#the process would be so slow and long because they don’t like doing their jobs properly

[fingertipsmp3]

This place I applied for a job at keeps emailing me (automatic emails not a real human being) asking why I haven’t done the tests they asked me to do and I don’t know how to explain to them it’s because their tests feel like psychological warfare

[the-winds-of-destiny-xxx]

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[dyaz-stories]

casual (1) || gojo satoru x reader

chapter 1: i like the way you kiss me

synopsis: Getting recruited for a double position as a teacher for Jujutsu High in Tokyo and a strategist, tasked with assigning missions to sorcerers in the region is the perfect situation for you. It pays well, it's well regarded, and it's as safe as possible — by sorcerer standards, anyway.

There is one problem though, and his name is Gojo Satoru. The one who's supposed to collaborate with you and answer to you.

The one you can't keep your hands off...

word count: 9.5k

genre: 18+, friends with benefits to lovers, coworkers to lovers, canon divergence, smut, emotional slow burn but they fuck like rabbits

warnings/tags (chapter): fem!reader (she/her pronouns, reader is afab), takes place ~5 years before jjk0, teacher!reader, sorcerer!reader, canon-typical violence, mild angst, smut (semi-public sex, fingering [fem receiving], vaginal sex, sorta dom!gojo, corruption kink if you squint), mentioned slut shaming (not the sexy kind), gojo satoru is a little shit

A/N: This is quite the Behemoth of a first chapter, I'm sorry to say. I love really long chapters, but I can only hope you all do too and this isn't too intimidating! This is a fic I've had in mind for ages and finally got around to start an outline for and actually write it. There are actually a couple of drabbles here and there on my blog for this couple already, happening at various points of their relationship.

I really hope you will enjoy this first chapter!

‘Make use of Satoru Gojo however you see fit.’

Such are the first words spoken to you by the higher-ups, at the end of an exhausting recruitment process. You nod sharply at the instruction.

“Duly noted.”

Truth be told, you don’t see why they need to specify it. You had assumed that went without saying from the very beginning.

The job offer had, at first glance, been for a strategist who would work directly under the higher-ups for the region of Tokyo. Devising teams, advising the council, and assigning missions were supposed to be the main tasks you would have to fulfill.

‘Supposed’ because, when you were one of only three candidates left, the higher-ups had revealed that there was, in fact, a second role you would be expected to perform. One that you had not imagined would be available for decades.

A new teaching position at the Tokyo Jujutsu High School was opening up, though you couldn’t understand why for the life of you. You had no connection to the establishment yourself, having left Japan as a child and trained abroad your whole life, never returning for more than a couple of months at a time, yet you knew, as did the entirety of the sorcerer world, that Satoru Gojo had been appointed there less than a year before. Well, rumor had it that he had appointed himself, and you had to wonder if that was why they were keen to have a more… traditional teacher by his side, since firing him was an option.

In that case, your lack of ties to Satoru Gojo, Masamichi Yaga and to the Jujutsu Headquarters could explain why your name ended up being the last one on the ballot. You were the best placed to be an independent monitor.

The distorted voice keeps going, bringing you back to the present.

“Unless stated otherwise, always send him to battle first.”

You school your face so you do not let any emotion appear, though the statement surprises you. You have to assume that they don’t mean for any mission you receive, because that would be catastrophically ineffective. Then again, sending him on Grade 1 missions, if he is available, makes some sense.

“Report to us if you encounter difficulties with him,” the voice adds before falling silent without elaborating.

You understand, from the finality of their tone, that you have been dismissed, and bow your head, your movements polite and sober.

“Thank you for the trust you are placing in me. I will not disappoint you.”

“We know you won’t,” another sepulchral voice answers.

In the dark, candle-lit room, it sounds sinister enough to chill you to the bone. You wait just a second longer, in case something needs to be added, before turning on your heels and walking away. No one calls you back, and you’re more relieved about leaving the room than you would like to admit.

Outside, the summer sun is high and bright. You tilt your head backwards and close your eyes to let its rays warm your face. It will take a while before the cold instilled in you in that meeting room dissipates.

You’re expected in Jujutsu Tech by the end of August. Being a teacher there is as close to the ideal position as it gets, for a sorcerer. The pay is excellent, the risks minimal, and it commends great respect from the society at large. You have no doubt that, had the offer been for that position in the first place, numerous sorcerers far more qualified for teaching than you are would have thrown their hats in the ring. You wouldn’t have made it past the first interview.

You got lucky. Just this once, you’re going in the right direction.

You inhale deeply. For the first time in a long time, you no longer envision your life as an endless successions of missions, countries, and houses that never become homes.

For the first time in the long time, you think you have a future.

There is a spring in your step when you make your way down the stairs, away from this freezing place and the ghouls that haunt it.

Behind you, the Headquarters; ahead, Jujutsu Tech.

Masamichi Yaga is a cautious man. His handshake is warm and firm when he greets you, and though his voice is calm and steady as he guides you through the hallways of Jujutsu Tech, he remains evasive. He provides all the information you might need, answers any question you have when you ask them without missing a beat, and yet you can tell he is guarded, keeping you at arm’s length.

You cannot determine why that is with certainty, though you have a handful of hypotheses. It could just be that he isn’t used to the presence of strangers. Dealing with a total stranger is a rarity within sorcerer society, even more so in Japan. You doubt that he would know anyone who could talk about you, let alone vouch for you. You understand why that would make you a suspicious character.

Another option is that you were forced onto him as a member of his staff by the higher-ups, though you haven’t heard anything about that. With you being a complete outsider, he would not have any valid reason to outright reject your presence, not when his only teacher is frequently gone for days at a time, but that would not mean that he’d be pleased with it — or view you as trustworthy, for that matter.

The third possibility, of course, is that he just finds you off-putting.

‘Cold’, that’s how you are often described by the people around you. You don’t do it intentionally, but you also cannot pinpoint what it is that you do ‘wrong’. Something about your tone, your expressions, or lack thereof, your cold eyes, the way your mouth naturally curves downwards.

That and, of course, the trail of bad omens that you bring with you everywhere you go.

These don’t tend to be active problems when it comes to sorcerers. With normal humans, now, it’s a different story. Oh, there are exceptions, who find that this all makes you intriguing, but it typically makes it hard to build actual connections with other people. You wouldn’t normally care, but in a situation where you have to collaborate with others, you could see that becoming an issue.

You had seen that coming, of course — it wasn’t like it was new information to you. As a result, you had made sure to be on your very best behavior from the moment you’d stepped foot within Jujutsu Tech grounds. You had nodded with interest, you had reminded yourself to smile, you had asked all the right questions, and yet you could feel that you had not once managed to turn yourself into a likeable person.

Ah, well. Not being likeable would not stop you from doing your job right.

“I’ll introduce you to the rest of teaching staff,” Yaga announces, his voice deep, as he reaches a new door. His hand is hovering over the doorknob when he stills, turning to look at you. “Are you ready for this just now? They were both students here, but I assume this can all be overwhelming for a newbie.”

That is a kind sentiment.

“I’m okay.” Then, because answering in monosyllables is not what likeable people are supposed to do, you add: “I read the files available to familiarize myself with the school grounds before coming here.”

His eyebrows jump up behind his glasses, but it’s followed by a hearty chuckle.

“You’ve come prepared.” He nods, appreciative. “Good. It will be nice to have someone who takes their job seriously around here.”

You don’t have the time to question the sentence before he opens the door.

The room is small and reeks of cigarette smoke. In the middle of it, a desk, and behind it, sprawled on an elegant black chair, a white-haired man that you recognize at first glance. You let your eyes slide over him. You wouldn’t want to look too, um, curious, just yet.

The brown-haired woman with the long white coat who is perched on a window sill, doing her very best to look inconspicuous, is the one responsible for the smell. You identify her as Shoko Ieiri, school doctor and reverse cursed technique prodigy. Next to you, Yaga sighs.

“Shoko,” he protests with a paternal disapproval, “I thought you’d quit smoking?”

“I did,” she answers, staring at him, her eyes dark and tired, “and then I had to regrow a lung. Do you have any idea how much of a pain it is to regrow internal organs?”

A light laugh comes from the man in the middle of the room, and you consider that this gives you permission to look at him without coming off like you’re gawking.

He has his feet propped up on the desk, and he’s using them to push himself backwards in a precarious balance. White hair spills on the dark leather, long arms hang on both sides of the chair, and he hasn’t bothered to so much as glance in your direction so far — or at least, you don’t think he has, because white bandages are wrapped around his head, covering his eyes.

Even without being able to spot their signature blue, you know who he is. There isn’t one sorcerer in Japan, nor in the whole world, who doesn’t know his name.

Satoru Gojo, in the flesh.

“Maybe if you hadn’t cheated your way through medical school, it would be easier, don’t ya think?” he asks Ieiri with fond familiarity.

“Don’t—” Yaga takes two steps into the room, kicks the legs from underneath the chair. “—sit at my desk, Satoru.”

Effortlessly, Gojo jumps off the chair before it hits the floor and lands on his feet, facing Yaga. He is just as tall as the Principal, and from the wide grin on his face, it’s obvious that he is thrilled to have gotten a rise out of him.

“Then get me my own office already, what are you waiting for?”

“We’ll see which one of you gets an office first,” Yaga sniffs, and it doesn’t sound like Gojo is at the top of his list. “First, there is someone you need to meet.”

Ieiri has been observing you since you’ve walked into the room, not looking away when you had met her eyes. Yaga’s words have Gojo finally directing his attention to you, though, and something in the room shifts. You can’t see them, yet you know his eyes are on you, dissecting you and your cursed energy, collecting every possible bit of information on you. He walks past Yaga, burying his hands in his pockets as he approaches you. He has an easy smile placated on his lips, but you know when you’re being judged.

Behind him, both Ieiri and Yaga are still, tense. Yaga’s jaw is set, and Ieiri fiddles with a pack of cigarettes in her pocket, clearly itching for a new one. Ah, so this is the real test.

You don’t back off, staying rooted in your spot. He towers over you easily, and you have to tilt your head back just to look at him. You’d heard he was a handsome man, but you hadn’t expected it to be so obvious, even with the bandages on. He studies you, sharp jaw clenching, before the dazzling smile returns.

“Right! You’re the substitute teacher, aren’t you?”

His voice is light and airy, the previous tension completely absent from it. You blink.

“She will be teaching instead of you when you’re away on missions,” Yaga intervenes, “but that doesn’t make her a substitute. C’mon, Satoru, we’ve had this conversation already.”

On that last sentence, his voice turns into a threatening rumble.

“Sure, sure,” Gojo dismisses him without looking back, “and you’re the one who will be giving me missions as well, right?”

He keeps his tone cheerful, makes it sound like he’s just trying to have a conversation, but there is an edge in his voice, a bite. You cannot tell what he is trying to achieve with the question, though, or why he is being hostile, so you choose not to engage.

“Indeed,” you answer, bowing your head politely. “It is an honor to be meeting you all.” You make quick work of giving your name and briefly mentioning that you hadn’t grown up in Japan.

You’re met with silence, Gojo’s lips pressed together as he tries to read you. You do your very best not to give him anything to sink his teeth into.

“Your family’s known for their precognition, aren’t they?” Ieiri asks from the other side of the room.

“Foresight, yes”, you reply. Your answer is rehearsed, polished. Your family has somewhat of a reputation within the sorcerer world, but fortune tellers are a dime a dozen, even among non-sorcerers, and the results vary greatly — it’s not an ability that inspires trust, even for a legitimate sorcerer like you. You don’t wish to reveal too much of yourself just yet. “I look forward to working with you.”

A smile finally forms on her lips.

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I won’t be seeing too much of you. Would be a shame if I had to patch you up. If you want to go out drinking though, just let me know. I know all the best bars in the city!”

“She does, and she’s banned from half of them,” Gojo chimes in. Now that his focus is back on her, his tone is softer; teasing, still, but no longer harsh. “She could use an actual designated driver instead of exploiting her kouhais though, don’t you think, Shoko?”

She laughs at that, sincerely, her eyes creasing.

“Fuck you, Gojo,” she answers fondly.

“I apologize for these two,” Yaga says, wincing at the coarse language. “We’re very happy to have you here. I’m sure it will do the kids some good, having someone serious to take after.”

“Hurtful,” Gojo protests, pouting. “They’re good kids,” he adds, directing his attention back to you. He sounds proud now, no trace of his earlier defiance left. “They’ll be great soon. They just need a little push to get there.”

At that, you nod.

“Of course. I’ll do my very best to help them on that path.”

There is a second, between the moment when you finish speaking and the moment when a wide smile splits his face. In that second, his lips part, and you feel his eyes plunge into you, digging into the very core of your being. He doesn’t look pleased. No, he is sizing you up, and you doubt you measure up to his expectations as well as you should. You’re the only one facing him, though, and when he smiles, just a little too late, it all vanishes like it never happened.

“Good to hear! As long as that’s the case, I’m sure everything will go smoothly.”

It’s said differently, but it’s as threatening as the higher-ups’ last words to you. Still, behind Gojo, Yaga heaves a relieved sigh and exchanges a look with Ieiri that tells you just how worried he’d been about your arrival. To him, it looks like the situation is resolved.

“Why don’t we all go and get a drink together to welcome you properly, if we’re done here?” he asks, walking over and slapping Gojo in the back.

“Sounds good to me,” Ieiri hums.

“As long as we go somewhere with good desserts, I’m in,” Gojo declares, intertwining his fingers at the back  his head.

“You better be, Satoru,” Yaga grumbles, “you’re paying.”

“Not sure the Gojo clan has enough money for your appetite,” he sighs dramatically, “but I mean, I can try.” Then, eyeing you, “You coming or what?”

“Of course,” you say, swallowing around the unexpected knot in your throat. “Thank you for having me.”

You follow them cautiously, keeping quiet as the banter continues, hands held behind your back, observing. You had not expected to feel welcome here. You could have done without Gojo’s strange hostility, but with your track record, you had expected far worse.

“Let me know if Satoru makes your life harder, alright? I’ll talk some sense into him,” Ieiri tells you, placing a cigarette between her lips.

“And I’ll beat it into him if I have to,” Yaga adds, snatching it from Ieiri’s mouth and crumpling it between his fingers.

“I’d love to see you try,” Gojo grins.

“Noted,” you answer, “but I’m sure everything will be fine.”

This last part is a lie. Even as he’s joking around with everyone, you know he is still observing you, courtesy of the Six Eyes, watching your every move, waiting to find a fault somewhere so he can figure out what to do with you. You can’t blame him. You will be the one sending him into action, after all, even if the higher-ups would review missions assigned to grade 1 sorcerers and special grade sorcerers. Of course he’d need some time to figure out whether or not you’re trustworthy.

Not that his opinion on the subject matters to you. You’re not the type of person who needs other to like you. You don’t even need him to trust you. All he has to do is let you do your job.

Everything else is futile.

It is no surprise that the first few weeks at your job are slow. The end of summer and the beginning of fall are always quiet periods for sorcerers, and as a result, you don’t have many missions to hand out just yet. The few, low-level ones available in Tokyo are systematically claimed by Gojo before you can look into them, as training for his students.

“Kids gotta learn somehow, right?” he tells you with a grin the first time it happens.

He’s just waltzed into your classroom and he’s leaning over the desk, elbow conveniently resting on the mission files. You try not to think about how brazenly handsome he is right now, even when he is openly provoking you. You stare at his bandages, right where his eyes must be. He may be smiling at you, but there is no sincerity behind it, no joy, and that wasn’t really a question.

You shrug.

“Alright.”

The smile falters.

“Yeah? That’s alright with you?”

“Certainly. If you think these are good exercises for them, and if you plan on being there to supervise them, I don’t see any issue with it. Just return the files if there are any they can’t clear, and I’ll transfer them to the appropriate person.”

He tilts his head. Watching. Assessing.

“You should join us!” he exclaims cheerfully, smile back in its place, clapping his hands together. “The more, the merrier, isn’t that right?”

Oookay. He is testing you. The infuriating part of that is, you have no idea what he is testing you for, what he wants you to display — or fail to display. Trying to see if you’re good enough of a teacher? You have nothing to prove here, certainly not to someone who has been on the job for such a short time. Then again, you don’t see any harm in humoring him.

“No problem. Just let me know when you intend to take care of them, and I’ll be there.”

His smile widens, but you’re not sure if it means you’ve succeeded or failed his test.

“Good,” he hums. “I’ll be taking that, then.”

In one swift movement, he retrieves the files from your desk, and he walks away with them before you can say anything.

You roll your eyes — this whole song and dance are so unnecessary — but you don’t see any reason to stop him, so you just watch him leave. You catch him stopping in the doorway, turning back to look at you. The smile is still dancing on his face, all edge and teeth.

“You’re not what I expected.”

You stare at him just a moment longer, brow furrowing, before he vanishes and you’re left with nothing to look at.

‘Not what he expected’. You turn the sentence over in your mind a couple of times, trying to conjure up an image, a personality that would fit better for the role you’re supposed to play, but nothing comes up. You have two roles: teaching the future generation of sorcerers, and assigning missions. If doing one task can facilitate the other, there is no reason not to do it — and you find it even harder to comprehend why he wouldn’t have expected you to do just that.

You shake your head, willing his words out of your mind. You’ve never felt the need to meet anyone’s expectations, so why should you start now?

Taking kids to a cemetery for a mission seems in poor taste, but that’s not what you tell Gojo when he announces it as his first choice.

“The mission is for a number of grade four curses and a couple grade three,” you state instead, “but considering the spot, it’s likely more powerful ones went unnoticed. Are you sure that’s appropriate for first-years?”

“Well,” he answers, hands casually in his pockets, towering over you with all his height, “it will be good to see how adaptable they are and their abilities in the face of danger. Plus, they’ll have two guardian angels looking after them, won’t they?”

There’s that toothy smile again.

You still don’t know what it means.

“As long as you’re here, it will be fine, I guess” is what you end up answering him with a shrug.

This time, he doesn’t say anything as he leaves, doesn’t stop to look at you.

You suspect that you said exactly what he was expecting from you.

Contrary to popular belief, cemeteries don’t typically harbor powerful curses. The smaller ones are numerous, born out of loss and grief, but the bodies of non-sorcerers don’t take the pain they endured with them in the grave. They leave it all over their houses, leaking through the walls and ceilings, seeping through the cracks in the floor, cursing their loved ones.

Cemeteries remain clean.

The exception to that rule is a notable one. In any place where cursed energy accumulates for long enough, there is a risk for it to congregate to the point where strong curses can emerge. This slow growth means they learn to better hide themselves, and it makes them harder to spot and eliminate. In an ideal world, there would be a sorcerer expedition every other decade to ensure nothing big can develop, but sorcerer numbers being what they are, that is impossible to ensure. There is also a high likelihood that it would be useless anyway, a waste of time and resources, far too much firepower for the bunch of fly heads sorcerers would find.

Still, you keep an eye on the three, baby-faced first years, and chew on the inside of your cheek as they start to make their way through the alleys.

You don’t like this.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Gojo says lightly, next to you. “You’re a grade one sorcerer, aren’t you? There’s nothing more powerful than that here. I’d know it if there was.”

“My evaluation took place in Europe. I don’t know if I would have ranked that high, had I taken it here.”

“Aw, c’mon, if even you think you’re that weak, who’s going to believe you’re strong?”

The sentence surprises a chuckle out of you. A grade two sorcerer is nothing to turn your nose at, but you can’t say you’re shocked that the Satoru Gojo would equate that status to weakness. He is so far off the scale that he would break it altogether if it wasn’t for the convenient, murky ‘special grade’ title.

You look at him, find him already turned in your direction. His lips are parted in surprise. You don’t realize it, but you have somehow managed the feat of getting Gojo’s undivided attention. The Six Eyes are focused on you, dissecting you, taking you in. This is— new. People are predictable. It’s not always a bad thing, though it gets a little boring. You— you keep catching him off guard while doing things that seem completely natural to you.

For once, you’re the one who is smiling, and he’s stunned into silence.

“It doesn’t matter to me, whether or not people think I’m strong. All I care about is—”

Teeth reflected in a pupil. Muscles like lead. A hand raised in defense. Flesh that turns into mist, there one second, gone the next. Clicks like a laugh, coming from behind. ‘Morino Iori — 1954-2010’, splattered with blood. A curse with its head thrown back, an arm coming out of its open mouth, disappearing when it swallows. Tears dripping down from the chin to the ground, barely diluting the puddle of blood that has formed there.

The rest of your sentence is lost when you turn around and take off running.

There is a string of cursed energy pulling you in the right direction, one that found its way to you, one that the cursed technique engraved in your brain knew how to decode. You’re old enough not to question it, not to struggle with the vision, and following it comes as a second nature. Just as you get there, you see Sota rounding the corner slowly, looking around, squinting, searching for something he isn’t finding. Your fingers close around the weapon at your waist, withholding your cursed energy — for now.

To a non-sorcerer, you would appear to be holding nothing but a stick. A sorcerer would know it’s a cursed weapon, though most would not be able to figure out its use.

At least, not until the curse emerges from the fog, only two steps behind Sota. In a flash, you let cursed energy irrigate your weapon, and a blade of sheer energy appears. The stick is now a scythe.

It’s in poor taste, in a cemetery, but you don’t linger on that.

You’re between the boy and the curse before he can turn around. The curse’s abilities must allow it to hide its presence, would allow it to disappear back into nothingness a mere moment after the kill, but you don’t give it the opportunity to do that. The scythe cuts through it like butter, splitting it in two. The two halves haven’t yet hit the ground that you’ve already lowered your weapon, emptying it from cursed energy as soon as you’re done.

“Are you okay?” you ask Sota, turning around to face him as you anchor it back to your waist.

“Um,” he says. He doesn’t look scared, just mildly surprised. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“What happened to seeing his abilities in the face of danger?”

You bite your lip, glancing at Gojo. He is standing atop a headstone, balancing without any struggle and watching the two of you with unmistakable amusement.

“He freezes in the face of danger,” you answer.

Sota’s eyes go wide, and he turns away from you, shaking his head. He isn’t doing it for you, though, but for Gojo.

“That’s not true! I’ve exorcised curses before, you’ve seen me do it!”

He’s desperate to prove himself to his teacher, and something sinks within you. You don’t need a vision to tell you what will happen next.

“The kid’s got a point,” Gojo lets you know. “That precognition thing of yours, how accurate is it?”

There was a time when those words would have sent you reeling back. Even now, when you’re expecting them, you feel the blood withdrawing from your face as he speaks them. But you swallow, school your features. You know better now. Fighting now will only delay the inevitable. Gojo was standing next to you anyway. With the Six Eyes, he must know for certain that you hadn’t activated any sort of cursed technique when you took off running. That alone would be enough to make him suspicious, if he didn’t already doubt you.

Cassandra’s Bargain. Tell the truth, and save only those who believe you.

Unlike others, explaining the workings of your cursed technique doesn’t make it more effective — it makes it useless. If you try to tip the scale in your favor now, you will all pay a high price for it later.

You know what Gojo is implying, about your accuracy. Most people who have foresight see a number of futures. If he suspects you saw one in which Sota died, your actions must make sense to him.

“Enough to keep me safe,” you answer, tight-lipped.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s give the kid a fighting chance from now, what d’ya say?”

That’s not how it works, but it doesn’t matter. At least Sota gets to keep his arm — until next time.

What a waste.

“Of course,” you say with a nod.

You would do it again in a heartbeat if you had to, but you no longer feel threads of cursed energy, threads of fate, pulling you in one direction or the other. Oh, they’re all around you, and you’d know much more if you activated your cursed technique, but you know how it functions. That had to be the worst that could happen. Things should be fine now.

“Start running Sota, you’ve got some catching up to do!”

“Yes, Mr. Gojo, sir!” the kid replies, all but saluting. “I won’t disappoint you.”

Gojo’s laugh at that, as the kid takes off sprinting, couldn’t be more genuine.

You lean against the pristine Morino Iori headstone — it’s disrespectful, and you formulate a silent apology, but all you can do is hope they won’t mind. You’re exhausted, and yet the tension is keeping your body in hypervigilance, refusing to go away.

Gojo approaches you, hands in his pockets. The ghost of his usual smile is dancing on his lips. For once, though, it doesn’t feel mean-spirited.

“We have to save them if they need us,” he says, voice surprisingly soft, “but it’s as least as important that we teach them how to fend for themselves.

“I don’t disagree with that.”

This kind of reasoning just isn’t worth losing an arm over.

Gojo steps closer, leaning towards you, so close his nose is almost touching yours. You suck in a quick breath through your mouth. From up close, it’s much harder to ignore how handsome he is, even without seeing his eyes. You blame your accelerating heart rate on the fact that you’re in a high-stress kind of and you’re particularly pent-up at the moment. If your skin tingles when you feel his breath against it, it’s because of the cold. Must be. Whatever it is, you don’t let it show, and you hate that you’re finding it harder to breathe.

“You’re not what I expected.”

He’s said it before, but his voice is lower now, deeper, vibrating through your body, and something that you recognize all too well twists, deep in your abdomen.

Desire.

You don’t answer. You didn’t know what to say the first time, and you sure as fuck have no clue now — don’t know what he means, don’t know what you’ve done that you weren’t supposed to, don’t know if the interest in his voice betrays the same feelings rushing through you right now. So you glare at him until he laughs, light and airy, and takes a step back.

“If you need me, I’ll be on top of the temple, watching the kids.”

You wait for him to disappear between the tombs, keeping yourself still, too still, probably, to be inconspicuous, and it’s only once you’re sure he’s gone that you let yourself exhale very, very slowly. The urge to laugh at yourself bubbles inside you, because what the fuck is wrong with you? It’s not the right time, not the right place, and not even remotely the right person.

You’re fully aware of all of that, know it in the deepest parts of your soul, and yet your eyes still trail towards the temple. You could imagine that you’re seeing Gojo’s silhouette there, if you didn’t know better.

Except you do. You do.

When you look away, you know full well you’re doing it too pointedly.

You don’t get a chance to involve yourself in the Kyoto Goodwill Event. With the beginning of fall, files are starting to accumulate. Since you’re still getting your bearings in Tokyo and familiarizing yourself with the sorcerers you can send on missions, that is what you dedicate yourself to.

Or, well, that’s what you’re told.

You know that you’re more than capable of doing several things at once without botching any of them. Masamichi Yaga and Satoru Gojo are the ones who disagree. You’re called into Yaga’s office, and Gojo is already there, leaning against the wall behind him. For once, he isn’t wearing the bandages, but rectangular sunglasses. Even from behind them, you see the faint glow of his eyes, and it takes a lot — a lot more than it should — not to stare.

“The students taking part in this year’s event will be exclusively second and third-years. Satoru knows them well.”

“Yeah, and they’ve been training for a that for a while,” Gojo says without missing a beat. Where Yaga is stern and serious, his voice is relaxed and pleasant, lightening the mood without trying to. “The third-years have already won once, so they know what they’ve got to do for a repeat.”

That’s right. Tokyo won last year, under Gojo’s guidance, for the first time since… well, since he stopped competing himself, according to what you’ve heard.

“Satoru had already started putting this year’s strategy together by the time you joined Jujutsu Tech,” Yaga adds, trying his best to sound apologetic. “So there’s no need to concern yourself with that. It’s already well-oiled.”

As far as you’re concerned, the only thing that’s well-oiled here is this routine they’re performing, all for your sake. You click your tongue, not bothering to hide your annoyance, and watch as Yaga’s fingers curl, as Gojo’s chin lifts and the blueish glow focuses on you. There’s politics in the air, you can smell it, with a role you have to play. So they think, at least. Unfortunately, you lack knowledge when it comes to Japanese society, and you cannot quite identify what that role is.

To be fair, you also don’t care for it.

“Was it really necessary to waste all of our times with this charade?”

“I beg your pardon?” Yaga asks in response. His voice thunders dangerously. He’s warning you not to cross a line.

“If you don’t want me involved, you can just say so,” you answer with a shrug. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have missions to assign.”

You don’t wait for him to dismiss you to stand up, rolling your eyes once you have your back turned on them. How bland. You’ve never seen the point of engaging with this kind of theatrics when there are such greater things at play. Having you help the kids come up with a strategy of their own, going over the basics of planning, now that could have been interesting and helpful. It’s not that you doubt Gojo’s abilities in that domain, you don’t, but it is your specialty, and you’ve had to learn to survive with resources that are significantly more limited than his. Instead of doing that, in the name of whatever internal conflict is going on here, the kids have been deprived of that experience.

How boring.

Once the door has closed behind you, Gojo lowers his head, shoulders shaking. Yaga turns around, frowning, only to find him quietly laughing to himself.

“Told you she was a weird one,” he says once he’s caught his breath.

“Maybe,” Yaga mumbles, “but there must be a reason why she was placed here.”

Gojo hums. Outside the office, he follows your cursed energy. It has always been diffuse, fickle, fizzling out around you until it becomes hard to tell where it ends — even for him. Must have something to do with your cursed technique, but he hasn’t seen you use that yet. You go straight to your classroom, where you sit behind your desk to work, like you do every day until it’s late in the night.

Yaga is right, of course. There must be a reason. But you’re at least making it fun for him to figure out.

The Kyoto Goodwill Event does not go over well.

Maybe you should get some petty satisfaction from it, but there is none to be found, just a bitter taste in your mouth. Next to you, Utahime, the Kyoto school teacher, does not look up at the screens provided by Grade 1 sorcerer Mei Mei. She has her eyes on her hands, and she is nervously rubbing her fingers. In fact, while a few outsiders who have come to see the game for their own enjoyment exclaim at the students’ impressive moves, there is only one member of the schools who seems to be enjoying himself, and that is Principal Gakuganji.

Kyoto is methodical in their approach. On an individual level, you suspect that Kyoto is far ahead of them, but as a team, they have come up with the perfect strategy — at least against the Tokyo team. They have done their research, know everything there is to know about their adversaries. Then again, having one member of the Zen’in and one member of the Kamo family on their side, even if neither have access to their families’ historical techniques, must have been quite the help to gather that information.

You don’t see them doing anything revolutionary — if anything, a team such as theirs could have been composed hundreds of years ago — but they have no need for it, not with how brutal they are willing to be, leaving devastation in their wake. They’re prepared, efficient, collected. They’re also quick, having adapted to this modified version of capture the flag, one that involves curses, without hesitation.

Tokyo defends to the best of their abilities. They prove themselves especially capable when it comes to improvising on the spot, which means that Gojo’s teaching works on that front is working, at least. The match ends up closer than Kyoto must have been hoping for, but it doesn’t change the end result.

It’s a resounding victory for Kyoto.

“Well,” Gakuganji is the first to speak as it ends, “that was quite the beautiful display of sportsmanship, don’t you think, Satoru?”

You glance at Gojo, who is sitting next to you. There’s real anger in the way his jaw tenses at the question, but by the time you blink, he’s already relaxed it.

“That was really impressive!” he laughs, throwing his head back and clapping enthusiastically. “They’ve progressed so much since last year, haven’t they? I never imagined they would be able to come this far.”

You press your lips together at the barely veiled insult.

“Indeed, that is what realized potential looks like,” Gakuganji replies, stroking his beard. “Such a shame to see your promising pupils crashing and burning… Although that’s not the first time you’ve seen that happen, is it?”

That is the least charitable way of looking at what happened there, but it is impossible to argue with the facts: Kyoto bested Tokyo. You can’t say you appreciate the way he’s talking about your students, but you don’t think it’s your place to say anything.

Gojo’s smile thins.

“Well, I’ll be looking forward to the individual tournament tomorrow,” Gakuganji adds, standing up. “In the meantime, Yaga, I assume you have planned for accommodations, and all this action has given me quite the appetite.”

He leaves the room with an unmistakably pleased smile, Yaga getting up after him. He gestures at Gojo to join them, and he’s not hiding his scowl when he stands up, unfolding his long limbs slowly. The other sorcerers follow suit, Utahime included, though she is sporting a somber expression too. You’re the only one to linger in the room, in no rush to suffer through more of Gojo and Gakuganji’s quips.

When you do leave, you stop by the infirmary, where you find Ieiri cursing through her teeth as she works on the students. Even though several of them are fully healed, they’re keeping themselves huddled up together, shoulders hanging low, eyes on the ground.

Defeated.

“Professor Gojo has already come by,” one of them informs you without bothering to look at you. “We’re fine. We’ll do better tomorrow.”

“Yes, you will,” you confirm, and you see flashes of hope on their faces, mistaking your confidence for a prophecy. Truth be told, you haven’t seen anything for the next day, but this is often the best way of using the aura that surrounds you. “But you did well today. They saw a weak spot, and they exploited it. As long as you learn from it, there is no shame in this defeat.”

That deflates them, and Ieiri snickers, glancing at you with a grin.

“Quite the pep talk you’re giving here.’

She’s right. You’ve never been good at this.

“You’re all excellent sorcerers, but even you can be defeated by people who are not as good as you, provided they’ve prepared adequately. That is what you need to take away from today. Conversely, you will be able to defeat much stronger adversaries than you, with the right approach.”

Some look thoughtful at your words — most still look just as dejected as they were when you walked in.

“We’ll work on that once this tournament is over. For now, all you need to do is rest. You’ll prevail tomorrow.”

Smiles finally break on their faces, and you take that as your cue to leave, before you can say something that would ruin it again.

You’re in no rush to join the other sorcerers just yet, so you wander through the hallways, intending to go back to the classroom that’s become your refuge in the school. You’re one corner away from it, when the window that leads to the outside slides open, and Satoru Gojo jumps in, right in front of you. It is the second floor, yet you can’t muster surprise.

He shoots you a smirk that knocks the air out of you, but it’s nothing compared to what he does next. He looks back towards the window, looking displeased, and that’s when you notice voices calling for him — Kyoto students and low-level sorcerers. You’re about to look down when he catches you. He wraps a hand around your wrist to pull you away, presses the other on the wall, next to your head, and you freeze. He’s close, and everything you’ve been feeling for weeks at this point comes rushing back in.

“You know what’s a great way of getting people’s attention off you?” he asks, smirk even wider, if possible.

“Wh—”

Then his lips are on yours.

He tastes sweet, you’re surprised to find.

It’s playful, the way he kisses you, a press of his mouth against yours, stolen, daring. It’s also all you need to admit to yourself how badly you’ve been wanting this. That’s why you’re the one who wraps your arms around his neck, kissing him back harder. He lets out a surprised noise into you, maybe a chuckle, but he certainly doesn’t fight it, even if he wasn’t planning on it. In fact, it’s quite the contrary.

He reaches greedily for your hips, pulling you to him and keeping you pressed against his hard chest. When you part your lips, there is not a moment of hesitation on his part before he pushes his tongue in, swirling it against yours. You crane your neck to give him better access to your mouth, all while holding on tight to his neck to lower him towards you. Your back is against the wall, your body arched a way that would be uncomfortable if you weren’t so hot all over, set ablaze by his touch.

When he pushes his thigh between your legs, flexing it so it rubs against you just right, your knees buckle under you. It doesn’t help that, in this position, his semi-hard cock is pressed against your abdomen, and that awakens a very special kind of hunger within you.

There is no softness to the kiss or to the way your bodies move together, just pure lust. Wetness is pooling between your legs already, in anticipation for more, more of him, more of his body, more of his touch. He’s so tall, it’s like he’s everywhere, his scent surrounding you, his body caging you against the wall effortlessly, his mouth demanding more and more of you. You roll your hips against his, trapping his cock between your bodies, and he hisses into you, his grip turning bruising — not that you mind.

“Tease,” he manages to mumble as he takes a quick breath.

There’s no room for any more words before he reattaches his mouth to yours, almost biting into you, and fuck it feels good. His lips are soft, but that must be the only thing that is soft about this kiss. He moves your skirt out of the way, one hand coming to grab your thigh so he can lift it up, and that is when your eyes snap open, some reason coming back to your lust-filled brain at last.

“Wait,” you mumble, “not here.” Your eyes dart around the dark hallway — empty, but far too in the open for your liking. Problem is, your body is aching with how much you want him, and, even if it would be the smart thing to do, you can’t bring yourself to stop now. “Classroom,” you conclude, pulling him with you.

He lets out a breathless laugh, but follows. The second the door is closed, he has you against the wall again, this time with his chest pressed to your back while his lips find your neck, teeth pulling at the skin mercilessly before dragging his tongue on the sensitive area to soothe it. You let out a sigh, but it comes out much louder than you’d intended, almost a moan, and you have to lift a hand up to cover your mouth. He snickers, but doesn’t waste any more time on teasing you.

Instead, he snakes his hand into your skirt, and this time, you don’t stop him. Long fingers move past the hem of your panties to brush against your clit and you jump, biting your lower lip to keep quiet. His lips stretch into a smile on your neck.

“You’re so fucking wet already,” he comments by your ear, rubbing his fingers over your pussy lips, purposefully not entering you.

You groan in frustration, and push your ass against his now rock-hard cock. The low moan he lets out in surprise is delightful to hear.

“As if you’re one to talk,” you reply.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

Before you can answer him, he easily pushes two fingers inside you. They’re long and they fill you so well, you have to focus every fiber of you that’s not lost in pleasure on keeping quiet. Gojo’s free to take his fingers out, then plunge them into you once more, and you can’t help clenching needily around them.

“See,” he says, and oh his low voice, the way it makes his chest vibrate against your back, it all goes straight to your core, making you gush around his fingers some more, “that’s expected of me, ‘cause everyone knows I’m sorcerer society’s problem child. Aren’t you supposed to be the good girl?”

It’s no easy task to think with his fingers pumping in and out of you relentlessly, but even through the haze of pleasure, the words make you frown.

“Says— Ah— Says who?”

He uses the heel of his palm to press against your clit, and you’d conclude that he is actively trying to render you speechless if pleasure wasn’t shooting through you like electricity.

“Hmm, I don’t know, I’d say you’re being pretty good right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Would you— fuck— would you stop talking and just fuck me already?” you still manage to bite out.

He laughs again, delighted and maybe a little fond, but he stills his fingers inside you. You get some time to catch your breath, and use whatever self-control you have left not to try and fuck yourself on his hand.

“You sure?”

“As long as you’re clean, I’m safe,” you say — maybe not your smartest moment, but you can’t find it in yourself to care right now.

He pulls his fingers out, and you glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still wearing the bandages over his eyes, but his jaw is uncharacteristically taut, and his movements lack their usual fluidity. You grin. Good to see you’re having an effect on him too. It becomes even more obvious when he pulls out his cock, hard and veiny. You’re not surprised by how big he is, and you find yourself licking your lips, clenching around air at the prospect of what’s to come. Shit, you cannot wait to have it inside you, stretching you out.

“I’ve been wanting to mess up that skirt for weeks,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, as he pushes it out of the way and lowers your panties.

“Then what are you waiting for?” you ask with a click of your tongue. He is still talking way more than he should.

The smirk he gives you should concern you. He presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, and then, instead of penetrating you, as you’re frozen in anticipation, slides his length against your pussy lips, sending jolts of pleasure through you, but not giving you what you need right now. You whimper pleadingly, not catching yourself fast enough to keep yourself silent. You worry that he will keep teasing, but it appears he has reached his limits too, because soon he is pushing the tip of his cock inside you, and fuck, it’s even better than you’d imagined.

You hear him grunt behind you as he starts pushing himself inside you at a devilishly slow pace. You expected him to do it all at once, so you turn around once more, ready to throw another quip at him for his relentless teasing, but the words die on your lips when you see his face. His teeth are planted in his lower lip, and his face is contorted in a pleasure that he is clearly trying to reign in, his breathing quick and shallow, his chest heaving. The sight leaves you breathless, so you stay quiet.

“So fucking tight,” he all but whines as he keeps pushing himself inside you.

He bottoms out at last, and he stills for a few seconds, all so you can adjust and not at all because he is going to come too fast if he can’t get used to how warm and welcoming you are around him first. The discreet groans he was letting out turn into a full moan when you move forward, pulling him out of you, then back, sheathing him inside you completely once more. You’d keep moving, but he grips your hips tightly, fingers digging into the flesh, to stop any movement you could make.

It doesn’t last long though, because after that, he starts moving himself, and the pace he sets it merciless. The slapping of skin on skin echoes obscenely in the empty room, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, not when you can barely think, not when your knees are failing you and his hands on hips are the only thing keeping you standing, not when tiny whimpers keep spilling past your lips, no matter how much you try to keep them in.

“Couldn’t be even just a little patient, hm?” he asks you. It’s undercut by the gasps that interrupt him, the pleasured moans that escape him too.

This time, you don’t find anything to answer. The angle, with you bent over, hands on the wall in a desperate attempt to stay on your feet, makes you feel so, so full that you can’t think straight. Pleasure is coursing through you with each time he hammers into you, and you clench around him helplessly each time he pulls out. He’s fast, relentless, but if the way his moans keep getting more-pitched is any indication, he’s close to reaching his climax. You’re not far yourself, you just— just need— just a little—

One of his hands abandons your hip, and you would stumble forward if he wasn’t holding you so firmly. His free hand finds its way to your clit, and pinches it expertly, just as he snaps his hips into you harder than he has so far, spilling himself inside you. The orgasm hits you like a thousand volts, and your hips jerk back uncontrollably, whole body shaking, as you ride the wave of it on his cock until it ends. Ah, you needed this so badly that, as it recedes, you can only feel content, the pleasure it gave you still tingling in your body.

For a while, the sounds of you and Gojo’s panting are all that fill the room. Finally, he pulls his sensitive, softening cock out a you with a hiss, and you ignore the squelching sound it makes. He tucks it back into his pants, and you finally find it in yourself to pull your panties back up, readjusting your skirt. Your hair is messy from the kissing earlier, but apart from that, you’re still rather presentable — you hope.

“Didn’t think you had that in you,” Gojo comments. He’s still catching his breath.

“At what point are you going to admit that you’ve just misjudged me?”

He laughs, but the smirk he shoots you, hands in his pockets, standing a few feet away from you, is proof that the distance between the two of you is back to what it was before. You don’t find yourself minding all that much. This is as good a way as any other to release tension, and you’re more relaxed than you have in weeks. The lightness of his voice tells you the same is true for him. Seems like you both got the same thing out of it, and that’s fine by you, even if it doesn’t bring you any closer.

“Once I know I was wrong,” he says. It sounds ominous, but, well, if he wants to keep clinging to that image he’s made of you, that is his problem. So far, you’d argue that it has rather worked in your favor.

You shrug.

“If you hadn’t felt that way, Tokyo would have won today,” you tell him matter-of-factly.

His smile widens.

“Guess we’ll have to see about that next year, hm?”

“I guess we will.”

Silence grows between the two of you. You normally wouldn’t mind. Now, you feel the need to say something.

“This should stay between us,” you finally manage to say. Sorcerer society can be— harsh, on women, to say the least. The last thing you need is for someone to know you’ve fucked your coworker. You’d be branded as a whore, and while you find this all horribly regressive, you’d still rather not have to deal with the fallout.

Gojo hums in agreement.

“I’m not really the type to want all my business out there either,” he tells you in a surprising display of sincerity. It’s ruined when he smirks and adds, “Next time, I think I should fuck you on your desk.”

You scoff, but you know you both hear your lack of denial loud and clear. You’re not opposed to there being a next time, provided this doesn’t get out. By the look of things, it would be mutually beneficial.

You don’t bother to answer him before you open the door, glancing outside. No one in sight. He would have known if that had been the case, of course, but you’re still relieved. You slip outside unceremoniously — it’s pretty clear you’re done here anyway — and he does nothing to hold you back.

Later, after you’ve taken a quick shower in the facilities available at the high school and you’re sat by Ieiri around the dinner table, Gakuganji can barely hide his smugness.

“Where you have been off to?” he asks Gojo, his tone making it clear just how pleased with himself he is. “Licking your wounds?”

“Something like that,” Gojo answers lightly, and you’re careful to keep your eyes on your food.

The conversation fades into the background. Your thoughts move to the upcoming solo tournament, the next day, to your students, to the missions you have to assign. And then, for the first time in forever, you find yourself distracted by something that isn’t work-related. You welcome the respite it gives you.

On your desk, next time, huh?

You could work with that.

thank you all for reading and getting all the way here! interactions are what keeps me writing, so please comment/reblog/send an ask to feed your author and have my eternal gratitude!

tagging people who expressed interest in the first chapter: @sapphiccloud @saccharine-nectarine @calypsothegoddess @aspiring-bookworm @aerismonia

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 5)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds

Part 5 Too Much

Actions famously speak louder than words, so what did you say, exactly, to Alastor with your actions that night? You were briefly rattled by what happened in the park but not for the obvious reasons. Despite everything, despite your fears, you found the situation deepening between you two when he suddenly invites to stay the night at his home. Perhaps he had fears of his own?

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, No smut! That’s next part because this part was already super fucking long 😭 , but we do flirt our asses off and get taken by the hand, crying, panic attacks, discussions of murder, dead bodies, you really have to stop smoking, deer, adorably nervous Alastor, this man owns more than one mug you fucking know it」

19 days later… 😩 please don’t kill me. 5000 words here, Another like 6000 words are posting this Thursday, also tumblr wouldn’t let me post this for like an hour , just gave me error messages, I had to copy and paste 4 times so there may be some errors in here so let me know if you find spelling or format issues🙏

When he came to, momentarily either unconscious or just incapacitated as his brain started up again, he was frantic for his glasses. He could hear the sounds of a brutal death, the crunch of anger, the squish of rage. 

His eyes focused now, slightly askew and smudged glasses helping him see you clearly. 

Leaning over the man, hands red and face twisted in a marriage of fear and wrath, you were bringing a large rock down on the man’s unrecognizable face over and over and over and—

You flinched when Alastor’s hands delicately slipped down your arms and peeled your fingers from the rock.

Full body shaking, “He was going to kill you!” You said it too loud, too fast. “He was going to—,” Your breath got caught in your throat, “He wanted to— He was trying to kill you, Alastor.”

Wet with mud and blood and the rain still left on the grass, you were pulled into Alastor’s lap. He tucked your head into the crook of his neck with a small wince and hugged you. “He was. He almost did.” Low and slow, his chest rumbled when he said it. “You did such a good job.”

You looked down at your hands, but he pulled your face back up to look at his, “Always surprising me in the best ways.”

You’d forgotten already, how when adrenaline wanes you’re left with terrible tremors and a suddenly clear head. Alastor almost died. You hadn’t thought at all when it happened. Everything had taken place so fast, faster than your brain could process.

You had seen Alastor stop struggling against the man, his body went still and your eyes were blinded with tears, there was a horrible sound that may have come from you, and then there was nothing. A flash of running Colors. Distant muddled sounds.

Maybe you saw someone grab a rock. 

You might have hit the man on the back of the head. 

You think he fell down and something didn’t stop moving against him. 

Perhaps you thought if you hit him enough you could make it have not happened at all. If you killed him fast enough, Alastor would have been fine and standing.

But you weren’t sure. You blinked and Alastor was touching you and underneath you was a pulp of a man’s face. 

Alastor’s heart was racking against his ribs. Arms tightening around you unconsciously as his eyes landed on the dead man.

He’d gotten too comfortable. He pushed too hard. He wanted too much. He was too much.

He felt himself spilling over and staining your hands metaphorically and now literally.

You didn’t feel anything. Not during. Now you felt too much.

Your mind was filled with an echoing chorus of, ‘He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost died. He almost died.” 

There was a strange fear that Alastor had died, and any second you’d blink again and be alone in the trees with two dead men. You twisted in his lap,  hands rocketing to Alastor’s face and gripping the sides of his head. You were staring into his eyes, panting.

“You can’t die. I’ll—,” tears poured down your face in streams not drops. Your throat closed around the words. Short and fast, your breath ran wild. Hands tingling, your lips felt like they were pricked with a hundred tiny needles. 

Alastor pushed down his own mess of emotions, “One deep breath in.” His hands settled on yours,  still on his face. He could feel the familiar stickiness of drying blood in his hair. “Keep breathing in.” You coughed, shaking your head no. “You can, I promise it. Would I lie to you?”

You laughed, managing to catch your breath for a moment, “Y-yes.” 

“Well, now you’re adding insult to injury.” He made a show of rubbing his neck. You smacked his chest lightly, breathing in twice in a row.

He held both of your hands in both of his, “Name a time I’ve ever lied.” He distracted you but wounded himself. He could name a time.

You tried to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a really good liar.” Your voice was hoarse. 

Alastor nodded, “That’s true, there’s actually nothing I can’t do well.”

Another laugh, a cry, “Stop it.”

His warm, clean hands wiped your tears. “You’re being aggressive again, sweetheart. You know I prefer soft spoken women.”

The laughter helped break the cycle of hyperventilating. As your breathing finally got to a manageable speed you felt exhaustion deep in your bones.

All at once the sensations became prominent. Your knees were red and muddy, your hands bloody, your left side and back wet. You were sticky and sore and cold. “Alastor,” his legs were framing you, yours now folded under yourself and digging into rocks, “I wanna go home.” You adjusted his glasses, “Together.” 

If he had a reason to say no, he ignored it. 

“I thought I was the messy one.” He washed your hands with the water cans and settled you into the passenger seat of his car. Alastor took care of filling the trunk and cleaning the ground before sliding into the driver's seat.

He turned to you, his face dirty and clothes worse. You looked down at yourself; knees a color of wine, and blue dress now dyed brown.

“I know you have to get rid of him. So, I won’t ask you to sleep over. Just,” you felt sleepy, mind asking you to let it catch up, “let me take care of you for a little bit. Okay?”

His hand slipped onto your leg, he wanted to make a joke about sex or murder hoping to make you laugh again. But it was obvious he needed to be quiet, so he just nodded.

Alastor left the car on a side street behind your building. The man whose name you never asked concealed under canvas and red oil tins.

Luckily everything was clean in your apartment. It was small, just one room and a bathroom. The other apartments you’d seen had communal toilets and showers so you were quite proud of your space. You’d made it yours, gifted trinkets here and there, walls decorated with hanging dried flowers you'd had thrown at your feet. A shrine to your abilities.

You peeled off his clothes, tossing them in the kitchen sink and wiping off as much dirt as you could with a damp rag. 

Clothing hanging over the radiator, you both got into the shower. Cold and wet now hot and soaking,  you took his hands and sat you both down in the tub while the water ran down. Taking your time, you gently scratched the blood and mud from his hair and let it all wash away.

When fully cleaned and dried off he slipped on the only bit of clothing he had left, a loose pair of boxer shorts. You had a slip, silky and soft, to comfort you. Your mother wore silk, and it always made you feel safe. The way the fabric slid around its self and others, never catching or bunching up, was something you always hoped to emulate; smooth and cool, but always in need of a little caution and care.

A small bed meant for one, but you offered it. When Alastor motioned for you to slide in too, you didn’t hesitate.

Nose to nose, the room was quickly heating up with the radiator's help. 

You hadn’t been in a bed with Alastor in nearly two months, not since that first time. His words stuck to you like embroidered messages lovingly stitched into a handkerchief you didn’t want to lose. So you kept your hands between your thighs, still and away, to make sure he had space to exist in your bed.

“You saved my life.” Alastor whispered, one of you finally bringing up the obvious.

A hummed acknowledgment, “That makes us even.” He saved you before, you did the same in turn. A little piece of you worried the contract was done and he’d disappear.

“No, my dear. I owe you so much more.” A kiss to your cheek.

A terrifying thought took hold of you. “Roll over.” He looked confused but did. You were always asking him to turn away, always trying to hide your face when you said things that scared you. You hooked your arms under his and held tightly. 

“If I wasn’t there, there’s no one to have told me. How long would I have waited,” another torrent of tears into his back you couldn’t keep in if you tried, “at the phone booth for you to call in the morning.”

You were crying like a child, uncontrolled and with your entire body. Pathetic. 

He had never had someone to worry about those details. Everyone truly close to him was dead. Until now, of course. 

Of course.

What a natural addition you provided to him. He thought it like that it was a long standing fact.

He hugged your arms tighter to his chest. 

A shiver of fear in the warm bed as you continued, “I want to be there. With you. Always.” You gathered your courage. Shields completely down, if just for a moment, “I know there was nothing right about tonight but,” you wiped your tears off his back with your palm, reabsorbing that pain before he could soak it in, “Please. Don’t shut me out now. I’ll go to hell tomorrow for you but please don’t damn me to picking up a newspaper and seeing your name in the headlines; Learning you died in block letters for a nickel. I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t want to meet his eyes, worried rejection was waiting for you there, so you’d asked him to turn so you could hide. He picked up your hands and kissed your knuckles one by one. “Please don’t say things like that outloud. Things like ‘go to hell’ and ‘tomorrow’ so close together. The spirits can hear you.” A kiss to your palm, “And I wouldn’t dare shut you out.” He couldn’t. The very idea of going back to how he was before, alone and mumbling to the dead, made his heart race with his own panic. If you disappeared tomorrow he was scared to think what would happen to him. “Plus, I know you’d just find me anyway. You always do.”

Had you not been there, he would have still tried to kill the man. Waiting in an alley or for a walk home through an empty space. You weren’t at fault. He’d been hurt before, but this was by far the worst situation he had been in. But he would have been in it regardless of your participation. Alastor pressed his lips into your hand, smelling the soap you’d washed him with. 

You hadn’t hesitated. He had thought you would run, that he’d slip away into death and you’d book it to safety. Something he never planned to ask you to do, to kill someone, you’d done it for him when it was the most selfless option. Did he mean so much to you? He wanted to ask, but if you said anything other than an immediate yes he feared he would turn to a pillar of salt and crumble.

If you both could find the courage to just look at each other you’d have all your answers. But you couldn’t. The fear still too strong. So you changed the topic for a chance at an escape.

A small confession, to turn the conversation away from death. “After our dates, your cologne always lingers on my clothes. Sometimes I just fall asleep in them. When I wake up, my pillow smells like you.” Your body formed against his back, pressing as tightly as you could. How was that less embarrassing than everything else you’d said when it was arguably more pathetic?

He was quiet. You worried you’d pushed too far. Alastor worried he’d already hurt you too much.

“If you asked me,” he spoke slowly, hands resting on yours above his heart, a deep breath, “I’d stop.” He would. 

But, “I’d never ask that of you.” You said it so quickly, like blinking or yawning it happened without you needing to think about it. Alastor did something he felt he needed to do, you saw that look in his eyes before and understood this was Alastor at his truest. And the people he killed weren’t good people. He provided a service to New Orleans that no one appreciated.

He smiled against your palm, making sure you felt it, “Why are you so good to me?”

Without hesitation, Because I love you.

After a beat of silence, “Because you know where I live, obviously.”

A huff, “And where you work.” 

“And the park where I like to get fingered.”

Finally, his unburdened laugh, “I didn’t expect you to say that.” That sound of his joy bounced off the thin walls around you both. He rarely expected anything you said or did. It was part of your charm. Normally he could predict what people would say like reading a bad story, but you were something else. Effortlessly entertaining, was that a compliment? He was sure you’d say no and make that face you always did, something between a pout and a glare, between sad and angry. 

He had been asking genuinely. Why were you so good to him? Why so patient? Why care at all? 

“Can you sleep? Or do you need to go?” 

Alastor thought about it, if he left early enough he could still get home in time to empty the trunk. He hummed an affirmative, when he didn’t move you understood it was the former. He didn’t want to go. He needed more time. He needed to feel you nearby. An odd sense that if he pulled away now the thread holding you two together would pull him apart at the seams with the distance. 

You would think nightmares would plague you after killing someone in cold blood, but no. You practically killed Tommy, when you considered it thoroughly. And while this night was not a joy, you had defended yourself and Alastor. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t regret it. You were just scared you did a bad job. That you’d get caught. 

The kind of dreams you had were different kinds of scary. Of Alastor always leaving a room when you entered, of falling off the stage and landing too far down, of waking up to feel Alastor cold beside you. 

When you did wake, your arms were still tight around him and he was warm. Your forehead rested between his shoulder blades. You didn’t feel different this time, you didn’t feel changed like after Tommy.

Alastor always had nightmares so he wasn’t surprised to have them in your bed. He dreamt he awoke on the ground, the man was gone but you were there broken into several pieces.

Had it been a dream though? 

After he dressed, you brushing his hair over a shared cup of coffee (you only had the single mug), you walked him to his car. The sun was nearly up and luckily no one else was. You had just wrapped a coat around your slip, not exactly acceptable clothing for being in public.

A shared kiss, small and chaste, Alastor’s mind elsewhere. He opened the door but stopped and turned back to you. It was always in these moments before you two parted that he felt the most frantic. 

“I know we love talking in circles and making jokes, but I have to ask you, bluntly. You killed a man. Are you alright?” When you only blinked, he quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re not.” His expression was pure worry, furrowed brows and flat mouth. “Nothing will change if you say you’re not.”

When you started to smile, Alastor thought he had lost his mind. The sun was rising behind you, making the shadows on your face slowly shift. He took a second to take in the scene. Ankles naked with sockless shoes. To your right was a trunk full of a dead man. And you just smiling like he’d made a joke. Which he explicitly said he wasn’t going to do.

“I don’t feel like I killed anyone.” You said it with a levity that made him glance around, wondering if you’d hit your head a little too hard earlier, “I feel like I stopped someone from killing you. Which feels,” you fought to suppress your smile from growing any further, “kinda good. Like I’m strong. I’m just scared I made a mistake and police will find out. I’m terrified we’ll be seperated. But I don’t feel bad.”

A normal man would be deeply concerned. You didn’t feel bad? For killing a man with a rock? Arguably one of the most brutal ways to murder a person. A normal man would worry he would be next.

Luckily for you both, Alastor was not a normal man. He stared at your face, trying to discern any hints of deceit there before he fell into the comfort of trust.

Your pinky came out, “I’m fine, and if I’m ever not, I will tell you. Promise.” His eyes left your face to stare at the tiny digit, “If I break the promise, you get to break the pinky.”

“Pinkies are useless, we should use a finger that matters.” He offered his index. You let yourself laugh, hooking your pointer finger with his.

Smile to smile, he exhaled his stress and slipped into his normal demeanor, “No worries, darling! No one will ever know what happened to him.” He leaned beside you and patted the trunk. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor drove away with the man, ready to disappear the body and try to sleep before work if possible. A nagging still sat in his stomach, a little pull that maybe you’d change your mind. 

He asked you the next morning, on your routine call, if he could stop by the theater when he finished with work that night. No reason in particular. He’d pull into the side street, and you could run out to see him.

When he arrived, you were in your stage outfit waiting to greet the crowd. Alastor smiled, “The prettiest bird I’ve ever seen!”

“A bird? Alastor just ‘pretty’ woulda been a fine compliment.” 

He offered an apology by way of kiss, soft hands coming to your cheek as he leaned against the door of his car. “I just wanted to see you. Steal a kiss before you stole some hearts. May I return tomorrow?”

Ah, that feeling again. Stupid school girl with her first crush, her first taste of love. “I wouldn’t complain.” 

That flow of conversation eased Alastor, things felt normal already. For you, they were. A small worry remained he may begin to act differently but the only difference was he seemed to be embracing you deeper. 

After your delivered kiss, you took the stage like a woman reborn. The warmth of the light felt like the sun. Pointed toes as you moved along the stage, hips loose and smile coy. 

As you looked around the backlit crowd you didn’t search for a good mark. The times you did play a man’s attention for Alastor were different, it felt like art when you lured men into Alastor’s claws.

A shake of your feathered fans, a very controlled lowering of your head, you let a hip rock out into view. A little flash of inner thigh. Then, your favorite part. One hand gripped your fans as you them with the aide of practiced fingers. Free hand undoing your still remarkably heavy and glittering bra and handing it behind the curtain.

Surprise reveal, a naked magic trick done behind distracting whirling feathers. Arms open, fans high, you waited for the applause to die down. Deep breaths were not possible, adrenaline and the weight of your costume keeping you from hiding the heaving of your chest. 

The whistles were your favorite. You couldn’t imagine Alastor whistling but you were sure it would be flawless in its ability to capture your attention. 

“Anyone wanna smoke? I don’t want to go into the alley alone.” You asked the room, several girls glancing your way and shaking their heads no as you hurried back in from your set.

“Just take the fire escape to the roof. That’s where we’ve been smoking since Mr. Brady said it was dangerous at night.” Florence was normally a perfect smoking partner, never talking too much. The name Brady made your stomach flip though, you had forgotten about him for a second. You’d managed to avoid him until Tommy’s bloody trail went cold, but you knew he still stalked around the jazz and music district.

A dancer laughed, “Nighttime has always been dangerous for women.”

Someone you didn’t see added, “Fuck, daytimes not safe either.” 

You climbed the creaky and seemingly forgotten-about fire escape to the roof. The breeze hit your face before your feet even left the metal railing. 

It was… a roof. Grey painted floors and brick sides. Nothing special, but you could see the bowl full of discarded cigarettes near the front of the building. You looked over the short wall that edged the front, you were able to see the pigeon shit covered marquee. What an unattractive view, the lights flashing out from beneath actual shit.

There was a metaphor there, you were sure. 

Looking around, there were a few wicker chairs hidden in the shadow of the street’s lights, thankfully upside down to keep them clean from the birds.

If more people used roofs instead of alleys Alastor would be out of luck. Tommy was difficult enough with a staircase, the fire escape would have been the nail in that coffin. 

It had been a lovely night, absolutely jarring compared to the night before. You leaned back in the chair, you knew you weren’t the best at saying what you meant. Especially when the words you offered could be used to hurt you. Words of affection and love, when true, were daggers given handle-first to someone else. 

So you hoped Alastor could guess how much he meant to you. You shouldn’t need to say it, right? Actions speak louder than words. You bludgeoned a man to death for what you had thought was a lost cause. It had seemed Alastor was already dead when you first brought down the rock. 

Diamonds are rocks, you considered. The most expensive costume the theater had was peacock feathered with shining crystals. You wanted to say you felt like a peacock, spirit large and wide and colorful. But those were males. Of course they were. The animal kingdom had males compete for mates with pretty colors and lovely songs. Now ladies pranced around in painted faces and short dresses. You didn’t feel pale or small like the ‘fairer sex’ peacock.

You felt like the swan. Vicious and beautiful, not out shone by anyone.

Well there was someone you’d allow to shine brighter. Someone you’d happily let take the lead. You’d thought letting a man walk in front of you was a sign of subservience. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that there could be respect in trusting someone else to go ahead. That the act of going first could be for protection and not power.

“Hey!”

You hurried to the fire escape, “yeah?”

“There’s a man asking for you. Tall guy named Frank?”

Frank?

Oh, Frank.

You’d forgotten about him. He’d left months ago. He was a whale, rich and generous. You took a moment to consider sitting down with him, smiling and laughing at his jokes, letting his hand settle on your thigh. It had been weeks since you entertained scamming anyone, and now you couldn’t even stomach the idea of faking interest in another man. Frank wasn’t one to scam, he just liked having a pretty lady on his arm to make him feel young and wanted, and in exchange you got into private parties and were gifted jewelry and clothing.

“Tell him I’m busy and send him off.” You hollered down. You could buy your own clothes. 

“Did he leave?” Alastor asked you the next morning, you leaning against the glass phone booth in the early morning light.

Your finger wrapped around the phone cord, “No of course not! They never do. I snuck out the back.”

There was a hum, “Well my dear, you’ve offered me a wonderful transition into my next question.” Alastor was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously turning his coffee cup around in circles, “Would you like to come over tomorrow night? I can pick you up after your show.”

Like a glacier drifting away from shore, you very slowly crouched down in the booth. “To your home?” 

“No, to Alabama.” He waited a beat, “Yes of course my home. I can show you what happens after I drive away.” A cheeky smile evident through his voice.

You pressed the phone receiver into your chest, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. What happens when he drives away? So…where the bodies go. But most importantly, the biggest part of this—where he lives. So much can be gleaned about someone from their home. A bookshelf alone could make or break an attraction. You brought the receiver back to your mouth. “Lovely! Sure thing— Alastor. Yes.” you almost added on an awkward nickname like daddy-o or mister man, like an idiot, because your brain was misfiring like you’d seen him in the sunlight again.

Ah, you could see his bed. 

Where he slept.

Did he ever dream of you?

What if it was terribly dirty? Could you still love him if he was a slob? 

“I’m quite far from downtown, pack an overnight bag, okay?” He stopped fidgeting with the mug. When the call ended he sat at the table for some time, staring around the kitchen. The home was large by city standards, but it was old. His mother’s charm was evident through every part. A finger scratched at the wooden table, heavy and solid. Why was his heart racing? 

He walked to the screened back door, looking from the weathered patio steps to the greenhouse. 

No one had ever been to his home. Ever. A teensy part of him was panicking. Was this a mistake? Was he going to fuck up the budding relationship? Throw off the peace of his safest place?

Budding. Okay that was ridiculous even for him. The kind of intimacy gained through murder did not allow any union to be called budding. He’d shared pieces of himself no other living soul knew of. Your image of him was possibly even more complete than his own mother had held, even though he tried to always be the most sincere with her. Even people he did care for and consider close friends had never knew where he lived. Never heard what kept him up at night. Never learned his distaste for a random lay.

Opening the screen door with a signature creak, the sound many southerners could call comforting, he walked to the greenhouse.

The newest part of the property, the glass walled structure was built shortly after his mother’s death. Double doors: locked. Just beyond the glass was a forest of plants and potted trees. They had no need for a greenhouse, but Alastor had a need for them.

He set about preparing his home for another occupant, a task that brought him such a shock of joy and anxiety he began to wonder who he was. New sheets on the bed, extra pillows set against his wooden headboard. Large glass jar in the backyard full of water and tea bags.

It was also unexpected he was thinking so much of his mother. In a perfect world she’d be there to greet you. Though if she was alive, he wouldn’t have been in that alley that night. He made a mental note to not mention his mother, at least not as much as he was remembering her as he walked around the two story home tidying.

Would he have met you if he wasn’t a killer? 

A flicker of fear was quickly extinguished by romance. Definitely. You both ran in the same scenes. He’d seen you before that night, he just never approached you. He hadn’t anticipated how much more you were than the facade you put on. Nothing about your sweet face said, ‘I have a high tolerance for murder.’

Alastor spent the day at work physically present but mentally pacing his living room. He nodded along to discussions of who was to be live on set next, smile never faltering as he worried if he had breakfast foods. He rarely ate breakfast, did you? How had he not thought to ask. Sloppy.

The only outward sign he was feeling any stress was the tapping of his finger on his desk, which he hadn’t even noticed until the stage manager commented.  

“Alastoooor,” her voice was high, like it seemed many women’s voices were recently. Was it a trend? “Impatient? Hot date with a young lady this evening?”

While she meant well, she always pried, always asked questions he didn’t appreciate. 

Alastor shook his head, smile strained. A perceptive person would have picked up on it, but Brenda was not perceptive.

“Oh.” A noticeable disappointment, “That’s boring.”

Actually on second thought maybe she didn’t mean well.

“I’ve had too much coffee, is all, Brenda.” He pulled his hand into his lap. “Was there anything you needed?” 

“No,” she pouted, much less endearing than you.

If he murdered purely for fun Debra would be dead before sunset. Unfortunately her only crime was being remarkably annoying.

Alastor waited behind the theater, where it was less likely any staff would see him. It was still important to avoid connecting the two of you together, at least at your workplace yet. 

He was quick to grab your bag for you.

“Not the trunk, please.” You said, it took him a second to catch the joke. He set it on the back seat after opening your door for you. You’d only been in his car a few times but he never failed to be a perfect gentleman. 

Your palms were sweating, when his hand rested on your leg while he drove you resisted the urge to hold it. Instead you slipped yours under his. Alastor asked you about your day, about work, about if Frank came back. Typically as soon as you left the theater you were in a cone of silence until your phone call with him the next day. It was kind of nice, having someone to speak to. Before meeting him there were times you worried you’d forget how to talk naturally, how to sound like yourself.

The glowing eyes of deer popped up from the side of the road, startling you. Eerie. You held your breath, would they run, stay still, or sprint into the road.

“Is it true their antlers can break car windshields?” You asked not breaking eye contact with a doe as you drove past.

Alastor nodded, “If a buck hits your car the wrong way, not even the car will make it out of the accident.”

“Are there a lot of bucks around?”

“Will be soon, as fall— wait why am I telling you this,” he laughed, “Miss Autumn Hind already knows what makes the bucks run wild.”

You shouldn’t be smiling, it was a dumb rut joke, but it felt like a compliment. 

The car lights passed over the home as he turned into the dirt driveway. Powder blue. It wasn’t a color you associated with Alastor. He was caramel, honey, midnight blue, red. His sometimes sinister smile didn’t look quite right against powder blue. But, for a home, it was lovely.

“Is someone home?” You saw a light on in an upstairs room.

Alastor reached behind you for your bag, “No, I leave it on when I’m gone. Gives the impression that the house isn’t empty.”

A minor bit of acting, Alastor opening the door and offering to bring your bag upstairs before a tour like a good host. His anxious energy was barely contained by that grin of his. For your part you played the appropriately impressed guest.

But deep down you were very impressed. An actual house. Your mother struggled to keep apartments rented. Alastor had a home. With stairs. That went to more home, not a neighbor. What a lovely thing. What did he do with all this space?

He could probably hide quite a few bodies in there.

Alastor opened his bedroom door and motioned for you to enter.

You took in every detail as shrewdly as you could. Two circular nightstands, a wide dresser with a few framed photos and a radio. One large window facing the yard, you could see the car outside from where you were standing. “Wow a man’s bedroom. I tend to avoid these.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Bedrooms in general, really.” He placed your bag on the dresser, offering to unpack it for you. Your smile screwed up, shaking your head no. You couldn’t imagine Alastor folding your panties and setting them into a drawer. 

Well.

“Yes please.” You took a seat on the end of his bed, watching him tenderly empty the bag before beginning to put things away like you’d come home from a trip. “A bed big enough for two people. You didn’t tell me you were a fancy man. Ooh la la.”

Alastor laughed, “Your bed was quite comfortable.” He set your dress onto a hook attached to the closet door, hands running down the fabric to straighten out the wrinkles, “But I have a feeling that had more to do with you than anything else.”

The floor was clean, the rug beneath the bed a simple but pristine white. What an odd color for a rug.  

You truly did avoid men’s homes. The power dynamic shifts too much.

“Are all men so clean?”

“Oh god no. Have you really never been to a man’s home?” Without a moment of hesitancy his long fingers flattened out your underthings and neatly folded them. You could call it erotic, knowing what else his fingers could do.

A hum, you swayed side to side, “Too much risk. I don’t know where the knife drawer is, which locks stick, what windows open all the way.” 

He set the empty bag into a reading chair in the corner, “That sounds stressful.”

You shrugged, “My mother taught me to always have an escape. From situations, from rooms, from people. Not terrible advice.”

That was true, he thought. If the few women he killed had considered that, he would be less prolific. Women tended to be easier in some regards.

Alastor finally let himself look at you sitting on his bed. Were you wearing the black garters today? He liked those. He appreciated the red dress you’d worn.

Taking off his jacket and vest, he hung them up while his eyes kept returning to you. Your legs were crossed, thighs soft and pressed together. He remembered feeling them against his ears. A little cough to clear his throat and mind.

“Are you hungry?”

You werent, but you weren’t ready for sleep either, so you asked for some bread and butter. Alastor sat beside you at the table, watching you look around. It didn’t look like a killer's home. 

“Ya know, I was going to rob you. I had been wanting to talk to you, before that guy caught me off guard when I was smoking.” You said it easily. 

He smiled, “Oh, why’d you change your mind?”

“Well, you slit a man’s throat in front of me.”

“Tsk tsk, you give up too easily, my dear.”

Salted butter, soft bread. Simple. Happy. “You were so handsome-,”

“We’re?”

A snort of a laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically, “and you looked well off. I was searching the room for the lights reflecting off of your glasses all night.”

Alastor grimaced, fighting the well of his ego, and leaned on his elbows, “Is it too morbid to say I’m glad that man tried to kill you? I like this timeline more than being robbed and never seeing you again.”

“That’s very selfish. I would have enjoyed chasing you down and finessing your wallet off you.” You set the glass lid back over the butter dish, content with the snack. “Some men come back actually and confront me at the theater.”

He howled. The idea was ridiculous, “Seriously? Why not just tell the cops.”

“Men don’t like telling other men they got taken for a ride by a dame.”

Alastor stood, “What would you have done if you had robbed me and I marched into the theater demanding my cash back.” It took a second to realize he was being serious in wanting you to play along. 

You popped the last piece of bread into your mouth and stood too, “You rake!” A fake smack to his chest, “I booted you to the curb! You had more hands than an octopus!” 

Alastor tried to stay in character but his smile kept cracking through his serious face. “And my wallet? None of my hands can find it.” You took a few steps back, feigning shock at the accusation.

“Sir! You were so drunk I’m not surprised you lost it.” When Alastor closed the space between you with two wide steps and pulled you into his chest you giggled, hitting softly at him, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to take advantage,” his hands wandered down your hips, making your voice catch in your throat, “of a good woman like me.”

His mouth came to your ear, “Well, miss, I think you owe me the opportunity to try again.”

You went stiff against him, the sudden turn of his voice into seduction taking you by surprise, “If you were a real mark, I’d punch you in the face for saying that.”

“But for me?” Breath against your neck.

Your hands slid up his chest and to his collar, pulling him down and into a kiss. His smile spread across your lips. 

His mouth stayed against your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “Ready for bed?”

“Are you sleepy, hun?” You pulled away, a sincerely worried face. Two nights now you’d interrupted his normal routine.

Alastor’s eyes seemed to sparkle behind his glasses, head shaking, “No, not at all.” You felt the heat rise up your face. Wanting to avoid assumptions, you tried to temper your expectations.

His hand pulled you toward the stairs, you dragging your feet, “Did you want to show me around?”

“In the daylight.” He led you up the stairs and to the right.

“Oh okay….”, your mind was reeling, mouth dry. No dead body in sight. No blood. You hadn’t pressed him or asked for anything. Maybe he just wanted a good cuddle, or some kisses. You often enjoyed necking near the car before he would go home. Right. Let him lead.

You followed him, letting him guide you hand in hand back to his bedroom.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar,@straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay , @asleeponelmstreet , @tremendoushearttaco , @mutifandomkid , @sapphirecaelis , @itzzzkiramylove@saccharine-nectarine , @viannasthings , @looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos , @reath-solia ,

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith , @sailorsmouth , @jeannyjaykaydeh , @jyoongim , @cosmic-lavender , @saturn-alone , @lustylita , @radio-darling , @kaylopolis , @dickmastersworld , @leviskittywh0re , @asianfrustration13 @alittletiredcry @sirens-and-moonflowers @alastorssimp , @angelxx7 , @katgirl05 , @impulsivethoughtsat2am , @sugurubabe , @zzzykiek , @phamtasic

[angelicsoka]

SARA, l. hughes

word count | 1.3k

pairings | luke hughes x fem!reader, platonic!quinn hughes x reader, platonic!jack hughes x reader

summary | luke’s girlfriend has suffered in silence for too long, and luke noticed the warning signs too late

warnings | HEAVY themes of suicide and suicidal ideation, mentions of self-harm and depression, underage drinking and smoking, mentions of blood. ANGST ANGST ANGST, open ending, this is not a happy fic, luke is fucking oblivious. based on the song sara by we three. no use of "y/n". lowercase intended

a/n | this is my first time posting in here so i'm still figuring out how this all works lol. this is NOT proofread. also this is probably the darkest thing i have ever really written.

little sara, you're a diamond in the rough

and i know that you don't hear this all enough

and i'm sure that's why your wrists have tons of cuts

and i'm sure that's why you think you're not enough

fingers traced over the faded scars and onto the raised ones, the urge more than she can handle. but she deserved this. she deserved to feel so shitty, she was shitty. she ruined everything good she had, her relationships and job. a repeated process, be happy for a while and then fuck everything up. “who would care if she fucked one more thing?” was the thought that ran through her head, crimson covering the sink.

your mind can only think about the things it shouldn't

your brain is filled with thoughts of wishing that ya didn't

little sara, perk your ears up, try to listen

but she can't hear a sound because she's locked in a prison

the room was loud, but the noise sounded so far away as she dazed off. she was brought back to reality by luke swinging his arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. the sudden movement made her quietly hiss as her arm brushed against him, the fresh wounds in the back of her mind. she forced a smile on her face, looking to luke who gently kissed her forehead. he offered her a beer, to which she took, ignoring the concerned look on quinn’s face. she had been drinking all night  but luke didn't have to know that. it slowed the thoughts, so how could it be a bad thing?

luke began to chat with his brothers and their friends, oblivious to the smile that had dropped from her face. oblivious to the fact that she was practically chugging the beer in hopes to stop the horrible thoughts that had begun to invade her brain once more.

and she was oblivious to the concerned looks of her boyfriend and friends as she abruptly got up, walking outside. she sat down, pulling the cigarette from its box, lighting it. she took a drag, jumping when a voice spoke up:

“you’re killing yourself, you know that?” she whipped her head around to see quinn standing there with his hands in his pockets. “does luke know you smoke?”

“why do you care?” she snapped, turning to look back at the yard. it was quiet, crickets chirping being the only thing making noise. she ignored quinn as he sat beside her, taking another drag. she held back her tears, not wanting to break down in front of her boyfriend’s oldest brother.

“he loves you, you know? the way he looks at you says it all. you're good for him. i don’t think i've seen him this happy in a long time.” she forced a small smile at quinn’s attempt to comfort her. he was lying, he had to be, because who could love a fuck up like her?

all your friends they wanna smoke 'cause it's a friday

but you've been smoking straight probably since last sunday

i know you know you shouldn't say that you are okay

but you still look 'em in the eye and lie then go to use your ashtray

she was high, but when was she not? the boys passed around the blunt, each taking drags from it. they were joking around, jack and trevor wrestling beside her. luke held her close, his fingers gently running down her arm. she ignored the burning sensation that occurred when luke’s fingers accidentally brushed over her wound, a smile plastered on her face. luke seemed to be the only who didn’t notice that the smile didn’t meet her eyes. she huffed out a laugh at a joke made by cole, settling her head against luke’s shoulder. for a moment, she felt happy; carefree. 

that all ended when that singular thought crossed her mind: they hate you. such a simple thought, but she felt as though she had been sucker punched. she subtly shifted off of luke, who seemingly didn’t notice. she twiddled with her thumbs, ignoring the feeling of someone looking at her. she felt jack nudge her, handing her the blunt. she accepted it, unable to really meet his eyes. “you okay?” quinn mouthed to her when she met his eyes. 

“yeah.” she lied through her teeth, averting her eyes and grabbing the ashtray.

little sara, last night, you got it bad

in that moment, you could barely even

add up two or three reasons why you're glad

and i guess that's why you grabbed your pen and pad

it was 6:14, and you could barely even read

all the words you'd written down when it was time for you to leave

your phone was on the ground and you could barely hear it ring

couldn't even hear a sound, couldn't feel a single thing

nights were the worst. being alone in her thoughts led to serious consequences, this night no different. she did what she was suppose to, all the coping skills she had learned. still, she couldn’t come up with any reason to stick around, which is why she now sat at her desk, scribbling rapidly. she couldn’t hardly read the words on the paper, tears cascading down her rosy cheeks as she practically destroyed her desk in search of the blade. the distance sound of her phone ringing stopped her for a moment, the contact name and picture for luke clear on her phone. she pushed the second-guessing thoughts aside, muting the call.

luke swore when she once again did not pick up, the text that started this now open: i love you, lukey. i hope you can forgive me. he swore to himself, angry that he had missed the signs. as he thought about it, the signs were so clear, how could he have not noticed? he begged for jack to drive faster, dialing her number once more. luke wiped his tears as jack sped up, praying for her to be okay. he hoped he would make it in time, to be there when she needed him most.

now it's 6:15, and you're on your knees

blood is on your sleeves, and your lungs won't breathe

eyes are watering, body's shivering

and you're wondering what is happening

now it's 6:23, and they're on their knees

begging "jesus please, can you make her breathe?"

'cause they finally see what was happening

underneath their nose and underneath your sleeves 

she sat against her bed, sobs racking through her body. her chest was tight, her breaths short as she began to lose consciousness. she began to shiver uncontrollably, curling into herself to create any kind of warmth. she looked up when the door was kicked in, her vision blurring. her eyes fluttered close as luke ran to her side, her life slowly leaving her body. 

“get something to stop the bleeding!” luke yelled to jack who was frozen under the doorframe. he snapped out of it, grabbing the blanket that was balled up on her bed. he began to put pressure on her wounds as luke pleaded with her to wake up. they continued this until the paramedics arrived, luke hesitant to leave her side. for the first time in a long time, luke cried into his brother’s shoulder. and he swore to himself that he would never miss the signs again.

she can barely see the pavement

she can barely read the signs

people think she's complicated

but never wanna look inside

'cause she's a little too r-rated

and they're a little too damn blind

she's just looking for her angels

but they're a little hard to find

[evangelineshifts]

FUCK IT !

You know I started thinking about the analogy that people use for manifestation and shifting comparing it to when you order something online.

And for me that analogy made sense but I could never truly relate to it cause when they said “you don’t wonder when your package is coming, you just know it is and you don’t question that etc etc”

And while yes that is true to a certain extent, I actually DO wonder when my packages are coming sometimes. I DO check how far they are from my location. I do anxiously wait for them to come.

I realize that that’s okay. Cause no matter how many times I check the order status. No matter how many times I check how long it’s been since I ordered it, my package STILL CAME.

I think the way we’re told to restrict ourselves from thinking about how much time our manifestations are taking or when we’re gonna shift actually makes it worse.

When you tell someone not to worry about something, to let it go and not thinking about it, to feign indifference the harder they’re going to try to. Which in turn just makes them think about it more.

It’s counterproductive at best.

When I order something I do think about how long it’ll take. I do check the status but once I do I just kind of go on once I’m done. I don’t really feel any particular way about how long it’s taking cause I know it’s mine and it’ll get here.

I trust that the delivery service will get it here in due time cause that’s THEIR job not mine and leave it at that 🤷🏽‍♀️

Another thing I noticed is that in ordering things- at least for me - I don’t worry about HOW it’s gonna get here. It could be delivered on my doorstep, in the mailbox, dropped from a fucking helicopter, ANYTHING, and I have never once cared.

And it might just be me being slow and realizing this is what they meant in those posts later than everyone else but it’s just like- clicked !

I’m always SO worried about the process of shifting.

What method should I do? Should I even do a method?

What if I get bored? I dont want to do it if I’m bored.

What will I think about? Should I look over my script? Maybe Pinterest boards for visuals?

What if I forgot something? I should check my script.

What if I fall asleep?

What if? What if? What if?

WHO FUCKING CARES?!? That is not why you’re doing this. Who cares about that process when the end goal is the destination.

I’ve been avoiding shifting for the longest because I just kept stressing out over the shifting aspect of it. I would maladaptive daydream about my dr and be happy in that but the thought of attempt a shift made me groan.

The thought of affirming and persisting in my manifestations seemed strenuous.

But thats not the point. With practices as fluid as this focusing on what to do is literally the last thing you need to be worried about and I just now realized that.

You’ve probably heard this all before but like fr, do whatever the hell you want. If you want to shift wide awake, eyes open and dancing with music blasting in your ears- do it. Who’s gonna tell you that you can’t? Who has the credibility to say it’s impossible.

No one.

If you want to manifest by literally saying one affirmation and deciding it’s done and then going on doing whatever the fuck you want until the 3D catches up, then do it.

Tell yourself it works for you and then do it.

✧ dividers by @benkeibear !

[webslingingslasher]

would make peter go camping with me because he’s head over heels in love and also he’s strong (spider man duh) and then i’d just be like :) the whole time (i’d totally ask him to pick up heavy logs and stuff just because)

everytime i go camping i wish i had a peter parker

“Don’t forget that log, looks like a good one!” 

Peter looks up at his girlfriend sitting in her green rocking camping chair, a cold can of alcohol in her hand, he can’t decipher if it’s a white claw or miller light based on the distance. The other points to his left, the setting sun hits the crown of her head and dances over her features, for a moment he forgets how to breathe and takes a lopsided inhale. 

It was your idea to take him camping, you were the master. You grew up doing it and always talked about it, always swore you’d take Peter and give him the glamping experience. You set up the trip as an anniversary gift, and Peter doesn’t think he’ll enjoy it half as much as you but seeing you so happy makes him match it. 

Peter’s hand cups over his forehead to look at you in the sun, “awfully demanding today, aren’t we?” 

He’s not wrong, you have been bossing him around the whole time. But, it’s your favorite activity and he was doing it, and you’ve been together long enough that he’s not doing it because camping will be his new hobby, but because you love it and it makes you happy. 

And his red flannel looked awfully lumberjack like on him, his biceps straining the fabric when he moved totes from your car full of heavy accessories. It got even better when you made him help you set up the tent, you gave light instructions and worked on your side but got distracted when your boyfriend crouched on one knee and had his tongue poked out the corner of his mouth as he focused on connecting the poles. 

You were left scrambling when his eyes shot to yours waiting for you to finish your half, he didn’t catch onto your greed. “I thought you’ve done this before, slow poke.” 

Struggling, his side full of tension, “I didn’t know it was a race.” 

It got worse when Peter noticed your struggle and came to pull your side taut, his back flexing under his down vest.

You nearly slingshotted the tent into the woods. 

“Here, baby. I got it.” Peter placed the rest of the poles and you were able to catch your breath in time to hammer the stakes in. You rest your fists on your hips as you look up at the sky, due to flooding in the main roads it had taken a bit longer than you expected, night was approaching. 

“We don’t have a lot of daylight left, you wanna grab some firewood and I’ll finish setting up camp?” 

Did you give him the man's job? Yes. 

Logs were heavy, plus bugs crawled all over them and not to mention the splinters. 

You had the camp ready in ten minutes, leading you to relax in your camping chair watching your ripped boyfriend trot back and forth from the campsite with handfuls of stems and logs. At first the tugged a fallen tree over to you which sent you running towards him pushing at his chest to throw him back in the woods whisper shouting.

“That’s not even remotely funny, Peter! Do you know what will happen if a park ranger catches you? They have eyes everywhere.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, “I dragged it like, ten steps.” 

You shoo him, “back it up ten, and get real campfire wood. I’ll get some fire starter.” 

Thus led you to watching with a careful eye and directing him, you’ve done this a million times and now you have someone else to do it, who also happens to be your super hot, loving boyfriend. 

“Love you, honey!” You called out the praise, hoping it would erase your demands from his mind. It works, he blows you a kiss and picks up the wood you called out for. He’s gotten more than enough for the night, and you stand before gesturing to your seat. 

“Take her for a ride, mama’s gonna make you a fire.” 

Careful eyes watched you, you could sense that Peter was ready to jump up and save you from a swallowing fire at any second. You talked through the process and into the night, where you then had Peter make you every s’more you wanted. 

Peter likes being out of the city and loves being around you with no distractions. 

He doesn’t think he minds camping half as much as he thought he would. 

Until you wake him up at three in the morning and ask, no, force him to get out of bed to walk into the woods with you so you could pee. You squatted behind a tree and had your arm wrapped around to the other side where it intertwined with your boyfriends. 

“Okay, turn around.” 

Too scary. 

“Wait, let me hold your hand.” 

Too quiet.

“Can you hum or something?” 

It is currently three in the morning and Peter is in the middle of the woods, back to a tree with his arm twisted wonky to hold hers, and he’s humming the star wars intro but can still hear you stream clearly and won’t tell you.

“Okay, done.” 

Your boyfriend fumbled with his waistline, his hand pulling it down swiftly. You get a peek of his lower half and squeeze your eyes shut, your hands cover them on instinct. “Yuck!” 

Peter has no regard, proudly pissing inches from you. 

“What, I have to hold your hand and sing and you can’t stand here?” 

“I’m in the splash zone!” 

“Oi! I’m aiming away, I’m not a mongrel.” 

A snap of a branch, rustling of bushes sent the hair on your neck straight up. Normally you’d think it was a squirrel, it’s almost always a squirrel. But this sounded big, in an instant you jumped on Peter’s back, giving him no time to prepare and he was sent slightly stumbling while trying to tie his pajama pants back up. 

“It’s a fucking bear, is it a bear, can you smell if it’s a bear?” 

Peter hiked you further up his back and walked back towards your site, “it’s not a bear.” 

Your arms lock around his neck so tightly he has to tug at arm so you could loosen your hold, “it could be a bear and you’re trotting slowly.” 

“Baby, if a bear comes up and starts a fight, help the bear.” 

“‘Cause that bitch gon need it,” you grunt in his ear. He tapped your leg in appreciation to the reference. 

You yawned when you laid back down in the tent, shuffling a little closer to Peter than the first time. He can say what he wants, but you’re the woodsy person and you’d give your right arm on a bet that was a bear. 

Loud ruffling near your tent sends you clinging to your boyfriend. 

“It’s the bear.” Your words are almost mute with how quiet and slow you were speaking. 

Peter doesn’t even open his eyes, his arm opens and tugs you into him. “It’s not a bear.” 

Another branch snaps, you’re nearly on top of him, he grunts with the new weight on him. He doesn’t even need to see to know what you’re about to say. 

“It’s not a bear.” 

A lazy grin forms when he feels puffy air on his neck as you grumble, “it’s totally a bear.” 

[wh0re43van]

Reflections- (Warren Lipka X Reader)

Summary: You’re Spencer’s older sister that had to come home after getting kicked out of college. Upon the return, you’re reconnected with the walking asshole that is your brothers best friend.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: smut, weed, alcohol, mention of roofie, slow burn, hate fuck

A/n: I managed to cut this down a good bit, but this is the best I could do because I love plot I’m sorry 😭 also I’m very high so this probably isn’t proof read very well- I will be proofing it better in the near future!

I hang out my window, breathing in the night air after I take a hit off my joint. I sigh, wondering what I’m still doing in my childhood bedroom at age 21. I got kicked out of college two months ago and I still haven’t gotten my life back on track. I have a job interview lined up and I’ve been painting commissions, but I just feel like I’m 14 again. My parents made it seem like I’ve completely fucked up my life and paint me as the pot smoking-drop out, so maybe I should just embrace it.

I groan when I realize that I’ve been thinking too long and joint my has gone out. I hold my favorite zippo up to re-light it when I hear my door fly open, knocking into my dresser. I gasp, whipping around quickly as I accidentally launch my lighter across the floor in the startle. I groan in annoyance when I see my idiot brother and his even more idiotic shadow standing in my doorway.

“Close the door you fucking idiots! Mom’s down there!” I whisper angrily. Spencer pushes Warren into the room and closes the door quickly.

“Sorry,” my brother says awkwardly.

“Damn. You still smoke even after it, like, completely ruined your life?” Warren laughs, motioning to my joint.

“Oh shut up. I got caught with a single gram on campus and they made a big deal out of it; I mean come on it’s 2004 for Christ sake,” I roll my eyes, irritated that he would even bring that up, but it is Warren, so I expect nothing else. “What do you two fuck heads want?” I ask as I walk over to turn off my iPod so I can hear them better.

“Nothing! Uhm just wanted to see how the best big sister in the world is doing,” Spencer laughs unconvincingly as he attempts to lean casually against my dresser, knocking over my perfume bottles in the process. “Shit,” he mumbles as he picks the plastic bottles up off the floor. I roll my eyes, not believing him for a second. Warren looks at Spencer, scoffs, then looks back at me.

“We want you to buy us beer,” he says flatly with his hands in his pockets. I raise my brows at him, now it’s my turn to scoff.

“You come in my room, give me a heart attack, almost let mom know that I’m smoking, knock over everything on my dresser, then ask me to buy you beer?” I ask, trying to understand why they thought this was a good idea. The boys look at each other then back to me.

“Yes,” they say in unison firmly, but not confidently.

“Get the fuck out,” I sigh. Spencer mutters ‘sorry’ before turning to walk out the door. Warren closes the door behind my brother then looks at me, tilting his head to the side.

“Why are you such a bitch?” The grungy boy asks curiously. I give him a face of disgust.

“Because you go out of your way to piss me off.” I huff, stepping closer to him, sticking a finger into his chest. He smacks my hand away.

“Ew,” Warren gags dramatically. “Don’t touch me,” he mutters before turning around to open my door, flipping me off then closing it behind him.

I plop down on my bed grabbing a nice, soft pillow, then shove it to my face, letting out a blood curdling scream.

‘Why!? What the fuck did I do to deserve this?’ I think to myself. I quite literally feel like I’m back in middle school with: Dumb and Dumber constantly pestering me, Warrens stupid fucking remarks, hiding in my room with my joint, and my parents being disappointed in me. Jesus, this is all such awful déjà vu.

I Take a deep breath, then make my way to the bathroom for a long, hot shower. I walk into the hall bathroom then turn on our shower to warm up the water. I strip down then turn on the shower radio to the local rock station. To my pleasant surprise, they’re playing ‘Scum bag’ by Greenday.

‘Best infomercial purchase mom made this month,’ I think to myself as I lather up my body wash, letting out a content sigh. I finally start to relax.

Knock, knock, knock 

“Y/n, I have to piss!” Warren shouts through the door. I groan, flinging the shower curtain open after turning off the water.

“Hold it, Butt-fuck! I just got in,” I shout back in annoyance. He bangs on the door again.

“Just let me in!” His voice is muffled coming through the wood.

“No, Warren!” I huff, wondering how one boy could be so annoying. “Piss outside!” I scream over the music, then turn the water back on and resume my shower. His knocking continues for another minute or two, but he eventually gives up.

I finish my shower in peace then wrap the towel around myself. I quickly run to my room and close the door behind me.

“What the fuck!” I shout when I see warren standing in my closet with his hands behind his back.

“Don’t you know it’s rude not to knock?” he snickers. I scowl at him, holding the short white towel to my body as tight as possible.

“It’s my- What the hell are you doing in here?” I ask exasperated as I step towards him.

“Spencer says you do that nerdy makeup shit for ren fairs or whatever, and I need to borrow your supplies,” he sighs, sounding irritated even though he’s the one snooping though my stuff. I fiddle with my towel, uncomfortable at how his gaze keeps wondering down to where the fabric ends, barely long enough to cover my ass.

“What the fuck do you need that for?” I frown, not understanding why on earth he would need special effects makeup. His eyes follow a trickle of water that drips from my hair down my chest and between my breasts. I shift awkwardly, wishing that this interaction would end already.

“That’s not important,” he steps towards me. “Just let me see what you have,” he says simply with his hands in his pant pockets. I groan in frustration.

“No, you fart-catcher! I just caught you going through my shit, get out!” I scream, stomping my foot in anger, which causes the towel to slide off my breast a bit. I quickly pull it back into place, my cheeks burn pink from embarrassment and anger. Warrens eyes flutter from my chest up to my face, his lips curl into a small smirk.

“Alright,” he shrugs before walking towards my door. With his back to me, he takes his wallet out of his pocket and drops it on the floor. “Y/n,” he tisks, looking at me over his shoulder with that ever familiar mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “Would you pick that up for me? I can’t bend over, I hurt my back at my last game,” he asks with mock sincerity, his gaze focused on how short the towel is. He knows if I bend over my entire ass will be exposed. I look at him with pursed lips, furrowed brows, and bright pink cheeks, letting out an irritated sigh. He grins at how successfully he’s pissed me off.

I stomp over and open my bedroom door, then stomp back to his wallet, kicking it as hard as I can out the doorway and down the steps.

“Get out!” I seethe as I shove the snickering idiot out of my room, locking the door behind me. I groan, flopping down face first onto my bed. I lay there a minute, before deciding to smoke a bowl and get my pajamas on.

I retrieve my bowl and my stash from its old hiding spot behind my bookshelf.

I break up the weed and pack the small bowl, then I realize that I cant find my lighter. I check my bag again, then look around my window and on the floor. I let out a loud groan, kicking my nightstand in anger. My nerves are completely shot, this minor inconvenience is about to send me on a rampage.

With a defeated sigh, I grab a cheap Bic lighter out of my purse. I wouldn’t care so much if it wasn’t my favorite lighter. The silver zippo was a gift from an ex-boyfriend. He had my name engraved on one side and the skull and bat wings from the cover of the Avenged Sevenfolds ‘Waking the Fallen’ album on the other. It’s the single coolest possession I have.

I grab my iPod off the speaker, then hook my headphones into it before climbing out my window onto my roof. With the cheap plastic lighter I take a hit then lay back on the cool shingles, my muscles relaxing as Rob Zombie plays in my ears. I close my eyes as the crescent moon shines her white light down on my face. I take another hit, sighing happily as I get comfortable. Finally, some peace.

‘Hold on,’ I shoot up, furrowing my brow in thought. ‘I dropped my lighter when numbnuts busted into my room. I never picked it up, and when I caught warren in here, he had something behind his back… Warren,’ my epiphany makes my ears burn red.

“Goddamn it Warren!” I shout, completely fed up with his shit, as I clamber back through my window. “Why the fuck is that shit head here all the time,” I mumble to myself as I put my bowl away. I spray some air freshener and close my window before stomping down the hallway, barging into my brothers room. Warren sits by himself in Spencer’s bed, playing some stupid video game on the PlayStation- my brother no where in sight.

“Where is it?” I bellow, standing between warren and the tv like an angry mother. I hold my hand out in front of his face as if the little asshole would just hand it over.

“Dude! Get out of the way!” Warren groans, his eyes not even meeting mine as he uses his foot to scoot me out over, but he knocks me off my balance and I fall directly on top of him.

“Warren!” I squeal, managing to catch myself with my arms on either side of his head. We exchange a shocked look before that stupid, sly smirk creeps onto his face, reminding me that I’m furious at him. “Give me my shit!” I shout in his face, hovering over top of him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shrugs, his smirk never faltering. This is it. He’s going to make me snap. I grab his shirt pulling his face up to mine, my face flushed In anger.

“I see through your little act,” I say through gritted teeth, almost in a whisper. He looks at me with wide eyes. “You act like you’re hot shit. You think that just because you sell a little green on the side and pocket other peoples shit that you’re a man, but you’re so far from it. You’re just a 19 year old boy who still needs his daddy to wipe his ass for him,” I all but spit into his face, leaning closer with every syllable. His face slowly contorts into pure rage. He stands up from the bed and pushes my back against the wall.

Warrens hostile glare burns deep into my eyes as his hands grip my shoulders so hard that his knuckles turn white. The drywall is cool on my hot skin as warren peers down on me, making me feel so small in his grasp.

“You don’t know shit about me, bitch!” Warren says in a tone that I’ve never heard from him before- he nearly growls at me. This shows that I’ve seriously pissed him off; I smile up at him, unable to hold back the joy- and a bit of excitement - bubbling in my stomach. His lips are pulled in a straight line, nostrils flared and his jaw locked as he grips onto my shirt, making his biceps flex.

“Unfortunately, I know you very well, Warren. Your entire life you’ve been putting up this front of false confidence. Always thinking you’re special, somehow always convincing yourself that the rules don’t apply to you; You’re a pathetic burn out,” I say simply, batting my lashes up at him, enjoying the reaction- and our proximity. His nostrils flare as he pounds his fists on either side of my head.

“You’re the fucking burn out!” He raises his voice, a bit of spit lands on my face as the harsh words drip from his tongue. I reach my hand up, wiping the salvia off.

“Yeah, but I can admit it,” I whisper as I lean up to his flushed face, our noses brushing against each other. I do mu best to ignore the stirring in my stomach when our skin touches. Warren glances down at my lips, his chest still heaving with anger and his arms resting by my head. His angry eyes meet mine. The moonbeam coming through the window illuminates half of warrens face in a white light. I just now notice how much he’s changed. How mature he looks now, especially when he has me backed against the wall with a death grip on my shoulders. He just begins to dip his head down when the bedroom door swings open.

“Sorry man, mom wanted help with- Woah…” Spencer pauses, almost dropping the snacks from his arms. Warren jumps back, the rage on his face replaced with shock as my brother looks between us with a slack jaw. Warren clears his throat awkwardly.

“You need to control your sister, dude,” he gives me a dirty look, walking up and taking a bag of Cheetos from Spencer. I step away from the wall, adjusting my outfit.

‘What the fuck just happened?’

“Uhm, no. Spencer you need to control your friend. He’s a fucking klepto! He took the lighter kyle got for me!” I explain as I point accusingly at Warren who’s already settled into the bed, munching on the junk food

“Oh, you mean the guy that cheated on you?” he asks before he takes a sip out of a two liter of dr. pepper. “Twice,” he adds before letting out a gross belch. I look at him in disgust, then in offense. My ears burn red in anger once again. I let out an irritated grunt as I push past spencer towards the door.

“So it’s no then?” Spencer asks, stopping me in my tracks.

“What?” I ask as I turn to face him. My brother glances between Warren and me.

“You’re not gonna help us?” Spencer asks, looking confused.

“Spencer what the hell are you talking about?” I groan, still upset about what was happened with Warren.

“He didn’t even-“ Spencer scoffs, turning to look at Warren. “You didn’t even ask her?” He asks his friend. Warren just shrugs as he picks up the PlayStation controller.

“For the last time I am not getting you idiots beer,” I groan.

“No! We need your makeup skills,” Spencer explains. Warren stands up from the bed, stomping in disapproval.

“We don’t need her. We just need the makeup,” he groans nudging Spencer a bit. I look at the boys in extreme confusion.

“Explain,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.

“We’re Uhm, doing a project and we were wondering if you could make us look like old men,” Spencer says avoiding eye contact, scratching the back of his neck. He’s acting even weirder than normal.

“Uhm, yeah. Hypothetically I could if I had the proper products,” I say putting my hands on hips, wondering where this conversation is going.

“No. We just need the products we don’t need you,” Warren whines, seeming even more admit on keeping me out of their plans than usual.

“Okay whatever. Give me the money and I’ll get you guys the shit tomorrow evening,” I sigh.

 ‘I’m such a good big sister’

“Well we have that party with Chas tomo-“ Spencer starts but Warren slaps his hand over my brothers face.  

“Party?” My ears perk up.

“No,” Warren says sternly. “We’re not bringing your lame ass to the party of the year,” he groans.

“No party, no makeup,” I shrug, crossing my arms. Spencer pulls Warren’s hand away from his face.

“Deal,” Spencer smiles. Warren gives him a death glare as I skip out of the room.

-

-

The next evening I’m stood in front of my closet sifting through my clothes. I have to admit that I’m excited to be getting dressed up. I settle on black denim mini skirt, studded belt and a cropped and distressed Misfits shirt. I take the time to do my makeup, smudging the black pencil liner around my eyes and applying a burgundy lip stick.

“Y/n come on!” I hear Warren shout from outside. I run over and stick my head out my open window.

“I’m coming!” I holler before slamming the glass shut, then shove my smoke bag into my purse.

I hop down the steps, skipping past my mother.

“I’ve never seen you so excited to go somewhere with those two,” my mom attempts a joke as I slip on my beat up converse.

“Free alcohol,” I shrug with a smirk before skipping out the front door.

“Y/n,” my mother’s disappointed voice gets cut off by the heavy wood slamming shut. I giggle to myself as I run to Chas’s car. I hear the door open again and my brothers foot steps approaching behind me.

“Come on guys were so late!” the meat head shouts from the driver’s seat window. My brother and I scramble into the car. Before I realize it, I’m sandwiched in between Warren and spencer with Chas and some nerdy guy in the front.

As I search around for the middle seatbelt, I notice warren staring at me. he’s wearing a white t-shirt that fits him very well with a pair of light, baggy blue jeans. It appears that he even took the time to brush his hair. He almost looks good.

“What?” I scowl at warren, wondering why he’s looking at me like that. He clears his throat, shaking his head a bit as if he didn’t realize he was ogling at me.

“J-just wondering why you let a clown do your makeup,” he laughs. I huff then punch him in the arm as hard as I can, causing warren to scream out.

“See this is-” I start to shout but I’m cut off when Chas whips his steering wheel sharply, sending me flying toppling into warren and causing warren to hit his head on the window.

“Shut up!” Chas groans. Warren and I exchange angry looks as we settle back into our seats, the rest of the ride is quiet.

-

-

The house packed full of sweaty college kids bumping and grinding into each other. The smell of alcohol and B.O flood my senses as I shimmy my way through the sea of kids packed in the narrow hallway. I finally make it to the kitchen where a bunch of frat boys are shot gunning beer. Girls surround them, completely wasted but doing their best to root for whichever guy they’re planning on fucking tonight. The loud, shitty, pop music rings through my ears as I step closer to the commotion. A tall blonde guy from the back of the group turns to me, looking me up and down with a grin.

“Hey you want in?” He holds his hand out, offering me a Budweiser. I consider it, but decide that I don’t want to be covered in beer all night.

“Uh, nah,” I nudge his hand away from me. He is cute though. “But I’ll cheer you on,” I smirk, looking up at the random guy, holding up my house key. The boy grins from ear to ear, taking the key out of my hand. He punctures the can before quickly opening the tab, downing the beer almost professionally. I cheer the boy on with words of encouragement. He drops the can to the floor then holds his hands up with a righteous scream, the crowd goes wild. He turns to me, wiping his face then slings his arm over my shoulder.

“Wow, I’m impressed,” I laugh. He adjusts his crooked snap-back as he leads me to the dance floor.

“Yeah you should be,” he chuckles as he guides me through the crowd of dancing bodies.

We dance for a few songs, slowly getting more handsy with each other. As my back bumps against him to the beat of the song, I make eye contact with Warren from across the room. He has a drink in one hand and his other on a girls waist as she kisses on his neck.

To my surprise, rather than looking away, he holds my gaze his he runs his hand down her back, grabbing her ass. I fight back a blush that attempts to creep onto my cheeks by averting my gaze.

‘Disgusting.’ I mentally barf as I turn my back to warren, wrapping my hands around the boys neck, his hands instinctively fall to my hips. He leans closer to my ear as we dance lazily in step with the beat.

“So what’s your name?” the boy shouts over the music.

“Y/n,” I answer, smiling up at him. “What about you, shotgun champion?” I giggle.

“Ethan,” he smiles. “Well, y/n, I’m going to go get you a drink,” he winks. I smile, thanking him. Once I tun back around, I notice that warren and the girl are gone.

‘Damn, that dude moves quick,’ I wonder how he manages to get girls to sleep with him so fast when he’s so insufferable and annoying. I dance by myself for a bit as I await Ethan’s return.

“Here you go,” Ethan smiles, handing me a red solo cup full of what appears to be spiked Hawaiian punch. I smile, thanking him as I accept the sickeningly sweet drink. I hold the plastic to my lips, but before I can take a sip, it’s knocked out of my hands. The cold liquid spills down my shirt before the cup hits the ground.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I hear the familiar tone of Warrens voice shout as he shoves Ethan against the living room wall. Everyone around us stops, turning to see what fight is about to break out. My cheeks burn red in anger and embarrassment.

“Waren what-” I manage to shout in the confusion. “You’re such a fucking asshole!” I shriek, completely fed up with his bullshit. I stomp towards the staircase, all eyes on me as crimson punch drips down my chest and legs. I open every door in the hallway until I find the bathroom.

I slam the door behind me before leaning onto the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. I scream out in frustration, my pulse beating to the bass of the music downstairs.

“What the fuck is wrong with Warren?” I complain to myself as I grab a handful of paper towels, attempting to absorb the drink that has soaked into my outfit. I pause when I hear the doorknob turning behind me. I watch Warrens figure appears in the bathroom mirror.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he steps towards me. His tone.. it almost sounds... concerned. I ignore his possible sincerity and instead throw the sopping wet paper towels at him.

“No, I’m not fucking okay! You ruined my outfit!” I scowl at him. His once concerned expression quickly contorts into the ever familiar annoyed glower he’s always dawning in my presence.

“You’re so fucking stupid y/n!” Warren shouts, stepping closer to me. The yellow lights highlight his clenched jaw. My mouth widens in disbelief.

“Excuse me?” I ask, now pissed off even more. Warren leans back, pushing his hair out of his face then groans in irritation.

“You almost got fucking roofied y/n! I knew that guy was bad news. I happened to be walking past the kitchen when I saw him drop something into your drink!” he explains while pacing in front of me. I roll my eyes, not believing him.

“Oh come on! You expect me to believe that? With your track record, I have every reason to believe that you were just being an immature asshole finding a way to fuck with me,” I step up to him, looking into his eyes that are flooded with frustration.

“Are you fucking- I just saved your ass big time!” Warren shouts, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Oh please,” I roll my eyes, crossing my arms, too angry to look at him. Warren sticks an angry finger in my face.

“You are such an ungrateful fucking brat,” he says lowly, his tone sends chills down my spine. He grips my jaw, turning my head to look up at him. The angry boy glowers down at me, his face just inches from mine. “Say thank you,” he demands through gritted teeth. I roll my eyes once again.

“Fuck. You.” I whisper looking directly into his apoplectic eyes. After a beat, he grips my jaw even harder, yanking may lips to his. I freeze in shock for just a second before returning the instantly bruising kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck, suddenly desperate for his touch. Within seconds, years of pent-up aggression and sexual tension finally comes to a head.

“You piss me off so much,” he growls against my lips as his hands grip my ass so tight it hurts, making me bite back a whimper. “Jump,” his voice comes out a gruff whisper. I obey, jumping to wrap my legs around his waist as he backs me against the wall, his lips never parting from mine. His nails dig into my thighs as he begins to grind against my crotch, the friction making me moan lightly against his lips. Anger and lust course through my veins as I tighten my legs around him, forcing his hips closer to mine. As much as I want to hate this, the truth is that I’ve never wanted any man more than I want warren right now. I’m disgusted with myself, but oh so desperate for the boy I’ve despised most of my life.

“Fuck, I hate how much I want this,” I whine desperately against his lips, pulling away only to slip off my shirt. Warren chuckles before setting me onto my feet. His chest heaves as he strips himself of his white t shirt.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you like this,” he says softly, his eyes following his hand as it glides gently over my body. I shiver under his touch as his fingers easily undo my bra, I allow it to fall to the ground. His eyes meet mine as he undoes his belt. “Bend over,” Warren smirks, motioning to the counter top.  Biting back a smile, I happily turn around, resting my elbows on the counter. I spread my legs and wiggle my ass, knowing that he has a full view of panties under my mini skirt. I feel his hand push the denim fabric up, then he slides my underwear down my legs, leaving me exposed to him.

“Holy shit,” he groans quietly as he dips a finger into my sopping heat. He drags my slick up to rub circles on my clit. I bite my lip in attempt to hold back a whimper. “Is it me that you’re this wet for, or do you just have some weird degradation kink?” he asks as he slips a finger in my entrance, I gasp at the contact.

“Oh shut the-“ I begin, but cut myself off with a loud moan as his hand comes down harshly on my ass, the slap rings through the bathroom.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he laughs as he slips another finger in, pumping faster. His other hand brushes over the stinging handprint left on my ass. I whimper at how good it hurts.

 I hate how right he is. I hate how much he’s enjoying this. I hate how he knows exactly where to curl his fingers inside me to earn the loudest moan. “Mm that’s the prettiest sound that’s ever come out of your mouth,” he chuckles as he reaches his other hand around to toy with my clit. I arch my back, biting my lip in an attempt to keep the symphony of pleasure from spilling from my mouth. I’m trying desperately not give him the satisfaction of praise, but it’s proving to be impossible.

“You’re such a dick,” I say lowly, unable to think of a good comeback as my eyes flutter shut, that familiar tension in my stomach building.

Warren pulls away completely, leaving me feeling empty and irritated. I stand up with a frown, spinning around to yell at him, but he grabs my arm and my waist, repositioning me back over the counter.

“Uh uh,” he chuckles using one hand to grip my hair, holding my head up so that I can see him in the mirror. With the other hand, he drops his pants and boxers, giving his- much larger than expected- length a few good bumps. My knees buckle at the sight behind me. “You’re gonna stay just like this and watch me fuck you,” he growls as he uses his foot to kick my legs a bit further apart. I watch his reflection as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, spitting on them before spreading the slick gently over my folds. As he lines his length up with my entrance, he holds my gaze through the mirror, sliding into me slowly. He lets out a loud groan, his grip on my hair tightening.

The way that he fills me up is unlike any other. Squeezing my eyes shut, I do my best to hold back my whimpers as I adjust to his size. He gives me only a few seconds before he starts slamming into me.

“Fuck!” I scream in shock as I clasp my hands over my mouth. Warrens strong grip is soon ripping my fingers away from my face.

“Now You’re want to be quiet? After all the times I’ve told you shut this pretty mouth of yours…” he grabs my cheeks, sticking a finger in my mouth as he rams his cock into me. “Now you want to hold back?” He lets out a devilish chuckle, before slapping my ass even harder than last time. He uses my hair to pull my head up making sure that I’m watching him.

His strong grip holds tightly onto my hair and my waist, making the veins very prominent in his arms. His toned torso glistens in a thin sheet of sweat as his hips buck mercilessly into me. My toes curl when I see the way he’s watching me. His eyes are dark with lust as they study every feature of my body in the mirror. His jaw hangs slack, but there’s a never faulting smirk on his face as if this is something he’s been waiting on for a while.

He releases my hair to reach down and rub figure eights onto my sensitive bundle of nerves. That and they way that he’s hitting the perfect spot with every deep thrust and the way he looks at me is enough to send me over the edge.

“Fuck! Warren!” I moan out in such a pathetic tone that I can’t believe it came from my own mouth. My legs begin to shake and breathing becomes shallow as I clench around him.

“That’s it baby. Scream my name in pleasure for a change,” he growls in my ear. My eyes are clenched shut, but I can hear the smirk in his voice. If the music wasn’t playing 100 decibels over OSHA standards and every single person wasn’t black out drunk, I might be concerned that someone might hear us.

“Oh god… fuck Warren! I’m cumming please don’t stop! Just like that please!” My words come out a desperate whine with each breath punctuated by his hips thrusting into me as I come undone around him. My legs give out as pure euphoria floods my system. My eyes roll back in my head as Warren holds me up with help from counter.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he grunts out, his thrusts becoming sloppy and erratic as low growls and moans slip out between his heavy breaths.

Warren pulls out of me as I lay with my head down on the cool counter trying to collect my thoughts. I feel him release onto my back. The warm seed dripping down my ass as strings of profanities fall from Warrens kiss bruised lips.

“Holy shit,” he pants out in a whisper. I hold my head up to see him in the mirror behind me, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. His chest rising and falling quickly as he wipes sweat from his forehead. As if he could feel me looking, he opens his eyes. That stupid fucking smirk quickly returning on his flushed face. He watches his cum drip down my ass and onto the floor. He silently walks to the toilet paper, then- to my surprise- he cleans me up. Silently, with a content smile, he wipes himself off me.

“Uh, thanks,” I say shyly with a bit of red creeping up to my cheeks. I find my underwear and slip them back on as Warren puts his pants on.

“Don’t mention it,” he winks, very obviously proud of himself.

“So uhm,” I start as I slide my dress back on. I don’t even know how to act; I feel so awkward and it’s pissing me off how casual Warren is being. “Do we just chalk this up to the alcohol?” I rub my neck awkwardly as Warren pulls his shirt over his head. He lets out a light laugh.

“Well I’m not drunk. Are you?” He asks, already knowing the answer. I shake my head no as find my sticky, stained skirt and step into it. Warren chuckles, walking up behind me looking at our reflections in the mirror. “Well, on the bright side I made your make look better,” he laughs with a wink, motioning at the mascara running down my face and burgundy lipstick smudged around my mouth.

“Oh fuck off!” I huff, shoving him. He slaps my ass one last time before opening the door and stepping out. I look at myself in the mirror, waiting for the feeling of disgust to overcome my body… but it never comes. As I wet a paper towel and attempt to make my face look presentable, I can’t help but smile. The smile turns to a giggle. The giggle turns to a loud laugh. I cannot begin to explain or even understand what I’m feeling, but pure joy is bubbling through my body. It must be some kind of weird post nut clarity.

I grab my purse then step out the door, expecting Warren to be gone, but to my pleasant surprise, he’s leaning over the banister right outside the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I step up beside him, assuming the same position.

“Trying to spit in people’s drinks,” he says flatly, not looking my way before a blob of spit falls from his mouth, landing on some random girls forehead. She looks around in drunken confusion, unable to identify the source. “Hey bonus points,” he laughs, turning to me with his hands held up in victory. I roll my eyes, but I’m unable to hide the smile that creeps onto my face.

“I uhm- I think I’m gonna walk home. I need a shower,” I tell him awkwardly. I’m so unsure of how to act now and him being so normal isn’t helping.

“Oh, I’ll walk you,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. I look at him in confusion.

“What?” I ask, unsure if I heard him correctly.

“I’m going to walk you home, dumbass,” he shrugs taking step, expecting me to follow behind him- I do, of course.

We push through the crowds of dancing kids and out the front door. My ears ring as we step out onto the empty street, the silence is quite the change from the loud frat party behind us.

We walk in almost comfortable silence. My house is about a 40 minute walk away, but it seems so much shorter as I’ve been using the time to sort out my emotions- which I’m not having much success with.

I grab my cell phone out of my pocket, texting Spencer that I’m headed home so that he doesn’t worry.

“Who are you texting?” Warren asks simply as if he’s been trying to find something to start a conversation. He pulls a pack of menthols out of his pocket, holding the box towards me. I smile, taking one of the sticks and popping it into my mouth.

“Spencer. I figure I should let him know where I went,” I explain as we walk down the dim and empty sidewalk. The cool late summer air makes the orange flame flicker in the wind as it illuminates Warrens face in the evening dusk. The end of his cigarette glows a dark crimson as he lets out a puff of smoke. He stops, then looks down at me as he rests his fingers on my cheek, his other hand bringing the lighter up to my cigarette. I stare up at him, admiring how the orange light highlights his handsome features. The flame reflects in his dark eyes that are fixated on my lips. I breath in, igniting the cig.

“Thanks,” I smile, exhaling through my nose as we resume our walk.

“Ya know, I really did save your life back there,” Warren grins with a nudge from the same hand that’s holding his cigarette.

“You actually saw that dude slip something in my drink?” I ask, looking at him with raised brows.

“Yep. That girl I was dancing with was leading me up to one of the bedrooms when I saw the douche go into the kitchen. The dude looked the type, so I followed him in there, sure enough as he was walking away from the table, he slipped a tablet in your cup,” he shrugs as he takes a long drag.

It takes me a minute to process his words. It seems that he was actually looking out for me.

“But… Why? I thought you hated me. Now you’re saying that you left a hot girl who was trying to get in your pants just to make sure I was safe,” I ask. That seriously doesn’t sound like the Warren I know. Then again, I wouldn’t have expected the Warren I know to dick me down at a frat party either.

“Y/n I obviously don’t hate you. And even if I did, I still wouldn’t have let that guy drug you. I’m not that kind of guy,” he says, sounding a bit offended that I thought that of him. I’m seeing a part of Warren tonight that I had no idea existed. We approach my house, tossing our cigarette butts in the trash can beside the mailbox.

“No, I know, Warren,” I smile downwards, looking away from his stern gaze. “You’re actually a pretty good guy,” I laugh nervously. He grins as he leans against his car that’s parked on the curb right outside my home.

“I’m really glad you said that right now. I’m also glad that since I saved you, we’re even,” he smiles as he walks around to his driver door, reaching into his pocket. I stand on the sidewalk, looking at him confused.

“What Are You-“ he tosses me something, I instinctively catch it, clamping it between my two hands. I raise an eyebrow, almost afraid to see what’s in my hands. Warren chuckles as he gets in his car, starting it up as his radio starts blaring his ‘The Offspring’ CD.

I bend forward, he rolls down the passenger window. I look down into my hands to see my favorite lighter broken. The top of the zippo snapped off from the base. My expression falls, rage flooding my senses.

“Warren!” I scream, more pissed off at him then I’ve ever been. He quickly reminded me of why it is that I hate him so much.

“Yeah, my bad,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should really keep your stuff picked up off the floor,” he shrugs. I can’t even form a sentence right now. I knew this dumbass took my lighter. “Now get inside so I can leave,” he says motioning with his hand towards the door. I’m so shocked and exhausted- physically and emotionally- from tonight’s events that I just turn and leave. My face still contorted in anger, I silently walk up the steps and into my house.

Out of curiosity, I glance out the window at Warren. He waits a couple seconds after I shut the door to pull out of his parallel parking spot. I sigh, leaning against the door.

This was the strangest night of my life

[winterchimez]

Nonsense | Jacob Bae

SUMMARY: never would you have thought that joining the music club is where you would develop an abnormal crush on your senior/club president Jacob Bae. so when the university's annual school performance is around the corner, you have decided to give a shot to confess your feelings in the most extravagant way possible.

PAIRING: senior!Jacob x junior g.n!reader

GENRE: fluff

WARNINGS: pg-13, kissing, yall this is just pure tooth-rotting fluff

WORD COUNT: 4,473

A/N: we're back with another fic for the emails i can't send fwd: collab that i'm doing with @heemingyu 😉 shoutout to both sana & @sungbeam for beta reading & helping me out with this one!! love you both loads 💕 also, lowkey this was written for you @zzoguri aka cobster's future, i hope you'll enjoy this (and may this somehow be a little something for you during your hectic times ily my moni forever!! ❤️)

It was finally the summer holidays, and you were ecstatic as you heard the sound of a vehicle driving right onto your front porch. You had been waiting for this moment since you got the news during the new year and counting down the days on your calendar without fail every day.

Once you heard the engine stop, you immediately ran out to the door to jump right into the person’s arms which were already opened wide, fully expecting your demeanour. 

“Yujin! I’ve been waiting months for you!” You shrieked as you hugged your cousin tight, rubbing your cheek against hers. 

Both you and Yujin were raised together by your grandmother back in Vancouver, and things took a turn when your parents eventually got a promotion up in Toronto, causing you to move far away from your family. Because of that, you don’t get to see each other often anymore, the most being once every 2 years when your parents will try their best to make time to attend the Christmas parties held annually at your grandmother’s house. 

Yujin was like your long-lost sibling; even though you were cousins, you both felt there was more to that. Ever since you both have gotten your very own mobile phones, you both promised that you would FaceTime each other almost every other day. You knew everything about one another—from each other’s darkest secrets to how much money you stole from your parents' wallets when you were younger to buy that vinyl you have been eyeing for the longest time. 

But lately, things have been a bit too chaotic for you both to keep up the promised ritual. Since you both started university, it was hard to make plans, especially when studying in different courses, which also meant different timetables and classes. During the weekends, the both of you would often be occupied with either school events or at your local pizzeria as your part-time job. Hence, texting was the primary source of communication between you two.

And besides that, something crucial had happened to you lately, and you couldn’t wait to spill the beans to your cousin. 

Once you had helped Yujin unload her stuff from the car and moved it up to your room, you quickly made yourselves feel comfortable by cuddling together on your sofa bed. 

“So, tell me. How has life been for you?” you asked, blinking your eyes, trying to give her a pleading face because you wanted to know about everything that had happened lately. 

“I’ve been promoted to being part of the student council at my university! Oh, and then there’s also me actually acing an exam that I clearly did not study for because I was up all night that past few weeks playing Genshin Impact. Oh, and then there was this adorable guy from my campus who I think kind of has a crush on me because he always glances in my direction, like you know? That stare? And then—” 

“Woah woah, slow down, tiger,” you had to pause your cousin because clearly, she was dumping all of the information without giving you time to process them individually. With that, the both of you chuckled, hands placed onto your stomach as you began to laugh a little bit too hard until it started to hurt. 

This was what you had missed so dearly, and you couldn’t help but put on this genuine warm, soft smile on your face as you looked into Yujin’s eyes. 

That was until she squinted at you. 

“Whatever you’re doing right now is creeping me out real bad, so I suggest you stop that.” 

You slapped her arm. “Rude.” 

“Fine. What about you then? I’m sure your time at the University of Toronto has been a wild ride for you.” 

“About that…I have something I need to consult you for,” you lowered your head and voice to a minimum, which got your cousin's ears perked up and was prodding your arms, wanting to know the details. 

“Oh my god, did you just finally have your first kiss?”

“W-what? No! I mean, at least not yet….” 

“What do you mean not yet? So do you have a special someone in your life right now?”

With a deep sigh, you took one of the pillows lying on the floor and threw it in Yujin’s direction, causing her to hug the pillow tight as she laid her head down gently to rest on it. 

“Buckle up, babe. It’s going to be a long story.” 

Flashback

“God, why do I have to sign up for this?” 

You stomped your feet to the ground as you looked at the paper, which read: “Applications for extra-curricular activities such as clubs are mandatory for all students, commencing on April 2023.” 

Your university had been pretty lenient over the years, and they had never once forced students to participate in clubs if they chose not to, understanding that some of them had make-up classes for their courses or were just busy with their thesis and side jobs. Most of the students in the university themselves took on part-time jobs, such as working in the school’s cafeteria and library, to earn a little bit of pocket money to survive.

So, when they decided to change the rules after the previous headmaster resigned and was replaced by a new one that everyone did not like, she chose that both coursework and extracurricular activities played a crucial role in one’s graduation. 

Left with no choice, you stood before the bulletin board, trying to find a club that suited your taste. 

“Screw Mrs. Kim.” You huffed. 

“Look, Y/N. It can’t be too bad. It’s just a club. After all, nobody said you have to be super committed to it,” Your friend Keeho sighed, looking at how you beat yourself up over such trivial matters. 

“You don’t understand, Keeho. This means I will have less time at home because I will have to leave to work my shifts at the pizzeria right after clubs. What is going to happen to my games and k-dramas?” You whined. 

“If you want to graduate from university, you’re going to have to choose one now.” Knocking some sense into you, he gave you a pat on your shoulder before walking away towards the opposite direction, heading to his club.

You turned to look back at the bulletin board once again, scanning through all of the posters and flyers that were scattered throughout. After a minute or two, your eyes finally landed on this one cream-coloured flyer, and you sighed before checking the location once more before heading to your destination. 

“This is the only option that will work for now.”

“Hello?” You called out, but the room was empty as you opened and peeked your head through the door. Thinking that you should try again, you entered the room and looked around. 

There was nothing here but a ray of sunshine shining through the glass window into the empty room, and the sunlight landed directly on the lone black piano at the corners of the room.

Maybe playing it for a while wouldn’t hurt at all.

You slowly approached the piano and opened it up as you made yourself comfortable, sat down, and got into the rightful position, gently laying your hands on the keys. Immediately, you started playing one of your favourite pieces of all time, Summer by Joe Hisaishi. Unbeknownst to you, your body began swaying along with the music, enjoying the moment you were in. 

That was until a clap made you stop your tracks.

“Wow, that was some excellent playing right there.” The male gave you a round of applause as he slowly approached you, causing you to jump right up, looking all flustered. 

“I-Umm—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to play the instrument without approval—” 

“Oh no, no! The piano is free for anyone who wants to play, so you’re all good,” he reassured you, causing you to calm your fast breathing down by placing a hand on your fast-rising chest. 

As he finally reached where you were standing, he posed a question directly at you. “Is there anything that I could help you with?” 

It was there, and then you took in his facial features as the sunlight shone from his face. His soft fluffy brunette hair, those doe-like eyes, and how mesmerising it was as he smiled. Adding onto the fact that he keeps smiling in the best way possible, your heart starts to flutter. 

“Umm, hello?” He was now waving his hands over your face. 

Oh, right. You were supposed to sign up for a club. What on earth were you thinking, Y/N?

“Y-yes! I’m here actually to umm…sign up for the club,” you said reluctantly, a little bit too shy with your answer. 

That was when the male’s eyes widened, and he did a little jump to indicate how happy he was to hear that from you, and he quickly extended out his hands to you, giving you a handshake.

“But of course! We are always open to new members joining the music club! Oh, pardon me, where were my manners? You can call me Jacob.”  

“Y-Y/N.” You replied.

It has been around two weeks since you joined the music club, and everything has been going smoothly for you. Thanks to Jacob (who turned out to be the club’s president), he has helped you so much in trying to get you to blend into the crowd and with other musicians, creating a very safe and warm atmosphere for everyone. 

It was also then that you noticed what kind of a person he was. He was very gentle, yet suitable to be a leader. The tone of his voice and the way he handled things fairly and reasonably made everyone respect him and want to perform alongside him. 

From what you have heard from the club members, Jacob would lead the team to busk at the city centre once every two to three weeks, which was where they would earn some money that served as their reward as they went out to celebrate once in a while at the local party scenes such as the bars. 

Thanks to his guidance, the university’s music club eventually garnered enough audience from the school and the public to the point that they have been invited to perform multiple times throughout the year. You have heard that even local communities such as the orphanage and childcare facilities would often ask Jacob and his team to function for the underprivileged ones, and they would gladly volunteer, even if it were for free. 

There were a few times when you stayed behind to help Jacob close up the music room (more like you were trying your best to spend much time with him as much as you could), and it was when you decided to ask him about his thoughts and the way he did things around here. 

“Music just means so much to me, and I would gladly perform every day even if I had to. It’s not about the money; it can be great as a little side income, but what matters most is that I do this because I am passionate about it,” he replied, clearly stating his goals and reasons well. 

Ever since that conversation, you notice more in detail how he did things or even when he performed. Just as he said, he was passionate—it didn’t matter if things were hindering his way, he would still make way for it. 

No matter how burnt out he could be from his coursework or side job, he would always place the music club first, making sure that not only he enjoyed the whole process but also the club members as well. 

Slowly, you began to admire him for not just his good looks but also his personality. It was as if he was this fine perfect gentleman that had just entered your life easily, and you couldn’t stop thinking about him each day. 

It was the way he was always smiling with others, the way he would sometimes sit at the piano and play a duet with you, the way you both were guitarists, so one of you would either offer a fun little duet session after club hours, even up till writing song lyrics together. 

And how there was one time he unintentionally got his arms around your waist when you slipped from the wet, freshly-cleaned wooden floor from the club, and he caught you in time. 

That was something that you have thought about all the time ever since it happened. 

As the weeks progressed to months, the little spark in your heart for him eventually grew, and it just kept getting bigger each time you saw him in the same club room. 

And that was when you knew you were in big trouble.

End of flashback 

“Damn, you're whipped,” Yujin concluded after listening to your story. 

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you this, Yujin. I’m so screwed.” You buried your head in your palms, the slight headache becoming more prominent now. 

“Hey, what’s wrong with liking a senior? I’d say it’s your time to shine and confess to him.” She reassured you by gently rubbing your back before you slowly lifted your face up. 

“That’s because I think I might be in too deep,” you mumbled. 

“And how exactly did you come up with that conclusion?” 

“Do you ever start stammering and slur your speech when they get close to you like they’ve not done anything, but somehow you just can’t converse like a proper human being.”

“Oh.” 

“When they literally tell you how they absolutely love your eyes and loved making them roll?”

“Okay. Go on.”

“And that you actually finally got their contact number and literally named them ‘do not leave me alone’?”

“Hold up, let me see.”

Reluctantly, you fished out for your phone in your back pocket and scrolled through your contact list until you found Jacob’s. As you click into it, you nervously hand your phone to your cousin, praying internally that she will not drop another diss to make you feel worse than you already are. 

Do not leave me alone ❤️‍🩹. That was exactly what was written for the club president’s contact name on your phone. 

“Damn, Y/N. I never would have thought you would be so delusional. I’d like to think that you’re far worse than I am,” Yujin declared, turning your face into a bright red tomato again. 

“I know, Yujin! And I have never felt this way before. That’s why I needed your validation.” You were practically doing somersaults mentally right now, wishing that you could take it all back, but at the same time, you needed to let out your inner feelings too.  

As Yujin handed your phone back to you, she raised an eyebrow before posing you a question. “So, what exactly do you intend to do from here on?” 

“There’s this upcoming music festival at my university this weekend, and I will be performing on stage.” 

“Oh, that’s great—”

“And I’m going to perform a song I wrote specifically about him,” you blurted out. 

That made Yujin shut her mouth as she tried to process what she had just heard. “Wow, Y/N. You are literally going all out on this.” 

“I just need a way to get this off my shoulders somehow, Yujin. And it’s now or never,” you said. 

“Will he realise that you are trying to serenade him, though?” Yujin asked as she placed her hand on your shoulder. 

“Success or not, I will still do it. And then I’ll completely forget that I’ve ever written this song ever again.”

It was finally Friday night, and the auditorium hall was filled with students, lecturers, and outsiders. Peeking from the backstage, there was this nervousness in the pit of your stomach, and you were now trying your best to rethink your actions. 

What exactly had made you even decide to sign up for the concert in the first place had remained a mystery for you, and looking back now, you swore you would’ve thrown a cold bucket of water over you to wake you up from your insanity. 

But it was too late to turn back now, as it would be your turn on stage in a few minutes. After the previous performer finished his chosen song, the MC briefly introduced you and your contributions to the music club before finally inviting you onstage. 

As you entered with the white guitar you had gotten for Christmas a few years prior, you tried your best to search for Yujin amongst the crowd—sure enough, she was sitting right at the side, waving her hands enthusiastically to cheer you on. You couldn’t help but flash a smile back. 

And finally, you decided to find the man of your dreams, and he was sitting right in the middle section along with the other club members. He gave you a clap just like the rest of the audience did and mouthed out a few words that you couldn’t grasp. Perhaps he was just saying “all the best,” as one would as they support their fellow members.

When you finally reached where the microphone stood, you adjusted yourself before positioning your fingers along the instrument's strings and introducing the piece you were about to perform. 

“This song was written by a special someone in the crowd tonight, and whoever that it may be, I hope this song speaks to your heart and that you mean a lot to me. Without further ado, enjoy.” 

With a few strums from the guitar, you gathered enough courage to smile before singing into the microphone. 

I’ll be honest.  Looking at you got me thinking nonsense. Cartwheels in my stomach when you walk in And when you got your arms around me Oh, it feels so good 

Instantly, you noticed several people from the crowd starting vibing along with your song as they naturally swayed their bodies from left to right, enjoying the melody and rhythm your song produced. 

I had to jump the octave I think I got an ex, but I forgot him And I can’t find my chill, I must’ve lost it I don’t even know, I’m talkin’ nonsense  I’m talkin’, I’m talkin’ 

When you peeked from the corner of your eye, you noticed how Yujiin practically stood up, clapping her hands along with the rhythm. Naturally, the people around her joined in, as did the crowd from the middle and far left section. 

God, were you so grateful for that, so much so that you were trying to hold back your tears. 

I’m talkin’ all around the clock I’m talkin’ hope nobody knocks I’m talkin’ opposite of soft  I’m talkin’ wild, wild thoughts You gotta keep up with me I got some young energy I caught the L-O-V-E How could you do this to me?

I’ll be honest.  Looking at you got me thinking nonsense.

With one final strum, you ended the performance with a bang, and you got the crowd to give you one of the loudest cheers you have heard throughout the night. Some have even given you a standing ovation, and you swore that tears were about to form in your eyes. 

You quickly redirected your attention to Jacob, and he did the same, standing up while giving you that sweet honey smile that you’ve grown to be obsessed with, clapping along with the rest of the audience. 

Thank you for existing, Jacob Bae. I hope you can hear my thoughts through this song written specifically for you. 

With a final bow, you quickly exited the stage.

You were sitting on a bench at a park near campus, opening the bottle of sparkling water you had gotten from one of the nearby vending machines.

You met up with Yujin right after the show and told her how you wanted some time alone just to wind down and digest everything that had happened. You reassured her that you wouldn’t be gone too long and would return as soon as possible. Thankfully, your cousin understood the message and agreed so long as you did not venture far away nor leave her alone too long exploring your campus. 

With a sip of the water, you couldn’t help but smile as you looked up into the skies filled with stars on a clear night like today. The secret was finally out, and a burden was lifted from your shoulders, so you could just sit back on the bench and relax a little bit. 

That was until a voice brought you back to reality.

“Mind if I join you?”

You jolted up from the bench to see the man you were trying to serenade, and immediately you felt the heat rise towards your cheek, and you began stammering again. 

“Y-yes, o-of course!! Umm..g-go ahead!!”

As he sat next to you, you naturally shifted slightly away from him and ducked your head down as you began to rub your palms around the water bottle you were holding back and forth. Jacob noticed your demeanour, and he couldn’t help but giggle as he saw the redness of your face becoming more prominent.

Because he had always known how you have been having a crush on him.

To break the ice, he devised a simple conversation to help you loosen up a bit and break off the tension. 

“I really like your guitar, Y/N. It’s just the right shade of white, and seeing it reminds me of elegance and simplicity but in an attractive way.” 

“U-uh, thanks! It was gifted to me as a present—”

“Just like you, Y/N.” 

Wait, what?

Did you just hear that right? Or is your mind playing tricks with you? Maybe the after-effects of adrenaline from the performance got you thinking nonsense. But you had to make sure. 

“I umm…I beg your pardon?”

“I said what I said, Y/N. I know you have a crush on me.”

Oh no.

“How I make you feel all giddy and excited every time I talk to you.”

Oh, hell no. 

“And I’m going to guess that the song you just performed was directed towards me.”

Lord Jesus, take the wheel. 

At this point, you felt as if you were receiving dozens of arrows shooting right into your heart one at a time, and you were just about to pass out. What you thought was a simple crush became way too apparent to the point that your love interest has already known since day one. 

This is the most embarrassing shit ever. 

You quickly recollected yourself by sitting up straight and clearing your throat before responding properly. 

“Ha-ha, I guess I-I was too obvious!! I-I’m sorry if I might’ve made you un-uncomfortable in any way—”

That was when Jacob interrupted you. “What makes you think I was uncomfortable by all of this?”

Jacon now inches a few spots closer to where you were, and your butt was glued shut on the bench because if you were to move any further, you would end up falling straight onto the grass. 

Oh, good lord. 

“I’m actually grateful for you, Y/N. I think it’s the first time anyone has ever felt that way about me,” he smiled. 

That was when you blinked your eyes. “W-what, really? How can people not fall in love with you—” You clasped your hands over your mouth as soon as you said the “L” word. 

He chuckled. “I don’t know. People have always seemed to view me as a good friend but not a potential love interest. I haven’t had one since a long time ago, and that made me rethink if I could ever date again.”

Gently he laid his hands onto yours that were situated on the bench as he turned his full attention to you now. 

“And funny enough, I’m pretty sure I have feelings for you too. The moment I saw you playing Summer on the piano that first day we met, I knew there was something different about you. And I am so glad that eventually we got close to one another.”

After that, Jacob finally took in a deep breath before turning his direction back to you, which made you gulped for a second. “I think it wouldn’t be fair for me to not give you a proper response to your confession to me, no?” 

Oh, god. It’s here. “S-so…what are your thoughts, Jacob? Was the song okay?”

“Y/N. It was far beyond just okay. It was a masterpiece, and I loved how quirky you are with the lyrics. It was something else, but it suited my taste.” 

As he finally intertwined his fingers with yours, he inched his face closer to yours until they were centimetres apart. 

“I accept the proposal, Y/N.” He smiled.

“Y-you…you do?” You asked weakly as if you were already not melting enough from the tension and heat. 

“Will you give me a chance, Y/N?” There was this glistening in his eyes, and he looked exactly like Puss in Boots from the animation that both you and Yujin loved watching when you were kids.

“If you’re ready to deal with me, of course,” you stammered. 

He gave you the biggest smile before pulling you into a warm embrace. “More than ready, Y/N.” 

As you sunk into his embrace and took in his scent, you rested your chin upon his shoulders and stayed just like that briefly before Jacob broke off the hug and gently grabbed both of your shoulders, his eyes now landing on your lips. 

“May I?” 

Without giving a proper answer, you immediately shut your eyes, indicating that it was a yes in your books. Jacob chuckled at that for a while before leaning in to give a peck on your lips. 

The sweet moment was then ruined by a ruffling noise coming from behind as both you and Jacob turned towards its direction. Sure enough, you found your cousin Yujin emerging from one of the trees with her phone in hand, recording the whole session. 

“Now, that is what I call a successful indirect confession!” She exclaimed. 

“Miss Ahn Yujin don’t you even dare—” you quickly threatened her before you took off running towards where she was, and she did the same but ran away from you instead. 

“You will be sleeping on the streets tonight!” You yelled.

“Try me, Y/N!” She replied. 

Jacob watched as the two of you began chasing each other around the park, and he couldn’t help but giggle as he laid back and propped one arm on the bench, just admiring everything about you. 

“Little did you know Y/N, that you also got me thinking nonsense about you all day every day.”

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[thewritetofreespeech]

Ello!! Is it alright if I request a vamp! Fem or gender neutral reader with Vanitas?? I have a small prompt. The two bicker alot, but what happens when the reader gets injured and refuses to drink blood to help themselves, and Vanitas is genuinely worried about them?? Sorry if this is too long. Have a wonderful day/night!!

They had barely made it out with their heads still on. [Y/N] barricading the door while Vanitas looked for something to make it more secure. “There. That should hold it.” He announced, with a slight pant, after he had shoved a bookcase, two end tables, and any other junk he could find in this abandoned shack of a villa to keep the Curse Bearer at bay.

“I’ve never seen one act so violently.” [Y/N] replied. Their eyes still bright red from the fight. As crimson as the blood staining their shirt where they had sliced them with their great, sharp spines.

“Yeah. I don’t think we’ll be able to save this one.” Vanitas commented solemnly. “We’ll have to get its name back to stop it, but the chances of them coming out seem pretty low.”

[Y/N] sighed, afraid of that but aware of the outcome, then swayed a little as they took a step to sit down. “You ok?”

“Yes. Just a little light headed.” They replied.

“You’re still bleeding, hn?” Vanitas commented. Following behind them as they sat down. “I thought you would have healed up by now.”

“So did I. The fight and flight must have taken a lot out of me.” Vampire were incredibly resilient, but had their limitations. Fatigue, hunger, overexertion, could lead to a decline in the healing process, like any living thing. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem for [Y/N], and they would take the slow path to getting better. However, the situation they were in was not one best suited for ‘the slow path’. Their enemy could find them at any minute. It wouldn’t take much to break down their barricade and slaughter them if they wanted. They would need to get out of here, quickly, if they wanted to survive.

“Do you want me to help you?” Vanitas asked. To which [Y/N] scoffed.

“I didn’t know you knew first aid.”

“No I mean….”

He began to gesture awkwardly. It took [Y/N] a minute to realize what he was ‘saying’ and when they realized they were shocked. “I’m not drinking your blood Vanitas.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?!” They repeated. Shocked further that they would even ask such a question. “Because aside from it being illegal, it’s also incredibly inappropriate and….intimate.”

“It’s only illegal if I say no.” Vanitas corrected them. “And I’m offering it to you. Look, do you want to get out of here or not?”

“I think we can get out of here without me resorting to barbarism.” [Y/N] retorted. Voices getting raised.

“Yeah, cause you did a fine job of getting us out of here earlier.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means you couldn’t get us out of here when you were at top percent at the start. Now you’re injured! And you think you’re just magically going to help get us out of here with your positive attitude and morals!”

“You were in my way! I didn’t see you helping any back there!”

“That’s why I’m helping now!” Vantias hand smacked against the wall behind their head. His usually slim frame suddenly towered over [Y/N] in an intimidating way, as he pulled back his bow tie & shirt to expose his neck. “Take my blood!”

[Y/N] sat there in surprise. Their face flush at the situation, but also with the hammering sound of their heartbeat in their ears. It had been years since they had had fresh blood. They really did mean it when they said they thought it was barbarism. But there was a part of them, deep down, that always would crave it. A base instinct that lingered under the surface. A dark whisper, almost like Naenia’s, that beckoned them to take his blood.

Slowly, shyly, they leaned forward towards Vanitas’s neck. To his credit, he did not move. In fact he only flinched a little bit when their fangs pierced his skin. The warm, rich flow of blood trickled down their tongue and down their throat. Making them feel like they had never been warm in their life until this moment.

They suddenly realized why some rouge vampires became addicted to this. They suddenly realized what all the fuss was about.

“T-That’s enough [Y/N]…” Vanitas called out to them and pushed [Y/N] back. His turn to swoon a little bit now. “It won’t do us any good if I can’t walk out of here now.”

“Oh…I guess you’re right….” They suddenly felt embarrassed that they had lost themselves in the moment. Then they looked down and realized that all their injuries were healed. “I think I’m all right now. Better even. Better than new.”

“That’s nice.” Vanitas replied, before he slumped down beside them. “I just need to sit for a bit. Then we can try to make a break for it.”

“I’m sorry. Did I….-“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Vanitas butt in. “I just need to sit for a minute.”

They sat in silence. Listening to the stone flinch around them in their cubby hole. It was the quietest moment they had never had together. They never spoke of what happened again.

[heaven4lostgirls]

reconciliation (S.R)

pairing: steve rogers x fem!reader, billy russo x reader implied

warnings: angst, jealousy, kind of toxic?

summary: your conversation with steve has left him reeling to try and get you back, and you've just dropped the biggest blow to his chances of trying to win you back.

word count: 1.3k

a/n: i'm really sorry this took so long to get out, uni has swamped me with work but here i am ig! maybe another update will get out during the weekend? dont hold me to that tho lmao

tags: @blackhawkfanatic , @buckys-wintersoldier , @witchychanel , @nicoline1998enilocin

part 1, part 2, part 3

You weren’t sure what you were expecting after your conversation with Steve if you could even call it that. It had been a couple of weeks and surely but surely you had started warming up to him again, it started with small nods in his direction as a greeting but that soon moved into small conversations. It had been a slow and torturous process for Steve, but he knew just as well as you did that, he was nowhere near even being able to exercise the ability to complain about his situation after what he had put you through.

The real heartbreak hit him when he realised, you’d been looking for apartments and job hunting, for some reason he had assumed that although you no longer joined the avengers for meeting briefings and were off the last few missions, you were just taking a break. Evidently, he was quite wrong, you had been spending your time responding to ‘work-related’ emails regarding a company called Anvil run by Billy Russo.

Now, Steve hardly kept up with any news that was not regarding his position as Captain America and very loosely he kept up with the NFL, so he knew next to nothing about Billy Russo until he was listening to your conversation with Tony in the kitchen.

You had walked in to make your breakfast and just as Steve and you had good morning to one another, Tony strolled through the open door on the phone with Pepper, adamantly in an argument with something to do with Tony’s public appearance at some gala.

“Pep-honey-, yes I understand but-“ Tony rolls his eyes and what Pepper says next and as you make your way to give him some privacy, he holds up his hands to make you wait and as your quirk an eyebrow, you lean against the kitchen counter waiting for the conversation to end. “Fine! Whatever you want! Just please don’t seat me next to that mayor” he pauses “yes! That one! He always smells like cheese” Tony shivers and you and Steve share a quick smile of amusement before you look away with flaming cheeks.

Tony hangs up the call and looks at you with a sly smile.

“Anvil huh?” he asks as he makes his way around you and Steve to the coffee machine, with a quick good morning to Steve, he looks at you expectantly.

“Oh, come off it Stark, I put in my two week notice ages ago, knowing Friday, he probably already told you when I applied” you reply with a joking eyeroll.

An automated voice floods through the system and you nearly jump out of your skin” I would never Miss Y/L/N” you’ve still got to get used to that. 

“Anvil?” Steve questions tersely with pursed lips, you can’t tell if it’s out of anger or worry.

“Yeah! It’s a private military firm and since I used to be in the Navy, Billy reached out to me and offered me a position as his personal assistant!” you reply enthusiastically and through your excitement, you fail to notice how Steve’s face falls and Tony’s eyes light up with humour.

“Billy huh?” Steve’s strained smile makes you pause for a second before Tony snorts into his coffee and as you turn to glare at him, he shrugs innocently.

“Yes. Billy. He asked me to call him that because we’ll be working together” you reply curtly and fight the urge to lash out at Steve and let him know he has no right to be jealous because he no longer has anything remotely more than friendship connecting the both of you.

“Doesn’t hurt that he’s good looking either” Tony remarks and yelps as you swiftly throw one of the knives near you towards the cupboards right next to his head.

You shake your head and move to leave the kitchen before you turn around to the both of them and remark “I shall now be going to set up a meeting time with my boss if that’s okay with you two idiots?” you smile sarcastically, and Tony just waves you off.

Steve frowns as he watches you leave with an ugly feeling of jealousy bubbling underneath his skin, he glares at the counter in front of him before his anger is interrupted by Tony’s voice floating through the silent room.

“You know, you were her boss once” he remarks, after he had comforted you as you sobbed in his arms, he had been particularly harsh and unwelcoming to Steve even though you had spoken to him about Steve trying to work whatever your relationship with him was.

“I’m aware” Steve responds as he grits his teeth whilst fighting the urge to break the granite counter under his fingertips. He scoots his chair out as he makes his way to ask Bucky to train with him, he’s got some anger to work out and Bucky is realistically the only person that could handle his full super soldier strength pummeling at them.

You had successfully set a meeting time to go over your contract with Billy with his current personal assistant since she’d be taking her maternity leave in the next couple of weeks.  Your mind had kept wondering to Steve’s reaction to you getting a new job, you understood his jealousy all too well since that wasn’t even the beginning of your deep-rooted jealousy and insecurities that affected you by Steve’s relationship with Sharon.

Still, you knew that it was no longer your responsibility to worry about his own emotions and how he coped with them. You no longer felt complied to comfort him whenever you saw his sorrowful longing gaze towards you whenever you walked into a room, or when hurt and pain flashes through his gaze whenever you referred to him as ‘Rogers’ in front of the others.

Meanwhile in the training room, instead of focusing on the hand-to-hand combat Steve had asked Bucky to help him with, he was basically interrogating his friend.

“What do you know about some guy called Billy Russo?” Steve panted as he tried to dodge Bucky’s jabs as he moves swiftly and quickly around the mat.

“Not much mate, just that he’s stinking rich for his age- hey! stop fucking jumping around like a goddamn bunny punk” Bucky huffs out at Steves insistent buoyancy.

“I’m just light on my feet!” Steve defends.

“Yeah, if you were on a fucking bouncy castle” Bucky rolls his eyes and winces as he doesn’t dodge Steve’s punch in time.

“Is he good looking?” Steve asks and Bucky has to pause to look at his friend with a weird expression. Steve just stands there with a serious expression and widens his eyes as if to say go on.

“Sure pal, the dude’s good looking, he was in that fuckin Forbes magazine for Millionaires under 30” Bucky says and watches as Steve loses focus, Bucky aims for his weak spot on his right shoulder and watches as his best friend collapses onto the mat, out of breath.

“What’s with all the questions punk?” Bucky frowns as he holds his hand out for Steve to take and as he pulls him up, he watches as his friend’s winces at the question.

“Y/N is going to work for him” Steve says and Bucky nods with a pitying smile on his face that Steve hates. He doesn’t want pity, he wants to fix this, except he doesn’t know how.

You’ve never looked better the past couple of weeks after yours and Steve’s separation, it’s almost as Steve was constantly sucking the life out of you and now you looked just as good as the first day, he met you.

He hates the idea of you going out into public and working under someone else just for someone to see what he once saw in you, now that he knew that you were unattainable for him at the current time but attainable for people like Billy fuckin Russo made him feel closer to possessive and feral than he’s ever felt.

“Then we’ve got work to do mate” Bucky slaps a hand on his shoulder as he maneuvers him out of, the room, chatting away about a plan to win y/n back. Steve is hardly listening and is planning to kill Billy Russo in 300 different ways before he’s even able to think about having a chance with you.

[ishanijasmin]

the 4 horsemen of adulthood

on monday, i consumed a sainsbury’s meal deal and two cream and jam scones and forgot to drink any water until 10pm. or i didn’t so much forget as think, ‘i’m thirsty’ and then just not do tanything about it—i literally don’t know why. i explained it to three separate people today and they were all like, ‘yep, makes sense.’ ??? does it???

it’s been a long time since my self-neglect hit critical mass like that; i went to bed queasy and woke up with a headache and a bunch of my clothes from yesterday heaped in a corner because i’m nearly 30 and i can’t just not drink water for an entire day anymore without feeling it. i have to identify as nearly 30 so that when i turn 30 in six months i’m not hit with whiplash.

i remember being 15 and staying up til 3am talking to my tumblr friends in america. i remember chugging four shots one after the other and then having the time of my life as fast as possible. i remember not stretching, not wearing spf, not being worried about needing a coat. no longer! ageing is just coming to terms with the fact that you do, in fact, have needs, one essential after the next. sleep, sunlight, movement, water: the four horsemen of being an adult, shortening telomeres and all.

someone reading this might think, ‘hmm, sounds like you’re depressed.’ maybe! this year i’ve been in and out of depressive phases, of varying lengths of time—a few days to a week, usually, but sometimes a bit longer. i think part of this is that i never seem to be able to come to terms with who i am. i’m permanently in a mix of white knuckling my own life and holding it together for fear that i might explode.

this year i bought an apartment. i quit a job that was my dream, because having autonomy and not being controlled and condescended to at work mattered more to me than being purpose-driven in the end. i founded a choir, recorded an album, became a trustee, was featured in an exhibition, and went on a bunch of trips. i pulled the rug out from under myself over and over again just to feel like i was alive.

i often feel i am watching myself as a marionette, and big me is poking and prodding little puppet me with a stick, chanting, ‘change! change! change!’ just to see what happens. because i don’t know what happens. now she moves house! now she quits her job! now she starts using different pronouns! now they’ve signed up for a year long pottery class! what will they do next?! who will they become? who are they becoming right now?

a lot of things are scary and i do them anyway because i believe in jumping out of my comfort zone (me, prodding the puppet self with a cattle prod: ‘change! change! change!’). things like showing up, putting myself out there, holding space, reaching out, sending an email, public speaking—they’re the choices i make to have control over my world and my selfhood, even if they do make it feel scarier. it’s not always so deliberate—usually it’s ending something that’s no good for you anymore, which is sad, and feels forced, but choice is change as a process, not as a one off.

and if that weren’t enough, everything is so fast and so slow at the same time! the days are long, the years are short. the days are long. i don’t have much in the way of routine, which theoretically means that i probably experience less time dilation than average. i would be lying if i said the presence of a nine to five actually made me feel better, because i remember being in it, and it didn’t, but it stopped me from feeling like i am metamorphosing at light speed.

that’s the journey, and embracing it (or if not, at least holding on). from the outside, it’s sitting on the couch, going to a museum, eating a pastry for breakfast not because i can but because i can’t think of an alternative, doing admin, catching a friend for a walk, going to the charity shop and leaving empty handed, picking up a prescription, watching 3 minutes of schitt’s creek at a time, bleaching every orifice in your home to stave off fruit flies. from the inside? it’s the wildest ride. let us take a step back, look at our puppet selves, and let them breathe for a hot minute, because change is gonna come, ready or not.

[blueper-saiyan]

I’m overanalyzing something that’s canonically not meant to be thought about, for fun, so here’s a speculative Saiyan biology question: how often do they actually need to eat? I’ve sort of joked about the possibility that it’s like large predators irl where they gorge themselves occasionally and then wait until the next big kill. This would balance out the amount they’re eating to closer to a normal human, just a surprising amount in one sitting, and dodge the thing I’m about to go off the deep end about. But I think they’re probably supposed to need that amount frequently? Which is like, rodent levels of frequency and portions, but unlike a small mammal, a huge amount of actual food consumed. It’s fine if there’s only a handful of Saiyans on a whole planet but how did that work when there was a lot of them? That’s a massive amount of food, where is it coming from? Are they mostly feeding their army by taking food from conquered planets? They’d still need to be producing enough for their homeworld. Is it being farmed automatically and that’s how they can have the majority of their whole species be soldiers? But like, Gine has a job processing meat, so it’s clearly not entirely automated. Stuck thinking about Saiyan agricultural production and supply logistics help.

Unfortunately, I can also say that almost immediately after finding out the amount that Saiyans eat, the back of my mind did jump to “how fast do they starve?” Like, is that a much bigger threat for them than a human or do they have about the same amount of reserves, even if they’re eating more? If it is way faster, how does that affect how they view food/hunger? As a fun irl example, hummingbirds have such an insane metabolism that they would potentially starve to death if they slept at night. So they don’t sleep like normal, they enter a state that’s more like hibernation to slow their metabolism down enough to survive. Many hummingbird species are fiercely territorial because they need access to their food source or they starve. I imagine a theoretical hummingbird society would be thinking about food differently. And because this is my indulgent post where I get to talk about animals, I’m also going to bring up vampire bats, which could also potentially starve if they can’t feed within two days or so (I did not go deep into scientific literature to find original numbers and sources for this estimate I’m sorry true bat fans. Actually same goes for the hummingbird estimate but I know more about birds.). Unlike the more territorial hummingbirds though, vampire bats roost together during the day in colonies, with the same other bats repeatedly. And their food source can’t be guarded like a flower patch can, so there’s less purpose to territoriality. So they can form long term friendships with each other by interacting in ways like grooming each other. Within these friendships, when one bat gets a meal during their few-hour-a-night feeding window, but the other one doesn’t, the one who got enough food will often share with their friend to keep them from going hungry. Then their friend returns the favor when their roles are reversed, keeping them both alive, along with the rest of their friend network.

So those are some very different responses to needing food nearly constantly. If I were deeper in ecology mode I could probably try and come up with explanations based on the types of food source and territory and other factors for why, but I’m here to apply this to Saiyans lol. Honestly, a cooperative strategy would make more sense given that they’re pretty human-like, but that’s certainly not the sense we get given of their society. Were they always super individualistic or is that a recent development? Are they even actually individualistic or is that fully a societal role thing (elites are different from lower class warriors)? Or is the idea that they don’t cooperate partly a lie made up after their deaths anyway? Speculative biology for intelligent species get the extra layer of culture just to make things more messy and fun. We also know pretty much nothing about their original home planet and the actual context that shaped them, so I don’t get to apply other factors, like how easy it is to defend food sources or how important it is to stick together. We probably won’t ever get to know anything more about their original homeworld/Sadala, which is disappointing given that we got hints about it, but it does leave more room for speculation.

[byunbhyunz]

Lee Know - “Can you please get off of me?”

Pairing: Minho/Reader

Genre: fluff, sliceoflife!au, boyfriend!Minho

Word count: 686

Prompt: “Can you please get off of me?”

Lee Minho knew how he took your breath away even after months of dating. He loved to make you flustered and breathless, and it didn’t really matter to him how he reached his goal. Sometimes he did it in a pleasant way (like looking deep into your eyes for a long time with being so close to you that your noses almost touched), or a not so pleasant one, like how he did it now.

He flopped down on top of you, while you were lying on the couch watching a rerun of a drama, instantly pushing the air out of your lungs. You grunted in discomfort, trying to push him off of you, but he didn’t even budge.

“Minho,” you whined, lips forming a pout for a faster convincing. “Get off of me.”

“Y/N,” he copied your tone, and he lifted his head from your neck to look at you closely. This time it wasn’t taking your breath away, because you could literally barely breath. “No. I like it here.”

“But I don’t, Minho, and I can’t even breath.”

“You are talking, therefore you can breath.”

With that, he put his head back to your neck, as if he just did an amazing job with reasoning his behavior. You didn’t fail to notice his soft lips touching your skin for a second, placing a peck on your jaw, then acting like nothing happened, only shuffling a little to get more comfortable. You shivered from the kiss, wishing he would cuddle you instead of lying on top of you, crushing you in the process.

“Can you please get off of me?” You tried again with a sweet voice. You heard some action sounds and shouting from the TV, but couldn’t turn your head enough to see it. You were willing to do anything to get him roll off of you.

“Well, since you asked so nicely… no.”

“But, baby…” you said cutely, and he hissed at that. You just smiled, knowing that winning him over was close. He always pretended not to like aegyo or cute things in general. Hell, he even hated it from his dongsaengs, the only exception seemed to be Jeongin. And you. Yes, he might have frowned and said not to do that again when you did something cute, but in a few seconds afterwards he would give you kisses or smiled at you as if you put the sun on the horizon, so it definitely worth it. “We could cuddle properly, and I would get to watch my drama.”

“We are cuddling.”

“It’s not cuddling when you are squeezing me to a very early death.”

“We have very different opinions about cuddling, huh? Isn’t it enough to be so close to my precious being?”

“I’d enjoy it more without being suffocated. Seriously, baby…”

“Fine,” he cut in with a scoff. “But you’ll be the big spoon.”

“And you are the knife.”

You stick out your tongue at him, when he finally lifted himself off of you. He didn’t go that far away, just enough for you to climb up on the couch, making room for him in front of you. Making you straighten your arm, he put his head on it. Hugging him by his waist you buried your face in his hair. Sighing in content, his sandalwood-like scent made you close your eyes. Moving his head around a little, he placed a kiss to the crook of your arm, then another, before saying:

“I thought you wanted to watch your drama.”

“It’s a rerun. I already saw it.”

He groaned, but didn’t say anything only shuffled closer to you, pressing you to the back of the couch, his butt pushing into your stomach. He grabbed your hand, squeezed it lightly.

Later, you heard his breathing slow down, getting even as he fell asleep. You smiled to yourself, knowing that in a few minutes a whole another conversation will start with a sleeping Minho, who was famous of talking nonsense while dreaming.

Pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades, you tried to fall asleep too to the sound of his breathing.

[muzaktomyears]

Only one happening – there is no other word for it – ever slowed the long procession of girls to our den of iniquity: it was ‘The Thing’, and it was George Harrison’s fault. One night, after some excessive drinking along with the rest of us, he was sick on the floor at the side of his bed. This was nothing terribly unusual after a skinful; it was typical of us all. What was different was that next morning he left the mess for the cleaning lady to deal with. She protested that it was not part of her daily duties and it could stay where it was. The trouble was, George decided it wasn’t his duty either and she stormed off in the direction of Herr Weissleder in a Teutonic rage. It wasn’t the first time she had complained about the untidy Beatles, whose sweaty socks, discarded clothing, bottles and other items usually littered the place. This fresh contribution from George was the last straw. In an effort to placate the old lady, Weissleder despatched Horst Fascher to our quarters with an order to George to remove the offending vomit himself. But George became really shirty. It wasn’t his job, it could stay where it was for all he cared, even though he had to climb over it to get into bed. None of this was really typical of George. He rarely involved himself in any sort of argument and was always much quieter than the rest of us in those formative days and, because he was the youngest Beatle, we all tended to look on him as the baby. We never let him forget, for instance, that he had been kicked out of Germany for being too young and taunted him with such gibes as “Still in nappies, weren’t you?” Even some of the fans treated him as a baby. German girls would shout Liebschen Kind! (lovely child) at him and he wouldn’t mind at all. He always wore a sly grin and had a twinkle in his eyes, perhaps because many of the birds wanted to mother him, which he let them do. Not that he was any kind of ‘softie’, despite his stature (only Stu had been smaller). He would have a go in a rumpus. And he had a streak of obstinacy which came to the fore now, as he categorically refused to clear up the mess at his bedside. So the pile of vomit remained. And it began to grow, and grow, mushrooming and taking on a life of its own. Cigarettes were crushed in it, bits of food fed to it, until it assumed the look of a hedgehog; we christened it The Thing. When members of other groups visited us in the flat they took to giving it the occasional drink. Its fame spread and people wanted to come and see it. For a time food and drink seemed to beautify The Thing and it blossomed like a miniature flower garden. It measured something like six inches in diameter. But its beauty was short-lived, and it began to grow hideous. “I’m frightened to sleep,” George remarked one night, “in case it eats me”. The Thing began to pong as well, but it was George’s baby and somehow we had grown to love it as a pet, despite its wretched origins. After its fame spread Horst arrived one morning to inspect it. He thought it was a disgusting sight: he was right, of course. He left, returning with a shovel; the end, we knew, was nigh. “Hey! Don’t do that! That’s our pet,” we chorused. Horst was not the sort of man to be put off by mere cries of affection for the squalid Thing. He scooped it up on his shovel and led the way with it out on to the Grosse Freiheit while we followed behind him, solemnly chanting the Dead March. The beloved Thing was given a swift burial in a street bin and, only after it had gone to its eternal reward did the cleaner reappear to try to make the flat look fit for human habitation once more. And in the end, it had been something of a minor victory for George: someone else had had to do the dirty work after all.

Beatle! The Pete Best Story, Pete Best and Patrick Doncaster (1985)

[saintjosie]

I'm gonna jump in the discourse lol, I don't pass as a trans woman and I don't think I'll care to. But demilypyro was advocating for living as your best self, she happens to be in a country that funded her transition? But other than that she's like poor too. Idk it feels like everyone's just looking for trouble because she was responding to hate with snark

okay people really don’t get this so i’m gonna tell y’all a story. my story.

i’m a trans woman with a fuckload of privilege. i’m pretty, i’m passing, and i have a platform, but most importantly, i had the privilege of starting my transition when i was financially stable on my own in largely supportive environments. and i recognize these things now but i didn’t always.

i started my transition in may of 2020, during the height of lockdown. and at that time, i was working a cushy corporate salaried desk job with full benefits which included both therapy and gender affirming care. i got on hrt quickly, and because of good genes, because masculine asian features are regarded as feminine in western beauty standards, because i’m really fucking good at makeup, and because i was working from home and there was no where to go, i was able to stop boymoding by october of 2020, about 6 months after i started hrt.

and then around that same time, i had another stroke of luck. i made a tiktok about coming out at work, which i did in the most extra way imaginable, and that tiktok went viral. it got 300k views and overnight i went from having 150 followers on tiktok to several thousand. and a less than a year later, that grew to 100k.

that year was rough as hell. i transitioned during a time where going out into the world to find community was impossible. and i lost my job. and i got divorced. and i cut out my family. and because of all of that, i felt like i was doing better than a lot of other trans people. cause i was facing hardships and still doing incredible.

but even so, i was longing for community that would validate and accept me the way that i was validated and accepted online. and so over the next year, i moved across the country three times, something i was able to do only because i was able to afford it

during that year i finally started to get out and meet queer people as the pandemic slowed down. and as i connected with queer and trans people in varying stages on their own journey, i realized the enormous privilege of being able to transition, afford therapy, afford my meds, afford moving to a place where i could find community. i wasn’t just “better at being trans”, i was just luckier than most.

being able to accept being trans is so dependent on having the support structure around you to process what you are feeling. being able to socially transition is dependent on having the people around you who will accept your identity and being in a place where you are able to do so safely. being able to medically transition is dependent on having the physical health and financial stability to do so.

privilege is something that needs to be constantly dismantled within our community because privilege is the main weapon that is used to oppress us.

the fact that this demily person made a snide sarcastic comment doesn’t change the fact that she sought out a person without a following to shit on someone without a following. the inherent privilege of saying something like, “i’m better at being trans” even if she didn’t mean it seriously, shows that she doesn’t recognize the privilege of being in a place where you can learn to accept yourself.

and on top of all that because she’s a person with a following and a platform, the danger of that kind of thinking compounds and is worth calling out.

i’m not misunderstanding her intentions or the context.

you are misunderstanding privilege.