#this loneliness is starting to hurt real bad

[alygator77]

motherhood and matrimony

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, smut, masturbation, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, fluff, little angst, mentions of death (satoru's father).

a/n. tysm for another follower milestone! as a thank you, here are some ceo! satoru headcanons for my ongoing fic motherhood and matrimony. this can kinda be considered as a teaser for those that haven't read the series. for those that have read the fic, this fleshes out the circumstances between satoru and reader a bit more, giving us a bit of insight from satoru's POV (and showing how down bad he is, hehe.)

ceo! satoru, who walks into meetings ten minutes late, just to prove he can. he never rushes—the clock bends for him, so does the room. postures straighten, laptops shift, conversations hush—eyes flicking away like they weren’t just whispering about the latest tabloid headline with his name in bold.

he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting—never does. because he’s used to the attention. the scrutiny. the weight of being watched.

whatever… he never asked for this. he’s the heir of gojo corp, he just has to exist… right?

ceo! satoru, who doesn't read half the reports placed in front of him—rolling his eyes during company briefings, doodling dicks into the margins of billion-yen contracts. he slouches in a chair that cost more than most people’s rent—twirling a pen, daring someone to scold him. it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father.

“take this seriously satoru. you need to grow up. have you found a wife yet?”

the pressure of his legacy comes dressed in politeness, in tightly-wound ties and family dinners that feel more like interviews. it’s never ‘what do you want?’ only ‘what will you become?’

people think he’s lazy. arrogant. detached. 

eh… maybe they aren’t wrong? 

and yet, for all his mockery, he still shows up. still puts on the suit. still plays the part with a half-smile and his middle finger tucked just behind his back. because maybe, if he doesn’t take it seriously, it can’t hurt him the way it was always meant to.

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence. 

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take. 

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. 

boring, uptight. 

that’s his original impression of you. 

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck? 

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to. 

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss. 

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper. 

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you��who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes. 

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control. 

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence. 

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both. 

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you. 

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be.  sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

[pomegranatelifethis]

Broken heart

The rain tapped quietly against the tall windows of Wayne Manor.

But inside, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not peaceful. Not warm.

Just… hollow.

You’d been brought here when you were thirteen.

After your mother died, Bruce took you in.

His real daughter.

Blood.

No one could say you didn’t belong here.

And yet, every single day since you walked through the doors of this grand mansion…

You felt like a stranger in your own story.

There was no welcome.

No warmth.

Only rooms that were too big, silences that were too loud, and people who were too busy to look.

Bruce gave you a bedroom, not a family.

A last name, not a father.

He told you he was "doing his best."

But he never looked you in the eye.

He never asked what your favorite food was.

Or if you had trouble sleeping.

Or if your chest hurt again.

Because it did.

It always did.

Your heart condition had followed you your whole life.

Weak rhythms, shortness of breath, chest pain.

Stress made it worse.

Loneliness made it unbearable.

But no one noticed.

Or maybe they just didn’t care enough to ask.

Dick smiled at you.

He was always smiling.

But it never reached his eyes.

You sat next to him one afternoon, hoping for connection.

He barely looked up from his phone.

“Bored?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

And he didn’t wait.

He left.

Jason ignored you.

He didn’t mean to be cruel—he just didn’t see you.

One night you collapsed near the stairs.

He found you.

But instead of asking if you were okay, he muttered,

“What are you doing on the floor?”

Like it was your fault.

Like your body betraying you was inconvenient.

He helped you up.

But he never looked at you.

And still... you said “thank you.”

Because at least someone touched you.

Tim barely knew when you entered a room.

You could be sitting across from him, and he’d still be more focused on his laptop than your pale face, your shaking hands.

One night, your breathing grew shallow—fast, unsteady.

You curled up in the corner, struggling.

He was there.

Headphones on. Typing.

You nearly passed out at his feet.

And he never noticed.

Damian hated you.

At least he was honest about it.

To him, you were weak.

Pathetic.

A waste of space.

“You can’t even hold your own weight,” he said one afternoon when you dropped a glass.

The truth was, your hands were trembling.

But he didn’t care.

He walked away while your heart pounded like a ticking time bomb inside your chest.

No one followed.

No one stayed.

You started keeping painkillers hidden in your drawer.

Not because they helped—

but because pretending to take them felt like pretending someone gave a damn.

You started writing letters you never sent.

Journals filled with

“Would they notice if I died?”

“Does it matter?”

Then came the night it finally broke you.

Your vision blurred.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t scream.

You reached for your phone—

but the battery was dead.

Your fingers fumbled.

No one heard.

No one came.

You passed out.

---+--+---------------+-------+-------_---------------

When you woke up, everything was white.

The hospital smelled like bleach and cold air.

Alfred was there.

He looked shaken.

Bruce came later.

He stood by your bed.

Silent.

Eyes unreadable.

And then he said,

“When did it get this bad?”

You almost laughed.

Because it had always been this bad.

But you had never been worth his full attention.

--------------------------------------------------------

Now, lying in a hospital bed, you stared at the ceiling and whispered,

“I didn’t want help. I just wanted to be seen.”

But the damage was done.

---+-------------------------------------------------

Maybe now they’d care.

Maybe now they’d feel guilty.

Maybe now someone would look at you and really see you.

But maybe it was too late.

Your heart was fragile—

and not just because of your condition.

-----------------------------------------------------------

End.

(Or maybe… just the beginning.)

English is not my native language

[ronearoundblindly]

Lease

best-friend!roommate!reader x Steve Rogers

*This was a totally random and spontaneous idea. Not edited. Light language (so we can get *the joke*), pining, light angst, hurt/comfort, and fluff. This work is for all ages! WC ~2k

Sam Wilson introduces you. Both your parents were veterans and active at the VA, so you practically grew up there.

At first, you’re reserved, a little formal, but very nice. Oddly enough, Steve just likes that you don’t hound him with questions about his military service and how it was different based on the decade, etc. You are just…around to listen.

He finds himself filling any (comfortable) silence between you with stories. Stupid things. Things that don’t have to do with the VA or his past or even his present, which is entirely work as Captain America.

Steve gets to a point where he is itching to live off of Avengers Campus, but he doesn’t want to live alone.

One day he finds you hunched over a laptop and grumbling, “why is everything so fucking expensive?”

A sentiment which, of course, he frowns at.

“Sorry,” you shrug, a look of sincere apology on your distraught face. “I didn’t realize it, but apparently, I’m poor with my measly three-thousand-dollar-a-month budget for an apartment. Now I have to find a roommate, and—“ you start wagging a finger at him sarcastically “—I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’re some real weirdos out there. It’ll take me longer to find a safe, stable roomie than it takes to—“

“I can move in with you.”

Steve almost gasps at how fast the words fly out of his mouth.

“Well, not ‘move in’ to your current place. I mean. I can—I would be willing to live with you. Sorry! That sounds bad. You’re not bad. I meant…you know, anytime you want to chime in and stop me would be helpful.”

You remain silent and smirking.

“Right. Okay. So…think about it? Or not, that’s fine.”

“Let’s talk figures, Rogers. The square-footage just doubled, and I need to rework the budget.”

Moving in is shockingly uneventful. You’re easy to get along with, when not suddenly up on your high horse about something, and Steve is easy to get along with under the same circumstances. You push his militant rigidity to the brink on purpose, but never too far.

Things sit out in the wrong place, but it’s never dirty. Stuff doesn’t always get returned promptly, but if he asks, you’re on it.

There are two bathrooms, thank mercy.

He has random and odd hours. You work nine to five, mostly. It’s the perfect level of independence without loneliness for Steve.

Sam and Natasha stop by regularly or ask you both out for drinks or to fun, new places.

One time, when Nat is ribbing Steve to go talk to a cute girl ordering at the bar, he panics and takes your hand in his on the tabletop.

“How can I do that when my date is right here?” he grits playfully through his pearly white teeth. “Leave it alone.”

Each word is punctuated by a shift forward and a slight tilt of his head.

Natasha is unamused and instantly grabs your other hand (which was holding your drink) to pull you toward the dance floor.

It’s awkward for multiple reasons. You’d pay a whole month’s rent to know what Sam and Steve talked about after you left.

Sam takes a different approach, luring—or attempting to lure—Steve into setting up just one dating profile online.

“You don’t have to put photos,” Sam assures, “and you can stick with your first name only. I swear to you, man, this’ll be good for you. Get you out there more. Help me out here, Tagalong!”

He turns to you for support. To be fair, you did quite literally tag along with your parents for years to the VA, and it stuck. Why it sticks as a grown-ass adult? You’ll never know. You just don’t mind Sam Wilson saying it because he means well and never uses it in public.

“Uh, nooooo.”

Sam’s face falls. “What?”

You look at Steve and grimace, clicking your tongue. “He’s not ready for that,” you conclude.

Steve jumps out of the chair, arms wide with victory.

“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!”

“I know you told her to say that,” Sam shouts back.

“Did not,” Steve barks.

“He did not.” You lean against your bedroom doorframe. “I just think it’s obvious.”

That makes Steve deflate a little. “Wait, but…I’m not that bad.”

“Oh gosh,” you fake with a huge smile, “look at the time! Gotta be off to bed…”

The men keep fighting albeit muffled from your side of the wall. The only part you can make out before giving them privacy is Sam, whining, “but you actually like bubble baths and walks on the beach, dude. You’re gonna be money on there.”

“Hey, why do you not, ya know, date?”

You look up from your breakfast, stunned because that came out of nowhere. You’ve lived together over six months now, and Steve hasn’t asked for one iota of personal—well, romantically personal—information.

Twiddling your fork around, you think.

“I always imagine what my parents would think of him, any guy I’ve ever considered being with longterm, and…I was just never proud to say ‘here, here’s the one,’ I guess.”

Your parents have been gone for years. You value their opinion anyway.

“Mhm,” Steve hums, “the one?”

You take a bite of food, straightening your back, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

He’s quiet for a while.

“So you’re waiting for the right partner?” Steve finally mutters, and he watches your noncommittal gesturing intently.

That was a ‘yes.’

Natasha knows. Sam knows. Steve suspects but won’t admit to anything. You are kind and unreadable.

You’ve always been kind, so there’s no discernible difference to signal you have feelings for him in return. He can’t bring himself to be anything less than a gentleman at home and makes absolutely no moves to find out.

He stays out in the living room a lot more, all hours, hoping you’ll mention staying in for a movie, praying you’ll be tired enough to fall asleep on his lap on the couch.

He’s in way too deep.

What Steve suspects is that it would be too awkward to start anything while living together, but he doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch for rent or a roommate. He also desperately doesn’t want to move out. The status quo is comfortable.

He loves being comfortable with you.

The stress of not telling you, while needing to make some sort of arrangements should telling you blow up in his face, starts to wear on him.

Steve is a pro at compartmentalizing his life, so it’s when he’s stuck at the apartment without any missions, a handful of meetings, and a team that all have lives for two long months that he cracks…in the least attractive way.

He’s messed up his sleep schedule with worry and playing innocent, and out of the not-so-blue, a horrible, vivid nightmare hits him. Steve isn’t even on the mattress anymore by the time he figures out there wasn’t carpet like this in Germany and the desk chair he grips is not a motorcycle.

“Rogers,” he hears. “Rogers, can you look at me?”

The dark room is somehow hollow and stifling all at once. His head turns slower than his brain tells it to.

Steve blinks.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hey, sweets,” he husks from a dry throat. “What…”

“Can you tell me where this is?” You step closer and pry one of his hands off the mesh to cradle in yours. “Where are we, Rogers?”

“Home.” He swallows. “Our home.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, but you nod like he’s done well.

“Okay, Steve, I’m going to get you some water. If you want—“ your fingers smooth over the back of his hand, nudging the other to release the chair “—you can sit on the bed.”

You don’t leave. You don’t even get up from the floor.

He doesn’t notice he’s clutching your hands, shaking slightly until long seconds go by.

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve lets go, otherwise unmoving, contemplating how he ever thought the semi-rough industrial carpet felt the same as mud.

You carefully hand him the water and rub his back, using your nails to trace invisible patterns. He can’t remember what he was so scared of a minute ago. He only knows he’s sweating that empty kind of confused.

“What’s that supposed to do?” he asks absently.

You shrug. “Eh. Back scratches just feel good.”

Steve’s mind remains blank as he sips his water.

: We need to renew the lease soon. Like this week.

Steve has stalled as long as humanly possible; he is officially not being a gentleman now. He is a coward.

: Talk about it when I get home?

: Could you at least tell me if this is a hard NO on staying here or just some concerns/questions? : I don’t get why you’re being like this.

Steve gets it, but he hates it.

: I’ll be back tonight. Should I pick up food?

: ffs : Fine. Whatever you want.

Steve also hates when you’re mad at him…which has been happening more and more.

He’s been distant, he refuses to let Sam or Nat come around for fear they’ll play match-maker and ruin the whole thing, and he is about to ruin the whole thing anyway.

Because he is not smooth. Because he is not prepared. Because he’s built up this perfect and amazing, sweep-you-off-your-feet moment.

And he bungles it.

“Out with it,” you command, haughtily yanking your portion of food from the countertop beside him, heading for the dinette.

“I want to be with you,” he blurts.

“Thank god,” you sigh, settling in your spot. “So we’ll go down to the office and sign in the morning. I don’t want there to be an issue if you’re off to wherever for who-the-hell-knows how long on the date the thing expires.”

“No, I…” but Steve’s voice is too quiet.

“There’s only a tiny window where they’re open before I have to head to work, so let me physically sign first, right? Then I gotta go.”

“Sure,” he slurs.

“Steve?” You turn to see him staring down at his food. He’s still across the room. “Are you okay?”

“I said I—I meant that—“ he huffs out his breath and taps his fist on the counter “—I meant that I’m an idiot,” he finishes softly.

Approaching with that beautiful, open-hearted kindness that haunts his days and soothes his night, you cross to him, scratching his back just the way he’s grown to crave.

“Think you might be hangry,” you chuckle.

He cannot do this. Steve is hanging on by a thread until the graze of your hand slides down his forearm to take his plate, and he spins.

He’s thought about kissing you so many times, he mapped out the angles he’d have to hold himself at, how far he needs to lean to get to you, the care to take wrangling in his strength and sheer excitement.

Steve Rogers is good at planning, at least, this part.

Gentle pecks of his plush lips to yours leave gaps in contact that let you whimper, and he fears you stopping him. He presses, wrapping his arms around you and molding your bodies together. The linoleum of the kitchen floor makes sticky sounds beneath your shuffling feet, squeaking once you hit the adjacent wall.

The force of that knocks your frozen arms into his chest, and painfully, Steve relents to step away, but not far. He bites his bottom lip and tastes the balm from yours, his head tilted in shame but fiery eyes watching you from beneath long lashes.

“Oh,” you breathe out. “Oh…you meant…”

Steve’s tongue darts out hungrily.

“Yeah.”

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

They're soooo cute!!!!!!

[try-set-me-on-fire]

don’t be alarmed, this is my loudest roar

1465 words // rated g

8x15-16 spec, major character death

Dad had warned him, in the car. He already knew Bobby is dead, that’s why they left Texas so fast instead of waiting for spring break or maybe the end of the school year like they were starting to talk about. Chris was in the room when the phone call had come in and Eddie’s face had gone all- wide. It’s weird to think about. Bobby, Captain Nash. It’s like a principal or a librarian dying. Not so much a person in Chris’ mind but an architectural feature, a fundamental truth of the way the world is. He’ll visit dad at work and Bobby will give him a grilled cheese with grapes on the side and show him the fire trucks again even though he’s seen them a million times already. And now he won’t, because he’s not alive, because principals and librarians are real people who breathe and bleed and can stop doing those things. It’s weird.

So that’s not what Dad warned him about. It’s after their last stop for gas, where Chris tried to stretch out the ache of sitting in a car for so long and Dad ran off out of hearing again, like he did at every other gas stop, phone pressed to his ear. They’re back in the car and on the highway again and Eddie’s knuckles are tight against the steering wheel and he clears his throat.

“Mijo,” he says. “Chris.” He glances over at the passenger seat, then keeps his eyes on the road. “When we get there- when we get home Buck is gonna be there.” Chris knows that, knows Buck moved in. He dreams- daydreams, not quite asleep enough for it to be anything other than wishful thinking, about him and Buck and Dad all in one house forever, and always knowing where both of them are and that they’re safe. He can almost hear snoring down the hall if he closes his eyes hard enough. “And… I just want to tell you, he-” Eddie’s knuckles creak on the wheel. “Him and Bobby were really close, you know? He… Bobby was kind of like his dad. So- so he’s really upset right now, and I just want to tell you that before we get there because- because we’re going to have to be gentle with him, okay?” Chris nods, Eddie nods. “And because I know… it can be kinda scary, when someone you- you care about is hurting.” Chris nods again, like he doesn’t know that, like his stomach hasn’t wobbled anytime Eddie’s voice has in this conversation. “I don’t want you to be scared. We’re going to be okay. Buck will be okay.” Eddie lets go of the steering wheel for a minute, stretches his fingers out, grabs back on again. “We’re gonna take care of him.” That seems obviously true, so Chris doesn’t nod a third time.

So, here they are now, at the house. Still labelled home in Chris’ mind, on one of those little pieces of tape with the raised up letters like Mrs. Hanrahan had all over everything in third grade, like they’d somehow forget what a pencil is and where to put it away. The lawn is mowed and the door is open and it looks so much the same that Chris feels like crying a little but doesn’t. Eddie gets out of the car first, and doesn’t bother with bags or anything because out of the house-

Buck. Chris imagines the shelf he lives on in his mind, stored close to home and Dad. He thinks he’d need more than one little strip of tape for him. Friend and safe and firefighter and family and- he doesn’t know. He thinks he hasn’t learned the words yet to describe the kind of hurting he feels when he thinks about Buck. Not a bad hurting. Kind of like loneliness, like wanting somebody there, but it happens even when Buck is there. Chris doesn’t know. Dad is on the porch now and he’s holding Buck, different than a hug, in some way Chris also doesn’t know how to describe. Sometimes it feels like Chris doesn’t know anything at all. He sits in the car and wishes he could drive so he could get his knuckles all tight on the wheel. He grabs the door handle and thinks it’s not really the same and then he opens the door, gets out of the car.

Buck meets him halfway down the path, spilling out of Dad’s arms as soon as he sees movement, rushing to meet him. Chris barely gets to look at him — red eyes, too much stubble, his hair is so curly now — before he’s being wrapped up in big arms, clutched against a warm body. “Chris,” Buck says- Buck says. His voice, not over a phone. Chris squeezes his eyes shut tight and shakes his arms out of his crutches so he can hug back. “Chris, Chris-” An earthquake? No- no, just Buck. “God- God, kid, I missed you- I missed you so much.” One of Buck’s arm’s remains locked around him and the other roams, hand clutching his shoulder and then cradling his head, smoothing over his back. And he’s- he’s crying. Big ugly crying. Chris can’t see it but he can hear it and feel it, above and around him. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.” For what? Chris shakes his head. It’s okay. He’s sort of frightened but Eddie had warned him so it’s okay. “Sorry- you’re here, you’re here- oh- oh God-” Chris feels Buck’s face press into the top of his head. He’s still tall enough to do that easily, despite all Dad’s teasing about how big Chris has grown. Dad is here too, Chris vaguely hears him say something close by, but mostly what he hears is Buck sobbing. Chris holds on as tight as he can. He is scared. He’s scared, despite the warning, because- Buck is crying, Buck’s not okay, and there have been so many- all those other times when the world ended Buck was- Chris has seen him cry before but not like this, and it makes him feel sick a little. And- guilty a little, bad a little, because- he knows Mom missed him when she left. He’s pretty sure. He knows Dad missed him when they were apart. He’s pretty sure. He’s very sure, Dad has told him it’s true, and there’s a kind of quiet something-else mixed in with his happiness when they’re together now. Relief? Loneliness for someone next to you? But. Buck shakes and cries and it’s loud and frightening and it’s proof.

“I missed you,” Chris says. He’s not even sure anyone hears him, all muffled into Buck’s sweatshirt. “I missed you, too.”

“Let’s get inside,” Eddie is saying, and his hand is on Chris’ shoulder, and that is so familiar-unchanged makes him want to cry, too. “Alright, it’s okay, lets get inside.”

Buck gasps a few times above him, pulling in air like he’s going to jump in a pool- jump into water, after Chris. Maybe Chris is crying already. It’s hard to tell. And then Buck pulls back just a little, straightens up, and there he is looking down at him. He looks rough and wrecked and so real Chris sort of realizes he’s not dreaming, which he already knew but- understands, now. It’s real, and Bobby is dead, and they’re not in Texas, and he wishes he never left because the house is the same but everything feels different now, and Buck is frowning now, a different kind of frown, careful and worried and his hand is on Chris face, calloused thumb very soft brushing across his cheek. “Oh, Chris, hey. Hey, you’re okay.”

“I love you,” Chris says, and the label on the shelf should really just say Buck, because doesn’t that mean all of the rest of it? What did Buck label Bobby, on his shelves? “I want to go home- I want to come home, I want to come home, I’m sorry, I want to come home.”

“We’re here,” Eddie says, kissing Chris’ head so close to where Buck’s fingers rest. “It’s okay-” his voice cracks but Dad and Buck were always a team and one will pick up a thought where the other dropped it.

“It’s okay, Chris,” Buck says, and his voice is still wet and raspy, but- they’ll all be in one house and maybe Chris isn’t the only one who needs that to be true. Maybe it’s okay to want that to be true. “Let’s get inside. Let’s-” he looks at Eddie, almost a question that seems to be answered before he even asks it. Chris can feel him breathing, his lungs expanding and collapsing and expanding again, and again. Quietly, he says “Let’s go home.”

[malsmind]

vampire!matt 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 antisocial!reader 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

✰ - content warnings: ✦ underage drinking ✦ smoking weed ✦ pet names ✦ mentions of social anxiety ✦

wc - 1.3k

friday night.

you already hated it.

your best friend had been buzzing about the party all goddamn week, practically begging you to come until you finally caved, just to shut her up. and now you’re here, standing in the backyard of some rich kid’s overpriced, overdecorated house, half a red solo cup in, already regretting every choice you’ve ever made leading up to this moment.

there’s too many people. too many fake smiles, too many drunken laughs echoing off the fence line.

you stick close to the sliding glass doors, watching her laugh and cling to chris—the worst part of this whole fucking setup. you know how it goes. once she and chris link up, you’re on your own. and right on cue, they’re already disappearing into the crowd together, her hand in his, giggling like they’re the only two people who exist.

“fuckin’ awesome,” you mutter to yourself, taking a bigger sip from your cup.

the social anxiety is already curling up your spine like a second skin. you shift from foot to foot, feeling that too-familiar panic crawling up your throat. you could leave—but that would mean dealing with the “why’d you bail” texts tomorrow. and besides, a tiny, fucked up part of you was hoping… maybe tonight would be different. maybe you wouldn’t feel so alone in a room full of people for once.

but you do.

solution?

alcohol. more of it.

you ditch your cup, steal a half-full bottle of cheap vodka from the kitchen counter, and start drinking straight from it as you wander upstairs, avoiding the sweaty crowds and the too-loud music vibrating the walls. you find the master bathroom unlocked—huge, marble everything, one of those stupid spa bathtubs that’s basically a small pool. you grin to yourself, stumbling a little as you kick off your boots and crawl into the empty tub, bottle still in hand. somewhere along the line, someone left a half-burnt joint on the edge of the tub.

fuck it.

you grab it, spark it, and inhale deep.

you don’t even like smoking weed that much—paranoia, bad memories—but when you’re this wasted, it smooths over the sharp edges. makes the loneliness just another dull ache in the back of your mind. you don’t know how long you sit there, cross-legged in the dry tub, hotboxed in the fog of your own bad decisions, but you hear the door creak open and lazy footsteps shuffle closer.

“jesus christ, angel,” a familiar voice says, and you squint up at the figure looming over you.

matt.

of course it’s him. you grin, wide and lazy, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward him.

“hey, dickhead,” you slur, voice syrupy sweet.

he looks unimpressed. his arms are crossed, jaw tight, standing there in his black, baggy jeans and some old band t-shirt you can’t quite focus on. he looks… annoyingly good. even under the gross fluorescent bathroom lights. and he’s staring at you, deadpan, like you’re the biggest headache of his life. you giggle. actually giggle.

“you good?” he asks flatly, stepping closer.

you nod dramatically, taking another hit and holding it in too long, making yourself cough. he winces like just watching you hurts.

“yeah, you’re real good,” he mutters. he plucks the blunt out of your fingers with two of his, taking it away and stubbing it out in a soap dish like you’re some dumbass toddler he’s babysitting.

“hey,” you whine, reaching for it.

he lifts it out of reach easily. “you don't even smoke that shit, dumbass.”

“m’fine, matt,” you mumble, slumping back against the side of the tub. “you’re so— so mean to me.”

he huffs out a sharp breath through his nose, crouching down so he’s eye level with you now. you can see the tattoos on his arms again. the little axe. the falling leafs.

god, you’re drunk.

“you’re no fun, matt...we could have so much fun...”

you reach out clumsily, fingertips grazing the edge of his sleeve. he grabs your hand before you can trail your fingers up his arm, gently but firmly setting it back down on your lap

“not when you’re drunk outta your goddamn mind, angel.”

you huff, laring at him trough half-lidded eyes. you don’t even know why you’re upset. you just are.

“why not?” you whisper, voice breaking a little.

he lets go of your wrist immediately like it burned him, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“because,” he mutters, jaw clenching. “you’re wasted, angel. you don’t mean any of this.”

you’re too wasted to catch the way his voice softens at the end of that. too wasted to notice the way he watches you, jaw clenching every time you sway closer, every time you bat those glassy, desperate eyes at him.

you blink up at him, everything blurry, all the fear and loneliness you keep caged up spilling over.

“maybe i do,” you say, almost too soft to hear.

matt looks like you punched him. like he doesn’t know whether to hug you or shove you away. his mouth opens. closes. no smartass comment this time. you feel it building—the crash. the way too much alcohol and too much loneliness wrap around you like a weighted blanket, pressing the sadness into your bones. being rejected, even gently—it hits you harder when you’re this drunk, makes you feel stupid and small and wrong.

you go quiet, staring at nothing, shoulders sagging.

he notices immediately.

“hey,” he mutters, reaching over to set the vodka bottle far, far away. “none of that shit, c'mon..”

you can’t even look at him. you’re too embarrassed. your throat locks up, words stuck somewhere you can’t reach, and you hate it. you hate feeling like this—like you want something you can’t have, someone who wouldn’t want you anyway.

matt exhales through his nose, standing up and offering you his hand. “let’s go. i’m driving you home.”

you nod, too tired to argue.

the drive back to your house is silent except for the low hum of whatever sad-ass playlist matt has on. you stare out the window, head pounding already, your hands fidgeting in your lap. every now and then you catch him glancing at you, you notice the way his fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel like he’s fighting every instinct he has. but he doesn’t say anything.

so you do.

“you don’t drink,” you slur quietly.

he glances at you. shrugs. “nah.”

“thought you would.”

“lotta things you don’t know about me, angel.”

you stare at him for a second, looking him up and down. he's right. you now barely anything about the kid. if the alcohol wasn't fogging up every thought in your head you'd usually overthink, you probably would've been freaked out by it. but right now, you couldn't care less.

he parks in front of your house and helps you inside, guiding you to your bedroom like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before. you sit on the edge of your bed, swaying slightly, staring up at him.

“stay,” you mumble, voice small. “please.”

for a second—just a second—matt’s whole face shifts. like you punched him right in the gut. he presses his lips together, jaw tight, forcing himself to shake his head.

“can’t,” he says, voice low and rough. “you’re drunk, sweetheart. ask me again when you’re sober.”

you blink hard, fighting the stupid burn in your eyes. you hate yourself. hate that you asked. hate that you probably don't even mean it and probably just created something really awkward between you two. the fact that he'd remember every second of this, and you most likely wouldn't made you feel sick, embarrassed.

“call me tomorrow,” matt adds, kneeling down to help untie your shoes. “i’ll come over. bring advil and all that shit. fix your hangover.”

you don’t answer. you just nod once, slow and tired. he stands up, hesitates like he wants to say something else, then shoves his hands in his pockets and leaves without another word. the door clicks shut behind him.

and there you are. alone with your thoughts after the boy who you couldn't stand was the nicest person ever to you, unlike anyone ever has.

dividers by @issysh3ll

₊⊹ @tits4matt @mattspillowprincess @h3arts4nat @starryfantasydreams @sturns-mermaid @sturniolochrismatt @sturrrrnslvt @bluessturniolo @spaghettislut1 @kittybitch @abbystromboli @urlocallera @loser41ifee @courta13 @phonysuperstarr @sturnsrecord @bbgirlmatt @secretlifeofspace @mattssslutbby @backwardshatnick @oopsiedaisydeer @tezzzzzzzz @sturniolosluttt @aflairforthedramattic @matts-247 @pink1man

[queen-of-the-avengers]

The Only Exception

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.4k (including lyrics)

Warnings: none

Summary: Love doesn’t exist for someone like you. It’s not in the cards and never has been. That is, until you meet Bucky. He keeps proving to you that there is a whole world outside of the castle you’ve locked your heart in.

Square Filled: bed sharing (2021_ for @buckybarnesbingo

Author’s Note: this is based on the song The Only Exception by Paramore (inspiration from the music video)

x

When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry And curse at the wind He broke his own heart and I watched As he tried to reassemble it And my momma swore That she would never let herself forget And that was the day that I promised I'd never sing of love if it does not exist

It’s the middle of the night and you can’t sleep. Bucky softly snores next to you since he found sleep a few hours ago, but you can’t seem to get there. Your head is resting on his arm with your back to his chest, and his metal arm is loosely slung over your waist. The reason you can’t sleep is because your mind is filled with fear and bad thoughts. Thoughts that make you doubt the relationship you’re in.

If you can even call it a relationship.

This whole thing with Bucky started when he was on the run from SHIELD and HYDRA. You two met in Vienna when you were on vacation. He was at a vulnerable point in his life and wanted the simple life which is what you had. You rented a small cottage on the edge of the city that was surrounded by trees.

He found comfort in that and he found comfort in you. You thought the little tryst in Vienna would be the extent of your relationship, but you found yourself back in the United States with him. Suddenly, the realization that what you two have or had would be real, and it scared the fuck out of you.

Love doesn’t come easily for someone like you. Everyone around you had failing relationships or relationships they couldn’t escape. Your sister just got a divorce, your best friend has never been in a serious relationship and goes through guys faster than is normal, and your parents aren’t that better off. The earliest memory you have is of your dad crying because he lost your mom, his wife, and it was his own damn fault. He had an addiction, a gambling addiction, and he let it consume himself until your mom forced him out of his home, her life.

Your father was cursing himself at the same time your mother was drowning in her sorrows. She swore never to let this happen to her again.

That was the day you promised never to let something as arbitrary as love past your walls. The relationship with Bucky started off as physical until you started growing feelings for him. Feelings you’ve been trying to avoid this whole time.

You lift Bucky’s arm and carefully slide out of bed. You gather your clothes while keeping one eye on Bucky to make sure he doesn’t wake. After getting dressed, you grab a pen off his desk and write “I’m sorry” in scrawly handwriting.

You can’t get hurt like they have, so you leave.

Maybe I know somewhere deep in my soul That love never lasts And we've got to find other ways to make it alone Or keep a straight face And I've always lived like this Keeping a comfortable distance And up until now I had sworn to myself That I'm content with loneliness Because none of it was ever worth the risk

Tears blur your vision but you keep driving away from the house, away from the comfort of Bucky’s arms. You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know how to let anyone past your thick walls knowing your heart might not be safe with them. All you’ve seen is pain and you can’t allow your heart to be drenched in it.

The red light stops you at the intersection, and you sob at leaving Bucky alone knowing he is going to wake up to that cowardly note. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you. He deserves better. Your head falls back on the seat as you think about Bucky and what you two have shared over the years.

“You know, if you drive any faster, you’ll get into a wreck,” you chuckle.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe with me.”

Bucky stops at a red light and looks at you with hooded eyes. He is driving you home after a first date, and he has wanted to kiss you since picking you up. He was going to wait until you got to your front door like a gentleman, but he can’t wait.

He grabs the sides of your face and kisses you, catching you completely off guard. It’s a good kind of surprise because you’ve wanted to kiss him since he picked you up. His lips feel too good to stop, and it sends your stomach into a flutter.

Someone honks behind you and you pull away from him to see the light has turned green. Bucky licks his lips to savor the taste of you before driving off.

You can still remember the words he said to you when he dropped you off. Please stay. You make me human. That’s what sent your stomach plummeting. That’s what scared you. Loneliness is a familiar feeling, one that you’ve memorized every detail of. Up until Bucky, you had sworn that you’d be content with loneliness because then you wouldn’t have to worry about getting hurt.

No one else had been worth the risk, and it terrifies you that Bucky may be.

Someone honks their horn behind you and you look at the light that’s no green. You take off down the road, seeing stores and parks that you and Bucky frequented. All the good memories are wrapped in a clear plastic film of fear. You look at the strip of stores on your right and see yourself and Bucky walking down the street with ice cream in hand. A happy smile on your face, relaxation in his features.

If only it were ever that easy.

I've got a tight grip on reality But I can't let go of what's in front of me here I know you're leaving in the morning when you wake up Leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream

If you turn onto the freeway now, it’ll take you away from this town, away from Bucky. If you make a U-turn at the light, you’ll be driving back into his arms. You’re parked on the side of the road, unsure of the decision to make. Everything in you is telling you to take that ramp and not get hurt. No one is worth the risk of pain that you’ve seen.

However, you can’t seem to let go of Bucky. When you’re with him, it’s fun and free. You don’t have to worry about where you going to go or who you’re going to be with. If you’re with him, you know you’ll be safe. That’s when the monsters like to strike. Safe and vulnerability go hand-in-hand. If you show one of them, the other is bound to trip you from behind.

It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

What if you stayed? What if you didn’t let fear control you? What if, for once, you allow yourself to be happy? Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you to break the cycle. It gave you a good one and here you are, wasting it.

Bucky became your first for a lot of things, the things that truly mattered. The first man you told ‘I love you’ to. The first man you let sleep over. The first man to meet your mom. The first man to sink his claws so deep that you feel him in every thought you have.

Maybe it’s finally time to push yourself out of this comfort zone you’ve barricaded yourself in.

You put the car into drive, pull up to the light, and make a U-turn.

You are the only exception And I'm on my way to believing Oh, and I'm on my way to believing

You open the front door carefully, straining your ears to see if Bucky is awake. You’ve only been gone for two hours, but he doesn’t sleep much. You tiptoe up the stairs and pad softly to his bedroom door. The moonlight shines dimly inside the room, but you can clearly see the outline of Bucky in the sheets.

He’s still asleep. He hasn’t read your note.

You peel off the layers of clothes you hurried to put on and leave them in the same pile his are in. Bucky has shifted during sleep so you lift the covers and slide back next to his naked body. The second he feels your skin, he turns and wraps his arm around your body. You snuggle closer to him and press a kiss to his bare chest.

“Please don’t break my heart,” you whisper.

Finally, you succumb to sleep knowing he’ll be there in the morning.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[fligniuz]

oh baby

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ your cute tutor cheers you up after a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

word count: 5.2k • part of my study buddies series (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @nephris , @mashkatzi , @straw8berry

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; hurt/comfort; oral (f! receiving); L-bombs; very fluffy :-)

notes : title frommmmmm:

It’s already been a long, long day, and it’s barely even started.

Your breakfast this morning was practically nonexistent—just an apple and a water bottle from the communal kitchen, grabbed in a hurry on your way out the door. No time for something more substantial. You woke up late. Again.

You seem to do that a lot.

In your defense, it’s hard to get up on time when you spend most of your waking hours thinking, pacing, waiting, forgetting. Rinse and repeat. You are not often at peace, and even the natural rise and fall of the sun each day fails to end your cycle of self-appointed misery. Your mind is an endless doomscroll; one long, rambling, borderline nonsensical mash of worry, regret, and the occasional funnies, complete with absolutely no paragraph breaks or accurate reflections of reality to spare. Relentless. Hateful. This is what getting unlucky in the brain department earns you: a lifetime of fret and insecurity, only slightly helped by daily pills that you work what feels like endless hours to be able to afford.

So, you don’t sleep well, nor do you wake well.

And about that work thing…you struggle to do that well, too. But can you really be blamed when a degree and a hopefully better job are also part of the equation? Can you really be blamed if you spent the past two weeks on a paper your professor will look over maybe a few times and never think about again, all for an imaginary number of credits to be added to a total of more imaginary numbers that will ultimately grant you a piece of sturdy paper with your name and a fancy new qualification? At times the days you spend working towards goals on a checklist just feel pointless, because some sixty or so years from now—and let’s be honest, the outlook re: The Climate Thing is much too grim to allow you even the promise of an average lifespan—you’ll be six feet underground, or one with the elements, or fucking compost (thanks technology!), depending on whatever the hell you’re going to write in your will.

Nothing matters, and yet everything does. And everything is connected; you’ve got bills to pay, because you’ve got student loans to pay, because you’ve got to get a nice degree and a steady job to make it in this greedy, fetid, embarrassing nightmare you call a homeland. And even then, even later in your life when you’ll be older and wiser and stronger than now, with a complete education and a likely less than perfect career, there will still be bills to pay. Probably student loans, too. This fucking country.

In your defense—you’re feeling real defensive today, aren’t you?—life is just too fucking much. Right now, yesterday, tomorrow, and the day after. You’re tired, and hungry, and sad, but late stage capitalism doesn’t care about your feelings, and so you stroll into work just barely in time for your shift. Your boring, boring shift, at your boring job, so you can make some boring money. Only to go home to a boring apartment that always feels empty, even with friends inside. When you carry loneliness with you it never ever wants to leave.

You need a cuddle. Or a fuck. Or both. And you know just the guy to call—if his roommates won’t be around, that is. It’s likely that they won’t. Frat boys are always busy doing frat boy things.

Not your tutor, though. Luigi is never too busy for you.

The moment the clock strikes 6:00 you’re filing out of the building like there’s a fire drill.

And fuck. It’s fucking raining. Guess who didn’t bring an umbrella?

This day just keeps getting worse.

You decide against surprising Luigi and find his number in your recents, and he picks up halfway through the second ring.

“Hello, Padawan.”

You roll your eyes. “Ugh. Don’t start with that. Are you home? What are you doing?”

“Well, the answer to your first question is yeah, and as for the second question…guess!”

Fucking Luigi. “I’m not doing that. If you’re not busy I’m coming over. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says without a hint of hesitation. “Are you bringing that attitude with you? Actually, never mind, I like you grumpy. But don’t expect to get any real learning done, because it’s hard to focus on being angry and doing math at the—”

You hang up on him before he can finish that thought and throw your hood over your head, making your way to the bus station.

The ride takes a little longer than you’d hoped with the after work traffic, but you pass the time with your headphones and the raindrops on your window, watching them trickle down, down, down. You start betting on which droplet will beat the other to the windowsill just a few minutes before you’re back on campus, dredging through the weather and finding yourself in front of his dorm. It’s only then that you can feel the adrenaline and stress and exhaustion all pumping through you at once.

Luigi greets you with the cutest curls and a warm smile.

“Hiya, mopey. Forget an umbrella?”

When you kiss him he seems to jump inside his skin before he melts into you, hands capturing your face to hold your mouth steady and at pace with his. He hadn’t expected you to be jumping his bones after showing up so suddenly, but when he feels you start to cry he’s second-guessing your visit altogether, eyebrows raising in alarm.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks, cautious, tentative. You bury your face into his chest and sniffle.

You whimper, “I had a really bad day.”

Oh. His heart surges at that, sparking something protective, almost fraternal, and right then he wants to hold you tight and never let go. He wants to bundle you up in his warmest blanket and bring you sweets, kiss your little face and rub your back and tell you that he’s here, right here, waiting for you whenever you need him.

“My sweet girl,” he coos, petting your hair. “Is that why you came to see me?”

Nodding, you wrap your arms tight around him, feeling the weight of all your worry already starting to meld into the void of space around your entwined bodies. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that he’s this much of a comfort to you, but Luigi doesn’t laugh or scorn you; he welcomes you into his embrace like he’s been waiting all day for you.

“Well, would you like to hear some good news?” he asks, looking down at you. You raise an eyebrow, utter a little mm?

Luigi smiles, soft but tainted with something impure. He tilts your chin up with one finger, announcing, “I can think of quite a few ways to cheer you up.”

Of course he can. Why else would you be here?

“I’d like that,” you say, kissing him again. Need bubbles up in your psyche, fizzing, waves crashing over rocks on the coast. You think you’d much sooner swallow barbed wire than be forced to forget the feeling of his hands on you, holding you close, searching the most private corners of you.

“Yeah, baby? You want me to take care of you?”

Fuck. You’ve never gone from defeated to horny so quickly but it’s a new experience you’ll gladly be marking under the Hottest Things Ever Done to Me tab in your brain. Luigi knows you so well, knows just what you need to hear after such a nerve-wracking past few weeks. Knows just how to let his lips linger on yours to make you chase him. Through the haze of such sudden arousal you aren’t entirely sure you’re moving much at all, but you sense your adamant nodding and his responsive giggle distantly.

He’s picking you up, then, carrying you to his bedroom while you mouth at his wide neck, making sure to leave marks he’ll have to cover later. Before you know it you’re laid down beneath him, his hips fitted between your thighs and your hands tangled in his hair. When his growing erection presses against your clothed sex your clit throbs and you mewl into his mouth. The friction his body creates with yours is fucking delicious.

“Shh, ‘s okay, sugar,” Luigi murmurs, propped up on his elbow so that he’s hovering right over you. “You worked so hard today. It was shitty and you hated it but you worked so hard and now I’m going to make it allll better, yeah? Gonna take good care of you, baby.”

All you can manage is please, please, please, fingernails piercing his bicep.

You still have your jacket on, and so he helps work the zipper down and slides it off your shoulders. For a while he just kisses you, hands roaming: drawing shapes with his long fingers on your back, your flanks, the inner thigh, the curve of your breast through your shirt. You sigh and run your fingers through his curls, basking in the warmth of his affection. It’s a relief that only his presence can provide you, a unique kind of respite—Luigi always takes his time with you when he can, both when he helps you with your homework and when he’s alone with you, teaching you the ins and outs of this intimate, loving, endlessly fulfilling side of him. And to know that only you get to learn about him this intensely, this hands-on; to know that only you get to feel his touch and hear the noises he makes when you tug on his curls; to know that you are his only student that he’s ever connected with like this drives you mad, makes you feel accomplished. It’s a proud and well-earned victory. Your own little slice of heaven. For your eyes only.

Kissing him is nice, grounding, even, but it’s not enough to settle the pressure building up in your stomach and so you buck your hips and moan into his mouth, needy and high-pitched. Luigi brings his hands to the front of your jeans, popping open a button, then your fly, and then tugging them down your hips. He dips into your panties, grazes your throbbing clit, and feels through your folds, collecting your arousal on his fingers.

“You’re so wet I can already taste it,” he groans against your mouth.

The thought of him tasting is more than enough to have you writhing beneath him. You try to push up into his hand, craving more of his touch, more of his fingers on you, inside of you, but he pulls his hand away just as quickly as it found you. “Not yet,” he whispers to you. “Not yet, bella.”

Bella. Pretty. You feel like your brain is melting, like it’s seeping directly out of your cunt.

Patience is perhaps most virtuous to your tutor. He has emphasized as much to you many, many times, often to your frustration. But his assurances have always been based in the pure goodness of his heart; quality time is most valuable to him, especially when he’s with you. You seldom appreciate his stalling—but you lack his innate enjoyment of building you up, feeling you quiver with arousal, exploring every crevice and nook of you and avoiding your neediest spots until he, too, has to consider his own appeasement. It’s simple: Luigi knows that anticipation is crucial to satisfaction. A dog is only allowed his meal with his owner’s approval. A man, no matter how famished, must exercise the art of waiting with respect, make peace with its inevitability. Much like most humans, you are a slave to your own desires; but he is teaching you, slowly, to make do with not enough, to take what he gives you, each tease of his tongue or teeth against skin. He has always been a minimalist. It pays off exceptionally in all other areas of his life, but it seems to have shaped an ignorance inside him towards your philosophy that time is of the essence.

“Luigi,” you mewl, grabbing his hair roughly. He has to pretend to not love it, you can tell.

“What is it you need, sweet girl?” Luigi asks. “Use your words.”

“I want—” you start, but you trail off, losing your confidence when you catch his stare. He has tried continually to teach you how to find your own voice, how to ask for what you want, if not just because he believes it to be a valuable skill then for the simple fact that he loves when you’re direct with him, when you tell him exactly how you want him to touch you. He must have no idea how difficult it is to be so frank when your tutor is this ravishing.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, baby.”

Fuck. He has to know what he’s doing to you.

You breathe in. “I want your mouth on me,” you whisper, adding, “and your fingers inside.”

Luigi fucking grins, all teeth and glowing pride. “Good girl. Wasn’t that easy?”

Rolling your eyes would be your go-to response here, but he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties and all you can do is moan in relief as he starts to peel them off of you. With your leg over his shoulder, he leans forward to snatch one of the pillows behind your head, towering over you—and then he lifts your hips and wedges it under your ass, so that he has you at an angle he can experiment with (and, presumably, so that he doesn’t strain his neck too much. Nifty.) He kisses your ankle, then down to your knee, and then he’s shifting so that he’s laying on his stomach with his head between your thighs, just what you’ve been remissly lacking for the past week or so of nonstop responsibility. Just what you needed. He would never lie to you.

And then his fingers brush against your cunt. Two digits explore ridges and slick lips and spread you apart, trying not to pay too much attention to your clit—he hasn’t even started yet, after all. You think he almost looks like he’s working on one of his robots, playing with your most sensitive parts, assessing the situation and planning solutions in his head. Always methodical. He’s so close to you and you’re so turned on and you start to feel a little insecure with him so focused on you, but then he breathes, “you smell fucking perfect,” and suddenly your mind is spinning too fast to even think of things to worry about.

His kisses move to your thighs, then, and his hands settle on your hips, squeezing, reassuring. Lips and tongue embrace plush skin, leaving blooming bursts of purple and red underneath, marks that you will undoubtedly be tracing with your fingers in more private times, by yourself, when you can’t help but think of his flawless mouth all over again. He comes so close to where you want him, just centimeters away, and then is right back to where he started, kissing your inner thigh. You thread your fingers in his hair, nails scratching his scalp. He sinks his teeth into a particularly sensitive patch of flesh and you keen.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you, baby?” Luigi coos, circling his thumb over your hip.

You’re sobbing. “Yes, fuck, please, I need it, please!”

He bites again, this time your other thigh, a subtle but motivating commendation for using your words. “Shh. I’ve got you, bella.”

With his two fingers spreading you he leans forward, fixing his eyes on yours, and then flattens his tongue and licks you firmly from your hole all the way up to your clit. It’s warm and wet and the most perfect thing after god knows how long of neglecting your poor pussy. The tip of his tongue tweaks you, working back and forth over your clit before he moves further down, plunging into your entrance just barely.

“Gi,” you gasp. Your hand is still in his hair, grasping tight.

Luigi eats pussy like it’s his favorite thing in the world. And with you, it probably is; his enthusiasm certainly says as much, his lips leaving not an inch of you untouched. He licks you all over, up and down your slit, your labia, that little portion of sensitive skin between your cunt and your asshole—but he keeps his attention to your clit mild for now, soft, just kitten licks and occasional brushes of his stubble. With the angle you’re in right now, his tongue probing you and lavishing the grooves of you with attention, his nose grazes your clit every so often and it feels perfect and you need more of it soon. The hand in his hair holds his head steady so that you can grind your hips over his mouth, and when you move like this his nose strokes your clit just right, so you do it again and again and again.

“Good girl,” he pulls away to praise (and breathe), his big hands gripping your hips. “Take what you need, baby.”

He lets you just use his face like this for quite a few minutes, sticking out his tongue, groaning as he drinks in you. And when Luigi thinks you’ve had enough of a fill he holds your hips still with both hands and then begins to lick at you again, this time drawing nearer to where you want him the most. With saliva he wets his tongue and presses the middle of it against your clit, using firm pressure to stimulate you, and then with his hands still keeping you steady he starts to shake his head, side to side motions on your clit, practically motorboating your cunt. It drives you fucking wild. The vibrations that ring through you each time he moans into your heat send white-hot pleasure through your nerves, a feeling deep in your core that only Luigi has ever been able to stir up in you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, back arching and toes curling. “Oh my god, that’s so good, fuck, that’s so good—”

You reward him with your words and your fingers raking against his scalp and he takes it selfishly, rejoicing in how good he knows he can make you feel. He keeps up his movements, tongue still working over your clit; when he sneaks a look at you above him he sees you sliding your hand underneath your tank-top, grasping one of your breasts under your bra and pinching your nipple, and right then he swears he could eat you alive. He wants to taste every single surface of you that his mouth can reach, memorize all the little things that make you tick, make you tug his hair or cry out for him in that breathy, raring voice that he loves so much. The sound of his name in your mouth is almost enough to have him finishing right here, in his khakis, with his head between your thighs while he laps away at your sweet cunt.

With you all worked up and bothered under his touch Luigi decides you’re more than ready to come all over his tongue. He tries one of his best moves—with his jaw stretched he seals his mouth over your pussy, like he’s kissing you, and when his lips reach your clit he sucks, quickly, relishing in your squeal. You’re plenty wet enough for his fingers, too, so he teases the opening of your cunt with his thumb, pressing inside, just to feel how you stretch around it; at your whine he guides one finger into your hole, then another, working them deep inside of you. They’re long and much quicker and more filling than yours have ever been and you almost wish that the world around you was meaningless, that only you and him could matter—that you and him could simply forget about your jobs and schoolwork and all the heavy demands of life and spend your time just like this, with him bobbing his head up and down just slightly as he sucks on your clit and opens you up with his fingers.

“Gi, I can’t, s’ good, I need to come,” you plead, biting down on your bottom lip. “I can’t hold it.”

Over the sound of your heart beating hard in your ears you almost miss his quick, reassuring response:

“You don’t have to, sugar. I want you to come for me.”

So you do, legs trembling, hips stuttering against his face. Luigi helps you ride it out, still licking you gently by the time you’re beckoning him up to you for some kisses. But he just smirks, stroking soothing circles into your hip, whispering heavy praise to you: “My good girl,” and “There she is,” and “You look so gorgeous when you come.” At your whines he presses open-mouthed kisses to your thighs, sucks with his lips until you’re splotched with fresh, vibrant red between your legs. Marks for his eyes only. Just the thought of it makes his cock jump in his shorts.

For a moment you lay back and watch the ceiling, enjoying the feeling of his tongue and lips claiming purchase wherever he sees fit. And you stir from your post-coital bliss at the sound of his voice again:

“Babygirl,” he starts, licking the crease between your pelvis and your thigh. “Maybe you weren’t planning on it, but you’ve convinced me that I want to taste you again. If you’ll let me. Is that okay with you?”

You laugh, exasperated. “Isn’t your mouth tired?”

Luigi shakes his head with a cheeky grin. “Never,” he breathes, lips hovering over your fluttering center. “I could do this all day, bella.”

He presses a careful kiss to your cunt as if to prove his dedication to your pleasure, giggling when you jolt, and right then you decide that you would give him the entire solar system in your hands if physics allowed for such a thing.

He means it. You’ve never been more sure.

Smiling, you murmur, “go get ���em, buster.”

You’re still sensitive from your orgasm, so Luigi is especially cautious at first, starting again with the tip of his tongue sweeping back and forth over your clit. He starts to discover something new about you; now that he’s already made you come once, you shiver and twitch at even the slightest touches, and the fucking sounds you make are quite possibly the closest thing to paradise he has ever encountered, even after countless adventures across countless days in countless destinations. It’s almost an impossible accomplishment, he thinks—he could have never imagined that he’d find even more unexplored range in the treasure of your body.

“Oh, god, Luigi, baby, fuck…”

And you discover something new about him, too: Luigi likes it when you call him baby. He groans as you smooth your fingers through his curls and comes closer, spreading your thighs apart, licking around your entrance and then settling one hand over your pelvis, using slight pressure with his palm to pull back the hood of your clit. With you spread out for him he tilts his head to the side, so that he’s almost resting against your thigh, and then he takes as much of your clit in his mouth as he can and sucks hard, hard enough to have you clawing at his hair and trying to squeeze your thighs around him. He would gladly let you crush him—but right now he has a mission, and it’s difficult to make you come with your legs closed, so he mutters, “stay fucking still,” and dives into your cunt with an intensity that only your vibrator could possibly match. This time, with his lips sucking you tightly, he tweaks you with his tongue, stroking the shaft of your clit, and it’s too fucking much—

“Gonna come, gonna come, oh my god,” you cry. Luigi hums into you, a drawn out mhmmm rumbling through your clit, and it’s over for you, then. Your second orgasm rushes up on you quickly but he’s there to coax you through it, holding your hips steady, lips and tongue working you with unbearably arousing effort. As you breathe through the chaos of pleasure and find your senses coming back to you Luigi kisses up your body, his talented mouth embracing your tummy, your sternum, your neck, and then your mouth, softly and sweetly. He tastes entirely like you.

He must realize then that you’re still partially clothed because he practically jumps at the opportunity to fix it, helping you out of your tank-top and unclasping your bra. With your chest bare to him fully he spends some time kissing you here, too, and you lay back and let him shower you in his care, back arching off the bed each time he nears dangerously close to a nipple.

You exhale emphatically and sink back into the pillows, murmuring, “d’you wanna fuck me?”

“Shit,” Luigi groans, rolling his hips into your bare, wet cunt. “Would you let me, gorgeous? Is that okay?”

Your hand is on his cock, palming him through his khaki shorts, and you feel a fresh surge of excitement rushing through you as his jaw goes slack. You would never leave him hanging. And he knows, knows by the way you whisper, “it’d make me real happy,” nodding and biting your lip and wiggling your hips like a greedy little thing, like you didn’t just come twice from his mouth and his fingers alone. He doesn’t even bother to pull his pants off, just shuffles them down his hips along with his boxers and leaves only enough room for his dick to have full access to you.

That’s when you realize just how hard he is.

It almost looks painful, the way his cock is straining, veiny and leaking an obscene amount of pre. He’s monstrously hard for you, all from a few rounds of his tongue on your pussy, and the thought of what it must do to him to please you makes your head spin, makes you question life itself for bringing such a perfect boy into existence and allowing you to drive him mad with your body and the taste of your arousal.

Luigi hisses as he strokes himself with one hand, reaching over you towards his nightstand to grab a condom. You hardly give him enough time to roll it on before you’re wrapping your legs around his firm hips.

Dragging the tip of his cock through your slick, he proclaims, “I love taking care of you, baby.”

Good god. You love it too. You tell him so, through your words and through your wet pussy grinding against him, and when you kiss him hard and bite his lip he pushes into you, slow, unprecedented in how he fills you.

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, does that feel good, sweet girl?” He’s balls deep in a matter of seconds, trying hard to be merciful, but you’re so wet and you’re squeezing him like crazy, like you never want him to leave your body. All you can do is nod and cry out as he starts to fuck you, deep and long strokes that send his cock so far you start to worry that he’s gonna break you, and that turns you on so much that you wonder how his sheets aren’t soaked with the evidence of your activities. He’s holding you down to the bed with one hand splayed over your ribs and the sound of your cunt taking him echoes throughout his room.

You’ve never been more glad to have had a shitty day, you realize.

His eyes are on you. You feel like you’re burning alive, like the whole dorm is on fire and he’s trapping you under the smoke and the flames, and you’re trying to roll on the ground but he’s holding you so tight and you’re not going anywhere.

“Gi, oh my god,” you sob.

“Yeah?” The headboard is getting noisy from all his effort. Not that it isn’t already quite loud in Luigi’s bedroom. “You deserve this, bella, you deserve to come. This is all yours.”

He’s perfect.

“Who’s dick is this, baby?”

“Oh, fuck, it’s—it’s mine—”

His thumb finds your clit, pressing down lightly, working slow circles into you. “That’s right, sugar. That’s my good girl.”

You feel a bit delirious, feverish, still sensitive from coming back-to-back, and Luigi tries with everything in him to be gentle but, alas, the hot grip of your pussy and the little sounds of struggle and pure ecstasy that you make when he pounds you are just too much for any strong-willed man to bear. Your clit is throbbing, all swollen and puffy from his ministrations, but you can’t get enough of the sensations that rock your nervous system each time he puts even the slightest pressure on you.

“Fuck,” he growls, teeth teasing your neck. “You’re being so good for me, letting me fuck you like this after taking so much.”

And he’s right, because it is quite a feat—it’s Luigi Fucking Mangione. But you love how he pushes you to your limits, how he tests you, sees how far he can go. How much you’re willing to take. He’s found that you’re certainly something to write home about.

You’re his good girl. You’d take anything he gives you, as long as it’s his.

“Luigi, I think…oh, god…”

“Shh, I know, baby,” he nods, reassuring, still fucking you deep and continuing his assault on your clit. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you now. You had such a bad day and you worried and stressed but you’ve got this dick now and that’s all that matters, babygirl. This dick is yours. It’s all yours.”

Just a little more—

“You feel so fucking good, bella.”

And that’s the last time you come, tears brimming in your eyes as you hold him tight and swear so loud you worry that your dead and gone ancestors can hear you from whatever void they occupy now. Luigi follows shortly after, his mouth on yours, his hands stroking your waist soothingly.

For a while the two of you lay there, entwined in his bed, him softening inside you and pressing saccharine kisses to your face. You could probably fall asleep just like this if it weren’t for the sweat sticking to you both, but after a few minutes Luigi pulls out of you, tidies up, and then kisses you, this time much less heated but all the more passionate. Loving. Maybe a bit domestic.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” he asks. You shake your head.

He collects your clothes from the floor and then scoops you up into his arms, setting you upright. “Good. Because I haven’t exhausted all my ideas yet.”

You make an inquisitive chirp, a little mmm?

“Oh, yes,” Luigi smiles wide, kneeling in front of you with his hands cupping your face adoringly. “I’m going to start the shower for you, and you’re going to clean up and get comfy, because I’m going to have something to eat for you once you’re done and you’re going to have some food and crawl back in my bed and fall asleep in my arms. How’s that sound?”

Oh, man.

You beam. “I like your plans.”

[peepeepy]

a lot of people who've watched gravity falls think that stanford is unsympathetic or a bad character, and most of the people who dont think that think stanford is at least selfish and flawed, which i can't really refute, but it always made me feel so awful, and i never realized why until now.

if you look at stanford pines as an allegory for a child with a developmental disability like autism or a "gifted kid", then a lot of the pieces start to fall together.

⚠️spoilers for gravity falls, the website, and maybe a bit of the book of bill⚠️

stanford pines was born with an "extra finger", a symbol for a disability. for a while, everyone thought it was a flaw. he was teased and shunned by his peers,

but then, people began to notice his genius. it even says on thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com, when you enter "sixer" or "stanford", that he has a "hyper-ability", something many people will say about "gifted" autistic people.

as soon as people started to point this out, everything felt like it made sense to ford. as a person who grew up with autism, i can relate to feeling alienated from my peers, and wondering "why? why, in a world made for normal people, was i made wrong?"

that kind of thought can lead to a sort of delusion.. that maybe you were destined for something great. maybe you were different because one day you would use it to change the world. i believe this is the way ford felt when he was approached by bill

bill came to ford and told him everything he'd ever wanted to hear.. that this feeling was real. that he was destined for greatness. that he was better, smarter, more special than the ones who had shunned him.

bill told ford that building the portal would make him a hero, make people finally see him as more than an extra finger. the one problem?

bill was a liar.

he used ford's selfish thoughts to trick him into making a gateway that would end the world. he used the years of mockery, the alienation, the loneliness, and he came to ford when he was alone, trapped, with nowhere to go.

he offered ford the opportunity to get back at a world that was built to knock him down at every turn, a world full of people who would never understand him. he offered to make ford a god.

and ford refused

he refused, even in a world that had done nothing but tear him down, to hurt others just to feel better about himself. he only had a few people who had ever cared for him, and yet, he was willing to destroy his life's work to save everyone who had made him miserable.

remember, he fully intended to stay trapped in the portal for all of eternity. that's why he was so frustrated when stanley brought him back. what we saw as a heroic act from stanley, ford saw as stanley refusing the sacrifice he had made to save him. he didn't thank stanley because nobody thanked him. no one thanked him for his hard work or sacrifice or his years of suffering just to protect stanley.

that, of course, led to this scene, which many people saw as stanford's most frustrating moment.

i think this post sums up really well why stanford, in this dire moment, would choose to insult his brother. because stanley was being selfish, too. stanley refused to help save the world, save his brother, all because ford never said "thank you."

they were both selfish. everyone is. they didn't fight because they were bad people, but because they both saw things from their own perspective. they were each hopelessly lonely without each other, but both too prideful to admit it.

in the end, they make up, and both follow their true dream. not money, not fame, just staying together.

stanford pines is not a bad, unsympathetic character. he is a complex, misdirected, "gifted" child. his only flaw was not seeing that he wasn't alone. his family was right there to support him the whole time.

[daenysx]

there is literally no one else i think would do this idea as good as you (i do understand completely if you don’t want to tho this is zero pressure) but what about one of the marauders or a combo or anything you want with them with someone who’s been feeling super down and lonely and is just spiralling back into really bad old habits like not eating well and like seeking like self sabotage or something, i just think you write them being sweet and kind so so well and i need them so bad but only ur version tho <333

again I get if you don’t want to at all my lovely

thank you for requesting and being so sweet, angel !!! i chose to go with remus and this is a bit self indulgent (cried when writing it haha) but i hope it makes you feel good <333333

remus lupin x fem!reader, hurt/comfort

cw; mentions of not eating and sleeping properly, reader feels lonely, tiny bits of fluff and angst, lots of kisses from remus

october drags you behind its back as it slowly comes to an end.

you think you've been doing well with the pressure of things lately, handled it good, you've been strong. you didn't let things upset you much, you found nice things to focus, you smiled, you kept going.

the bubble bursts on a late evening, there's nothing you can do to fix it.

suddenly all of the texts you get from your friends feel shallow and meaningless. the food only works to keep you on your feet, you don't get any pleasure from eating. sleep doesn't last long, you crave it like air during the day, but there's not enough time. your smiles don't feel real. you linger in places, trying to keep your steps steady. you think you'll collapse, the thought scares you to your bones.

"hey." remus whispers, shaking his fingers in front of your eyes. you haven't been listening. "are you okay?"

his voice is coming under the water. your head feels like a heavy balloon, but you give a slow smile to your boyfriend. "sorry, i'm a bit distracted. can you tell me again?"

remus smiles back, pieces of doubt and worry creeping in his eyes. he wraps an arm around you, it's a rare night that he gets to hold you like this on the couch. he wants to make the best of it.

"it's okay, i was just rambling." he offers gently. "can i get a kiss?"

you nod, snuggling to his chest so that you can reach his lips. remus's lips feel good always, but tonight it's something more. he kisses with all his heart, emotions dripping, he likes sweet and slow. his fingers rub the back of your head, you get closer. your eyes burn with tears.

you look upset. remus knows it's not about him, you just need somewhere to empty your mind.

you keep kissing remus. it's good, he massages the tightness of your neck. it's better than breathing, you close your eyes. your head gets lighter as the kiss goes on. letting out a shaky sigh, you separate yourself from him, and hide your face to his chest.

remus doesn't say anything. he just rubs circles on your back. you start crying in slow tears, your breathing soft and liquified. you're not loud. soaked in his scent and wrapped in his sweater covered arms, you try to find yourself a place to calm down.

"you're gonna be okay." he whispers with a kiss on your head. "you're not alone."

that's the thing with loneliness, you don't think you can make yourself believe you're not alone. it surrounds your entire mind, squeezes your heart in your chest, makes you think you're an unloveable loser. your fingers grab remus's sweater. they are desperate to have something to hold onto.

you need to breathe. lifting your head to get some air into your body, you look at remus. it wrecks him, his poor girl, staring at him through glossy eyes. his thumb dries your tears gently. his eyes follow you like you're precious. like you don't deserve to be hurt by the world.

"i feel like i'm lost." you confess. "like nothing good will come out of the things i do. like i'm trying for no reason."

remus understands it, he gets drown in these feelings most times. sometimes the life is worth living, sometimes it's scary and pointless. there's love, though. he loves you too much to see you in pain. he loves every part of you, he likes being loved by you. if he's gonna get to spend it with you, then life can't be that bad.

"you haven't eaten anything properly in the last a few days." he says, calmly. "you haven't slept for more than 4 hours a day. you're constantly moving, trying to finish your things. i understand all of it, dove, but these things affect you more than you think."

"i know." you accept. "i just want to take care of myself. i wanna be good."

"you are good." he says. he cups your cheek. "you've been doing so good, i promise. i just wanna help you take care of yourself, because you're not alone. you don't have to deal with everything alone."

"i just think- i should be able to solve my own problems. i know it sounds stupid, but i was trying."

remus smiles fondly. at least the problem in context is being talked about right now. at least he gets to hold you through it, he gets to love you.

"it's not stupid." he promises. "i just need you to know i'm here. for any part you let me in, i'm here."

you nod. no more words for tonight probably. remus nods, too. it's okay.

he pulls your head to let it stay on the crook of his neck. you settle down. you won't suddenly be okay just because he talked you through it, he knows, but it's still something. slow kisses, gentle fingers. remus is here.

"you need food, sleep, and some loving, dove." he says like it's an obvious decision. "once we get all these done, i'm sure things will feel a bit better."

"can we start with the loving, please?"

"i know, it's my favorite, too." he smiles. he's an angel.

he begins by kissing your forehead. his lips are warm on you, he presses them between your eyebrows to help you relax the tight muscles there. you close your eyes, he kisses your slightly wet cheeks. he kisses your cheekbones, your jawline. his hands fix your hair as you breathe in his air. you get close to him like a kitten stayed in cold.

"i love you." he says, softer than he thinks he can manage. "i love you more than anything."

he gives you a long kiss on your lips this time. tiny caresses, nothing too passionate. he moves his lips on your chin, below your ears.

"you've been doing so well." he whispers when he gets close to your ear. "you'll be doing better. it's gonna be okay."

you move your fingers to your sweater, the air feels too warm. remus helps you take it off to leave you in your tank top. he kisses your collarbones, the spot between them. you don't know what this is, is it worshipping? he's doing something you've never felt before. you feel like liquid in his arms, melted and safe. addicted to this now. there's no going back.

"i love you." you whisper. "i can't even say how much."

"i know how much." he tells you. "i know, baby."

your cheeks are dry. remus makes sure of your comfort. his hand finds your waist to hold you, other hand going straight to your hair. his fingers rub your scalp. you look like a cat, your back arched prettily to him, you're practically hungry for his affection. your eyes feel droopy, tired with the emotions you had to deal with and the stress of the week.

"we can go to bed." remus offers. "you look like you'll fall asleep."

"can we stay here?" you ask him, his lap is more comfortable than bed and this position is amazing.

"of course." he says. he's gonna be your pillow for as long as you want him to be.

"thank you, baby." you whisper to his ear, voice swimming in fondness. "for everything you said."

remus likes being your baby, that's true. he likes how you trust him and how responsive you are to his touches, too. you close your eyes again, calm and safe. he covers your bare shoulder with the blanket after putting a kiss on it. the night goes well, he thinks.

[jo-com]

˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙➛ I am right here!

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Summary: Physically seen but never romantically.

Genre: Highschool!Au, a bit angsty

Note: There are some grammatical errors and this is not proofread.. Finally back to writing!! Hope you guys like and enjoy this. Got Caught up in my work that i forgot to write and was mentally drained to even do so. But now i am back at it again and be sure to read all of the updates I'll be uploading!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist

─────── ─ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚─ ───────

It was your free period so you've decided to go to the library and catch up on your other lessons. You were the only person there, so everything was perfect; it was quiet and the atmosphere was just right. The peacefulness surrounded you like a warm embrace─ it was relaxing and comforting.

Suddenly a loud bang from the doors and paddles of feet could be heard from across the room.

Well, so much for peace and quiet.

You didn't even have to check who it was that made the noise. You already knew who it was, correction who he was.

"Guess what y/n/n~" Oscar beamed─ Jumping at the seat next to you.

You flickered your eyes from your book to his. Slowly examining his whole figure.

He had this goofy grin plastered across his face and his smile widens even more as he speaks, you can practically hear the joy radiating from his voice.

God that smile is just so contagious, it matches so well with his angelic tone.

The look that you gave him definitely screams 'uninterested' but of course that's only the expression you show him.

Unbeknownst to Oscar all the deep feelings you want to further express to him.

You softly put down your book to the side and diverted all your attention at the man sitting beside you.

"What? Is there a reason why you look awfully like an idiot right now?" You answered, acting all cold and mundane as possible.

Oscar rolled his eyes and gently nudged your shoulders. "Why do you always frown like that, you know, you're way prettier when you smile."

And why do you always make my heart go crazy with those words??

You shrugged nonchalantly, "it's because you're super annoying and not very smile worthy."

"Ha Ha, real funny y/n, you crack me up" Oscar said sarcastically making you giggle softly. "Anyways, i have good news."

You stopped and raised your brows─ signaling for him to continue.

He took the hint and continued what he was going to say, "You know how I've been courting lily for the past few months now?"

Your smile soon fades and your demeanor quickly shifts as you try your best not to falter.

The reality was quick to weigh down on you. Crushing and crumbling your heart with each truthfulness.

From out of sight, you were gripping your thighs to stop the tears from going down, so much that it will probably bruise later.

You rolled your eyes jokingly, "I remember, only because you wouldn't stop talking about her, you lover boy" you spoke weakly─ punching his shoulders playfully to make it seem that it hadn't affected you.

"what about it?" You asked, even though you know where this conversation was heading.

Oscar couldn't contain his excitement and happily blurted out his words, "SHE FINALLY SAID YES."

Your lips subtly quiver and your eyes start to gloss. You knew where this was going so why does it hurt so bad?

"Wow uhm..i am so happy for you osc" you croaked, feeling your voice crack a little.

"I just feel so lucky to have her" Oscar sighed─ the smile on his face says it all.

He then went on and on about how she said yes and what he felt at the time. He was so busy talking about his feelings that he couldn't see yours.

You were smiling, yet your eyes tells another story.

He kept on talking, saying just how happy he was. "And then when she said yes, my heart just stopped beating and everything was in slow motion"

That's what i feel everyday with you.

His voice seemed to blend in the background and all you could hear was the ringing silence of loneliness.

You nod your head every now and then to what he was saying, despite not listening to what he was actually rambling on about.

You then abruptly cut him off and stood up, "uh i am sorry Osc but, i forgot that me and alex have this thing."

"What is it? Maybe i can help?" He offered, his eyes softening at your sudden reaction.

God, don't look at me with those eyes.

You shook your head and averted your eyes, ignoring his looks of concern. You didn't want him to see you like that. Not like this.

Don't fall for it y/n, he's just concerned as a Friend.

Without saying a word you quickly grabbed your things and scurried away from him. Leaving Oscar confused and dumbfounded.

...

You hurriedly ran to the nearest rest room─avoiding all the people that were in the way. Not wanting them to take a glance at your now tear eyed face.

As soon as you close the cubicle door, your whole body just went limp. Not having any energy anymore.

And you were now balling your eyes out on the ground─ bitting your lips, to stifle the cries that were escaping from your trembling mouth.

You were stupid enough to think that there was something going to happen between you and Oscar. It's your fault, for falling at his rosy sweet words, even though you knew deep down inside that he only meant that as a friend.

...

Short cause it got deleted ON MY FIRST DRAFT. Hope u enjoyed tho

[ashthewaterghoul]

Eigengrau - #phanter cuddle buddies

Phantom had been partially blind from an accident that happened when they were a kit. But with the stress of being forced away from their Papa - who chases every bad memory away - not only do they lose sight of a possible reunion, but they also lose their sight, altogether while they other Ghouls are helpless but to watch them spiral into depression...

Words: 2.2k

Relationships: Phantom & Copia, Phantom & Aether, Dew/Aether. Swiss/Phantom

Tags: they/them Phantom, Phantom and Aether are siblings, blindness, hurt/comfort, angst, family dynamics, forced separation, parent-child relationship, implied murder Ghouls at the end, mostly phanter and aethtom (platonic) but a little bit of dewther and swisstom for the soul lol

~~~

    Phantom’s skin had long been painted in a myriad of scars acquired from a whole host of injuries and tales, but perhaps the most obvious is the one on their face. They got it when they were just a kit and training with their clan, getting a little overeager and causing a burst of unbridled Quintessential magic to erupt into their face. The instinct they got to turn away caused the damage to only hit the left side of their face, but it also took away most of the vision in that eye.

    They had no peripheral vision left, very little depth perception and only a straw’s width of a gap in the eigengrau void to actually see through. They slowly adjusted to their new way of having to view the world, always feeling unbalanced and often getting migraines from the sheer amount of compensating their right eye had to do.

    But, by the time they were summoned to Earth, they had fully adjusted and accepted what they now had to live with. And considering they now had their Papa with them, and were reunited with their brother, Aether, once more, they could never complain too much about anything in their life.

    Nightmares of all they went through were chased away by Copia’s scent of stale tobacco settled into woollen sweaters and aged parchment. The human’s strong arms around them made them feel safe and at home. And they could never get enough of sleeping in their Papa’s arms, listening to his heart and feeling his fingers thread through their black and white hair.

    It was all so perfect and Phantom could memorise every detail of their Papa despite their partially blind condition.

    Well… That was until it all fell apart, and a wedge was driven between Phantom and their beloved Papa. Now, they could no longer spend their nights holding each other, Phantom couldn’t be soothed by Copia’s scent after a nightmare, and their soul ached with the loneliness of it. All because of some promotion and arbitrary new rules that deemed their parent-child relationship as unprofessional and unsafe.

Read below the cut or on ao3

    Copia no longer had the responsibility of caring for the Ghouls. That was a Papa’s job and he was a Papa no more.

    The most interaction Phantom got with Frater was a nod in the corridor and a handshake at formal events. No hugs, no I love you’s and no visits to either’s rooms for sleepovers and cuddles.

    It had been just over a year and a half since this separation started and Phantom was losing hope for any reunion. They were having more nightmares than ever and so many were of Copia getting hurt and Phantom not being able to save them. The anxiety of those dreams possibly being premonitions was making them beyond stressed and what sleep they were getting was of no real quality.

    One day, they woke up from one of their nightmares and cracked their right eye open, gently smacking their left temple to get the other eye open. Sometimes it took a little longer to clear the sleep out from what little they could see from that side. But… that side was open… Why was it still so dark?

    Phantom felt their breathing pick up and their throat become dry. Their right eye saw the room spinning and the left saw completely nothing.

    “Aeth?! Aether, help!” They called, smacking their hand against the wall behind their bed that separated them from their older brother.

    The older Quint was in like a flash, holding their face in his hands and checking them over.

    “What’s wrong, love? Nightmare?” He asked, his heart breaking for his younger sibling.

    They shook their head as all breath seemed to have failed them.

    “M- my eye… C- can’t s- s- see anyth- thing…” They strained out against the panic and tears that had started to consume them.

    Aether’s face grew to one of worry as he checked in and indeed saw their left eye devoid of anything, and his mind devoid of a solution or remedy.

    “It’s okay, Bug. I’m here, it’ll be alright.” He said, gathering the little Quint into his arms and holding them tight, rocking them back and forth and encasing them both in a Quintessence bubble to calm them.

    Phantom didn’t know if it was calming them or just stopping them from getting worse. What they did know, was that their Papa being there would have made it all a lot better.

    Over the following weeks, they couldn’t adjust to their completely half-blind state. They practically had a constant headache from how much effort their right eye was putting in and they felt so horrifically unbalanced that they were a walking hazard. If it wasn’t this situation, it would be slightly funny and everyone would be calling them Bambi on ice.

    Aether was at a complete loss for what had caused this. He helped heal Phantom when the accident that took part of their vision first happened and even the best healers in their clan said it wouldn’t get worse after it had healed. Inbetween reassuring Phantom and shifts in the infirmary, he was researching everything he could about ocular health and spending as much time as he could doing it.

    One night, when Dew came down to force-feed him and make sure he actually took a break, he found the answer.

    “IT’S STRESS!” Aether called as he read the article on the screen.

   After the librarian came to admonish him for his volume, he hugged Dew tight, happy to have an answer.

    “Wait, if stress causes blindness, how come Mountain hasn’t been blind from birth? He’s the biggest stresshead we know.” The Fire Ghoul chuckled.

    “Who fucking knows? Probably because Phant’s left eye is already weak? As for Mountain, no clue.” Aether was still smiling, happy to have an answer for his little sibling and now hopefully start being able to help. That smile, though, was soon wiped from his face when his phone buzzed with a message from Swiss.

    ‘Get back up here NOW. Phantom needs you.’

    Aether forgot to clean up or switch the computer off before he was running out of the library and back up to the den but he didn’t care one bit. Nothing and no one stopped him until he was back in Phantom’s room, asking what was wrong when he saw Phantom deep in another panic attack.

    As Aether desperately tried to get Phantom to calm, Swiss explained that the vision in Phantom’s right eye was starting to fade now too…

    Aether’s heart sank as he saw that cloud of blindness start to creep in around Phantom’s healthy eye. The distress of this whole situation being so cruel to such a pure soul that had already fought so much. When would they ever get their break?

    The right eye now saw what the left used to. Merely a pin-point of light and the blurred shapes and figures of things in their immediate vicinity. They couldn’t read, couldn’t see the faces of their loved ones and couldn’t even see when they passed Copia in the corridor.

    After Swiss told them when they had, yet again, missed a wave from their Papa they broke down and sobbed for what they were losing. Not only their sight but the hope of everything going back to how it was. How was everything meant to be the same again when Phantom couldn’t even see the person in front of them?

    They knew blind Ghouls could still live good lives but they didn’t want this. They wanted to be able to see their Papa’s eyes light up when his pipistrello entered the room and the warm smile that caused every little crease and wrinkle on his face to pop out.

    Every morning that Phantom woke up without Copia was another that made them more depressed for what they lost. And as they lost even more of their vision - it only taking a couple weeks for sightlessness to completely take them - they only became more catatonic. The pack ached to see such a vibrant Bug so dull and flat.

    Aether’s heart cried even more for his little sibling and he was draining himself dry to try and give them plenty of Quintessence to just do something other than stare at the nothing and cry.

    Seeing the little Quint’s stars fade was tearing the pack apart. All of them had been affected by the forced separation to Copia, but none more than Phantom. There had barely been a night since they came home from Frater’s last tour that at least one of them didn’t sleep with Phantom because while their Papa may not be there to chase the nightmares away, someone else could be.

    No one dared tell Copia either. Aether, Swiss and Mountain – being the biggest and strongest Ghouls – were occasionally chosen to escort Copia as security on business trips but even then they were too scared to be anything but professional with Frater.

    They’d all seen what the Clergy is capable of - Primo, Secondo and Terzo’s bodies and Dew’s unnatural Element are all proof of that - and no one would dare tempt a reprise or something even worse. Sister may be gone, but she certainly didn’t act alone in her cruelties and her followers still dominated the Clergy.

    If Copia knew the situation had made his bambino blind from the stress of it all it would break him more than he had already been broken by the separation too. And at least very least, one of them had to appear strong for the other.

    Copia knew his Ghouls though, and suspected they were hiding something from Swiss’ jaw tightening, the way Aether’s Adam’s apple bobbed, how Mountain’s ears flicked at the mention of Phantom’s name. But, pry as he might, he could never get any information from them that told Copia how his pipistrello was doing aside from the bare minimum.

    He couldn’t go and investigate either. Not without risking so much. He already had visions of his Ghouls being sent back to the Pits they came from and he could never risk Phantom being sent back, not after all they’ve been through.

    So Copia kept his nose down and did his best. Though even his best didn’t seem to be enough to help Phantom. He never saw them in the halls anymore or in the cafeteria. He couldn’t find them in the crowds at Black Mass and apparently they could no longer attend rehearsals or their duties either.

    Phantom couldn’t do much of anything as they rotted in their own mind. They felt as useless as a kit as they wandered the den in tiny steps with one hand on the wall for stability. Their other senses were overwhelmed by what they had to make up for too but they couldn’t shut them off when it’s all they had to rely on now. They didn’t really leave their room much anyway. Sitting in front of the TV felt like a mockery and it wasn’t like they could cook for themself – even before they were blind. Walking around the halls was more hassle than it was worth and they could barely even feel the sunlight on their eyelids anymore.

    Aether went in to see Phantom in the morning before work, kissing their forehead with a promise to come by after his shift. When he did, his heart broke into an infinitesimal number of pieces as he realised they hadn’t moved an inch since he left them twelve hours prior.

    “I don’t know what to do, Dew.” Aether said to his mate in the evening after Swiss came in to sit with the Bug. Planting his elbows on the breakfast table, he buried his face into his hands.

    Dew poured two glasses of neat whiskey for them both and pushed one towards the Quint, standing next to him and combing his fingers through his short hair.

    “We could kill them.” Dew suggested, only half-joking as he referred to the humans that had enforced these cruel rules and restrictions.

    “I thought half of why we’ve done nothing is that we’re scared of what the Clergy will do.” Aether responded as he took the glass and let the whiskey burn down his throat.

    “Do you have any other ideas?” Dew said, shrugging his shoulders as if he was suggesting the most casual activity you could think of.

    Aether exhaled and traced a claw around the edge of the glass.

    “We know who Sister’s loyalists are.” He said.

    Dew’s wicked grin heated up the space around them both. “We do.”

    “We’re natural born predators too. We know how to be discreet and only harm, not kill.”

    “That we are, love.” Dew said, kissing his mate’s cheek with a deep purr.

    “Someone needs to stay with Phantom tomorrow then. While we explain this to the pack.” Aether thought out loud.

    “We’ll figure it out, Aether. We’ll get our Bug back.” Dew promised, toasting their whiskey glasses and letting the glow of the moon light up the amber liquid.

    Phantom didn’t know why, but the next morning, as they awoke next to Swiss, they felt the sun on their eyes a little stronger than usual. And while it was quickly snuffed out by the tidal waves of depression they had fallen into, the tiny spark of hope that fluttered in their chest was so so bright.

    Almost as bright as Phantom would see Copia’s eyes when they finally reunited…

One shot master post can be found here

#phanter cuddle buddies master post can be found here

And the amazing @anotherbananasong did some art of Phantom based on this you can find here

[liillyliilly]

destiny has to be real kozume kenma x reader content; she runs into him, he feels his brain chemistry change (fluff) 1032 words

[i met you in the crowded city.]

Kuroo always liked to drag Kenma out into the streets of Tokyo, just so that he could experience real life every once in a while. The streets of Tokyo after it rained were always Kenma’s favorite. Because, there were always less people out and he could actually enjoy spending time with his friend. The rain dampens the concrete sidewalks, and the colors of numerous electronic ads flit across the ground.  

It had just rained, but some light drops were still falling from the sky. As Kenma and Kuroo walked, he could hear the way the wet ground sloshed against his shoes. When Kuroo said he needed to pick up some flowers for his girlfriend, Kenma nodded and said that he would stay right by the street sign. Pulling out his game console to beat a new level, Kenma leaned against the tall metal sign. The sounds of his game and the delicate drops of rain around him soothed his anxiety about being outside.  

Even if he didn’t express it often, Kenma had been feeling lonely, that's why he had agreed to spend time with Kuroo in the first place. His loneliness wasn’t that bad, but he did know the root of it. He needed someone to be content with. Shōyō, while he was nice and played games with him, was oftentimes much too intense to relax with. Kuroo, while he was understanding and tried his best to level out his passionate nature, he was just always expecting something more, something exciting. Kenma had started to think that he would be the only person to understand himself.  

All of his thinking though, distracted him. So when someone bumped into him, he was spooked and dropped his console. When he heard the plastic crack, Kenma cringed crouching down to inspect the damage.  

“Oh my goodness! I am so sorry! I totally wasn’t looking where I was going, this is all my fault. Is there anything I can do?” A girl’s voice exclaimed, and she crouched down as well. Kenma tried to avoid eye contact. So he just mumbled out a response.

“It’s fine.” He scooped up all the pieces and shoved them into his hoodie pocket. Standing up and turning his head to the side, he continued, “It’s not your fault. I blend in.”

“Me too.” Her voice was quiet, but Kenma could understand her perfectly. She stood up as well, shoving her hands into her jacket’s front pouch. Kenma resisted for a moment. Would it be worth it to meet a stranger’s gaze head on?

[it must be predestined, right?]

Meeting her eyes was the best decision he had made all week, or probably all month, maybe even all year. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he tried to find words to say. His hair fell into his eyes when he looked back down. Only to notice that she was holding out his game cartridge.

“Who's your favorite character?” Her voice was a little bit louder, but still held the same hesitance. As if she was holding back from accidently saying a wrong thing.

“What?” His brain short circuited, a pretty girl was talking to him? And she knew about his game?

“I saw that you play, you know, the video game? I play it too.” She had pursed her lips together as she held out the cartridge for Kenma to take. The fact she played it too only made Kenma more interested. Something about her was different from the other girls he knew. She held herself like she was afraid of hurting others, she stood unbalanced because she seemed to be missing a support. Just like Kenma.

The rain started to come down heavier again. Soaking both Kenma and the girl’s hair. Kenma looked around, and found a bench underneath a bus stop nearby.

“C’mon.” He started walking over to the bus stop. When the girl heard the thunder that cracked down she rushed to his side and grabbed his hand tightly. That’s when Kenma’s heart started to race. It was running against itself to get out of his ribcage.  

When they had finally sat down on the dry bench, the girl still hadn’t let go of his hand.  

She introduced herself with a wrinkle on her nose.

“I’m Kenma.” He said, glancing to their connected hands once again.

She let go of his hand, and Kenma missed the feeling of the squeeze she had forced onto his hand.

“You never answered my question. About your favorite character?” She stared outwards, looking at the cars that drove by, water rolling with the tire before crashing down again. The lights of Tokyo blurred and streaked with a scratchy grey filter.

[why don't we know each other?]

They talked for an hour. A perfect hour recorded in their memories. Everything they said was in the same realm, their own little realm. It was as if they were stuck in time, a bubble enclosed them together under that bus stop.  

“Wait seriously? You got lost in Miyagi, but know Tokyo like the back of your hand?” She covered her mouth to hold in the giggles that attempted to crawl out and wrap themselves around Kenma’s entire being.

“Pitiful huh?”

“Realistic. Never pitiful.” She complimented. Her words were like a fresh breath of air. Her words were like getting a new game to mess around with to try and figure out. And Kenma felt like he could spend his entire life playing her game and would never get bored.  

“How have I never met you before?” The words escape before Kenma could understand what they would insinuate.

It was what he wanted to say though, including the insinuation. He wanted to ask any sort of high ethereal being why they had held back from letting him meet her until now. Was it a punishment? But then again, meeting her now was sweeter than it could have been. Meeting at school would have been a missed connection. He met her when he was unaware and vulnerable. Just as it should be.

“It’s fate. That you and I were destined to meet now, and not earlier.” She closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side, “Sorry, that was really cheesy.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Don't be sorry, he thinks, because I think this is destiny too.

Kuroo had taken longer to get flowers, because Kuroo had taken one look at Kenma and Kenma's perfect stranger- and Kuroo had went home. (He could always text Kenma later he reasoned.)

[voidsturn]

title: no. 1 party anthem

pairing: stranger!chris x stranger!fem!reader

plot: while suffering with the consequences of unprocessed hurt, loneliness and self-hatred, chris is forced to yet another party. he finds himself in a conversation with someone new, which proves to be weird, comfortable, stupid and real.

tropes: fluff (maybe hurt/comfort), strangers au, close proximity, open ending

warnings: this fic does touch on some sensitive topics but i’m not sure it qualifies as angst. mentions of anxiety attacks, alcohol, smoking/vaping and sex

author’s note: ahhh my first fic on this blog! i’m extremely excited and nervous cuz it’s somewhat longer than i expected but oh fuck. yes, i know this song isn’t actually a happy love song but i just couldn’t bring myself to give them an unfortunate ending. i might in the future but i didn’t want my first fic here to be completely angst (there will be in the future tho, no worries about that) for now, i really do hope you like this!

chris - orange | the girl - pink | nick - purple | matt - blue

“chris, are you making your goddamn piss in there?!” screamed nick, while almost breaking down the bathroom door. he was getting on chris’ nerves, probably more than the thumping bass of some party song or the loud moans of some hookup next door. he was still breathing weirdly but told nick to just leave him alone. nick shortly after, gave up and ran towards the dance floor once he heard the first few beats of some charli xcx song.

while getting out of the bathroom, chris got stopped in his tracks. it was some idiot who couldn’t hold his fucking liquor better than a toddler. he was on the verge of punching that same idiot in the face. “jeez, can you walk like a normal human you fucking moron?” chris realised the asshole spilled some of the disgusting drink on his previously crisp white shirt. he couldn’t believe the theme of this party was ‘classy’. in a matter of thirty minutes, chris almost had an anxiety attack, was caught squatting in the bathroom by his own brother, heard some really unfortunate noises next door, and got his only formal shirt ruined.

chris was stuck replaying the last few moments in his head when the drunk idiot dodged chris and basically threw himself into chris’ safe space - the last empty bathroom. muttering a string of curse words, chris decided to give up on this ‘stupid fucking party’. he thought, or was hoping, that at least matt might be having a bad time as well. in a borderline ritualistic way.

once he saw some familiar faces, chris interrupted a discussion about pokémon between matt and sam. “chris, is it okay if we leave in an hour? i’m finally having a nice time at a party”. matt just said the words he thought would never leave his mouth. sam and colby along with matt tried to calm down the clearly uneasy chris. all he wanted was some fucking peace. chris was getting so goddamn overstimulated, he was fully ready to accept the jail time of a few murders. he wasn’t ready to take an uber either so he just basically ran towards tara after colby told him where she was.

while walking towards tara, chris was so fucking done. doomed actually to be at this party. the big hall felt endless with the maze of sweaty, icky bodies of completely wasted people on the dance floor. this, coupled with the strobing led lights and almost deafening party playlist, proved to be the final boss of overstimulation for chris. he finally reached tara, who was hosting the ‘stupid fucking party’. tara immediately knew chris wasn’t feeling good once he started to frantically ask if there was someplace less chaotic. she said that there’s a rooftop where she saw people go for a smoke.

tara made it seem like the rooftop was a chimney when in reality, there were only three other people. two of them were on their phones, editing pictures taken hours ago, occasionally taking a hit of something bubblegum flavoured. the third was looking at the city skyline. the rooftop was dimly lit with a few fake lamps, streamers and rogue balloons from the loud party downstairs. it was pretty small in size so chris was basically forced to go near the third girl. she had on a sparkly dress. her hair was up in a ponytail with bangs. chris thought she looked pretty but was in no mood to chit-chat cause the environment still reeked of alcohol, pretend and bubblegum. the alcohol smell was probably cause of his ruined shirt. chris walked towards the edge of the rooftop and leaned against the edge, slyly looking for a ‘fucking place to sit’.

he questioned why he was feeling way more sad than at the previous parties he had been forced to. sad wasn’t the word. more like left out. numb… lost even. yeah, his brothers and friends were all present downstairs, having the time of their fucking lives. but why couldn’t he? maybe he wasn’t in a good place mentally. he hated himself and his fucked up predicament for that while the others were just living it up, talking to other excited strangers, dancing, enjoying the ‘stupid fucking party’.

thoughts of self hate started their inevitable projections onto others. in a weird way chris felt almost betrayed. he hated coming across as a complainer but on the way to the party, matt was quick to say shit like leaving in half an hour, while nick was ranting about hoping tara didn’t invite the same morons from two weeks ago. all that bitching and moaning and praying and hating and now nick’s probably dancing his heart out to some ariana grande remix while matt’s chatting with people about fucking pokémon. just pokémon actually, that was phrased really weird.

it wasn’t always like this. all three of them were supposed to be in LA for business and pretend to like this. but at this point, nick and matt were getting a bit too good at pretending and chris just wasn’t. hence the shocking betrayal. now chris knows that entire cycle of thoughts started okay and just spiralled. completely outta his hands. now, he hates that he thinks like this about his two favourite humans in the world. thus began the voices in his head.

“you’re such a loser, useless without your brothers, and still you’re thinkin’ shit like this. fucking pathetic. don’t even have a fucking driver’s license? scared of having a girlfriend? again, you’re fucking pathetic. stop crying and whining and complaining like a stupid baby and suck it up for the love of-”

chris was quick to pull out his nearly dead phone and hence began his doom-scroll during moments like this. he wanted to avoid this shit, at least till he was in the comfort of his own bedroom. he heard the ‘sparkly’ girl behind him muttering and breathing? if anything, he thought she was staring at him cause of the two burning holes he felt at the back of his head. ugh, the one time he doesn’t have a hat or beanie on. he hoped ‘taylor swift doppelgänger’ took the hint that he wanted to be left to his own goddamn devices.

she didn’t. of course she didn’t cause that’s just who she is.

“you should sit down. that glass railing isn’t as strong as it seems. wouldn’t wanna witness a-”

“i got it, thanks” snapped chris as he finally made eye contact with the girl. she had wide eyes, really big hoops and glitter on her face. her dress resembled a disco-ball.

“fine by me, more room on this… floor” chris let out a soft chuckle. can you blame him, he needed it. well to her, it sounded more like a scoff. “sorry, things are just harder to process tonight and i don’t know why” chris didn’t know why the girl was saying things that someone closer to her should hear. ‘maybe she’s drunk’ he thought, while thinking of something weird to ask so she’d go away.

“are you a disco-ball? i’m asking this to see how shit-faced you might be”

“i’m not a disco-ball, i’m a mirrorball… see that’s funny because they’re the same goddamn thing. and, this isn’t a fucking halloween party. and no, i’m not drunk, i’m pissed”

“oooh mirrorball’s got some lip on her huh?” shock wasn’t the word chris could use anymore. more like glad. glad that he wasn’t the only one pissed, again, in a borderline psychotic way. nick had tara to dance with, matt had sam to catch pokémon with. maybe chris could just talk to this girl. it wasn’t completely unrealistic, right?

he walked towards where she was sitting. getting comfortable on hardwood floor was no joke but once he saw her gratefully smile at him for a change, it was weirdly comfortable. she began talking yet again. “any good shows you’ve been watching?” wasn’t the question chris thought he’d be asked. maybe his name or something, but decided to roll with it. “nah, more of a music guy. matt’s the crazy binge-watcher”

“excuse me, more like matt’s the fun one. and yes, i took that personally cause i love shows” the girl was fully ready to defend her slightly insane ways to finish a series. “okay, well i love breaking bad, what about you?”

the girl shook her head “sadly, breaking bad is currently rotting on my watchlist but hey, you’re motivation to finally start it” chris was still hoping for something in common between them. not in a romantic way, of course but it did make talking to a complete stranger easier.

“so what about music?” the girl’s eyes lit up when she said taylor swift. chris was quick to speak. “okay but i don’t get why she’s so popular music wise? she’s cool don’t get me wrong, but-”

“because… she makes us feel seen dude” the girl continued. “the fact that someone as awesome as her can go through some of the same shit as me, makes me feel validated… seen. but then again, i won’t try to make you like something if you just don’t wanna. i do fuck with r&b and rap though if that’s what you listen to”

hoping this is the overlap between them chris asks “you heard of lil skies?” “i have, but i’m a local. more on the chill rap scene”

“so you like drake don’t you?” “say what you want but the guy’s got some hidden gems and his old stuff’s pretty awesome” chris couldn’t agree more. “totally get it, matt and i used to always jam out to the motto and she will-” “is matt your brother?” chris is in disbelief. egotistic disbelief but still. he widens his bright blue eyes. “oh my god, you have no idea who i am don’t you?”

the girl shakes her head “i mean i don’t know which one you are? are you one of those who refers to themselves in third person?” “please say something other than that. you’re making me feel like an idiotic species with that sentence. see now that’s funny cause that’s pretty weird of you-”

“i got it, thanks” the two couldn’t help but laugh. chris was feeling light and it was all thanks to this ‘mirrorball’ he found. he thought he could ask why she was previously pissed, hoping she didn’t take it the wrong way.

“oh i saw my drunk ex downstairs. he said some really weird shit and i got super mad at him and almost punched that bitch in the face” chris let out a wheeze which was promptly stopped by the girl’s pissed face. he couldn’t relate to her, yet he tried to understand. “how did it end?”

“whoa. you just made a taylor swift reference! you’re learning. see that’s funny cause-” “not funny dude. and you’re dodging the question so i’m sorry i asked” chris knew he overstepped the pretty thick boundary with someone he met only twenty minutes ago. after a long sigh, the girl began her explanation. “i just lost feelings. and it sucks cause i didn’t wanna string him along. downstairs he made me feel like i was a monster”

chris completely respected her decision. “you aren’t. you’re already better than people who choose to cheat. how long was it?” he thought people like that are very rare to come by. “barely two months? i don’t really remember but thanks for saying that whole thing” the girl smiled and felt understood. she added. “i tried, but my commitment issues kinda got in the way” chris knew all about that. he really did. even though he was curious, he wasn’t sure if he should go any further. something between the two had changed. one could hear a spark of lighting a firework in the silence, that kinda silence. not the awkward kind at all. peaceful and understood, yet troubled by the past.

both were left thinking about what could’ve been if they didn’t just push people away. maybe chris would’ve had a girlfriend, or an ex by now. maybe she would’ve still been in that relationship. unfortunately, the need to be free and invulnerable overpowered the two’s want of romantic love.

the girl was first to break the silence. “i love how i just said that to you, yet i don’t even know your name”

“the name’s chris” she hummed “name matches the looks”

chris had an involuntary red tint spread across his face while he widened his eyes. “did you just say i literally look like a chris?” “yeah basically” said the girl as if he asked her the dumbest question of the week. maybe of the month. chris agreed and continued, “hmm yeah, we did just trauma bond, yet we met barely an hour ago”

the girl was taken aback. “excuse me, trauma bond where? you still haven’t told me why you’re sad.” chris thought the hard part of finding someone was over. maybe just saying this to a complete stranger was harder. ‘fuck it’ he thought.

“look, i can’t even begin to think why cause every time i do, i ignore it cause i just don’t wanna get into it, and it all just builds up-” chris stopped himself but the girl nodded, showing that it’s okay and safe for him to go on.

“i know i should be happy. i’m young, healthy, well-off… but i feel so lonely, now more than ever. i blame my brothers for finally finding fame and LA actually okay and i know i’m such an asshole for saying that. y’know every single time some fan asks, ‘oh who’s least likely to live without his brothers or who’s least likely to be in a relationship’ they always instantly say it’s me. and i get it. i’ve built an image like that and yes it’s partially my fault but it still hurts. it’s like… people just expect me to be attached at the fucking hip to my brothers, and scared of women. i’m still definitely not ready for a relationship, but when someone says something like that again and again, it fucking pisses me off even more. in a way, it just stops me from pursuing anything cause everyone just always has something to say, and i just can’t help focusing on the bad shit. now i’m here, troubling you. someone i’ve known for two fucking seconds with my shit. i just really fucking hate it”

the girl took in all of his words and hurt and inhaled sharply before she spoke. “it’s okay to feel that way. the whole thing about you just blurting this out is valid. sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger than a loved one because they don’t know anything about you. and i’m weirdly proud that you said all that. it takes real guts”

chris felt the way he thought the girl feels when listening to taylor swift. seen. the girl continued. “and at the end of the day, you’re not gonna fucking end up cranky, sad and alone. as long as you have hope, faith and most importantly, love. not only for others, but really for yourself. if you feel hurt, you’ll hurt others and push them away. so it’s best to take care of yourself first, try to find a way you can open up to people closest to you. then you can definitely find whatever it is you’re looking for” chris didn’t take her words lightly and knew they were gonna be stuck in his head, regardless of his shitty memory.

he resumed the quip-off, feeling much better after letting all that out, and not being blindly judged for it. “so, we’re even now right?” the girl just knowingly smiled and chris couldn’t put a finger on why he just really liked a smile on her face. “y’know, i got all that from a taylor swift song”

“no fucking way. taylor’s songs give you wisdom?” the girl nodded but was quick to add. “more than wisdom, it’s clarity. and advice. honestly, she’s like the older sister i never had” chris wondered which song and as if the girl read his goddamn mind she answered, “well, it’s actually a combination of three songs. one’s the archer by taylor swift, the other’s escape from la by the weeknd-”

“did not think you fuck with him as well. they’re so different from each other” chris says while the girl just blinks. chris immediately apologises. “sorry, i have a habit of interrupting my brothers. my brain’s just really fucking weird and fast”

letting out a chuckle she says, “nah its all good chris. i can personally relate to that” to ensure he didn’t commit a fucking crime. chris lets out a sigh of relief while pulling out his phone, opening apple music in the process. “what’s the third song?”

as if right on cue, the five percent battery warning invades his screen. “ah fuck, phone’s almost dead” his panic continues. “i hate to say this but i have to go. otherwise my brothers will think i left already and my phone will be dead by the time i can call-” “it’s okay chris, go. i’m not mad at all”

chris hurriedly tries to find an outlet on the rooftop but there aren’t any. even the other two people who were previously there are gone, leaving their trace behind with the sweet smell of bubblegum. the girl’s eyes kept following chris, who was spastically still searching for a goddamn power bank or something. anything. “i’m pretty sure there’s no chargers here”

he turned his head towards her so quick, whiplash never felt more real. “okay then tell me your number, your name. anything” he was so out of breath from running around like a hooligan. yet, chris was determined to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating that entire conversation. the girl smiled yet again. ‘that damn smile’ he thought. “i hope you’re coming to jake’s party next weekend. i’ll be there”

chris really liked that answer. of course he did. he liked the chase and was finally excited to come to the next party. his phone started buzzing, messages from the triplet’s group chat appeared on his lock screen asking chris’ whereabouts. they were dying to leave but he wasn’t. he bid his ‘mirrorball’ goodbye and started to run down the stairs. just before chris could go he asked. actually… screamed.

“what was the third song!”

the girl turned around and screamed back the third songs name.

she blushed and looked away while chris’ signature grin took over his features. he saw the rooftop one last time. the battery on the phone was low but his spirits were high. he somehow managed to take a really shitty picture of that very ‘shiny’ rooftop.

the downstairs scene still felt like a thick and claustrophobic fog of pretend, but chris knew that if he really wanted to, he could find something real and grounded.

in their car, the triplets like after every ‘stupid fucking party’, talked about their individual experiences. nick as always began. “tara really needs to invite better people cause what the fuck. why’d they all look so judgy when i told them my favourite genre’s pop? after that whenever i tried to talk to them they’d just ignore me, like a bunch of goddamn high status judgmental uglies. like hello?! the music was loud but you’re not fucking deaf!”

“nick, i thought at least you were having a nice time. sam and colby had to leave five minutes after chris asked me to leave. honestly can’t believe i’m saying this but i should’ve listened to the kid. after that, i locked myself in one of the bathrooms and fucking played cheese escape. that’s right.. CHEESE ESCAPE. chris, where the fuck were you?”

before nick could answer, he saw the slight red tint on chris’ face as a cheeky grin was plastered his face. “oh my god, did you fucking hook up with someone?” the shock value was a bit too high for both matt and chris. the car slightly wobbled on the road. “no you fucking idiot i didn’t. i just went to the rooftop after tara told me it’s quiet up there and just scrolled on my phone. that’s why my phone was dead”

“well since you could’ve called me, i say bullshit. but it’s fine. i won’t ask further” said matt as he partially believed his story. nick was weirdly proud that chris finally talked to someone he didn’t know at a party, all by himself.

after a short thirty seconds of quiet, chris started blabbering about playing a song before he forgot the name. “oh my god, stop saying the fucking name of the song and just play it you brain-dead moron” scolded nick cause kid was morphing into a monkey while matt was on a highway.

chris finally opened apple music on his currently charging phone. he started playing a song called, ‘no. 1 party anthem’.

[manmadeandbeyond]

[your other you] // a seth milchick x reader fanfic, chapter 08

🐐 SYNOPISIS: Seth lets himself soften and you learn how to pull more out of him – laughter, small confessions, careful touches. One night, you make something different: a candlelit dinner, a date the two of you will never have outside. ⚠️TAGS: Heavy Themes, Sexual Situations, Dubious Consent (due to severance dynamics), Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Existential Dread, Liminal Horror.

previous chapter // masterlist

CHAPTER 8  — Take Him By The Hand, Make Him Understand

Lately, some days have been good. Not in any grand, definitive way – just a slow shift, so gradual it almost sneaks past you. Seth stops leaving right after. He stays. Lets himself sink into you, ignoring clocks, ignoring phones, ignoring whatever waits beyond your door. Just you, curled around him, both pretending you don’t know better.

You learn how to pull more out of him, careful, with surgical patience, like it’s an extraction.

He laughs now, too, at your dumb jokes. Sometimes even throws one back, smirking against your shoulder, surprised it slipped out.

You play old music, tangled up in each other, one earbud each. He listens so well it makes you reckless, you start handing over pieces of yourself like offerings: how terrible you were at soccer, the mother-shaped wound you don’t talk about with anyone else, how the years stretched too long until you stopped calling your friends altogether.

You tell him how easy it was to fold inward. How convenient grief became. How loneliness felt liberating, at first, until the edges hardened, and you couldn’t find your way back out.

And sometimes, Seth slips, too. Complains about time, about how work swallows entire days whole, how everything feels like a countdown. Then quieter, almost guilty, he tells you the truth: that his favorite part of the week is here, now, with you.

You start memorizing the way he looks when he’s soft like this. Shoulders loose. Eyes heavy-lidded, half-closed. 

You make him your therapist, your confessor, your best friend, your lover. All in one.

On these good days, his touch is always careful, as if he’s apologizing in advance. He moves slowly, like he has forever. Keeps his eyes open. Watches you, even when you try to look away. And when he finally enters you, you wrap your legs around him, not to keep him there, but just to feel the full weight of him, the shape of it, the undeniability.

It’s almost too much, the sweetness of it. The way his face looks when it’s over, forehead pressed to yours, both of you still catching your breath, neither ready to let go.

Fridays are different. You both like the excuse of the weekend. The extra days to heal. The permission to lose yourselves. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s starved. Hands in your hair, tugging until your neck bends the way he wants. His breath is rough against your ear. There’s no sweet buildup or delicate touch. He bites down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, and you arch into him, welcoming it.

On Fridays, he doesn’t treat you like a doll, something precious and hollow. He fucks you like you’re real, flesh and blood and nerve endings. Like you can take it.

And you do. You take everything he gives you.

You scratch at his back, drag your nails down his spine until he growls into your skin. You beg without meaning to. It pours out of you – please, more, don’t stop –, something primal, animalistic, raw.

By the end, you’re both shaking. Spent, wrecked, ruined. Sweat drying on your skin, teeth marks blooming red-purple across your chest. You feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

Fridays are for this. For being a little wild. For letting him tear you apart, knowing you’ve got two full days to stitch yourself back together.

But there are bad days too, and they creep in without warning. You recognize them by how he carries himself – he hardly says a word when he arrives, only gives you a look, the one that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong. Or like he’s looking for something to break, and you’re the only thing within reach. 

When he touches you, it’s fast, unrelenting. He holds you down harder, fucks you mean, leaves you aching. You don't know if he’s punishing you or himself. It doesn't matter. You take it anyway.

Afterward, he pulls away before you’ve even caught your breath, getting dressed with his back turned, already gone in his mind. He leaves you stretched thin, a hollow ache beneath your skin.

You tell yourself you don't mind. That you like it rough, that there’s something almost religious about letting yourself be emptied like that. But there are nights he doesn't look at you at all, and those hurt more than bruises.

You never ask why. You never ask him to stay.

You’ve learned not to.

Instead, you lie still and stare at the ceiling after he’s gone, tracing each sore spot with your fingers, cataloguing every place he left his mark. Proof that he was here. Proof that, for a little while, you were enough to hold his attention – even if it was only to be the thing he broke apart.

Even if you’re the one left gathering up the pieces.

Candlelight flickers across the walls of your house, reflecting off the carefully set table. A fire crackles in the fireplace, radiating warmth. It’s borderline ridiculous, but you wanted it to be special.

You doubt the two of you will ever go on a real date. Not outside, not in the way other people do. So this is what you’ve made instead.

You smooth down your dress and the door opens.

Seth steps inside, pausing as he takes it all in. His brow furrows. “Are you waiting on someone else?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What? No! This is for you, silly.” You let out a small, nervous laugh, but then second-guess yourself. “Oh, but if you don’t like it– ”

“I– ” He exhales, looking around again, slower this time. “I love this. All of it.”

His eyes flick to you, then away. “You look… good. You look good.”

You beam, warmth pooling in your chest. He liked it. You step forward, fingers brushing the lapels of his jacket, then you slip it from his shoulders. “You should’ve told me,” he murmurs. “I would’ve dressed more appropriately.”

You shake your head, taking his hand. “You’re perfect.”

Dinner is easy. The wine flows, you two talk about the news, the food, the weather. His fingers smooth over the rim of his glass, slow, thoughtful. Somewhere between the second and third pour, you say it.

“You literally saw the inside of my brain.”

He stills, glass halfway to his lips.

“You’re around me even when I’m not.” Your voice dips lower. “I can’t think about us for more than a minute, and I know this isn’t normal. Or healthy. But it feels good. I’m happy. Fulfilled.”

He looks toward the window. Outside, the world is frozen still, the snow falling thick and slow. You don’t know what he sees out there, what he’s thinking.

“I know there’s nothing for us out there,” you say softly. “But I want to keep being happy with you. Here.”

Seth doesn’t answer right away, he stops to think about it, considering. Then, with that same measured certainty he always carries, he reaches for his glass, lifts it slightly.

“I’d like that very much,” he says.

The glasses clink, and in the quiet warmth of your home, you drink.

[next chapter]

[books]

Writer Spotlight: Rose Sutherland

Rose Sutherland @rosesutherlandwrites is a Toronto-based writer who grew up a voracious reader with an overactive imagination in Nova Scotia (where she once fell off a roof trying to re-enact Anne of Green Gables!). She's been to theatre school in NYC, apprenticed at a pâtisserie in rural France, and currently moonlights as an usher and bartender—in between writing queer folktales, practicing yoga, dancing, singing, searching out amazing coffee and croissants, and making niche jokes about Victor Hugo on the internet. She's mildly obsessed with the idea of one day owning a large dog, several chickens, and maybe a goat. A Sweet Sting of Salt is her debut novel.

Keep reading for more about character arcs in A Sweet Sting of Salt, Rose's favorite fanfic tropes, and some excellent reading recs 👀

Can you tell us about A Sweet Sting of Salt and how you came to write it?

A Sweet Sting of Salt is a queer (f/f) historical reimagining of the classic folktale of the selkie wife, set in 1830’s Nova Scotia. I call it a “reimagining” because while it draws on the folktale, it’s not a retelling of that tale so much as a story playing out in relation to that mythology. I’d wanted to write something centering a love story between two women for a while, but the initial spark came from a Tumblr post! It suggested the idea of selkies testifying before the UN as victims of human trafficking, which reminded me of all the things I disliked about the original folktale and its inherent darkness that is generally glossed over, starting me down the rabbit hole toward finding my own story.

How did you approach research for A Sweet Sting of Salt, and what is a favorite historical fact you learned?

I joke that I did a lot of research by osmosis: I already had a lot of base knowledge about the location, having grown up in Nova Scotia, and then set the story in a period that I’ve been absorbing information about in a low-key way for ages—1832 is also the year of the student rebellion in Les Mis, so I’ve been gleaning tidbits about this era since I first got into the musical and book back in high school. However, I had to do more specific research into things like British divorce law, period midwifery, and animal husbandry. I also visited some small, hyper-local museums on the South Shore that gave me an invaluable glimpse into daily life. I also did some fun practical research into things like “How long does it take to walk from x to y?” and “How cold IS a plunge into this body of water in March?” (Spoiler: Very.) 

A fact that fascinated me but didn’t make it into the book was that some early European settlers in the area were granted lands by luck of the draw, pulling from a deck of playing cards: Each card was assigned to a specific 50-acre lot, and whatever you pulled, you were stuck with it.

When we meet them, Jean and Muirin are isolated for different reasons. What do you hope readers still searching for their people take away from A Sweet Sting of Salt?

That there’s always hope. It’s valuable and important to keep reaching out to the world around you, to be open, and not cut yourself off—the biggest reason for Jean’s loneliness at the beginning of this story is the way she has come to keep everyone around her at arm’s length, shutting herself away out of fear, and refusing to let anyone truly get to know her because she thinks that’s the best way to protect herself from being hurt again. Reaching out to others can take a real act of courage, especially if you’ve had bad experiences in the past, but “your people” will reach back to you.

Found family elements play a strong role throughout the novel, within supernatural and mundane settings and across species. Was this something you intended from the beginning, or did this grow out of writing the relationship between Jean and Muirin?

I always intended for Jean to have a found family of this type, which is something that a lot of queer people identify with, but those bonds also got stronger and more meaningful as I wrote, especially once Jean and Muirin began growing into their own family unit—their new relationship and the real danger that comes along with it put pressures on Jean’s other relationships that I hadn’t originally considered. Disagreements with Anneke and Laurie over Jean’s choices arise from their deep concern and love for her, and her own love and care for them, reflected in her responses, is a big part of what made them feel like a real family, for me. Jean and Laurie always having each other’s backs while also being the first to call one another out on their bullshit ended up being one of my favourite dynamics in the whole book.

The selkie myth carries an inherent element of transformation. What is a character transformation you most enjoyed writing, and why?

On a character level, the change in Jean’s worldview following a conversation with her childhood sweetheart meant a lot to me—it heals an old wound for her. I love how grounded and self-assured she is afterward, in spite of the daunting task still ahead of her. But my favourite transformation to write was the antagonist’s mask-off moment, where they directly threaten Jean for the first time. It’s so sly and coded so that only she will understand the menace behind it, a real dun-duh-dunnn moment, which was a lot of fun for me—I also enjoy the foreshadowing elements in that exchange.

This is your debut novel. Did anything surprise you about getting it from manuscript to published book?

Oh my gosh, how LONG it took! After I finished the original draft and decided it was worth attempting to publish, I spent over a year revising based on my own thoughts, input from beta readers, critique partners, and my mentor, Maureen Marshall (whom I connected with through the now defunct Author Mentor Match program, and whose book, The Paris Affair—about a young gay engineer attempting to help Gustave Eiffel secure the funding to build a certain celebrated Parisian landmark— is coming out in May). After that came a full year of querying agents and getting rejected. A lot. People loved Salty but weren’t quite sure what to do with her or where the book would fit in “the market,” which was hard to deal with at the time but is hilarious in retrospect: Salty was snapped up less than a month after she finally went out on submission! But that was back in 2022, and the book is only coming out now. Publishing can be painfully slow.

You’ve written fanfic in the past—do you have a favorite fanfic trope?

I’m not sure either of these counts as a trope, but I adore a character that’s “pure of heart, dumb of ass”, and love a truly unhinged Fanon Explanation For Canon Object. As a longtime Les Mis stan, I ship Tholomyes/Getting Punched. If you know, you know.

Do you have any favorite queer retellings of folktales you can recommend?

Right here on Tumblr, I’m a huge fan of @laurasimonsdaughter, who writes delightful riffs on classic folktales, truly inventive urban fantasy spins on old lore, and her own original folktales. 

I’m currently reading Spear, an amazing queer, gender-bent, Arthurian novella by Nicola Griffiths. Anna Burke’s books Thorn and Nottingham are up next on my TBR. Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of brilliant queer historicals that aren’t retellings (I recently loved Suzette Meyr’s The Sleeping Car Porter and Heather O’Neil’s When We Lost Our Heads) and wonderful historical retellings that aren’t queer (I highly recommend Molly Greeley’s beautiful, heartbreaking Marvelous, about the real-life couple that inspired Beauty and the Beast). Queer, historical retellings aimed at adults seem to be considered quite niche, still, and can take some digging to find! So, throwing this out to Tumblr: Do you have recommendations for me?

Do you have a writing routine? Is there a place/state of being/playlist you find most conducive to your writing practice?

My routine is chaotic at best, but I find I do my best work earlier in the day, so I usually scribble in my journal while I have breakfast, and then progress to working on my current project as I drink my second cup of coffee. I’m lucky—my day job is an evening gig, which mostly allows me to write on my preferred schedule… but I’ve also been known to have a bolt of inspiration strike at 10pm and dash home to write until well past midnight on occasion. Nothing quite like the hyperfocus zone!

What’s next for you? Are you working on anything you can tell us about?

No official news yet, but I’m currently working on a story set in 18th-century provincial France based on a true unsolved mystery of the past. It has me delving into a very specific branch of French folklore, and I hope future readers will pick up on common threads with one popular fairytale in particular. I’m really excited about where this one is headed, but keeping the details close to my chest for now!

Thank you Rose for taking the time to answer our questions! If you love queer fantasy and old folktales, grab yourself a copy of A Sweet Sting of Salt, and be sure to share your queer folktale reading recs with Rose on @rosesutherlandwrites!

[worldofkuro]

Hi, I love your fic and this may seem really random, you don't have you write it at all, but could you please do a self-harm!reader and Alastor comforting her, or just Alastor comforting her after finding her having a mental breakdown alone. I suggest maybe when their teens cause teens often have mental breakdowns (or maybe that was just me). Thanks again if you see this <3

Oh, dear, trust me, I know, even adults. Thank you for loving Painted Smile. It's always a pleasure to hear your thoughts about it! I wanted to warn you, it’s not fluff, this is how Painted Smile!Alastor would react and we all know he doesn’t work like a “normal” being, he is crazy and that is why we love him, I suppose. This is Alastor’s way of saving you from yourself. So please, if you are easily shocked, don’t read it. TW: Self-harm

Not cut for love.

You were in front of the mirror, in the bathroom, looking at yourself with a blade in your hand. You didn’t know when you started crying, but you just wanted this pain to end. You didn’t understand when you felt this never-ending torment crawl in your mind. You had loving parents and friends that were here for you, and yet, sometimes, you feel lonelier than ever.

You didn’t remember the first time you dug the blade in your skin. Maybe it was because you needed to feel something real, something that would ground you. To save you from drowning, you felt the need to hurt your body.

Your body could heal, your mind couldn’t.

That was what you were telling yourself. Every wound would heal itself because your body wanted to live, and you wanted to keep on living while your mind was torturing you with thoughts you felt like you didn’t deserve to have.

When did this agony begin..?

You held back a sob as blood was beginning to slide down your wrist. It was pretty, making you believe you were pretty inside. You didn't want to be a burden. You didn't want people to be condescending because you were feeling sad or anxious. They would send you to a hospital and never look back.

But this time, it wasn’t enough. Even though the blade cut your skin, it wasn’t enough. You began to cut yourself once more, trying to go deeper until this torment inside your mind would stop.

“ Dearest ?”

You turned your head toward the door you were sure you had locked, and there was Alastor, staring at you with his usual smile. You quickly hide your arms behind your back, your whole body shaking. 

You felt shame enveloping you in an uncomfortable hug. You opened your mouth, but no words could come out. You didn’t know what was going to happen, and you didn’t want to find out.

“ That’s a lot of blood. May I see?” he held his hand toward you, closing the door after him. You took a step back as he came closer, looking at the mess on the floor. You were shaking, angry with yourself to be found in that situation, angry at Alastor to discover your secret, you just felt.. angry.

“ No. Get out.. I don’t have time for jokes.” You tried to keep your voice strong even though it was only a mere whisper.

“ Who’s joking?” he took the blade from your shaking hands and stared at it before looking at you. He gently took your bloodied wrist on his hand with a soft smile. “ It’s going to scar.”

You looked at him, confused. Why wasn’t he screaming at you, calling you crazy or hysterical ? You let him look at your wounds. You felt like this moment was more intimate than you realized. 

“ Do you want to keep going?” he tilted his head toward you, making your eyes widen in shock. He wanted you to continue..? “ Your cut isn’t bad, but this isn’t the best way to cut yourself, my dear.”

“ You… You aren’t angry..?”

“ With you? Of course not. But I’m curious, why are you cutting yourself?” he stroked your bloodied skin while staring at you. As you weakly tried to explain your inner turmoil, Alastor was observing while wiping your tears and your blood from your skin. “ I see. Let’s go kill animals. It helps me when I’m feeling down!” he beamed at you.

“ What? No! Why? They didn’t do anything wrong!”

“ So did you, dearest. And yet, you’re still hurting yourself.” he tilted his head, seeming confused. You closed your mouth at his words, it echoed inside of you, you didn't do anything wrong and yet… “ Next time you want to hurt yourself, wait for me.”

“ Why..? Shouldn’t you try to stop me?”

“ Is it going to make you stop?” he stared at you as you weakly shook your head. This pain was something that you needed now. You didn’t feel like living without it anymore.. Even your body would beg you to do it sometimes…” That’s what I thought. So, my dearest friend, when you want to cut yourself, wait for me, I’ll cut you.”

You stared at him, your eyes wide opened. Did he really say..?

“ Alastor… You..”

“ Like I told you, I know how to cut. Your cuts are messy and dangerous. You could have touched a vein here. So, if you allow me, I’ll cut you.” he pressed the blade slightly against your skin, making you gasp. You looked at Alastor, you didn’t know what to think about it and yet.. It was oddly comforting to think Alastor, your friend, your special person, would do that for you.

“ Are we crazy, Alastor?” you whispered.

“ Completely insane, dear!” he laughed as he cleaned your wounds, already preparing bandages. He hummed before kissing your cut. “ One cut, one kiss, what about it?”

You nodded as he slid the blade against your skin. It wasn’t like you were doing. The blade wasn’t cutting deeply. It was enough to draw blood, but it wasn’t as messy as you would do. Alastor was staring at your face, observing every reaction. It was comforting, letting Alastor have his way with your life. He could kill you if he made a bad cut, but you knew he never would.

You were letting him hold your life in his hands, and it was… a good feeling. You knew Alastor was feeling the same. His pupils were dilated, and you could hear his breathing getting harder, the same as yours.

You looked at the wounds as Alastor kissed it, getting dirty with your blood.

“ I’m used to scars that are made by hate and violence, I don’t want you to feel that. So, my dear, let me scar you with my affections for you.”

You didn’t know if you should be scared or disgusted, but at that moment, you felt nothing but relief. You weren’t alone in this torment anymore.