#the rituals are strange and intricate

[ehghtyseven]

please have this video of jeff petry doing whatever this is to pojo during warmups

[micahdotgov]

[i-just-want-to-destroy]

these spies have crazy interpersonal relationships im so invested

[rouzys]

every time i post about having superstitions and weird rituals im like thats so sidney crosby of me. cant talk to his family on game days lookin ass. made his entire personality and also salary for the last 15 years revolve around being born on 8/7 lookin ass

[letania]

“The world is always bleeding. And you never know what is going on under people’s skin. I think it’s only when we reach out to each other, that we understand what compassion and beauty we are capable of as human beings. Even if we can’t understand what people are going through: we should still try. If we don’t, what is a life truly worth? Sometimes addressing the pain, your own, or the pain of the world hurts so much it feels like dying. But in truth, I believe it is then we are born. Your blood. My blood. Our blood.”

-AURORA

[angstandhappiness]

INTERESTING

hc that Clark doesn’t get the human instinct/reaction of a gut feeling or the hairs standing up on the back of your neck since he’s Kryptonian, so sometimes Bruce just freezes up and says “something’s wrong” and Clark resigns himself to it like ah yes, that weird human thing again and is baffled when 99% of the time Bruce’s gut is absolutely right

[tiredandunfortunate]

I don’t support police or prison abolition (I’m a reformist) but I am intimately familiar with many of the cops in police abolitionists’ heads and I would like to not be

If you think stricter social taboos will prevent crime you are not an abolitionist, you are a Victorian

[samaraxmorgan]

Your Roommate Sukuna

“That Time His Older Brother Gave Him A Tarot Reading”

Modern no curse AU, Sukuna X Reader

Synopsis: This housing crisis sure is no joke huh? Rent is just too expensive to live alone, so you put out a listing for a roommate and ended up living with none other than the tattooed bad boy Ryomen Sukuna! This is part of a series of drabbles and oneshots showing glimpses into you and Sukuna’s living situation!!

Contains: brothers au, pure fluff, reader is not present, Sukuna is pining hard

Word Count: 1.26k

Series Masterlist - My Full Masterlist

Sukuna isn’t one to make time for his family. Although he has an identical twin brother who bothers him far too much for his liking and an older half brother, he almost never talks about them and spends even less time talking too them. But today he was feeling nice… which is strange for him, but regardless, he decided to agree to come by his brothers’ apartment.

And was quickly reminded of why he never comes over.

Sukuna was seated on the antique couch while Choso kneeled in front of the coffee table between them, flickering candles on every surface bathing the living room in a soft warm glow and reflecting on the shiny surfaces of the crystals placed meticulously all over the table. Choso opened up a small black box, pulling intricately designed tarot cards from inside and fanning them between his fingers before spreading them face down across the table.

Sukuna really was trying not to roll his eyes at the whole ordeal, but the man can only take so much before he’s bound to cave, “This is so stupid.”

“Shh…” Choso leans forward and presses his finger over Sukuna’s lips.

“Don’t touch me.” He grumbles.

“Shut up,” Choso loses his calm demeanor for only a second before he’s closing his eyes again, “I’m focusing.”

“On what?”

“I’m tuning in…” He wiggles his fingers over the cards, “to the energies.”

“Jesus fucking christ.” Sukuna rubs his temples, “When did you start doing this witchcraft shit again?”

“Not witchcraft,” Choso peeks one eye open to shoot a quick glare at his brother, “And yesterday.”

“Oh you’re a real professional huh?” He smirks down at him.

“Sukuna,” His shoulders slump and he lets out a frustrated huff, “Just, fucking shut up.”

The two of them squint as the lights suddenly flick on, Yuuji not quite getting the memo of what’s going on downstairs as he leans his head over the stair railing to peek into the living room, “Ooh, how’s the satanic ritual going?” He calls out from the stairway.

“Yuuji!” The two of them call out in unison. He lets out a little “Oops” and flicks the light back off, running back to his room upstairs.

Choso rubs his eyes, smudging his eyeliner onto his fingers, “Okay just, pick a card.”

Sukuna huffs out an annoyed breath, reaching forward and tapping his pointer finger on one of the cards in the middle. Choso slides the card down in front of Sukuna and flips it over, revealing an upside down picture of a man sitting upright in a bed with his head in his hands and swords neatly stacked on the wall behind him.

“Oh, interesting.” Choso mumbles.

“The fuck is he crying about?” Sukuna leans down and squints at the card on the table, “It’s upside down.”

“It’s reversed,” Choso clarifies, “The nine of swords reversed.”

“Choso, I don’t know what the hell that means.”

The long haired man sits up a little straighter, pointing at the card with a manicured finger, “This first card is your past. The next will be the present, and the last will be your future.” He picks the card up and scans it carefully, “You were… struggling, alone, not one to talk to others even when you need to-“

“What is this fuckin’ therapy?”

Choso groans and rolls his eyes, “God knows you need it, but no. Anyway,” He clears his throat, “You were in a downward spiral, but this is past tense, clearly you’re more open now considering,” He gestures vaguely around the room, “Well, you’re here for once.”

Sukuna is visibly annoyed, not a fan of being picked and prodded at. Choso places the card back down on the table, gesturing for Sukuna to pick another one, which to Choso’s surprise and for Sukuna’s morbid curiosity, he does; tapping his finger on a card pushed to the side of the table.

Choso flips the card over, and once again, it's upside down. It pictures a man sitting cross crossed in front of a tree, three golden goblets on the grass in front of him and a fourth being given to him from a disembodied hand floating next to him.

He’s really fuckin’ bad at organizing his cards.

Choso’s gaze flickers between Sukuna and the card, his brows furrowed in thought so clearly that you could almost see cogs turning behind his eyes, “Four of cups… reversed.”

“The hell does reversed mean?”

“It’s usually a negative version of the card’s meaning.”

Sukuna scoffs, “Oh fuckin’ lovely.”

Choso props his elbow onto the table, tracing the outline of the card with his finger, “You’re withdrawing-“

“Well yeah. No shit,” Sukuna cuts him off, “You’re telling me I’m cursed. What’s the damn card mean?”

“That is what the card means, idiot. You’re reluctant to open up to someone.”

Sukuna leans back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Choso shrugs, “Maybe the future card will clarify.”

“Absolutely not.” He huffs. Choso looks up at him with confusion, “I told you this was stupid, I’m not picking another.”

The light flicks on once again, Sukuna groans at the sound of Yuuji’s voice yelling from the stairway, “Sounds like someone’s a fucking pussy!”

“Yuuji, quit eavesdropping or I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out.”

The light flicks back off.

Choso looks up at Sukuna expectantly, and after glaring down at him for a moment he breaks, rolling his eyes and flipping over a random card, “If it’s upside down I swear to fucking god-“

“Oh shit!”

“What?” Sukuna sounds almost startled, looking down at the card he sees that this one is upright; picturing a naked man and woman standing in front of some kind of angel. But he’s quickly able to gather the most damning part of the card.

The bottom of the card says “The Lovers.”

“Oh fuck off.”

A smile spreads across Choso’s face, “I don’t think I need to explain this one to you. And it’s not upside down.”

“Reversed.” Sukuna mockingly clarifies.

“Shut up,” Choso leans forward, grin still plastered on his lips, “Who is it?”

“It’s nobody, this shit isn’t real.” Sukuna scowls, but deep down he’s glad the room is so dark to hide the tint in his cheeks.

It’s not fucking real idiot. Stop it.

“How about this,” Choso clasps his hands together, looking up towards the ceiling, “If this shit is real, give us a sign.”

Yuuji flickers the lights.

“No! Stop interfering, this is serious!” Choso yells out towards the stairway.

But Sukuna’s blood runs cold as his phone buzzes in his pocket, quiet enough that no one could hear, but he could feel it.

It’s not real.

The room is silent for a moment as Choso scans for any type of sign, but it’s as if the world had completely stopped turning, not even the candles were flickering. Choso plops his head onto the coffee table, mumbling under his breath, “I don’t know why I thought that would work.”

“Mhm.” Sukuna hums, putting up a disinterested front as he pulls his phone from his pocket, “Can we watch a movie or something now like a normal family?”

Choso defeatedly blows out the candles, collecting his crystals and placing his tarot cards neatly back into the box, “Fine, fine, but I still think it’s real.”

Sukuna’s heart nearly stops beating when he unlocks his phone and sees a text from you, “If u leave dirty dishes in the sink one more time I’m actually gonna kill u in your sleep.”

God I hope it’s fucking real.

A/N: Family bonding time has never been so awkward, anyway here’s that time Sukuna started to believe in magic, or witchcraft, or anything if it means you like him as much as he likes you. Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!

[girlkisser13]

being married to agatha harkness would include

• as a witch who has been around for hundreds of years, she has an odd fascination with ordinary beings, cherishing the small moments— like the two of you making dinner together or enjoying a night out.

• the two of you live in a small cottage, but have a MASSIVE garden.

• she’s always picking up new plants and seeds and helping you plant them.

• agatha's sharp wit would keep things lively. you’d enjoy playful banter, with inside jokes and teasing that reflect her strong personality and sense of humor.

• she doesn’t really own a lot of clothes, preferring to wear one outfit for a thousand years before switching to another. however, she knows many intricate hairstyles that she loves to try out on you.

• as a result, your hair always looks great.

• agatha would enjoy winding down with you through relaxing rituals, like candle-lit baths infused with herbs or stargazing while discussing the universe's secrets.

• she’d always have your back, encouraging you to embrace your own power and creativity, whether that’s through magic or other passions.

• you might find yourselves going on time-traveling escapades, experiencing different eras and cultures while navigating the complexities of history.

• your home would be filled with magical artifacts, quirky decor, and plenty of enchanted plants, creating a cozy yet mysterious atmosphere.

• agatha’s adventurous spirit would lead to spontaneous trips to magical realms or historical events, where you’d learn firsthand about magic’s influence throughout time.

• you’d have a vast library filled with rare books and scrolls, where you both spend hours lost in stories, research, or planning your next magical venture.

• it’s adorable how seriously she takes the study and craft of magic, yet she often uses her powers for the most mundane things— like getting your attention or playfully teasing you.

• agatha completely dotes on you; anything you desire, she’ll find a way to make it happen.

• when you’re having a bad day, she stops everything to ensure you’re okay, often bringing you tea and settling in for a cozy movie night on the couch until you drift off to sleep.

• she’s promised never to use her powers on you without your consent, and while it’s tough for her to see you upset, she sticks to her word and supports you in ordinary, non-magical ways.

• the two share SOO many baths together !!

• the moment you enter the bathroom, agatha's beautiful laughter fills the air, and before you can even undress, she pulls you into the warm bubble bath beside her.

• the scent of lavender envelops you as you splutter from the water, and her hands pull you close, cradling you against her chest.

• she loves to playfully pretend to trip just so you’ll rush over to catch her, relishing the flustered look on your face. but you find ways to get back at her, too.

• when you call her your wife, you can’t help but notice the deep blush spreading across her face. even after all this time, that one word makes her heart flutter.

• she LOVES cuddling with you, wrapping a leg around your waist to pin you down, making it impossible to escape her warmth. soft whines escape her lips as you wiggle around, but once you flip over to face her, you press a gentle kiss against her mouth until her breathing settles.

• she loves to run her fingers through your hair, always finding ways to be physically affectionate.

• if you’re around, she can’t help but touch you— whether it’s holding your hand, resting a hand on your waist, or giving you hugs.

• the moment you see her, you instinctively reach for her, and she always blushes when you initiate contact.

• after facing the heartbreak and loneliness from her mother, it comforts her to know that some invisible string ties her soul to yours. no matter what happens or where she goes in this strange world, a part of her will always find its way back to you. <33

[ive-been-timebombed]

Part one

Danny is the daddy! And king- same thing.

Summoning rituals are the absolute worst. It happens too often and always ends up with one too many bruises.

Red Hood shifted on his knees and pulled at the rope that held his arms behind his back. He looked to Nightwing who was to the right of him in a similar situation only with more rope and tighter knots, he kept escaping so the cultists improvised. Red Hood looked back to the main excitement in the room and rolled his eyes at the idiotic scene.

A big circle of intricate lines and displays of many items. There were five displays, which Jason can only assume were offerings, one had a bag of food that looked similar to batburger. The second had what looked like a child’s school project on the solar system. The third held a map and a.. baby’s doll.? Jesus, what is this idiot summoning? The fourth was of a bright green liquid... Lazarus Pits? It was brighter than the actual pits and looked cleaner. Not to mention the bubbling was also missing from the vile of the pits. The last was a plant and a bag of sand... Jason gave up on trying to understand whatever the hell the fugly dude was trying to summon.

Speaking of.. the man that was scurrying around the circle looking at it making sure everything was good. He looked insane, with almost bright blue skin, black hair, and cultist-type robes. Not to mention the slight transparency of the man. Jason decided his name was gonna be Wickham.

“Oh finally! I’ll get to summon my king to this blasted world” Wickham stepped back from his summoning circle with a wicked grin, “If only my king didn’t have such strange needs to be summoned..” Wickham looked over to the vigilantes and moved in front of them his hands folding behind his back

“I guess you guys don’t know what I’m summoning do y’all?” Oh great.. he’s about to go on a rant.. “Don’t worry! You’ll find out soon!” Wickham turned to his circle again and stood in front of it. He got down to his knees bowing his head and bringing his hands together. He started to speak, a language Jason had never heard, and by the sounds of it neither had Dick.

The circle started to glow the Lazarus green. Jason felt like he couldn’t breathe. The weight of the ritual was suffocating, and despite feeling like he could grasp Wickham's words, they remained nonsensical.

Strangely enough, Jason couldn’t understand what he was feeling. It felt like longing for something that he never had.. like a warm hug from his father, Willis. He could feel excitement and yearning for the green to overcome the room and cover him in the comfort of.. the distant memory of singing and the cold of a rooftop.

_______________

Despite what many had assumed of Danny, he quite enjoyed the summonings. They weren’t too often and gave him an excuse to leave his boring meetings. When he felt the pull of a summons he grinned and waved to the idiot ghosts that were arguing in front of him and disappeared.

He opened his eyes seeing the usual scene of his summonings.. ignoring the strangely dressed mortals that were tied up near the wall.

“King of the Infinite Realms, Ancient of space and the unknown, Defeater of Pariah Dark, Honored of the Far Frozen, Knight of-“ The summoner listed off. Danny sighed he should really get rid of most of the titles..

“Blah- Blah- Blah. What do you want, Mortal..”Danny asked looking down at the summoner and hesitated at the end seeing the slight transparency of him..

The summoner stopped speaking and bowed further to the ground, “My King! I ask that you cleanse this cursed world and take it for your own! With me as your trust-“ Danny once again interrupted

“I’m good, already own this dimension. It’s only one of the infinite-“ Danny groaned before he froze.. this dimension.. it was his home dimension. The very same he was born in and dead. The same he protected with his undead life when ghosts invaded his town.. The same he left his child in to live in..

“My liege?” The summoner spoke up hesitantly glancing up at the halfa.

Danny didn’t bother to acknowledge the mortal. He was to distracted by the small very similar essence to his own only a few steps away. He looked to the tied up mortals and stared at the one that had a red helmet. The red helmet stared back his core begging for help and the support of its paternal core essence.

When Danny was first introduced to the idea of being king he was put in lessons by the many leaders around the realms. First was with Frostbite, the Leader of the Far Frozen, who taught him the biology and science behind ghost. Embarrassingly, he also had to sit through the sex talk once again. But from what he was taught when a ghost has a child or Ling short for Ghostling. That Ling would be connected to its parents or parent for ectoplasm as it would be to young to absorb ectoplasm on its own. The steady stream of ectoplasm would be used to power the young ghostlings core and nurture it to start absorbing ectoplasm on its own. The connection also helped the parent when they needed the location of their ling or just wanted to check up on them. The connection was like a cellphone that only connected to the child to the parent. It told them the location, needs, even if the Ling needed extra ectoplasm. It could be used for a call to come or even a scream for help.

When Danny was younger he had a kid.. the baby was an accident that he didn’t know about till it was left on his doorstep with a letter saying it was his. He called the kid his Baby JayJay short for Jason. He couldn’t feel a core inside the child so he assumed that Jay didn’t inherit his ghostly habits. So he didn’t form the connection between their cores, he didn’t want to hurt the still living soul of his baby by feeding it unneeded ectoplasm. Danny couldn’t stay in his dimension however.. due to the active laws against his kind. And he didn’t want to drag his child into something he didn’t need to be apart of. So he forced down his core wants and said goodbye to his baby JayJay. Then left for the infinite realms to be crowned and ever wondering what happened to his baby.

_________________

Jason couldn’t describe the feeling when he saw the being Wickham had summon finally appear.

It was a human body despite the many not human things. Their hair was a snow white and their eyes glowed a bright green. The clothes they wore had similarities of kings clothing it was a black with gold accents and a star covered cape. The cape floated like it went beyond gravity which Jason assume it did. The man had sharp canines and pointed ears. His hair floated similar to his cape, defying gravity. The feet of the being faded to invisible as it reached the floor. The glowing green flickering off to blue crown on the beings head drooped back a the being landed on the ground.

“King of the Infinite Realms, Ancient of space and the unknown, Defeater of Pariah Dark, Honored of the Far Frozen, Knight of-“ Wickham started before being interrupted by the being.. King Phantom?

“Blah- Blah- Blah. What do you want, Mortal..” The kings voice was echoey and smooth, Jason swore he heard the voice before.

“My King! I ask that you cleanse this cursed world and take it for your own! With me as your trust-“ Do Wickham was a stereotypical cultist. Only wanting one thing that will likely never gain. The being interrupted him again.

“I’m good, already own this dimension. It’s only one of the infinite-“ The king rolled their eyes before they froze their voice stopping with them. They were looking off into the distance so Jason could only guess the being realized something.

Wickhams voice felt muffled when Jason heard him as the being looked straight at him and Jason stared back.

[admiringlove]

growing pains. hello everybody. welcome to the second rendition of @angstober 2024! i hope you enjoy <3

kageyama tobio was a cute kid.

he moved in when you were just three. back then, your days were filled with learning big words, your mother patiently guiding you through children's books, when suddenly, a boy with an oversized, odd-looking ball came into your world. his hair was parted right down the middle, and every day, he’d be out in the yard, chasing after that strange ball with his grandfather, completely obsessed.

you were six when he first said hello. it took him two and a half years to work up the courage, and all because that ridiculous ball of his ended up in your front yard. without asking, he came through the gate, eyes wide with panic, just as you were about to head to the park.

“who are you?” you’d asked, head tilted with curiosity, and he’d stammered out his name like he’d been caught red-handed in a burglary. then, of course, you had to ask about the ball—bigger than his head. what was the deal with that? “it’s a volleyball,” he’d mumbled, and from that moment on, the two of you were intertwined, like a mystery waiting to unfold.

for the next ten years, kageyama tobio became your favorite puzzle. you chased after him like someone chasing a wild animal, half playfully, half determined. at first, it was a game—like you were sherlock and he, your elusive moriarty. your mother had always read you detective stories before bed, so solving the enigma that was kageyama seemed only natural.

when he turned seven, he found you in his front yard, peering through a magnifying glass, completely absorbed in your detective work. for an entire week, the two of you played with that thing, examining ants at the park, squinting at the pen strokes his father made in his books. eventually, he got bored. but you didn’t. no, you kept staring—sometimes at the world, but often at him.

you never tired of anything, especially not of him. you wanted to know more, to know everything. curiosity overflowed within you, spilling out like an unsolvable riddle. and you know what they say—curiosity killed the cat.

because it wasn’t just the world you wanted to uncover, not really. it was kageyama tobio. he was the one who truly fascinated you. when you learned in fifth grade that he had a soft spot for flavored milk, that was it. it became your little tradition. every so often, you’d head to the vending machine, and without fail, you’d grab him a drink—banana or strawberry, depending on the day. in return, he’d hand you the chips his mother packed in his lunch, like an unspoken exchange, as familiar as breathing. if it were up to him, it would always be strawberry.

and that’s how it was, the two of you orbiting each other like planets—his world of volleyball, your world of endless curiosity. playful, magnetic, bound together by rituals only you two understood.

you turned eleven and discovered that liking boys was a real thing. at first, the thought repulsed you; all you wanted was to bury yourself in the pages of sherlock holmes and pretend to play volleyball with kageyama. he was a prodigy, after all, dazzling everyone with his skills. kids from other districts flocked to watch him, enchanted by his talent. thankfully, he hadn’t yet transformed into an absolute twat; his ego was still catching up with him, lingering just out of reach.

“tobio,” you said one day, scrutinizing him as he carelessly set the ball near the riverbank. your gaze was fixed on the tips of his fingers, studying them as if they were an intricate puzzle waiting to be solved. he paused, turning to face you with a look of curiosity. “don’t your fingers hurt?”

“eh?” he replied, shuffling closer. with a flick of his wrist, he held out his hand toward you. “you mean this?”

the eleven-year-old boy displayed a myriad of calluses on his hands, more than you could count. you gasped in dramatic shock, a hand flying to your mouth, and couldn’t resist teasing him about his mother not noticing how rough and unsightly they had become. his eyes narrowed in mock indignation as he yelled at you for talking trash about his mother. you quickly apologized, laughter bubbling up as you declared you would simply have to complain about his “disgusting” hands instead.

that was the essence of your friendship—something sacred, woven from playful banter and shared secrets. the two of you were inseparable, bound by the threads of childhood innocence and mischief.

now, when you think back, it’s often to those moments—him proudly displaying his calluses as you played near the bridge by the river, the sun casting golden hues across the water. you remember walking home alongside him at sunset, a flutter of fear in your stomach about the kidnappers your father had warned you about just the other day. tobio had simply chuckled, telling you that you weren’t an actual genius like sherlock, so you couldn’t possibly be a target for any kidnapper anyway.

life was so simple, so beautifully uncomplicated, until you turned fourteen.

because that’s when you realized you had indeed grown up. you were on the winding road to adulthood, and suddenly, you found yourself hopelessly in love with your next-door neighbor, kageyama tobio—your best friend of eight years. he had sprouted taller, like a young tree reaching for the sky, and his voice had deepened into a rich timbre that sent butterflies flitting through your stomach. everything felt like it was shifting beneath your feet, especially as he found new friends who flocked to him like birds of a feather, while you remained nestled in your closely knit circle, distanced from him.

how were you supposed to navigate these newfound feelings? the conditions were far from ideal. how could you possibly have a crush on him while trying to maintain the friendship you cherished so much, especially when your social circles had diverged at school? being a teenager had suddenly morphed into a tangled web of complexities, each strand pulling you in different directions.

you still managed to walk home with him every day after your club activities, a routine that felt like a comforting ritual. you were quickly on your way to becoming the head of your literature club at junior high, while kageyama had been consumed by his passion for volleyball since he was just a kid. being next-door neighbors with the love of your life was undeniably convenient; it meant he had no choice but to stroll alongside you.

thankfully, the dynamic remained blissfully unchanged. the playful teasing, the exchange of strawberry and banana milk, and the shared bags of cheese puffs, or sometimes other chips, were the threads that wove your friendship together. it didn’t matter what snack you had; all you really wanted was to watch him sip through a thin plastic straw, the golden glow of the setting sun casting a warm halo around him as you walked the quiet streets together.

you cherished these moments, especially since he never hurried you along. instead, he walked slowly, savoring the time spent together, as if he genuinely enjoyed your company. this new pace allowed you both to appreciate the little things—the laughter of children playing in the distance, the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze, and the gentle warmth of the sun dipping below the horizon. it felt like a breath of fresh air, invigorating and sweet, a reminder that these small moments were treasures to be cherished.

but then you turned fifteen, and tobio transformed into someone unrecognizable. the boy who had once sparked your curiosity now seemed bitter and hardened, his heart cloaked in ego that swelled within him like a balloon about to burst. his tone had sharpened, cutting through the air like a knife, and he often wore a mask of rudeness that left you reeling. yet, despite it all, your heart still weakly fluttered whenever he was near, an instinctive reaction you couldn’t quite shake.

then it happened. one fateful day, as you walked past the gym to pick up tobio, you overheard a conversation that pierced through you like an arrow.

"aren't they your childhood friend? don't you think they're attractive, even if it's just a little?"

the words lingered in the air, but before you could savor the thought, his response shattered your heart.

"what? no! i could never see them like that. this is grossing me out. stop talking nonsense and focus on volleyball. you didn't spike this set on time!"

his words struck like a hammer, relentless and unforgiving, stomping on your heart a million times without him even realizing the damage he’d done. it was as if the boy you had cherished for so long had vanished, leaving behind only a shadow of the friendship you once held dear.

that day, you walked home alone for the first time ever, the silence of the empty streets echoing the ache in your chest. when the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, you felt a weight pressing down on you. the next day, he didn’t question your absence, didn’t seem to care at all. and in that moment, you understood: you were no longer the person he had once found intriguing. you were just a ghost of a past friendship, lost in the void that had replaced your bond. he was not moriarty anymore, and neither were you sherlock.

you wondered if you ever were.

slowly, you created a chasm between him and you. it was a drift you instigated, unaware of the full weight of your decision. one by one, he lost the people he once held close, and you stood on the sidelines, a silent witness, hoping desperately that he would grasp the hint you were trying to send.

then, one afternoon, while walking home with a small paper bag of eggs cradled in your arms, you collided with him. curses swirled through your mind as you attempted to sidestep him, but his voice cut through the air, halting your escape.

"aren't you cold?"

you raised an eyebrow, turning to meet his gaze, your heart racing with an unexpected mix of hope and apprehension. you hummed softly in response, feeling the cool breeze brush against your skin. he repeated his question, and you shook your head, summoning a casualness you didn’t truly feel. "just a small walk. i didn't think i'd need a jacket."

"right," he mumbled under his breath, and the silence that followed felt thick with unspoken words. a part of you longed to mention his recent benching during the last match, but the fear of misinterpretation held you back, like a weight pressing on your tongue.

"are you doing okay nowadays?" the question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. you still cared, a part of you reluctant to sever the last thread binding you to him. it felt like that age-old adage—"curiosity killed the cat"—echoing in your mind, a reminder of your unfulfilled longing.

he opened his mouth, perhaps to share something profound, but then hesitated. you knew his expressions as well as the lines of your own heart; he seemed to weigh his words carefully. "i'm okay. i'm going to a high school called karasuno. you?"

the answer came too quickly, and the disappointment surged within you. "i'm going to seijoh, like oikawa and iwa-senpai," you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "i enrolled there because i thought you'd be going there too. so, you know, we could walk together-"

he cut you off, the sharpness of his words slicing through the fragile moment. "we haven't done that in months, who are you kidding?"

you blinked, surprise washing over you like cold water. he was right. in the span of what felt like an eternity, the simple companionship you had once shared had faded into memory. perhaps your wishful thinking had blinded you to the reality; you were no longer the two kids wandering home together.

"i'm... sorry," you tilt your head, "have i done something to make you mad?"

you thought this was what he wanted—that he didn’t care for your tetra packs of strawberry or banana milk, that he was indifferent to your presence beside him as you walked home from school. the realization stung like a bee’s bite, leaving you with the unsettling notion that your companionship was as easily replaceable as the snacks you offered. but then he clicked his tongue, shaking his head with that familiar exasperation, his voice laced with sarcasm that dripped like spicy honey, sweet yet sharp.

“no. you can never do anything wrong, am i right?”

with that, he turned and walked into his house, leaving you standing there, the air heavy with unsaid words.

months passed without a glimpse of him. it was only when you were returning home from literature club, the sun dipping below the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement, that you spotted him. there he was, in a black uniform, juggling a volleyball under one arm while the other struggled to pry a few papers from between his teeth as he rummaged through his bag.

“do you need any help?” your voice sliced through the crisp evening air, a tentative offering. he blinked, momentarily surprised, before handing you the scattered papers and the ball.

“y-yeah. i’m looking for my keys. ever since miwa went off to college, there’s no one to open the door when i get home.”

“right,” you nodded, trying to maintain the semblance of normalcy. you didn’t need to fill the silence anymore; you were both ghosts of the friendship that once thrived in easy conversation. “i can walk in with these if you want. help you put them wherever, since it’s hard to carry everything together-”

“it’s okay,” he interrupted, his tone clipped, a habit you had grown all too familiar with. “i can take care of myself.”

your lips pressed together, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “alright then,” you replied, the words tasting bitter as they left your mouth.

but as you turned toward your front yard, the moment shattered into a sharp breath. “why did you stop walking home with me?” his voice rang out into the twilight, a challenge hanging between you like a fragile thread.

the world around you fell silent, the air thick with unspoken words. the confrontation hung in the space between you, an echo of the past colliding with the reality of the present. you hesitated, heart racing, caught in the tension of a friendship unravelling, desperately wanting to answer but unsure of how to put the fragments of your feelings into words. "you weren't yourself, i guess. that, and i heard you say something about me to someone. but never mind that. it doesn't matter anymore."

“what?” he furrows his brows, confusion etching deep lines on his forehead. “what do you mean you heard me say something about you to someone? what the hell did i even say for this to happen to us?”

“didn’t you want this to happen?” you retort, your words tumbling out like a well-rehearsed line from a play. “i thought you found me gross.”

he blinks, taken aback, his surprise evident in the widening of his eyes. “when did i ever say i found you gross? what is wrong with you?”

“what is wrong with me?” you echo, the fire in your chest igniting into a full blaze. you’re not quite sure where this rage is coming from, but it feels exhilarating and terrifying all at once. “what’s wrong with me is that it was my fault for ever loving you and thinking you could feel the same because you’re a selfish prick! you’re oblivious and dense and you don’t feel the same way about me, so i left because i didn’t want to be in a place where i wasn’t needed-”

realization crashes over you like a tidal wave in mid-sentence, the weight of your words suffocating. a hand flies to cover your mouth, the confession hanging in the air like an uninvited guest. his expression morphs into one of shock, the volleyball slipping from his grasp and hitting the pavement with a dull thud.

you can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes, the way his world seems to tilt on its axis, so you turn and flee, heart racing as you dart into your house, slamming the door behind you. the echo of your confession reverberates in your mind, each heartbeat reminding you of what you just unleashed—a truth that feels like it could shatter everything.

you avoided him for months after that moment, but still, you found yourself at every game, an invisible presence in the crowd. you watched as karasuno faced off against kamomedai, your heart aching with every spike and serve, each point a reminder of the distance that had grown between you. tobio had transformed into someone new, shedding his egotistical shell like a snake sloughing off its skin, and finding camaraderie with teammates who genuinely cared for him.

it filled you with anger. why couldn’t he have made this change years ago? if only he had, maybe letting go of your feelings would have been easier. instead, you felt trapped on the sidelines of his life, a spectator to a story that once intertwined your paths.

“w-what are you doing here?” a shaky voice pulls you from your thoughts as you exit the gym. you turn, startled, to find kageyama tobio standing before you. his chest heaves with exertion, droplets of sweat glistening on his skin, and he gazes at you as if you were a relic he had lost long ago.

“i... came to watch the game,” you reply, shrugging, trying to sound casual. “you did good. i hope your friend isn’t injured, by the way.”

“yeah... he’s uh- hinata’s fine,” he nods, his words a soft echo in the tense air. “thank you for coming. it means a lot.”

you press your lips into a straight line, nodding, the weight of the moment heavy between you. it feels like the right time to leave, to escape the growing tension, but he continues.

“i felt the same way about you back then,” he says, and your heart drops, your feet seemingly glued to the ground. his melancholic gaze pierces through you, and the heartbreak looms overhead like a storm cloud ready to burst. “i’m sorry if i hurt you.”

“y-you what?” you whisper, tilting your head as disbelief washes over you. “tobio, you-”

“i can’t say i feel that way now. all i can focus on from now on is volleyball,” he sighs, his gaze falling to the floor, the weight of his words suffocating. “but it really was great being friends with you. i hope we can... try that again sometime.”

in that moment, something within you shatters, the pieces scattering like autumn leaves in a gust of wind. you realize how deeply you had clung to him, how he had become the center of your universe; an object of desire you could never grasp. slowly, painfully, he had outgrown you, moving forward as you remained rooted in the past, a decision you made to push him away when he needed you the most.

perhaps this was what you deserved. perhaps this was how it was meant to be—him, chasing his dreams like icarus, and you, watching from the side lines, heart heavy with the weight of unfulfilled wishes and lost chances.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[gwens-love]

Not Haunted anymore

<-Part 2 ~ Part 4-> (coming soon)

Summary: Driven by love and desperation, you risk everything to bring Agatha back. But some things are not so easily won, and the line between life and death is fragile.

Warnings: emotional themes, loss and grief (kinda but not really)

Word count: 3.2k

~ghost!Agatha Harkness x fem!reader~

~Rio Vidal x fem!reader~

Please don’t copy/steal or translate this work thanks.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The seasons blurred as you waited, relentless in your hope. Green leaves turned gold and fell, the air crisped with the upcoming winter’s chill, but you stayed rooted in your goal. You wouldn’t let go… not like Rio had.

Today, the autumn sun brushed against your face as you sat outside with a familiar book, its pages worn from the weight of your gaze. You’d read it countless times, but it didn’t matter. This was for Agatha, and you couldn’t allow yourself to give up, not when the ache in your chest grew stronger each day.

Rio’s visits had become rare, just twice a week or so, and even then, her presence was hollow. She barely taught you anymore, simply standing beside you with empty eyes, as if all the fire… the life she might have had… had flickered out. Without her guidance, you had to teach yourself. You fumbled, grinding herbs too forcefully, botching incantations with poor pronunciation. But each mistake only spurred you to keep trying.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

Time slipped through your fingers until spring arrived, and with it, a slow, creeping despair. You’d tried every spell, every book, every herb. You’d even sought out real witches, though they’d leave at the mere mention of Agatha’s name. Nothing worked. Each failure sank into the silence of the house, thick and suffocating, leaving you unable to think clearly.

Frustrated, you searched for your headphones, anything to drown out the quiet that had taken root here. And then… a knock at the door.

Your heart leaped. You dashed downstairs, hope clawing its way into your chest. When you swung open the door.

Rio stood there, framed by the soft glow of twilight. You stepped back, swallowing the knot of words lodged in your throat, and gestured for her to come inside.

Rio steps inside, a spark in her eyes that you haven’t seen in what feels like an eternity. She looks almost… alive again. It’s startling, seeing that glimmer, that hint of joy tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What’s got you so happy?” you ask, confusion knitting your brows.

Rio turns to you, her grin widening, a rare, genuine warmth filling the air between you both. “I found something,” she says, her voice barely containing her excitement. “After all this time, I think I found a solution.”

Your heart races, hope swelling in your chest even as doubt pulls at you. “A solution? You mean…?”

She nods, reaching out to take your hand. “Yes. A way to bring Agatha back. I found something powerful… something no one’s tried before.”

A flicker of caution surfaces in your mind, but the desperation you’ve held onto for so long outweighs it. “What do we have to do?”

Rio’s fingers tighten around yours as she leads you to sit beside her. Her eyes shimmer with a strange, almost feverish excitement as she slips a worn, heavy book from her satchel, bound in dark green leather. The cover is cracked from years of wear, the pages yellowed and fragile.

“I found this,” she murmurs, flipping through the brittle pages. “It’s a rare text, almost lost. The rituals in here…they’re powerful, more than anything we’ve tried before.”

You stare at the book, trying to process her words. “Where did you even find something like this?”

Her face shifts, a flicker of something dark passing through her gaze. “It wasn’t easy. Let’s just say I made some… arrangements. But it’ll be worth it. I know this will work.” Her hand shakes slightly as she finds the page, turning it toward you. The cramped text and curling symbols are written in an ancient language, nearly unreadable. In the center is an intricate illustration of symbols, all intertwining to form a complex pattern.

You feel a pang of unease. “Why hasn’t anyone done this before if it’s so powerful?”

Rio hesitates, her voice softening. “Because it demands a lot. Complete focus, and an unwavering intent. If either of us falters…we might not bring her back at all.”

A chill runs through you as you take in her words. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken doubts and fears. But beneath it all, there’s a longing that eclipses everything else. You can’t give up, not after coming this far.

“What do we need to do?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Rio’s lips curve into a smile, one tinged with determination. “The ritual has to be performed under the midnight moon. We’ll need specific herbs, a lock of Agatha’s hair, and our most precious memory of her. Each of us has to bring something deeply tied to her… something that binds us.”

She starts gathering the necessary items, and together you arrange everything carefully: candles placed in a circle, bundles of sage and rosemary, and a small, carefully wrapped lock of Agatha’s hair. Rio’s hands are steady as she lights each candle, murmuring under her breath words you can’t quite catch.

Finally, she looks up, her eyes meeting yours in the dim candlelight. “Are you ready?”

The weight of her question settles over you, and you swallow, feeling the gravity of what you’re about to attempt. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The two of you take your places across from each other, kneeling on either side of the circle. The scent of herbs fills the air, mingling with the warmth of candlelight that flickers, casting shadows against the walls. Rio instructs you to close your eyes, to focus on Agatha—her laughter, her voice, the warmth of her embrace. Memories rush through your mind: afternoons spent learning from her, her steady guidance, the spark of her wisdom.

“Now,” Rio says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Hold onto that memory, and don’t let go. We need to anchor her spirit.”

You nod, clinging to the image in your mind, willing it to hold strong. Rio’s voice begins to chant, low and melodic, as if each word is stitched with power. The air grows thick, humming with energy, and you feel it settling over you, heavy and electric.

The candle flames flicker and bend, stretching toward the center of the circle as if pulled by an unseen force. Shadows swirl around you, shapes dancing at the edge of your vision. You keep your focus, letting Rio’s voice guide you deeper, pulling you through memories of Agatha until it feels as if she’s right there, just out of reach.

Then, the atmosphere shifts, a chill sweeping over you, sending a shiver down your spine. You feel a presence, delicate and familiar, almost tangible. Your heart pounds, each beat echoing in your ears as you dare to open your eyes. Rio’s chanting has stopped, her eyes wide, locked on a faint, misty form beginning to coalesce within the circle.

There she is, Agatha, her form fragile and translucent, like moonlight made solid. Her eyes meet yours, filled with something between longing and sorrow. For a moment, everything else falls away. She’s here. You’ve done it.

“Agatha…” you breathe, reaching out instinctively.

But her gaze shifts, and a faint smile graces her lips. Her voice, barely more than a whisper, reaches you. “I’m… here, but not for long.”

Rio stiffens beside you, her face a mixture of triumph and desperation. “No, we can’t lose you again. There has to be more, something else we can do.”

Agatha’s gaze softens as she looks between you and Rio, the faintest hint of pride in her eyes. “You’ve come so far… but some things are not meant to be tampered with.” She steps back, fading slightly, her voice lingering. “Hold onto what we had. Let that be enough.”

And with that, her form shimmers and dissolves into the candlelight, leaving you and Rio in the quiet, empty space once more. The silence is deafening, your heart aching with a finality you hadn’t prepared for.

Rio reaches for your hand, her fingers squeezing yours. “Maybe… maybe this was enough,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with the pain of letting go. The two of you sit there, fingers intertwined, letting the last traces of Agatha’s presence linger in the air, knowing that she’ll always be a part of you etched in memory, bound in love.

As Agatha’s form begins to fade, a surge of panic grips you. This isn’t enough. You refuse to accept the soft, fleeting memory as all you’ll ever have of her. Agatha deserves more, she deserves life, a real, tangible presence beside you once more.

“Wait!” you shout, reaching into the circle, your hand trembling with determination. Rio’s eyes snap to you, filled with confusion and alarm.

“Y/N… what are you doing?” she whispers, her hand tightening on yours, trying to pull you back. But you shake her off, stepping into the center of the circle as your own magic swells around you, a warmth that’s different from Rio’s shadows and quiet whispers. Your power surges forward, bold and unyielding, like spring itself, a magic tied to life, rebirth, and creation.

“I’m not letting her go again,” you say, your voice steady and fierce. “Not when I… I can bring her back. Really back. She won’t be just a memory, just a spirit tethered to the shadows. She’ll be alive.”

Rio’s eyes widen, understanding dawning as she takes in the intensity radiating from you. “No, Y/N, the spell, Agatha warned us. You can’t use magic to bring someone fully back… It’s unstable. She’d be caught between worlds, between life and death.”

But you don’t listen. Your mind races through everything you’ve learned, everything Rio taught you, and you taught yourself, as you push deeper into your power, calling on the energy that runs in your veins. It pulses through you, responding to your desperation and longing.

You focus on Agatha, feeling her presence, fragile and wavering in the circle. Your fingers extend toward her, reaching into the space where her form hovers like mist. Her gaze catches yours, and for a moment, you see fear and a trace of sadness there.

“Agatha,” you murmur, feeling the magic coil and tighten within you, a warm, consuming force. “I’m not letting you go. You deserve to be here, to live again, to touch the earth, to feel the sunlight. I’ll make it happen. I swear it.”

The warmth of magic..? spreads, spilling out of you and filling the circle. You feel it pull, tugging at the edges of reality, bending the boundaries between life and death. Agatha’s form flickers, the mist growing thicker, denser. Slowly, her outline sharpens, her features taking on a warmth and solidity that wasn’t there before.

You push harder, feeling the strain of it, the raw power searing through your veins, demanding everything you have. Agatha’s form steadies, her gaze wide with a mixture of hope and terror as she realizes what you’re doing. She reaches toward you, her hand solid, her fingers brushing yours for the first time in what feels like eternity. The warmth of her touch ignites something within you, giving you strength to go even further.

But something is wrong. A strange, dark edge creeps into the magic, twisting it, contorting it as you push past the natural order. You can feel the boundary between life and death fraying, splintering under the force of your power. Your breath catches, but you refuse to stop, willing Agatha into full life even as you feel the cost beginning to weigh on you.

Finally, with a gasp, Agatha stands before you solid, alive, and breathing. Her chest rises and falls as she takes in her surroundings, her eyes full of wonder and disbelief as she looks at her hands, her body. She’s here. She’s real.

But the strain hits you like a tidal wave, and you stumble, your body weakening as the energy drains from you. Rio is beside you in an instant, catching you, her face pale with fear. “Y/N… What have you done?”

You barely hear her, your gaze locked on Agatha, who’s staring back at you, her eyes filled with a fierce, overwhelming gratitude. She steps closer, reaching for you, her hands warm and real, and the sensation fills you with joy and relief.

But there’s a heaviness in the air, a sense that something is shifting, that the world itself is groaning under the weight of your defiance. You can feel it in the marrow of your bones, like a tether pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Agatha pulls you close, her arms wrapping around you, and you sink into her embrace, feeling the pulse of her heart against your cheek. But as you hold her, you sense the tremor within her, the fragility in the life you’ve given her. She’s here, but she’s bound to you in a way that feels… unnatural, tethered by a force that defies the very fabric of the world.

And deep down, you realize that she is alive, yes, but at a cost. The magic inside her isn’t stable; it’s restless, hungry, feeding off the very essence that holds you together.

Rio’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N… what happens now?”

You meet Agatha’s gaze, knowing that the life you’ve given her is bound to your own, and that the two of you are now entangled in a way that defies the natural order. You know that, in time, this magic may demand a price, a sacrifice you’re not yet ready to name. But for now, Agatha’s here, alive and breathing, and that’s all that matters.

“We take it one day at a time,” you murmur, feeling the weight of what you’ve done settle over you. For now, it’s enough.

Agatha’s solid, warm arms are still wrapped around you, her heart beating under your cheek as you cling to her. But then your knees buckle, the ground tilting beneath you as a sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness crashes through your mind. You try to hold on, but your strength drains away, leaving you weak and barely able to stand.

“Y/N!” Rio’s voice is frantic as she catches you, lowering you gently to the floor. She kneels beside you, her face pale and stricken, shock etched into her features.

“You’re a witch…?” Agatha whispers, her hand trembling as she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “How… I had no idea. You never told me.” Her voice is filled with wonder and disbelief, her eyes wide as if seeing you for the first time.

You try to speak, to explain, but the words slip away as exhaustion claims you, your body numb and drained from the sheer power you poured into the spell. A murmur ripples through the room as Rio hovers beside you, concern written in every line of her face.

“She didn’t just use magic,” Rio murmurs, almost to herself. “She wielded the magic of life, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. That’s not just any spell. That’s…”

“A witch of life,” Agatha finishes, her voice soft with awe, as if saying the words aloud makes them true. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Apparently not,” Rio mutters, but her hand clutches yours tightly, grounding you as the room continues to spin.

You blink up at them, struggling to focus, as the last of your strength ebbs away. The world fades around you, but you catch Agatha’s expression, a mixture of astonishment and fierce pride. “You did this,” she says softly. “You brought me back. Y/N… how?”

But before you can answer, your vision blurs, the edges of your sight darkening as unconsciousness pulls you under. The last thing you feel is Agatha’s hand clasped in yours and Rio’s whispered promise: “Rest now, Y/N. We’ll figure this out… together.”

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The darkness closes over you, leaving their shocked faces lingering in your mind, a moment that feels both surreal and unforgettable, knowing you’ve revealed a part of yourself that you didn’t even fully understand.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the weight of blankets and the soft warmth of sunlight spilling through the window. You blink, adjusting to the light, and try to sit up, but a sharp, aching fatigue pulls you back down. Your body feels heavy, as though you’ve been asleep for days.

As you take in the quiet of the room, you hear muffled voices outside the door. A moment later, it opens, and Agatha and Rio slip inside. Agatha’s face lights up with relief, and Rio’s expression shifts from worry to quiet awe.

“Y/N!” Agatha crosses the room, her hands reaching for yours, her touch grounding you as she squeezes your fingers. “Thank goodness, you’re finally awake.”

You blink at her, struggling to make sense of everything. “How long was I… asleep?”

Rio answers, her tone gentle. “A week. We weren’t sure when you’d wake up.” She takes a deep breath, searching your face before adding, “You used a lot of magic, more than we even thought possible.”

Magic. The memory hits you like a wave, pulling you back to that moment when Agatha’s spirit had shifted to flesh and bone. The spell, the power coursing through you, the almost unbearable force of it all. Your pulse quickens as the realization sinks in. “Wait… I’m not a witch. I don’t even know how to cast spells. That shouldn’t be possible.”

Rio and Agatha exchange glances, as if waiting for the right way to explain. Agatha sits down beside you, her fingers still tangled with yours. “Y/N… you are a witch. Or maybe, you became one,” she murmurs, studying your face. “You’re a life witch, it’s close to a green witch, but you can interfere with not only the life of plants, but with animals and apparently humans too.”

You shake your head, trying to wrap your mind around it. “But… I’ve never been able to do anything like that. I wasn’t born a witch.”

“That’s the strange part,” Rio says softly, her expression intense. “The magic, it just… appeared in you when you needed it. Like it was meant to be there all along, waiting for the right moment.” She runs a hand through her hair, disbelief flickering in her eyes. “Y/N, I’ve never seen anything like it. You summoned the magic of life, the rarest, most ancient form of magic there is. Only a few witches in all of history have had that ability.”

A strange, chilling wonder fills you, making you shiver. You stare down at your hands, the memory of that unstoppable power still fresh, almost like a dream. “But I… I don’t know how to control it. I don’t even understand it.”

Agatha’s fingers tighten around yours, grounding you again. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t know everything right now. What matters is that you brought me back. You saved me, Y/N.” She smiles, warmth and gratitude shining in her eyes. “You did the impossible.”

Rio nods, her face softening as she looks at you. “You’ve tapped into something few ever do. It’s overwhelming, I know. But we’ll figure it out together.”

You meet their eyes, still grappling with the reality of it all. The power, the spell, the unexplainable magic that had surged through you. The witch you’d become, without even realizing it. A new part of you, mysterious and powerful, waiting to be understood.

For now, though, you’re not alone. Agatha and Rio are here, guiding you, grounding you. Whatever this magic is, wherever it leads, you’re ready. Together, you’ll uncover its secrets, and maybe, finally, understand the path fate has set before you.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

Fin <3

Taglist: @midnight-lestrange

[buddierecs]

outsider pov buddie fics

these fics have a mixture of outsider pov, most from the 118 family tho all of these are general audience, teen and up or not rated (no smut) make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

paralytic narcolepsy guy hates buckley & diaz by: eightpackdiaz "paralytic narcolepsy guy is forced to listen to buckley and diaz talk to and about each other in his unconscious presence over the years. he insists he fucking hates them. but then he also accidentally helps them get engaged." word count: 5.4k important tags: 5+1 things, idiots in love, getting together good luck, babe by: hattalove "sometimes, when you've had a bad week, all you want is a romantic evening out with your wife over terrible pizza, and what you get instead is some kind of intricate gay ritual happening two tables away from you." word count: 2.1k important tags: crack, social media, jealous!eddie diaz jeep talking by: daisies_and_briars "a ride in the backseat of buck's Jeep with buck and eddie in the front gives chim new perspective on his brother-in-law's strange dynamic with his so-called "best friend.' and chim is sick of them being so oblivious." word count: 2.2k important tags: chimney han pov, oblivious!chimney han the sincerest form of flattery by: canadadry "in which brad torrence only almost passes out, and observes the aftermath." word count: 1.7k important tags: brad torrence pov, bobby nash is evan buckley's parent, 8.03 fic

actually, truly by: milenadaniels "helena (and ramon) tries to find a way back into eddie's life and doesn't know what to make of finding buck around every corner she turns." word count: 14k important tags: helena diaz pov, post season 4, homophobia, pre-relationship, hurt!eddie diaz, therapy i'll call you mine by: coupe_de_foudre "5 times ravi witnesses eddie and buck fake a relationship, and the one time he realises they were married all along" word count: 9.1k important tags: 5+1 things, ravi panikkar pov, fake dating, fluff, misunderstandings, idiots in love does your firehouse know? by: allyasavedtheday "after chimney accidentally discovers buck and eddie are together they ask him to keep it a secret for a few weeks while they settle into their relationship. It goes about as well as expected." word count: 7.5k important tags: chimney han pov, secret relationship, crack a simple kind of love by: woodchoc_magnum "in which christopher watches as eddie and buck slowly fall in love." word count: 15k important tags: christopher diaz pov, pre-relationship, getting together, buckley-diaz family maybe it's the way you lean on his shoulder by: allyasavedtheday "in which naddie realises there might be more to buck and eddie's relationship than she'd originally thought." word count: 4.1k important tags: maddie han pov, feelings realisation, domestic fluff another man's child by: georges1982_96 "a 5+1 fic of chim realizing buck is chris's dad and buck gradually stumbling on the same realization" word count: 18k important tags: chimney han pov, 5+1 things, ptsd, medial trauma, homophobia, ableism, soft!buddie, protective!evan buckley don't need to be related to relate (don't need to share genes or a surname) by: champagne_for_breakfast "the one where bobby realizes he is somehow buck's father, eddie's father-in-law and christopher's grandfather all at the same time. and he may just be one conversation away from calling eddie out and making him kiss buck." word count: 10k important tags: bobby nash pov, idiots in love, getting together, bobby nash is evan buckley's parent shapes and spaces by: prettyunhinged "five times christopher calls buck his dad to other people, and the one time he finally gets to say it to buck." word count: 14k important tags: 5+1 things, christopher diaz has two dads, oblivious!buddie, getting together, team as family, fluff

[badger-tales]

Palmistry//E.M x reader

A/n: this was a fic I wrote on my old a count a few years ago (that I deleted) but I re-wrote it and just in time for Halloween!! There's a part 2 if this does well

Summary: Eddie Munson is enthralled by Hawkins resident “witch”

Word count: 5k

Also requests are open atm

Whispers began to weave their way through the hallways of Hawkins High, subtle at first but growing louder with each passing day. They labeled her a "witch," not because she brewed potions or cast spells, but simply due to her unconventional makeup—a stark departure from the garish palettes her classmates favored. Her eyes were framed by sharp, inky lines that accentuated their depth, and her lips bore a shade of crimson that contrasted strikingly with her porcelain skin. It was artistry, not an "obnoxious conglomeration of clashing colors smeared" haphazardly across her face.

Initially, the murmurs gnawed at her. She could feel the weight of curious and judgmental eyes, the way conversations would hush as she entered a room, only to resume in hushed tones after she passed. But over time, she decided to embrace the moniker they had bestowed upon her. Casting aside any lingering doubts, she delved deeper into the persona they had created for her. Thick velvet chokers adorned her neck, silver rings—each with intricate designs—graced her fingers, and flowing black dresses became her armor against their scrutiny. She adopted the entire ensemble, the whole kit and caboodle, transforming their mockery into her identity.

Stories about her began to circulate with fervor. Some claimed she practiced mysterious rituals under the light of the full moon; others swore they saw strange symbols etched into her notebooks. The tales grew taller with each retelling, painting her as a figure shrouded in enigma and shadow. Among these rumors was one that particularly caught the attention of Eddie "The Freak" Munson—a fellow outsider known for his love of heavy metal and Dungeons & Dragons.

Eddie had noticed her in passing—a solitary figure navigating the bustling corridors with a book perpetually in hand. Her isolation resonated with him, but it wasn't until the grapevine delivered its exaggerated narratives that he truly took interest. Intrigued by the mystery surrounding Hawkins' very own "witch," he sought to learn more.

During a lull in their D&D session, Eddie leaned forward, glancing around at his friends. "So, what's the story with that girl everyone keeps talking about?" he asked, his tone casual but eyes keen with curiosity.

The group exchanged uncertain looks. One of them shrugged, fiddling with a dice. "You mean the witch? I've heard she's into some...unusual stuff. Keeps to herself, though. Top of all her classes, I think."

Another chimed in, "Yeah, but no one really knows her. People say all kinds of things."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "But has anyone actually talked to her?"

Silence settled over the table. They all pondered the question, realizing that despite the swirling rumors, none had ever approached her. One by one, they shook their heads.

Determined, Eddie made a decision. "Well, maybe it's time someone did," he declared. He knew his own reputation might be a barrier—after all, "The Freak" wasn't exactly a term of endearment—but he was never one to back down from a challenge.

He began with small gestures. The next time he spotted her navigating the crowded hallway, he caught her eye and offered a friendly smile. More often than not, her gaze was fixed on the ground, but occasionally she would glance up, her eyes meeting his briefly before darting away. At first, she seemed puzzled by his attention, perhaps wary that it was some kind of elaborate jest—a common cruelty in high school corridors.

Undeterred, Eddie continued his silent greetings each time their paths crossed. His persistence was met with confusion, then cautious acknowledgment. After the fifth or sixth encounter, a subtle shift occurred. As they passed each other by the rows of lockers, she looked up more deliberately. This time, when he smiled, a faint smile tugged at the corners of her own lips—a fragile gesture, but a start nonetheless.

In that fleeting moment, amidst the clamor of slamming locker doors and echoing laughter, a quiet understanding passed between them. For the first time, she felt seen—not as the enigmatic figure whispered about in rumors, but as a person worth knowing. And for Eddie, the enigmatic "witch" began to transform into a potential friend, someone who, like him, danced to the beat of her own drum.

Determined to make his presence known, Eddie devised a new plan to capture her attention. His next move was to immerse himself in her world, to be where she was, to become a familiar face in the backdrop of her daily life. This meant venturing into uncharted territory for him—the library. It was a place he had previously avoided, a quiet realm filled with whispers and the soft rustling of pages, a stark contrast to the energetic chaos he was accustomed to. But for her, he was willing to brave the silence and the scent of aging books that filled the air like a delicate perfume.

Each day after that decision, Eddie found himself gravitating toward the library's wooden doors, pushing them open to enter a sanctuary of knowledge he had once deemed uninteresting. He would meander through the labyrinth of bookshelves, pretending to browse while stealing covert glances in her direction. She was often nestled in a corner by the window, where streams of sunlight illuminated her features, casting a halo around her dark hair. He watched as she perused the shelves, the way her fingers glided over the spines of books, her brows knitting in contemplation as she searched for her next read. There was a certain grace to her movements, an unspoken poetry that captivated him.

At times, he felt a pang of guilt for observing her from afar. It bordered on stalking, and he was acutely aware of how it might appear to others—or worse, to her. Yet, there was an undeniable allure about her that he couldn't resist. She was like a complex melody that he was desperate to understand, each note drawing him deeper into her world.

His friends didn't hesitate to give him a hard time about his newfound habit. During lunch, they'd nudge him playfully, smirking as they remarked on his frequent disappearances. "So, Eddie, when did you become such a book enthusiast?" one of them teased, a sly grin stretching across his face.

Eddie shrugged nonchalantly, trying to mask his true intentions. "Just broadening my horizons," he replied, taking a sip from his soda.

Another friend leaned in, feigning concern. "You sure it's not because of a certain someone? Perhaps a witch has cast a spell on you?" he joked, wiggling his fingers theatrically as if performing magic.

"Yeah, maybe she's brewing potions to make you follow her around," a third chimed in, laughter bubbling among the group.

Eddie rolled his eyes, though a faint blush betrayed him. "Very funny, guys. There's no spell. Maybe I just appreciate a quiet place to think."

They exchanged amused glances. "Right, and it has nothing to do with the 'Witch Bitch' everyone's talking about?" the first friend pressed, raising an eyebrow.

He met their gazes steadily. "She's not what people say she is," he stated firmly. "And I'm not obsessed."

"Whatever you say, man," they relented, though the teasing twinkle in their eyes remained.

Weeks turned into months, and Eddie's routine became a silent dance of near encounters. He wondered if she had noticed him at all or if he was simply a ghost drifting through the periphery of her awareness. Just as he began to question the effectiveness of his plan, something unexpected happened.

It was a crisp Wednesday morning, the air tinged with the promise of autumn. Eddie approached his locker, the metal door creaking slightly as he swung it open. As he did, a small, folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground, landing softly at his feet. He stared at it for a moment, suspicion and curiosity warring within him. Was this some kind of prank orchestrated by his friends? Or perhaps another cruel joke from the more malicious students?

Despite his reservations, an inexplicable urge compelled him to pick it up. His fingers closed around the paper, and he unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was neat, almost elegant, the ink a deep black against the stark white of the page. His heart skipped a beat as he read the words:

*"You can just say hi to me, you know?

I promise I'm not as scary as people say I am.

You're also really bad at sneaking around.

—Y/N"*

A grin spread across his face, a mix of relief and excitement surging through him. She had noticed him—not only that, but she was reaching out to him. He glanced up from the note, his eyes scanning the bustling hallway. Amidst the sea of students, he spotted her standing by a locker a few paces away. Her gaze met his, a playful sparkle in her eyes. She offered a small, knowing smile and a subtle wave before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.

Eddie stood there for a moment, the cacophony of the hallway fading into the background. His mind raced, thoughts colliding in a whirlwind of possibilities. This was his chance. He wasn't going to let it slip away.

When lunchtime arrived, he made a beeline for the library, his usual swagger tinged with a hint of nervous energy. The doors swung open to reveal the familiar sanctuary, the soft glow of lamps casting warm pools of light on the polished tables. His eyes quickly found her, seated at her customary spot near the large arched window. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating her features and casting a gentle halo around her.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Here goes nothing," he muttered under his breath. With determined strides, he crossed the room and settled into the chair across from her.

She looked up from her book, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of surprise and amusement. A small smile curved her lips. "Well, hello there," she greeted, her voice smooth like velvet.

Eddie felt his pulse quicken. Up close, he noticed the subtle details he'd missed from afar—the delicate freckles dusting her nose, the way her eyelashes curled naturally, framing her captivating eyes. "Hey," he replied, hoping his voice didn't betray the fluttering in his chest.

She closed her book gently, placing it beside her. "So, you've decided to emerge from behind the bookshelves," she teased lightly. "I take it you got my note?"

He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck—a nervous habit. "Yeah, I did. And, uh, sorry about that. I guess I'm not as stealthy as I thought."

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. "It's hard not to notice when someone is watching you," she remarked, her tone playful yet pointed.

He winced inwardly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he said earnestly. "I just...wasn't sure how to approach you."

Her eyes softened, and she tilted her head. "Why's that?"

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Well, you seemed like someone who values their solitude. I didn't want to intrude."

A sly smile tugged at her lips. "That's rather presumptuous of you," she countered. "Assuming I prefer to be left alone."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged," he admitted. "Maybe I was just projecting my own fears."

She laughed softly, the sound sending a pleasant warmth through him. "Fair enough," she conceded. "But you won't know unless you try, right?"

"Right," he agreed, feeling more at ease. "So, here I am."

"Here you are," she echoed, her gaze thoughtful. "Tell me, Eddie, what brings you to the library every day? Somehow, I doubt it's just the books."

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe I'm expanding my literary horizons," he replied, echoing the excuse he'd given his friends.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Is that so? Found any good reads lately?"

"Well, I did come across someone intriguing," he said, meeting her eyes meaningfully.

She held his gaze, a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. "Perhaps I can recommend something," she offered.

"I'd like that," he said sincerely.

A comfortable silence settled between them, the ambient sounds of the library wrapping around them like a cocoon. Finally, she broke the silence with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Would you like me to read your palm?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "You can do that?"

She shrugged lightly. "I dabble," she said enigmatically. "Part of the whole witch persona, you know."

He grinned. "Sure, why not? Lay it on me."

"Excellent," she replied, her enthusiasm evident. She pulled her chair closer, the legs scraping softly against the floor. "Give me your hand."

He extended his right hand toward her, palm up. Her fingers were cool and soft as they cradled his hand, her touch sending a subtle thrill up his arm. She traced the lines etched into his skin with delicate precision, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"Let's see," she murmured. "This is your life line." Her fingertip followed a gentle curve. "Strong and steady. You've got a lot of energy and vitality."

He watched her intently, captivated not so much by the reading but by the way she spoke, the focus in her eyes. "What else?" he prompted.

"This line here is your heart line," she continued, her finger moving to a different crease. "It shows that you're passionate and wear your heart on your sleeve, even if you try to hide it."

He chuckled softly. "Is that so?"

She glanced up, her eyes meeting his. "It is," she affirmed. "And this one is your head line." She traced a line that crossed his palm. "It suggests you're creative, a deep thinker. You like to forge your own path."

He tilted his head, impressed. "You're pretty good at this."

She smiled mysteriously. "I told you, I dabble."

Their hands remained joined on the table, neither of them making a move to pull away. The moment stretched, filled with unspoken possibilities.

"So, what does my future hold?" he asked softly.

She gazed at him thoughtfully. "That's for you to discover," she replied. "But I can tell you this—you shouldn't let others' perceptions dictate your actions."

He nodded slowly, absorbing her words. "I think I understand."

She released his hand gently. "Good."

Eddie hesitated before speaking again. "Would you maybe want to hang out sometime? Outside of the library, I mean."

Her eyes lit up, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "I'd like that," she agreed. "Maybe we can defy some expectations together."

"Sounds like a plan," he said, grinning.

As the bell signaled the end of the lunch period, she gathered her things. "I have to get to class," she said, standing up. "But I'll see you around?"

"Definitely," he replied, rising to his feet.

She gave him a small wave before heading toward the exit. Eddie watched her go, a sense of exhilaration bubbling within him. The girl shrouded in mystery was no longer just an enigma from afar. She was real, approachable, and perhaps just as interested in him as he was in her.

Leaving the library, he couldn't help but feel that this was the start of something new—something that defied the rumors and whispered speculations that had surrounded them both. And as he walked down the bustling hallway, he felt lighter, anticipation thrumming in his veins.

For the first time in a long while, Eddie Munson was genuinely excited about what the future might hold.

—-

Eddie leaned against the side of his van, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the nearly empty school parking lot. He jingled his keys absently, glancing over at her with a casual smile. "So," he began, his tone light but tinged with anticipation, "do you want to head back to my place or yours?"

She looked up at him, a playful glint in her eyes. "We can go to mine," she replied, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "That's where all my stuff is." She slid into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking softly as she fastened her seatbelt.

"Alright then," Eddie grinned, hopping into the driver's seat and turning the ignition. The engine roared to life, and he pulled out of the parking lot with a flourish. "Y/N's house it is!"

Despite knowing the way, the five-minute drive somehow stretched into nearly twenty. Eddie missed turns, circled back, and took scenic detours down winding roads lined with towering trees whose leaves danced in the breeze. "I swear, the streets in this town change every day," he joked after the third wrong turn, glancing over to see her suppressing a smile.

"Or maybe someone's just not paying attention," she teased, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed, the sound mingling with the music playing softly from the radio. "Guilty as charged," he admitted. "But hey, more time for us to hang out, right?"

"Smooth recovery," she quipped, shaking her head with a grin.

Eventually, they pulled up in front of her house—a charming, two-story Victorian with a wraparound porch and intricate woodwork that hinted at its age. The garden was a wild tapestry of flowers and herbs, their scents mingling in the air to create a heady aroma that was both calming and invigorating. Wind chimes tinkled softly in the gentle breeze, and a few decorative lanterns hung from the porch, swaying slightly.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and gathered her bag. "Just so you know," she began as they made their way up the stone path, "my mom's probably home, but she won't bother us. She's pretty chill."

"Good to know," Eddie replied, taking in the eclectic decorations that adorned the front of the house—a mosaic of colored glass here, a wrought-iron sculpture there. "Your place is really...unique."

She smiled knowingly. "Wait until you see the inside."

They stepped onto the porch, the wooden boards creaking softly underfoot. As she opened the front door, a warm, inviting scent greeted them—a blend of spices, fresh herbs, and something sweet, like vanilla or cinnamon. The interior of the house was cozy and lived-in, with overstuffed chairs, bookshelves overflowing with volumes old and new, and walls adorned with artwork ranging from classical paintings to abstract pieces.

She kicked off her shoes by the door, motioning for him to do the same. "Mom, I'm home!" she called out, her voice carrying through the house. "I have a friend with me!"

From somewhere deeper within, a woman's voice responded cheerfully. "Oh, that's nice, dear! Do you have a project or something?"

She shot Eddie a mischievous look, her eyes sparkling. "No, Ma!" she called back, barely suppressing a grin. "We're gonna go do some animal sacrifices!"

There was a brief pause before her mother replied with equal nonchalance, "Alright! Have fun, and make sure to clean up after yourselves!"

Eddie couldn't help but burst into laughter, the unexpected exchange catching him off guard. "Your mom is something else," he remarked, shaking his head in amusement.

She shrugged playfully, ascending the staircase and gesturing for him to follow. "She likes to keep things interesting."

The staircase led them past family photos—some old, sepia-toned images of ancestors long gone, others more recent snapshots of her and her mother at various events and locations. Eddie glanced at them as they climbed, getting glimpses into her life that he'd never imagined.

They reached the second floor, and she led him down a hallway lined with more bookshelves and a few potted plants that thrived in the natural light streaming through the windows. Stopping in front of a door adorned with delicate fairy lights and a handcrafted sign bearing her name, she turned the knob and pushed it open.

Stepping inside, Eddie was immediately struck by the atmosphere of the room. The walls were painted a soft, blush pink that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. The space felt airy and tranquil, a stark contrast to the dark, brooding aesthetic he'd subconsciously expected based on the rumors that swirled around her at school.

Plants of all shapes and sizes filled the room—lush ferns hung from the ceiling in woven macramé holders, succulents lined the windowsill, and flowering vines trailed down from shelves and the tops of bookcases. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and lavender, creating a serene ambiance.

Her bed was draped with a patchwork quilt in earthy tones, piled high with pillows in various textures and fabrics. A canopy of delicate gauze hung overhead, adding a touch of whimsy. Tapestries adorned the walls—one depicting a celestial map of stars and constellations, another featuring intricate geometric patterns in vibrant colors.

A large bookcase occupied one corner, its shelves crammed with books ranging from classic literature to volumes on botany, mythology, and philosophy. Interspersed among them were clusters of crystals that caught the light—amethyst, citrine, and rose quartz—along with jars filled with dried herbs, feathers, and other curiosities. Incense sticks rested in ornate holders, and the faint aroma of sandalwood lingered in the air.

Her desk was a creative haven, scattered with sketchbooks, pens, and several decks of tarot cards. An antique-looking record player sat on a side table, vinyl records stacked neatly beside it.

Eddie stood in the doorway, taking it all in. "This is definitely not what I was expecting," he confessed, finally stepping inside and moving toward the center of the room.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and a knowing smile on her lips. "Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?" she inquired with a raised eyebrow.

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know—maybe black walls, candles everywhere, a cauldron bubbling in the corner?" He gestured vaguely. "You know, standard witchy stuff."

She laughed, the sound like the chiming of delicate bells. "Sorry to disappoint," she said, feigning regret. "No cauldrons here. Just a regular girl with a fondness for plants and cozy spaces."

He moved over to her bookshelf, his fingers trailing lightly over the spines of the books. "Your collection is impressive," he remarked, noting titles on subjects ranging from herbal remedies to astronomy. "Do you read all of these?"

She joined him, nodding. "Most of them, yeah. I love learning about different things—the natural world, the stars, ancient myths." She pulled out a well-worn book with gilded edges. "This one's a favorite. It's about the language of flowers and their meanings."

He took the book from her, flipping through the pages filled with delicate illustrations and handwritten notes in the margins. "You've made your own annotations," he observed.

She smiled sheepishly. "Guilty. I like to keep track of interesting tidbits or thoughts that come to me while reading."

Handing the book back, he glanced around the room once more. "I have to say, it's a lot more...peaceful than I imagined."

She tilted her head, studying him. "You thought I'd have some sort of gothic dungeon up here, didn't you?

He shrugged with a grin. "The thought might have crossed my mind."

"Well, I suppose I can see where the rumors come from," she mused, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. "People like to fill in the blanks with their own ideas when they don't know the truth."

He leaned against the bookshelf, crossing his arms. "It's easier to believe in the mystery than to take the time to get to know someone."

She met his gaze, her eyes thoughtful. "And what about you, Eddie? Are you taking the time to get to know me?"

He held her gaze steadily. "That's the plan."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the soft ticking of a clock the only sound. After a moment, she gestured toward the desk. "Would you like to listen to some music? I have a pretty eclectic collection."

"Sure," he agreed, moving over to the record player. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Go ahead," she said, watching as he thumbed through the records. "You might find something you like."

He pulled out an album with a colorful, psychedelic cover. "Pink Floyd?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "One of my favorites. Their music is so atmospheric—it's like going on a journey.”

"Excellent choice," he said, sliding the record out of its sleeve and placing it on the turntable. As the needle touched down, the room filled with the haunting strains of the music, wrapping around them like a comforting blanket.

He took a seat beside her on the bed, leaning back on his hands. "This is nice," he admitted. "Different from the usual chaos."

She smiled softly. "I like creating a space where I can just be. No judgments, no expectations."

"I get that," he replied. "Sometimes it's hard to find a place where you can just...exist."

She glanced over at him, her expression curious. "Do you have a place like that?"

He considered her question. "Maybe the old trailer I live in," he said with a wry smile. "But it's not quite as cozy as this."

"Well, you're welcome here anytime," she offered. "Consider it a sanctuary of sorts."

"Careful," he teased. "I might just take you up on that."

They shared a laugh, the ease between them growing with each passing moment. As the music played on, she reached over to the bedside table and picked up a small, intricately carved wooden box.

"What's that?" he asked, watching as she opened it to reveal a set of polished stones in various colors.

"Rune stones," she explained. "Another one of my hobbies.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You really are full of surprises."

She held out the box to him. "Want to try? Ask a question, and draw a stone. It might give you some insight."

He took the box, gazing down at the smooth stones etched with ancient symbols. "Alright," he agreed. Closing his eyes for a moment, he thought of a question, then reached in and selected a stone.

Opening his hand, he revealed a stone marked with an unfamiliar symbol. "What does this one mean?”

She leaned in, examining it closely. "Ah, that's 'Raidho'—it represents journey, movement, and change. It suggests that you're on a path toward something new, maybe a transition or a significant decision."

He contemplated her words. "Interesting."

She met his eyes, her gaze steady. "Does it resonate with you?"

"Maybe it does," he admitted. "There's been a lot on my mind lately."

She smiled gently. "Sometimes, it's good to embrace the journey, even if the destination isn't clear."

He nodded thoughtfully, returning the stone to the box. "You have a way of making things seem less complicated."

"Or maybe I just enjoy finding meaning in the chaos," she replied with a shrug.

Just then, a light knock sounded at the door. Her mother peeked in, her eyes twinkling. "I thought you two might be hungry," she said, holding a tray laden with sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea.

"Thanks, Mom," she said warmly, standing to take the tray. "You're the best."

Her mother smiled at Eddie. "I hope you're enjoying yourself, Eddie. It's nice to finally meet one of Y/N's friends."

"Absolutely," he replied sincerely. "Thanks for having me over."

"Anytime," she said, giving them a wink before closing the door behind her.

They set the tray on the bed between them, and Eddie reached for a sandwich. "Your mom is really cool," he commented after taking a bite. "Not every parent would be so...open-minded."

She chuckled. "She's always been that way. She believes in letting me explore who I am without judgment.”

"That's rare," he mused. "You're lucky."

"I know," she agreed. "It makes dealing with the rest of the world a bit easier."

They continued to chat as they ate, the conversation flowing effortlessly from topic to topic. He told her about his band and his love for music, she shared stories about her adventures in the nearby woods, collecting herbs and studying the local wildlife.

As the afternoon light began to fade, casting a warm glow across the room, Eddie realized how comfortable he felt. It was as if they'd known each other for much longer than just a few hours.

Glancing at the clock, he sighed reluctantly. "I should probably get going soon," he said, though he didn't really want to leave.

She nodded, a hint of disappointment in her eyes. "I understand. Time flies when you're having fun."

He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "Thanks for today. I had a really great time."

"Me too," she replied, standing as well. "Maybe we can do it again sometime?"

He smiled brightly. "I'd like that. Maybe next time, I can show you some of my world."

"I'd love to see it," she said sincerely.

They made their way downstairs, the house now bathed in the soft hues of twilight. Her mother was sitting in the living room, reading a book by the light of a lamp. She looked up as they passed. "Leaving so soon?"

"Afraid so," Eddie replied. "But thanks again for the hospitality."

"You're welcome anytime," she assured him.

At the door, he turned to face her, their gazes meeting in the dim light. "So, I'll see you at school?"

She nodded. "Definitely. And don't be a stranger."

He chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

As he walked down the path toward his van, he felt a lightness in his step. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of the flowers that bloomed in her garden. Climbing into the driver's seat, he glanced back at the house to see her watching from the doorway. He gave a small wave, which she returned before stepping back inside.

Driving away, Eddie couldn't wipe the smile from his face. Today had been full of surprises—good ones. The girl he'd been so curious about was not only fascinating but also genuine and kind. The rumors and whispers seemed trivial now, mere shadows compared to the vibrant reality of who she was.

He looked forward to seeing where this newfound friendship might lead, eager to explore the possibilities that lay ahead. As he turned onto the main road, the stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky, Eddie felt a sense of excitement and optimism that warmed him from within.

For the first time in a long while, he felt like he'd found someone who truly understood him—someone who saw beyond the surface, just as he had with her. And that was a feeling he intended to hold onto.

[heli0s-writes]

intricate rituals*

a/n: You know how kids pick on each other but it's actually because they like each other? It's like that. 4.7k words. I don't know why this one was so long. I wrote this as a companion piece to slow hands. warnings: fantasizing & masturbation, language, the usual helios sprinkle of angst because Steve. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Judgmental red numbers gleamed from the alarm clock on your beside table. 2:50, it leered like a schoolyard bully, and you could only groan in reply, shoving your pillow over your face and muttering into it a string of unintelligible curse words.

The day stretched too long after you were hit—socked—square in the left orbital. Your skull ached and thrummed, congregating pain at the welt along your brow bone, and beneath all of it, your brain was at once empty and full of insistence.

And although you’d have to be vertical again in about three hours, your nerves were still uneasy, still roiling beneath your skin because adrenaline could be a bitch and a half like that.

You were floating aimlessly in limbo, trying to force-sink into the distance of sleep. Thoughts skated behind the back of your eyes and around your ears, restless fingers twitching beneath blankets. Each time you slipped off, the rug was pulled out beneath your feet and your body jerked awake, leaving your heart racing. Self-sabotage.

You were too tired to attempt a jog, not trusting your sore muscles to maneuver the compound’s wooded perimeter. The best option was the easy route: quick, simple, and only a little offensive. After all, imagination after a certain hour of the night was a dangerous thing but flirting with danger in private was worth it once you could rest after.

Besides, asking Tony for any strange white pill to put you to sleep was perilous at best and fatal at worst, and asking to be gently placed in a sleeper hold by a friend was a one-way ticket to seeing the on-call psychiatrist.

And, anyway, they’d think you were a masochist.

And, well, maybe you were. But that’s not their business.

Maybe you’d like it to be though. Maybe you’d like to see the flutter of interest, the reciprocity, admittance that they were also a little masochistic because who in this line of work isn’t?

Volunteering to get pummeled day in and day out must be diagnosable in the DSM-5 manual. Yeah. At least a few of your teammates are masochistic. You’d bet good money on it.

Bucky, for one. And—oh—wouldn’t his cheekbones look so good bright red? You could cut your palms on those.

Here was the danger with imagination past a certain hour of the night:

Co-ed dormitory style living with a gorgeous cast of characters—all deranged in their own right—but still gorgeous. Lovable despite their many, many flaws. Egregious, maddening flaws.

Some were shared, inhabited by every member like they decided to build homes inside of their neuroses. Martyrdom, obstinacy, the occasional withholding of all worldly pleasures when they thought they deserved deprival—when someone would fuck up unnoticeably on a mission and then self-flagellate inside their mind for days afterwards.

Bucky’s refusal to trust his own instincts sometimes; Tony’s incurable lust for sticking his foot in his mouth like he’s starving for the taste of dirt; Natasha’s quiet, catastrophic need to be useful whether it made her a teammate or an object.

Steve— the basket-case. A whole shitshow marathon of issues all crammed up in his bright blonde head, and it’d get so full it would rush out of him by way of seething rage, reflex reactions, his boot pressed against yours as he’d stare down. His hands curled into boulders, jaw working in slow, powerful movements as clenched and unclenched his teeth.

You couldn’t help but think of it now and again. Imagine him turning all that misplaced anger to good use.

One hand ventured to your thigh, the other crossing over your chest, rubbing up your bicep to your shoulder. There was a knot you couldn’t massage out, that Bucky couldn’t either despite his best efforts. His flesh hand first and then his other hand when he thought a temperature change would help. It whirred by your ear, the plates shifting like bee song.

You could hear yourself hum lightly at the memory. It felt nice—smooth, cool, heavy. The weight of his curled fist as he kneaded, the strength in his fingers he was always holding back, even more so as he worked over the delicate skin near your neck. You didn’t shudder then, but you began to.

He’d probably laugh if you did. Roll his eyes even though he’d be pleased about it.

And excuse you for being like everyone else in the world who’d ever seen Bucky Barnes and his arm in action.

You might just say, shut up, just touch me, and he would. Touch up your neck, thumb propped at the base of your skull, the rest of his fingers around your throat where he’d drum out the beat of an old 40’s song.

And then Steve began emerging from darkness along with a couch, cheek propped on his fist, watching lazily. It was indigo all around him. Just a lamp somewhere in the corner making the side of his pale face warm orange.

Guess three’s not a crowd in your book—

Shut up, Bucky.

His hand was still on your neck, but you’d gotten in his lap, thighs spread until your legs were on the outside of his. He’d lost his shirt and landed on the couch next to Steve, who asked, petulantly, I’m here to watch?

You weren’t sure. You didn’t expect your own half-awake mind trying to reason itself out of a sex fantasy. Not when Bucky was shirtless beneath you, slightly tanned skin displaying a scatter of freckles like the time he ventured to the tropics and came back with a grin lasting almost two weeks.  

But Steve was expecting an answer and the critical eyebrow high on his forehead repeated the question: I’m here to watch?

Apropos of nothing except being 85% shut down, you replied with, you hit me today, and fell forward into Bucky’s arms. It was sullen and Bucky snickered, pressing his nose into the dip between your collarbones, a kiss somewhere nearby.

I didn’t mean to, Steve said cooly, still unamused.

Oh yes he did. Bucky touched you again, the webbing between thumb and forefinger beneath your breast for a second before he tweaked a nipple. Your toes curled slightly, chest jolting upward, and Bucky confirmed, masochist.

Steve perched his elbows on knees, leaning forward. One hand reached out, stroked the tapering edge of your eyebrow down to your cheekbone. His face was sweet, pleased, mischief cutting across his features. He pressed his finger down just a fraction, made your bruise sore with it, and the sweetness in his face glinted sharply.

Okay, he said, what else do you want?

He pressed down again and a handful of Steve’s flashed past as you exhaled. All those glimpses of him in various phases of his life, light-speed. There were suspenders and pressed white shirts too large for him. There was short hair and ballcaps and aviators. The way his shoulders hunched as he made himself invisible in a crowd. Captain suits in bright blue, then dark blue, and finally the deep night of the stealth number, material of tough neoprene and dull and sturdy across his chest. His hair was long flipped out at the ends. His beard grew and then shortened in length.

You couldn’t decide what else.

He was standing and then he was sitting. He leaned back on one elbow, sprawled like a Greek statue on a chaise lounge.

He was behind Bucky, arms coming to rest on either side of his neck, hands hanging limply forward, palm up, as if coaxing you closer, pressing Bucky tight in the middle until he huffed with discomfort.

Guess three is a crowd in your book.

Bucky disappeared and Steve came forward until he was flush against you.

In my dress uniform, really?

He sat with his thighs spread, contemplating your choice of Steve. His hair was slicked back, the high collar of his dress shirt starched and cupping his sharp, gorgeous jaw.

He was a garbled assemblage of an old photo in olive-green military wear. His blue eyes sparkled with attentiveness. He looked down his chest at the ribbons you were sure were incorrect, but they approximated something official. The jacket was starched and crisp, slacks well-pressed and fitted nicely.  

You liked the idea of him young, hopeful, and—smiling.

He placed his hands on your biceps before moving to your waist, stretching his fingers as far as he could to snare you. The fabric of your white button-up crinkled between your body and his. Three top buttons were undone, your breasts spilling out.

Steve’s hair was a mess, like it’d been yanked at fiercely. His mouth was wet and red and he was pawing at your back, rolling his hips upward until your groins met. His voice was rumbling and stuttery, brows together and cheeks rosy.

He stopped moving, only looking up at you with enormous eyes like a dog waiting for a command— which he’d never, ever looked like before. Panting as he caught his breath, he took a labored gasp, pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and asked.

Ma’am?

Oh. God help you.

There he was in all his glory, one foot into martyrdom and the other still in boyhood. Before everything crashed and burned and he was still clumsy with it. Just a bright, beaming thing pleading for  you to notice his light.

He began to fumble, hardly used to his body and so different than how you’ve seen him hurl himself through the air head-fucking-first because he was always ready to die on some hill or another.

He was shy, worrying his gorgeous mouth into a small line as he looked and looked. Over your face, down your neck, your chest, the mismatched set of underclothes you were still dressed in—and he stared at it entranced as if you were some kind of centerfold.

Like he ever would—but your brain was an electrified lump of meat, so dream-Steve could forgive it for irrationality.

But you were still sane enough to feel guilty about it because he was 24, and in a flash of genius engineering, he’d be weary beyond all his days.

Which hurt, which was stupid, which was really killing your whole endeavor.

You couldn’t do it with the thought of him careening into war at 20-something and couldn’t even worse with the thought of him, terrified and alone, the same giant, blue eyes searching the modern world for a sliver of recognition only 7 years later.

So your fingers halted between your legs, letting his nervous, boyish face shimmer away into the back of your mind.

Your eyes opened back up. The clock taunted 3:15, sizzling fuchsia.

You closed your eyes again.

The numbers shifted, rearranged until they were two curved lines and Steve’s mouth was there, hovering over yours, and he’d grown up some—you could see it in the pallid sheen of his skin, the creases in his face that were less from age and more from suffering. He waited, saying nothing.

There was supposed to be a lot you could do here. All manners of debauched acts to imagine— involving rope and whip and raking your nails down his back until your name burned in his throat, his considerable figure reduced to a tremble as he ached for you.

But you couldn’t, because suddenly the agony of not being able to sleep pivoted into a strange, new turn of events. From wanting to touch yourself to wanting nothing more than jumping into a lake to erase the turmoil his big, blue eyes roused in you, you struggled on a little longer, peeking around his haloed head of blonde, faint light behind him like a corona.

No? He drew one eyebrow up toward his hairline, his full pink lips quirking into a smirk. Not doing it for you? Why’s that?

You put a hand over his mouth, but dream logic was in no mood to be silenced, and Steve’s voice crept up in your ears anyway. No matter how much you wanted to shut him down, to push him away, he remained.

The truth, soldier. He tipped his head and looked at you past long, dark lashes. Give it to me straight.

-

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was gravelly.

You rubbed your eyes, wincing. 4 A.M. approached while you were still caught in a loop in bed—drifting, then jerking awake, nauseated with each new scenario.

Finally, it had been enough. You couldn’t force a thing that wouldn’t arrive, and so you trudged to the training room with your water bottle and forgot shoes along the way.

“Just need to get my mind off things,” you replied, and swatted weakly at a punching bag.

Steve was still wrapping his knuckles because he would always have more foresight than you do and watched you from the corner of his eye. You tapped at the leather, jabbing one-two, one-two, until it began to sway marginally wider, the link chain holding the bag rattling like windchimes.

You wished he wasn’t in the gym. You could feel him in the corner of your mind, a presence that sensed you as much as you sensed it, that weighed heavily, waiting.

“You’ll split them open.”

You jumped in surprise and then it only took a few steps before he was in front of you, hand outstretched with the wrap.

“I’m fine,” you protested, but his mouth was a thin straight line that didn’t need to emit any words. He’d just nag until you gave up. Then he’d throw you onto the wrestling mat and call it a lesson.

Maybe you were cranky.

“I can do it myself,” you attempted, but he ignored it steadfastly, focused on pulling your fingers apart.

“Sure, you could.”

You shifted your weight, “You think I’d fuck it up or something.”

“I think you’d do it clumsy. Think it’d be a rush job.”

He secured the loop onto your thumb before tugging it over the back of your wrist. You watched his fingers, wrapped up skillfully, as they turned and twisted around yours. For all his calluses, he was handling you delicately, and it was all too strange.

Sweat beaded along his brow, his pink cheeks from an earlier warm-up were settling the longer he stood still. He wasn’t making eye contact even as you ducked to find his gaze. It felt like part of an apology.

Nothing passed but his breath and yours, both awkwardly out of their regular tempo. You knew why you were being so weird, but couldn’t guess a damn what reason he would have.

Suddenly, he said, “If I pulled my punches in practice, it would skew your perception in the field.”

You deliberated this information, and the way he offered it up. Like he was bringing you a precious relic you’d be grateful to receive. What an honor. The stinging aftermath of his bones against your bones.

“So this,” you tilted your face forward, showing him where his forearm landed this morning and the pulp of your skin that ice, for fifteen minutes after, did nothing for, “This is a favor?”

He frowned, something complicated skittering across his face.

After a minute, which was quite a long time for Steve to meditate when you were obviously baiting him, he said, “It’s a warning. Enemies won’t go easy on you. I can’t either, even if I wanted to. It’s my job to make sure you’re prepared for whatever is coming next. It’s my job to bring you back home.”

“That’s nice—"

He cut you off, firm. “That’s the truth.”

The truth.

You felt it with your entire chest as Steve stood there, attention fixed upon your hand, his own circling your wrist and palm and then between the sensitive webbing of your fingers with diligence.

A lock of hair fell over his forehead, obscured one eye, and when he looked up behind it in wait of your reply with that open, honest expression, you gulped.

The truth, he asked in your dream— that he seemed to be wanting now wordlessly. That you’d been punching down every morning and night because it was so simple, and excruciating.

The truth was, you were stupid for him. And just stupid, in general, because you could never tell him. Because he was Steven Grant Rogers, for fuck’s sake. He was stunning and tortured and you wanted to die sometimes, just looking at him because you didn’t know how else to express it.

Because there wasn’t a world where you could step up to Steve, stare down the magnum opus of his monumental hero’s journey and feel like you could be a contender for a single, sad crumb of his attention. 

And yet you could never quite help yourself.

The truth:

Sometimes you’d do it to get his hands on you—to motivate him, to have him spare a single glance your way. Screw up the training exercise just so he’d spend an extra hour beating the drill into you.

Because outside of your private quarters and battered-tired imagination, when would he ever?

Because short of begging him to touch you, when would he ever?

The baiting. The backtalk. Challenging him at every turn. You were a spiraling addict, grabbing any high within your reach.

Hell, you were just as deranged as the rest of them. DSM-5, eat your heart out.

He dropped your hands, finished, and brought his thumb up to your temple where the welt throbbed under his pulse. “There,” he said. Almost silent, almost like you imagined it.

Then between one heartbeat and the next, his lips parted, bottom one pulled in almost imperceptibly— and— fuck, you didn’t understand a damn thing.

You made a noise like a fish out of water and he rubbed the back of his broad neck, craning his sight to the high ceiling. When he turned back down, he was soft at his edges, the tired years on his face placated.

“I know what you’re doing. You don’t think I know?”

You were nearly sure you were still in bed, and the fantasy was turning on its head, coming up absurdist and you were ready, nowpleasegod, to wake up.

“Pickin’ fights in alleyways since I could throw a punch. Why’d you think so?”

You sputtered, because you’re a ham-fisted, sleep-deprived, single-minded moron, “Because you’re a glutton for punishment?”

Steve snorted. “Like you are?”

You could feel the burn of agony twist its way up your neck, the way fact exposes itself when there’s no other cowardly avenue to run down. He watched, his sea-glass eyes stormy and insistent, and the lights of the compound gym were like stage spotlights now, white, and localized.

You found interest in your feet, because you were still missing shoes, and Steve followed the path and saw your toes curled up tight like hiding themselves.

“Jesus,” he huffed with dismay.

“I was tired. Am. Still tired.”

 “Go back to sleep.”

“I tried. Why do you think I’m here? Have you ever seen me here?” You swept your arm out toward the abundance of equipment that have not yet been acquainted with even your shadow.

“Now that you mention it,” he replied.

“Not once—my god, Rogers, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Hey,” he said, because you were doing that horrible, compulsive, nervous-tic conflict thing again, and this time he put his hand on your shoulder and it was warm.

Your skin crooned his name.

“What. Are you doing.” Your throat was bone dry.

He stepped closer—not a dream, he was real, he was there, he was breathing your hair and touching your shoulder—and he dipped his head down, in wait.

“Oh,” your mouth decided sentences were beyond its means. “O-oh.”

“That a yes? Or no.” He moved to step away, his serious expression fluttering into embarrassment, and then guilt, and then you were doing an aerobatic move between a hop and a hurdle to reach for his face.

Teeth clicked, and you winced. He didn’t seem to mind, only stabilizing you with one hand on your neck and the other at your hip. His lips were full, hot, like there was a pulse in his mouth that was trying to overcome yours. He towered, not just in height, but—you couldn’t describe it. Your head was swirling, dizzy.

“You haven’t had any water today,” he murmured—and what kind of psycho would say that during a kiss.

“Do you mind?” you grabbed at his hair, “I’m trying to—” You kissed him some more, your brain a fluttering, ecstatic mess. You shivered when he licked your tongue, fisted his collar when he made a huff—a moan—and then he was gone, a faint hiss between his teeth and his eyes burning darkly.

You wanted to fall down to the gym floor, take him tumbling with you, hands impatient and wild as you felt for each other. Up t-shirts and down waistbands, tongues sloppy and missing each other, leaving lines of spit along chins and necks.

It felt silly—stupid, reckless, fantastic—but it was damn good. Like two kids figuring out their bodies for the first time. So natural and luxurious that you could literally fall forward into him, let him do everything. Strip you naked in the damn gym, fold you in half atop some mats, over a bench, leave marks down your spine and up your throat. Curl himself so deep you could feel him in your mind for days after—you wanted it all.

He was laughing a little bit, the creases of his eyes lit with joy as he weaved left and right, getting all the right angles to mouth at you with. He pawed and squeezed and sighed as he touched you, feeling every inch. He was excited, and it kind of killed you to know—made your belly swelter and clench with pride.

You rolled your hips lazily into his, and he backed up until he found a bench to sit down on, pulling you by the hand, the wrap yanking open and unspooling onto the floor.

“This okay?” He asked.

You made a low, pained sound.

“Hey,” he said, and you blinked at how concerned he was. He steadied your shoulders, his long fingers comforting and heavy. “You okay?”

You yawned, and when you looked at him again, he was confused. And he was standing.

You couldn’t keep up. You looked down dumbly at your empty hands. He was just there.

Oh, gods.

Steve was standing—at the punching bag, not sitting on a bench with you between his thighs. And the wrap that had unspooled from your left hand was limply hanging from your right, the necessary supplies in a bag next to your foot.

You went ice cold.

You wobbled and caught yourself, because you were standing in the middle of the gym idly, realizing that you’d spent the last 10 minutes losing yourself in a fever dream about Steve.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” you said too quickly, recoiling when he side-stepped from his position to head toward you. Your knees trembled, the place between your thighs warm and clenching madly on nothing.

“You don’t look okay.”

“You’re… worried about me?”

Steve narrowed his eyes and said “yes”, like you were stupid. But then he breathed soft, and looked so much like that fantasy you’d conjured up a few seconds ago, that you turned and made ready to bolt.

He caught your wrist.

“I need to—” he began firmly. “You need to listen--”

But you didn’t. You licked your lips because he was so close and you were insane with want for him, and he stopped dead in his tracks for a split second, eyes tracking your mouth and the short, puffs of air that your chest was pushing out without you meaning it to. Just quick huffs as you bit down on your lip to make yourself quiet and small and unseen.

Steve swallowed. He said something almost silent and it sounded like sorry before he leaned forward and caught your mouth with his.

He sighed into it. Breathed into it. He placed one hand on the small of your back and pressed your entire body to him, and you moaned like he tore it out of you.

And this time, it was real. The two of you scrambled for each other, heaving and loud.

He took you to the floor, only took another few impatient, hotheaded licks of his tongue and then he was inside of your shirt, his mouth sucking round, wet brands up between your breasts.

You bucked up to get closer, and he sank down, licking and sucking and all ten of his fingers dug into your hips and waist.

“Shit,” he said.

“Uggnnn,” you replied eloquently before your better judgement pivoted and decided to swipe at reason. “What’s—“

“You make me fucking crazy.” Steve rushed out.

“Fair,” you gasped when he began rolling his hips against yours. “Feeling’s mutual—oh, what are you doing--”

He only answered with more of it, and harder, up and down, his forehead pressed to yours—his entire body, really, pressed like he wanted to swallow you whole.

It went on for eternity, it felt like, the two of you messy and starved, every second of contact a half-fight, half-resignation. Between the rushing blood in your head and the high-pitched ringing of excitement, there was a relief, like your skin was singing finally, oh god, finally.

Steve, above you, was smiling—was happy—almost as if he felt the same.

-

“Next time just say something,” you said, when you could finally breathe again.

“Like what?” He wiped his forehead. You did that to him.

You sputtered, the taste of his tongue still in your mouth, “Like—just don’t hit me so hard. And don’t say you have to.”

He opted to say nothing instead, only rolling his eyes, and you found the perfect opportunity to continue pestering. “Do you ever pull your punches? Could you maybe try?”

He only grinned with that wet, red mouth, and his eyes flicked down to you like a challenge. “I hold myself back more often than you think.”

“Name one time you held back from anything.”

His lips pressed together, a smile squirting out of the corners as he looked at his bare feet, toes flexed against the mat. His lashes were fluttering as he pondered, looking so shy and mischievous all at once.

“Just now.”

“Now?”

Beneath your collarbone, the bruise Steve sucked into your skin stung with embarrassment. The sound you made when he did it should be burned out from all memory. You had to beg him to stop, you could have cried.

“I had it all wrong. I thought you might have liked getting bossed around in bed, but you’re a sadist, Rogers.”

“No, no. You can boss me around.” He paused, “Maybe. You can try, go ahead.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, try.” And if you were to look up the definition of shit-eating, annoying, and contrary-bastard-even-more-so-than-yourself, you’d find his smug as sin picture.

“I need to go to sleep— team captain, my ass. Don’t you care about my well-being, Rogers? What even is your refractory period?”

“Don’t have one.”

Your brain was a watery 7-11 slushie, and instead of saying anything comprehensible back, you only babbled.

Just then, the gym doors slid open and both of you were on your feet like someone had been shooting them.

Natasha looked you up and down. From the crumpled bedclothes to the unruly hair and then to your mouth, which was slightly open and catching your breath. She narrowed her eyes, glanced over to where Steve stood leaned on the wall, shuffling his feet in an attempt to sort out his sweatpants.

She made to remark something else but then Bucky sidled up wearing nothing but basketball shorts and grey socks.

“It’s ass o’clock,” he complained loudly. “Why are any of you awake. Never mind, Steve you’re a degenerate. You wake up at 4. I was having a great dream, then Nat drags me up, then you’re already here? You fucking animals.”

“Hm, a dream?” Nat drawled, “Anyone I know?”

She flicked his chin already knowing entirely too fucking much.

“Can’t remember the details,” Bucky turned to you offhandedly before recognition lit in his eyes. “Oh,” he chirped, leering. “I remember now.” He wolf whistled, muttered, “Hello nurse,” and rubbed his palms together like he was warming them up.

You backed up, covering as much of your body as possible with two hands, and bumped your ass into Steve, dick-first, who cleared his throat loudly.

Nat only cackled.

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Hihi! I went on anon cause my main blog is strictly sfw, but I promise I'm an adult(29). Anyways, I had this idea of Ascended Astarion teasing Tav/Reader in front of a mirror. He can't see himself, but loves the way Tav/Reader shudders under his touch and them getting more and more embarrassed because all they can see is themselves getting riled up by seemingly nothing, but when they look down, ofc they see his hands working magic across their body.

Lol ty for the clarification and ask! I've been needing some nsfw practice!

Ascended Astarion nsfw under the cut, 18 + warnings. Like this is not implied smut. It is smut, graphic. Possessive, obsessive, manipulative, bad vampire man who loves you. As much as he's capable of. Morally gray human Tav from the start to here. It's only downhill from here baby, m/f angle. But if that doesnt fufill the dream let me know and I can make a gender neutral/ gender nonspecfic no prob! And probably less intense too because this is angsty~~~

Like I went ham, this is a whole ass fic now💀

You frowned at yourself in the bedroom mirror, adjusting your hair for the umpteenth time. It still didn't look right, despite what felt like hours of practice that you'd put into the intricate style.

You sighed as let one of your braids fall down, dissatisfied with what you saw. You didn't exactly look the part of an all-powerful vampire's consort, or at least not with the company you've recently been keeping. But it turned out a significant part of taking over Baldur's Gate was trenched in politics, meetings, balls, social events created for the sole purpose of mind games.

It was exhausting, or at least it was for you. But Astarion seemed to take to it like a duck to water. This life suited him, one of power games and subterfuge, and more often than not, murder. Not that you minded. You were just happy that he was having fun. That he was finally free after all of those years of torment. Even if he was using that freedom for… less than savory ends.

But despite his goals, you had sworn to him that you would never stray. And you intended on making good on that promise.

You just wished that he didn't insist on you being there for all of his "business". You hadn't realized how literal he had been about the whole sitting in his lap plan. It had taken a half-hour conversation to even convince him that no, you would not be doing so in the nude. He still hadn't given up on convincing you off that plan, but you highly doubted that it would help with your current level of heightened insecurity.

Maybe you were worrying for no reason. It wasn't Astarion who made you feel out of place. Well… it was, but not because of anything he did. Just… who he had become. He was so different now, so much colder to everything and everyone but you. More calculating, less forgiving, and just perfect for working with the most dangerous individuals in the mortal plane.

You seemed to be the only living thing he could relax around anymore, the only person who could soften him. It was strange really. You used to remember his softer side, before the ritual. The way his heart would hurt for children and animals alike, despite his failed attempts to hide it. His soft spot for Karlach, those who were brave and brazen, always willing to do the right thing despite the risks. The kind smile he used to have, reserved for beautiful things like the sunrise, the sunset.

Gone, all of it. It was a fact that you didn't like to think about. What you both gave up, things could have been; there was no point to it anyway. It was over. You gave Astarion the choice, this is what came of that. So here you were, obsessing over your appearance in preparation for a meeting with a high-ranking devil.

How things had changed.

You had no idea if you would ever find a way to match up with the company he kept around these days. Maybe it was your own fault for surrounding yourself with otherworldly creatures, but it was hard not to feel inadequate.

It didn't help that whenever you even slightly alluded to that insecurity, Astarion was more than ready to remind you of your… "options".

"You can join us whenever you'd like my treasure," Astarion would say with a creeping grin, "Just one bite, and we can be sure you'll be mine forever. Would that be so bad?"

It was a tempting offer, one that you kept insisting on refusing. You loved Astarion more than anything. But… you wanted that love to stay your choice. An obligation you maintained of your own free will. It's not that you didn't trust him… but to be a spawn had too many implications for you to handle.

"What has you pouting sweet thing?"

You startled when hands suddenly settled on your hip, gripping through the thin fabric of your nightdress. You looked back, relaxing the slightest bit to see Astarion smiling down at you, amused at the fact he'd managed to sneak up on you through the mirror.

"You said you weren't going to do that anymore," You whined as you leaned back into him, your eyes turning back to the mirror. You could see the fabric of your slip indented under his hands, ghost-like without his actual image reflecting back.

"I lied," Astarion said simply, leaning down to breathe you in from the crook of your neck, "Now what are you thinking about pet? I can tell something's on your mind."

You bit your lip, debating for a moment if you should tell him or not. But it's not like he would let it drop, and he was way too good at being able to tell when you were lying. Might as well come clean.

You sighed, "I don't…I don't know if I'm cut out for this."

You expected him to huff at you, maybe even laugh. But instead, the grip he had on you tightened, hard enough to make you gasp. You could feel his fangs scraping against your delicate skin, scratching hard enough to cause pinpricks of blood to bead out.

"And why would you ever think a thing like that?" Astarion asked, his voice harsh and low, "Where else would you be if not by my side hm? Please, enlighten me."

You gulped, your heart rate starting to pick up. You hadn't meant it like that, "That's not what I meant-"

"Then what else could it have meant?" Astarion shot back, his hands digging into you, surely ready to leave finger-shaped bruises. Suddenly he was using that same grip to drag you backward to the bed, effortlessly settling you between his spread legs.

All while managing to still be right in sight of the mirror. You could feel your cheeks redden as his hands started to wander, unceremoniously tugging down the straps of your nightdress to reveal your chest. That was another thing about life after the ritual that had been a surprise, just how different Astarion's sex drive was. It's not like he was a prude before, far from it, but now he was insatiable. Always ready and willing to touch you whenever the urge struck him. Often enough for you to eventually come to the thrilling, if not slightly disturbed realization, that… he was training you. Training your body to always want his touch.

And tonight was no different. You could already feel yourself getting wet, and he had barely done anything yet. But then suddenly he was pinching your nipple harshly, hissing in your ear, "I expect an answer when I ask you a question darling."

You bit back a moan, trying to remember what you were even arguing about as he started to play with your breasts, "I-I didn't mean it like that. I just… I don't want to embarrass you."

It was humiliating to admit but it was true. Not many people of Astarion's caliber insisted on a singular lover. There were so many people after him now, people with more power, more beauty, and grace. You didn't match up. You couldn't.

"Nonsense," Astarion dismissed, his hands wandering down to tear off more of your clothing, "Look at you. You were made for this life. Made for me. You're gorgeous."

The compliments mixed with the harsh feeling of his hands ripping your nightdress in two was quite the experience. You could feel his own hardness pressing into your backside, twitching as he threw your ruined clothing to the side.

Then he was gripping your chin, forcing your head back up to stare into the mirror in front of you, "I said look."

You obeyed, eyes widening at what you saw. It was so strange to see yourself like this, fully exposed with your legs spread apart, flushed and panting. It nearly gave the illusion that your very image was what was causing the wetness between your legs, instead of the invisible man toying with you.

You swallowed, your throat dry as Astarion's hands wandered lower, a feather-light touch tracing up and down your slit, "You are everything. The sole reason that I'm the man I am today. There is nowhere else you should be than right here."

"But-" You gasped, your words interrupted by a sharp slap to your inner thigh. You could see your skin start to redden in the mirror, a perfect imprint left in it's wake.

"Darling, are you questioning my judgment? What on earth made you think that was a good idea?"

You frantically shook your head, moaning when his fingers delved deeper, playing with your slick folds, "I-I'm not. I didn't- I'm sorry."

You whined as he roughly pinched your clit, his other hand moving upward to do the same to your heaving chest.

He was starting to grind his hardness against you, a tease of more to come as he murmured in your ear, "There's my good girl. Was that so hard?"

You shook your head, gasping as he finally dipped his long fingers into your cunt. You were already so sensitive, humiliatingly close in a matter of minutes.

"So gorgeous," Astarion sighed, staring straight ahead to the sole image of you, whimpering as he finger-fucked your pussy, "So needy. Can you see how wet you are pet?"

You could, you were leaking around his fingers, that needy, intense feeling getting more and more intense by the moment. It was so embarrassing seeing yourself like this, enough so that you snapped your eyes shut.

A bad idea. Astarion tutted at you, landing another sudden and hard slap to your thigh, "None of that. I told you to look. Or else."

You snapped your eyes back open, watching yourself whimper and gasp as you were played with, the harsh movement of his hand jostling your breasts. You weren't going to last much longer, not with the image of you being taken apart, the feeling of him inside you, the mean edge to your love's words.

"You're such a silly little thing, aren't you?" Astarion growled, fucking you harder and faster. You were so close, but you weren't stupid enough to come without permission. Not after what he did the last time, "Doubting me. Do you really think I don't know what's best for you? What's best for us?"

"No," You whimpered, your hips arching backward to rub harder into his erection, "You're right, I-I'm yours. C-Can I come now? Please?"

"Beg me and maybe I'll think about it," Astarion meanly laughed, relishing in the gush of slick his harshness coaxed from between your legs, "Beg and apologize. Apologize for doubting us. For doubting me."

You could barely get the words out through your own gasps, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I-I didn't mean it!"

"Good girl," Astarion huskily laughed, using a clever thumb to rub over your swollen clit, "Now tell me you love me."

"I love you," You said easily, meaning every word, "I love you more than anything.

"Tell me you'll never leave me. Ever."

There was something else behind that promise. An obvious implication that your fucked-out brain was too distracted to see.

"Never," You promised, reaching back for you him. You curled your fingers into his hair. pulling his head down to press his mouth against your throat. An open invitation, "I'll always be with you."

Astarion groaned against your skin, his fangs so close to piercing, "Precious pet, how could I ever want anything else? Come darling, you've earned it."

Then he was biting you, the brief flash of pain the perfect trigger for you to fall over the edge. You came with an embarrassingly high-pitched whine, slumping back into Astarion as he drank from your throat.

You looked as much of a mess as you felt, the stickiness between your thighs glistening in the light. You watched yourself, whimpering as Astarion slipped his fingers out. Just to tap them against your lips, forcing them into your mouth to suck on.

You moaned around them, light-headed as Astarion popped off of your throat. You sighed as he licked at the wound, enjoying the brief moment of rest. You weren't naive enough to think that you were done yet. Not when Astarion was still hard, his cock pulsing against you.

"See?" Astarion huskily laughed, licking the blood off of his lips while he played with your tongue, "You're perfect. Perfect and mine."