enough for you to find a sliver of rest in this stormy ocean, something to hold onto so you won’t drown completely. 

Your heartbeat aligns with the rhythmic pattering of the water. It serenades you. The fog engulfs your brain, weakening your already strained muscles. The cocktail in your veins is poisonous. You should know better than to do this to yourself. You’re a doctor, after all. You are well aware that liquor is not medicine, but it’s the closest you can get. You don’t care as much about your own well-being as you should. 

Getting drunk all by yourself under the hot shower stream fits right into your miserable state.

The sun rises and falls over the next couple of hours. Your alarm goes as night befalls Hell’s Kitchen, but you don’t hear it. Only after it has gotten dark and your phone has started ringing with calls from the hospital does your mind registers that something isn’t quite right. 

You wake up in a cold sweat. Your head is pounding. The wine bottle lies empty on the nightstand next to you, together with a bottle of tequila that you decided to open. Glasses are strewn around with empty takeout containers that are more than a few days old. At first, you’re disoriented, reaching beside you for your phone, which is still in the living room next door. 

You forgot to close the blinds, but you were so out of it that you didn’t notice the hours pass by. The analog clock on the bedside table tells you that it’s a few hours before eleven. At night. 

Your shift was supposed to start at ten. 

The information takes a moment to connect and process, but as soon as it does, you snap out of whatever hungover state you are in and force yourself out of bed. You stumble over empty bottles and dirty laundry on your way to your phone.

“Shit, shit, shit!” you curse. You almost step into the pile of broken glass in the kitchen. “Fuck me! Shit!”

You are screwed, you know that. You’re not even sure if all the alcohol has left your system. You might as well lose your job tonight. 

With one hand, you dial the hospital administrator’s number, who called you over thirty times over the past hour, while you try to find something to wear with your other hand. 

The line finally clicks after what feels like an eternity. “You better have a damn good reason why you aren’t here, Olivia, or I swear to God–”

You cut her off. “I’m so sorry, Shelly,” you say. Your voice is slightly shaky, but you keep it together. “I didn’t hear my alarm a-and I slept in. This has never happened before. I’m usually a very light sleeper. I… I’m already halfway out the door, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“You slept in?!” Shelly answers, her voice resembling a screech. “What— Liv, seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just… I slept in, that’s all. I’m so, so sorry. I know I screwed up.”

“Unbelievable. First Claire calls out with a mystery illness that apparently still hasn’t gone away, and then my best trauma surgeon sleeps in.” You can hear her shake her head over the noise of the hospital in the background. She sighs. “You’re lucky that this is your first tardy,” she says. “I’ll let it slide just this once. Just… hurry, okay?”

A weight falls off your shoulders. You let out an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you tell her. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I–”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just make sure you get here before midnight. And you will have to work the time that you’ve missed, even if that puts you at risk of having to pull a double shift. This is not up for debate. I feel like I’m working at a children’s daycare.”

You’re not sure if that was meant for you or if she simply forgot to hang up.

You grab your bag and your keys in one swift motion. “I’m leaving now. See ya!”

The bus you usually take to work at this time of night is long gone. There is one more that could take you to your destination, but you arrive at the bus stop just a millisecond too late. It takes off right in front of you, refusing to turn back even when you start sprinting after it, flailing your arms around wildly. 

It’s late, it’s dark, and you’re all alone. The walk to the hospital is over half an hour long, and you promised Shelly you would make it in time before midnight. The next cab is miles away; you’ve checked the app twice, and anything beyond that would be too expensive. 

Hell’s Kitchen is dangerous at this time of night, but you don’t have much of a choice. If you don’t try, there is a high chance Shelly will fire you. If she fires you, you would have to find another country to start over in—you burned bridges in all possible States, and anything closer to where you came from would be too dangerous for you. 

Darkness doesn’t scare you; broken glass and loud footsteps scare you, but the dark of the night has always been somewhat of a soothing companion to you. What scares you is what could be lurking in that very darkness, and the thought makes you walk a little faster. 

Your head is still pounding. Every step you take delivers a punch to your temples. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat. The streetlights are suddenly too bright for your sensitive eyes, but you push through. You have to. 

“So stupid,” you mutter under your breath. “Universe, if you can hear me, just kill me now.”

Passing a particularly dark part of town with the mace on your keychain clutched tightly in your hand, a loud scream pierces the air. Your feet glue themselves to the ground. 

Some things you can only understand if you have experienced the paralyzing feeling of dread that would cause a human being to scream bloody murder. 

You would be lying if you said that the scream you heard coming from that alley wasn’t in any way familiar to you. Perhaps that’s why you choose to abandon all rational thought and run toward danger rather than away from it. Adrenaline is a funny thing, and when it interacts with trauma and anger that has been building for years, there is no knowing what the human body might be capable of doing. 

With the mace in your hand, you walk toward the alley. The closer you get, the louder the desperate pleas grow. The helplessness in the woman’s voice paints a clear picture of what is happening. 

“Hey!” your voice resembles a shout in the poorly lit alley. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” you ask. Your voice becomes a foreign language. 

The man, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a hoodie, is towering over a terrified woman. The bottom of her dress is slightly ripped, and it keeps riding up as she struggles against his grip. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see the shiny handle of a knife sticking out of his boot; there is no telling when or if he will pull it. And when you look into his empty eyes, you realize you overestimated yourself. 

“Get lost!” the man tells you. He must be around your age, judging from his features. 

You shake your head. “I have no intention of letting you live out your disgusting rape fantasies on a real-life human being,” you retort. “Let her go, or I will call the cops.”

He takes a step toward you, his hand reaching for the knife. Instinctively, you extend your keychain and spray the pepper directly into his eyes. You empty the entire bottle on him, the adrenaline in your veins locking your thumb to the fragile button.

The woman slides out of her attacker’s grasp when he topples over in agony. He cries out. The spray is quickly causing the skin around his eyes to redden and swell. For a moment, he’s completely incapacitated. 

You can tell that he didn’t calculate for this to happen. He also doesn’t seem to know the woman he decided to attack personally. He just saw a woman walking alone at night and thought he could take what he wanted like the animal he is. 

Your eyes flick toward the woman. Sweat is starting to pool from your pores, mixing with the adrenaline. 

She adjusts her dress, her sobs turning into heavy panting. You know that look on her face all too well. She has scratches on her thighs and arms. It’s hard to tell just how badly he already hurt her before you came along, at least in this lighting and from where you’re standing. 

You reach out to support her. “Are you alright?” you ask her. 

She looks down at her shaky hands, then back at you. She reminds you of a deer in headlights. With a gentle tug, you pull her further out of the alley. The man who attacked her is still blinded, clutching his skull and scratching at his eyes, making the effects of the pepper spray worse. In your mind, he can’t hurt you anymore, but you still need to get her away from him—as far as possible, too. 

“A few cuts and bruises,” you observe, trying not to touch her as you assess her injuries. “Listen, I’m going to call the cops and we’re gonna get you to a hospital, alright?” You search her eyes until she finally looks back at you. “This is nothing I can’t stitch up in a few minutes,” you say, “and then I’ll get you someone who can help you process what happened. Just know that he can’t hurt you anymore. I promise. I’m a witness, and I will make sure he gets what he deserves.”

You should know better than to make promises, especially in the heat of the moment. This is not something you can confidently promise because things might not turn out in your favor. 

The woman pulls her arms away suddenly. “No! No cops, no hospitals,” she pleads. 

“I know you’re scared, believe me, I do, but–”

“No!” She shakes her head again, her voice becoming more determined as the seconds tick by. 

You wish the world wasn’t as cruel as it is. You can’t force her. If it were easy, you probably would have turned to law enforcement too, but it’s not easy. What hurts the most is that you understand why she is so adamant about not calling the police and not going to a hospital, even with so many variables still unknown; you understand too well what it is like. 

Shame and fear are powerful emotions—when all else fails, they take over. 

“I’m sorry,” the woman’s voice quivers. She looks between you and her attacker once more. “Thank you, really, but I can’t—I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait!” You try to stop her, but she slips through your fingers before you can convince her otherwise. 

She disappears down the street. Calling the police seems almost futile now. You look down at your phone. You’re still a witness to a crime. You should speak up about what you saw. You should try to get justice, even if it will be your word against his. 

Your finger hovers above the call button, but a dark voice from the alley stops you in your tracks. “You bitch!” the man shouts. His voice carries, making you shiver. Now that you’re alone with him, you realize how helpless the situation really is. 

You can’t move. You can’t run. You can’t hide. Your eyes widen. Even half-blind, he has managed to pull the dirty knife from his boot, and he is charging right at you. As if you are the substitute for the woman you just saved. You should have run with her. This was a bad idea. 

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. You press down on your keychain, but it’s empty now. You’re weaponless with a lot of fake confidence that is slowly swindling, and somehow, you still can’t move. 

You’re frozen in place. Your own recklessness will get you killed. No one will miss you. Your corpse will be buried in a strange cemetery in a strange city that has only been your home for two years, and no one will ever know who you truly were because you told Claire to take your secrets to the grave with her. You will die alone with the familiar feeling of fear and despair spreading through your veins like wildfire. 

Something inside of you cracks, and it melts your frozen muscles. You snap out of your haze when he is only a few inches away from you. In an instant, you have started backing out of the alley almost entirely. You’re running, and you’re running fast. 

You believe that karma comes back around, but sometimes, it takes the wrong direction. You lose your footing suddenly, stumbling over your own shoes, and your ass hits the pavement with a force that knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your wrists bend at a painful angle as you catch yourself, and you look up into the red eyes of what you expect to be your certain demise. 

The impact from the knife never comes. You know what it feels like to be impaled by a sharp object. You know what pain feels like—but it never comes. 

You open your eyes when your ears pick up on the sound of bone breaking—the sight you’re met with startles you, and for a second, you wonder if you’re still alive. You touch your wrist to check for a pulse; it’s still there. You’re not dead, and you’re not hallucinating, either. This is real. 

You’ve seen the news reporting on a man in a black mask scouring the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at night. For weeks now, gang bangers, suspected rapists, and drug dealers have been piling up in the emergency room with several fractures, some of them severe enough to require extensive surgery, but none of them were ever hurt enough to die from their injuries. 

A Russian was dropped from a building a while back. He fell into a coma and then died suddenly a few nights ago, but that was the only patient who got beat up by the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen who lost all quality of life. 

You don’t like to judge, but there is something about him that makes you feel safe rather than afraid. He only beats up those who are in the business of committing injustice and pose a danger to innocent lives. He’s there when the law fails. And so far, he has never killed anyone. The injuries on the patients you treated were quite severe and suggested that whoever did it has a great collection of anger issues, but he has enough self-control not to kill. 

He’s not a threat to people like you. He is, however, a threat to the kind of man who tried to rape an innocent woman and then threatened you with a knife. 

Your attacker drops to the ground with a pained grunt. The man in the mask is towering over him, his chest heaving. You admire his physique for a moment too long. Your eyes trail from his toned chest in that tight black shirt to his backside in those tight-fitting black pants. 

He seems oddly familiar yet, at the same time, he is a total stranger. A stranger in a mask. A stranger who throws fists like a professional boxer. A stranger who could crush your head within seconds. And still, there is something about him that reminds you of someone else, someone you just recently met, but you can’t put your finger on it. It wouldn’t even make sense if you tried. 

You’re still sitting on the cold asphalt, staring up at the man who saved you. He turns his head toward you, slowly. His plump lips glisten in the moonlight. 

“You hurt?” he asks. 

Your throat is all dried up. One glance down at your palms tells you that you only scraped the skin, but you’re not injured. So, you shake your head. Maybe there is a little fear mixed into your stunned eyes, but only because this is a very strange situation to find yourself in, and you have been in a lot of very strange situations in the past. 

He tilts his head ever so slightly. His nostrils flare. “You’re bleeding.”

You don’t even want to know how he knows that.

“Just a scratch,” you finally manage to speak up, although your voice sounds embarrassingly small.

You wipe your palms on your pants and slowly rise to your feet. Every bone in your body hurts. Standing across from him, you realize how much taller he is in person. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says. 

“I know.”

He stops. You can’t see his eyes, but the lower part of his face reveals the confusion that has taken him over. 

“I’ve dealt with men worse than you,” you state. “I’m not scared.”

He chuckles darkly. “You’re welcome.”

People usually don’t talk back at him, it seems. At least those he saves usually don’t. 

“I could’ve defended myself. In fact, I already did.” You lift your keychain. “I don’t know if playing the hero is your thing, but I’m not a victim.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t trying to play hero,” he clarifies, a humorless smirk resting on his lips, “I was saving your life ‘cause you were trying to play the hero. Next time, I suggest you don’t bring mace to a knife fight.”

“And I suggest you don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong,” you retort. 

You were grateful for no longer than a second. Now, you’re just annoyed. 

The alley is still. The atmosphere is heavy with the aftermath of the danger you only narrowly escaped—thanks to him, and you hate admitting that even to yourself. He seems unfazed, almost amused, by your attempts at asserting your independence, and the arrogance radiating off him is hitting the wrong nerve.

“This guy was gonna kill you because you decided to do the right thing,” he says, adjusting his leather gloves. “I decided to save your life. We both made decisions tonight, and it doesn’t matter whether we are happy with them or not. What matters is that no one got hurt.”

“Tell that to the woman he traumatized for life.”

He sighs at your words. “You still did the right thing.”

“I know,” you say.

“Are you always this feisty?”

“Only to masked vigilantes who think I’m some damsel in distress that needs saving and that everything can be solved with their pretty little fists.”

“Well, my pretty little fists are the reason you didn’t end up stabbed, so,” he answers, and his lips curl into a smug smirk. He shrugs, his black shirt riding up only slightly, revealing a sliver of marble skin. You can’t help but let your eyes wander.

“I don’t need a thank you,” he says, “but you need to be more careful next time. Don’t go into dark alleys alone, especially at night. It’s not safe.”

You want to give a snarky remark, but the sound of church bells in the background signal to you that it’s midnight, and you are supposed to be at work. Checking your phone would be a death sentence. Sirens can be heard in the background, but they are not headed for you. 

Maybe Shelly won’t fire you if you’re honest with her about what conspired tonight—if you bare you allow her a glimpse into your soul—but you will suffer the consequences of your own stupidity gravely in the days to come, that much you do know. 

You exhale an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this,” you mutter. 

“Got somewhere to be?” the masked man asks you. 

“As a matter of fact, I do. But that’s none of your business.”

You wonder if he’s frowning under that thin cloth that is hiding his real identity. He still seems so familiar to you. How can he fight if he’s keeping his eyes covered? It’s not the first question you have asked yourself about him, but it surely is the most prominent one because no explanation for it makes sense to you; at least not one you can think of. You want to ask, but you also don’t want to keep encouraging him. You shouldn’t care.

You look back down at the man he knocked out. He’s still unconscious, and he’s bleeding profusely. The angry woman in you wants to let him rot here and let the masked man have his fun, but the doctor in you can’t just leave him there. 

“What about him?” you hear yourself asking, but your mind is far away. 

He tilts his head toward where you’re pointing, not actively looking. How could he? His eyes are covered. His eyes… You can’t make sense of this, and it is affecting your judgment. It’s making you frustrated. 

“He can’t touch you anymore,” his dark voice suddenly sounds so soft. 

A sliver of humanity shines through his facade. Your angry demeanor cracks. “You beat him up pretty good. He could have lasting brain damage,” you remark. 

He pauses, tilting his head further toward the man on the ground. “No,” he says, pouting a little. “He’s still breathing.”

“He could still have brain damage.”

“He has a few broken bones, cuts, bruises, but he’s alive.”

“Those things are totally unrelated. You’re not a doctor, you wouldn’t understand. I’ve already treated more bad guys in the past month than I could possibly count on my fingers, and all of them seemed to fear the same man. Now, not many things can scare a gangbanger to death. Not many people can deliver blows so deliberately without actually fatally wounding anyone. I know it was you,” you say. “Everyone knows it was you, and they’re afraid of you. I’m not, but I am a doctor, and I took an oath to do no harm. I vowed to help those in need, including those I believe may not be worthy of my help. This has nothing to do with judgment. I know you don’t kill; I see it with my own eyes every damn night, but the Russian you beat up a couple days ago?”

That catches his attention. His head whips back around to you, his upper lip twitching slightly as if he is tasting the air. His attention is entirely on you. The question, “What?” gets lost as nothing but a breathless whisper in the cold night air. 

“He was in a coma,” you continue, “and then he died. It’s probably unrelated to what you did, but there was only a small chance he would have ever woken up again anyway. Just because someone is still breathing doesn’t mean their brain is alive. What makes us human, who we are, that is all anchored in our brains. We can’t survive without it. You may not have killed him, but that guy barely had any brain activity left, and that is not something you can consider life.”

You didn’t expect him to sneer. You must have hit a nerve with your words, but it must have hurt him deeply. 

“My point is, I am not letting you do the same to this guy. I’m calling an ambulance and the police, and I will let them figure this out.”

“He’ll walk,” he says, and his voice is dark again. It sends shivers down your spine. 

You look at him, your confidence not wavering this time. “Then so be it, but I am not letting him die,” you say. 

“How is having a rapist walk the streets of this city not doing harm?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Beg your pardon?”

“He will do this again, and maybe next time there will be no one to step in and he will hurt another woman.”

“So what, you want to kill him instead of surrendering him to the authorities?”

“That’s not what I do.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I’m trying to make this city a better place!”

His voice bounces off the walls building a cage around the alley. “And I’m just trying to save a human life, even if it’s a shitty one!” you shoot back. “It’s not our choice who gets to play God, okay? Death would be too kind for a man like him, and leaving him here won’t solve anything either. Like it or not, but I’m not breaking my oath.”

You made a promise when you became a doctor, and you are not going to risk letting someone die on your watch. That could get you into a lot of trouble. 

You approach your attacker’s limp body. When you kneel next to him, a gush of wind blows through your hair. You assess his skull, his abdomen, and his limbs. So far, all you can see are superficial wounds, and the same fractures you have seen pass through the emergency room more than once in the past couple of weeks. He did a number on him, but his pulse feels normal and he is breathing. 

You lift your head, but when you do, you find the spot before you empty. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has disappeared into the darkness, leaving you to fend for yourself. You should have seen this coming. 

The ambulance takes a while to arrive after you’ve dialed 911. You try your best to keep the man stabilized, but he remains unresponsive. When help finally arrives, the emergency responders are followed by police, and you don’t hesitate to give your statement. You leave the masked vigilante that saved your life out of it—you may not have seen eye to eye just now, but you don’t want to rat him out either. You owe him as much. 

Just as you’re picking your purse off the dirty ground to follow the EMTs to the hospital in the ambulance, giving you the perfect excuse to give to Shelly on why you are even later than you already were, a glimpse of silver in the shadows catches your attention. 

“You did the right thing,” the Devil speaks only loud enough for you to hear, hiding in the darkness protecting the fire escape of the nearest building. 

You swallow your pride. “Thank you,” you finally tell him. 

He chuckles. “For telling you that or saving your life?”

“Both,” and you even offer him a small smile with your gratitude. That is all you’re capable of giving him, for now. 

“Take care,” he says. 

The glimpse of silver disappears, causing the metal of the fire escape to shake under his weight, and he is long gone before you even whisper, “You too.”

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[limbel]

Fil Rose

for day 2 of sapphicnatural week: pink | 1.3K words

Pink was the color of the minidress that clung tight and glittery and oppressive to the smooth-plastic body of the Barbie that came out of the package, curly red ribbons and giftwrap now laying all scrunched next to Jo’s toes.

She turned the thing over and over in her hands, wanted to ask, where is her silver knife and her gun and her ammos and her first-aid kit and her salt and her EMF meter and her holy water, instead she said, “Thank you Mom, she looks so pretty.”

The doll looked at Jo with her pretty blue eyes and her pretty white smile and her pretty blonde waves and her pretty pink dress, and Jo looked right back at her and felt the urge to break her pretty plastic body into one hundred tiny plastic pieces and flush them all down the toilet, the one with the loosen-up seat and the disgusting yellow stain in the back of the Roadhouse — the place where all things pretty went to die.

But her mom was pretty and Jo didn’t want her to die, not for another million years, even if Mom made her mad sometimes, but Jo made her mad too so they were even-steven and all squares and Mom should keep living for a million years even if pretty things don’t deserve to be alive.

Mom was pretty and she made her mad but she deserved to live because she was all Jo had now.

*

Pink was the color of the lipstick she bought at the shopping mall on a Sunday afternoon. Jo went there with some friends from school to have some ice cream or maybe a smoothie and talk about boys and homework and clothes and all the other things girls her age talked about (not blades not guns not ghosts not werewolves not exorcisms not dead fathers etc.)

She wasn’t sure about the price and she wasn’t sure about the color ‘cause she liked black better, but black doesn’t look good on a woman’s lips, the girls told her all giggling, bestowed this Higher Truth on her like a revelation, so she went with pink because that’s what she was supposed to do anyway and she really really really needed them to like her.

The girls giggled a lot and Jo tried to mimic them with the brand-new pink lipstick rolling back and forth inside the paper bag that hung from her pale scrawny fingers. Jo giggled but her giggles sounded fake to her ears, too high-pitched and too lengthy and too gritty and not giggly enough, and Jo prayed God that the other girls didn’t notice. Jo prayed God that the other girls didn’t notice how hopelessly fake she was all the way down to the tips of her bones.

She tried on the lipstick that night. When she got back home she ran up the stairs and opened the door to her room and carefully closed it behind her so Mom wouldn’t hear and turned on the lights and went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror that was all spotted with toothpaste and water marks. She tried it on and scrubbed it right off and the force of it made her skin all sore and red and swollen around her lips and for some reason her eyes became sore and red and swollen too.

She never tried it on again.

*

Pink was the color that washed over the girl’s cheeks as Jo pulled away just enough to look at her face in that funny way when you’re too close and your eyes cross and everything sorta doubles around your focus. But the pink on the girl’s cheeks was the only definite thing in this world and it spread to the edges of Jo’s vision and changed her life forever, rearranged it entirely.

And it had been so easy, really, the easiest thing ever to press lips back on wet lips and chest on wet chest and skin on wet skin. Skim her hand up the girl’s arm and over her shoulder and down the soft curve of her spine vertebra by vertebra and curl the finger around the string of her skimpy bikini and pull a little, just a little, just to see if it gave. And it did.

And Jo thought just for a moment how terribly and devastatingly easy it’d be to reach for the switchblade in the side pocket of her bag, and she’d be so quick with it that the girl wouldn’t even notice as she slit her throat with a clean pull to the right. But the pink flush on her cheeks would be gone forever then and the thought alone made Jo sick to the bottom of her stomach.

The girl twisted and chuckled under her touch and Jo felt something hot and wiry blossoming in her chest, because she made a choice for herself and that choice was to kiss this girl in this locker room after swim practice with water pooling up on the wooden bench and the tiled floor below and the lights sending buzzing electric sounds from the ceiling above.

And if she could choose this thing for herself who knows, who knows how many other things she could choose still, all the things that she was told were impossible and unreachable and ridiculous and how silly she was for wanting them, but maybe they were not, maybe she could have them in the end, yeah, maybe she could.

*

Pink was the color that glazed the inside of the hound’s mouth as Jo imagined it sinking sharp teeth into her meat, pulling through skin and muscles and sinews until there was the entirety of her spilled on the floor, so muddled there was no more telling what was what. Of course she couldn’t see it, but she pictured it all pink and shiny and slick with spit and blood and juices and she wished she could feel how soft it was, how smooth and velvety, she wished she could feel that instead of the sharp nails of panic hammering the softest corners of her body.

Her body, and her mom right beside her. Forever beside her, the reassuring smell of her, and still fresh on her forehead the impression of the kiss his friend had left on her skin, then on her lips, the Kiss of Death, as she waited patiently for the right moment to push the button. The button she’d chosen to push, for herself more than anyone else.

Jo chose this button and her mom chose to die with her, for her, by her, despite her, folded on the dusty mold-soaked floor of a hardware store instead of a bed with milky bedspreads and flowers and sunlight. And Mom said, “I will always love you,” cradled her head, pressed salty lips on her temple, and now Jo was finally able to see it.

Now ‘always’ was what they had, she and her mom, and Dad too. Dearest Dad, beloved Dad, that she missed so much, so much she couldn’t wait to see him again. And when she’ll see him again she’ll hug him tight, and Mom too, and she’ll never let go, and she’ll kiss him all over his wrinkled face, over the seams of his mouth and his eyes and the tip of his nose. Over the scar on his cheek and the rough of his stubble. And she’ll tell him all about it, she’ll tell him how good she’d been, how brave, she’ll tell him that she saved the world, his little girl saved the world, and he’ll look at her so proud with eyes full of love, and he’ll say, my little girl, my baby, my sweetheart, of course you did, of course you saved the world, and Mom will make a sound with her throat and she will say, well, I was there too, I also did that, I also saved the world, because that’s what Mom does, and his Dad will laugh and she will laugh too and they—