#that probably needs a fresh name but for now

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Looks like I haven't. Okay, well, let's see. I'll just give highlights, but it'll be long, so let's do a readmore.

So, in mid-2022, I dared to age past about 35 and therefore started withering bodily. Of course, this is partly my fault, because I do not get enough exercise, but also (shakes fist at uncaring universe, pulls muscle in fist) Life Hates Me

So, I started getting muscle pain between the shoulder blades. In my case, this is actually one of those annoying to-avoid-one-disability-you-created-another things, because I've had problems with my lower back since I was in my mid-20s thanks to never using proper lumbar support. Therefore, my standard spot to be in my living room became the sofa that stretches away from the TV, because then I could lie on the sofa and prop my head up on the arm to watch, but that means I spent several years as a recreational candy cane and NOW HERE WE ARE. I remember desperately trying to find a massage therapist that could see me that day before I went away to Edinburgh in August that year, and there was nowhere at all available. I had to get one in Edinburgh when I arrived, which was lovely, but also about £20 more expensive, because Edinburgh.

And then! In November! Of 2022!

I must have wished really hard. Because around the corner from my house - so close I could forward roll that distance, if it weren't for, you know (gestures at body, pulls muscle in arm)... a massage parlour opened.

Except. Here's the thing.

It had a name like "Swansea Oriental Massage" or "Thai Lotus Massage" or what have you (real name not given for privacy reasons.) The kind of name that makes you go "Ah. An independent business, likely staffed by workers fresh from abroad, with a name that implies exotic women to a certain type of client. This may be entirely what it claims, but it definitely Fits a Profile."

And to be clear, I have no issues at all with it being a brothel! I truly, genuinely don't. But for obvious reasons, I do want to know if I'm booking a session with a masseuse or a sex worker, because those are very different types of happy endings.

So Steff and I tried looking them up, which became almost a game in itself. We were like "Right. It has a legitimate-looking website that offers three different types of massage: Swedish, Chinese and deep tissue, complete with a disclaimer that deep tissue is not recommended unless you have good pain tolerance. A brothel would probably use more euphemisms, right? Intimate massage, full personal, that sort of thing. But maybe those are euphemisms?"

And then we'd be like "We have found a review. It says 'Very relaxing, beautiful girl.' That could either be a clumsily worded review from a gross orientalist marvelling about the massage, or it could be a subtle nod to them being sex workers."

And we went back and forth for weeks, until in the end I was like, no, enough. I am in pain. There must be someone, in any brothel, who can give a genuine massage - if you hide behind the phrase 'massage parlour', you MUST get people turning up occasionally looking for a back, neck and shoulders. It's the seamstress/needlewoman thing in Pratchett. They must be able to go 'Tracy, this one's for you.' That's who I need. I need Tracy. I need to be able to enter and go "Trace, what it is, it's my neck - no, no, Trace, leave your clothes on. Or, don't, I don't know your process. At this point I don't care. You know what? You do you. Mash my neck, don't worry about the happy ending."

(Well, unless it's reasonably priced as an add-on. I'm bisexual and I love a bargain.)

So one particularly painful day I thought fuck it, and I rang to book.

It did not clear anything up.

"Hello!" I said, when the lovely woman on the phone answered. In the interests of avoiding embarrassment on all sides, I decided to be Very Clear. "I currently have pain in my neck and shoulders, so I'm after a massage."

"Of course!" said the nice lady. "When would you like?"

"Tonight?" I asked. "About seven? If you can fit me -"

"Of course!" she beamed. "We will see you at seven!"

And she hung up. That was it. She did not take my name, or anything further; there was no indication as to how I would make sure I could, you know, actually claim the appointment on arrival. That was it.

"Hmm," I thought.

And then the phone rang. I picked up.

"I forgot to ask!" said the woman. "Do you want a male or a female?"

This, I thought, could still very much go either way.

"Well," I said. "I don't mind. As it's for getting knots out, I suppose -"

"Ah!" she said delightedly. "A male! See you later!"

And she hung up again.

"Hmm," I thought.

And so it was that I went to the massage parlour that evening, still none the wiser, waved off by my husband telling me to take the happy ending if it's offered, because he didn't mind at all and didn't want me to feel unsatisfied. This was very kind, but also qualifies for a "He's a little confused but he's got the spirit" meme, because I cannot tell you how little I was thinking about sex and how much I was thinking about the Gordian situation in my trapezoids and the way it was making me move like a T-rex.

Anyway. I was met by a lovely man who took me to a private room, gave me a towel, and told me to call him in once I was undressed and settled on the bed. This I duly did.

And then, what followed ended up being an hour and a quarter of the best massage I have ever had in my entire fucking LIFE.

I paid for an hour, to be clear. But this guy put his hands on my shoulders, frowned, said "Hmm," and then proceeded to work me over like I was meat for a tenderiser. It wasn't sexual. I just ceased being a person in his eyes. I was just muscles to him. Flesh to sculpt. I became a personal challenge. I watched as he passed into a state of intensive hyperfocus, time slipping away from us. He was like a fucking truffle pig after those knots, Tumblrs. He found every one. I could literally hear them clicking as he pressed them.

It was also, and I cannot stress this enough, the closest I have ever come to achieving enlightenment. There were points where I thought I was no longer in residence. I think I purred.

Eventually, he remembered the time, and left so I could get dressed. Then he sat me down in a chair and spent a final bonus ten minutes on my neck and shoulders, during which we chatted. His UK name is Chris (it's not, but both his real UK and Chinese names are here redacted for obvious privacy reasons), and he told me all about how he wanted to be an architect, and how his parents were hoping he would go back to China but he likes Wales and wants to stay, and which is the best Cantonese restaurant in Swansea. It was great. Transcendent experience. I walked out pain-free for the first time in months. He told me to drink water because it would remove the toxins the massage might have unleashed, and I thought that is not true, Chris, but I will do it for you.

I got home. "It's not a brothel!" I told my waiting husband and friends. "It's a legitimate massage parlour!"

"Hurrah!" they all said. "Perhaps we should get massages too."

And so, I went weekly. One time he had to reschedule, and so I received a message saying "Hello, this is Chris the massage boy", which is the most endearing sentence anyone has ever said to me, just absolutely delightful. Such a nice guy.

And then, one day, Steff thought maybe he'd go and get a massage.

And; well.

It turns out, Tumblrs, I had drawn a conclusion from too few datapoints; it turns out, Tumblrs, if you are male, in addition to the Swedish/Chinese/deep tissue options, you also get to order off the Forbidden Menu.

I had been ushered into a room where I was given a towel, and Chris would leave and only return once I was under the towel on the bed, so that he never saw a thing. But the first major difference we discovered was that, when Steff arrived, he was taken to a room and the woman who took him in then watched him expectantly until he stripped naked in front of her.

He did so, and got on the bed. She said, "Do you want two hands? Four hands? I can bring someone in."

"Oh," said Steff. "Um. Just a massage, please."

She stared at him.

"But," she said. "You don't want...?"

She mimed, very graphically, the act of wanking him off.

"No thanks," said Steff, voice getting higher.

"No??" she said, dumbstruck.

"Just a massage, please!" squeaked Steff.

They stared at each other.

"Okay," she said after a moment. "Okay."

She gave him the massage. It was very good. He's been back a few times. He's offered the menu every time. Every time, they are baffled by his refusal.

And then tragedy struck after almost a year - Chris the massage boy became Chris the no-longer-massage boy and moved away to Cardiff. Devastating. Horrifying. I was inconsolable for months. Why do bad things happen to good people.

Which meant I started seeing the other workers there. I don't think I've ever seen the same one twice, so immediately, there's an issue of never getting to a point with anyone where they know how much pressure I like/can take or anything like that; but also, every damn one of them has been a waif of a girl I could bench press with one hand with no ability to do a proper deep tissue massage.

Mostly, this has not been a problem. They do very nice massages regardless, though it turns out they really do just wait for you to get naked in front of them, and Chris was very much an outlier in that regard. But a few months back I did get one who checked the file they apparently had on me, and got out her language translation app on her phone, and spoke into it. In English it read, "You want me to go hard? Deep?"

"Well," I said. "Just on my back, if possible?"

Her phone translated what I said into Chinese, for her to read. She nodded, and said something back, and held up the phone.

"My me is very small," it read. "But I will try."

And then what she did, Tumblrs, was channel every ounce of rage and hatred and inter-generational trauma for the British that she possessed in her heart straight into into her hands and, by extension, my me. Have you ever seen someone, like, scrub at a bloodstain that won't come out, and is going to send them to prison? Ever seen someone scrub so hard and so fast and so desperately that they start grating off their own fingertips, and yet they just keep scrubbing? Ever seen someone scrub like their life might literally be depending on it?

How I still have skin baffles me. I'm astonished she didn't buff off every mole on my back. She fucking pummelled me. And the worst part was, she didn't let up once she moved away from my back and down my legs, and I couldn't communicate that she was now going far too hard, because she didn't speak English and her magic phone app was put away, and also I'm a wimp who never tells tradespeople when I'm unhappy. It was an endurance session. I paid her £30 for it, and thanked her once she was done.

Anyway. All this brings me to today.

So I managed to jar my back by falling off a Ninja Warrior cheese-shaped board just before New Year, which, naturally, jarred right between my shoulder blades. Super painful, now passed, but the stiffness has remained and seems reluctant to leave; so, I thought, it's massage time.

And

Well

I think that was the worst massage I've ever had from that brothel.

Not bad as in painful! It was not bad as in "This is actively painful." But it has never been clearer that this girl was a sex worker cosplaying as a massage therapist, and was sort of guessing at what to do.

Like, she started on my back, and normally that's the focus of a massage. I would say you normally get about two thirds of the session on your back. Not so today. Today, in a half hour session, she spent maybe five minutes, if that, just loosely running her hands up and down my back. Just loosely. Sort of skimming her hands over the skin, if you will. A sort of extended stroke, like I was a flighty Thoroughbred.

Then she moved on, whereupon she she spent, conservatively, about TEN FULL MINUTES on the backs of my legs. Some of that was doing a sort of pressing pinch, where she was squeezing big handfuls of flesh. Some of it was a massage stroke. And the rest of it - quite a lot of it, actually - was her attempting that thing where massage therapists do the smacking with the sides of their hands, but she hadn't understood it, so it was actually about ten minutes of being softly but rigorously karate chopped on the thighs and calves.

(No overlapping strokes, mind. I appreciated the transferrable skills on display.)

Next, she told me to turn over, so I did. At this point, she attempted to put a towel over me. I'm unsure why, since I was bollock naked and had been the whole time; perhaps she wanted me to stay warm? I don't think it can have been for modesty, though, at least not entirely, because I KNOW the kitty cat was not wholly covered. I think there was a good centimetre or two of labia poking out the base, two happy little hills, peeping out at the room as the session progressed.

And progress it did, but with one change - she used absolutely zero oil to do my front. From this point onwards, this encounter was was done dry. That is probably making some of you wince, but honestly, it actually wasn't that bad, for reasons of there was very little massaging that actually required it from here on out.

She sort of pulled on my fingers first of all. Really very firmly too, one of them clicked. She started with my left arm, and pulled every finger in turn; then she raised my hand up above my elbow, pressed her thumbs into the centre, and then quite literally punched my palm. Then she laid the arm back down, held my shoulder down with one hand, and then used her other hand to grab my arm at different points to sort of half squish it, half grind it into the bed. And then she yanked on my shoulder, karate chopped a bit more on my forearm, and then that was it for Arm 1. Arm 2 was much of the same, except she added in a fun lil move where she sort of waved it about a bit from the shoulder a couple of times.

Then she went back to my legs. No more oil, so she sort of half-heartedly prodded and karate chopped my shins a bit, but to be honest I don't think her heart was in it by then.

But THEN she had a brainwave, so the last five to ten minutes were an attempt at a face massage.

Except when I say a face massage, I mean:

Well; she started well?

She did the fingertips on the temples, thumbs on the forehead, rotate gently thing, which lasted maybe 15 to 20 seconds. But then she got bored, I suspect, so she smooshed my cheeks a bit and rotated them vigorously like a cartoon character. And then she decided that I carry my stress in my forehead, so she started gently pinching my eyebrows and spider walking her fingertips left and right across them. And then she massaged my forehead for a moment

and then

she went back to karate chopping. On my forehead. Where my skull is. Repeatedly.

And like, don't get me wrong - it didn't hurt. But there's only so pleasurable and relaxing you can find "softly yet rapidly struck on the head in a rain of blows for two minutes straight."

Also, and I probably should have led with this, but she had her tits out the whole time.

Anyway it's my favourite place to go for a massage. I mean I now have to go somewhere else tonight to get my back sorted, admittedly, because I in fact carry my stress in the shoulders and not the eyebrows and they were the least attended part of me. But absolutely 10 out of 10 experience, no regrets.

Search is turning up nothing, but that's Tumblr even if there is something, so:

Have I told you guys about my many adventures with the brothel massage parlour around the corner from my house yet?

[kiweegamez]

Hypnofury (May redesign. + Colour Alts)

MY DUMBASS REALISED I NEVER EVEN PUT THE LORE IN ARTFIGHT, SO YIPPEE. Also it was very similar to Toothless?

Ok so you may think the measurements are insane, look at Toothless for ref, this variant is slightly bigger than him.

So the Hypnofury, a variant in close relation to the Nightfury. Hypnofuries were said to reside with Flightmares when this was less than likely as this one had been seen fighting with Flightmare on sight. Hypnofuries are critically endangered there’s probably like 20 left. Yet they are no where near each other, being scattered everywhere.

They seem to reside in darker forest or cave areas, easily attracted by glowing algae. This one is a female. If seen next to a male, the difference is that the males are wider and smoother having less prominent fins. This species is extremely female dominant so it would be a miracle to have a male left.

Originally they had much smaller wings and were all together a lot smaller, therefore they were good for hunting sports. (As they used to be terrible terror size). But over time they became much larger like the current photo. Now the reason this is actually named a Hypnofury is because of the patterns, as they do consume glowing algae like a Flightmare (so competitive for food) they can make their patterns flash or glow for a bit. As rare as it is, the patterns confuse other dragons in low darkness due to how some (especially on the weird things on the head) can look like a dragon face, well, roughly resemble. And by moving around enough with the pulsing patterns they can temporarily charm other dragons (hypnotise them) while if two or more Hypnofuries are near they move around in a group, therefore the display is more effective and mesmerising. DIET: The diet of the Hypnofuries is rather odd, as it seems to selectively eat eels, glowing algae, fish, turtles, apples, and honeycomb. Hypnofuries just like their close relatives the Nightfury are agile terrors to Viking kind. They are better swimmers than Nightfuries given their larger spinal fins and have stronger legs built for swimming rather than running.

Also they have a very ill temper if in bright areas, given it’s harder for them to see, but this can be trained out of them. Other than that, they are rather curious, they remember faces and hold serious grudges, however they do like shiny objects and will often leave them underwater. They will also sometimes offer trades, sometimes having junk or stuff from a random traveler. (You can’t tell me she didn’t steal Hiccup’s peg leg once outside of the show 🫵)

They do NOT have retractable teeth.

Now the Hypnofuries roar is much more high pitched and echoey, while purposely pulsing their tone, this is due to their modified lungs, as they tend to look for bodies of water to swim and hunt they will sometimes even hide underwater waiting to ambush dragons (if desperate enough for food). They can be underwater for 40 mins until they need fresh air, however if currents are strong are choppy water conditions this number can drop drastically. Back to the species roar, this is for better underwater communication rather than on land. As their diaphragm is much stronger it also creates somewhat of a whistling grunt. So a very distinguishable sound from the Nightfury.

Roars:

POSSIBLE COLOUR VARIANTS.

Might draw them all officially one day.

[coolunspokenforname]

The TV goes on with a burst of static and a whiring noise that fills the little storage room of Northwest manor. The jumbled up rainbow flashes once, twice, then the screen jumps to the image of young woman, probably in her twenties. Her blond hair is pulled into a tight bun, and she wears a lab coat. Staring directly at the camera she begins, "my name is Pacifica Northwest and I want," she pauses, "I need everyone to forget."

"What is this?" Ford asks softly, brow furrowed as he watches the young woman run a hand through her hair, ruining the bun in the process.

"For the past two years I have been experimenting with a machine that will erase a person's memories. I hope to make everyone forget about me, about how awful I was as a child. To have a fresh start." As she spoke her gaze had fallen, but now she looked back to the camera, "these videos will document my progress." In the top left corner a text reading 'day 0' appears. The footage skips to day 10.

"I was right to work on the theory first, my project is coming along smoothly, and already it is showing great potential. Soon no one will remember my past mistakes." It skipped to day 30.

"Dipper and Mabel have returned to Gravity Falls, this time possibly permanently. While Mabel's attempts to reconnect have hindered my progress somewhat, all I can see is potential. Maybe she will be the best person to make forget," though Pacifica's plan made Stan cringe, it really was a horrible thing to do to a person, he couldn’t help but feel a little bad for her. The look on her face reminded him a little of how Ford would look when he tried to make friends, but was quickly rejected. "it would be nice to have a friend like her."

The video played on, showcasing her building the machine, though interspersed with her talking about Mabel and 'Dipper'. Interestingly, the day numbers began to get further and further apart, until, after 500 days, the video clicked again and day 1000 was written on the screen.

"I have decided to abandon this project." She said. "I may have been a horrible person when I was a kid, but I know I can be better. I can be forgiven." She smiled, looking down. "I didn't think Mason could forgive me, but he did." She laughed, and her eyes were getting watery. "He married me. I still can't believe it." The last bit was whispered, barely caught by the microphone. She looked down and took a breath. Her hand reached to her stomach. "I'm pregnant. He doesn't know yet, I don't know how to tell him." Then, even softer, "maybe I can be forgiven" the TV shut off.

Stan thought back to old Mrs. Northwest, the crazy inventor lady that Aunt May seemed so protective of. Then the name clicked. "Wait, did she say Mason?"

"I believe so." Stanford tilted his head, "why?"

"That's Grandpa's name. And Aunt May's name is Mabel."

"Wait. Does that mean Old Mrs. Northwest is..." his brother hesitated.

"She's our grandma." Stan finished.

[ponstermenis-writing]

Barely Above Minimum Wage

tags// Disabled Johnny Cade, Christmas Fluff, The Gang is a bunch of troublemakers, Johnny Cade is a sassy man with crutches TLDR; Johnny Cade, a severely underpaid high-school substitute, is forced to deal with some of the most troublesome students (the gang) for a whole day. Godbless.

“Are you free on Wednesday the 16th?”  —is the email he receives incredibly late on Tuesday, the 15th. 

Of course he’s free. He’s fresh out of college and not doing much else but cook and clean in his new apartment just to keep from becoming sedentary. It’s a new town, new state, new country. He barely knows anyone out of work—and even then it’s not much. He’s a substitute so he’s not there as much as other teachers—though with the amount of folks quitting and going on strike he might get a permanent spot. 

”Yes, I’ll be free tomorrow.” He replies, trying to type professionally even as he eyes try to pull themselves shut. He gets sent a paragraph in the next seconds—so she knew I was free, that bitch—that he quickly decides could’ve simply been ‘come in at 7:30 tomorrow morning’. He’s barely able to set his alarm before he passes out. 

Waking up was like being punched in the face. He slammed his fist down on the old alarm clock six times before it shut up—subconsciously he’s already thrown it out the window, but a new one is expensive. 

He takes an ice cold shower and fixes his sleep-riddled appearance. He pulls on a red sweater and blue jeans—adding a scarf, gloves, and a huge varsity jacket for the inevitable walk there. He manages to get out of the house right on time, giving Scott (his ginormous sheepdog) a big fat kiss on the forehead before heading there.

The walk is slow and cold—snow had been leisurely falling all week. It was safe to drive in—especially with the big snow plows—but his dark blue beetle from the 1960s that is moments away from exploding in the parking garage probably couldn’t handle it.  He knows he shouldn’t be walking in the snow—the doctors warned him not to put too much strain on himself, but he does anyway—his crutches get buried and he’s sure it would actually be easier to walk without them. 

He got in a pretty bad car crash right after college. His father had actually come to his graduation—just to spend drive back angrily complaining about how ungrateful he was for not mentioning them in his speech. He was clearly drunk and after a few snide comments from Johnny, he drove both of them off of a bridge and into an empty road below. It had killed him instantly, Johnny had to sit in the smashed car for an hour before they got him out. 

He eventually got control of his legs back. He could drive and walk now—but he couldn’t do either for long without help. He was given crutches—loftstrand was the scientific name, but he liked elbow crutches more. 

“You’re late.” The desk lady says as he walks into the office at 7:43. Her names Scarlet—Johnny likes her well enough, even though she has a tendency to be blunt. Johnny gives her an awkward smile, walking up to here desk. “Bad traffic.” he excuses, rolling his shoulders. 

“You walked here, Johnny, I can see the parking lot from my desk.” She smiles just a little to let him know she’s teasing him. “I’m gonna go out on a whim and say you didn’t read the email?”

Johnny frowns. “I skimmed it.” 

She gives him an exasperated look, handing him a sheet of paper. “We need someone to watch six kids before break starts—I assumed you’d be able to handle it.”

“It’s six kids, why wouldn’t I be able to?” He feels himself getting a little defensive. She’s usually one of the few folks who don’t look down on him—”They aren’t regular kids.” She stands, gesturing for him to follow her. “I’m sure you’ve heard some stories about our most troublesome.” She gestulates, waving her hands about as she talks. “You’ve got the lucky assignment to watch them all.” 

“Why me?” He shivers. He knows he’s not very intimidating—he’s treated like a student more often that he is a teacher. And from word of mouth the only way to deal with those boys is to have them fear you. “Is Tim busy?” Tim Shepard, the only other substitute for this whole school. He’s ten times as scary as Johnny is—Tim’s usually the one to deal with detention, he’s the one Johnny got the horror stories from.

“Yup.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s covering Mr.Sniders English class.” 

“Wonderful.” Johnny groans, pulling off his jacket. “So, what? I just watch them for an hour until they get sent back to their classes?”

She laughs, placing her hand on his shoulder. “That would be too easy! You’ve got the whole day with them.” She pauses at the detention room door. “Good luck!” She gives him a teasing smile before walking off. She must know that he can handle it—she’d disperse them into empty classes if not. But sometimes Johnny likes to be undermined—because how in the world is he going to survive this?

He lets out a loud sigh before entering the room, pleased to find it empty—of course those kids wouldn’t be early, what was he thinking?

Johnny drops his stuff on the large desk in the front of the room, unhooking his arms from his crutches and doing his best to move the seats. He arranges them into a row that’s two seats wide—they have the big science desks in here, which is stupid consider the actual science room doesn’t have any. 

Sometime through his rearrangement—The vice principal rolls around. It takes Johnny a moment until he realizes he’s there. 

This guy, is a HUGE dick.

Because of the amount of ‘hoodlums”’—his words, not Johnny’s—the man’s only job is pretty much to take care of anything that goes wrong. And he loves it—he’ll take any chance to talk down on a teacher or student if they dare break any rule he decides it semi-important. He especially doesn’t like Johnny—purely because they went to rivaling colleges, and the only thing keeping this guy alive is reliving the glory days. 

“Mr.Cade.” He says as walks in—even though he, for a fact, knows Johnny’s first name—startling the other. Johnny sighs, straightening himself before the other can gibe about his posture. “Mr.Sheldon.” He says, plastering on a fake smile.

”I’m sure the receptionist has already made what you’re doing pretty clear,” he begins. Johnny wants to scold him for calling her ‘the receptionist’ but knows it won’t go far. “She gave you the attendance sheet, correct?”

Johnny glances to the paper he left on the desk, nodding. 

“Use your words next time, it commands more respect.” The man scolds. He hands Johnny a few papers—giving him an annoyed look when he takes to long to unhook the crutches from his arm. 

“This paper on top is going to be most important,” he begins, pointing to a sheet with some kind of table on it. “As you can see, each of the student’s names have boxes off to the side. If they do anything  against the rules, I want you to write it down here so they can be dealt with accordingly.” He sucks in a breath, “We aren’t afraid to give them detention over break.”

“Ah, the naughty list.” Johnny says with a joking smile, scanning it over—he couldn’t help but notice that some student’s space for writing was bigger than others. His smile turns into an awkward laugh when he notices the stern look on the man’s face. “This is no laughing matter, Mr.Cade. These kids can do some very serious damage.”

”Right, of course.“ Johnny nods, flipping through the stack. 

“The rest of it is just work that their teachers left.” He pauses. “They don’t have to do it, but if they start getting rowdy I suggest assigning it.” He all but snatches the stack from Johnny’s hands and straightens it out. “I expect I won’t have to see you again today, right?”

”Y-Yes sir.” Johnny says before he can stop himself. The other smirks—he loves intimidating people, Johnny hates that he gave him the satisfaction. “Wonderful.” He says, making his way to the door after setting the tidy pile on Johnnys desk. “Oh, and make sure you turn in that attendance sheet the second they all show up. It’s important we keep a close eye on them.”

”Of course, thank you.” Johnny says, deflating once the door closes.

The bell rings a moment later and he knows they’re gonna start coming in soon. He rushes to his desk—hiding the crutches under his desk and trying to make himself look presentable, draping the jacket over the back of his chair and pulling forth the papers he was given. He doesn’t want to give those kids a single thing to make fun of him for.  Hidden between the papers were what looked like character cards. With little photos of each student in the corner of the page. With their names and student numbers to the left. It looked like each of the teachers had written him actual descriptions of these kids. Which, is so wild that it’s actually funny. 

It’s definitely against some kind of rule…

He skims through a couple anyway.  

Keith Mathews, 

   A jokester. He’ll try to prank just about everyone in the room, watch your back. Even if you don’t get the joke, laugh along. Don’t engage with any of his other shenanigans unless you’re ready for a write up. 

He’d seen the boy in passing once or twice. He was never not laughing or messing with someone. Johnny didn’t realize he was that bad. But after seeing his record underneath the description he decides to never think that highly of him again.

Darrel Curtis, 

   Pretty good kid. Doesn’t like being talked down to, best not to boss him around much. He’s got a tendency to blow up—don’t mess with him or his brothers too much or you’ll deal with the bruising. Careful, he manhandles. 

Johnny has to stop himself from laughing at the description. He’s seen him around a lot. He’s a senior—big on the football team. Johnny thought he was an adult several times. He didn’t realize Darrel was such a troublemaker—he was the most sophisticated on his team, especially compared to that Paul friend of his. 

The door opens before he can read another. He quickly tucks the paper away, no doubt looking very suspicious. He’s not sure how kids would feel about their teachers writing warning descriptions of them, but he doubts it’d feel good. 

A younger looking boy walks in—he’s gotta be a freshman or a sophomore. He’s got auburn hair and big green eyes. He gives Johnny a weird look as he walks past, not saying anything before taking his seat in the back of the room. Johnny can feel the boy staring—no doubt wondering who the rando sitting at the teachers desk was.

“What’s your name?” Johnny asks after a minute, trying to sound friendly and not nervous. The boy looks him up and down, furrowing his brows. “Who are you?” He asks almost accusingly, eyes stuck on him. 

“I—uh, I’m the substitute. Mr.Cade.” He quickly recovers, holding up the badge around his neck with his name on it. The boy gives him an unamused ‘sure you are’ look. “My name is Ponyboy Curtis.” He says before ducking his hand back down to read his book. 

Yeah, great talking to you kid.

Johnny sighs, grabbing the attendance sheet and putting a check next to his name. He makes sure the other isn’t watching before he takes a look at his page. 

Ponyboy Curtis,

   Good student, hardworking. Not much of a troublemaker. But he has the tendency to talk back. He’ll follow anything his friends and brothers do, best to keep them apart. 

Johnny quickly notices that three students have the same last name. He sighs, tucking the sheet away. Clearly, Ponyboy was just a smart aleck who couldn’t keep his mouth shut—not to mention that the ‘does whatever his friends and brothers do’ seems to be made very true. All of the infractions on his record line up perfectly with the others. 

He can’t help his own nervousness as it takes longer and longer for the kids to show up. He heard what they did to the last guy who took Tim’s place. Dumped water on him as he walked in, threw shit and destroyed his things, relentlessly bullied him for having the surname Hancock, and then chased him out to his car with rocks—after, of course, they spray painted it with obscenities that made the devil twitch. 

Not to mention he really hated being in a room alone with this kid. He wasn’t really paying attention to Johnny, but he still felt like a bug under a microscope. 

Two students walk in a moment later. They both give him the same reaction Ponyboy did, heading to a set of two seats in the front corner. “Who are you?” The blonde calls loudly, a dopey smile on his face. “Geez Soda, keep it down.” The black haired boy next to him laughed, though matching his loud tone. 

“I’m the substitute.” Johnny says slowly, figuring out who they were by the photos and putting checkmarks by their names. They both share a look, shaking their heads. “No you ain’t.” The black haired man—Steve, shakes his head. “What are you? Like, 15?”

Johnny decides to not engage—he’s unable to keep his eye from twitching, and he’s sure the two notice. 

The other two walk in with quick succession. They look at him like he’s an alien, refusing to acknowledge him verbally. Johnny sighs when the bell finally rings, ducking his head down. Darrel sits down next to his youngest brother, seemingly not planning to cause trouble either. Two-Bit idles around his desk for a bit—no doubt waiting for him to talk first. Johnny’d knows not to—He sits down beside an empty seat eventually. 

The late bell rings and he decides not to worry about the absentee. He’s going through some of the work papers while they silently watch him—he pretends not to notice. All of them have been given a truckload—even if it’s for the troublemakers, he feels bad giving them this much.

He’s sectioning it all off when the door is thrown open. A blonde with shaggy hair and light eyes saunters in, slamming the door shut being him. Johnny glances up, furrowing his brows. The boy—Dallas—is already staring at him. He looks Johnny up and down before stepping closer. “The fuck are you?” He commands, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Your substitute.” Johnny mutters. “Please sit down an—“

Dallas snatches the attendance paper from his hands. Johnny gasps, furrowing his brows. Dallas spends a moment looking over it with a grimace. Johnny tries to stand and take it—his legs buckle awkwardly, the walk in the cold was no doubt gonna ruin his day. He has to use his arms to hold himself upright.

The boys all laugh as Dallas holds it over his head. Johnny fails to grab it several times—he realistically couldn’t get it even if he could stand. Dallas smirks, taking note that Johnny’s teetering one on arm before just barely shoving him back so he falls into his seat. He can’t help his pained wince, squeezing his eyes shut. Dallas gives him a single confused glance before walking back to his seat, paper in hand. 

Johnny doesn’t think it’s worth it. But Mr.Sheldon seemed pretty adamant that he turned it in on time and he’d rather not get torn a new one. With a sigh, he leans down and grabs his crutches from under his desk. He leans on one and pulls himself up, getting his arms inside slower than he’d like.

He knows for a fact that he’d get his ear talked off about needing crutches—students have made fun of him before, even taken them a few times. But when he lifts his head—those boys look mortified. Dallas especially looked like he’d just seen a tragedy. Darrel smacks him on the back of the head, snatching the paper from his hands and walking it to Johnny before he could move. 

Johnny thanks him quietly, setting it down. He glances around the room, furrowing his brows. He gestures for Keith to stand. Which he does immediately, that petrified look still on his face because he no doubt had been planning something to do to him earlier. 

“Can you walk this to the office for me, please?” Johnny asks, handing him the attendance form. Two-Bit’s face twists and he is very obviously holding back a joke about how Johnny couldn’t walk there himself. Instead he just nods. “Don’t take too long, the vice seemed adamant we get it to him.”

Two-Bit just nods before bolting out the door. He knows it’s not smart to send a troublemaker into the hall without supervision. But it’s smarter than leaving six alone in the room, right?

Johnny spares an exasperated glance his way before stepping back behind his desk. He very quickly decides he’s not giving them all that schoolwork. He rummages around in the desk before pulling out a stack of Christmas themed coloring sheets—definitely meant for kindergarten students. He decides it’s better than nothing, pulling himself back up to his feet. He practically hobbles around the room, handing a few of them out. Darrel furrows his brows when he's given one.  "How old do you think we are?" He asks, irritation clear in his voice. Johnny sighs. "It's either this or the buttload of homework your teachers gave out. Which do you prefer?" He raises a brow, getting silence in response. Ponyboy is the only other one to talk to him, taking his paper with a guilty look—no doubt for his friend's behavior. "Sending Two wasn't a good idea." He says just as Johnny begins to turn away. "Huh?" He asks, turning around to face him again. "Keith." He says, like he's an idiot for not knowing what the hell he meant by 'Two'. "Sending him in the hallway by himself wasn't a good idea. You should probably go get him before another teacher does." Johnny frowns. 'Do I look like I can go get him?' is what he wants to say, but instead he just shrugs. Ponyboy doesn't say anything more.  "Hey Johnny," Steve calls, yelling back to him and snapping his fingers like he were a dog he needed the attention of. It didn't help how he perked up at the mention of his name. It takes him a moment to realize that Steve should, most definitely, not know his first name. Johnny looks back at him, noticing a wallet—his wallet, with all of his money and his ID—in his hand and it looks like he's reading off of it. He quickly steps forward and snatches it, tucking it into his back pocket. "How did you—" He begins before shutting his mouth with an audible click.  He can't even turn around for one second, can he? "We need something to color with, man." Steve says with a smirk, eyeing him like stealing his wallet was some sort of achievement. With any other person it would be, but Johnny barely any feeling in his legs right now and stealing something from that general area wasn't a hard thing to do. Johnny hands them a few boxes of colored pencils and lets them hand it out to themselves, already wishing to be home.  The room quickly becomes too silent for his liking—because they were actually coloring. Sodapop literally turned around to show his younger brother his work, to which he received a thumbs up and a comment from Darrel about coloring in the lines. Darrel and Dallas were the only two not coloring. Darrel laid back against the wall with his eyes closed, Dallas just stared at him like he was thinking. Johnny couldn't tell if he felt guilty at all, but quickly decided he didn't care.  After a while he decides the silence is too much to bare. Johnny pulls himself back onto his feet and rummages around the large closet behind his desk. He finds a few Christmas movies and a TV on a cart. He rolls it to the front of the room and rummages through the old VHS's. He doesn't notice Dallas reaching over him until he has one of them shoved in his face. The Grinch, the original animated version. He spares a glance his way, Dallas looks at him expectantly. He can't help his small laugh, tucking the others in the cart before putting in the tape. 

Dallas had the biggest reputation of them all. Johnny wasn't here often—but when he was he always heard his name. Sometimes it was stories of getting arrested—again—or how one of his coworkers had to deal with him doing something-something that day. Grown adults were scared of this seventeen year old.

He personally doesn't get it.  Johnny sits back down at his desk with a sigh, happy to not be on his feet any more. Most of them are still coloring away, sparing occasional glances up at the TV. Dallas is very obviously pretending not to watch the movie, Darrel has one eye peaked open to look too.  He wonders why all of the other teachers seemed so horrified at the very mention of these kids. Sure, they are a little obnoxious—but anyone with patience could deal with them for the day.  Then, a loud, angry knock is heard on the door. 

He should’ve knocked on wood. 

Everyone’s heads shoot up. Ponyboy gives him a knowing look, Johnny not-so-gracefully rushing to get the door. 

Mr.Sheldon has Two-Bit by the back of his jacket collar—like someone holding a kitten by the scruff of its neck, but the kitten is an evil ginger who apparently can’t be trusted alone for two seconds. “Mr.Cade. A word?” The vice principal askes through gritted teeth, all but shoving the other in the classroom while he chuckles. Johnny spares a glance back before following the man outside, shutting the door behind him. 

“What did he do?” Johnny asks, feeling nervousness rise in his chest. Mr.Sheldon is bigger than him, and meaner. He also has no problem getting in his face and yelling, no matter how much people tell him not to. “He’s been going around playing ding-dong-ditch! Do you know how many calls I received in the last ten minutes?!”

“I…how is he even doing that? We don’t have doorbells.”

”Well, we’ve got a comedian on our hands! He’s been making doorbell sounds with his mouth loud enough to disrupt whole hallways! What the hell were you thinking!?” His voice gets louder and louder and Johnny backs himself against the door. He’s very much regretting foregoing his crutches. 

“Well, I thought it’d be better than leaving them all alone in there. They cause more trouble together than—“

”Use your brain! Call someone down to pick it up, you imbecile!” Mr.Sheldon is positively fuming, his cheeks are red and he’s slowly getting closer and closer to hysterics. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“Think? Yeah, I can tell.” He lets out an angry sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “You’d think after being in America for five years, you’d understand how things work around here.” He grumbles. Johnnys too petrified to comment. “From now on—if anyone has to leave the classroom, I want you to call up to the office and get a chaperone.”

”Yes sir.” Johnny nods, grasping onto the door handle to keep himself upright. 

“You haven’t been working here long. If you keep messing up like this it’s only a matter of time before you get fired.” Johnny knows it’s a thinly veiled threat. The man had threatened his job several times before—its not like he really has the power to get him fired, but just the mention sends a shiver down his spine. “Of course.” He nods, sparing a glance back at the incredibly silent classroom. All of them are staring through the small window on the door. The boys in the back of the room quite literally got up to watch. 

“I hope we won’t have to have this conversation again.” Is all the man says before walking of, the soles of his too-shiny shoes slapping against the linoleum loud enough to make the other flinch. 

Johnny sucks in one final gasp of air, turning and letting himself back inside. He manages to make it to his desk without fumbling too hard,  ducking his head down to not see the stares of the others. 

“Good going Two,” Dallas says sarcastically, loud enough for the whole class to hear. “You got the cripple in trouble.” 

Johnny’s head shoots up. He’s used to being called that, it’s not a shock to him anymore. But he still wants to smack that boy so hard his nappy hair comes off. Sadly, there isn’t much he can do without actually getting fired. It’s clear that the initial shock of him being on crutches has worn off. Now he’ll have to deal with his least favorite part about having them. 

Two-Bit chuckled at Dallas’s comment, but his face faltered at the look on Johnny’s face. He doubts any of these kids are capable of feeling remorse for more than three seconds, but Two is kind enough to not say anything further. It could partly be Darrel glaring down his back too.

They are quiet for a while. Johnny replaces the movie when it ends, nobody acknowledges him. There’s the occasional snickers and menial trouble-making.

Dallas balls up his paper and lobs it at Johnny’s head. Johnny simply ducks out of the way and lets it hit the back wall. Dallas looks annoyed—Johnny quickly realized it was more because he didn’t yell at him instead of his horrible shot. 

Not long after, Two-Bit stands and gets behind Johnny’s desk. Johnny keeps his eyes down and lets him pick up the chalk. He scratches away for only a minute before snickering and walking back to his seat. 

Johnny spares a glance at the board when Two has his backed turned—it read “#1 Crip” with a crudely drawn hand holding up a gang sign and an arrow pointing to his head. He simply rolled his eyes and went back to his work, much to the red-heads chagrin. 

They get a little rowdy when Two-Bit starts getting bored again. “Hey, Johnny—“ he calls loudly. Johnny glances up at him—he honestly doesn’t care about them knowing his first name, but he’d hate to have them find him outside of school. “How old are you, man?” He asks, leaning his head in his hands. 

Johnny sighs. “I’m 22. Why do you ask?”

Everyone’s heads eventually shoot up one by one. Two-Bit opens his mouth to speak, Steve interrupts. “No you ain’t.” He says in disbelief, looking him up and down. “Man, you’ve gotta be younger than us.” 

Johnny can feel his own teeth grind together. There is nothing he hates more than the ‘young’ comments. He understands he doesn’t quite look his age. He’ll never understand why it’s such a big deal. 

“How would that work? I’ve already been through college.” 

“So, you ain’t one of them ‘student—teachers’?” Sodapop asks, squinting his eyes. Johnny simply shakes his head, already having enough of this conversation. “So—you’re old enough to drink and shit?” Two-Bit snickers. Johnny has a sinking feeling the man knows what being drunk feels very well. 

“Legally, yes.“

”Do you?” Dallas askes, leaning back in his seat and raising his brows. “I’m not answering that.” Johnny deadpans. “Cus’ it’s true?” Dallas asks, leaning forward on the desk with a smirk—He’s much like Two-Bit in the fact that he can’t sit still, the chair creaks as he moves. Johnny has to hold back an annoyed groan. The only thing that saves him from this harrowing conversation is Darrel standing up.

He watches in confusion for a second before realizing he’s going to leave. “Wait—“ Johnny calls as he gets his hand on the door. Darrel spares a single glance back at him before continuing on, exiting the room just as he gets his crutches under his arms. 

He’s able to catch up before he gets to the staircase, standing in front of it. Darrel rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and glaring down at him—which is really easy considering he’s a whopping 6’3 and Johnny’s on the cusp of 5’7—and that’s without his permanent slouch.

”Move.” 

“I’m sorry, you have to wait for—“ Johnnys begins, catching his breath. Darrel puts his hand up to silence him. “Get out of the way. I’m not Two-Bit, I won’t do anything stupid.” He groans, uncrossing his arms and somehow looking more intimidating. Johnny can’t help his own stutter, praying the younger won’t simply crush him for being in his way.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t trust you—but if you get caught—“

”Then I won’t.” He says with a sense of finality. Before Johnny can respond—Darry grabs him by the elbows, lifts him off the ground with a horrifying ease, and sets Johnny back down safely behind him. 

“You can’t just—“ Johnny begins, his mouth closing with an audible snap when the other turns to glare at him. 

“I’m serious. I don’t need a damn chaperone to go to the bathroom.” Darrel seems to notice just how wide Johnny’s eyes are—he lets his shoulder relax and gives him a guilty look. “You might want to head back before they do anything they’ll regret. I heard some talk of trying to lock you out of the room.” 

Johnny opens and closes his mouth several times—finally he decides to accept defeat, struggling back to the classroom before they could do just that. By the time he got there, the boys were all sitting down and the door opened with no struggle. He wonders if Darrel lied to him to get him to leave him alone—either way, none of his business. 

Darrel did come back a few moments later—no vice principal in sight, thank god. The boy’s all seem rather surprised that Johnny let’s Darrel walk by without any repercussions. They go back to the quiet—shockingly well behaved, for now—students they were before.

It’s not silent for much longer of course, as the lunch bell rings.

Johnny becomes suddenly aware that he didn’t actually inquire about what to do for lunch. Everyone’s heads shoot up, looking at him expectantly.

”Uh—How many of you need to get school lunch?” He asks, though he’s sure none of these boys could even make a sandwich. “We all do.” Darry is the first to answer, standing. 

“Damn are we gonna have to get chaperoned to the cafeteria again?” Two-Bit asks, frowning. “Can you even—like, walk that far?” He turns to Johnny, raising a brow. He actually has to stop himself from taking the stapler and hurling it at his head. “Yes, I can walk that far.” Johnny grumbles between gritted teeth. “Now, sit back down. I have to figure this out.” 

The boys all groan but take their seats.  Johnny grabs the phone on his desk and rings the office, thankful that Scarlet was the one to answer. “Hey Johnny.” She says, he can hear the smile in her voice. “How’s hell going?” 

“Just wonderful.” Johnny mutters, playing with the phone cord. “Look—I wanted to know what they do for lunch. They all have school lunch and someone told me they always need a chaperone.” He and Scarlet have many crude names for the vice principal—but he is the type of person to go over call logs, so they’d best not use them.

”Oh, right.” She says. He can hear her rifle through some papers. “Tim usually just walks them there and back—but with you condition I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“What are you, my doctor?” 

“No. But I saw you hobble up the stairs this morning.” She laughs loudly at her own joke. “I’m not saying you can’t walk them there—if you want you can send me their lunch orders and I’ll grab them for you.” 

Johnnys knows for a fact that everything about these boys scream ‘free or reduced lunch’—he should know, he was on the list too—so they won’t really have to worry about paying for he food. But at the same time, some petty part of him wants to walk there just to prove a point. 

So, he does. 

“I’ll walk you guys there.” He says simply, standing up and pulling the crutches under his arm. A few of them share looks and Johnny knows they want to comment—but they keep their mouth shut. He lets them all out of the room and shuts the door behind him. Tim usually makes them walk in a single-file line—Just to be an asshole—but Johnny doesn’t want to do that. 

The boys look a little surprised when he lets them walk in more of a misshapen circle instead of a line. He also notices that they same to form a bubble around him—whether it’s consciously or not, he’s a little confused by it. They probably just don’t want to be seen being walked in the hall by a teacher—but the way some of them are standing, like they’re trying to be intimidating, makes him wonder if this is their pathetic attempt to protect him. 

A kid going the other way pauses at the sight, staying close to the wall to get out of their way. 

The lunch room is filled with students—way too many for his liking. Johnny gestures for them all to join the lunch line, standing close to the wall to watch them. A few of the students who’ve had him before recognize him, turning around to talk to him.

”Hey, man, look who’s here.” A Soc boy—Jeremy, he thinks his name is—snickers, prodding Johnnys side. The kids in this school have a tendency to treat him less like a teacher and more like a student—he hates it so much it makes his blood boil. “Hello Jeremy.” Johny says with a sigh, giving him a quick smile before going back to watching the troublemakers. 

Jeremy seems annoyed by Johnny ignoring him. “Hey, so are you ever gonna get out of these?” He asks, lightly tugging on Johnny’s crutches and almost making him fall. Johnny takes a tentative step back, forcing his body as close to the wall as it would go. “Stuck with them for life, I’m afraid.” Johnny tries to say in a joking tone. 

Jeremy starts grabbing at them harder—his friends all snicker as Johnny tries and fails to get him to stop. “Y’know, the only way you’ll ever walk right is if you just drop ‘em. Maybe then everyone won’t think you’re one of them special handicapped folk.” 

Johnny just grimaces. Jeremy had manages to tug him away from the wall and closer to their lunch table. He’s about to actually yell at him when Jeremy stops all at once. His eyes are wide and his mouth snaps shut alongside his friends—they all quickly turn back around. Johnny gives them a confused look before following Jeremy’s eyes. 

Darrel stands behind him—lunch in hand—he’s got this menacing look in his eyes that only goes away once they boys completely stop bothering him. He doesn’t dare meet Johnnys eyes and he decides that’s good enough for him. 

Two-Bit and Dallas cause a bit of trouble in the lunch line trying to steal one of the soda’s they keep for the kids who pay extra. It ends up making the whole line pause while the lunch ladies tear into them—leaving Johnny and Darrel standing awkwardly beside each other. 

“Do they always do that?” 

Johnny startles at the suddenness, glancing up at Darrel. He’s got a look in his eyes that Johnny can’t quite understand—some5hing akin to pity. “Huh?” He asks dumbly, furrowing his brows. 

“Do students always mess with you? Even the normal ones?” 

The question makes Johnny pause. The kids all treated him differently then the rest of the teachers—he’s so used to it that he often forgot just how differently they talk to him. 

“Yeah.” Johnny shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me none.”

Darrel grimaces.  “I hope you know we ain’t like that. They just like messing around—they don’t mean anything by it.” Darrel says after a few moments of silence. Johnny quickly realizes that he’s talking about the other troublemakers. “They aren’t all bad. Just—Rowdy, I guess.” He pauses, meeting Johnnys eyes finally. “You’re a lot less scary that Tim is. ‘Makes them think of you more like a friend then a teacher.”

Johnnys know not many people think of him as an adult, but—Ouch, man, way to rub it in. 

“I know.“ Johnnys shrugs. “I wasn’t the most well behaved kid either, I get it.” 

Darrel gives him an odd look but doesn’t say much else. The rest of the boys join them and they walk back to class. They get a little louder as they go down the stairs—trying to shove each-other down for shits and giggles. Steve knocks into Ponyboy on accident and makes him drop 99% of his lunch on the floor. 

“You dick!“ The youngest shouts, shoving him back. 

“Sorry, man, you were in the way.“ Steve says simply, snickering a little alongside Two-Bit. Ponyboy groans loudly, scooping all of his now inedible—the grounds here haven’t been washed in years—food onto the ground and tossing it in a trash can at the end of the stairwell. 

“I’ll give you some of mine.” Soda whispers, nudging him lightly. 

They get to the classroom and Soda hands Ponyboy a decent handful of fries before letting him walk back to his seat. Johnnys not sure why but he feels guilty—he doubts these boys are in a much better situation then he was growing up. Reluctantly, he pulls out his lunch and moves the water bottle and carrots off to the side.

He stood and handed the container with his actual meal to Ponyboy. Pony gives him an odd look, opens it, grimaces, and looks back up at him with a ‘what is this?’ look. 

“It’s cacciucco. Try it, you’ll like it.” Johnny says, handing him a fork and walking off. Darrel gives him a look that’s almost thankful before looking down at the food, matching Pony’s expression. Ponyboy looks up and Johnny—who’s watching him expectantly—before taking some of it on the food and putting it in his mouth. 

Johnnys fully aware that most of the people here think Italian food is just spaghetti and pizza—which, yeah he had a lot of both of those growing up… but there’s better stuff too.

Pony’s eyes go wide and he goes to take another bite, A few of the boys turn in watch in awe as he eats something that no doubt looks unappetizing. Two-Bit leans back and takes some before Ponyboy can stop him—squeezing his eyes shut like he’s preparing for something horrible, before nodding and whispering to the rest of them that it’s ‘actually really good’. 

Johnny’s happy to see them all try some and like it—Steve comments that Ponyboy should thank him, seeing as he wouldn’t have gotten it without him. 

By the time they’re done eating, Tim Shepard rolls around. He knocks on the door before walking in, effectively scaring all of them into thinking the vice principal is back. 

The boy’s all share exasperated looks when Tim peeks his head inside the room. Tim rolls his eyes, sauntering to Johnnys desk and looking out at them all before glancing back down at Johnny. “How’s the doghouse?” He askes, raising an amused brow.

“I dunno, haven’t been to your place in a while.” Johnny replies before he can stop himself. A few of the boys snicker—which reminds him that they are there—oops. Tim ignores his comment by sticking his tongue out at him before looking back up at the students. 

“You haven’t been too annoying, have you?” He announces to the room, squinting his eyes at Dallas and Two-Bit in particular. 

“They’ve been fine, Tim.“ Johnny says before Dallas can show the man a very specific hand gesture. “Whatever you say.” Tim says like he doesn’t believe him, shoving his hands in his pockets. It’s silent for a moment—Tim clearly wants to say something. Johnnys not sure if he wants to hear it. 

“Are you here for a reason or are you just bored?” He asks finally. Tim leans back on his desk, giving him a fake look of sadness. “Wow, can’t even make sure you’re okay without you yelling at me.” He complains, kicking Johnnys leg lightly just because he knows Johnny can’t do it back. “I actually am here for a reason, though.” 

Johnny raises a brow. 

“They we’re handing out shit for the teachers—y’know how they are around the holidays. Snagged us both some.” He says, pulling a bag of candy out of his back pocket. 

“Thanks,” Johnny smiles, tucking it into the desk. “I don’t think you have to ‘snag’ it, though, seeing as we are both teachers too.” Tim shrugs. “Old habits die hard.” He says simply. It takes a second for them both to notice everyone is staring at them. “What?” Tim asks loudly, tone changing to a more annoyed one that Johnny’s used to hearing. 

“Didn’t know you were capable of having a civil conversation.” Darry is the first to respond, raising his brows. Tim rolls his eyes, flipping him off before turning back to Johnny—who looks rather shocked. “You can’t just give the middle-finger to a student, Tim.” He says, exasperated, slapping the other on the arm. 

“Man, I’m telling you—the school board does not care with these guys.” Tim whispers, sparing a glance back. “I could go over there right now, and punch Dallas in the face. I promise you I wouldn’t even be suspended.” 

“Don’t talk about punching kids, Jesus.” Johnny whispers back, giving him an unapproving look. Tim just shrugs, pushing himself to his feet. “You boys, behave.” He says, pointing at each student individually before walking off. Dallas manages to actually flip him off this time, getting a stern glare from Johnny. "Hey—you mind feeding the needy, huh?" Steve asks the second time is gone, eyeing the chocolates. Johnny glances at him, glances at the chocolate, and looks back at him again. He takes one out of the bag and hands the rest to him. "Share with the other's, okay?" He says. Steve gives him a look like he's crazy—mainly because he didn't think Johnny'd actually give him any, especially the whole bag. "All of them?" He asks, raising a brow. Johnny just shrugs and goes back to his computer. 

The room gets bored quickly after that. They’ve gone through every movie worth watching, the coloring sheets are done, and Johnny doesn’t know what to do to entertain them. He could just give them the work—but as someone who had to do worksheets over Christmas break, he’s not really feeling like doing that.

Eventually they all start talking, it’s quiet enough that he can’t really hear what they’re saying, but he hears a snicker or two and immediately knows he should be worried. Two-Bit and Dallas stand up at once. “We have to go to the bathroom.” Two-Bit announces, barely holding back a giggle when Dallas smacks him. 

“Together?” Johnny asks, raising a brow. 

Neither one of them respond, looking at him expectantly. Johnny sighs and goes to call the office—the second the phone’s in his hand they both bolt, getting out of the door before Johnny even realizes they moved. He sits there and just gapes at the wide open door for a second. 

He spares one glance at the four still sitting there, before deciding that he’s just going to have to accept defeat and run after them. He stands and pulls the crutches up and under his arms. “Don’t. Move.” He commands, biting off the end of each word. They all nod but immediately stand to watch him leave by sticking their heads out of the door. 

“Is he gone?“ Ponyboy whispers, Johnny disappearing down the other end of the hall. “I dunno, Pony—What do you think?” Steve teases, rolling his eyes and re-entering the classroom. 

“Y’know, we could’ve just pretended we were talking to him and then steal the paper.” Darrel says, leaning on the door frame. “That would take all the fun out of it!” Sodapop smiles, sitting down at the teachers desk and rummaging through the papers. 

They all knew about the ‘naughty list’. Of course they did, every teacher who ever had to deal with them got one. None of them wanted to stay in school during Christmas break—Darry usually wouldn't allow this, but he had work and couldn't miss it. Sodapop and Steve go through the papers on the desk while Darrel and Pony keep watch for the door. They doubt Johnny's gonna catch either of them—but any other teacher could come barreling in here.  Their plan wasn't foolproof by any means. They were just gonna stash the paper someplace and hope Johnny doesn't notice until the end of the day—he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to actively try to get them in trouble, Darry thinks he's a bit of a doormat. If his employer talked to him the way Mr.Sheldon did, it'd be brought right to corporate.  "Found it!" Soda exclaims waving the paper around in the air. Steve snatches it from his hands to stash it—he pauses when he takes a good look at it, furrowing his brows. All three of the others simultaneously ask why he's doing it, crowding around them. Did he write scathing accounts of whatever they had done that day? Did he make up crazy things to get them in trouble? No.

In fact, he didn't write anything.  The paper was left exactly like it had been handed to him—aside from a few doodles on the margins.

"Huh?" Darrel mutters, taking it from Steve. He was sure his run to the bathroom would at least be mentioned. If he pulled that with Tim in charge he would've been dragged right to the office. "So we just did all of that for nothing?" Pony asks, crossing his arms. He hadn't done much of anything—Johnny didn't really talk, so he didn't even have the opportunity to say something snarky. And hey, he's not gonna be an ass to the guy who gave him free food.  "Looks like it.” Darrel mutters, setting the paper back down. “Maybe they gave him more than one.” Steve says, already going back to the now messy pile. “Surely.“ Soda agrees, joining him. 

They had gone through the whole stack and were in the middle of putting it back when Ponyboy jumps and starts whisper-yelling. “He’s coming!” He says frantically. “I just saw him at the end of the hall, hurry up!” 

They all bolt back to their desks, leaving some of the papers awry but hopefully not enough to be noticeable. 

Johnny walked in with Dallas and Two-Bit the collar, both bent in half because he couldn’t quite keep his arms up. Two practically face-plants when he lets go, scrambling back to his desk without a word. Dallas goes back to his desk as well, resting back on his hands. “Did you hide it?” He asks, looking back at Steve and Sodapop, only loud enough for them to hear.

”No—he didn’t write anything on it.”

”Seriously? Talk about a doormat.” Dallas scoffs, sparing a glance Johnny’s way. He sleeve was caught on his crutches and he was currently trying to pull them free. 

“Did he seriously catch you guys?” Ponyboy asked. Leaning forward to peak around his older brother. “Are you kidding? Of course not.” Dallas says, turning to face him fully. “Tim saw us and helped him out.” He pauses. “Do you seriously think that cripple could catch me? If the cops of New York City can’t—“

Dallas gets a tap on the shoulder—He gives Two-Bit and odd look, but the redhead is just staring forward. Dallas turns to see what he’s looking at. Johnny is glaring at him, he’d no doubt heard what he said. 

“My bad, man.” Dallas shrugs, turning to face him fully. “You get it though, right? It’s not like you don’t know your legs are fucked up.” 

Darrel gives him a hefty smack on the back of the head for that comment. But of course, Dallas takes note that he’s getting under the man’s skin—he can’t help but see how far he can go. 

“He’s been a cripple his whole life, it’s not like he’s not used to it. It’s just the truth.” Dallas says to Darrel, turning only he head to look back at him. “I mean, even if he could walk right—he’s like 5’2, he couldn’t catch me anyway.” When he faces forward again—Johnny’s right there. 

He gets a slap so hard that the sound reverberates off the walls—there’s a red handprint on his cheek, and the skin is hot to the touch when he reaches up to touch the stinging skin in disbelief. 

“Don’t you dare call me that again.” Johnny bites, a tone that’s uncharacteristic for him. “I am not a cripple, I am not a child,” he glances up at the rest of the room. “and I certainly don’t need pity from a bunch of angsty teenagers who can’t seem to keep their shit together for more than ten minutes.” Everything is said in a cold, biting tone. Every boy in the room sits and watches with wide eyes and open mouths. 

“And by the way, you clearly aren’t that hard to catch—seeing as you’ve been in prison six times in the last 8 months.” He practically sneers, his hands curling into fists. “Now sit down, do your work, and stop acting like the drop-outs everyone knows you’re gonna be.” 

He doesn’t give the blonde a moment to respond, going and sitting back at his desk. Dallas sits there for a moment, gaping with his hand still on his cheek. Just as he’s about to get up and give the man a piece of his mind, he hears slow clapping from the doorway. 

Tim leans against the frame, clapping slowly and giving Johnny a surprised-yet-proud smile. “See, this is why I like this guy.” He laughs, standing up. “John, can I talk to your for a second?” 

Johnny sighs but stands up, giving the room one final glare before heading outside and slamming the door shut behind him. It takes only a single second before they stand and go the door, trying to hear their conversation. 

“You alright?” Tim asks, nudging him.

”Of course I’m alright.” Johnny says, crossing his arms. “We weren’t that obnoxious when we were kids, were we?” 

“You weren’t, I probably was.” Tim chuckles. 

“I just don’t get it—When I was their age, I couldn’t stand it if an adult didn’t like me.” Johnny says, tightening his fingers around his biceps. “Did I do something to make them hate me? Am I that annoying?”

Tim scoffs, smacking him upside the head lightly. “Don’t say shit like that.” He scowls, shaking his head. “And no, you’re not. They were worse with me when I first came around. Honestly, they still probably treat you better than they do with me.” Tim pauses, glancing down at the boy. “They all didn’t deal with uh—what you did, y’know? It’s still a miracle to me that you weren’t just like they were.” 

Johnny rolls his eyes. “The only reason I ever did anything right was to get out of that house.” He shrugs. “Besides, the only reason they treat me better than you is because they pity me. And yet, I don’t think I’ve ever been called a cripple more times in my life.”

Tim sighs, glancing back at the door. “I can smack ‘em all real good for you, if you need.”

”I kinda already did.” Johnny scratches the back of his neck. “I oughta apologize, huh?”

”Did he apologize to you?” He says it like he knows who it was—but then again, he could probably guess. Even if he didn’t have a bright red handprint on his face, Dallas’ll always be an asshole. Johnny thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “Then don’t apologize to him. Lord knows he doesn’t deserve it.”

Johnny doesn’t say anything, furrowing his brows. 

“I got something that’ll get you in a better mood.” Tim says finally. “How about you come over to mine tonight, huh? Curl’s has been missing you.” 

“Has he?” Johnny laughs. “Guess I can’t say no to that, huh?”

”No, you can’t.” Tim says matter-of-factly. “I’ll see you tonight, good luck.” 

Back in the room, the boys all listened with the same horrified looks on their faces that they had earlier. 

“Good going, Dal.” Pony says, kicking him lightly. “You pissed off the one teacher that wasn’t an ass.”

”Watch your mouth, Pony.“ Darrel scolds before he can stop himself. “You’d better apologize to him, Dallas.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I will.” He mutters—trying and failing to hide that he was a little upset with himself too. “I didn’t think he’d care that much.”

”Bullshit.” Steve says, rolling his eyes and getting back to his seat. They all are sat by the time Johnny enters the room again. He gives them all a suspicious look before heading back to his desk, squinting his eyes at the messed up papers. “Did you guys mess with these?” He askes. 

Ponyboy, fearing a slap of his own, quickly shouts—

“No sir!” 

Johny just gives him an odd look before putting everything in a neat stack and carrying on. The room is deathly silent for a few minutes—all of them refusing to speak or move. They all stare at him expectantly, jumping when the man lifts his head up. 

He sighs, pushing himself to his feet, foregoing the crutches and just leaning on the desk. 

“I apologize for my outburst.” He says, giving an awkward smile. 

“Dallas deserved it—“ Two-Bit begins, getting a loud smack on the back of his head from the blonde beside him. Johnny can’t help but laugh, shaking his head. 

He spares a glance out the window and smiles, an idea forming in his head. “How about I make it up to you, huh?” He says, catching everyone’s attention. “We might be able to sneak outside if anyones quiet in the hallway. I’m sure Tim’ll cover for me.”

It’d been snowing for the last few days—it was finally starting to stick and was at just the right height to go outside in. While just about all of them were much too old to go outside and play in the snow, they all jumped at the opportunity. 

“Really?” Ponyboy asks excitedly, causing his brother to laugh. 

“Eh, why not.” Johnny shrugs. 

The group immediately stands and begin to talk excitedly—no teachers have let them play outside in the snow since elementary. Johnny ducks around the desk and grabs his crutches, struggling to get them under his arm while the boys all but tug him along. Darry shoos them all away—he attempts to help Johnny walk, only to be shoved off. 

“I can walk just fine.” Johnny says, glaring at him before he can stop himself. Darry blinks at him for a moment before nodding, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly. “So empowering.” Two-Bit snickers, getting shoved half-way to the ground for it. Johnnys barely able to grab his jacket from his chair before he’s dragged out of the room like a rag doll. 

They all head out of the classroom quietly. Once again, the boys seem to walk around Johnny in a protective circle of some kind. He can’t help but roll his eyes.  Johnny ducks his head in Tim’s classroom and all but begs him to cover for them—to which he says he’ll try his best. They all grab their gloves and scarves out of their lockers, Darry has to strangle Dallas with one until he wears it. Johnny let’s Steve and Soda sneak into the gym and steal a football before they all head outside. 

Johnny takes them out to the football field—which is just far away enough from the office for no authority to see them but close enough to be on campus. Johnny opens it with his keys and lets them all inside, shutting the fence gate behind them. He lets them all run off—Ponyboy face-plants within minutes, and Dallas is already trying to climb the fence and leave.

Its just tall enough that he knows nobody’ll make it—Johnny’d climbed a lot of fences as a kid, he knew the right heights that wouldn’t let anyway through. Eventually Dallas gave up and joined the rest of them. 

Darry soon joined Johnny on the sidelines, watching the boys play. 

“You’re not gonna join them?” The older asks, gesturing to the group currently tossing a football back and forth. Darry scoffs, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m too old to be playing in the snow.” He says, shaking his head. 

“Are you now?” Johnny asks with a laugh—in his eyes, all of them are kids. Darrel doesn’t quite seem to like that. “I don’t see what you’re laughing about. If you joined in every’d think you were Pony’s age.” 

Johnny pauses, furrowing his brows and looking up at him. “Hey, I’m still an adult, y’know. You’d better watch what you say.” He says with no real malice behind it. Darrel raises a brow. “You’re only a few years older than me.”

Johnny squints up at him. “I’m three years younger than you.” Darrel adds, making the other all-but gasp. “Huh? Aren’t you a little old to be a senior, then?” Johnny asks, looking him up and down.

Darry seems to think for a second—like he’s deciding if he wants to say something. Finally, he does. “I had to take a gap year because my parents died.” He pauses. “Someone had to provide for the family.”

Johnny looks utterly horrified, ducking his head down quickly. “Oh my good—I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“

Darrel laughs, ruffling his hair—if he hasn’t just got the ‘dead parents’ answer, Johnny would smack him just as hard as he smacked Dallas. “It’s alright.” Says Darrel, still laughing. They are silent for a second, Johnnys face still masked in absolute horror. 

“Since we’re asking personal questions,” Darry says finally, looking down at the other. “How exactly did you get you crutches? It doesn’t seem like you’ve always had them.” 

Johnny grimaces. 1, because he pretty much just said it’s clear Johnny has no clue what he’s doing. 2, because he’d rather have a heart attack and die then answer that damn question. “That’s too personal. I’m not telling a student that.” He says simply, shaking his head. 

“You asked me about my dead parents.”

Johnnys gapes. “That’s because I didn’t—“ He cuts himself off with a loud sigh, his body tensing when Darry looks at him expectantly. “My dad drove me off a cliff after my graduation.” 

Now, It’s Darrel’s turn to look horrified. 

“Oh.” He mutters, averting his gaze. “Did he…mean to?” He asks, quickly adding—“I’m sorry, I should ask that—“

”Of course he did.” Johnny says like it’s no big deal, kicking his feet in the snow. “I think he wanted to kill me. He never did like me much.” 

Darry stares at him for a long while, Johnny refusing to look him in the eye. He’s not quite sure why he told the boy that—he really wished he just lied.   “I heard what you and Tim were saying to eachother.” Darry says finally.  Johnny shrugs. “I figured there was a reason you guys were being so nice to me.”  ”It’s not—“

”Pity?” Johnny askes, raising his brow and finally look at him. Darry makes a guilty face before he can stop himself. “It’s okay, man, I’m used to pity by now.” Johnny gives him a sweet smile. “I mean, look at me!” 

Darry just grimaces, shaking his head. He looks like he wants to say something else but keeps his mouth shut. Johnnys already looking around for an excuse to get out of this conversation, Steve and Soda give him an excuse—wrestling in the snow. 

“Hey!” He calls, taking a step forward. They both pause, look at him, an then get right back to it. Johnny rolls his eyes, walking up to them and managing to pull Soda off of him. “None of that, okay? If any of you get hurt, I’ll get in trouble.” 

Soda gives him a guilty look. 

Johnny raises an expectant brow.

”We won’t!” Steve says finally, pulling himself to his feet. Soda nods quickly. Johnny just rolls his eyes, giving them one lalook before going back to the sidelines. 

Darrels looking at him with wide eyes—Johnny doesn’t have to wonder why for long. 

“Your jacket—“ he says, furrowing his brows. Johnny gives him a confused look before looking begins himself—he’s wearing his college’s varsity jacket, since it’s the warmest one he owns. “Yeah, what about it?”

“Did you go there?”

Johnny gives him an odd look—why would he wear a jacket for a college he didn’t even go to? He had done his last two years of High-school in America, and ended up getting a full-ride to The University of Oklahoma—more specifically, the Norman campus. 

“Yeah, man.” Johnny laughs. “Why do you ask?”

”I uh—“ Darrel rights himself, like he’s trying not to fangirl. “It’s where I want to go. I heard they had a really good football team.” He says, shrugging. Johnny glances up at him, smiling. “They were pretty good, as much as I remember.” He says—it’s clear Darrel wants to ask, so he keeps going. “I bet you have a chance—I got in on a full-ride soccer scholarship, and I wasn’t half as good as you are at football.”

Darrel gives a weird look—Johnny can’t help but get defensive. 

“I wasn’t always on crutches! I wasn’t a pity player, I swear.” 

“That’s not why I looked at you like that.” Darrel says, looking him up and down. “You got a full-ride sports scholarship and you…chose to be a teacher?” 

That catches Johnny off guard. He knows that it’s becoming more and more obvious to the general public that teachers make shit salaries, but he’s never had a kid comment on it….to his face. His mouth opens and closes for a minute. “Well—I can’t exactly play soccer, can I?” He says finally, making the other laugh. 

“I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.” Darrel rights himself—giving Johnny a guilty look. “It’s okay, you were supposed to.” Johnny shrugs, leaning back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

They’re silent for a few minutes, watching the rest of the boys tackle each other and lug a football at each other's heads. It’s cLear Darrel wants to say something, he waits until Johnny’s messing with the rubber handle of his crutches. 

“If it’s you jacket, why’s it so big?” Darrel asks finally, glancing down at him. 

Okay, ouch. 

“Well, uh…” Johnny scratches the back of his neck. “I couldn’t really afford me own… I got this one for free—but I didn’t get to choose the size.” 

Darrel gives him a look that he can’t quite comprehend, he’s spared a look Dallas’s way. Not that he has time to wonder what that means, it seems the second he’s looking away they’re already plotting against him again. 

He feels the biting cold of the snow before he realizes he’s laying face first in it. Someone’s on top of him—Jesus, this guy needs to lose some weight—and rolls off just as fast as he jumped onto him. 

Johnny hears a loud bout of laughter and realizes it’s Two-Bit, pushing himself up to a kneel and seeing firey red hair. “Sorry man!” Two manages between laughter. “You just—God! That was funny!” 

Johnny blinks at him twice before rolling his eyes. 

He goes to stand, someone grabbing his arm and dragging him to his feet. He can’t help that yelp that leaves his mouth at the unexpected contact. He looks at the perpetrator, seeing Dallas Winston of all people. Dallas hands him his crutches without looking at him, kicking Two-Bit in the ribs twice as he scrambles to his feet. 

“Uh—Thanks.” Johnny mutters, getting his arms back in the crutch. 

“No problem. He’s an asshole.” Dallas shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets quickly. Johnny watches and sees his shiver, frowning. Dallas doesn’t have a scarf, gloves, or a hat like the rest of them do. He’s got a thick leather jacket, dark jeans, and cowboy boots. And as someone who grew up wearing something similar in this weather, Johnny can’t help but feel bad. 

“Are your hands cold?” He asks. Dallas opens his mouth—no doubt to say no—but Johnny has already taken his off and has them thrusted towards his chest. Dallas blinks one, twice, then shoved them back towards him. “Those want fit me.” He says like a petulant child, shoving his hands in his pockets again. 

There’s an odd look on his face—one that only got worse when Johnny handed him his gloves. It takes him a moment to understand what it is. 

Guilt.

Dallas let’s out a sigh, rolling his shoulders like he’s gearing up to talk. 

“Look,” he begins. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier—I was being a douche.”

Johnny has to stop himself from gasping. Dallas was known for never apologizing—he kicked a pregnant teacher in the stomach in sixth grade, when the principal told him he could’ve hurt the baby, he said she could just open her legs and make another just as easy. Last year he slammed a kids head into the locker so hard that it gave him a concussion, and he just shrugged it off.

One glance to the left and he can see Darry pretending not to watch them, he’s sure that the other is making Dallas do this. 

“It’s alright, I’m used to it.” He quickly realizes that’s not the argument he thought it was. Dallas looks even more miserable, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be, man. It ain’t right to say shit like that.” He pauses, finally making eye contact. “Darry uh—told me what happened.”

It doesn’t take Johnny long to realize he means the crash. He’s about to send a glare that boy’s way, before realizing there is no way he could’ve told Dallas that in the amount of time it took Two-Bit to get off of him. He was definitely listening to their conversation. Little creep.

“It’s nothing to feel bad about.” Johnny says, not looking at him. “You’re a kid, it’s kinda’ your job to talk bad about adults, huh?”

Dallas blinks at him. “You really don’t care?”

Johnny just shrugs. 

It takes Dallas a moment to do anything. He digs a hand in his back pocket and pulls out two twenty’s. “I stole this when you weren’t looking.” He says guiltily, letting Johnny snatch it from his hands and tuck it back in his wallet. “I can’t even hate this, it’s pretty impressive.” Johnny was sure he hadn’t turned his back to Dallas for more than two seconds. 

Dallas, once again, looking utterly confused when he just accepts it. 

He spares a glance behind Johnny’s head, rolling his eyes. “Hey,” he says, nodding to the space behind him. “You might wanna duck.” he says simply. Johnny has no time to react. Dallas grabs him by the jacket collar and tugs him down. When he’s let go, he notices a crushed snowball rolling down his chest. 

“Thanks.” Johnny can’t help but laugh, sparing a glance back at a petrified Steve. Dallas shrugs. “Guess I owe ya’.” 

Johnny looks at him confusedly. 

“You never filled out the list.”

“Huh?” Johnny mutters, still very much not catching on. 

“The list of shit we did? You didn’t write anything down.” Dallas explains, raising a brow. Johnny blinks—when did they get a look at that? 

“Well, you guys didn’t do anything that bad. Not compared to what I expected, at-least.” Johnny shrugs. Dallas once again gives him that guilty look. “That little stunt you and Two-Bit did, running through the halls, pushed me very close to writing something down.”

Dallas looks like he wants to smile but then steels his gaze. Does this guy always try to intimidate the people he’s apologizing to? Because he’s doing a damn good job. “Just because you expected it, don’t mean it’s right.” Dallas says coldly. 

“So… what you’re saying is that you want me to fill it out?” Johnny teases, raising a brow. Dallas opens his mouth to speak, getting a snowball to the side of his face. “Don’t you dare!” Soda, the one who threw it, calls. Dallas wipes the snow off his face and immediately goes to chase the blonde down.

Meanwhile, somewhere across the field, Darrel leans up against the fence. Someone grabs him from behind—he reels around, ready to punch the anonymous person in the face before he sees familiar head of blonde hair.

”Paul?” He asked, confused. “What are you doing here?” 

Paul shrugs. “Got out early.” He says, glancing at the group outside. “What about you? Who let you guys out here?” Darry opens his mouth to speak—but Paul sees him before Darry can answer. “Jeez—that guy, huh?” He grimaces.

Darrel frowns. “What about him?”

“I’ve only had him once or twice.” Paul shrugs, seemingly noticing Darrel’s change in demeanor. ”Theres nothing wrong with him, I mean, other than the obvious.” Paul laughs, cutting it off awkwardly when Darry doesn’t join him. “Y’know, some of the fella’s dads used to go to school with him. Apparently he used to not be able to speak a lick of English.” 

Darry had noticed his accent—but honestly he never would’ve assumed English wasn’t Johnny’s first language. “Good for him, English is hard to learn.” He shrugs. 

Paul deflates a little when he notices Darrel isn’t joining him. Darry’s never been one to make fun of people—but he’ll laugh along if it’s his friends. He’s definitely gotten more stoic ever since his folks died. 

“Let me know if you guys need help messing with him—what did we do last time, key their car?” Paul smiles, nudging him. Darry grimaces. “We’re planning on leaving him alone.” He shrugs. Paul gives him an odd look. “What, Cus’ of his legs? Y’know I think he’d be upset to hear that.“

Darry frowns. “It’s not pity.” He says quickly, too defensively. Paul’s always been good about picking up whats going on with him. 

“Then, what? You taking a liking to the cripple or something?” Paul asks, rolling his eyes when Darry doesn’t answer. “You’ve got a bleeding heart, man.”

Darry wants to defend him—slap Paul I’m the face for calling him that like he did when he called Ponyboy a loser to his face. He hates that he wants to treat Johnny like his little brother. He’s a grown man, he doesn’t need protection. Yet…

”You better watch what you say about him. He slapped Dallas across the face earlier.” 

Paul’s eyes go wide. “Seriously?!” He asks, leaning over the fence to squint at Johnny. “And I thought he was a doormat!” Paul chuckles. “I always thought you were gonna be the first to smack some sense into him.” 

“I still might.” Darry shrugs. 

Paul just chuckles, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Well, call me if you change your mind.” He says, walking off before Darry could answer. Darry just rolls his eyes playfully, turning back to the group. He turns just in time to see Soda frantically trying to escape Dallas Winston. Johnny blows a whistle with his finger just in time—making them all pause and turn to him—Darry might have to steal that tactic. 

“We gotta head back inside.” He calls loud enough for them all to hear.

They all wipe the snow off of themselves as they walk back to the building, following behind the oldest like a bunch of lost dogs. Johnny instructs them all to wipe their shoes off at the door—something Darry’s been trying to get them to do for years, but they listen only now. They make it back to the classroom without a hitch, just moments before the bell rings. 

Johnny startles at the sudden sound, laughing. “Right on time, guys.” He says, pulling his jacket off. None of the boys get up to leave—Johnny gives them an odd look when he notices. 

“Are you guys okay—“ he begins, cut off when half the group come barreling towards him. Ponyboy, Two-Bit, Steve, and Soda all run to him and pull him into a big group hug, Darrel and Dallas watching with a roll of their eyes. Two-But lifts Johnny clean off the ground. “We’re gonna miss you, man!” The redhead cries like a lady who’s husband is going off to war. Johnny frantically tries to push him off, very clearly not happy about his feet not being on the ground. 

“Okay, okay, let go!” Johnny cries finally, Two-But dropping him quickly, careful not to hurt him. “You all realize I still work here, right?” 

“It won’t be the same.” Ponyboy frowns. “Tim’s gonna be in here again…” 

Johnny can’t help but laugh, ruffling the boys hair. “I’ll tell him to cut you guys some slack, okay?” 

They all thank him hopefully—they he’ll still be the worst, it’s Tim Shepard after all, but maybe he’ll let them off easy once or twice. They all leave solemnly, trying to stay behind as long as they can. Darry’s the last out—partly to make sure none of the try to stay behind. Johnny’s a breath of fresh air for most of them, since the moment saw him they liked him more than the other teachers. 

“Thank you.” Darrel finds himself saying, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, you guys ask like I found the cure for cancer.” Johny laughs, crossing his arms. “I’m just doing my job.” 

“Very well, I’d say.” Darrel smiles. “I mean it, though. I don’t think they’re that well-behaved even with me.” 

Johnny gives him a guilty look. 

Darrel begins to walk to the door, hanging behind a few extra seconds. “Can I…?” He trails off, holding his arms out. Johnny blinks when he realizes he’s asking for a hug. Johnny just shrugs, hugging him first. “Have a good holiday for me, yeah?” He says, smiling. Darry can’t help but smile as well. “I will.” He says. 

Darrel’s not used to being this open around adults—his cheeks burn red when Johnny gives him an odd look, he quickly realizes he’s blocking the door. “Sorry—“ he mutters frantically, stepping out of the way. Johnny just laughs. “You guys are some weird kids, y’know that?” 

Darry just nods, giving him one final goodbye. 

Johnny doesn’t notice something in his pocket until he’s home. He’s reaching to get his keys, a few papers falling out of his pocket. He does his best to bend over and grab them.

Unfolding them, he finds the silly coloring sheets he had given the boys earlier. Darry must’ve slipped them into his pocket when they hugged. Johnny can’t help but smile, already planning on hanging them on his fridge. 

Maybe he doesn’t hate teenagers as much as he thought he did. 

Johnny’s often asked about how he ever got the six most troublesome kids to listen to him—it got out quickly that they had a soft spot for him, especially when they always begged Tim to swap out with Johnny whenever he substituted for them. Every time he got the question he’d just shrug. 

“Guess I got lucky.” He’d say. 

[anneapocalypse]

but seriously... what if she/they/he/any pronouns El Trevelyan for the Veilguard Era.

[bionicboxes]

8:] it's my fav

omg 8 is also MY favorite number.... :]

Anyway, number 8 on my list iiiis...

Elizabeth Grant. Child murderer- Not a child who is a killer, despite appearances, but a 47 year old woman with a perpetual baby-face who uses her appearance to befriend and ultimately lure away her victims while the parents are none the wiser.

Born to a wealthy family, Elizabeth's life looked perfect from the outside- but she believes that she was forced to grow up far too fast, pressured to marry a man she did not care for, pressured to have children she did not want- her life quickly wasting away before her eyes. Until she came across something that would let her maintain her youth forever, escape the family she hated so, and be free to inflict the same misery she experienced upon others for eternity.

Even amongst the cast of murderers that make up SFH's main characters, Elizabeth is viewed with particular distain, with "Encore" and "Midnight Voyager" out to kill Elizabeth on sight- for their own sense of morality and for a bounty, respectively. "Patient Zero" has not encountered her yet, but if he did, he'd find that there's something.... disturbingly familiar about her.

[pausegame]

Did nothing but play Inquisition yesterday and it was ✨ magical ✨ 🥲😭🙏❤️❤️

[beloveds-embrace]

so i have a habit of calling be love/babe/darling as a term of enderament (even in friendships) and was wondering how the dukedom guys would react to being called love or darling by the reader for the first time? I grt it probably wasnt as socially acceptable back then but the thought still plaques my mind

Historical accuracy who? We don’t know her shhh

Original post

But they’d love it! At first, you had tried really hard to stop yourself and semi-succeeded by only calling your maids like that. Your parents always hated that habit of yours, a leftover from your nanny’s own habit. They had warned you again and again and again to not let your tongue run, to keep your words polite and demure, only fallen women working in brothels would speak so freely.

And you did keep it under control for a good while; with your interactions few with John, you could remind yourself not to let your tongue loose and call him honey right off the bat when he simply calls you by your name. It’s harder with Kyle, you almost slip and call him darling, same with Johnny. With Simon it’s easier because on the times he visits, you leave him to his meetings with John and don’t bother them. (Or what you thought were business meetings at that time lol)

But once they start getting closer to you, it’s inevitable that the nicknames start slipping out.

“Kyle, darling-“ you are rushing today, and the words slip out before you realize. You just spare a thought to wonder why he’s frozen solid like that. “Where is my hairpin? I was so sure we left it on my vanity?”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you say to Johnny when he brings you a platter of fresh deserts while working, not lifting your head from the papers in front of you other than to flash him a quick, grateful smile. You don’t notice how long it takes before Johnny stutters out a ‘welcome, m’lady’ and leaves you be.

“Simon, honey?” You ask on another occasion, voice too worried to notice what you’d called him. No maids around, and no one would question you calling you husband’s ‘close friend’ by his name in your home. “Is your leg okay? You are leaning on it too much, shall I call the doctor?” His silence is typical to you, but too busy fussing over his leg, you don’t see his face. Until you look up, eyes widening at his averted eyes and red-tipped ears. “Are you sick, Simon? You should be resting instead, you know?”

And at last… “John, love,” you sigh softly, controlling the tremble of your limbs. You look away from the newspaper, though you believe it should just be called a glorified gossip magazing, and close your eyes. Duke Price’s Duchess remains barren of a child! Is a divorce in their future? “It’s alright, it is what it is-“ you try to calm him.

Up until now, from the moment you’d both read the headline, John had been fuming. He wasn’t loud in his anger, but it was clear in his ticking jaw and clenched fists. So you expect him to continue in his anger.

“…I will deal with it.” John promises, voice low but no longer a rolling thunder. He sits down calmer now, when you finally open your eyes to look at him. He’s simply gazing at you, and his hands clench in the air before he sets them down on the table. “They won’t be slandering you any longer, wife. I promise you.”

You wish you could pinpoint what soothed him, but alas. Though you know he will try his best and maybe this news agency won’t make anymore comments like this about you, others will still continue to do so.

“It’s alright.” You repeat, but the words ring hollow and the smile on your face is empty. You push your plate away. “Now, if my husband permits it, I don’t believe I can stomach much more.”

“You never need my permission for such things,” he tells you; a sentiment he’d told you from the very first day. His face softens. “Go rest. Today, I will take care of everything that needs to be done.”

Darling, sweetheart, honey, love… they wonder if you know how much those words repeat in their minds.

[theostrophywife]

focus on me.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader request: I NEED MATHEO OR THEODORE X FEM READER AND SHE JUST LOVES HIS HANDS AND ARM VIENS AND SHE WALKS INTO HIS DORM AND IS GOBSMAKED TO SEE HIS ABS AND SHE WANTS TO RIDE THEM AND SHES JUST SO OBSESSED AND THINKS HES THE HOTTEST MAN IN THE PLANET- AND SHE FOLDS LIKE A PRETZEL WHEN HE GIVES HER THOSE EYES- JESUS IM A CATHOLIC BUT THEO AND MATTHEO COULD BE MY NEW RELIGION- author's note: big thanks to @writingsbychlo for listening to me rant about this man in her inbox. posting this now so she can wake up to her mans. the way that i would fold for mattheo so fast (theo look away). anyways, enjoy this purely smutty fic 😮‍💨

You were supposed to be studying. 

When you came into his dorm, you specifically told Mattheo not to interrupt you under any circumstances. Usually, you preferred the library but some prat had accidentally set off a dung bomb, which meant closure until further notice. 

You tried studying in your dorm, but your fellow housemates decided that there was no better time to throw a back to school bash in the common room than the night before your Ancient Runes exam. Harry and Ron, who shared the same class, appeared completely unbothered as they chugged firewhisky straight from the bottle. 

Your roommate Hermione was long gone. Probably holed up somewhere in the dungeons with Draco. You followed your friend’s cue and snuck into your boyfriend’s dorm, narrowly avoiding Filch. It never seemed fair that the Slytherins got individual rooms, but tonight you had never been more thankful for it. 

Mattheo had set up a whole battle station for you on his desk. There were fresh ink pots, newly sharpened quills, and blank parchment waiting for you when you arrived. After kissing your sweet and considerate boyfriend, you went straight to work. 

By the time midnight struck, the parchment was filled with glowing runes, making your ink stained hands cramp from drawing out the symbols over and over again. To Mattheo’s credit, he kept to himself and read quietly on his bed while you studied. 

You were so engrossed in the material that you barely registered him kissing you on the cheek before leaving to take a shower. That little mistake cost you because as soon as he walked back into his dorm with nothing but a towel on, you nearly spilled fresh ink all over yourself. 

Water trickled down Mattheo’s chest, the little droplets snaking through his perfectly chiseled abs only to disappear beyond his v lines, which pointed like an arrow to what you knew was hiding underneath that towel. 

The fabric hung dangerously low on his hips as he walked over to his dresser to pick out something to wear. You watched with rapt attention as he braced himself against the wood, those delicious, juicy veins protruding from his forearms and nearly making you dizzy with desire. 

Finally, Mattheo turned. The silence had caught his attention and he smirked when he saw you ogling him. 

“See something you like, pretty girl?”

You flushed. “Just got a little distracted.”

Mattheo’s grin grew. He sauntered over to you, leaning over so that he had you caged against the desk. 

“Oh?” he asked, his voice low and husky and absolutely fucking sexy. “Maybe it’s time for a break then. You’ve been such a good girl studying so hard all night. I think you deserve a reward, my love.” 

Your breath hitched as Mattheo’s lips grazed yours. He tilted your chin up, giving you a perfect view of those brown eyes. Then he gave you the look and you knew you were done for. 

It was a look that said he wanted to devour every inch of you until you couldn’t even recall your own name. You gave in. Of course you gave in. How could you not?

“Maybe for a second…”

Mattheo took the opening. One arm snaked around your waist, bringing you up with him as he pressed you against the desk. His other arm crept up your back until he reached the nape of your neck, fisting your hair through his fingers as he kissed you roughly. 

“Do you even know how fucking sexy you are, princess? My smart schoolgirl in her tiny little skirt.” 

Mattheo carefully moved your studying materials aside before picking you up and setting you down on the table. He gripped the top of your thighs and brought you to the edge while sliding his tongue against yours. You whimpered as he grinded against you, showing you exactly how hard he was underneath the towel.

“Been thinking about bending you over this table all night,” Mattheo whispered in your ear. His hand climbed higher up your thigh and you felt your body instantly respond to his touch. “Bet you’re soaking wet for me already, aren’t you angel?”

You moaned as he toyed with the waistband of your panties. “Matty, please.” 

Your boyfriend smiled at your nickname for him, knowing that he had you right where he wanted you. “What is it that you want, darling?”

“Touch me. Please.” 

Mattheo smirked as he tugged your panties off. His lust filled gaze drank you in as he dragged two fingers through your slick folds. 

“Fuck. You’re so wet. Is this all for me, princess?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, nipping at his neck. “It’s not fair. You play dirty, Matty. You can’t just walk in here with nothing but a towel on.” 

“Why not, angel?”

You sighed, tracing the hard planes of his chest. His muscles flexed under your fingertips as you gently raked your nails against his six pack. “Because you’re sexy and I can’t help myself.” 

Mattheo chuckled darkly, plunging two fingers in your pussy. You bucked against his hand, watching in stunned silence as he withdrew it only to stick his middle and pointer finger into his mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he tasted you on him. 

“This is exactly what I mean,” you whined. “For Godric’s fucking sake, how am I supposed to concentrate after that?”

“Maybe we can compromise, angel.” He shuffled through your parchments and stuck one to the wall. “I’m going to trace the runes inside of you and if you get them all right, then I’ll give you your reward.”

You swallowed thickly and nodded. Mattheo grinned before giving you a quick peck. “Pay attention, sweetheart.” 

His fingers dipped through your folds once more and you gripped his arm, fighting the moan from escaping your lips. Mattheo curled his fingers inside of you, drawing a familiar shape. 

“Urus,” you said in a breathy voice. “It means strength.”

“That’s right, angel.” He shifted as you ran your hands down his arms. You could feel his veins throbbing underneath your palm as he fingered you. “Don’t get distracted now. I know how much you love my hands. I promise they’ll be wrapped around your throat by the end of the night if you get all these right. Now focus.”

You nodded, eyes fluttering close as he traced another rune. “Algiz,” you answered. “For protection.” 

“Hot and smart,” Mattheo announced proudly. “How’d I get so lucky?”

His lips grazed yours and you willingly parted for him, fluttering around his fingers as his tongue slid into your mouth. He pumped his digits inside of you, teasing and taunting. 

“Let’s try something harder, princess.” 

Mattheo’s skillful fingers prodded against your walls, sketching a complicated shape. You closed your eyes and focused. It was a tricky one, but you remembered the cris cross pattern. 

“Inguz,” you said decidedly. “Fertility.” 

“That’s right,” Mattheo said with a smile. “You're doing so well, sweetheart. One more and you can have anything you want.” 

“Anything?” you asked with a small smile.

“Whatever that devious little mind of yours desires, my love.” 

“Okay,” you replied. “I’m ready, then.”

Your boyfriend nodded, staring right into your eyes as he marked the last and final rune. It was an effort not to get lost in those warm, brown eyes. But you steeled yourself, determined to claim your prize.

“Rerth. For luck.”

“Good girl,” Mattheo said with a smirk. “Fitting since you’re getting lucky tonight, angel. Where should we start?” 

You bit your lip, cocking your head at him. It was nearly an impossible choice. You wanted to kiss him. Bite him. Lick him. All of the above and more. 

But there was one thing that stood out from all the other deliciously sinful choices. You pressed your palm against his abs and grinned. 

“I want to ride your abs.”

Mattheo’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected it, but fuck he was so down. He would’ve given you anything with the way you were looking at him right now. 

“You never fail to surprise me,” he said fondly. “Well come on then, let’s make your filthy little fantasy a reality.” 

In one smooth move, he lifted you off the table and deposited you on top of his bed. Mattheo reclined against the headboard and watched with hungry eyes as you straddled his stomach. He smiled as you slipped the tie off your neck and looped it around him. 

It was a simple move, but so fucking sexy and possessive at the same time. You were claiming him. Mattheo was yours and you were his. You belonged to one another—mind, body, and soul. 

Mattheo trailed kisses down your neck and throat, leaving marks on your skin as his deft fingers made quick work of the first few buttons on your blouse. He leaned back and admired his work, his hands gripping your hips while you grinded your soaking wet sex against his muscles. 

He didn’t think it would feel this good. There was something about you using his body to get yourself off that fucking turned him on like no other. Mattheo lifted your skirt up, fisting the fabric in his hands and watching as you coated him with your arousal. 

The little whimpers you were making sounded like music to his ears. “My good little slut,” he said, squeezing your tits as you rode him with reckless abandon. “You’re so fucking filthy, baby. Using me to get yourself off. I’m just your fuck toy aren’t I princess?”

“So good,” you murmured. “You feel so good, Matty.”

The desperation in your voice set him off. He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise and bucked forward, smirking in satisfaction when you moaned. The ridges of his abs rubbed against your clit, providing the perfect amount of pressure to the sensitive area. 

“Keep riding me,” he said in a low, rough voice. “Just like that, angel. Such a good girl for me.”

You closed your eyes, lost to the waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Mattheo gripped your chin, his voice rough around the edges as he spoke. “Open your eyes, darling. I want to watch you cum.”

His rich brown eyes pinned you in place, drinking in every detail. That sexy smirk curved against his lips as he hooked his arms behind his head, admiring the view of his girl riding him. 

“Look at you, baby. You’re making such a fucking mess. Such an innocent face, but you turn into a filthy whore when you’re with me.” 

“Only for you, Mattheo.” 

“Damn fucking right,” he said, sliding his hands under your skirt to rub at your clit. 

You bucked against him, riding out the high. Heat exploded in your core and seeped into your veins. Mattheo kissed you roughly, staking his claim on you as he devoured your moans. 

“That’s it, princess. Cum for me, pretty girl.”

The orgasm felt like a lightning strike. It hit you all at once, making your walls spasm as you came all over Mattheo’s abs. He cursed when he felt you soaking him through, utterly turned on by the mess that you’ve made. Mattheo had never been harder in his life. 

Your boyfriend peppered kisses on your face, pulling you taut to him as you came down from the high. Mattheo brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, tilting your chin up so he could press his lips against yours. He groaned and held your hips down, grinding his boner against your ass. 

“I’m not done making you cum, princess. You’ve got one more in you, don’t you angel?” 

As sensitive as you were, your pussy throbbed at his words. When it came to Mattheo, you could never really get enough. 

“I thought I only got one reward. You’re spoiling me, Matty.” 

“There’s no question about it. You’re my spoiled rotten little princess. But this reward isn’t for you, it’s for me.” He smacked your ass, gesturing for you to get up. “Now come on, angel. I was serious about that desk.” 

He smirked as he walked you back to his desk, his hands disappearing underneath your skirt as he massaged your ass. Mattheo kissed you roughly before he flipped you over, bending you on the desk so you were face down and ass up. He flipped your skirt up, hissing when he found you soaking wet again.

“You just can’t help yourself can you, princess?” He pumped himself in his hand before sliding the tip of his cock along your folds. “Gods, you’re fucking wet. Are you ready, baby?” 

You whimpered, rocking your hips against him for more friction. Mattheo held you in place, fisting your hair in his hands. 

“Use your words, darling. I want to hear you beg like the good little slut that you are.” 

“Please, Matty,” you whined. “I need you so badly that it hurts.” 

He kissed the base of your spine, grinning as he eased his length inside of you. Still sensitive from your last orgasm, you gripped the edges of the table as Mattheo buried his cock within your walls. Your legs felt like they were going to give out any minute, but he kept you upright, cursing when he felt how wet and tight you were. 

“Fuck,” he grunted as he thrust into you slowly. Mattheo gripped you from behind, picking up the pace. Your pussy clenched around him like a vice. “Gods, pussy’s so good baby. You’re doing so well. Taking all of me like my perfect little whore.” 

Mattheo fucking adored the way you blushed at his filthy words. He leaned over, capturing your lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked you into the table. He thought he was going to pass the fuck out when you grinded back into him, meeting his movements to take more and more of him. Mattheo leaned over and shielded your head from the wall, making sure you were protected as the table shook underneath you. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your breathy little moans was enough to send him over the edge, but he wanted to make good on his promise. Mattheo always put his girl first. The boys were right. He might be just a little bit pussy whipped. 

Even without the sex, you could’ve asked Mattheo to kill for you and he would’ve done so without question. 

“I fucking love you, darling. I’d kill for you. I’d die for you,” he said, every word laced with conviction. “Forever and always.” 

“I love you too, Matty. Forever and always.” 

He kissed your cheek, the action surprisingly soft compared to how rough the sex was. You felt like you could’ve melted onto the floor. 

“Cum with me, my love.” 

Mattheo wrapped his arms around you as that familiar heat spread burned in your core. He held you as the orgasm rocked through your body, sharing in the euphoric high while the two of you finished together. His grip around you only tightened, hugging you from behind while he slowly pulled out. You were barely keeping upright as it was, your legs threatening to give out under you. 

Without a word, your boyfriend scooped you into his arms and brought you back to bed. He cradled you against him, whispering praises and encouragement while stroking your hair. 

“You did so well, baby. I’m so proud of you for remembering all those runes. You’re gonna ace your exam tomorrow.” 

“You really think so, Matty?” You snuggled against him, burying your head in the crook of his neck. Mattheo stroked your back and placed a kiss on your temple. 

“I know so, darling. You have no idea how proud I am for having such a smart girlfriend. I love bragging about you to our friends.” 

You flushed. “Well, I couldn’t have done it all on my own. I had some help from my smart, sweet, and sexy study partner.

Mattheo grinned and kissed you gently. “Glad to be of service, my love.” 

taglist: @annaisabookworm @marina468

please let me know if you'd like to be added.

[hoshifighting]

staff!jeonghan

WARNINGS: fluff, smut, fame problems, paris trip, idol!reader is a sweetheart with her staff team, teasing, hair pulling, makeup smudging hair destroying sex, face slap, paris sex.

staff!jeonghan who started way back when your career was just taking off. you were still fresh, the kind of new that had people curious but not quite sold on the idea of you making it long term. jeonghan wasn’t even supposed to be sticking around. dude was just a freelancer, floating between gigs like it was nothing. hairdresser one week, stylist the next, maybe even photographer’s assistant if he felt like it. didn’t care much either—just did his job, got his check, and dipped.

he was there the first time you came in for a shoot, thinking, oh, here we go again, another idol who doesn’t know shit about shit, and probably treats their staff like trash. honestly, he didn’t expect anything from you. he had his walls up like crazy. you’d been doing this for, what, a hot minute? and you were already getting attention, which just made him think, “yep, this one’s probably the snobby kind. won’t even acknowledge us when she’s walking by.”

but then you went and did the most surprising thing—like blew his expectations out of the water kinda surprise. you saw him—no, not just like saw him, but like saw him. took a minute to actually chat. asked how his day was, if he needed anything while he was running around fixing the stage lights or whatever. you even remembered his name by the end of the first day, which? yeah, idols usually don’t bother with that.

fast forward a couple months, and jeonghan’s still hanging around. he didn’t plan to stay, but something about you changed that. it wasn’t even the work, really. it was more like you made things different for the whole staff—hairdressers, makeup artists, stylists, all of them. you had this habit of, like, breaking all the usual rules. you’d bring coffee for everyone in the morning, none of that half-assed, "just for my personal team" bullshit, you made sure everyone was taken care of, because they take care of you as welll.

then there was that time when you randomly called up your manager one day like, "hey, i’m taking everyone out to eat after the shoot." and jeonghan was standing there, trying not to look too surprised, but inside he was like, who the hell does that? especially in this industry where staff usually gets a handshake and a “thanks for your work” at most. while you’re out here throwing cash around to make sure your team is happy. it’s wild.

he remembers the first time you handed out those holiday bonuses. it wasn’t even from the company’s budget either; it was straight up from your own wallet. like, your money. you didn’t even make a big deal about it, just casually handed out envelopes and said, “merry christmas, you guys.” you should’ve seen their faces—everyone was shook, even him, and he doesn’t get surprised that easily. it was one of those moments where the room just, like, collectively inhaled. there was silence, and then someone—probably one of the stylists—goes, “y/n, this is... you didn’t have to...”

and you? you just shrugged, all casual, like it was no big deal. “nah, i wanted to. thank you for taking care of me, you make part of all of this too.” you pointed to the stage.

jeonghan couldn’t even look at you right for a second because it was, like, damn, okay, she’s for real. that was the moment he decided he wasn’t just gonna treat this gig like all the others. working with you? yeah, it felt different. and not in some sappy, fairytale shit kind of way, but in a “maybe there are still people in this industry who aren’t complete assholes” kind of way.

“so you’re sticking around, hannie?” you asked him one day, catching him off guard while he was fixing up your jacket right before a stage performance.

he smirked, his usual cocky, nonchalant self, but there was something softer underneath it. “guess i don’t have a choice. you make it too easy.”

he was your go-to guy now, the one you trusted with everything, from making sure your hair wasn’t fucked up during press tours to giving you a reality check when you were stressing over the dumbest things. and he liked that. he liked being the one you leaned on when you didn’t wanna bother anyone else.

but it was more than that too. you were just different. the way you treated people, the way you made sure everyone around you felt seen, felt valued? it wasn’t fake. it wasn’t for show. it was you. and jeonghan? well, he wasn’t the kind of guy to stick around just for anyone. but for you? yeah, maybe he’d go the long haul.

jeonghan was always there, like a constant shadow that somehow made everything feel lighter instead of heavier. as your career blew up, he didn’t just keep pace—he matched your energy, your needs, every twist and turn that came with your fame. whether it was press tours, backstage chaos, or those ridiculous interviews where some clueless host would try to push your boundaries, he was always ready.

you’d be in the middle of a tv show, mind racing, and then there’d be a subtle shift. jeonghan standing just offstage, watching with a sharp, gaze of his. and it wasn’t like he had to do much—sometimes just a look was enough to let you know he had your back. like that time they tried to switch up your routine last minute, making changes that didn’t sit right with you. you didn’t even need to speak up, though. before you could say a word, he was already stepping in, throwing that effortless, yet somehow intimidating smile toward the team. “nah, we’re sticking with the original plan. my artist doesn’t do changes without notice.”

“your artist,” you’d hear him say that a lot, like a protective label stamped right over you, like you belonged to him—not in a possessive way, but in a way that made you feel safe. secure.

it wasn’t just about the work either, not even close. jeonghan made the loneliness that came with fame feel less suffocating. that part of fame nobody talks about—the part where you can’t make real friends anymore, where every new person in your life feels temporary, transactional. except him. he was loyal.

when you had those long, grueling days full of photoshoots and interviews and events, and all you wanted was to escape, jeonghan was the one who made sure you still had a piece of normal.

like that one time in paris. you were there for a fashion show, sitting front row with all these industry giants who couldn’t care less about anything but themselves, and jeonghan was right beside you, but afterward, when it was just the two of you, he was the one who dragged you to some random hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street, far from all the cameras and flashing lights, ordering too much food and laughing at how terrible your french was.

“you know, you’re lucky you’ve got me,” he teased, watching you struggle with the menu. “otherwise, you’d be stuck ordering water and bread for the rest of the trip.”

you elbowed him playfully. “i’m just trying to be cultured, okay?”

“sure, sure,” he snickered, but the grin on his face was soft, like he was glad to be there with you. “leave the culture to me.”

he was there on the quieter days too. you’d be at home, no schedule to follow for once, just free. but that freedom? it felt empty when you didn’t have anyone to share it with. jeonghan got that. he’d show up at your place without even needing an invitation, like he just knew when you needed him there. sometimes he wouldn’t even knock. you’d just hear the door click open and his familiar voice, “you better not be working in there.”

you’d laugh, shouting back from wherever you were in the apartment, “i’m not, calm down.”

next thing you knew, he’d be on the floor of your pristine living room, surrounded by lego pieces because, for some reason, that’s what the two of you did on your days off. it was ridiculous, really, two adults crouched over colorful plastic blocks, but it made you feel like a kid again, like before everything got so complicated.

you’d crouch down next to him, watching his hands move, and without thinking, you’d wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. it wasn’t even romaaaantic, more like instinct. jeonghan had this way of making you feel safe, like you didn’t have to be the perfect version of yourself all the time. you could just be you. and hugging him like that, clinging onto him like a koala, it was the only way you knew how to show him just how much he meant to you.

“you’re clingy today,” he murmured, but there was no complaint in his voice, just that familiar teasing.

“you’re soft,” you shot back, squeezing him tighter, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. his cologne was subtle but always the same, something that reminded you of quiet, peaceful moments, like this.

he tilted his head a little, catching your eyes “oh, yeah? not what you said last time.”

you puffed your cheeks out, crossing your arms dramatically, the sulk settling in. “i’m done being clingy with you, jeonghan.”

he grinned like he was waiting for that exact reaction. it’s almost like he lived for these moments—when you’d pout and try to act all tough, but really? he knew exactly where this was headed. you weren’t fooling anyone, especially not him.

“oh yeah?” he tilted his head, gaze dripping with amusement as he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “you sure about that?”

you tried to hold firm, but the way his voice dropped a little lower, teasing. you shifted your weight, crossing your legs under you on the living room floor, avoiding eye contact. “mmhmm. you’ll see.”

jeonghan let out a soft chuckle, leaning back and watching you with a glint in his eyes, like he was just waiting for you to crack. “you’re too cute when you sulk, y’know that?”

your heart fluttered, but you bit down on the inside of your cheek, determined to keep up the act. “whatever.”

he moved closer, a hand sliding around your waist, tugging you just enough so that your body leaned into his. “nah, don’t pout, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing lightly against your jaw. “we both know how this ends.”

and he was right. because, every time you tried to act like you were done with him, like you were going to keep your distance, it only ended one way—with you wet underneath him, a needy mess, begging for more.

like that first time in paris. paris had done something to the both of you. it was supposed to be a normal night, just you and him hanging out after the fashion show. nothing special, just another city on the endless list of places you’d been together. but somehow, that night went different. the second the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, you’d scarcely made it through the door before his hands were on you, grabbing, pulling, claiming.

“thought you were gonna keep your distance,” jeonghan had teased as he pressed you up against the wall, his lips trailing down your neck, making your knees weak.

you were already panting, feeling the warmness of him beaming off his body. “shut up, hannie.”

he chuckled against your skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you, making you gasp. “aww, so cute when you’re needy.”

and fuck, were you needy. by the time he’d pushed you onto the bed, tugging at your clothes, you were already whimpering for him, already soaked.

he’d dragged you to the edge, rough hands all over your body, pulling, squeezing, leaving marks everywhere. your hair had been perfect for the show, all sleek and done up, but that shit didn’t last long. the second he had his fist tangled in it, pulling your head back, it was ruined. thrusting into you from behind, his cock splitting you in half with each brutal thrust. “such a fucking mess.”

you’d tried to keep quiet, biting down on the pillow as your body rocked with every movement, but every time you let out a whiny moan, jeonghan was right there to mock you for it.

“aww, hannie’s being too harsh?” he cooed, as he tries to sound sweet. “hm? poor baby can’t take it?”

you’d only moaned louder, your body trembling as he slapped your ass, the sting making you cry out. he’d leaned down then, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “use your words, sweetheart. tell hannie how bad you want it.”

you couldn’t even speak, just a mess of broken moans and gasps as he kept slamming into you, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room. and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, when you were right on the edge, that’s when he did it. his hand came up to your face, smudging the glitter from the show as he slapped you—not enough to really hurt. he is a careful guy.

“fuck, y/n, look at you. such a pretty little mess,” he groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he pounded into you from behind, relentless. “you gonna come for me? c’mon, baby, let me hear it.”

you whimpered, nodding, your mind spinning as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, making you roll your eyes, drool, everything u had right of. but just as you were about to cum, he pulled out, leaving you empty and desperate.

“aww, no no no, not yet,” jeonghan cooed, a wicked grin on his face as he turned you onto your back, pushing your legs open wide. “hannie’s not done with you.”

your heart pounded, your entire body aching for release, but you didn’t dare move. he was in control, and you knew better than to push him.

“what’s the matter, baby?” he leaned down, his lips brushing over yours as he teased you. “too much?”

you shook your head, barely able to get the words out. “n-no… please…”

his smirk widened, that wicked glint in his eyes making you shiver. “please what? gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

you whimpered, your hands gripping the sheets as you looked up at him, desperate. “please… fuck me…”

“good girl.”

[itneverendshere]

we say we’re different but we got the same eyes - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

you needed to stop taking other people shift’s. 

it’s not like you wanted to, but at least they were paying you to do so, enough to let you actually chill this summer without stressing about rent or whatever else adulthood decided to throw at you.

all you had to do was show up and do the job. first at lila’s dinner, now at the bougie country club, as a cart girl.

you’d done this before, and sure, the old men were always a little too handsy with their beer guts hanging over their tacky polos, but at least they tipped well. you could tolerate them. smile, giggle at their half-assed jokes, and let them feel like they still had it. 

fine. pay me for my pain, grandpa. 

today however, instead of your usual sugar-daddy wannabes, you were babysitting frat boys. fresh out of their first year of college, probably still hungover from their last keg stand.

nineteen-year-old idiots in pastel shorts and backwards hats, making everything about themselves.

“bro, you remember that party at kappa? dude, swear i blacked out after like, five shots.”

wow, five whole shots? congrats, you absolute child. should i get you a sticker for that?

don’t even get started on their conversations about girls. one of them, chad or brad or whatever his stupid name was, just had to loudly detail how some poor innocent girl “totally wanted him last night but was playing hard to get.”

yeah, bro, she was probably just trying to get through the night without having to mace your entitled ass.

it was constant. the whole damn morning. all they talked about was frat parties, girls they didn’t deserve, and how they "couldn’t wait to get back to school."

you'd give anything to remind them how utterly irrelevant their frat status was in the real world, but you couldn’t. nope. you had to keep your game face on, pour their drinks, and pretend like they weren’t giving you a headache that rivaled your worst hangovers.

at least the elderly snobs tipped well. sure, they were pretentious and acted like you were beneath them, but they'd slip you a twenty or more with a smug little wink. that made it easier to tolerate their "i’ve been golfing here since before you were born" bullshit.

but these brats?

half the time they forgot to tip at all, and when they did remember, it was a crumpled five like they were doing you some grand favor. and of course, of course, they couldn’t just keep their obnoxious, beer-breath comments to themselves. no, they had to make it worse by hitting on you—hard. 

painfully hard. it was like watching a car crash in slow motion, except instead of pulling over to help, you were stuck right in the middle, praying someone would just tow your ass out.

“yo, what’s your name again?” one of them asks. bryce, probably. his face just screams bryce.

he's leaning against the cart like he thinks it's going to make him look cool, but really, he’s just sloshing his drink all over the place. classy.

“it’s on my name tag,” you deadpan, pointing to the little badge pinned to your polo. you're not about to give him any more than that.

but he's not letting it go. “oh yeah? cute name for a cute girl. you single or what?”

jesus christ. here we go.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they’d get stuck in the back of your head. 

“’m here to work,” you sigh, voice sweet enough to mask the absolute disdain you're feeling. you know what comes next.

they always think they can charm you if they just keep going, like you are some kind of challenge.

“c’mon, don’t be like that,” another one chimes in, this one wearing sunglasses even though it's barely 9 a.m.

who do you think you are, pitbull? 

he gives you this sleazy grin like he thinks he's smoother than he actually is. “we could take you out after your shift. grab a drink. bet you’re fun, huh?”

fun? FUN?! if by fun he means fantasizing about driving this cart straight into the water hazard just to escape this conversation, then sure, you're a real blast.

you look around the course, hoping maybe one of the older golfers needs a refill or something—anything to get you away from this nightmare. no luck. it's just you and these clowns.

“i don’t date customers,” you say, a line you’d perfected at this point.

you plaster on your fakest smile, the kind that said please tip me and then leave me the hell alone. but bryce wasn’t giving up.

“you’re really gonna turn us down? i mean, we’re the best thing on this course right now.”

best thing?

the only thing they're the best at seems to be embarrassing themselves. this is the type of guy who probably thinks buying a girl a drink meant she owns him something.

you can't even be mad; it's almost... sad. almost.

“maybe you should focus on your game,” you suggest, glancing at his scorecard. “you’re, what, ten over par already?”

that shuts him up real quick, his face going from cocky to confused like he didn't expect you to know how golf worked.

his friend with the sunglasses? he's still trying.

“we can show you a good time, y’know. we’ve got a house down on the beach. you like boats?”

ah, yes. the boat move. the go-to for guys who think a half-assed yacht and a cooler full of cheap beer is the height of luxury.

you’d seen it a million times in this godforsaken town.

you're not impressed.

you shoot them another smile, “i like tips.”

they all blink confusedly, clearly not used to a girl calling them out so directly. the frat boys mumble something between themselves, looking awkward for the first time all day.

finally, one of them fishes a crumpled twenty out of his pocket and tosses it your way. 

oh, wow, big spender. 

you scoop it up, shoving it into your pocket and giving them a little nod. “thanks, boys. good luck with your game.”

you thought the twenty bucks might’ve bought you a few minutes of peace, but no. they're back at it, swinging at golf balls like they aren't trying to flirt in between their awful shots.

you roll the cart over to the next part of the course, half-listening to their constant chatter.

something about “last semester” this, and “pledge party” that. god, they just never stop. it's like someone hit the repeat button on the world’s most annoying playlist.

one of them calls you over again, like he can't wait five minutes for his next drink. you start prepping them, half tuning them out, just trying to get through it, when suddenly, miraculously, they shut the hell up.

for a second, you think maybe the universe is finally doing you a favor. you don't even question it, just start pouring drinks faster.

a quiet frat boy is a gift. but then you hear it:

“dude!” one of them practically tackles the other, all wide-eyed and hyped up like a little kid who just saw his favorite cartoon character. “is that rafe fucking cameron?!”

oh, for fuck’s sake.

your stomach drops. of course it has to be him. because clearly, your morning isn't being shitty enough. you don't even look at first. 

one of the guys starts flipping out, hitting his buddy’s shoulder like it's the coolest thing to ever happen.

“bro, no way. no way. that’s rafe cameron? he used to be the president of our frat, man. two years ago! he’s a fucking legend!”

legend? you almost laugh.

the only legend rafe is to you it's a legendary asshole. a smug, infuriating, gorgeous asshole who you have been avoiding like the plague. the same one who has been blowing up your phone nonstop, trying to get back into your life.

the same one you swore down you’d never sleep with again after he pulled that stunt at the dinner—and then, of course, ended up in his bed two nights ago. you haven't spoken to him since. you’d been ignoring him again—well, trying to—but now here he is. in the flesh. and these idiots are drooling over him like he's some kind of frat god.

you turn your head, and he's striding across the green like he doesn't have a care in the world. of course he looks good. he always does.

wayfarer’s pushed up in his hair, that cocky-ass grin on his face, wearing a polo like he's the face of a country club catalog. you know he’d see you any second. hell, he probably already has. 

yeah, you’d been avoiding him, and yeah, maybe you’d blocked his number twice, but that didn’t stop him from calling with a different one. or from somehow finding you the other night at the party when you were weak enough to let him back in, only to get burned again.

“holy shit, he’s coming this way,” one of the frat boys mutters, shaking with excitement.

you don't move, don't acknowledge him. but you can feel his eyes on you. it's like a sixth sense at this point. you'd crave it so much before, when it was all a silly game in your head, see how much you could push until he cracked and gave into you. now it's a curse.

the boys are watching him approach like he's some kind of celebrity.

“should we say something to him?” one whispers. “i heard he’s like, killing it in the business world now. family’s loaded.”

yeah, you think bitterly. killing it. if you count being a trust fund brat as an accomplishment.

rafe's closer now, and you know this moment is inevitable. the frat boys are giddy, already nudging each other, probably ready to beg him for networking advice or whatever the hell frat bros did.

you keep your eyes down, focusing on pouring the drinks, acting like you don't even notice him. like he doesn't phase you in the slightest.

“hey,” a familiar voice drawls. you don't have to lift your head to know it's him. naturally, he stops right by you. because why wouldn’t he?

“rafe fucking cameron!” one of the guys yells, unable to keep it together anymore. “you’re like a legend, man. kappa forever!”

you never cringed so hard in your life.

rafe smirks, that signature look spreading across his face. “yeah, somethin' like that.”

you clench your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your face neutral. no way in hell are you about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still gets to you. 

everyone else around you are tripping over their words just to get his attention. it's embarrassing to watch. the kids acting like he's some kind of messiah, not just some white rich guy with a trust fund and a bad attitude half the time.

“man, the outer banks is fucking sick,” one of them says, bouncing on his feet like an overexcited puppy. “we’ve been hitting the beaches, bars, y’know, living it up. and bro, the girls here? smoking hot.”

here we go. 

you pretend to be very invested in the cooler, rearranging the ice just to keep your hands busy. they're about to start pointing at you any second now; you can sense it.

the way they keep looking over at you made it obvious they're gearing up for something.

and then, like clockwork, it happens.

“yeah, man,” one of them gestures way too enthusiastically in your direction. “that cart girl over there? we’ve been trying all morning.”

oh, fuck right off, you resist the urge to throw a bottle at him.

you’d rather die than hear what lame pickup line is coming next, but what you really don't want to hear is whatever rafe's about to say.

there was a pause, as if he's taking a second to let it sink in. and when he finally does speak, his voice is all smooth confidence, casual as anything.

“so,” he starts, still with smirk you hate and know so well, “you’ve met my girl?”

my girl? my fucking girl?

one of them, manages to stammer, “uh—wait, she’s… she’s your girl?”

you can feel the tension creeping up the back of your neck. this's exactly why you’ve been avoiding him.

no matter what happened between you, no matter how messy things got, he always acted like he owned you in private. never in front of his friends, like just because you ended up in his bed, you were his to claim whenever he felt like it.

still keeping your eyes glued to the drinks, you feel your blood boil. you aren't his fucking girl. you're barely on speaking terms, aside from that one weak moment.

he's only saying it to mess with you.

one of the frat boys lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “damn, man. didn’t know you were still pulling like that.” he shoots a glance at you again, not even bothering to hide the once-over.

rafe just chuckles, that low, infuriating laugh of his, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “what can i say?” he drawls, as if the whole thing is just a game to him. “guess i’ve still got it.”

you're this close—this close—to snapping. you can feel your fists clenching at your sides. you're not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. not here. not in front of these frat boys who're still looking at you like some kind of trophy.

rafe’s voice is closer now. you don't have to look up to know he's standing right by the cart.

“you good over there?” he asks, that fake casual tone still lingering.

you don't answer. just kept doing your job, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it hurts. but he isn't going to let it go. he never did when he wanted to prove a point.

“hey, baby.” he greets you again, leaning in slightly. you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. “you gonna pretend you don’t know me now?”

you take a deep breath, finally turning to face him. he's standing way too close, sunglasses pushed up on his head, that stupid expression plastered across his face.

the frat boys are all watching, wide-eyed, like they just stumbled onto some kind of reality show drama.

“you’re funny, cameron.” the guys all exchange glances, clearly picking up on the tension but too dumb to understand it, “can you guys give us a minute?”

one of them pipes up with an awkward laugh, “wait, but we—”

you don't let him finish. “one. minute.” 

they finally catch on that it isn't a request and before they can awkwardly protest or ask why, rafe tilts his head towards them, craning his neck just enough to raise a single brow. the change in his posture is subtle but enough to have them clamming up instantly.

like magic, their frat-boy bravado melts right off. it's wild how fast a bunch of college boys can shrink under the gaze of someone like him.

the power trip they’ve been riding for the last hour stop.

“uh, yeah, you know what?” one of them coughs out, backing up so fast he almost trips over his golf bag. “we should, uh… we’ll hit the bathroom. real quick.”

“yeah, yeah, we’ll be right back,” another one adds, practically stumbling over himself to follow.

they scatter like scared puppies, tails tucked between their legs, and you can't help the small, satisfied smirk that twitches at the corner of your mouth.

finally, a moment of peace.

except, it's not peace. not with rafe standing there. 

as soon as the frat boys are out of earshot, you spin around, without thinking, you shove him in the chest with both hands, hard enough to catch him off guard. he stumbles back a step, his face twisting into a look of surprise.

"are you fucking crazy?" you snap, "do you not get the fucking hint, country club? i don’t want this. i don’t want you here, and i sure as hell don’t want your bullshit claims that ’m your girl in front of those idiots. leave. me. alone.”

he steadies himself, raising both hands as if trying to calm you down. “’m trying to be better, okay? ’m trying. i apologized the other night, didn’t i? ’m—”

“no, you didn’t!” you look at him like he's the dumbest man on earth, cutting him off, your hands balled into fists at your sides. “you didn’t apologize! you said i was overreacting, that i was being ‘dramatic.’ then, you fucked me and acted like that made it all better.”

his jaw tightens, and he takes a deep breath as he glances around the mostly empty golf course before his eyes move back to you, his voice low but firm. "that’s not how i meant it—"

“you always have an excuse,” you interrupt, stepping closer, not backing down. “every time, it’s the same thing. you think a half-assed apology or a night in bed makes up for the way you treat me in public? like ‘m just some thing you get to claim whenever you feel like it?"

he visibly recoils at the word you chose, like it hurts him, “i know,” he finally mutters “i know i was a dick at that dinner. but ’m trying, okay? i’ve been calling you, texting you—”

“i didn’t ask. am i that good in bed? go find someone else.”

rafe’s hand flies up to pinch the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh escaping him. he draggs his tongue against his cheek. his voice coming out clipped, “i don’t want someone else,” he grunts out, sounding more exasperated than ever. “jesus fucking christ.”

you let out a laugh, stepping back, eyes rolling.

“oh, right. that’s it? ’m really that good in bed, huh? that’s why you’re here?” you cross your arms, your tone biting, daring him to say otherwise. “that’s all this has ever been, right? physical. you don’t call unless you want something. so what now? why are you trying so hard? what the hell are you trying for?”

he doesn't respond right away, his fingers are digging into the bridge of his nose like he's trying to hold himself together. the silence continues, and you can see him wrestling with his words. he's never been the type to say what he was feeling.

everything is buried under layers of cocky bravado, that impenetrable wall he put up to keep everyone at arm’s length. including you.

finally, he dropps his hand and takes a step closer, his voice coming out rough like he's forcing the words out. “’m here because i don’t want someone else. i want you, alright? can you just get that through your fucking head?”

you scoff, “because i know you and won’t get attached?”

he snaps, raising his voice, “no! fuck, it’s not that simple.”

"not that simple?" your hands are shaking, and you accidentally knock over one of the bottles you’d been holding before, sending it tumbling to the ground. you don't bother picking it up.

“it’s pretty fucking simple. we’re just fucking. so, tell me, what exactly is complicated about that? you call, i come over, we have sex, and that’s it. so why the fuck do you start ignoring me in public like ’m some kind of fucking disease?”

rafe opens his mouth, but you don't spare him the chance to speak, you're on a roll, months of pent-up frustration. 

“i don’t give a fuck if you’re with someone else, rafe!” you can hear the bitterness dripping from every word. you're practically spitting them out, “what pisses me off is that you had the audacity—the fucking nerve—to ask me to stay that night. do you know how fucking stupid i felt? how the fuck do you think i felt when you acted like i didn’t exist the next day?”

you can feel your hands trembling again, the adrenaline making you shaky, cursing under your breath.

“for once, i was nice enough to care about you, to stay, and that’s the shit you pulled. treated me like a ghost. like i was nothing.”

he just stands there, staring at you, his jaw tight, but he doesn't say a word. his face is hard to read, but you don't care about his feelings. you're not done yet.

“i was fine with the sex. i was fine with leaving afterwards and then you had to go and fuck it all over.”

rafe’s blue eyes flash, and you can see the realization hit him, like he's connecting the dots too fast for your liking.

his brows furrow as he breathes out, “wait. you’re mad at me because i made you—” he hesitates, like the word is foreign in his mouth, “care for me?”

you let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “oh, for fuck's sake, country club. don't flatter yourself.”

“you always do that shit,” he points out, stepping closer “you never call me by my name when we’re having a serious conversation. it's almost like you’re running away.”

you arch an eyebrow, incredulous. “are you delusional? you’re the one acting like a child.”

“’m not being delusional. you only say my name in my room when it’s just the two of us.” he leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if he's trying to keep this moment between you, his blue eyes lock onto yours making your stomach twist. “’m clearly not the only one who’s pretending here; you’re just as bad.”

you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you walk back, trying to create space, but he closes the distance with easy confidence.

“pretending? please. ‘m not the one playing house in my bedroom while acting like i don’t know you outside of it.”

rafe lets out a low, frustrated groan, running his hand through his hair like he's close to losing it. 

“god, you’re fucking infuriating,” he mutters, voice gruff, “you think i don’t fucking feel it too? you’re the only one pissed off, the only one confused?” his voice dipps lower in frustration. “i can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard i try. "

“oh, boo-fucking-hoo,” you mocked back, “must be so hard, huh? being obsessed with a girl you can’t even respect in public.”

his hand reaches out to grab your wrist. you gasp, not out of fear but because the heat of his touch awakes the resting butterflies in your stomach. you hate how much your skin reacts to him, how just the feel of his grip makes your brain go foggy and shut down.

“i do respect you,” he growls, as if you just insulted him, “i just—fuck.” his eyes dart between yours, as if searching for something. then, like clockwork, he points at your work uniform—the stupid polo and that absurdly short skirt that's practically a sin in itself.

“this,” he grits out, fingers gesturing to the tight polo that does absolutely nothing but make your boobs look way too inviting, “is not okay.”

you blink, pretending to be unaffected, but his words have a way of crawling under your skin.

“oh, right,” you nod sarcastically, even though your pulse has kicked up a notch. “blame my uniform, like that’s the reason you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

rafe groans like you're causing him actual physical pain, his hands gripping the edge of the golf cart now, knuckles turning white.

“shit, yeah, i’ll blame the uniform,” he says, eyes blazing as he corners you. “that tiny-ass skirt, walking around in front of me all day, making me lose my goddamn mind.”

just like that, his hand slide right under your mini skirt, his fingers gripping a handful of your ass with a confidence that makes your breath hitch.

the sudden contact sends a rush of heat through you, and a soft gasp escapes your glossy lips.

that’s when he takes his chance.

with another low groan, rafe seizes the moment, pressing his body against yours, leaning down as he kisses you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, the kiss deepening in an instant.

it's not sweet—you can tell that now because you know that hidden part of him, you can tell the difference when it comes out. today he's desperate like he’s been waiting to it for days and can't take it anymore.

he's a starved man on a mission. it's a feverish mess of spit and teeth, his grip on you impossibly tight.

his hand still kneads your ass, blunt fingernails digging into your skin trying to keep you from bolting away. at the same time, his other hand slides up to your neck, firm but not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you locked in place—he's daring you to pull away, knowing full well you won't.

logic doesn't stand a chance against the way his lips move against yours, he's sucking all the fight from you.

his tongue slides against yours, and your stomach jumps at the sensation, making you gasp. you try to pull back for a second, needing air, needing space, but his grip on your neck tightens, holding you in place as his lips move against yours like he'll die if you stop.

and maybe he would. maybe he's just as messed up about all of this as you are.

rafe’s teeth scrape against your bottom lip, and right then and there, you know your panties are already ruined. you can't stop the small whimper that escapes your throat, and he moans at the sound, his hips pressing harder against yours, making you feel just how much he wants you.

“fuck,” he almost whines against your lips, like he's barely keeping himself from fucking you out there in the open, not giving a shit if anyone's watching. his hand on your neck glides around to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he tuggs slightly, tilting your head back so he can kiss you even harder, his lips moving against yours in a way that makes it impossible to think straight. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

the truth is, you do. you know exactly what you do to him because he's doing the same thing to you.

but there's no way in hell you’ll admit that. not when he already has you completely under his spell, melting into his touch, drowning in the way he kisses you like he owns you.

you attempt to hold onto that edge of disdain you always throw his way when things get too personal. his breath is hot and ragged as he hovers.

his hand, still tangled in your hair, loosens slightly but stays there. it's so fucking unfair—the way he just sneaks under your skin, the way your body betrays you every time he gets close. you hate it.

especially with the way his fingers are already sliding up your bare thigh under that ridiculously skirt, as if he owns every single inch of you, like he has a goddamn right to touch you like that.

and instead of pushing him away like you should, you find yourself leaning into him. and fuck, the look in his eyes—all black, wild, like he it's his last shred of self-control—is enough to make your pulse skyrocket.

“asshole,” it comes out weak, pathetic and almost breathless, and you hate yourself for it.

“yeah,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his hand still in your hair, still holding you close. “but you like it.”

god, maybe you did.

the frat boys finally return, their laughter breaking the bubble that had you on a leash.

within seconds, you're pushing rafe’s hands away, stepping back as of them claps him on the back.

“we miss anything?”

“nah, just catchin’ up,” rafe said, brushing off the whole thing as if it's no big deal.

you, on the other hand, pick up one of the empty glasses, avoiding eye contact with any of them.

one of the guys chuckles. “man, you two… y’all good?”

no. not when there's the slightest of the slightest possibility that you're starting to feel something for him. not the stupid crush you had before, or the simple curiosity of figuring out how he was in bed. 

real, scary, big girl feelings. 

no way. not after everything. not after he pulled that same crap, acting like you didn’t know you in front of his friends, then turning around and getting all possessive when it suited him.

 “better than ever.”

eyes locked on rafe, you bite out the final blow.

“yeah, better than ever. just like every other fucking rich frat boy—using daddy’s money, pretending you’re a god. but deep down, you’re all the same. losers. why don’t you keep them company, huh? you’re all family after all.”

his blue eyes drop to the green field at the mention of his dad, but he keeps quiet despite realizing you’re doing this on purpose.

he’ll let you have this one because he knows it’s deserving. fuck he’d probably let you punch him in the face if you asked him to. 

you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him behind, knowing you hit him exactly where it hurt.

[artemis-pendragon]

Okay so I'm not in the hurricane evacuation zone by any means but I do live in a horrendously natural disaster-prone region SO!! Here are the best tips I've gotten for surviving in a disaster zone.

1) Write your name and your emergency contact's phone number in DARK PERMANENT INK somewhere visible on your skin (wrist is good) so if you're unconscious or dead emergency response can ID you and get in contact with your family/friends

2) If you have any particular medical needs or conditions write that too!! Specific medications + doses, warning signs and symptoms to watch for, etc

3) During the disaster, if your circumstances change or may change soon, record a new voicemail message explaining these changes so anyone who calls you knows your most recent status and location. Whatever details you think might help!

4) Stock up on Rx meds before pharmacies close. Get some OTC meds too and make a watertight and portable first aid kit. If you're gonna be in flood conditions and your Rx bottles aren't fully sealed, wrap the lids with duct tape to make a tight seal. If you've got tampons and pads in the house, stuff those babies in there! Good for everything from periods, to bloody noses and open wounds in an emergency! Plus they're super absorbent and can be used to temporarily block up small spaces and cracks

5) If there's no bottled water left in stores buy the biggest and cheapest bottles of soda you can, dump them out, and fill them with fresh water. If you have sinks and bathtubs that aren't expected to flood, fill those bad boys up with fresh water, too. Store as much water as you can!!

6) Put all important documents such as Social Security cards, birth certificates, marriage certificates, or anything else you want to save into waterproof bags. Ziplock baggies double sealed with duct tape along the closed seams are great! Double bag if needed!

7) Special cool new thing I learned about hurricanes that I'm probably the last dumbass on earth to know but just in case I'm not: even if a hurricane makes landfall as a Cat 3, if it was a Cat 5 over the ocean on approach it will bring in Cat 5 surge. Downgrading the wind speed doesn't downgrade the flood potential

8) TAKE THE BACKROADS OUT OF MAJOR CITIES OH MY GOD PLS DONT GET STUCK ON THE FREEWAYS IT'S HELL

9) Last but not least, if you can't afford to evacuate or don't have a place to stay, some people under videos and posts tagged with current natural disasters are offering temporary places to crash for those in affected areas for free!! I've seen multiple cases now of people offering up their guest rooms or couches to evacuees and their pets in the last week that have worked out ❤️

If anyone else has more tips, and more experience with this type of disaster specifically, please add on!! Love you all and hope everyone stays safe 💕

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ my life with you (that’s way over now)

synopsis. some people get drunk calls from their exes, maybe even flowers with hand written apologies. you get a knock on your front door with two random kids and a murder case

length. 3.0k words (once more it was supposed to be short)

contents. exes to lovers, ex boyfriend! suguru, gn! reader, slightly deviated from canon (he doesn’t kill the entire village + doesn’t defect), slightly a fix-it fic, blood, murder, child abuse + neglect (canon events with suguru and the twins), angst to slight fluff with hopeful ending (pretty much happy tbh), mentions of family + kids, suguru pretty much being a broke and depressed lil guy lollll

notes. idk what this is but it was written for me i just wanted to write it so here. take it and look away

right before you graduate, you and suguru break up. you don’t want to, but he insists it’s only fair—he can hardly be there for you the way you need him to be, he says. something’s changed in him, it has since that day last year. but still—you don’t want to break up.

so you argue, he stays firm, you cry, he doesn’t change his mind, you break up, he leaves, and the world momentarily collapses.

it’s the way things work, you suppose. they don’t quite always go the way you planned. you graduate not long after that, leaving him behind to throw yourself into work while you toe into the baby steps of adulthood. real adulthood—the jujutsu world has a way of thrusting you into that faster than normal, anyway.

by the time it’s late summer, you get your first apartment. it’s a rundown place—the bathroom tiles look dirty no matter how much you scrub, the walls haven’t been repainted in what seems like decades, and the thermostat never works properly to feel like what the temperature indicates.

but it’s yours—you leave jujutsu high fresh into the real world, paying your taxes and buying your groceries all while you exorcise curses for a living. barely an adult, barely getting by, barely alive as you get up each day and live.

and then suguru comes knocking on your door half past midnight.

“hey,” he says nonchalantly, like there’s nothing wrong with standing there—but you know him better than that. you can hear that detachment in his voice as he stares between your eyes, but not quite in them.

“you—” you start, staring at him incredulously before you decide to give up. there are no surprises with suguru, not anymore you suppose. you don’t really know him anymore. “suguru, it’s midnight,” you sigh—and that’s when you see them: two small children that can’t be much older than five.

bruises are clear as day on their arms, even while standing in the darkness outside. there’s also the slight swollen curve of their eyes, and you can’t help but notice how they’re practically skin and bone. children who have probably not yet even lived for five winters, and you almost wonder if they’ve been through more than you have in you’re entire lifetime.

suguru clears his throat before you can stare at them any longer.

“this is nanako,” he gestures at the blonde, “and this is mimiko.” the brunette one seems more shy, curls behind his leg further as her name is uttered.

you don’t know what to say, so you settle for smiling—you’re not sure if it comes out too genuine, but you try. it’s all you can offer, really.

“hello,” you hum for a moment. and then you turn back to suguru, “it’s midnight.”

“i know.”

“you should be at school grounds.”

“i know.”

“suguru,” you sigh, eyeing the blood stained on his cheek. you don’t like where this is heading. there’s a sick feeling twisting in your gut, bubbling, bubbling, bubbling.

bile. you can taste it. something’s not right.

“where did you find these kids?”

“on a mission,” he says simply, “village heads were keepin’ em locked in a cage like animals. can you believe it?”

again, that casual tone. it almost as easy as humming your favorite tune, as smooth as your skin on freshly washed sheets, as quiet as the first day of snow when the world is still. but something about it is hollow—something’s not right.

“why’d you bring them here? instead of school? shoko should look at them—”

“i told them they’d be safe here.”

they’d be safe anywhere, you think. as long as suguru’s there too. as long they’re under his watchful gaze, nothing could hope to beat down on their youth like it already has their whole lives. but you don’t say that—something tells you he won’t believe you.

maybe not right now.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. something’s not right, but there are children present. so you throw on your best smile and open the door wider, offering them to come in.

your apartment is small, just one bedroom and one bath. there’s hardly enough food for yourself for tonight, you still have to go grocery shopping this week. the missions were lined up back to back to back—but that’s just life as a sorcerer, you suppose. most days you hardly have the energy to eat more than a few apple slices when you return home anyway.

you wave your hand at your place dramatically as you say, “come on in, ladies. your humble abode awaits.”

they giggle slightly at that—it’s the first time suguru hears them laugh. you have that effect, he knew you would. it’s why he brings them here and not there. and…well, there’s a more complicated issue at hand. but that’s for later.

right now…well, for right now, he lets you guide them to the bathroom.

“you have money on you right?” you ask. he blinks, staring at you for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

“spent the last of it on cigarettes this morning.”

great, you think, before sighing and trudging over to grab your wallet as you press a few crisp bills of cash in his hands.

“here.”

“what’s this for?” he raises a brow.

“go buy them clothes,” you look at him like he’s stupid. he might be, in all honesty. just a little. “i’m not putting them back in…those once they’re all cleaned.”

“wha—i’ve never shopped for children before,” he gapes, “and i don’t know what size they are, or—”

“figure it out, suguru,” you say tiredly. it’s half past midnight—by now, you’d be passed out from your mission. he seems to take the hint. “and bring some snacks too. should be enough.”

“fine,” he grumbles—and then he’s walking out the door.

for a second, it feels familiar watching him leave. but then you decide not to dwell on it—there are much more important matters at hand.

you turn to the two girls before crouching in front of them with a gentle smile, “who’s ready for bubbles?”

——————

nanako and mimiko have never had a bubble bath before. you decide to let them taste the first tendrils of youth by splashing in your tiny bathtub while you find suguru for some much needed answers.

he sits on your couch, shirt wrinkled and hair falling loose and blood still staining his cheek as he hunches over his legs, elbows resting on his thighs as he thinks. and thinks. and thinks and thinks and thinks.

you wonder about what—what could be plaguing his mind? a lot you’re sure, but this isn’t suguru. not the one you know, at least.

the one you knew, the voice in your mind hisses—do you really even know him at all anymore?

“so,” you sit on the opposite side of the sofa, curling your legs under yourself as you eye him from the side, “care to explain?”

“i killed them,” he mutters. you go still. “the village heads. i did it without hesitating. that’s bad, right?”

“well fuck, suguru,” you breathe, restless, “that’s certainly not good.”

“i had a reason,” he argues, “all i needed was one.”

“there’s nothing that excuses murder—”

“oh, but we can excuse locking kids in cages, is that right? why? cause they’re sorcerers? they’re not—they’re children.”

“i didn’t say that,” you rub your forehead. this is all too much. too, too much.

being a sorcerer is too much. being in front of suguru is too much.

you finish your third year with a broken heart and graduate in spring—at one point you’d hoped graduating wouldn’t change anything between you and your friends, between you and the boy you loved. everything would be the same, even if you’d leave the place that held you all together—you’d still find a way back to each other, you liked to think. but then it all changes before you can even comprehend.

haibara is dead. nanami is hardly coping. gojo is everywhere but here. shoko is in high demand. suguru is hardly present even when he’s right in front of you. nothing is the same and you don’t think it ever will be. you lose the one thing you count on being yours forever, and now, he’s right here again. but not really here—not with you so much as near you.

suguru has killed people, sitting on your couch with you while the two children he finds are bathing happily in your bathtub.

there’s some irony in that—maybe in a perfect world, suguru and you would sit on the couch, much happier than right now, though. maybe you’d be tucked under his arm and curled into his side as you both chuckle at the happy squeals in the distance. maybe in a perfect world.

but this world is cruel. too cruel, in fact. it forces children to grow up too fast during some times and lets adults continue to be children during others. it’s sickening and all too much.

but this is the world you live in. there’s not much to change in that—not much you can change. maybe sitting on the couch with suguru is what you should be grateful for, whether it’s in this world or another.

“i came here because it’s safe,” he mumbles, quieter this time, “i don’t…i didn’t trust anywhere else.”

something tells you he’s not talking about the kids. you look at him for the first time that night—really look at him. you take in the lost weight, the sunken cheekbones and the bruised under eyes from the lack of sleep. the cracked lips from being chapped and the dry hair that’s lost its normal shine.

something’s not right—you won’t be able to mend it, but you think you can keep it from getting worse.

“it is safe here,” you murmur, nodding in assurance, “but you can’t…i can’t let you do that. not again.”

“what? kill people?” he snorts in dry amusement. it’s quiet for a bit—you open your mouth a few times like you want to say something, but nothing ever comes. he finally decides to fill the silence. “i don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. people shouldn’t kill. but some people shouldn’t live.”

“i think jujutsu is supposed to save people. not everyone will deserve it, but i suppose we wouldn’t be much better than them if we used it for anything other than that,” you whisper. he looks over at you at that, peers at you deep in thought as he contemplates your words.

“that’s funny,” he chuckles, “i used to think that too.”

“what changed?”

“everything.”

“then change it some more,” you shrug, “until you think it again.” he looks at you incredulously at that, eyeing you like you’re crazy.

“you’re an idiot,” he scoffs.

“says the killer,” you scoff back. you look at him this time, in the eyes and full of conviction, full of promises you couldn’t make before but fully intend to keep now. “don’t kill anyone else and i’ll help you. with those kids, i mean.”

“you want to co parent with me?” he chuckles.

co parent—the word makes your stomach twist. even after all this time, after all the hurt and pain, suguru is easy to imagine that with. he’s easy to imagine anything in the future with, really. he’s always been perfect like that, but you’re starting to realize there’s a lot more imperfections to him than you initially thought.

but it’s okay, you think. if you didn’t stop loving him before, you certainly don’t stop now. blood on his hands or not, he’s yours—even if he doesn’t want to be.

“don’t say it like that,” you murmur softly, hugging your arms around yourself, “please.”

you let yourself be vulnerable for just a moment—not because you want to, but because he needs to know. he needs to know how unfair he’s being and how patient you are with him despite it all. you deserve that much.

“sorry,” he mutters—he has the decency to look away and drop his smile.

“you don’t kill anyone, and i’ll look for a bigger place. deal?”

“for us…all?”

“yes. just until you figure it out, i’ll help you out with them. and then you’ll responsibly use your paycheck as a full time special grade sorcerer and maybe send a few checks my way to say thanks to my good will.”

he chuckles at that, shaking his head. “i’ll repay you,” he hums, tapping his foot. he does that when he’s nervous, you still remember—you could never forget anything about him. “i…i owe you, anyway.”

it’s quiet some more. you don’t know what to say, and quite frankly, you don’t want to say anything at all. but once more, he fills the silence for you after a while.

“what if…” he starts, “what if i want to co parent with you?”

“you dumped me,” you point out, unable to hide the bitterness any longer. it cracks from your tongue through your words like honey that went dry. “remember that? cause i sure remember.”

you’re an adult now, just barely, but an adult all the same. you should handle this the mature way—but you’re still young. still hurt. still blanketed in the fresh wave of nostalgia that leaves you aching with grief.

so you let yourself be bitter. suguru can handle that much after he left you to pick up your shattered pieces.

“i didn’t want to,” he says quietly. “i never wanted to.”

“but you did.”

“i didn’t…you didn’t deserve to see me unstable.”

“you’re not very stable right now either,” you pinch your nose tiredly, “you killed people, suguru. but somehow you can manage to have two kids now. but not me.”

“they need me,” he defends.

“i needed you too,” your voice cracks.

you did. you needed him—and you like to think he needed you too. maybe it wasn’t perfect, nothing ever is, especially not when you fight curses and see their ugliness every day. but that’s the best part of having each other—having something pretty amidst the hideousness.

he left you with more ugly than you knew what to do with. it’s unfair, you think for a moment, unfair that two girls who hardly know him at all have more of him than you ever did. he’d never abandon them—that much you know for sure.

you’ve laughed with him, held him and wiped his tears and kissed him under the moon until it became the sun. you’ve seen him with his hair down and his guard lowered. you’ve seen him in every way possible but in the end, he walked away.

they’ve seen him for less than a day and somehow, he’ll be there forever. there’s something unfair about that and you hate that you’re bitter with children but the world in cruel like that.

suguru slowly inches over—it’s cautious at first, and then he fills the gap all at once. you pretend you don’t feel the way your thighs touch.

“i need you too,” he admits, voice small. there’s a small, shaky crack that eats away at your heart, trying to gnaw into the raw part. the easy to reach part. the part you shouldn’t let him see anymore. “i…i always needed you. i’m sorry.”

“we were supposed to need each other,” you sniffle.

“we do,” he slowly slumps his head onto your shoulder. you let him stay there—don’t dare move a muscle in case he pulls away. “you’re the only thing that keeps me stable. i don’t think that’s fair.”

“needing someone isn’t unfair, suguru,” you scoff.

“okay,” he grabs your hand, squeezing. for the first time, he lets it all go. lets tears slowly slip from the corners of his eyes as he slumps into your side. he cries for riko. for kuroi. for satoru and the time he lost him for a moment. for their youth. for haibara. for not being enough even when he shouldn’t have had to be. somewhere amidst all that, your arms wrap around him and he’s pulled into your chest—that familiar feeling of your fingers threading into his hair makes the world start spinning again. “i need you,” he chokes.

“okay,” you say shakily, nodding slowly as you let yourself hope, “as long as you don’t stop this time.”

he buries his face into your chest, and you kiss the crown of his head.

cruelty is an unstoppable force. your love for suguru is an immovable object. neither is going anywhere, but perhaps they can coexist.

“satoru’s gonna have a massive headache when he explains this one to the higher ups,” you snort after a while.

he laughs into your shirt, real for the first time in a long time. “i’ll buy him something sweet. should make up for it,” he hums. and then he looks up, smiles innocently as he asks, “wanna lend me some cash? i’ll pay you back when i’m a responsible handler of money.”

“you’re hopeless,” you chuckle, “but at least you’re here.”

————— BONUS —————

“okay,” satoru starts, holding his hands up in surrender as he stands before the higher ups. damn old geezers, he thinks. “so he did kill a person or two…but—”

“there is no excuse,” a voice hisses.

“he didn’t mean it,” he huffs indignantly, “it was an accident. those can happen sometimes.”

“what—”

“he’s going through a phase, okay? let him work through it, he’ll be fine.”

“that’s not—”

“i’ll let him off the hook this time,” satoru grins, pushing his glasses up his nose as he shrugs, “he’s got a family now, y’know? kids and a spouse, and they’re looking for a home. can’t take that away from them.”

“he’s not even married—”

“it’ll happen eventually,” he insists, “so let’s all just calm down, yeah? great, thanks!”

“gojo—”

“see ya!”

he walks out, flashing an obnoxious peace sign at the higher ups as they hiss at him to return as he’s walking out. that takes care of that, he thinks, as long as suguru doesn’t make his life harder and kill more people, he can handle it—you did promise him kikufuku if he does.

satoru is babygirl defender no. 1 ain’t nobody doing it like my guy 🤞🏽 he would be loyal to you while you were in jail no doubts

[moonlightwritingf1]

Worthy of You | LN4

❄️ summary ━━━━━━━ Lando rented a cabin in France for Christmas but couldn’t enjoy it when Y/N suddenly left. Desperate, he flew back to England, where she admitted overhearing his doubts about being worthy of her. Lando confessed his love, and Y/N revealed she felt the same but feared rejection.

❄️ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

❄️ word count ━━━━━━━ 4k

The cabin was nothing short of breathtaking. Nestled in the heart of the French Alps, it seemed straight out of a holiday movie—a sprawling chalet with rustic charm. The exterior was draped in a blanket of snow, the wooden beams of the house warmly contrasting the wintery landscape. Snow-dusted balconies framed sweeping views of the towering peaks outside, their jagged lines stark against the pale sky. Inside, the atmosphere was nothing less than luxurious: vaulted ceilings with exposed timber, a massive stone fireplace crackling with warmth, and furniture covered in soft faux fur throws. Twinkling fairy lights danced around the banisters, casting a soft glow, while the scent of fresh pine from the enormous Christmas tree filled the air, welcoming everyone into its festive embrace.

Lando had rented the cabin for the week leading up to Christmas, hoping to host a cozy retreat for his closest friends. It was supposed to be the perfect escape—a time to unwind, relax, and create new memories. But as he stood in the living room, with the warmth of the fire behind him and an unshakable emptiness in his chest, he felt anything but at ease.

Pacing back and forth, phone in hand, Lando’s jaw was tight with frustration. Y/N had left earlier that day, telling him that she needed to return to London for some "urgent" matter. The words didn’t sit right with him. Something was off, and he couldn’t quite shake the nagging feeling that she was hiding the real reason.

"She just... left," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his messy curls.

"You’re going to wear a hole in the floor," Max commented from the couch, watching Lando with an amused, yet concerned, expression.

Lando didn’t respond, his eyes glued to his phone. He had already called Y/N three times and sent two messages, all without any reply. Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand.

"Still no word from her?" Max asked.

Lando shook his head, glancing at the phone in his hand as if it might magically ring with her name. "No. Nothing. She just said she had to leave and that was it."

Max frowned, clearly puzzled. "That doesn’t sound like her."

"Exactly," Lando agreed, frustration lacing his voice. "She was fine this morning—excited, helping decorate the tree and everything. Then out of nowhere, she says she has to go. It’s like she couldn’t wait to leave." He tossed his phone onto the coffee table with a huff, running a hand through his curls again.

Max shrugged, his expression neutral. "Maybe you should wait until she gets back to you instead of spiraling. She’s probably just busy."

But Lando wasn’t convinced. "I can’t wait. Something’s wrong. She looked at me before she left—like there was something she wanted to say but couldn’t. It’s not like her to just leave like that."

Max raised a brow, offering a pointed look. "You sure you didn’t say or do something to upset her?"

Lando scowled, shaking his head. "I didn’t even get a chance to talk to her. One minute everything’s fine, and the next... she’s gone."

Max didn’t press further. Instead, he simply sighed. "Well, maybe give her space. She’ll reach out when she’s ready."

But Lando couldn’t do that. He needed answers now. Without another word, he slipped out of the kitchen and onto the balcony, the chill of the evening air biting at his skin despite his thick coat. Leaning against the railing, he gazed out at the snow-covered mountains, his mind racing with unanswered questions. Y/N had been acting strange lately—distant, quieter than usual. The sudden departure was the final straw. Something didn’t add up.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, Y/N sat alone in her London flat, the flickering lights from her modest Christmas tree casting a soft, warm glow in the otherwise quiet room. Outside, the city streets were slick with rain, the muted sounds of traffic filling the silence. Her fingers curled around a steaming mug of tea, but she barely noticed the warmth.

Her phone sat on the coffee table, buzzing intermittently with Lando’s name lighting up the screen. Each time, her heart clenched, and each time, she couldn’t bring herself to pick it up.

She sipped her tea, trying to quiet the storm in her mind, but the memory of that morning wouldn’t leave her. She had been standing in the hallway of the cabin, a box of ornaments in her arms, when she overheard Lando and Max talking in the living room. The words they spoke felt like a punch to her gut.

"I don’t know what to do, mate," Lando’s voice was low, tense.

"What are you talking about?" Max had asked, clearly confused.

"It’s Y/N," Lando admitted, and hearing her name made Y/N freeze, her breath catching in her throat.

"What about her?"

Lando sighed deeply, and Y/N could almost hear the weight of his thoughts. "I care about her more than I should. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. But I can’t tell her. She’d probably just laugh in my face or—worse—pity me."

Y/N’s heart twisted painfully in her chest.

"You really think she’d react like that?" Max asked, his voice skeptical.

‘’Wouldn’t you?" Lando responded bitterly. "She's amazing, Max. She deserves someone who's not... me. Someone who doesn’t come with all the problems of my life. I don’t know... it’s just complicated.’’

Y/N couldn’t bear it anymore. Hearing Lando doubt himself, and by extension, their connection, had hurt her more than she could explain. She dropped the box of ornaments where it stood and rushed to her room to pack her things, not bothering to tell anyone why she was leaving.

Now, in the solitude of her flat, Y/N replayed his words over and over, trying to make sense of her own emotions. Did she love him? She realized that the answer had been in her heart for months, but she’d been too afraid to face it.

Her phone buzzed again, pulling her from her thoughts. Lando’s name flashed across the screen once more. This time, her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating before she tapped it.

She read his message: Please, Y/N. Just let me know you’re okay.

Her heart ached as the words weighed heavily on her. She typed a reply but paused, her fingers trembling. After a deep breath, she hit send:

Y/N: I’m fine. I just needed some time to think.

On the other end, Lando’s phone buzzed once more, and he lunged for it, his heart leaping when he saw her name appear.

"She responded," he said quietly to Max, who gave him an encouraging nod.

Lando opened the message and read it quickly, his brow furrowing with confusion. "She’s fine?" he muttered, feeling unconvinced by her words.

Max leaned over to glance at the screen. "Sounds like she just needs some space."

But Lando wasn’t satisfied. He typed back immediately: Think about what? Did I do something to upset you? Please, Y/N, talk to me.

Back in London, Y/N stared at his message, her chest tightening. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she wasn’t ready to confront her feelings—his or hers. She needed more time.

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped short. He had spent months hiding his feelings for Y/N, terrified of scaring her off, of ruining the connection they shared. But now, her sudden departure was making him question everything.

"Do you think she knows?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Max frowned. "Knows what?"

"How I feel about her," Lando admitted, his gaze shifting away as if he were ashamed.

Max studied him for a moment before shrugging. "If she does, she hasn’t said anything to me. But maybe that’s the problem—you’ve been waiting for her to figure it out instead of telling her."

Lando’s jaw tightened at the suggestion. "And if I tell her and she doesn’t feel the same?"

"Then at least you’ll know," Max said simply. "But honestly, I think you’re underestimating her."

The next day, Lando couldn’t take it anymore. The cabin, with all its festive decorations and roaring fire, felt too big and too empty without Y/N. With no more time to waste, he grabbed his coat and car keys.

"Where are you going?" Max asked, looking up from his phone.

"London," Lando replied with quiet determination.

It was late afternoon by the time Lando arrived at Y/N’s flat. The crisp winter air stung his skin as he knocked on her door, nervous energy bubbling inside him.

The door opened, and there she was—her expression a mix of surprise and apprehension.

"Lando," she said softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

"You didn’t answer my calls," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "I needed to see you. I needed to know why you left."

She stepped aside, allowing him to enter. The warmth of her flat enveloped him, the scent of cinnamon and pine filling the air. They stood in the living room, the silence between them thick with unspoken words.

"Y/N, talk to me," Lando urged. "Did I do something? Did I say something?"

Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice trembled as she finally spoke. "I heard you, Lando. At the cabin, talking to Max."

His heart sank. "You... heard me?"

She nodded, her voice breaking. "You said you cared about me but couldn’t tell me because you thought I wouldn’t feel the same. That it was too complicated."

Lando closed his eyes in anguish. "Y/N, I didn’t mean for you to hear that."

"But you meant it," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, his expression softening as he reached for her hands. "Of course I meant it. I care about you more than you know. But I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d pity me—or worse, push me away."

Y/N’s tears spilled over, and she wiped them away quickly. "Lando, I could never pity you. And I would never push you away."

His brows furrowed, searching her eyes for understanding. "Then why did you leave?"

"Because I didn’t know how to handle it," she admitted, her voice raw with emotion. "Hearing you doubt yourself—it scared me."

Lando gently took her hands in his, looking deeply into her eyes. "I’ve been scared, too. Scared of losing you, of ruining what we have. But I can’t keep hiding how I feel."

Her breath caught in her throat as his words sank in.

"I love you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ve loved you since the moment we met. And if you don’t feel the same, I’ll understand. But I couldn’t let you leave without telling you."

Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at him, her heart pounding. "I do feel the same," she whispered. "I’ve been in love with you, too. I just didn’t know how to say it."

A smile spread across his face as relief and joy flooded his chest. Without another word, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. "You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that."

She smiled through her tears, resting her forehead against his. "I’m sorry for running. I should’ve just talked to you."

Lando held Y/N close, his heart racing as if it were a race day. For months, he’d rehearsed this moment in his mind, but nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming relief and joy that came with hearing her say she loved him too.

"You don’t have to apologize," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I should’ve told you how I felt sooner. I was just too much of a coward to risk losing you."

Y/N pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his with a soft vulnerability. "You’re not a coward, Lando. You’ve been so patient with me, and I’m sorry if I ever made you think I didn’t care."

"You didn’t," he assured her. "I just... I got in my own head. I do that sometimes."

She smiled gently, the tension finally starting to ease. "We’re both pretty good at overthinking, huh?"

"Clearly," he replied with a chuckle, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand. "But maybe we can work on that together?"

Y/N nodded, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. "I’d like that."

The air between them shifted again, quieter now, but no less intense. Lando’s gaze flickered to her lips, and for a moment, he hesitated.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her response was immediate—a shy but confident nod as she leaned in. Their lips met, soft and tentative at first, but quickly deepened as weeks of unspoken feelings spilled into the kiss. Lando’s hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer, while Y/N’s fingers tangled in his curls.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their foreheads resting together.

"That was worth the wait," Lando said, his voice tinged with humor and awe.

Y/N laughed softly, her cheeks still flushed. "Yeah, it was."

Lando glanced around her cozy flat, the Christmas lights casting a warm glow over everything. "As much as I love this place, it feels like we’re missing out on our cabin Christmas."

Y/N frowned slightly, guilt creeping back in. "I’m sorry for leaving. I ruined the trip for everyone."

"Hey," he said firmly, cupping her face with both hands. "Don’t do that. No one blames you, least of all me. Besides," he added with a teasing smirk, "I rented that ridiculously fancy cabin for selfish reasons."

Her brows furrowed. "Selfish reasons?"

"Yeah," he admitted, leaning in closer. "I was hoping I’d get some time alone with you."

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, and then she laughed, a sound that sent warmth flooding through him. "Well, I guess you got what you wanted in the end."

"Not quite everything," he said, his tone turning serious. "But I’m working on it."

By the following evening, they were back at the cabin. Y/N had been reluctant at first, but Lando insisted, saying he wanted to finish what they’d started.

As the car pulled up to the chalet, Y/N couldn’t help but gasp. Seeing it again, with its snow-covered roof and twinkling lights against the backdrop of the Alps, it felt like stepping into a postcard.

"It’s beautiful," she said softly.

Lando grinned as he grabbed their bags. "Wait until you see it at night."

Inside, the warmth of the fireplace welcomed them, and Y/N felt a wave of nostalgia for the short time she’d spent there.

"I didn’t unpack everything after you left," Lando admitted as he set her bag by the stairs. "Figured you’d be back."

Y/N turned to him, her heart aching at how much faith he’d had in her. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

"Never," he said simply, his eyes locking with hers.

They spent the evening decorating the tree, finishing what they’d started days ago. Lando playfully scolded Y/N for her questionable ornament placement, while she retaliated by draping tinsel over his head.

When the tree was finally done, they sat on the plush rug in front of the fire, a bottle of wine between them.

"This feels nice," Y/N said, her voice soft.

Lando leaned back on his hands, watching her intently. "It feels perfect."

Y/N glanced at him, her cheeks heating under his gaze. "You’re staring again."

"Can’t help it," he said with a small shrug. "You’re kind of my favorite thing to look at."

Her laughter was quiet but genuine. "You’re such a flirt."

"Only with you," he admitted, his tone earnest.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire filling the space. Y/N sipped her wine, her mind wandering back to the moment she overheard him at the cabin.

"Lando?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"When you said it was complicated... What did you mean?"

He exhaled deeply, setting his glass down. "I meant that my life is messy. The travel, the attention, the pressure—it’s not easy, and I didn’t want to drag you into all of that if you weren’t ready. But I realized something after you left."

"What?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"That none of it matters if I don’t have you," he said, his eyes shining with sincerity. "You make everything better, Y/N. And I’m done letting fear get in the way of that."

Her chest tightened, and she reached out to take his hand. "I don’t care about the mess, Lando. I just want you."

His smile was soft but filled with relief. "You’ve got me, then."

And as the fire burned low and the snow fell gently outside, they sat together, finally at peace. For the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

As the evening drew on, the crackling warmth from the fire grew more comforting, and the glow of the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree made the cabin feel like a perfect little world of their own. Lando and Y/N had fallen into a comfortable silence, the soft clink of their wine glasses and the occasional laugh over a shared memory keeping the air light.

Y/N leaned back against the soft rug, feeling the warmth of the fire seeping into her body, and caught herself glancing over at Lando. His attention was on the flames, but there was something different in his expression tonight—a vulnerability she hadn’t seen before. The weight of everything between them—the distance, the confusion, the undeniable connection—had been lifted, and what remained was something new. Something hopeful.

"Lando," she began, her voice just above a whisper, tentative, yet full of curiosity.

He turned toward her, his eyes still soft but intense, always making her heart beat a little faster. "Yeah?"

Y/N swallowed, the words feeling heavy on her tongue, unsure of how to articulate the depth of her thoughts. "I’ve been thinking about everything—the way things unfolded, the way I left, and how much I was running from us… from what was right in front of me."

Lando’s gaze softened even more, and he scooted closer to her, his hand brushing against hers before he stopped, as if asking for permission. She placed her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, the simple touch sending a jolt of warmth through her chest.

"You’re not the only one who was running," he murmured, his voice low and sincere. "I think I’ve been too scared of what we could be. Of messing it up. But now… with you here, everything feels right. And I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t."

Her heart fluttered at his words. "I was scared, too," she admitted softly, gazing into his eyes. "Scared that maybe I was just a distraction for you. That maybe I was too much for you, or that you wouldn’t feel the same. But I don’t want to feel like that anymore."

He smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it was a smile that reached his eyes—gentle, warm, full of promise. "I feel everything for you, Y/N. I just didn’t know how to show it. How to tell you, especially when I thought you might not feel the same."

Y/N looked down at their intertwined hands, feeling a tightness in her chest at the realization of just how much they had both been holding back. "I’m sorry for leaving like I did," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I shouldn’t have run away. I just… I was so overwhelmed."

Lando lifted her chin gently with his fingers, his touch tender as he urged her to meet his gaze. "You don’t need to apologize," he said softly. "What matters now is that we’re here. Together. And we don’t have to hide from what we feel anymore."

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the air thick with the weight of everything they hadn’t said before. There was something sacred about this moment, as though time had slowed, giving them space to let everything they had kept buried come to the surface.

And then, without warning, Y/N felt the rush of emotions she had been holding back for so long. She leaned in slowly, her eyes never leaving his, as if testing the waters, seeing if he would pull away. But he didn’t. Instead, he met her halfway, their lips brushing in a tentative kiss that was soft but filled with an intensity neither of them had expected. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of years of friendship, years of longing, of waiting for the right moment.

But when their lips finally met, it felt like the world had shifted. It wasn’t just about a kiss. It was about all the unspoken words, all the time they had spent pretending they didn’t care, when all along, they had been waiting for this very moment. The kiss deepened, slow and desperate, as though they were both trying to make up for lost time, to erase the doubt and the distance they had allowed to grow between them.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, and neither of them spoke for a while. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire and the distant howling of the wind outside.

"Everything feels different now," Y/N whispered, her voice full of wonder.

Lando’s lips quirked up in a gentle smile. "Different in a good way?"

She nodded, her fingers tracing the lines of his palm. "In a way that makes everything else feel unimportant. Like nothing else matters but us."

"Yeah," he agreed, the weight of the words settling in. "I’ve spent so much time thinking about the future, about racing, about everything else. But in this moment, with you… I know what really matters. It’s you."

Y/N felt a warmth spread through her chest, her heart swelling with affection. "I’ve been thinking the same thing," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I was scared. But now that we’re here, I’m not afraid anymore."

Lando tilted his head, studying her face with an intensity that sent a rush of heat through her. "So, no more running?"

She shook her head, her smile gentle but full of certainty. "No more running."

Lando leaned in again, his lips capturing hers in another kiss—this one slow, full of everything they had been holding back. There was a tenderness in it, a promise that they would take this slow, that they would learn to navigate whatever was to come together. But more than that, it was a kiss filled with the knowledge that they were finally on the same page, finally together in a way they had always been meant to be.

As they broke apart, Lando reached for the bottle of wine and poured them both another glass, the soft clink of the glasses a gentle reminder that they had come a long way.

Y/N glanced out the window at the snowflakes gently falling from the sky, each one unique and fleeting, just like the moment they were sharing. "It’s beautiful out there," she said softly.

Lando turned to look as well, and for a moment, they were silent again, watching the world outside. But then he turned back to her, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Not as beautiful as you, though," he said with a grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. "You’re such a flirt."

"Only with you," he replied, his voice low and teasing. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. "And I always will be."

Her heart raced at his words, her body feeling alive with the anticipation of everything that was unfolding between them. She leaned into him again, her lips brushing his, more sure of herself now than she had ever been.

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of everything—the future, the love they had shared, and the love that was still waiting to be discovered between them.

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [3]

during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!

But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.

Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.

But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.

Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.

he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.

now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.

far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.

“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking” 

“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”

there is a pause …  he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.

“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.

“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”

“oh you simply must come visit!” 

well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.

their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.

but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.

There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?

Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.

Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t. 

He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.

so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.

It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.

it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere

Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy. 

And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.

Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?

He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.

he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.

Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.

If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions. 

Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 3)

You reunite with your crow friend! But it seems to need your help with… a man?

nav: one, two, three (current), four, five, six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of blood and death, descriptions of a panic attack, bossman is here yay

“Congratulations! You’ve just won the loyal customer raffle at Linkon Supermarket!”

“But I shop at Bloomshore Mart.”

“Yup, congratulations!”

You furrow your brows, eyeing the paper the delivery driver is enthusiastically waving in your face. Sure enough, it announces the conclusion of the famous supermarket’s year-end raffle, and there it is: your full government name printed neatly under “winner.”

Beyond his shoulder, you notice the other worker unloading boxes from the delivery truck. He’s dressed in the same uniform, with identical dark curls and also sporting a black face mask. He catches your gaze and gives a lazy thumbs-up.

There must be something wrong with your memory, because you could swear you haven’t stepped foot in Linkon Supermarket in years—let alone registered for their raffle. That place isn’t exactly known for catering to the humbler economic classes.

And it’s still 5:30 a.m. Have supermarkets always done graveyard shift deliveries?

“Thanks…” You squint at the driver’s name tag. “…Lukas.”

“No problem!”

Once the two workers finish unloading and stacking boxes of who-knows-what in your living room, they wave cheerfully before speeding off down the street. Half-asleep, you manage only a bemused wave in return.

You think you might’ve been cursed. Or blessed. It’s hard to say. Because ever since your crow friend escaped a week ago, it feels like you’ve already blown through a lifetime’s worth of luck.

In the span of days, you’ve gotten a raise and better employee benefits (odd, considering you’re still just an assistant manager), won lifetime vouchers for three of your favorite food spots, and now, apparently, won a supermarket raffle—complete with at least three months’ worth of groceries.

Rummaging through the boxes, you find they’re stocked with all your usual brands. Snacks, non-perishables, beauty products, household items—everything. Even fresh produce.

For the first time in a while, you won’t have to worry about going hungry.

—

You’re not sure why you’ve come back to the park tonight.

It’s late, and you’ve already visited the crows earlier, spoiling them with extra bags of peanuts thanks to your recent streak of good fortune.

The crows seem to wonder the same thing. While they peck enthusiastically at the peanuts, their beady eyes occasionally flick toward you, as if to silently judge your lack of anything resembling a social life.

Admittedly, you’ve been hoping to see your crow friend again.

You think you’re starting to come to terms with its disappearance. Life goes on, right? It’s just an animal, after all. It probably doesn’t feel the same complex emotions humans do—the kind that have you so affected by its absence after only a few days of sharing a space. (Maybe it was a one-sided friendship all along...) It probably just followed its instincts, leaving to do whatever it is that lone crows do.

Still, a petulant part of you feels bitter. Sure, it left behind a hoard of treasures—trinkets, gems, and gold so polished they must be real (though you’re not ready to think about where it might have stolen them)—but it could’ve at least waited for you to come home before flying off.

In hindsight, maybe it’s a good thing you never had pets. Your apparent abandonment issues would be a nightmare to deal with if they got lost, ran away, or died.

Suddenly, a familiar series of shrill caws pierces the air. Before you can process what’s happening, something crashes into your lap, a blur of loose black feathers hitting your face.

Could it be…?

The unmistakable garnet glint in the midnight-feathered avian’s eyes confirms it. Without hesitation, you scoop the bird into your arms, pulling it tightly to your chest, and press a rough, enthusiastic kiss to its head.

“Where have you been?” you exclaim, laughing as you nuzzle the void-like creature against your cheek, smothering it in an embrace. “I’ve been so worried about you!”

Its muffled caws are drowned out by your babbling. “Oh gosh—your wing! How is it?” you say, quickly pulling back to inspect it.

Its feathers look good—healthy, even. In fact, they almost seem brand new, gleaming like a freshly unboxed gadget. Its once-injured left wing no longer looks broken—or as you’d thought before, no longer resembling a mechanical part with a loose screw.

Before you can start fussing over it again, the bird suddenly wriggles free from your grasp and lands steadily on your lap. It caws again, but something’s different. It’s louder, more piercing—frantic. It paces across your lap, continuing to practically scream at you, as if trying to tell you something.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask, your heart squeezing at the sight of its feathers puffing up with each stressed caw.

You try to pat its head, hoping to calm it down, but it jumps off your lap and lands on the ground, still cawing. The other crows, clearly spooked by its urgent cries, start to scatter. Bewildered, you bend down, attempting to scoop it into your arms again, but it evades you by hopping a few feet away, still cawing—loudly.

“What is it?” you say, exasperated. I can’t speak crow!

You step closer, bending down once more, but it hops away—again.

You stare up at the heavens. This has to be some cosmic joke. You can’t believe you’re playing this strange version of tag with a bird.

You don’t even realize how far you’ve walked, now a good distance from the bench you were sitting on. You’ve reached the darker area of the park, still desperate to grab the cawing bird and figure out what’s wrong. Then, without warning, your foot catches on a tree root. You stumble, and before you can recover, you hit the cold, wet ground with an unceremonious thud.

“Well, there goes my good luck streak,” you mutter, trying to push yourself up. Good thing nobody’s around to witness your embarrassing lack of coordination.

“Tell me about it.”

The sudden presence of a deep, unfamiliar voice makes you freeze. Heart pounding wildly, you scramble to sit up, eyes darting toward the source.

It wasn’t a tree root you tripped over. It was a leg—a stretched-out leg attached to a man slumped against one of the park’s statues. A huge, beautiful man, with silver hair and a pair of breathtaking garnet eyes, half-lidded and filled with amusement. He’s clutching his abdomen, the fabric there soaked in dark, ominous red.

Blood.

A field of red datura blooms. A starry night sky with the clouds beneath you. Mountains of gold against jagged walls. A burning plaza. A bloodied claymore.

You don’t register the ringing in your ears or the flash of blurry, unfamiliar images racing through your mind. Your gaze remains locked on the man’s injury. Before you know it, you’re shrugging off your puffer jacket and sweater. Now clad in just your turtleneck, you drop to your knees and press your sweater firmly against his wound.

You, waiting for your turn to walk on stage to receive your diploma. A university staff member rushing toward you. You, running out of the graduation venue. Two totaled SUVs. Three dead bodies.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you work methodically. Stop the bleeding. Stop the blood. Apply pressure. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Just keep pressing. Don’t think about how much there is. Don’t panic. You fold the sweater tighter against the wound. Okay, stop the bleeding first. That’s all you know. Just keep the pressure steady. He’s losing too much. Is this enough? Should I tie it off? No, just keep pressing. Keep him alive.

The edges of your vision begin to blur. You have to save them. You have to save him. They can’t leave you. He can’t leave you. Not again.

“Sweetheart.”

The word, softly spoken, snaps you out of your trance. Your eyes lift to meet his, and the world seems to still. You’ve never met this man in your life, but the way he looks at you—it hurts. It feels like an ancient grief has surfaced from the depths of your soul.

You finally notice the state you’re in. You’re shaking. Badly. The cold winter air bites into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. Your palms are scraped from your earlier fall, but you hardly register the sting. The man’s hands—large and warm—enclose your trembling ones, grounding you.

And it’s like you’ve never known peace until this very moment.

note: can u tell the extent of my yearning to be spoiled with groceries LMAO

nav: one, two, three (current), four, five, six or: read on ao3

check out my other works!