#party makeup services at home | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rafesangelita · 10 months ago

Text

♡ ward introduces the newest assistant to the office, and rafe has to have her.

warnings: lots of flirting, secrecy, super sweet fluff, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting

word count: 3.2k

“so if you’ll come this way, you’ll see the meeting room, which is where i’ll properly introduce you to the team in about fifteen minutes,” you followed mr. cameron, your new boss, around the cubicle packed room, smiling softly at those who cared enough to look up from their computers. “there’s not really much of a dress code, all i ask is that you dress for a corporate setting.” he lead you back to his office, where he asked you to take a seat.

“i won’t work you too much, i really just need someone who can keep me and my appointments with my clients organized. my son rafe, who is co-owner at the moment, will also be in need of your assistance, no worries though all he needs from you is to keep him updated on shipments and checking back in with clients to make sure they are more than happy with our services.” mr. cameron pushed a small stack of papers towards you.

“this is just the code of conduct, some expectations for here in the office. i’m gonna go take a phone call, and you can sign those documents in the meantime.” he patted your shoulder on his way out. you took a breath, flipping through the pages. everything looked pretty standard, all drugs prohibited, anyone under the influence will be asked to go home and will be terminated effective immediately, no firearms or weapons allowed while being in the building, etc…

then there was one rule, the only rule, in bold: ANY AND ALL ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS WITH THOSE OF HIGHER POSITIONS WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION OF BOTH PARTIES.

you hummed to yourself, mindlessly signing the papers with no clue of what was ahead of you. just as you finished signing the last page, mr. cameron walked in, flashing you a smile as you handed him the papers back. “do you have any questions for me?” he typed something up on his computer, the printer starting up soon after. “i do, actually. how come the rule for forbidding romantic relationships with higher ups the only one bolded? it’s not a problem or anything! i’m just wondering..” you cleared your throat.

“ah,” he stood up, “well the reason why it’s emphasized is because we want to avoid any and all legal troubles. lawsuits, investigations, it’s a really bad look for my company, and i would rather my employees keep their personal lives out of the office, especially those who are being paid very generously.” you nodded in understanding. “i see. very smart move.” you adjusted the ring on your finger, accepting a paper with your photo on it from mr. cameron.

“why, thank you. anyways, this is a temporary id for when you want to leave and enter the building. rafe is usually in charge of getting the id badges for our employees so he should have that ready for you by the end of the day.” he glanced down at his watch. “shall we get you introduced to everyone?” you nodded, making sure your head was held high as you two made your way to the already full meeting room. while everyone had been making small talk, rafe stayed silent while he stared at the blank presentation screen.

“good morning, everyone! i hope all is well, we’re here to discuss the construction plans for the skyscraper on the mainland, and i also have a new employee i’d like for everyone to meet,” rafe only saw your back profile, but with the view of your hips swaying in your tight pencil skirt and matching heels, it felt like eternity before you finally turned around, the sight of your perfect blowout and soft makeup doing something to his brain.. and his pants.

“this is y/n, and she is the new assistant to rafe and i. she comes from the mainland and has a degree in architecture, she is surely an amazing addition to our team, so i only expect the best treatment for her, as i do all of you.” you smiled, meeting everyone’s gaze, your heart stuttering in your chest when your eyes landed on him. he looked emotionless, but little did you know he was thinking of all the ways he could take you on his work desk.

“you can go ahead and take a seat, and we’ll get started.” you looked around, the only open seat being next to the man that made your stomach flip with a simple glance. you walked over, letting out a small ‘sorry!’ as you sat down, your knee bumping his. he didn’t acknowledge you at first, but once all eyes were on mr. cameron, rafe leaned in to speak to you quietly. “y/n, that’s your name?” you smelt his cologne before you could speak, the scent becoming your new favorite.

“yes, and yours?” rafe took your hand in his. “rafe cameron.” it took everything in you not to let your jaw drop. of course the insanely hot one was off limits. “nice to meet you.” you looked down, unable to maintain eye contact with him. rafe didn’t let go of your hand right away, clearly enjoying how shy he made you. “i’m assuming my father showed you around already?” you nodded, crossing one leg over the other. apart of you was slightly annoyed with yourself. you weren’t a shy girl, you didn’t avoid the stares of men, but rafe? he was a totally different ballpark.

“we’ll talk in my office after this.” he let go of your hand, smiling at you softly as you took out a notebook and pen, jotting down notes from what mr. cameron was going over. just like the rest of his father’s meetings, he wished this one would hurry up and end, wanting nothing more than to get you to himself already. thirty minutes later, and you found yourself sitting in front of rafe, both of you laughing about a topic he brought up.

“you know.. you carry conversation very well. a lot of people don’t know how to do that.” you adjusted your purse on your shoulder, both of you exchanging looks. he was wearing a white button down and slacks, his sleeves rolled up slightly. “thank you.” your words came out soft, the urge to steal a peek at his arms nearly unbearable. rafe examined you for a moment. “you dress very nicely, i like that.” he walked around his desk, leaning on the hardwood. “is this satin?” he rolled the fabric of your sleeve between his fingers.

if it was anyone else, you would’ve curled your lip in disgust before storming out the room and never looking back, but with the way this man towered over you, his eyes hungry as he stared you down, you met his gaze. “it is. and this? all leather?” it was a bold move, even for you, but if he was going there, you were going to meet him halfway. rafe sucked in a breath as your fingertips skimmed his belt. his hand came over yours, trailing it down his slacks, “we’re going to get along just perfectly.”

the next two weeks are a blur. first, you were too shy to look at this man, now he was stroking your thigh underneath the table during meetings. after he guided your hand over his hardening cock that fated day, it’s been nothing but hell for him, and you were enjoying every second of it. no one suspected a thing, and mr. cameron had actually told you to reside in rafe’s office for the time being while he worked to set you up somewhere nice. while rafe has been doing everything to get you where he wants you, you’ve been teasing him endlessly.

like today, you wore a black lace bra under your blouse, leaving it three buttons too shy so rafe could see what’s underneath. “mrs. thornton is on line one.” you’d bat your eyelashes up at him innocently, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip as he stared at your exposed cleavage. “you’re killing me, woman.” you’d laugh before getting out of his chair so he could take a seat. while he talked on the phone, you thought about the next way to torture him.

before you could start writing a dirty note for him, there was a light knock at the door. “come in!” rafe shouted, resuming his phone call while margaret, the receptionist, brought in the largest vase of flowers you’ve ever seen. “y/n? these are for you, honey.” you blinked, rushing to get up so you could take them out of her hands. “are- are you sure?” there was a small white envelope poking out the top. “positive. ask whoever sent you those if they have a brother.” she winked, leaving you dumbfounded.

you plopped down in one of the chairs in front of rafe’s desk, taking the envelope and revealing the small card inside.

you look beautiful everyday, so you’ll get flowers everyday <3

your head shot up at rafe who was already smiling at you. “sounds good, i look forward to our meeting mrs. thornton. yes, uh huh, alrighty goodbye.” you walked around his desk, rafe moving to face you. “did you get me these?” you took a seat on his lap, the most you ever let him touch you in two weeks. he sighed wrapping his arms around you as you read the card over and over’s again. “i did. ‘figured roses were too practical, so i got you peonies.” you smiled, pecking his cheek. “they’re my favorite.” there was a lot of intimacy going on right now that rafe wasn’t used too, but it was intimacy with you, it felt right.

“good to know. maybe we’ll get you through the catalog.” his hand rested flat on your tummy where your shirt had rode up. “you really didn’t have to do this. i love them.” you brought his coffee cup to your lips, your lipstick staining the rim as you placed the card back in the envelope. “i was thinking.. since tomorrow is the weekend and the office will be closed, why don’t we do something? i’d love to see you prance around in a bikini on my yacht.” he rested his chin in the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent.

“i bet you would,” you laughed, “that sounds fun. what time should i be ready?” you adjusted yourself, so your legs were hanging off his thighs. “mmm, how about two o’clock? we’ll stay to watch the sunset.” rafe stroked the side of your face, your eyes falling to his lips as you nodded. “i’d like that.” your voice dropped down to a whisper as he leaned in closely, his breath fanning the tip of your nose. “i want to kiss you so bad right now.” his jaw clenched as you ran a hand across his chest. “so kiss me, rafe.” you wrapped an arm around his neck to steady yourself.

just as his lips ghosted over yours, there was another knock at the door. both of you sighed, your foreheads resting against each other’s before you got up, taking the vase of flowers to your desk. “come in!” rafe wore an annoyed expression as mr. cameron walked in. “great timing, dad.” rafe grumbled, making a small smile grace your features. “listen, i need you to stay later and go over some of the projects that have been sent in, and flag the ones you think are worth investing in. i’m leaving so me and rose can catch our flight on time, we’ll be back by monday.” rafe nodded absently.

mr. cameron smiled. “good afternoon, y/n. flawless work these last couple of weeks, i almost forgot how easy things can be when properly organized. you have a great rest of your day.” you returned the gesture, tilting your head slightly. “why, thank you. i hope you have an amazing flight.” mr. cameron walked out, leaving you and rafe alone once again. “just what i wanted to do tonight. work overtime.” you watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “i could stay with you, help you out.” he shook his head. “i couldn’t ask you to do that. don’t worry it really shouldn’t take me that long.” you waved him off.

“don’t be ridiculous, i’ll be more than happy to review the submissions with you.” he wasn’t going to tell you no, so he let you have your way. after a few hours passed by, you made your way to the front desk where margaret was getting ready to leave. “you have a good weekend, y/n. see you monday!” you laughed at how quickly she got on the elevator to go home. you walked over to the copier room and grabbed the papers fresh out the printer. “well, office is officially empty. margaret just left.” rafe yawned, loosening the tie around his neck. “damn, it’s eight o’clock already?” you placed the papers on his desk, humming softly.

you let your hair down from it’s updo, the waves falling past your shoulders. “what?” rafe was looking up at you with half-lidded eyes. he pulled you down, making you straddle him. “thank you for doing this with me. because of you, we don’t have to stay late after all.” his hands ran up and down your back, untucking your blouse from your pants. you shivered when you felt his fingers against your bare skin. “you welcome.” you tried your hardest to suppress the moan that sat at the back of your mouth.

“do you remember where we were before we were rudely interrupted earlier?” rafe started unbottoning your shirt, revealing your black lacey bra underneath. “fuck.” he closed his eyes, clenching his fists as if he was holding himself back from ravishing you right then and there. you smiled, running your thumb over his bottom lip. “there’s no one here to interrupt us now.” he grabbed the back of your neck, finally taking your lips in a heated kiss.

he groaned, making you grind your hips against his. this kiss was like something you’ve never felt before. there was tension, hunger, the desire building up over these last couple of weeks now rising to the surface in this very moment. the sounds your lips were making was enough to make you pull away, your cheeks reddening. “you gonna get shy on me now?” he tilted your chin up so you could meet his stare. “no.. i’ve just wanted to do that ever since i saw you in the meeting room.” rafe smiled, standing you up.

“you wanna know what i’ve wanted to do since i saw you in the meeting room?” his fingers worked to unbutton your pants, sliding them down your legs before pushing you back on his desk. you sucked in a breath as he ran a hand up your thigh, his finger slipping underneath the waistband of your underwear before letting the elastic snap against your skin. you gasped softly, your head falling back as rafe trailed kisses from your navel to your neck, slotting himself between your thighs where he leaned his weight on you.

you shuddered, his hands cupping your tits through your bra as he laid you down. “i thought about bending you over, fucking you to tears while you struggle to keep quiet.” his words elicited a moan from you, your hips lifting so he could slip your underwears off. “as much as i want to do that right now, i want to taste you more.” your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed wet kisses to your inner thighs, his arms locking you in so you couldn’t close them.

you thought you knew what pleasure felt like, but once you felt rafe’s tongue plunge into you, your mind went blank as he went to work on your clit, your back arching off the hardwood. he switched from slow languid strokes to fast flicks that made you see stars. “feels so good, rafe,” your hands shot down to hold onto his, your nails digging into his wrists. “yeah? like it when i tongue fuck you like this?” your body jerked when you felt him at your entrance, your toes curling in your heels.

rafe was loving this. you tasted so much better than he imagined, his cock straining against the fabric of his slacks. just making you moan and whine was enough to make him feel like he could cum in his pants. “please,” you whimpered, “please fuck me.” rafe pulled away, snaking up your body to align with your lust filled gaze. “i want to fuck you, baby, i do. but i want the first time i fill you up with my cock to be more heartfelt. i promise tomorrow that’s all we’ll do.” your heart swelled at his want to make you feel special.

“okay,” you whispered, tasting yourself on his lips. before you had a chance to think, he shoved two fingers inside you, thrusting them while his thumb rubbed hard circles on your clit. he was unforgiving, the wetness of your cunt echoing in the confines of his office. “oh, fuck,” your eyebrows knitted together as your mouth fell open, his eyes burning into your face. “do you hear how fucking soaked you are?” your chest was heaving at this point, your eyes rolling back as your thighs threatened to close around his hand.

the force alone was making you squirm, your orgasm so close you could taste it. with his thumb rubbing your clit faster, and his fingers curling inside of you, hitting that spot that made you scream, you came with a cry of his name. “oh, that’s it baby, that’s it.” he cooed, your breath stuttering while you shook in pleasure. you felt like fireworks were going off in your tummy, your eyes screwed so hard shut that you could see colors behind them.

“can’t- can’t anymore,” you whined, overstimulation taking over. he didn’t stop, determined to pull one more orgasm out of you. rafe kissed you again, swallowing all of your whimpers and moans as he managed to push you towards the edge one last time tonight. “fuck!” your mewled, your eyes shooting open when you felt a gush between your legs. “o-oh! i’m sorry.” you looked at rafe’s shirt that was now wet with your slick. “sorry for what, beautiful? i was hoping i could make you do that.” he pecked your forehead, easing you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“you’re so perfect, you know that?” you blinked, your eyes shining up at him. “i don’t think i’ll ever be ready for this.” rafe groaned as you palmed him through his pants. “i don’t think i’ll be ready either.” he laughed, buttoning your shirt as you sat up. your legs were like jelly as you pulled on your underwear, rafe dressing you while you sighed blissfully. once you were both put together, rafe carried your purse and your vase of flowers for you as you two rode down the elevator to the empty lobby. he put your stuff in your car, making sure to shower you in kisses before letting you go in the driver’s seat.

“see you tomorrow?” he was leaning against your window as you nodded. “i look forward to it. goodnight, rafe.” he smiled. “goodnight, gorgeous.”

1K notes · View notes

bettysupremacy · 1 year ago

Note

hii! I was wondering if you could write a fic with reader and any marauder (they all fit) and maybe helping or becoming protective over the reader after a concert or party after a creep follows the reader? 😭

I went through a similar experience with a guy following me around after I went to the restroom after a concert, and it ruined my night if i'm being honest, I was scared 😞 I'm not the most shy of people and usually I can handle myself but it was pretty dark and idk the adrenaline from feeling happy to scared shifted pretty quickly. Luckily I found my friends and let them know and we quickly went back to our car (along with a few dirty looks from my friends god bless lol). I swore I could go to the restroom by myself- will not be doing that again :(

you can ignore this request if it makes you uncomfortable!

thank uu

i’m so sorry that happened to you! “(they all fit)”= poly marauders!

There’s something about post concert depression, especially when you’re with the band.

Your glitter eyeshadow is smudged, eyeliner untouched. You’d been shaken around in the pit of your boyfriends fans, and yet the paint hasn’t budged. God bless water-proof makeup. The world seems prettier like this, touched by alcohol and the feeling of soaring pride for your boyfriends. The glittery lights and signs of time square never fail to dazzle you, even now as you lean against Sirius morosely.

“M’hungry.” You frown, toes tipping up towards Sirius, though you fear the mumble may have been more for yourself.

His attention is diverted towards the boys as they discuss what to do now. Plans of how to get home and where to eat. His finger taps your cheek slowly, his focus paying you no mind. Words like Uber, hotel, room service echo throughout their very repetitive conversation.

“Sirius.”

He looks down, a little shocked and sorry at his own attention. “Yes, lovely?”

“M’hungry.”

“Hungry?” He asks, cringing. You’re about thirty minutes from the hotel, and even then, room service will take another thirty.

“So hungry.”

He sighs, unsure of what to do.

“There’s a hotdog stand over there.” You grab his tattooed bicep to balance yourself as you point to your right.

He thinks, peering down at you. “This won’t ruin your dinner?” It’s midnight, but still.

“No,” you sing, reaching up to cup his cheeks. “I really want a hotdog.

He flushes, looking away from your wandering eyes. Normally he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. They would never let you out of their sight in a place like this. But the cart is in eye view of the boys, and he has faith in you not to stray, even in your inebriated manor. It’s not that they don’t trust you, they just prefer to keep you safe themselves. Is that okay?

“Okay,” He murmurs, pulling out his wallet, handing you his card. “At least get the good toppings.”

“I always get the good toppings.” You pull away.

The walk is short and the cart is colorful. Red and white stripes, curvy calligraphy. It shines in your inebriated vision. Beautiful. The queues not long, just an older man waiting in front of you, but it feels like forever as the generous man (with the toppings as well) takes your order and wraps it in warm aluminum foil.

You take the hotdog eagerly. “Thank you.”

It’s heavy in your hands, warm too. You yell Sirius’ name excitedly, waving the hotdog above your head for him to see. He laughs, thumbs up until you bump into a man, smile fading, concern etching his brows.

“Oh,” you murmur, looking up. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem,” he smiles. It’s uncomfortable, not the smile of a friendly civilian.

You laugh. It’s polite, anyone can see that, but he leans closer. He smells like liquor, a disgusting discovery that has you subconsciously leaning away.

“You new around here?”

An actual laugh stumbles out of your lips. “London? No.”

He takes this as an entrance. “You should show me around.”

“No, thank you.” You try to walk past him. Towards Sirius who’s already walking over. “Goodnight.”

“Wait,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back. His fingers dig into your elbow painfully.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, pulling your arm away roughly. “don’t touch me.”

“C’mon,” The man slurs, fingers reaching for you again. “Don’t be-“

“Hello?” Sirius walks up, all stock. He grabs your forearm pulling you to him firmly, getting in between you and the man. He’s not much taller, but more intimidating in demeanor. “Do we have a problem?”

“No,” the man scoffs.

“Cause it looks like you put your hands on her.”

He scoffs again, clearly inebriated. “We were just talking.”

“Well, conversations over now.”

“She can make her own decisions.”

“Fuck off, bro.” Sirius waves his hand dismissively. Quickly, he walks you towards the boys who are peeking their eyes up from the Uber app.

“She was asking for it.”

Sirius reels back, dropping your forearm to shove the scary stranger in the chest. He pushes hard, the man losing his balance as he falls to the ground in a sickening thud. You gasp loudly, the unexpected conflict startling you. Vaguely you hear Sirius say something to him, but you’re too focused on the way the man looks up at you.

James and Remus are there in seconds, quick on Sirius’s heels. They pull at him, up and off the man. There were no real punches thrown, no real injuring blows, it wasn’t even enough to form a crowd. But still, you’re shaken. You shiver like a leaf under your James’ leather jacket, suddenly not feeling the warmth of the alcohol you’d consumed before the concert.

Slowly, you stumble back and way from your boys, to the bench next to the shitty bar you’d passed on your way home. That had been scary, but you’re safe; that had been scary, but Sirius dealt with it. You bring your hand up to your chest, setting the hotdog you had been eager to buy down next to you.

“Hi,” Remus pushes aside the hotdog to sit next to you. “Are you okay?”

You look up to the boy, blindingly beautiful in the streetlights and advertisements. “Yes.”

He pushes some stray hair from your face. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“I think it was more startling.” James sits on the other side of you, kissing your temple firmly. “I’m sorry he did that.”

“It’s okay, I’m okay.”

“She’s okay.” Sirius gruffs from where he walks over.

He sounds cooler than he thinks he looks. He’s not bruised, bloodied, or bandaged, if he were he thinks he’d look cool enough to breeze over. But then again you look mad, so maybe he doesn’t want that.

“Don’t be upset,” Sirius crouches to your level. You’re in the arms of a solid Remus. “he was a creep.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” He laughs roguishly. “I thought I looked good tousled.”

He does, and you know he’ll look good on the tabloids tomorrow too. Sirius black gives black eye? You sigh at the thought.

“You do.” James feeds Sirius.

“At least someone in this relationship cares for my ego.”

“You look good.”

“Oh, now you tell me.”

You laugh, letting Sirius stare at you like you hung the moon.

“Kiss em?” He pushes his knuckles in front of your lips. His fingers throb lightly, you can feel it on your lips.

“That was stupid.”

“C’mon,” Sirius’ eyes roll as he pulls you up. “You’ve got a hotdog to eat.”

2K notes · View notes

themareverine · 3 months ago

Text

Designated Driver | oldman!Logan x namelessfem!OC

SYNOPSIS: “Hey driver!” Tits, yeah—counts two of 'em. What Logan can't quite shake isn't the drunk-off-her ass's $20,000 tit job, or even the way his passengers embarrass themselves with shameless come-ons, stupid amounts of money. something else, entirely—a pretty little thing all done up in makeup and curls, wishing she were anywhere but third-wheeling a drunk hen party. "Sorry about my friend, she's—" "Didn't even notice her, honey."

warnings: this is so offensively long, I'm SORRY. flirting, drunkenness, flashing, maybe some oldman!logan inappropriate thoughts, maybe a kiss, general shyness/awkardness of that girl, language, not proofread, mentions of oral sex, OC has blue eyes.

a/n: and finally, after many weeks, it's here. not entirely sure how i feel about this, it's very self indulgent. let me know what you think, and maybe there needs to be a part two?

There’s a lot of things about this fucking limo that Logan hates.

For one, you couldn’t ask for a shittier lease agreement, and if such a hellish thing dared to exist, Satan holds the pink slip. Two years ago it had seemed like a good fucking idea, leasing some long black experimental piece of Chrysler shit that was heavy off the line and a low fatass—hot as fuck though, with chrome plated lugs. Midnight metal flake showed every piece of God’s earth, the color of sin. Washed the fucker every other day. Couldn’t make green with a dirty rig, and he was an anal retentive sonuvabitch like that to begin with. And the interior, fuck that, it would tell secrets it showed every damn piece of filth that fell into it. Paid or otherwise.

This shitpiece had a tendency to run hot and burn crude, but, she got the groceries—brought home bacon, if that was even still a thing in this century. Toss up between this and the Navigator the color of bad ideas, he’d flipped for the Chrysler. Industry standard, turned heads, attracted the upper echelon. No intention of hauling around fucktards into the suburbs—black paint looked good under Vegas neon on the strip.

But the biggest fucking thing he hated about this rig— fucking privacy partition. Busted worse than a fat lip and had been since the jump. Any serious driver, that would’ve been the first thing to check. Separate him from the sin—hot piece of ass that slid into the backseat looking at him like he’s dinner, a couple too deep in on the red to think straight, the fucker on business hiding his wedding ring in his dick pocket as he picks up an STD.

The first God-awful time he’d went to use it, the damn thing had all but stood up and shrieked in his ear. Grinding gears, the knock of a seized electric motor—scared the shit out of the handsy blonde who’d been trying to get his dick wet since the moment she’d dropped into the back of the Chrysler, tits all but popping from what looked like at least a size too small black—thing. Hadn’t been a dress, he’d seen plenty of them slide in and out—she’d made a spectacle of showing off the little lace number squirreled away for the right price. And it wasn’t that he’d been preening for a look, wasn’t his style—but when it’s right there. Plain as the nose on anyone’s face, and he’s been chaste as a priest for fucking years. It taking up all the glass of his rearview, looking like a felony—the devil had all but welded his attention between her legs.

”Looks like you’re stuck with me, hm?”

Fucking partition. A business-only kiss landed two hundred green ones between his abs and the elastic of his Calvins. A handful of hours of rack and many shotglasses later had put him on the scent to hell, the damn dealership. Four hours from the border, four hours from any kind of work—he’d all but flown the thing into the service bay. Demanded a new partition. And, Logan had been laughed out of a lot of places the last two centuries he’d been sucking air—laughed, jeered, driven out with pitchforks. Circumstances aside, it all ended the same. Vamoose, pissed off his rocker.

An astronomical estimate later, with the fucked-in-the-rear-end isn’t covered by warranty—his fist had collided with the service writer’s nose faster than his patience had evaporated for the blonde. All but jammed the prick’s deviated septum up into his brainspace—Logan had felt it between his knuckles. Only thing keeping his patience held together, keeping the claws in, the man’s crunching cartilage had given him a high not much removed from amphetamine—it had felt good. Feel some asshat’s blood on his hands, staining his skin. See it hit the floor in fat, thick drops. Feel the warmth of it fade as he brushed it away, coppery scent an idea beneath his nose so familiar it may as well pay rent.

Didn’t get his partition, though. Just a bad taste of customer service and the satisfaction of seeing a grown man cry.

Logan isn’t a man to complain—never did change the cards dealt you at the gametable of living. Better to shut up and play, make due with what you’ve got than wish away opportunities. Sure, an almost-lemon of a leased Chrysler with a busted partition wasn’t great, but, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d have given his right nut for the chance to work, much less actual green. Put up and shut up had been the mantra since he’d all but popped out of his mother, and it had, for all intents and purposes, kept him this side of the dirt. Sucking air and feeling, if nothing more—and what was surviving, if not sucking air and feeling?

Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

Music that’s been muffled most of the ride tonight suddenly isn’t, the back door of the rig flinging open, a wide arch, revealing the world beyond. Neon bleeds across the black leather of his interior. A smack of humidity rushes in, almost immediately fogs the passenger windows— he keeps it ass-in-winter cold, A/C all but screaming full bore. Likes it that way, keeps him awake. Keeps them awake, he isn’t hauling anyone’s ass anywhere because they fell asleep in his seats.

And while he isn’t startled—there isn’t fucking anything that could scare him, he doesn’t think—Logan’s spine pulls into a straight line against his seat at the sliver of night outside the door. Alarm bells sound off in the back of his head, eyes narrowed on the rearview—hand all but lava, hovering over the gearshift. He’s been here before, on the jump. Ready to rock and roll, ready to kill—should killing need be. He’s lived two centuries on this edge, this cliff. Walking the line between reflex and ready. It’s almost carved into his skin, alarm—comes as naturally as the crest and fall of his chest.

Logan relaxes a little when a peek of skin slips hurriedly into the back seat, familiar stiletto heels. Air in the limo immediately snaps to an all-soldier attention, flustering—like a disturbed hen rustling her chicks. Something isn’t right, isn’t stable—nuclear, almost. Dangerous. The car shifts a little with incoming weight as one of the night’s passengers whisks into the back. Curl and makeup and the familiar whiff of peaches escorts her in as she pulls the door closed, all too quickly for this to be a normal, unbothered arrival.

Her. Muscle in his jaw ticks off, it takes willpower not to wriggle in the front seat, shift his weight a little. Usually it helped shake off the hot weight of sex rolling around the base of his gut, desire. Carnal things he’d learned to live without, suppress. Animalistic and snapping at his spine like frothing wolves. Most times, it was easy to not notice—girls, women, came and went in their short dresses and makeup. Pretty to see, but venomous little things. Maneaters, trouble on stilts. None of them were pretty–pretty in the way that mattered, pretty souls. Ugliness shot behind their eyes like bullets, low and cold. Dimes and dozens, nameless and unnoteworthy as they slipped him tips, batted their lashes, kissed him like he was their plaything because who’s he to fight a pair of tits? Forgettable is understating it.

But her? He hasn’t been able to unglue her piercing eyes from his brain matter. And, he’s tried—like it or not, he’s tried bailing water out of this canoe, a canoe that’s been hallowed and empty for God knew how long. But it’s like emptying water back into the ocean—it only comes back, heavier and heavier.

No dice. Close, but no cigar–unlucky bastard.

She’d slipped into the limo before the night had even been an idea, one of three who’d decided to split fare for a sober ride. Pharmacy, first, for little more than IVs of electrolytes and fluids—never had seen girls guzzle so fast, but, whatever. Mile-a-minute chatter he hadn’t even bothered to pace had kept them busy most of the ride into the metroplex, and Logan should’ve prayed they’d ignored him. Kept his fat trap shut and just let them guide him, but God, no. He’d asked—asked for directions. Where they were going.

Had asked, and fuck him, that had sent things off with a bang. As if they hadn’t realized he’d been there, all three of them had locked eyes with him in the rearview, surprised thrown over the air like a stifling blanket. Heartbeats later, awkward and thick, one of them had leaned forward. Arms over the seat, showing off everything God had given her as she’d all but pumped her bedazzled phone in his face as if it were a shotgun.

He’d clocked her noticing he wasn’t wearing a ring. Was jacked as fuck under an two-undone button shirt and jacket that fit him like sin. Deliberate choice, but��she’d all but started drooling right there on his lap, hungry like a starving man at banquet.

Asking God for some shred of mercy had done little—the look on her face. He’d never forget it, had seen enemies look at him with more mirth and pity. Shit. Hungry, in the eyes. Desperate, like a dying woman choking on her own libidol. After rattling off the address, it would've been faster if he’d just hit the brakes and sent her flying forward through the window. Skulking back into her seat as if it were an X-rated shot, she’d eye fucked him hard until she’d been dragged back into hushed, schoolgirl conversation. Gross.

And that was it, the beginning of the end. Eyes glued to the back of his head like some kind of anchor—Logan could’ve tasted them from here. Was hell trying not to make eye contact in the rearview, feeling their gaze hunting him like wild banshees. Spiking adrenaline, heady plumes of pheromones. Arousal, unlike anything he’d ever wanted to scent—stunk up the air like God knew. Half-starved vixens, all low and bedroom eyes, begging for trouble in all the right little ways that leave men slobbering fools. Had they been parked and out of the Chrysler, the two of them would’ve been on their knees, if not on his cock.

He’d blasted the air again, because the air in the damn car was so thick he would’ve cut it in halves.

Low lashes, smoky eyes. Lips the color of cherries. Tight black dresses and heels higher than heaven, they’d been dressed to kill—maybe a little less. Lobotomize, maybe. Cut out hearts, certainly—blue ball, absolutely.

Pity the bastard who gets the taste of these tarts, pity, and probably mercy.

Bachelorettes, he’d guessed off the gun. Correctly, too—not two blocks from CVS and out came cheap accessories. FUCK ME may as well have been written in lipstick on Stuck-In-the-Middle’s forehead, he assumed she was the future betrothed. By the look of her, much less the smell, she’d been aching for tonight. Primed and desperate, like an oil-starved pistol. Clawing for it, walking the heat of the desert for change. Something else, something new, something dangerous—cock. Dick. Be it Tom, Harry, or some other poor fool—Logan could clock it from anywhere. She’d been sitting on this for a hot minute. Maybe since she’d been born.

And Logan’s uncertain who to pity more—her or the mediocre cock she’s about prowling for—the lopsided tiara, tacky dimestore BRIDE sash out of a CVS bag were just warning signs. Red flags, if you were smart about it. Darkness in her eyes would make any man second guess the two carats on her finger, if men weren’t animals. And they were, every one of them—and she’s far too drop-dead to not demand attention, to not homewreck and ruin some poor, unsuspecting fool’s evening.

Watching her slip those two carats into her handbag, he’d just shook his head.

Silence to stir the dead had followed after they’d eye fucked him into celibacy. Blissful, sweet as the Nile quiet. A creak of movement, the slip of skin on leather—her. Short brunette curls with highlights, icy blues. Defined collarbones in a hardly-strapped dress, big earrings. Sparkles, everywhere, blended into makeup that’s been on awhile but still looks good. And she, she isn’t like the rest—not by a mile. How she moves, the way her lashes flutter. Doe-eyed and sweet. Doesn’t smell like sin, the kiss of color on her cheeks isn’t blush, either.

Peaches, this one smells like fucking peaches. Something floral.

She’s sweet. Saccharine, sugary. Like everything Logan’s forgotten. Pretty, in that girl-next-door kinda way—the way he’s always noticed, the way nobody else ever does. And what a pretty thing like her is doing in the back of his sinwagon, riding with Jezebels, hunting for trouble—he’ll never know.

Hours before this, she’d leaned forward, pretty hands on the back of his seat. Done up nails that looked fake, but not cheap. This close, he could see her contact lenses replacing nine-to-five frames, the permanent little indentations on her nose were unmissable. Ocean eyes smiled at him through the glass of his rearview, as if it were a game. Good at it, she won—he blinked first.

Offered him a little half smile, that dust of color on her nose darkening to an almost strawberry. When his eyes hit hers again from the road, icy blues ramped up like pulsing neon, unlike any he’d ever seen in two fucking centuries. Difficult to think, he’d had to realize he was holding his breath in the pocket of his cheek, hot against his molars. She’d reached across the back of the seat to gently nudge him with her elbow—hey. It should’ve sounded like something you gave to horses, but it was—considerate.

Nearly fucking polite.

You got the address okay, sir? If his tongue hadn’t swollen to the size of his balls he’d have dared to laugh at her. Sir. If he thinks hard, Logan can’t remember the last time he’d been seriously called sir, from a place of consideration, behind the ribs. He’s been alive for hundreds of years, seen a lot of shit and blood, but has been called a professional and crisp sir all but five times in his existence on God’s planet.

Shaking himself out of it, he tells himself she isn’t the first pretty skirt to grace the leathers of his Chrysler. To look pretty and smell good, to stir up his cold blood. Wouldn’t be the last, by far. Part of his marketing was that he was safe. Stuck around, even when the witching hour faded into bleeding colors of morning. Fair & There, as if he were a fucking marketing guru.

She’d slipped out of the limo with her friends even though he’d wanted her to stay. Wanted to smell her and look at her all night, mull over all the things in his life he’d abandoned. Think about how, maybe, in some other world, bend of time, something that sweet could belong to him. But, she’d thanked him. Obviously the designated sober of the night, she’d arranged to text fifteen minutes before they wanted to leave in case he wanted to get a drink or took another gig.

I’ll be here all night, and that wasn’t a lie. The flask burning a hole against his heart had enough whiskey to last him until morning, another bottle tucked under the seat for safekeeping. He was safe, he was there, and too damn tired to even try to think about driving around the city on a time schedule.

It’d been two hours, parked under the neon at the curb. Not even midnight. Normal clients would just be breaking stride, setting paces. At the gate, snorting like stallions in heat. Rutting like animals, working the game. Nothing he didn’t know all too well, he’d lived his wild years a lifetime ago—he knew what sex and booze, a good time smelled like. Could clock it every time, wasn’t daft. Had witnessed his fair share of back-alley fucks, the straightening of a hemline. Crooked buttons and tented-out slacks.

Tonight wouldn’t be different, he assumed—well. Had assumed. Which, as the saying went, made him an ass.

Her heartbeat from the frontseat is almost tangible, hard and fast. Jackrabbit—as if she’d dropped it in his hands, bleeding and raw all over his fingers. Logan’s eyes fall away from the rearview for a beat, ticks back to her when she slides across the seat. Straightening the end of her dress, which hits below the knee–or would, if she were upright, but now pulls at her thighs. And the way she fiddles with it suggests it’s shorter than it was earlier in the evening, when sin was exciting and didn’t slap like a bitch.

Tucked in against the opposite door, looking out tinted glass like it’s a skyline worth seeing, not just a lot of nothing. And something’s off, he can feel it in the little pulses of electricity of the air, the heat in her blood. Anger. The tick tick tick of frustrated fingernails on the edge of the window. Upset. It buzzes in her blood, which he can feel thumping against her bones from here. Slick scent of sweat between her thighs, swirls of alcohol and pyrotechnic smoke mixed with fairy dusting drugs. It’s enough to make him shift, crack the window.

Long gone are the peaches and florals, now she just bleeds with heat and virility enough to stir the gods. Fucking perfect.

How long’s it been, old boy? Dull pangs in his cock make him shift up in his seat, stir some blood into his feet. Eyerolls, gaze hitting the pavement out his window, sick fuck. Just a girl, just like the rest. Reaches inside his breast pocket for a cigar and a light.

And as much as he wishes it isn’t true, Logan can’t quite shake that she ain’t just a girl—not by a shot, long or short. He’s seen a thousand of them, sure—seen and tasted and fucked senseless. Yeah. But—none like this. None that make him burn at the drop of a hat and a smile. None that twist his guts like a corkscrew, rip him open like he’s a fresh kill. He didn’t even know her name, anything about her. He swore to God he wasn’t this type of man, couldn’t be bought with some pretty eyes and cherry lipstick. Happened to wet-behind-the-ears boys only ever hoping their balls dropped into manhood, not guys like him. Not men that had seen a thing or two, not men who had sampled the female sex from every fucking era the last two hundred years had presented.

Not men with demons, not men with metal bones and rust spinning through his cells like Satan’s blood. Not him.

But it doesn’t seem to matter, because her presence in the limo upsets his sensibilities like an earthquake. Seemed to fillet him like a fat bass, pull his ribs back to watch his heart beat. Everything he didn’t know, everything she could be—choked the life out of him, those wicked blues heavy as steel. If he weren’t careful, she’d see through him, like—like memories. And she, like everyone else, wouldn’t like what she saw lurking in his bones, in the organ behind his ribs.

All his life hiding who he is, years hiding from everything the world wanted to label him, only to—

Fuck. Yeah. Something’s off—is his leg bouncing? The fuck is that about? Fuck, fuck. His fingers card through his hair, cough aching in his bronchial tubes. Shit.

Another glance in the glass reveals she isn’t even looking at him, thoughts out the window in the shifting low lights of the limo’s interior. Maybe a million miles from here, but nonetheless—she’s everywhere, every damn where in the space of the Chrysler, this sinwagon that’s messing with his head. Everything about her. Her scent, her pheromones playing him like a fucking game, the heat along her spine. Blood in her veins, ripping through her heart, the pull and push of arteries and cardiovascular muscle. Mesh of her lungs, rising and falling. He’s tuned into it like it’s the fucking evening news.

And everything about this is wrong, his guts swim with it.

Fingering the cigar between two swollen knuckles, Logan ignores pain that zings. Rips through the adamantium in his arm like it’s starving, hunting for air. And Logan is maybe considering that he’s lost his mind, that it’s somehow taken up residence in his dick, when—-a sniffle.

Good fuck. Is she crying? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s magic, the little breathy thing girls do when they’ve been crying, but don’t want you to flag it. Witchraft, maybe. Men will never understand how they do it, cry without tears, but—it’s a thing. Definitely, confirmed by science somewhere, some egghead in a lab taking notes on female specimens and how they manage such emotion while still looking like she does. Vaguely his memories spin with all the girls he’s known throughout his life, and how every single one of them have this ability hardwired into their core being, mutations aside.

Biting the cigar between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, he flicks the lighter between his thumb and index finger, holding it up in line of sight. His head angles to look up at the rearview, a rough cough rattling the mesh of his lungs enough to trigger her attention. And sure enough, she has been crying—her knuckle gently brushes at the trails of tears all but neon on her face beneath the limo’s lights, eyes flicking to the rearview to meet his.

Coughing, he eases his back against the seat. Hot muscle burns a little as tension bleeds away, “You care if I smoke?”

And why he asks, Logan isn’t sure—he’s never asked before. Then again, he’s never had to ask, because it’s a standing policy to not smoke on a gig. Tonight, though, he needs something to do with his hands, to calm the magma rushing through his blood, the cold sweat bubbling up on the back of his neck. Staining his white fucking shirt. Even a blush from the grave and exhausted, slowly dying away from whatever is inside of him, he isn’t an idle man. If he doesn’t do something, he won’t be able to help himself—he can barely fight back the urge to not lose whatever sanity’s buried alive and get himself off, right here and now.

Anything to masquerade the scent of whatever’s slick between her legs. You are a sick, perverted fuck, Logan. True, probably. But it’s been years, a lot of years. And he hasn’t wanted a lot of women, hasn’t clocked many that he’d actually enjoy rousting up a fantasy over. And she smells like a good time, something he may not actually regret. That would be a first.

Tucking a little tighter against the door, her eyes close as she gently shakes her head. Curls flick around her features as she does, and she cracks her window before reaching forward to slip off both shoes. Logan had noticed them—yellow, bright highlighter yellow so jovial they may as well have smacked him upside his head. So out of place, but they were sexy as hell—he’d always appreciated a well dressed woman, and as impractical as they were, high heels did add a punch of something that made him a little hard in the dick.

“I do, but go ahead,” it’s a little sigh, one he’s all but five-star VIP familiar. “One of us should enjoy ourselves, anyway.”

In zero to none he flicks the lighter to life, burns the edge of the cigar until it’s hot. Thick, it rides his throat perfectly—chases that gut-twisting urge that’s coiled around the base of his spine like a viper. Through his blood it goes, ramping up the rust and poison and years that kill, and he heaves a sigh—falls back a little rougher against the seat. That ache in his cock twitches, but she retreats.

His eyes fall closed, heart settling down behind his bones. “You wouldn’t happen to sell those little bottles of booze in this rig, would you?” Makes him start a little, and Logan blinks. A little surprised, he angles to look over his shoulder at her, arm lifting to drape over the bench seat. Brow raised, she elaborates, obviously reading his expression. “You know, the luxury part of ‘luxury accomodations’?”

“Not a part of the deal, honey.”

“Ah, you don’t like money, then,” the corner of her mouth ticks up with a smirk when he shifts a little more in his seat to study her. He catches what she lays down, without thinking. “And I ain’t anyone’s ‘honey’, so don’t be an ass and assume. Please.” Blinking, Logan can’t remember the last time he felt his stomach actually lift with amusement—the little way she says her ‘o’s’ is dangerous, suggests the north–either Canada. Minnesota, Wisconsin. North Dakota maybe? Anywhere but this far on the border, the edge of the world. Interesting.

Fucking Calliban. Knew he’d regret the hard copy that albino had suggested, but, it was too little too late. Surprised, he manages a little growl of complaint before he leans forward, hand fumbling against the floorboard carpet of the passenger’s side. Knuckles nudge the bottle of Jack Daniels, and he grabs the neck of it before allowing it to dangle between his fingers. Amber liquid dances like a tornado through the bottle, sloshing against the glass like a dream.

Unstopping it, he pulls back a sharp drink of it. “Have at it,” it’s rough, raw. Irritation peeks through the teeth of it, but it’s more resigned than anything.

Leaning forward, her eyes hold his and she hesitates to snatch the bottle away, hand hanging in the air. She’s got lithe fingers, bigger hands—hands that look strong. His attention cocks slightly when he notices the callouses, the scars on her knuckles. They aren’t polished, nine-to-five office hands like ninety percent of the girls who pass through his service. Briefly he wonders what her fake nails would feel like curled against skin, but dismisses it when she plucks the bottle from between his fingers.

“Thanks,” her chuckle comes from her gut, almost a growl of relief that says finally! as she puts the cool class to her lips. Guzzles back a full shot. Rights, her cherry lips part into a small smile as she hands the bottle back, passing her thumb over left behind lipstick. “Good God that burns,” managing a little cough, Logan replaces the stop and pops it between his thighs. “But it’s good. Takes the edge off.”

I bet it does. He manages a growling mhm, settling back into his seat. Thinking that’s the last of it. Content to look out the window and smoke his cigar, not think about the heat ricocheting off the adamantium in his pelvis. How it stirs up his blood, how her voice is that perfect lilt of low and just high enough.

Head swimming with the mental picture of her beneath him, breathless and hot, he bristles to attention when her arms drape over the front seat. Very suddenly all Logan can smell is the heady smell of woman and sweat rolling off of her like a locomotive.

She mutters under her breath something Logan can’t quite track, bit the way she picks at a nail with her teeth, gaze anywhere but inside the low limo’s lighting, would imply negatives. And she could’ve started reciting the phone book, he wouldn’t have noticed—far too busy noticing cleavage and the valley of her collarbones to be able to think straight.

But his stare gets heavy, she notices the thick air that’s smothering the limo like a wet dream–her eyes find his, a little smile at the corner of her mouth when his flick away. Oh, good fuck. Her eyes bore into him through the rearview. Uncapping the Jack, he takes another sharp pull of it. It chases the warmth in the back of his throat, blooming in his chest like he didn’t know what.

More pregnant silence. She shifts against the leather, hot skin sticky against it. Reaching to put the car in accessory, Logan fiddles with the A/C. He clocks her swiping her heels from the floor, wrangling them back on her feet—hadn’t she just taken the damn things off?

“I should go get them before either of them do something they’ll regret,” her eyes cast to the clock on the dash, which isn’t terribly far from his ID information, which is offensively just there. “It’s late.” It isn’t, not really. Logan thinks this has to be the most conservative hen party in the history of such things, but his jaw clamps shut.

If he can bail them out of his car early, he may be able to catch a few hours of sleep before the early-hour rush. That hour when last call sends boozers into the streets, looking for rides. That’s where the money was, after all—and God knew he could use the dough.

Her hand floating over the handle of the door, as if she’s waiting for his consent. “Paid by the hour, darlin’,” and Logan does not miss the way darlin’ hits her—sharp eyes flick down to his mouth for a fraction of a heartbeat, a little plume of color lifting to the apples of her cheeks that definitely isn’t rouge. Blush, they called it now. She has plenty of it on her face, but it darkens something pretty in a way that, usually, would amuse him.

Instead, now, he just lifts a hand to slot through the openings on the Chrsyler’s steering wheel, ignoring the ache between his knuckles.

He can’t have arthritis, can he? Popping the latch, he twists out of the limo. Crosses around the front through the headlights to her side. A flick of his fingers and he pulls open the door, highlighter yellow heels spilling out to the pavement in that Hollywood way.

He doesn’t do this— he makes a habit not to touch customers. Usually his hand finds his pocket, as a rule. But for some reason, her eyes skating through the dark, panning around the street and the front of the club, lights the mesh of his lungs on fire. Offering her his hand, its appearance before her drops a rod through her spine—she straightens, blinking at it once before her fluttery lashes look up at him.

He wonders if the little flick of muscle in her jaw actually takes muscle memory. Looking at him with a look that’s uncertain, that’s you sure? heartbeats pass and make the moment uncomfortable. Shuffling his weight on his feet, his hand falls from the door and to his pocket, palming the lighter against his thigh. Phlegm and whatever else God created in the human body rattles around the poison in his chest, a low cough echoing off his bones.

It takes her a second to collect, looking between him and his hand. “By the hour. Right,” her eyes skate down his chest, over all of him, as if she’s making sure. Her hand slips into his too lightly to matter, as if she’s making an effort to limit contact—and that’s a good thing, because Logan is fairly sure the world had stopped spinning, the electrical pulses of his body kicking to overdrive at just how alive her skin feels. Senses heightened to infinity. He could count stars, maybe, with the way her nails deliciously press into his palm, rough and hard. Warm, the scent of peaches all but punches his lights out—he can’t even taste his cigar, body enamored with the way she smells, how her hand all but boils in his.

The fuck, Logan.

Stepping out, sharp eyes navigate the front of the club, and a blackhole of the universe suddenly opens between them when her hand falls away. Heels tick against the concrete as she turns to face him batting the door closed. Hands in pockets, he kicks back against the Chrysler. Waiting.

“Thanks,” her smile is small, eyes casting down to the filth of midnight on the concrete, “It shouldn’t be long.”

He shrugs, “‘S your money, honey,” is followed by a grunt as she nods, turns on her heel. Sashays back into the front of the club before flashing a wristband to the bouncer. Between the help eyeballing her in that dress and Logan unable to stop ogling just how it clings, highlights every curve of her, it’s a miracle either of them are still standing.

Reappearing fifteen minutes later with girlfriends in tow, Logan folds them into the limo politely, without incident. Giggling, traces of the night have painted both of her companions—long gone is the bride sash and dimestore plastic tiara. Replaced by smudged-and-attempted-to-be-fixed makeup. Teased hair, ruffled clothes. Nobody could miss that hickey for anything, it would take stock-market shattering amounts of base to cover it up—Mars would have a better time trying to see needles in haystacks. No amount of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes, sweat hanging out as an idea under his nose could cut through that unmistakably sweet musk of sex, sweat.

Before Logan can ask where to point the Chrysler, the other girl pops off an address from her phone to what is most definitely not their hotel, or anywhere remotely in the neighborhood of partylife. Brow raised, Logan peeks the rearview to see his companion whirl so quickly in her seat, he wonders how her head is still attached. Look on her face says everything words don’t, but she asks anyway—”Where the hell is that?”

Trying not to overhear, but it’s impossible, he fiddles with the temperature controls again when the one lifts the hair from the back of her neck. “It’s a hotel,” no shit, it’s the most expensive district in the area. Highbrows stay here—he’d picked them up on the opposite side of the metro, in the middle class accommodations. Sour bile splashes up the back of his throat, jaw setting–he knows what’s about to happen.

“No, really? And here I thought it was the frickin’ monastery,” lunging over her friend stuck in the middle, she plucks the phone from her friend’s hand—laughing hysterically, face flushed with alcohol and tipsy giggles, her jaw opens fully on its hinge. Rapt attention almost has his heart exploding, he nearly misses the stop sign—pops the brake a little hard.

She studies herself against the door, eyes flicking to him for half a second. Phone flipping screen first to her friend, she nods to it. “Who the hell is Mike?” Lowering the phone to her lap, her eyes skate between the two friends, hard. Heavy. Fast. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me—”

“It’s just a fling,” her name rolls off her friend’s tongue sourly, like cold venom. If Logan weren’t so invested in the outcome of this conversation he’d think it was almost melodic, a unique name. Fine and perfect for the sweet little thing currently erupting in his backseat. Too busy pacing traffic, his tongue skates along over his back molars, “don’t get your panties in a twist, honey. It’ll just for a few hours, to have some fun.”

“A few hours?” The actual squeak in her tone was laughable, “You’re joking—you’re actually kidding me. You can’t just go fuck some random guy you met in a bar, you’re getting married.” Offensive hangs in the words like a hot iron, branding itself into the atmosphere with weighty judgment enough to make her chest rise and fall with rapid, uneven breaths. “I won’t let you—”

Eyeroll extreme, Logan could’ve flinched with how much it snaps like a whip. “Oh my god, would you just chill out?” Looking to the other friend, who’s phone is still held captive on her lap, Logan bites the inside of his cheek. Like black cobras their chests fan out, both of them turning to cast frigid judgment to their third, who is pressed against the door to create distance from the very idea of the two of them. For fuck’s sake, “It’s just oral, honey—”

He snorted. All their eyes trip to him, but Logan is nothing if not suave—covering with a cough, he bites back a smile into his lower lip, looking down to his lap. Holy shit, they were actually having this conversation. In the back of his limo. If he weren’t so amused, it could be hot. Smokin’.

But the look on his companion’s face is too horrified, too innocent for him to take any enjoyment out of the topic of conversation flitting beneath the lights of the limo. It’s scandalousm, really. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but, it just—it didn’t fit. Without knowing anything about much, he knows this isn’t her. Neon Heels, brunette curls. Lipstick barely upset, smelling like peaches of sweat. He could feel it in the very adamantium slowly flogging life out of his body.

Color drains out of her face, milkwhite like a ghost. He’s fairly certain she’d rather cut out her tongue and serve it to him on a silver platter than actually go through with such things. Logan knows a thing or two about life, he’s studied humanity for a lot of fucking years—he knew the good ones when he saw them. Pure, untouched.

Or, at the very least, good.

“Just oral?”

“Would you just stop, ok? Nobody is asking you to come up. Don’t need to be all, all pissy just because nobody noticed you at the bar,” and it’s hot, like acid. Cutting to bone. Logan watches the words cut like knives through the mesh of her chest, and if his collar wasn’t absolutely on fire, he’d have the audacity to smack some decency into whatever the fuck this chick’s problem was. “It’s not your thing. That’s fine. It’ll be just fine,” leaning forward, the bride informs him that once he’d dropped them at the hotel, he can take her back to their hotel. We’ll just Uber back in the morning.

“Fine by me.”

And it makes more sense, the longer he thinks about it. Explained the tears, the fluster in the atmosphere. Pushing the Chrysler through traffic, the tension in the atmosphere snaps like a rubber band—she doesn’t even flinch. In fact, her jaw clenches. Muscles ticks off bone, and she hands back her friend’s phone before falling back into the seat, eyes cast out the window like they’ve been welded to the darkness. Wind out of her sails, her elbow props on the windows ledge, subconsciously her hand covers half of her face. Quiet as death, unmoving as a sarcophagus.

Logan had never seen someone’s soul die while they were still alive, but he figures this was close.

Silence enough to make the dead uncomfortable follows for a few seconds. He focuses his attention on driving the limo rather than looking in the rearview, because noticing the look on her face, actually caring, is so far out of his pay grade that it’s laughable. To her credit, he doesn’t think she’s actually crying—hell would sooner freeze over, he reckons—but her brow is set in such a hard line, that he can almost read the regret on her face in red letter clarity.

Ensuing conversation about how the bride’s tits look in her hardly-there dress has him almost disinterested. Guiding the Chrysler up to the curb of the hotel, he almost misses "Hey driver!" that's more giggle than it is anything else. Eyes tracking to the rearview, Logan isn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he would be when she rips down the front of what was once, probably, an investment dress—tits, yeah. Nice ones, too—bought and paid for by the looks of it. Tits that size don’t just sit up at attention without a calculated surgeon’s hand.

“Like what you see?”

Puffing out a little nervous chuckle, his brow trips up. He shakes his head, amused. Erupting into a fit of snickers and snorts, their cheeks darken with heat. Falling against themselves, the two of them think they’re fucking hilarious as they begin to discuss the course of their adventure. May as well be full fledged pornography in the back of his rig, the things that fly—it sparks up his blood, empties his mouth of any moisture Jack Daniels may have rousted.

God couldn’t have brought up the hotel’s curb any faster, he thinks. Dropping the Chrysler into park, he angles to pop the latch on his door. Misses completely the moan of leather, the little rock of moving bodies shifting around the backseat.

Logan all but jumps when two hands come around him from behind. “Maybe you should come upstairs, driver—bet you could show a young bride a thing or two, huh?” Fuck, fuck fuck—hands that palm down his chest, snake under the buttons of his white shirt are hot. Hot, practiced. Soft and deliberate, one of their nails flick against his nipple, beneath his undershirt—he grunts back a sharp breath, head all but braced against the Chrysler’s hard headrest.

Adamantium kisses the flesh of his knuckles, and it takes effort not to let loose—more brainpower than he wants to admit, fighting back the reflex. Hand shaking on his knee, he inhales an uneasy breath and presses the heel of either hands onto his knees, biting the corner of his chapped lip. Hand drifting lower, almost to his abs, he snatches her wrist with a speed he doesn’t remember. Couldn’t, hadn’t, for as long as he can think back.

“Somethin’ tells me you know plen’y, honey,” his eyes narrow in the rearview. “Plus, I don’t do free fucks.”

She chuckles, pleased. “Who said anything about free?” Lifting her hand away from inside his shirt, he throws her off—cackling like the little witch she is, she folds out of the limo with her friend, “Very professional of you, driver,” he couldn’t miss the darkness in her tone if he’d tried as she winks at him from his window, “drive safe. Precious cargo, back there.”

Could’ve fooled him.

A wiggle of her fingers goodbye to her friend in the backseat, the hotel’s thick doors swallow both of them whole. Vanishing in a twirl of hair and makeup, Logan turns in his seat to consider his last passenger. She hasn’t moved, merely has kicked off her heels—but she has allowed herself to cry. Fresh tears fall down the length of her cheeks, but she doesn’t sniffle. They’re silent, powerful. Say everything words don’t need to—it’s a deep knife, one that bleeds. Logan can see the film reel running through her brain, on repeat. As if it has subtitles. A black and white horror show of just exactly what had happened, how she’d ended up here.

Curling a leg up under herself, Logan watches her shrink into as small of herself as she can, forehead resting against the cool glass of the limo’s window. And it’s tragic, really—someone who looks like that, reduced to a teary, smoldering shell of a person by mere words. Logan knew people were cruel, he’d seen the worst of humanity up close and personal. His own life was hell trapped in bones and flesh, his own history more horrific than anything Hollywood could dream up.

He drives. That’s what he does, that’s who Logan is now. A driver.

It’s another 20 minutes across town. And the ride is ominous, a mummified tomb that’s suffocating no matter how much air whisks into the limo from open windows. Trapped between wanting to say something and unsure of how to react, he relaxes a little when she finally slips earphones in—mindlessly scrolling a cell phone. Swiping at tears that ruin makeup she no longer cares about. Alone in her own little world of music and heartache, he watches the night fall away from her—her hair goes back into clips, away from her face. Earrings come off. Out come the contacts, replaced instead with glasses from the purse she’d left on the floorboards. Gum, more scrolling on her phone. Heels set on the seat beside her–finally her eyes close as she rests against the cool glass.

Gently rolling the Chrysler to a stop at the curb, she sits up. Breathlessly, she stretches a little, lashes fluttering behind frames that accentuate the shape of her face. And Logan doesn’t remember thinking anyone has ever looked good in glasses, but she topples such ideology when she beats him to the punch—she pops the latch on the door and steps out, barefoot. Heels tucked under her arm, purse hanging off her shoulder, she meets him at his door when he slips out of the front seat.

Handling cash had never felt so cold, bitter. She doesn’t look at him as she counts it into his hand, more than they’d agreed. Slipping the remainder of it back into her bag, she steps back, smiling at him softly. Resigned. Apologetic. Light from the overhang of the hotel sets off whatever shine is on her face, tear stains all but left behind—replaced instead with pink cheeks and sad, swollen eyes.

“Should be square,” she nods to the cash in his hand, “you can count it again if you want, I won’t be offended.” Briefly Logan thinks to care if her friends had managed their parts of the fare, but he dismisses it when she bites the inside of her cheek, tongue skating over her bottom lips as she shifts awkwardly on her feet. “Thank you so much for tonight—you have a beautiful limousine. The whiskey was great, thank you.”

Nodding once, he shrugs a shoulder. She’s buying time in that awkward little way people do when they’re not sure what to say, but think they have to say something. She doesn’t, wouldn’t ever—but he wants her to, strangely. Logan could stand here and listen to her come up with things to say the rest of the night, if he knew it wouldn’t deepen the color on her face, drive a little deeper the knife that’s still gutting her in the ribs.

Sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes track up to his from her feet standing on the warm concrete. “Listen, Logan—” she remembered his name, “I’m sorry about my friend. She’s really wasted, and it totally wasn’t alright for her to proposition you like that. It was actually gross—but that’s not who she is, not really. I’m sorry. She’s just—”

“—didn’t even notice her, honey.” He lies. What else is there to do but lie to this pretty little thing, bloodletting her own pride out at his feet? For a long set of years, Logan has believed there’s very little good left in the human species—very few people who are worth giving two fucks about. But she’s so galiant, defending some slut’s non-existent honor, drowning in her own humiliation and everything he can only imagine happened during a hen party gone sideways.

“Oh, uh, well—” oh. How she says it, the little curve of her mouth. That accented “o”. It’s enough to make him insane, honestly. He’s been with her two hours and can hardly think past the twitch of his cock, the little ache that niggles in the back of his head. Behind his eyes. It gets a little hard to fight, the snapping air between the two of them—for a man who knows what it feels like, it’s difficult. She couldn’t be more nonplussed. Which says more than it needs too, makes it all the more sweet. “Sorry, oh my gosh. I’m just a little—I don’t do things like this.”

And that is honorable, even if there’s very little honor left among the thieves of humanity. She is honorable. So saccharine and pretty it physically hurts him, drying out the back of his throat and knocking at his ribs like a damn jackhammer. Her eyes holding his, searching for anything else, are so deep and alive, bright in the way only Polaris could ever challenge—he suddenly forgets where he is, what century it is. How he got here, what he’s doing, reaching for the thin strap of her dress.

The back of his knuckle gently skips over her skin, the strap of the dress. And before Logan can even manage a breath, his hand moves under her chin, tips it up a little. Unmoving, her eyes widen like two bright moons, light catching them and opening them up like oceans fully unpassable to the known universe. From here he can feel her pulse flying through her blood, and couldn't miss the butterflies in her stomach if he’d been on a different planet. And maybe she’s never been appreciated like this—maybe she’s never felt seen.

Fuck, the things he could do to her. “Quit apologizin’ for bein’ sweet,” he manages a low rasp, the corner of his mouth ticking up with a little grin, “very few pretty things left in the world that’re sweet,” tipping her chin up a little further, his lips hover over hers. “And I bet you taste as good as you look, honey.” Tucking some hair behind her ear, he rubs one of her curls between the calluses on his fingers.

He gets back in his car, and Logan drives. Because that's what he does—he drives.

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00 @th3mrskory @blossoming-hotch

261 notes · View notes

blushsturns · 29 days ago

Text

bad boy! matt and librarian! reader 𝜗𝜚

part one ⭑ pushy

description: you meet matt while working at your job at the public library and he can’t help but try and make a move on you.

w/c: 2526

warnings: mentions of weed, cussing, nothing too crazy (yet)

introducing: mb- hcs

he probably shouldn’t be staring as long as he has been, but he just couldn’t help it. you were so fucking pretty he literally couldn’t take his eyes off you. the way your hair flows with one simple movement, the twinkle in your eye when you’re helping patrons, the smile on your face when you’re giving your best customer service. god, your personality seemed absolutely addicting. you were also really fucking pretty. maybe that’s why he was standing here like a fucking stalker, but he just couldn’t help it. he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

he tried to look busy, his fingers drumming along the spines of the books, but he hadn’t read a book since high school and that wasn’t by choice. it was because from where he was standing, he had a great view of you sitting at the service desk, a strand of your hair falling from your high ponytail.

why was he here anyway? oh yeah, that’s right. he’s been waiting 45 minutes for his weed guy to fucking show up, but so far the guy was late, really late. it wasn’t like him to be late, but matt got tired of waiting around and decided to try and occupy his time somehow. he was getting restless waiting in his car and sitting in the parking lot of the library was making him feel like an actual stalker. at least he’d feel like one looking at a pretty librarian like you in the cozy, quiet building.

it’s not that he’s nervous to talk to you. he had decent luck with woman. he’d either take them home, or hook up with one at the parties he’d throw at his house. none of those girls mattered though. he didn’t care for relationships at all. love and all that cheesy bullshit was not something matt cared for. it’s not that he didn’t have time for it; he sure did. he just didn’t really believe in falling in love and the romantic shit. maybe it’s because nobody had been worth his time.

once an elderly woman walked away from the desk and you were available again, he made his way over to the service desk. you were typing something onto your computer, not really paying attention to matt standing in front of you until he cleared his throat to get your attention.

your eyes immediately shot up at him and your face turned apologetic. “i’m so sorry, sir. i was caught up in something. how can i help you?”

god, you were even prettier up close. your cheeks were rosy pink with the lightest makeup applied to your face. your hair was in a tight ponytail with the strands falling onto the sides of your face. you wore a pretty floral dress with a jean jacket, your glasses perched onto your nose. matt had your full attention now and matt had completely forgot what excuse he was going to use to come up here and ask you about.

he was probably lost in a trance at your beauty and staring a little too hard at you and checking you out because she asked again. “sir? can i help you?”

matt wasn’t one to get embarrassed or shy. hell, he made others feel that way. luckily, you seemed oblivious to him checking you out. you had a busy day today, despite the weather being quite shitty outside. every time the weather is awful, you assume people will stay home and not come in, but you were wrong every single time. it was always the complete opposite. luckily, things seemed to die down now.

“oh, yeah. sorry. uh, hey, do you guys have wifi here?” fuck, what a stupid ass question. he ran his fingers through his tousled brunette locks, his eyes staying locked onto yours the whole time.

luckily, you didn’t seem bothered by the question. you were used to people asking you questions that were common sense like ‘what are your hours?’ and ‘do you have books here?’ so the question didn’t annoy you at all. “of course we do. if you pull up your phone, you’ll be able to find our wifi in the settings. no password needed.”

matt nodded his head, understanding your words fully. he licked over his lips before pulling out his phone, which had no notifications from his weed guy. he opened up his settings, noticing there were two network names. one was public, and the other needed a password. he furrowed his eyebrow in confusion and pointed his phone at you. “what’s this about? why do you staff workers get your own wifi? better wifi for the privileged or some shit?”

you laughed at his comment and immediately shook your head. you had to admit, the boy in front of you was very attractive. he wore all black, baggy jeans, a chain around his neck and earrings dangling from his ears. he had a mysterious aura about him that made you slightly intrigued. of course you’d keep it professional. you loved your job and were going to school for library science. everyone at the library were like family and you couldn’t be more proud of your job and the work you’ve done there. also, nobody really comes into the library but the elderly, and children with their parents for story times and fun events.

“no, sir. it’s just easier and more convenient for us staff workers to work on the staff only wifi instead. each individual wifi should work the same.” your cheeks were slightly flushed the more you looked at him. he was really fucking attractive and you couldn’t help but check him out. you’ve only had one boyfriend back in high school, but he cheated on you and you’ve learned to guard your heart since then. it’s been a couple years though and your friends always tried to set you up on dates, but you didn’t care enough for any of them. they weren’t worth your time.

he let out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “that’s not really fair. this wifi is shit.” his phone was not loading properly as he tried to connect to it. maybe his phone was shit, but this was the only excuse he could think of to talk to the pretty girl. he leaned forward with both of his palms rested onto the service desk, his eyes solely focused on you. “ what’s a guy like me gotta do to get on the better working wifi, huh?”

you suddenly felt nervous as he leaned in closer, placing the loose strands of hair over your ear. you placed your glasses down next to you, since you only wear them to read anyway. you couldn’t help but stare at him more intently, feeling your cheeks heat up as his body was leaned in more towards you. you’ve never seen this guy before in the 5 years that you’ve worked there. where did he even come?

“well, i wouldn’t be able to do that.” your cheeks flushed even more. you hated telling him no, but the wifi network was staff only and you always made sure to imply by the rules. “sometimes the signal is a little spotty on the public wifi depending on how much its being used.”

truth is, you didn’t know much about wifi or technology in general besides what you were taught at your job. he didn’t seem to buy anything you were saying. he kept his palms firmly on the desk, titling his head slightly to get a better look at you. “i think you would be able to. you’re just afraid to. am i right?”

he flashed you a small smirk, not being able to take his eyes off you. he could sense you were slightly flustered the way your facial expressions changed. you bit onto your bottom lip, not being able to take your eyes away from him. his blue eyes gazed into yours and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. fuck, he was so pretty. you could tell he was the kind of person who didn’t take no for an answer.

“i’m not afraid. it’s just my job.” you spoke very professional, but he could tell you were getting slightly agitated and didn’t want to have to say no to him.

he wouldn’t stop, leaning in closer now, his palms still pressed against the desk and his eyes locked onto yours. “what if i give you something in return?”

you furrowed your eyebrow up at him in confusion, trying your best to keep your cool. sure, this boy was fucking attractive and intriguing, but this was your job. you tried to be professional, but he was making it hard. “what could you possibly give me?”

he let out a soft chuckle, a sly smirk appearing onto his lips. “how about i give you my number? and if that’s not enough, you can text me when you get off work and we can discuss it further.”

matt didn’t even care about the fucking wifi. he just wanted to show off his charm and possibly get to know the pretty librarian. he was pretty used to getting his way and damn he wanted his way with you.

you let out a soft sigh, but eventually give in. you really didn’t want to keep this up and he probably wouldn’t let you say no anyway. “fine.” you said with another sigh leaving your lips.”but only to get you off my back. not because i want your number.”

you look up at matt who’s grinning ear to ear, getting his way once again. “you say that now, just wait, pretty girl. you’ll be really fucking glad you had this conversation with me today to get my number in the end.” his palms still rested onto the desk, now flashing you a sly smirk. “i promise.”

“don’t make promises you can’t keep.” you said dryly, pulling out a small piece of paper and pen off the desk and scribbling down the wifi password to him. before you hand it to him, you look around the area to make sure nobody has spotted your interaction with him. you didn’t wanna get in trouble. luckily, there was nobody around, thank goodness. you had to admit, this entire interaction excited you, but you had your walls up and made sure not to show that you were easy to get. you were strong and smart. you knew not to mess with bad boys and this boy? you could tell he was trouble.

you slid the piece of paper to him and he glances down at it for a second before slipping it in his pocket. he didn’t seem that interested in the piece of paper with the wifi password on it. that’s not even what he cared about. he just wanted to get to know you.

you hand him another piece of paper and he takes it from you, your hands brushing against each other for a moment which causes a spark of electricity to run throughout your veins. you let out a soft gasp, looking up at him immediately to see if he noticed the same sensation. he did feel it, his smirk widening as he takes the piece of paper and pen. he leans down to scribble his name and phone number on the piece of paper before handing it back to you.

he was smirking the entire time, seeming very pleased at the fact that he gave you his phone number. your heart was beating out of your chest as you grab the piece of paper from him and this time, you made sure not to have any contact with his hand. last thing you want is to have this guy invade your brain and make you excited to talk to him or maybe see him again.

you look down at the piece of paper that he handed you, seeing that his name is “matt” and his phone number underneath it. “thanks, i guess? if i even decide to text you.” you flashed him an innocent smile, placing the piece of paper close next to you.

“oh you will. that’s a promise.” he pulled his hands away from the desk, now placing them in his hoodie pockets.

“don’t make any promises you can’t keep, matt.” you said his name out loud for the first time, now knowing it and being able to match a name to a face.

he could see your name on your lanyard that you wear to work. he stared at it for a moment which made your cheeks feel warm knowing in order to look at the lanyard, he would have to look at your chest. his eyes averted from your chest and back up into your eyes, a gleam of excitement passing through his expressions. “i look forward to getting to know you, pretty librarian.”

even though he knew your name, he still called you that nickname that made your cheeks flush even more. you silently wished in your head that you had wore makeup today so that it would cover some of the warmth on your cheeks, but it was no use. he could tell you were affected by him and he was loving every single second of it.

before you could reply back to him, your eye caught the attention of another patron behind him who was waiting to be helped. he noticed your eyes had averted behind him and he turned around to see that you two weren’t alone anymore. at that same moment, his phone buzzed, signaling his weed guy was finally there and asking where the hell he was.

“text me later, pretty.” he flashed you a playful wink before giving you one more glance and turning on his heel to walk away from the desk.

this entire interaction left you warm, confused, and a little intrigued. the piece of paper already felt like it was burning a hole in your pocket, but you couldn’t let it. you were strong. there was no way you’d be able to fall for a bad boy, or anyone for that matter.

you tried to pay attention the rest of your shift, but you couldn’t. all you could think about was matt and how he leaned against the desk with his pretty blue eyes on you, practically persuading you to give him your number. he consumed your brain, making you lose focus and stutter on your words to patrons that came through. should you text him? or was it even worth the risk? when you had a moment alone without helping anyone, your fingers ghosted over the piece of paper. would you even see him again?

matt walked outside to meet his weed guy, feeling like he was floating on air. success: he had given the pretty librarian his phone number. now all he needed was for her to text him.

he was intrigued by you, wanting to continue the conversation and get to know you. even if you were rough around the edges and a little sassy, he didn’t care.

you were special. he could tell and he would make damn sure he didn’t fuck it up.

taglist-

@sturnshood @strangelife122 @jessie-essie @giveheavensomehell @rina3476 @chrissturnioloslvt @sturnslutz @forgottxen @matthewsturnsgf @christmastreecake @rinahasspots @222wall876 @chris-hallelujah @izzylovesmatt @strniloslvts @oopsiedaisydeer

a/n- thank you so much for reading! i had fun writing this and will be continuing it when i have the time and when the ideas come to me. if you have any ideas, wanna talk about bad boy! matt x librarian! reader, or just wanna talk in general, don’t hesitate to send me a message!

- nessa ღ

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolos #sturniolo #sturniolotriplets #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fic #matt sturniolo au #matt x you #matt x reader #matt sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets fic #sturniolo triplets au #blushsturnsღ #librarian!reader #bad boy!matt

142 notes · View notes

crescenthistory · 2 months ago

Text

💌 = fluff I 📭 = angst I 📬 = hurt/comfort I 📜 = smut I 🪧 = humour

𖤐 barty crouch junior

(4.2k) Toe The Line (💌: potentially suggestive, friends to lovers, confronting barty about his flirting with you)

(3.4k) Murder’s On the Wishlist (📬: you’re forced to go home for christmas, barty is your comfort)

(3.7k) steady me, guide me, love me (📬: when barty gets into another fight you have a serious talk)

(3.6k) You woke me up for this? (💌: barty is bored in the middle of the night, so of course he goes to you)

(2.3k) the blood means i love you (📜📬: reader accidentally makes barty bleed and he loves it, aftercare)

(3.7k) Under Your Mistletoe (📜💌: you show barty your new mistletoe belly button piercing for christmas)

grumpy!reader universe

⤷ (2.4k) Aren't you just a sweetheart? (🪧: kinda sunshine/grumpy dynamic, bickering type of flirting) ⤷ (2.7k) an insufferable dance (🪧: set before they start dating, dance at hogsmeade) ⤷ (3.1k) and what about it? (🪧: your friends find out you and barty are dating) ⤷ (6k) this isn't fun anymore (📬: it gets serious and that scares you both) ⤷ (2k) sleepy midnight escapades (💌: an anxious remus goes looking for you at night when you miss curfew and finds you with barty)

drabbles:

(1.6k) a scout on tabletops (🪧💌: barty gets creative when he looks for reader at a party)

(1.4k) here with you (💌📬: barty tries to isolate when he is hurting, but you always find him)

(1.1k) roommate au (💌: somehow, someway, the man you still tell yourself is a stranger wound up in your lap after a rough day)

(0.7k) rockstar au (💌📜: suggestive, sitting in barty’s lap to do his makeup before a gig)

headcanons:

☆ barty x crow!animagus!reader

☆ kleptomaniac!barty and his endearing lack of impulse control

☆ barty’s body modifications

☆ barty learning a soft love through acts of service

☆ barty and divination (+whimsical!reader)

☆ barty and black!sister!reader

find more barty in poly!bartlus in the slytherin skittles masterlist

292 notes · View notes

thegirlfromblackwater · 4 months ago

Text

If the Van der Linde Gang lived in Modern Times (Modern Au)

Life gives you funny ideas...and I'm going to write them down

Arthur

Would live on a ranch in Montana or Wyoming as a rancher

Offers services like trail rides, lessons, and boarding

Has a herd of cattle

Spends every Sunday watching Rodeos on TV

Watches while sitting in his favorite worn-out armchair

Always has a cold beer and a snack or his dinner while watching

Has a pickup truck that's a bit filthy on the inside. Addresses his car as a "she."

Treats it like a horse: calls it a "good gurl."

Has a mounted Trout and some taxidermy on the walls

The Wifi at the ranch is spotty..doesnt understand why guests need it when they're surrounded by nature

Network Name: MorganRanch Password: Ynnel123

Tried to fix the router once but not exactly tech savvy. Ended up punching it

Texts Albert Mason sometimes

Dutch

Definitely lives in a city either Los Angeles or New York City

Lives in a Snazzy Penthouse in the clouds with a skyline

Works as a motivational speaker

Wears a lot of bling

Has a bar in at his place

Molly always tries to find a way in

Calls Hosea a lot

Has a weird fetish for black, red and white furniture.

Still loves reading books by Evelyn Miller despite that the writer is a nobody living in Idaho

John, Abigail & Jack

They probably live out west on a farm (very much like Beechers Hope)

John works on the ranch and also has side multiple side jobs (thanks to Abigail)

Jack spends his time in the school library

Abigail is obsessed with this one bakery

Molly

Lives in whatever city Dutch lives in

Tries to make herself at home in the penthouse

Famous on social media for her makeup tutorials

The neighbors can usually hear Molly & Dutch fighting

Dutch: "Not now Miss O'shea" Molly: "Pig!"

Bill

Lives somewhere in the Midwest

Works as a truck driver for Walmart

spends a lot of his life on the road

Has a bit of road rage

likes rest stops

when he's not working, he is a part of a biker gang

has a tattoo sleeve and wears a white wife beater

one of those bikers that wears a bandana with the American flag on it

Marybeth

Probably lives in a quaint town on the east coast

Works in a bookstore during the day and is a freelance writer in her free time

Lives in a cute townhouse with a small garden in the front full of flowers.

Her house is cozy

has a seating area with big windows that look out over the street

spends her time writing and reading there

likes to sit at cafes and drink coffee

Lenny

Is a full-time university student by day and bartender by night

Lives in Chicago or Atlanta

Probably double majoring in Business and literature (if that combination even exists)

Lives his single life to the fullest

Mostly an A student who goes full ham on the weekends when partying

Micah

Lives in Las Vegas

Sells illegal drugs

Has no money because he gambled too much

Stays in different hotels

Owns a pawn shop

Everything for sale there was smuggled across the border

Has dealings with the cartels & other shady characters

Hosea

Lives a quiet life out west

Goes to his lake house on the weekends to go fly fishing

Reads a lot of books

Also likes to go hunting

Is a part time English teacher who teaches children to read

Talks to Dutch by phone

Sometimes visits Arthur and stays at his Ranch

Uncle

Lives in a trailer park in Florida where the weather is always warm and the cold won't bother his illness

Sits on a folding chair outside his mobile home

Plays the Banjo

Drinks a beer

Is a complete mess inside

Doesn't own much furniture

Can't work because of the Lumbago

Sweats a lot

Naps and snores too loud

Lives next to a swamp

Javier

Lives in Arizona

Lives in the desert

Grows cactuses

Owns a Music shop

Travels around playing at local bars

Works part time as a music teacher at the local high school

Has a YouTube where he shows off his music

Sadie

Probably lives in a city like Dallas or Denver

Works as a cop

Likes to catch people for speeding and sits on the side of the highway

eats Chick-fil-A while waiting

Watches Dateline

Carries a Taser

Always looks sexy in her uniform

Charles

Definitely lives in a cabin out west

works as a conservationist

Likes National Parks

Goes fishing with Arthur

supports and donates to the Bison Sanctuary (if one even exists)

Likes Camping

Trelawny

Lives a wealthy life in Charleston, South Carolina

Lives in a large southern mansion

Wears a robe to sleep

Has a whole walk-in closet full of clothes and accessories

Has a sauna in the basement where he relaxes

Owns a bunch of fancy cars: He loves his Bentley

Reverend Swanson

Probably lives in Philadelphia

Still works part-time at the church

Mostly spends his time helping people with addictions

Hosts an AA meeting three times a week

Rescues crackheads from the street

Mostly sober

Wrote a memoir on his journey to recovery

Sean

Lives in Boston

Likes the university/young people vibe

works at a pub

Everyone's favorite Bartender

Makes customers laugh

goes back to Ireland once a year

Takes Karen with him sometimes

Karen

Lives in Portland, Oregon

Works at a bar as a bartender and a stripper

Good Pole Dancer

Her large tits are popular amongst the men

Puts on shows in the evening

Talks to Sean a lot

Gets Hammered

Strauss

Works in Finance in New York City

Is a Workaholic

Has no friends

Goes back to Austria every few years

Boring to talk to

Always on a work call

Listens to Classical Music

Tilly

Lives in Nashville, Tennessee

Visits Marybeth a lot

Wants to be a Nurse

Likes taking care of people

Wants to travel around the world

Pearson

Lives somewhere in New England

Owns a restaurant and catering business

The restaurant is interestingly enough called "Pearsons"

Probably has a wife and some kids

Loves Maine Lobster one of those people that wears a bib when eating it because he's messy

Is a good Butcher

Susan Grimshaw

Lives in Florida

Is a housekeeper

Cleans uncles' mobile home once a week

Tries to control Tilly and Marybeth from miles away

disgruntled

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fandom #van der linde gang #rdr2 community #rdr2 modern au #rdr2 headcanons #bill williamson #random #movies #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #lenny summers #john marston #javierescuella

93 notes · View notes

uyuforu · 1 year ago

Note

Hii, how are you doing? I'm loving your astrological interpretations! could you tell us how do you interprete degrees? thank you ^^

Hello! Thank you very much!^^

About degrees. I like to take degrees as "keywords" that can be added as details. It always add details.

Aries (1°, 13°, 25°): fights, war, not giving up, taking action, struggles, abuse, labor, leadership and leader spirit, beginnings, anger, etc.

Taurus (2°, 14°, 26°): money, food, luxury, chilling, the earth, nature, simple life, stability, voice, singing, seducing, etc.

Gemini (3°, 15°, 27°): voice, communication, speaking, languages, new technologies, phones, self-expression, books, learning, being curious, gossips, siblings, neighborhood, humor, witty, smart etc.

Cancer (4°, 16°, 28°): home, mother, nurturing, babies, pregnancy, feminine energy, moon, emotions, traditions, loyalty, food, faith, water, etc.

Leo (5°, 17°, 29°): fame, celebrity, shining, being the center of attention, life of the party, having fun, children, inner child, light, creativity, imagination, laugh, royalty, entertainment, hair, strength, natural leader, easily getting noticed for... etc.

Virgo (6°, 18°): perfectionnist, hardworking, improve, health, routine, detailed oriented, work, pets, to be in service, help, hospitals, mental health, physical health, etc.

Libra (7°, 19°): beauty, fashion, harmony, fairness, law, justice, business, marriage, partnerships, love, makeup, luxury, charm, charisma, music, art, beauty of soul, etc.

Scorpio (8°, 20°): shadow, death, dark side, flaws, s3x, wealth, money, manifestation, rebirth, the spiritual world, intense connections, the unknown, jealousy, pregnancy, night, secrets, etc.

Sagittarius (9°, 21°): philosophy, wisdom, teaching and learning, college, studies, life smart, learning from life and experiences, spontaneous, curious, the spiritual world, traveling, exploring, etc.

Capricorn (10°, 22°): working, hardworking, money, abundance, luxury, cold, royalty, to take control, public attention, fame, fear, father, family, leader, depression, ambition, old etc.

Aquarius (11°, 23°): Spontaneous, humanity, being unique about..., weird, friends, new technologies, social medias, organizations, networking, internet, divorce, surprises, high places, etc.

Pisces (12°, 24°): spirituality, dreams, 5D, esotericism, astrology, psychic abilities, sleep, drugs, alcohol, addictions, the unconscious, emotions, art, poetry, water, madness, shadow work, endings, etc.

0° degree means either it's the same energy (as the house or sign), either there is nothing much to say.

For me, degrees are still needed when we analysis charts, it's very significant sometimes. For example, my mother has vertex in her 5H, and the degree is 29° (Leo). And the year she got me, her vertex was in Leo, with 29°... I'm Leo sun!

Hope it helped :)

- uyu

#uyuans

261 notes · View notes

xotication · 10 months ago

Note

can we get more on kaneki being an acts of service bf

i thought y'all would get bored of the head cannons but absolutely!!

☆,

kaneki hates when you literally try to do anything by yourself. the man genuinely thinks he should be doing everything for you.

he'll wake up early just to make sure he at least has a small snack or breakfast prepared for you.

when you're going out, he'll ask you what you're gonna wear so he can pull the clothes out of the closet for you.

ken always makes sure to keep two pairs of slides in the back of his car just in case you happen to be wearing an uncomfortable pair of shoes that day.

let's say you guys go out & you happen to get a little bit too drunk; boy is immediately telling everyone that it's time for the two of you to go home...

then he'll just fully throw you over his shoulder & take you all the way to the car, despite you flailing & saying you wanna stay a little bit longer.

when you finally arrive home, you're already knocked out in the passenger seat. he'll carefully lift you & carry you in

& you know damn well he's undressing you & putting you in proper clothing for sleepy time.

"wha- what happened to the party? i wanna party kennie"

"there's no more partying baby, it's time for you to sleep okay?"

"mm, okay." & you'd be knocked in seconds.

chivalry is FAR from dead with this man.

i mean he still pulls out your chair for you & scoots you in

he holds your hands when you're walking up stairs to make sure you don't lose balance.

he does that cute lil thing where if you're bending in front of a counter, he'll put his hand on the edge just so you don't accidentally hit your head.

sometimes ken even fills up your cars tank for the week & gives it a good wash too. just as a little reset for you.

or let's say you're at work, he'll bring you lunch because he has your schedule memorized.

even when you're on your break, he'll call you & ask you if there's anything you want him to bring you.

usually you say no, but on the occasion that you do say yes, kaneki SPEEDING to make sure he gets it to you before your break is over.

sometimes when you get home from being out for the day, he'll help you remove your jewelry (i wear a thousand bracelets sometimes so this is so real)

on days that you happen to maybe want alone time, he'll go to your parents house & ask them if they need help with anything. he's beginning to be a handy man since being with you & your fam appreciates it so much.

ken makes notes to get replacements of some of your makeup products or even your shampoo & conditioner

your friends often ask you how the fuck you trained him..

"idk. he came that way.." "where do i buy one.."

ken randomly gives or sends you money so you can treat yourself to whatever it is you might be wanting that day or week.

the man cooks AND cleans..

you always try to help him but he tells you to sit down, he might as well be a house husband.

you love love love your acts of service bf! >.<

#anime #manga #fanfic #headcannons #kaneki ken #kaneki x reader #tokyo ghoul #fluff #tokyo ghoul re #kaneki

72 notes · View notes

fushipurro · 1 year ago

Text

In the Shadows of Love

Chapter 4 - Debut

<- Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

☆ Content: 18+ MDNI, depression, insecure/intrusive thoughts, angst, mentions of alcohol

☆ Word Count: 7.3k

The day you’ve been dreading has come at last.

The week leading up to now has been miserable to say the least, with one thing happening after another. Not only that, but your sleep has been suffering as well. A few times you struggled to keep your eyes open, and then other moments you powered through the day only to stare wide-eyed at the ceiling begging for sleep to come.

You can only hope the few hours of sleep you did manage to get will be enough for the day to come, and that the bags under your eyes aren’t too noticeable. It’s one thing to be a regular model, but another to handle the business side of it as well. But after today, you’ll have the respite your body craves.

When morning arrives, you take a nice long everything shower to prepare yourself for the day ahead. The rest of your looks are to be handled by professionals on site – makeup included. Hence why all you need to do is come dressed in the epitome of casualwear. You’ll be changing into a dozen outfits throughout the shoot, so no sense in wearing the fanciest your closet as to offer.

A message appears on your phone from the taxi service waiting on you outside. With your purse in hand, you kiss Tsumiki goodbye, and make your way out the building. It’s odd walking around at this time of day, where normally you’re sound asleep while others move to and fro with their lives.

You get to your ride without issue – aka, no neighborly conversations – and settle into the backseat of the car. From there, you keep your eyes to the world around you, silently screaming the longer it takes to get to your destination. At this point you just want to get it over and done with to get back to the sanctity of your home for some much-needed relaxation.

You pity the driver for having to put up with the incessant bouncing of your legs and the tapping of your fingers, but until the day is over, you won’t know peace.

It all feels so much more real once the site of the shoot comes into view. It’s a luscious garden park, packed to the brim with various scenery. You’re able to see the crew hard at work in setting up the area, and even more as the car comes to a stop for you to make your entrance, truly setting the day in motion.

For a while, you weren’t sure who you were even going to be working with today. A part of you hoped it might be Mei Mei, or one of the other female models to help you feel more at ease. Girls stick together, being the motto you cling to, hoping the other party would feel the same about you. You’re told however that you’ll be modeling with none other than the Satoru Gojo.

A legend in this field, a star above them all, like Polaris of the northern skies.

He’s a man with perfectly white hair – which seems like a recurring theme when you look at Mei Mei or her younger brother from the same company – and eyes that put the brilliance of sapphires to shame. The rest is all in his genes and the physique he’s sculpted over years of hard work and discipline.

You’ve been a long-time follower of his on social media, amazed by how effortless he makes modeling appear. His high energy, charismatic personality he shows off online is another appeal. A social butterfly, an extroverted type you sometimes wish you could be like.

By all means, that should make you feel better about working with him today, but you’d argue it makes it that much worse.

Does meeting your heroes ever go well for anyone?

Is it worth potentially ruining the image you’ve cultivated in your head from their online presence versus the actual knowledge you get from meeting them in public?

At the end of the day, who knows? You’re about to find out one way or another, so let’s hope he’s one of the good ones.

They chose a beautiful venue for the magazine, as the park is heavily adorned in trees showcasing the vibrant warm colors autumn has to offer. The main shooting area is set around a large fountain where you can make out all the crisp leaves floating like petals in the spring. Close to the park is a spot in town filled with more historic buildings, works of architectural genius you admire like it’s a game of The Sims. It makes the perfect location for the looks you’ll be showing off.

Your eyes eventually land on none other than your boss/agent/manager – whatever you want to call him, Kento Nanami.

He’s been there for you since day one, acting in whatever role he needs to be for you to succeed in the business. At his side are a few other men and women, nearly all familiar faces from the meetings you’ve had or profile pictures, courtesy of their email accounts.

You approach the group with your hands folded neatly in front of you, trying to discretely rub away the clammy texture of your palms. Handshakes are inevitable, so you might as well be prepared now.

The blond calls out your name as you step closer, “Glad you could make it, we’re almost ready to begin.” His face remains calm, appearing professional as ever, but there’s a hint of a smile surfacing at the edges of his lips.

One of the men in the group stretches his hand out for what you’ve been expecting, and you cautiously oblige. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he states with your name punctuating his words. “I’m Masamichi Yaga, Satoru’s manager. We’re looking forward to working with you today.”

You have to say, while he seemed overly serious and admittedly scary online, and even now in person with his rigid stature, it’s different up close. Seeing him here, shows you that – while serious, yes, there’s a friendly undertone to the man. A panda, one might compare him to. Still classified as a bear with the claws to show for it, but one you could hug and come out unscathed.

You manage to get your words across through shaky breaths, a semblance of your composure, “Thank you, the pleasure is all mine.”

“Satoru hasn’t arrived yet, but you should go and get started with the makeup artist,” Kento informs you. There’s a disgruntled tone in his voice at the mention of the model, and it reminds you of how he sounded during that meeting you were late for at the start of this all.

It’s not often you hear your boss annoyed with someone; another reason you feel lucky to work under him. He’s always fair to you and others, and never the type to berate his fellow employees. Overtime is few and far, one that he has little tolerance for.

“Right away, Mr. Nanami.” You bow to the group, taking your leave with an anxious strut. Once you’re far enough way, you let out the breath you’ve been holding, regaining yourself with a quick calming exercise.

Getting your hair and everything done happens to be one of your favorite parts of modeling. Your biggest task is merely to sit in a chair in silence, letting the artists work you from a blank canvas to a completed piece.

What could be better for someone socially inept?

This wasn’t the usual artist that does your work, so either they’re with the partner agency or some other sponsor judging by the matching brands in their setup. You’re tense as they work, eyes closed and all, with a sense of dread bubbling in your gut.

A pat on your shoulder startles you after some time, jolting you in your seat much to the artist’s dismay. “Hey there! You must be Nanamin’s protégé,” he chirps while bright blue eyes stare eagerly into yours, piercing what feels like straight to your soul.

“Protégé?” you question with a meek sounding tone.

He doesn’t satiate your curiosity on the matter, instead opting to introduce himself, “I’m Satoru, it’s nice to meet you.” The man smiles, taking a seat in the chair next to yours confidently.

“Likewise, looking forward to working with you,” you respond, your eyes unmoving from his direction.

His makeup artist comes over and begins their work, though there’s not much of anything that needs to be done, given how naturally blessed he is in the looks department. There’s not a single speck or blemish that tarnishes his skin, so the most he gets are a few highlights here and there and something to add a bit of a sparkle around his celestial bodies for eyes.

It wouldn’t surprise you if each had their own name depending on his level of vanity. Perhaps Sirius and Regulus would be most suited for him, in your opinion.

Then again, you can also name about four other blue-burning stars off the top of your head. But, since only two lie in front of you, you’ll just have to go with the ones that outshine the rest.

It haunts you that one of your first thoughts meeting him is one built on envy – annoyed that you feel the need to compare your appearance to him. There are a dozen reasons you chose to become a model, none of which involved the crippling self-loathing that comes when it starts to feel like a competition.

May the prettiest one win, some might say.

You wonder that if in another life, if you were born with all the features you desire and deem attractive, if you would be better off. Able to live life without fear of not being enough, never having to second guess yourself in the mirror you so wish to send your fist through on a daily basis.

Would you be happy then?

Would you finally be loved?

Suddenly, your vision meets cyan once more. Shit, how long have you been staring?

“You ever been on a magazine cover before?” he asks, oblivious to the turmoil you face in your head.

Of course not. “No, I haven’t. This is my first time.”

He makes a noncommittal hum in response, and you feel his gaze turning intrusive by the second. Not in a creepy way – no, more like he’s reading you, thinking hard about something unknown to you. “That’s surprising for a protégé of Nanamin… What do you normally do then?”

You aren’t sure whether to question his continuous use of that nickname for your boss or why he believes you to be some apprentice to him, but for now you choose to ignore it, answering, “Commercial modeling, but I do more marketing than anything, really.” Your tone makes it appear as though it’s unimpressive, and sometimes you do feel that way. “More ‘behind the scenes’ work.” You add, shrugging nonchalantly after.

“Wait till this magazine drops, you’ll be getting this many new calls,” he drawls with a show of his hands to emphasize his point.

Your eyes drift away with a subtle roll to them. Yeah, we’ll see about that.

Of the many reasons you became a model, fame and fortune were never the goal either. Sure, being popular enough to maintain a stable influx of opportunities is favorable, but you don’t desire runway status. Cheers to the ones that do want it, but that isn’t you.

Satoru doesn’t push more conversation after. In fact, about a minute later he’s up and out of the chair, all finished with the minimal detailing necessary to make his features pop.

Your artist continues their work for a while after, with a hair stylist now with you as well, and only then were you permitted to finally go and get changed in one of the areas provided for the models.

Of everything today has had to offer so far, the scariest bit has to be the clothing rack, by far. As expected of a high fashion company, what lies on the hangers are nothing short of expensive. One piece of fabric alone costs about as much as a few months’ worth of rent, if that.

You were fitted into the first of several outfits to come, terrified the whole way through if something were to potentially rip and have to come out of your own pocket as punishment. While that’s never happened, there’s a first time for everything. Please don’t be today.

On the way out of the room, you make it your forefront thought to avoid the mirror calling out to you like a siren lulling you to your demise. All it would take is one look to have you ensnared, or rather petrified.Turned to stone by your gaze alone, picking apart every little detail to ruin whatever façade you try and hold for the cameras that await.

Satoru is already at the fountain when you arrive, waving as you fall into his orbital pull. His signature sunglasses do little to hide the glimmer of light behind them, but the smile plastered across his face burns equally bright to compensate anyways.

“Don’t you look nice?” he muses, letting his shades fall further down the bridge of his nose while his head angles down. “That outfit suits you quite a bit.”

Under normal circumstances, a blush might try to form along your face. Maybe if it was Toji –but then we’d be getting off track. The main feeling that plagues you in this moment is that of being out of place; a rock amidst a pile of a perfectly cut diamonds.

Pluto, blending in amongst the other eight planets, yet still shunned if we’re keeping to celestial themes.

At best, you might compare to an opalite crystal. Pretty – yes, but ultimately glass at the end of the day. Your hues can be manipulated, carefully crafted to ascertain a certain degree of beauty. But all it takes is one wrong move to scratch or shatter you and then all that effort was for naught.

A pile of shards no more worthy than dust.

“Nanamin!” The man in front of you bellows out with joy, snapping you from your solemn reverie. He throws his arm over the blond’s shoulders in a casual manner, eliciting a groan from the latter. “It’s been too long! Why don’t you come around more often?”

“It’s been one week, Gojo.” His response is monotone, and his arms are kept folded in front of his chest as he tries to maintain an air of indifference.

“Aww, come on, don’t be like that.” Satoru visibly frowns, puffing out his cheeks.

Choosing to ignore more of his bantering, Kento’s attention turns to you while simultaneously addressing the other, “If you’re both ready, we can get started.”

The moment of truth.

You give him a thumbs up and a forced smile better described as a fine line. Kento shrugs himself off Satoru, stepping close enough to place a hand over your shoulder with a reassuring grip. “Try to relax, and do your best,” he nearly whispers with a fatherly tone melding within his words, “You’re more than ready for this.”

And with that, the photoshoot officially begins.

With a few calming breaths later and those words of assurance playing back in your head, your façade is up and at the ready the moment the cameras start flashing.

Pose after pose, you work in tangent with Satoru while the crew fires off their instructions for the perfect photos. His playfulness is still apparent ─ albeit reigned in. It’s now more in a way that comes across as him wanting to get a reaction out of you. Like he knows you have a proverbial mask on, playing it off as stoicism. Maybe those eyes see more than you realize.

Of course he’s not only good looking, but an exceptional model to match. He doesn’t need to try so hard to give the people what they want. Compliments are showered upon him, yet narcissism doesn’t appear to be a high point in his personality when it all-too-easily could.

Rather, he seems more uncaring to the simple words of praise. Finding more joy in doing whatever feels best in the moment with unrivaled confidence.

You don’t mean to sound bitter and cold. Jealousy just so happens to be an emotion so deeply rooted that if you try to pry it away, it would be no different than grasping a bed of thorns with the palms of your hands. A weed that you can never fully eradicate.

All you want is to feel happy ─ pretty, not so much wanted as a desire to be enough.

It’s easy to be affected by the words of others. For every bit of kindhearted justification you hear, it’s one step towards helping you be able to tell yourself the same things. To get to a point where you can finally feel satisfied with yourself. To never have to ask if you’re even worthy of being alive when you feel so lacking.

That’s why when the cameras come on, you envision exactly what it is you so desperately wish to be. A picture speaks a thousand words. If so, then you hope the ones from today tell the story you dream about in your head each night as you drift away to sleep.

Modeling for you was always about finding that confidence in yourself. To see yourself in the eyes of others, proving that by having this title in life, you can make it a reality that perhaps yes, you are pretty.

You can be anything and everything you want to be.

The action carries on throughout the day with intermittent breaks in between outfit changes and other touchups to your hair and makeup. You have your moments of conversation with the marketing team and crew, sometimes making more effort to discuss what needs to be done over actually utilizing the short bit of time to rest and recoup.

Contrary to what might be popular belief, as a model ─ you aren’t there to stand and look pretty for the cameras. You’re not there to stand for a total of five minutes and then go home rich. It’s dedication and hard work to present the perfect image of yourself for the rest of the world to see.

You may be there waging one-sided wars in your head the entire time, but you still put your all into what you do. Perfection is a journey with an impossible destination, but nevertheless, it’s still the path you’ll traverse.

At the end of the day when the skies morph into a lovely collage of orange and pink hues and the final few photos are taken, you return to the dressing room to shed the covers of imitated beauty. Before that happens, you make the mistake of letting the mirror pull you in, too exhausted to otherwise fight the Damocles sword that hangs right there waiting.

The reflection in the glass is indeed you, but at the same time it’s not. A stranger in your own skin. More likely what the cameras outside were capturing away. The performance you gave that stemmed from a number of fantasies for all the “what if?” life scenarios.

She’s beautiful, you think, admiring the glow of her skin from the sheen of sweat.

Like lipstick on a pig, another half of you cackles, burning holes in all your self-deemed imperfections.

The makeup’s not bad like you originally thought it might be, but it’s also not your usual preference, and greatly overdone. Almost like an attempt to paint you anew. A coverup to an already stained canvas.

Nothing you do is ever enough to vanquish the perpetual tempest that encircles your mind, trapping you beneath torrential thoughts of insecurities. Telling yourself in the mirror you’re pretty doesn’t do anything either, not when you can’t bring yourself to believe it. To you, that’s just one big lie and you can’t stand liars.

It’s even worse when the clothes come off and it’s now just you in your natural form. A cruel reminder to the lengths you have to go to feel redeemable. Even if you told yourself earlier that luxury isn’t you, it sure does a good job at making you feel like someone you’re not. Sometimes that’s a refreshing change.

You eventually finish changing back into the clothes you arrived in, exiting the room with your phone in hand. Your sanctuary awaits, and you’re more than ready to get back to the only place you find solace in. You’re quickly reminded that fate is a fickle thing, always weaving you in a web of red string when you hear the calling of your name. The sound draws your attention upwards to the ever-cheerful man skipping your way.

“Yo!” Satoru waves to you gleefully. “What do you think about going out to celebrate our first gig together over some drinks?” he inquires with expectant eyes that border on looks a puppy might give.

Confusion bubbles up, mixing with your avoidant nature to make a cocktail poisonous only to you if you allow it. Why would someone like him want to go out with someone like you?

“That’s okay, I’m sure you must be tired after today,” is what you respond with. Not a total lie, but it gives you a way out even if it means drinking from the tainted cup of emotions.

“Nonsense, I could keep going for hours!” he refutes with never faltering amusement. “Think about it!” he further begs, with the front of his hands pressed together. “I invited some others too, so it’ll be a whole group of fun!”

Why did I even agree to this…

You’ve been following slightly behind Satoru for several blocks on aching feet from a day of standing in heels. Trying to keep up with his long-legged strides proves difficult, but not impossible. The sunset skies have dimmed, now replaced by the neon lights of the downtown area. It has its beauty, but it can’t compare to the lights of the natural sky.

He stops abruptly in front of a brick building, almost causing you to crash into him. “We’re here!” he cheers, all while you’re immediately taken aback by the sign hanging above the doorway: Star Plasma.

Toji’s workplace.

Your neighbor’s been on your mind sporadically throughout the day. Between Kento’s words and that of Toji’s from the week prior, they’ve helped to keep you afloat in a river of self-loathing.

Inside the club, you’re met with various velvet-lined booths in every direction and a crowd of people filling the space. At the center lies a large, oval-shaped bar too swarmed with patrons to make out if Toji is among the ones working this very night.

The atmosphere and overall design of the place bear a resemblance to that of a strip club, although it lacks the trademark poles on stages deemed for entertainment. That section is occupied with instruments currently not in use. There are some other rooms in the back, but their designated uses remain unknown at this time.

“Over here!” Satoru calls out your name, reminding you of why you’re here to begin with.

He leads the way back to a booth where two others sit in waiting. One is man heavily adorned in ink from what you can make out. His long, silky black hair is half tied up in a bun that reveals the large piercings settled in his ears. The other is a woman with mid-length brown hair and familiar shades of purple beneath her eyes, evident of a lack of sleep you know all too well. She nestles a glass in her hand, its contents another mystery to you.

The two of them you recognize from posts on Satoru’s instagram, but anything more eludes you as their profiles are set to private.

Satoru scoots in next to the man and their lips greet each other. “Who’s your new friend?” The black-haired one questions, looking you over with a curious eye. You aren’t sure how to act, and thus are awkwardly standing at the edge of the booth.

“The model I was working with today,” Satoru introduces with a telling of your name. His hands raise to gesture to those at his side. “This is Suguru, my boyfriend, and our third wheel, Shoko!”

“Your third wheel wants another drink, Satoru,” she scoffs, flashing an empty glass in front of his face. “These are going on your tab for being late, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Satoru waves her off, placing his focus back on you. “What do you want to drink?”

“Oh, uh–“ Now you look even more awkward than before. “I’ve never had alcohol so I’m not sure…” Your voice lowers gradually by the end of your sentence.

The three look to you with equal levels of shock. “Leave it to me then!” He beams, pressing a fist to his chest. He slips out of the booth making his way to the bar.

You watch him leave before feeling a hand tugging at your wrist. “Come on, sit down!” Shoko beckons, urging you to sit at her side. You take her up on it, fidgeting with your hands underneath the table to ease the nerves. It’s been years at least since you last had a sit-down like this outside of work. How are you supposed to act?

“It’s nice to meet you,” Suguru breaks the ice with Shoko following in turn with the same greeting.

Your body involuntarily tenses up as you become aware to how their eyes are examining you. “Y-yeah, nice to meet you as well.”

“Satoru doesn’t typically invite coworkers out, have you two known each other for long?” the man interrogates, though his demeanor is rather friendly. If anything, there’s more of a protective hint to his words.

While shaking your head, you reply, “No, we just met earlier today.”

“Word of advice ─ run,” Shoko snickers, earning a disapproved glare from Suguru. “I’m kidding,” she follows up, drawing out her words playfully. “But seriously, don’t be afraid to tell him ‘no’ to anything you’re not comfortable with. He can be a lot to someone not used to him, but he means well.”

Now this is a perfect example of one of those girls you know you can rely on to have your back. You don’t have any issues with Satoru, but it still makes you happy to feel like someone’s looking out for you.

It wasn’t long after that Satoru returns, skillfully balancing several drinks in hand. Sake for Suguru, whiskey for Shoko, a very colorful ─ no doubt fruit flavored cocktail for himself given the smell, and lastly, a margarita for you. The group demands a small toast “To friendship!” Satoru remarks before your glasses all meet in the middle.

One by one, they each take sips from their respective cups while you’re more occupied with swirling the thin straw around your drink. The smell is…unique, more pungent than anything. If you close your eyes, it almost smells like lemonade which you can enjoy, until that first sip hits your tongue.

Then it’s just harsh and bitter instead of sour or sweet.

The three watch in earnest at your first step into the world of alcohol, remembering their own experiences while your face scrunches up in disgust. Shoko pats your back soothingly to help you through the coughing fit as it took everything in you to not gag and embarrass yourself.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the taste the more you drink,” Satoru muses. But honestly, how does anyone like this stuff, let alone to come back for more? “I invited Nanamin too, but he turned me down by saying he’s busy like always,” he adds with an obvious pouty face.

Shoko sighs, “Did you forget how much of a workaholic he is?”

“Speak for yourself, but you still came!” he retorts with a simpering smile.

She then points an accusative finger at him. “I’m not turning down alcohol, especially when you’re footing the bill.”

“Oh, is that right?” he sarcastically replies, “Don’t act like you don’t love us, Sho.”

“Even if Heaven and Earth turned upside down–“

“Now, now,” Suguru intervenes like that of a scolding mother. “Let’s not frighten off our new friend here.”

The two mumble apologies even though you can’t help the joy that bubbles up. Being a third or fourth wheel can have its issues at times ─ namely if you’re being excluded from the group ─ but sitting back and watching them banter away is plenty enjoyable for you.

One comment they made however caught your attention. “You guys know Mr. Nanami?”

“Sure do!” Satoru chirps, more than happy you asked. “The four of us went to school together and after graduation, Nanamin and I ended up in the modeling business. It wasn’t until a few years ago he decided to take up a managing role. Not sure why, he was doing just fine.” He shrugs.

Disbelief hits you like a high-tide wave. “He was a model?”

“You didn’t know?” Your question apparently astonishes him. He pulls his phone out, swiping through it a few times before passing it to you from across the table. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, what with you being his protégé and all.”

“I don’t know about protégé, but…” your voice trails off as you examine the pictures. Sure enough, these photos are indeed your boss, varying from tourism magazines to modeling business suits from highly reputable designers.

The notion that he was a model isn’t farfetched; it’s a thought that’s crossed your mind a dozen times given his handsome looks. Having the confirmation now with physical proof to back it up has your mouth held agape at the newfound information.

“He never mentioned any of this to me before,” you murmur.

“I’m not shocked,” Suguru chimes in. “Kento’s always been more reserved when it comes to himself.”

“Are you two in the industry as well?” You direct your question to Suguru and Shoko who look back with raised eyebrows that border on amusement.

Satoru decides to be the one to answer in place, “Nope! Suguru here is a tattoo artist, and Shoko’s a doctor.”

Suddenly, the plethora of tattoos make a whole lot more sense. That, and Shoko’s eyebags. Your eyes wander to the art you can see around the revealed sections of the upper half of his body. They range from subtle beauty to grotesque in nature, the majority being creatures straight out of folklore but more imaginative ─ the product of nightmares, more or less.

The trail of ink stops just short of his jawline, but that alone leads into how he styles himself with piercings. There are the obvious black pearls on the lobes, but he also has one right through his eyebrow. As he speaks, there’s even a glint of one on his tongue and who knows where else.

“Like what you see?” Suguru purrs and your eyes snap up to meet his golden-brown gaze. He tries to show off more from his arms, as much as his current clothes will allow, and your favorite might have to be the rainbow dragon stretching from his neck to somewhere beneath his shirt.

You retreat to your drink, only for the bitter taste to remind you of its existence. “Y-yeah, they look really nice,” you tell him with the hint of a blush.

Shoko takes to lightly smacking his shoulder, falling into the effects alcohol has to offer. “Looks like you finally found a fan of your twisted style, Suguru.”

“Hey, what about me?” Satoru frowns, wanting some of his own attention from you. “What did you think about today? Those clothes were great, huh? I might have to buy some for later.”

Your eyes can’t help but fall to your lap as the memory resurfaces of your earlier turmoil. You’ll admit that it went better than expected, and you’re glad it’s over with now, but as always, you’re left to deal with the aftermath of the storm.

“You looked amazing!” You exclaim, and you’re not at all lying. “Perfect for the magazine.” Him, not you.

“Right? I loved that outfit you had on–“

Satoru continues to talk but there’s a buzz that forms in your ears, separate from the music of the club that keeps you from understanding anything other than your own mind. It feels as though your stomach is being twisted into knots and the earlier tension hits you in full once again.

You still don’t understand why they wanted you so bad for this, and to pair you up with such a highly regarded model.

Your follower count is nothing close to his; you’re practically a nobody. It could have been done out of pity, those two are friends after all. Maybe it could’ve been a way to shame you, to prove to you that–

“Helloooo?”

“Huh? Sorry?”

“There you are, almost thought the alcohol finally started to get to you.” Satoru smirks, leaning back in his seat. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go use the restroom.” You force a smile as you stand, picking a random direction to walk in. “I’ll be right back!”

Your back’s turned before they even have a chance to respond. It took a bit of searching, but eventually you found the bathroom, slipping your way inside. You can’t help but idle in front of the mirror, staring at yourself in the reflection. There are some stray hairs to tame and running makeup to fix, but all in all, you aren’t sure what else you have left to feel.

It's likely all the lack of sleep is finally catching up on you. Being overly exhausted never does any favors as the tired mind can be quite cruel, hence you teetering on the edge of breaking down in tears.

At least when you return home to Tsumiki you’ll feel better. Your sweet little girl that helps give you a reason to keep going despite it all. The earnings from this photoshoot will do nicely in affording some fresh new toys to pamper her with, and you find yourself growing impatient to see her.

You leave the bathroom with a more freshened mind and a goal in sight, but you’re stopped short of your return to the booth when your name is called in a familiar baritone tune. Its source ─ your one and only neighbor, perched over the counter, shining away at some crystal.

“Hi Toji,” you greet, coming up to the empty barstool in front of him. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

You also didn’t expect to see how polished he looks while on the job. Here, you find him in black dress pants, a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, some silver hardware, and half his bangs smoothed back. If it weren’t for him being behind the counter all dolled, you’d peg him as a bouncer the way his muscles are straining.

“Should’ve told me you wanted to come by, I’d have offered a ride.”

“Oh, I’m actually with a group right now.” You look towards your booth where Satoru has his hands in the air, wildly gesturing for whatever they’re conversing about.

Toji follows your eyes with recognition. “Ah, that kid,” he teases, acting as if he’s not right there in age with all of you. “Had me make that unicorn jungle juice shit for him. How he’s not overdosing on sugar is beyond me.” He rolls his eyes before meeting yours once again.

His quick-witted tongue leaves you giggling, proving to be just what you needed to relax. “Yeah, he invited me here after we finished that photoshoot I mentioned before, and I couldn’t exactly say no, so…here I am.” You laugh again, but it’s a tad bit dry, given your state of exhaustion.

Looking at him now after the day you’ve had, you find it far too easy to get lost in his green gaze. While there’s no good star you could compare them to, the Earth around you is all you need. From luscious forests to precious metals, jades and emeralds might be the best metaphors. Malachite on the other hand offers a uniqueness suited for this one-of-a-kind man.

They scan you intently, bordering on the same look a Nikon camera offers. A shutter comes in the form of blinks, capturing you to store away in his memory for as long as he can.

“That was today, huh?” He pauses, green ripples softening as pools of black spread outwards. “How’d it go?”

Words are lost on you as you try and piece together what to tell him. A small sliver of you wants to be honest when he’s proven to be a good listener, but you also think he gets enough of that on the job.

“It was…good? Busy, mostly,” you reply, keeping it short and sweet. You can’t imagine how many drunkards come spilling their guts, expecting him to act as their therapist. You don’t want to bring any unnecessary stress to him when he’s trying to pay the bills like anyone else.

“Yeah?” Another patron interrupts before he can continue, forcing Toji to make his order, but not without some cursing spilling from under his breath. When he returns to you, he loses that tension, leaning his forearms against the counter. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you at first when you were walkin’ by.”

“Because of all the makeup, I guess?” you huff, “Yeah, it’s bad–“

“It’s good,” he cuts you off mid-sentence and you feel your breath hitch. “Different than your usual, but not bad. Not like you need all that to begin with,” he continues without so much as missing a beat, leading you suck your lips inwards in a coy manner.

Toji looks satisfied as he flashes you a pearly white canine beneath his crooked grin. “I take it you’re celebrating then, what did that brat get for you?”

You chuckle at his feigned hostility towards Satoru, knowing full well he’s only kidding around. “I think he said it’s a margarita. I’m not sure though, it’s my first-time drinking.”

His reaction is a lot less surprised than the other three. “How do you like it?”

You snort, “Not great, if I’m being honest. I don’t know how anyone can stomach it.”

“Tell me about it,” he scoffs, raising a hand to gesture in disbelief before dropping it back to the counter with a small thud. “Can’t stand that shit.”

“Huh?” You stare at him, taken aback.

He raises an eyebrow at you in response. “What?”

“Nothing,” you breathe. “Just wondering why you’re a bartender if you hate alcohol that much.”

“Gotta pay the bills somehow, doll.” He winks, the smirk of his returning for a hot second. “If you want, I can make you somethin’ that’s easier to swallow?”

You’re hesitant, but ultimately willing to trust the man and give it a go. “Sure, I’d like that.”

Toji now has a goal in mind to impress you, making this worth your while so that maybe you’ll come back another night.

He reaches under the bar, pulling out an assortment of supplies, gauging what he knows of you to make the perfect drink. You can’t help but be mesmerized by how he mixes everything, verging on being a showoff about it too, but overall similar to how a hibachi grill might perform for patrons.

The difference is, this one is all for you, made special by him.

He empties the contents into a tall, narrow glass, topping it off with a tiny umbrella of your favorite color and a few extra slices of your favorite fruit along the rim. “Enjoy, sweetheart.” He winks again, sliding the liquid potion your way with deft fingers. His confidence is apparent, believing in his skills.

The suddenness of hearing “sweetheart” from the man no doubt has your face feeling warm, complimented by the color of the drink. There’s still some hesitation as you lift it to your mouth, but after one taste, you admit that it’s not so bad ─ better even, compared to the previous concoction. Any tinge of alcohol your palate detects is washed away thanks to the fruity aftertaste and whatever else he threw in.

“So?” he drawls, eager to hear what he already knows is sweet victory.

“It’s…good, I like it, actually,” you tell him with a smile, enjoying another sip after. “What do I owe you for it?”

“For you?” He leans closer, his grin widening. “On the house. Don’t worry about cost tonight.”

“Toji, you cannot keep doing this for me!” you argue, attempting to pull out your wallet when his hand stops you right in your tracks.

“Too bad,” his voice drops to a smooth, gravely tone. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing. “It’s my treat for your celebration,” he chuckles.

You pout. “You’re going to have to let me treat you sometime, you know.” At this rate, you’re going to have to start keeping a list for everything you wish to pay him back for since he won’t ever let you win.

As good of a feeling as it is to be pampered like this, you also don’t want to keep burdening him. It doesn’t matter if he’s the one always offering his kindness, you don’t want him to feel like he has to ─ that you’re not capable of doing this for yourself.

“Your presence is enough of a treat,” he reassures, “The kid would agree with me.”

In a way, that sounds like Toji actually enjoys spending time with you. In reality, that is exactly what he said, but the thought of someone like him and even his son wantingsomeone like you around is nearly impossible to fathom. Unless of course this is the alcohol already taking affect on your processing and hearing…

Your presence is a treat.

You are wanted.

…That’s what he said.

“Toji! Come here for a sec!” a younger employee at the other end of the bar calls out, earning a grunt from the one in front of you.

“Shit, guess fun time’s over,” he huffs. “If you need anythin’ else, you know where to find me, pretty girl.”

“Thanks, Toji.” You grin appreciatively. “I’ll see you around then.”

“Oh, hey,” he calls out your name as step off from your seat. “Tell me when you’re leavin’, okay? I’ll drive you home.”

You nod in return as you take your leave back to the booth. The trio keeps their eyes on you like ravenous hyenas as you settle back in.

“Soooo,” Satoru drawls with a cheshire grin growing wider by the second. “You wanna tell us what that was about?”

“What?” you question, oblivious to what he means.

“You and the bartender?” he snickers, “The two of you were lookin’ pretty friendly together.”

Shoko scoots closer, noticeably more relaxed and swaying. Her arm wraps around your shoulder, failing an attempt with whispering in your ear, “If you see an opportunity, take it! I can see the heart eyes from here.” Her eyebrows wiggle with a knowing look.

“I-It’s not like that!” you stammer. But is it really? Oh, who are you kidding. It’s becoming harder and harder to deny that you aren’t feeling something for your neighbor. “We live next-door to each other is all,” you mumble, feeling coy.

“Ooh, neighbors to lovers?” Satoru’s gaze inadvertently meets Toji’s from afar before drifting back to yours all full of smug. “Can’t blame you, he is a looker.”

“Satoru.” His teasing laugh turns into a fake yelp when the back of Suguru’s hand meets his chest to reprimand him.

“What, am I wrong? He’s not as good looking as you though, Sugu,” he purrs, lowering his head to the man, bringing a kiss to his cheeks.

“That’s better,” Suguru remarks, casually sipping on his sake.

“Alright, cool it, lover boys,” Shoko sighs, silencing them. She leans her head in your direction, trying to get a better look at the face you’re trying oh so hard to hide. She brushes a few hairs hiding your eyes and you see her own that hold the look of a hungry predator, itching to pounce and sink her teeth into something juicy. In this case ─ your love life. “Tell us everything.” She enunciates each syllable, growing impatient by the second.

“Well…”

☆ Notes: damn the updated version of this is way more fucking depressing LOL I couldn’t help myself but hey, I have PLANS

I guess now would be a good time for me to point out ages so reader would be really early 20s, sashisho + kento and all them mid 20s and then toji just a smidge older, but not too late in the 20s. I just don’t feel like putting established ages on anyone besides the kids since that matters for whatever grade they’re in (ignoring how 6 year old/1st grader megumi is already super independent and talkative)

Originally, I gave Suguru a scar tattoo on his forehead for obvious reasons (not that he is or ever was kenjaku in the OG), but in the restructured version I decided to retcon that bit. I like the idea I see people do instead with kenjaku as an evil twin, but idk if I’ll make that a plot point at this time.

as far as his other tattoos go, i like to imagine it's all styled after the cursed spirits he absorbs in an ukiyo-e style!

#jjk #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk toji #jjk au #toji x female reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji zenin #toji x you #gojo satoru #model!reader #geto suguru #shoko ieiri #nanami kento

86 notes · View notes