#will i ever draw anything for these again? who knows! I was struck with the idea on the way home from school and since my brain is too fried

[mahowaga]

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT FOR THE BEAU IDÉAL OF IDIOCY | N.K. — TASK #2

SUMMARY: you're supposed to be in the stands, eating snacks and talking strategy with your friends, enjoying watching the three champions battle for the triwizard cup. you're not supposed to be entangled in what seems to be your own personal (hell) triwizard tournament.

PAIRING: ravenclaw!nanami kento x hufflepuff!fem!reader | mc's best friend yu haibara GENRE: hp x jjk au, (friends who are) idiots to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity PLAYLIST: the course of true love never did run smooth WC: 6.6k WARNINGS: none, a thrown bread roll

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— TASK #2: HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY FAIL AT FINDING SOMETHING TO WEAR AT THE ABSOLUTE LAST MINUTE

(Imagine sewing a whole tie and headband to wear to the Yule Ball with your date but forgetting that you don’t actually have anything else to wear. That’s the predicament you find yourself in, scrambling to get your hands on a dress just two days before the Ball. You blame Kento for being so distracting with his charm, but at least you’ve gotten better at dancing - and that was by practicing with the aforementioned distractingly charming young man. You have to give yourself flowers for that one.)

If you play stupid games you’ll win stupid prizes. Except you didn’t get your stupid prize for completely submerging Fushiguro Toji in vinegar.

You wait it out for two whole days before you meet up with Satoru and ask him what the situation is looking like - why the two of you haven’t been summoned to the Headmaster’s office. He’s just as confused as you are. 

Ultimately, the two of you decide that Toji didn’t press charges, so to speak, because how is he supposed to justify being in the kitchen corridor and asking you, of all people, to the Ball? And, let’s face it, everyone saw what happened between the two of you when you asked him the first time, and they sure as hell heard what he’d called you. (There’s just no space for a change of heart within such a short timeframe, Your Honor.) It just wouldn’t make sense on his part. At least he has the brainpower to come to that conclusion.

The spray paint duo gets away with yet another assault against Toji. History always repeats itself. You’re glad it’s in your favor once again.

You’re sitting with the rest of the Hufflepuffs in the Great Hall, listening to the constant buzz of excitement as the Yule Ball draws even closer. You can’t deny that the enthusiasm is also getting to you. Especially not when you look up from your plate of eggs and toast and make direct eye contact with Kento over at the Ravenclaw table.

Your heart flutters violently (a normal occurrence for you these days). He’s eating porridge, or cereal, or soup - something he needs a spoon for - and when he catches your eye, he puts the utensil down and raises his hand in a small wave, his lips quirking up ever so slightly.

It feels as if you’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow. It hits you square in the chest, sharp and burning and aching; Kento is truly your heart’s one true weakness, seeing how it decides to act up everytime he looks at you or talks to you or touches you. (Even thinking about him does numbers to you.) The version of you from your Fourth Year would not have survived the knowledge that you and Kento are now kind of a thing. (It’s up in the air. You haven’t really discussed it with him.)

You wave back, albeit timidly, and his smile grows wider before he turns his attention back to his breakfast and the students chattering around him.

Haibara catches you biting your lip when you return your focus to your toast. He nudges you with his elbow.

“Did I just see you waving at lover boy over there?” he asks. You don’t even want to look at him, already knowing he has an incredibly smug grin on his face. (You do it anyways and prove yourself right. You know this boy better than the back of your own hand.)

You exhale slowly, trying to make yourself look as innocent as possible, and reply, “You act like you wouldn’t do the same thing. He’s your friend, too, you know.”

Haibara huffs a laugh. “Sure, he’s my friend,” he says, glancing at Kento on the other bench, “but I don’t blush after I say hey to him.”

That’s it. He’s done. You’re going to physically assault him.

You shove him, cursing his entire lineage, only for him to burst into laughter. If you knew anything about wrestling it would be instant lights out for him. He would be in the Hospital Wing before he could even say ‘lover boy’ again.

“What’s happening here?”

You pull away from Haibara and straighten immediately, turning your head to see who came up behind you. You relax (slouch) when you realize it’s just Shoko.

Her red and gold tie is loose around her neck. She leans between you and Haibara, the end of her tie brushing against your shoulder. (You’re reminded of a certain tie that a certain someone will be wearing at a certain ball in two days.)

You clear your throat, trying to look put together. Hopefully she doesn’t notice how red your cheeks are - not just from Kento, but from your best friend calling you out. The last thing you need is an onslaught of questions about who the object of your attraction is. (That would be your last straw, you fear. You wouldn’t make it out alive.)

Thankfully, Shoko doesn’t seem to pay attention. Instead, she seems to have her sights set on grabbing Haibara by the collar.

He stiffens. She pulls him close, her voice low. You stifle a laugh.

While he’s getting interrogated, no doubt about what color he’s wearing to the Ball, what time he’ll meet her and all the other tiny details, you shift your attention to the table behind you.

The Slytherins.

You’re not scanning the faces of the students for Toji. You’re looking for-

Satoru waves at you, and because he’s built like an insanely tall and lanky tree branch, he looks like one of those inflatable tube men with the wavy hands you find at gas stations.

You let out a laugh at his ardor and wave back. Your heart isn’t exactly racing, but it feels lighter than usual. 

Without the weight of imminent suspension or expulsion on your shoulders for your crimes, you’re feeling pretty good about the Yule Ball coming up in two days. After all, you’re going with Nanami Kento, who seems to get bolder with you with every passing day, always knowing exactly what to do to make your heart race. (Then again, maybe you don’t hide it as well as you think you do. Your face is a canvas of every streak of emotion you feel.) And Toji hasn’t bothered you in a hot minute either - he’s no doubt afraid you’ll pull your little vinegar trick on him again. (You really ought to figure out a spell that shoots the damn thing out of your wand.)

Shoko jostles your shoulder, pulling you out of your self-made bliss. You blink slowly before realizing she’s talking to you.

“Huh?”

She rolls her eyes. “Your dress?” she repeats. “What style are you going for?”

“My dress..” you murmur. You’re pretty sure your eyes have glazed over. (The prospect of a bright and unproblematic future has you in a chokehold.)

Wait.

Wait a minute.

Your dress?

“My dress?” you ask.

Haibara presses his lips into a thin line and pulls Shoko by her arm, her attention returning to him, since he’s clearly given up on the thought of you ever coming up with a coherent answer.

A beat. Then-

It hits you like a sack of rocks. Pointy rocks. Right in the gut. It takes all the air out of your lungs. If anyone is looking at you, all they’ll see is you keeling over your breakfast, groaning in horror.

Haibara, only mildly concerned, throws a bread roll at your head to make sure you’re alive, but you don’t even feel it bounce off of your cranium because:

You. Don’t. Have. A dress.

The biggest event of your life with the guy you’ve been crushing on since forever and you don’t have anything to wear besides a stupid hairband you sew yourself.

You wish for nothing but death to come and take you.

(Explaining your situation to Kento is probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever had to do (and you know a thing or two about embarrassment). What makes it worse is that you have to spill the beans after he catches you trying to go to Hogsmeade on your own when it’s clearly become a thing the two of you do together on the weekends. To his credit, when you tell him he simply shrugs and says, “Let’s go get you a dress, then,” before taking your hand. He’s really a roll with the punches type of guy, you’re beginning to realize. After every incredibly humiliating thing that has happened to you within the past few weeks that he has had the adversity of witnessing, he doesn’t bat an eye and takes it in stride, continuing to look at you like you’re the warmest, freshest loaf of bread that’s come right out of the oven, the scent of flour and yeast and comfort wafting into the air, hitting you with fond memories, contentment and comfort. Or maybe he just looks at you as if he can’t believe he’s stuck going to the Ball with a person whose entire existence could be characterized by a pair of clown shoes. You hope it’s the former.)

The snowflakes fall from the sky slowly, reminiscent of cherry blossom petals in the wind. They’re gentle, unassuming, simply fluttering down from the neverending expanse of gray up above with no real destination, piling on top of each other to create a soft, icy blanket on the ground.

You hold on to Kento’s arm as tightly as you can as you walk through the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, determined not to slip and fall. You’re not sure you’ll ever recover if that happens to you.

The village is quiet, as if it is holding its breath as it observes you (a clown) and Kento (a distinguished young man) strolling down High Street, boots sinking into the powder-y snow that’s accumulated after three hours of snowfall, leaving behind an exquisite delineation of two people huddling together for warmth - and maybe something more.

You sneak a glance at Kento. His cheeks and nose are painted a rosy red, a souvenir of sorts, from the arctic winds blowing through the street. The temperature itself isn’t that unbearable - it’s the wind making it feel chillier than it is. It’s overreacting. (Quite like how he probably thought you’d been overreacting when you had a minor freak out about not having a dress.)

He catches your eye and nudges you, pulling you closer against his side. Your arm is looped around his, your other arm holding onto him, occasionally grabbing a fistful of his coat’s sleeve when the ground beneath you decides to transfigure into a skating rink.

“Is there something on my face?” he asks, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.

You tear your eyes away from him with a roll of your eyes, shoving him ever so slightly, flustered by his antics. (That boy knows damn well why you’re looking at him.) 

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter.

He doesn’t let go of you. Instead, he holds you tighter. “Am I really?”

You double down on your statement, because you are not a coward. “Yes.”

He laughs at that, then tilts his head so that it touches yours. A gentle touch that makes your insides liquefy.

A comfortable silence slots itself into the gaps between words unsaid - words that don’t need to be said because your actions speak louder.

This is how it often is with him. It’s quiet. Quiet in the way that whispers of tenderness and ease, a sense of coziness, of relief that neither of you expect each passing moment to be permeated with the cloud of conversation. You can just be, and it is nothing short of bliss.

The snow thins out on the cobblestones as you make your way to your destination, creating a thin layer of what you can only call a slip hazard. You’re half-tempted to ask Kento if he’s found some sort of charm to keep himself from falling over because as of right now you’ve managed to slip three times, bend your ankle twice, and land on your ass once. That’s six times he’s had to stop himself from cracking up. (Your ego can’t take a seventh.)

You choose to ask him about something entirely left field.

“What do you want to be when you graduate?”

For a moment it’s like he hasn’t heard you, but you know he has - he’s just processing. He reminds you of one of those humanoid robots after being given a slightly complicated task.

After a while Kento hums, his voice deep and resonant. He rolls his shoulder. “I’d be an Auror, maybe.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowed. You’re trying to imagine him as an enforcer for the wizarding governing body. It’s not as hard as you thought - he follows rules to a fault, hates people who cause trouble, and he’s got the brains and the brawn to find and raise hell.

He’s a model employee. The blueprint.

“I can see it,” you say, nodding. You wonder about your own goals and ideals. Being an Auror definitely isn’t in the cards for you. 

You raise your eyes to the sky in thought. The snow descends gently, weaving a delicate veil over your face and settling on your lashes like tiny crystals.

Kento shifts beside you. He pulls away, untangling your arms. You feel the loss of his warmth instantly. It’s glaring, and the winter’s chill doesn’t allow you the leisure of processing it before swooping in and latching itself onto you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but you try to do it discreetly so that he doesn’t notice you’re freezing.

Unfortunately for you, he’s been watching you the entire time, and now he’s stepping in front of you. The flakes of snow are still stuck in your lashes, stubbornly refusing to melt or even blow away with the winter wind. You groan internally, regretting ever turning your face to the snow to think about the future, and blink as quickly as you can so you don’t miss whatever he’s about to do.

Kento reaches out, placing his hands on your cheeks, his touch feather-light. “Let me,” he murmurs. Your body locks up immediately.

He leans in, close enough that his breath is warm against your chilled skin, thawing you bit by bit. He’s so close that your world narrows down to him, only him, and the gentle exhale that sends the stubborn snowflakes fluttering away.

You don’t move. You don’t even blink.

You feel your heart quicken, the sheer intimacy of the moment - of such a simple yet significant action - catching you off guard. Your brain is running as fast as it can, trying to recognize whether his gesture is an act of affection, or, rather, an act of care. With Kento, you can never tell. You want it to be both. (You are also greedy.)

His hands don’t leave your face. You lift your eyes to meet his, your breath hitching when you find a certain warmth in his gaze that is strong enough to mirror the winter’s chill.

Then, as if waking from a reverie, he lets go of you. You just stand there, fixated on him, as the snow continues its gentle descent around the both of you, painting the entire scene with a certain ethereal beauty that you can’t replicate anywhere else.

Something has shifted between the two of you - quiet, unspoken, yet undeniable. You don’t have any concrete proof of it just yet, just a persistent hum in your gut. (And you’re beginning to learn that when it comes to him, your gut feelings are usually right on the money.)

Something has shifted, and you’re very aware that he’s not trying to be your friend anymore (not that he has been one for the past few weeks). He’s making a statement.

Maybe he’s been making one for a long time now, and you - wrapped up in your own head, tangled in your own overcomplications - have been too blind to see it, because he’s right there, patient, steady, hand outstretched for you.

Maybe he’s been waiting for you to notice all along, and you’re not sure how to digest this revelation.

You reach for his hand, your heart suddenly calmer than it has been in a long time, your nerves completely passive, as if you’re finally allowing yourself to acknowledge that there is a real connection between you both that goes beyond a meager crush, or even just physical attraction. You don’t feel like you’re caught between anticipation and vulnerability anymore, no longer stuck between a rock and a hard place (your mind being the outstanding puppeteer to all your overthinking). 

No, something inside of you has dislodged and is granting you complete permission to feel the closeness, the profound tenderness in everything you do with him.

You take a deep breath and exhale, your breath misting in the cold air. It steadies you. His hand in yours works, too.

“What do you want to be?”

You’re still reeling from the realization that what you have with Kento is real and has substance that you don’t hear him for a split second.

You frown. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Kento smiles, bright as ever, full of nothing but pure joy. He shakes his head slightly before pulling you closer. “I asked you what you’d want to be when we’re done at Hogwarts.”

Oh. Right. You still don’t have an answer. Well, there’s always the option of being-

“A professional quidditch player,” you blurt out. Despite your heartbeat being normal and not bordering cardiac arrest, it doesn’t stop your nerves from firing back up. Being this close, pressed against him, basically, just inches away from his face, your head tilted up to look at him, it makes you jittery. In a good way. Because now you get to stand there, your hand in his, his attention solely on you, and gloat in the fact that he is yours. (You should probably wait for confirmation before saying all that.)

A beat of silence.

“You know,” he says, his voice low, like he’s saying something meant for only you, “the other schools are going to be at the Ball. They’re going to have their eyes on the champions, sure, but they’re going to be looking at you and Gojo, too. The two of you are Hogwarts’ best quidditch players in years. There’s no doubt they’ll put in a word for you guys.”

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. He basically just repeated Satoru’s pitch back to you, except he didn’t tell you you should go with Gojo instead of him.

Huh. You underestimated Nanami Kento. You’d originally thought he’d sacrifice being your date to let you receive your flowers from the other schools’ higher ups, but it seems he’s found a way to satisfy both your needs: he gets to keep his date, and you get your exposure.

He’s a genius, actually. You simply look at him in awe. They don’t make guys like him anymore, you’re sure of it. Your grip on his hand tightens, and if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

You force yourself to nod. “You think, though? I mean, Satoru’s a given, but me?”

Self-doubt is a disease.

He raises a brow. “You’re one of the best players I’ve ever seen,” he says, touching your cheek. “Trust me, no one is going to skip over you.”

You beam at him, and he does the same, though his eyes are sharp, as if telling you Don’t ever put yourself down like that ever again.

You swallow hard and tear your gaze away from his.

The street is basically empty, save for some locals wandering around, but that’s because it’s not exactly the selected weekend for Hogsmeade visits. You’re just here because Kento gets Head Boy privileges.

The signature pink framed windows of Gladrags Wizardwear catches your eye in the distance. That’s your destination.

Your fingers tighten around his, a quiet anchor in the cold. “Come on, I see it over there.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t just oblige - he readjusts his grip and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing once before following your lead.

The warmth envelops you the moment you step into the quaint shop. (You say quaint because it looks like a hole in the wall from the outside, but it’s actually as huge as a standard grocery store on the inside.) Your skin tingles from the sudden change in temperature, but you’re glad for it. 

The scent of candle wax, fabric and something vaguely floral lingers in the air. The walls are lined from top to bottom with dresses, robes, shoes, accessories - it’s the type of place where you can either find exactly what you’re looking for, or nothing at all. You’re just hoping you can get your hands on something beautiful enough to complement Kento, because you’ve no doubt in your mind that he’s going to look absolutely dashing. (He always does, but that’s besides the point.)

Kento steps in beside you, exhaling slowly, shaking off the chill from outside. He takes his gloves off and stuffs them into his coat pocket, then rubs his hands together absently, flexing his fingers, trying to jumpstart the blood circulation.

You try not to stare. (He’s making it hard not to.) Everything he does seems so effortless. (He literally just took off his gloves.)

His hazel eyes slide over you before he looks around the store, scanning it with an almost lazy curiosity. He’s not here for himself, after all. He’s here for you. The mere thought makes your stomach flutter way more than it should.

“Do you have something in mind, or do you need help picking something out?” he asks casually, and for a second you want to scoff, because there’s no way this boy is acting like everything’s normal when he just held your face and blew snowflakes off your lashes. Absolute madness.

You cast a glance at your surroundings, eyeing the entire section dedicated to dresses. The size of the selection is vaguely threatening. (You’re sure that if you don’t find something it will quite literally get you blacklisted from the shop - over one thousand options to choose from and nothing catches your eye? Something has to be wrong with you.)

“I, uh. I mean.” You swallow. Get it together, please. “I can figure it out,” you mumble, shifting towards the displays.

“Okay.”

Kento follows, keeping close - too close (but you’re not complaining.) You like knowing he’s there, feeling his presence, his warmth at your back. It also serves as a reminder that you can’t exactly spend all day here because you need to get back to the castle before curfew. You doubt it’s very ladylike of you to abuse Kento’s Head Boy privileges more than two times a day. (You’re joking. Mostly.)

You flip through the vast selection on the rack nearest to you, skimming through embroidered silks, soft velvets, delicate laces and shimmering chiffons. You’re hyper aware of his eyes on you despite his fingers ghosting over the gowns as if he’s sifting through them, too.

It’s silent for a while. Then-

“You’re stalling.”

Your eyes widen. “I’m not.”

He raises a brow. “You are.”

You pretend not to be rattled when he reaches over and curls his fingers around your wrist, tugging gently. The contact is brief but scorching, sending a jolt up your arm. You move over to where he’s standing. He looks at you, smiling- no, smirking. He knows what he’s doing to you.

“Here,” he says, plucking a gown from the rack and holding it up against your frame. He eyes you up and down as if assessing how well it would work. When he seems satisfied, he nods slightly. “Try this one on.”

You look at his pick. It’s an off-the-shoulder gown with an intricate lace pattern on the bodice, the color an intense, enigmatic cobalt blue. It’s elegant, flowing and not too over-the-top. (You can’t deny he has taste. More than you, maybe, because you were eyeing a puffy yellow dress.)

“Blue?” you ask.

He lifts a shoulder. “My dress robes are blue. I thought you’d want to match.”

While he’s not wrong and you’re currently trying to imagine what he’s going to look like at the Ball your mind is plagued by something else. Something absolutely horrifying.

You recoil. “Blue?” you ask again, and before he can say anything you continue, “With that yellow tie? Kento.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, shaking your head. (That spotted yellow necktie is an ignominious failure of yours.)

He looks amused, huffing a laugh. “I think it goes well with my outfit.”

“We need to work on your fashion skills.”

“My fashion skills are unmatched.”

You scoff, and return your attention to the gown in his hands. It’s not the type of style you’d usually go with, but before you can protest (or bash his sense of style), he’s lightly guiding you towards the fitting room, his hand hovering over the small of your back.

Your brain is seriously lagging. Too much has happened and is happening. You’re just going with the flow at this point - it’s the only way your survival is guaranteed.

You’ve been standing in the fitting room, slack-jawed, for at least ten minutes now, just staring at yourself in the floor length mirror. You adjust the fabric over your body, making minor adjustments.

It’s perfect.

The color, the fit, the way it moves when you shift - it’s everything you’ve wanted and more. (So Kento does have taste.)

You smooth your hands down the bodice, tracing the lace as you do, a nervous thrill curling in your stomach.

From outside, you hear Kento’s voice, casual, but expectant.

“You’ve been in there for a while,” he says. “Do I have to come in there and get you out?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you because you can just hear him grinning. You step out anyway, lifting the fabric so you can walk.

His eyes light up when he sees you. He doesn’t say anything at first - it’s just his gaze sweeping over you, taking in every detail, every wrinkle, every curve. His grin fades into something quieter. Something unreadable. His eyes flicker over your figure again, tracing the lines of the gown, the way it falls around you like it’s made for you. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve actually rendered him speechless.

Then, finally, after you’ve somehow convinced yourself that he doesn’t like it, his lips twitch upwards.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “That’s the one. It looks- you look beautiful.”

God, you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Like you’re something worth admiring.

“Really?” you mutter, twisting around, trying to do anything to avoid his piercing gaze. “I mean-” You catch sight of the price tag hanging from the sleeve. You reach for it, praying it isn’t an outrageous price, and flip it over.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh no.”

It’s more than you expected. Way more.

Kento notices the frown on your face almost immediately. He leans forward. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, awkwardly shoving the tag into the bodice, and turn to him. “Nothing.”

(You lie here because, and Helga Hufflepuff will most definitely back you up on this, nothing is more humiliating, i-want-to-chug-poison inducing and jump-in-front-of-the-Hogwarts-Express inspiring than admitting you’re broke to the boy you like. You think you deserve a pass for this one.)

His brow arches. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Of course this is what he clocks as your worst lie (not the one where you said you were basically a professional at ballroom dancing). It’s not your finest moment.

You sigh heavily, your face burning. “Fine. Have you seen the price on this thing?”

He comes closer to take a look while you hold out the tag for him. His brows raise and he casts you a glance. “Oh, that’s-”

“Expensive,” you finish, already making your way back to the fitting room, the fabric lightly gripped in your hands.

“So?”

You pause. So?

You turn around, the gown flaring. “So I’m not about to spend an obscene amount of Galleons on a dress I’m only going to wear once.” (You’re hoping you sound logical instead of heartbroken, because you’ve fallen in love with the gown - but price hikes are truly a dealbreaker.)

He huffs a laugh. “Okay.”

“Hmph.”

Kento watches you as you disappear into the fitting room and come back out with the gown back on its hanger. He doesn’t say anything as he watches you hang it up rather forlornly, your fingers lingering on the fabric longer than necessary. You are crying on the inside. Such a waste. Such a shame it is way out of your budget.

You don’t look at him as you turn away, pretending to be interested in another rack of dresses - ones that are, unfortunately, also expensive.

It’s not looking too good for you. You might end up being blacklisted, but this time it’ll be because you’re practically bankrupt and not because there wasn’t a single garment that tickled your fancy.

Kento, for his part, leaves you be, silent as ever. You’re not too sure what’s going through his brain. Has he given up on helping you? He’s probably realized that there’s nothing here that’s within your ideal price range. He stands there, watching you without a word, before he walks off toward the counter where the shop employee is standing.

You don’t really pay attention. You assume he’s just giving you some space to find something you like without him hovering - seeing as how the one thing he chose was so close yet so far.

You’ve probably gone through at least ten racks of gowns and it’s all for naught. There’s a ton of gorgeous ones (although that blue one really is the love of your life) but they’re all way too overpriced for your liking. You can’t afford a single one without completely putting yourself in a tough spot financially.

You exhale in defeat and make your way over to Kento, who is talking to the employee, his voice low.

When he sees you come over, he nods at the employee and then gives you his full attention.

You spread your hands and shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow. They might have something cheaper.”

His expression is surprisingly unreadable. You frown slightly, trying to make out what he’s thinking.

“Yeah?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, a smile tugging at his lips as he tilts his head. “Good. They’re having a sale tomorrow. He just told me.”

You blink. “What?”

“A sale.” He shrugs, smiling. “Fitting, huh?”

You poke his chest. “Fitting? That’s the worst pun ever.”

He laughs, taking your wrist in his hand before you poke him again.

Something’s off. Something about the way Kento’s acting, from his unreadable expression to his smile, which reeks of mischief and trouble, is eating at you.

You squint at him, leaning in until you’re a few inches away from his face. “Are you up to something?”

He gives you the most innocent look ever - his eyes wide, his head cocked, his brows raised - one that screams, How dare you accuse me of committing a crime? Look at me. (You can’t argue with the logic there.)

“Come on,” he says smoothly, tugging you along with him as he makes his way towards the door. “We’ll find something tomorrow.”

You follow him, but you glance back at the blue dress. You blow it a kiss in your head, as if you’re parting ways with a forbidden lover. The moment you do, the employee takes it down from the rack and starts to pack it into a box.

You sigh. Someone already bought it.

Kento’s looking at you with a small smile on his face when you finally leave the shop and step out into the wintry air once more. It hits you like a brick wall, bringing you back to reality.

You squint up at him once more, and his lip twitches.

Oh, he’s definitely up to something.

By the time you make it back to your dormitory, you’re rightfully breathless (physically) and exhausted (mentally). You lean against the door to catch your breath - the chilly winds had somehow decided to pick up as you made your way back to the castle, and it had both you and Kento pushing your way through, breathing hard once you were exposed to the warmth of the school once more.

He’d dropped you off at the barrels near the kitchen, as usual, and before he left, you’d tried to ask him what he was up to again, only for him to kiss your cheek and leave with a grin on his face. (How insufferable of him.)

A groan leaves your lips. Your legs ache, your brain is absolutely fried, and your heart is still very much recovering from the absolute menace who runs around Hogwarts with the name Nanami Kento.

You don’t even want to think about how he looked at you while you were in that dress, how he’d cupped your face in his hands like it was second nature to him and blew the snowflakes away, how he’d reached for your hand time and time again - and how you’d let him do each and every one of these things without hesitation.

Sighing, you push off the door and head over to the dresser, shedding your layers like they’re a second skin. All you want to do right now is collapse into bed and pass out, forgetting about the world for a moment. (The circuits in your head are too overloaded to even begin to process anything that happened today.)

As you drape your coat over the back of the chair, something clicks. While you mightn’t have gotten the dress you set out to get today, you did get something much more meaningful - the realization that you and Kento have crossed a line in your relationship. It’s no longer just surface-level romantic gestures and playfulness - it’s comfort, care, understanding.

The thought makes you smile out of giddiness. You used to pray for times like these, to be the one Kento looked at like you hung the stars in the sky, the one he spoke to in that soft voice of his, the one he smiled at - it’s still unreal to you, but you’re beginning to accept it. He’s different from the person you admired from afar.

He’s better.

You cast a glance around the room to make sure your roommates aren’t there to see you blushing like a maniac. No one’s here yet. They’re all probably with their dates for the Ball, finalizing last minute details, making sure everything is the epitome of perfection.

You exhale slowly, remembering that you have yet another long day of shopping ahead of you tomorrow. You grumble under your breath as you change into a warm sweater, cursing the wizarding economy and capitalism. (For the price they were selling that blue dress for it might as well be threaded with real silver. Actually, that’s an overstatement, but your point still stands.)

You huff, mildly annoyed. At least you get to spend tomorrow with Kento again. That’ll be the highlight of your day.

With that thought, you make your way to your bed. The house-elves made your bed while you were out again, because it’s as neat as ever and you know you left it looking like a hurricane had run through the room. You murmur a silent thanks to them.

You glance at the bedside table to make sure your lamp is switched off.

Wait.

You freeze-

Because there, sitting neatly on the rich mahogany of the table, is a blue box.

A rather large, elegant, expensive-looking blue box. With a bow. (Very important.)

Your heart skips. You lean in closer. Is this-

No. No way. Absolutely not. This can’t be.

You turn away quickly, covering your eyes - if you can’t see it it doesn’t exist.

Obviously, that doesn’t work.

You sigh heavily, your heart thumping hard against your chest, butterflies rioting in your stomach, and reach for the box, slowly, cautiously, as if it might explode.

Your fingertips graze the embossed surface. The golden ink spells out the name Gladrags Wizardwear. You close your eyes tight, hoping this isn’t what you think it is.

Kento, I swear to God-

Beneath the ribbon is a plain white envelope. You pluck it off, and even before you flip it open, you know who it’s from.

Your stomach does somersaults when you read the singular line scrawled on it in impeccable cursive:

For my favorite delinquent Quidditch captain.

You stare for a moment, unable to make sense of it. Kento has knocked you off of your axis. You shake your head slightly and stare harder.

It’s like your soul is buffering, like it has lost its internet connection and is scrambling to find a suitable replacement to get the job done. While all this happens you’re just standing at your bedside table, reading and rereading that one line, your lips slightly parted.

Your brain doesn’t want to accept the truth, because this can’t be what you think it is. It simply can’t be.

Except, unfortunately, it most definitely is.

You exhale shakily. Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at the lace ribbon and then lift the lid, holding your breath.

It’s exactly what you think it is.

There, neatly folded, looking as perfect as it did in the store-

Is the gown. The gorgeous cobalt blue dress. The one he’d picked out for you and had fit you like a dream. The one he liked. The one you liked. The one you’d reluctantly had to give up because it was way out of your budget. The very one you’d seen the employee start packing away-

Your breath catches in your throat. Your pulse pounds in your ear. Your face burns like a thousand suns.

You slam the box shut hurriedly.

(Kento’s really doing a number on you.)

You open it again, slower this time, as if making sure it’s real, that it’s still there. Just to make sure you’re not hallucinating (as one does).

It’s still there. Still real. Still from him.

(At this point, you’d like to add, your brain is screaming. It wants to revolt after everything you’ve put it through. It’s begging you to get a lobotomy so that it can finally escape its confines.)

It hits you like a ten-tonne dump truck to the face. He bought this for you. That’s why he’d been talking to the employee in such a low voice. It’s why he’s had that look on his face the entire time after. It’s why he was ecstatic when you told him you’d come back tomorrow, because he knew you’d come up to your room and find this here.

Oh, he’s on another level. He’s playing 4D chess with you.

You sit on the edge of your bed and run a hand down your face.

He bought this for you.

He bought this for you.

He bought this for you.

He bought this for you. 

He bought this for you.

It was expensive. And he spent his money on this. For you.

What. An. Idiot.

You close the box and snatch the card back up again, reading his stupidly casual message over and over again like it might magically explain what he thinks he’s playing at. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. (Sure, you had a revelation about your relationship with him but that doesn’t mean your brain and heart got the memo.)

You flip it over and find another line scrawled there:

Don’t worry about the price.

(He knows you too well.)

You groan, burying your head in your hands. You fall backwards onto your bed, simultaneously kicking your feet and cursing his very existence.

Ugh. You have no idea how you’re going to face him ever again without losing your damn mind.

Nanami Kento is going to be your salvation and your undoing.

A/N: thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this one, it was by far one of my favorites to write simply because of how much i love snow. (art by elitamasan on X)

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Started with Knuckles and things snowballed from there. I’m normal about Knuckles, Tails, and Sonic’s hair actually

[beloveds-embrace]

I’m loving Duchess with a backbone!!!!! Please can we see her finally put John and Simon in place?

The air in the drawing room is frigid, despite the crackling fire in the hearth.

You sit near it, posture perfect, gloved hands folded in your lap, but the warmth does not touch you. Not truly. It is there only in flickering light, in the faint scent of burning wood, not in the hollow of your chest or the chill in your bones.

Across from you, John and Simon stand as if waiting for something- perhaps waiting for you to acknowledge them. You do not, because you know they have already heard.

Johnny and Kyle had been shaken when they told them, voices uneasy, recounting the moment you stood before them, spine unbending, and reminded them exactly who you were. You had let them stammer through their weak protests, had let them fumble with excuses and empty justifications before you struck them down with the simple, inarguable truth:

You are the Duchess of this house. You will be respected within it.

And now, here they are. John, your dear husband, with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Simon, standing just behind him, silent as ever. They are lords in their own right, men of power and presence. You cannot pull rank on them the way you did with Johnny and Kyle, but you do not need to.

Your silence is its own weapon, and today it is what you’ll be wielding.

John exhales sharply, shifting his weight as if he cannot bear the way you refuse to look at him. “I heard you had words with Johnny and Kyle.”

Still, you say nothing.

Simon watches you closely, the scrutiny of his gaze burning at the edges of your vision, but you do not grant him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes.

John sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “We need to talk, Duchess.”

“Do we?” Your voice is cold, distant, detached.

His brows draw together. “Indeed, we do.”

You finally look at him then, your face unreadable. “…And why is that?”

A flicker of something passes through his face; frustration, perhaps, but there is something else beneath it. Something brittle. He does not like this version of you, you are unsurprised to note. A version of you that no longer leans desperately toward him, that no longer reaches for the warmth he once withheld. No longer begs for a single ounce of affection.

Good.

Simon does not speak. He only observes, fingers curling against his sleeves as if holding himself back. His silence is different from yours, though. Yours is deliberate, a wall carefully built, reinforced, fortified against the damage they have done. His is wary, calculating, as if he is still trying to find the best way to approach something he does not quite understand.

“Duchess.” Simon’s voice is low, and unhappy. It rankles you that he thinks he can speak to you like this; John’s lover he may be, you are the Duchess of this house, and yet he fails to show you even a sliver of respect for it.

You lift a brow, tilting your head just slightly, like one might when observing something of mild interest. “Yes?”

He hesitates. You can see it- the way he wants to tread carefully, the way he senses the ice beneath him is thin.

John, less patient, sighs again. “Are you just going to pretend we’re not here, then?”

You inhale slowly, exhaling just as carefully. “I am not pretending anything, my lord.” The title is precise, distant.

It is the first time in your marriage you have called him that.

John flinches- flinches- just slightly. His lips part, but for once, he does not have the words.

Simon exhales through his nose. “We were wrong.”

It is a confession, but it does not move you.

“Indeed.”

Another silence, heavier now, and John steps forward slightly. “We should have-“

You stand abruptly, and it makes them pause. Smoothing down the fabric of your gown, adjusting it with delicate fingers, before you finally, finally look at them both directly.

“You will not placate me with words.” You do not raise your voice, but it cuts through the space between you like a blade. “You can’t. Not after everything. I don’t care for your empty apologies, and I don’t care to stay here and be disrespected any longer.”

John swallows hard. “We-“

You shake your head. “No, my lord.”

A simple command. A final word.

You step past them, your presence colder than the winter winds outside. You do not look back, and care not for however they might react or whatever expressions they may have.

[henneseyhoe]

All In A Day’s Work

Lewis Hamilton x BLACK!FEM!Reader

WARNINGS:This Headcanon Is Nasty…I Mean Disgusting. Mean!Lewis(No seriously..he’s an asshole till like… the end lmfao), Mentor/Boss!Lewis, Dark!Lewis, Protege!Reader, Insults, Almost A Yandere!Lewis Undertone(I can’t help myself), Lewis Being A Perv, Cockwarming Orally, Spit, Power Imbalance, Dumbification(Kinda?), Pet Names (Baby, Doll, Princess, Slut), Age Gap Unspecified(21+), Public Sex (Kinda), Stalking (Mild), Dirty talk, Gagging, Brief Mention Of Anal, Reader Is Kinda Naive, Probs More Idk.

SUMMARY: They say never meet your idols..

✮✮✮✮

Mentor/Boss!lewis, who quite literally hated you.

He hated your work. He hated the way you worked. He hated your ideas. He hated the way you dressed too. How could you be in the fashion industry dressing like that, and who the hell did you think you were?

You, who looked up to him. You studied his style and cadence, he was your inspiration that kept you intrigued with art and fashion. There wasn’t a piece you have made that you didn’t imagine him praising you for, clapping from an audience of fellow famous designers as you win an award for pieces you made all by yourself. You dreamed so, so big.

Once a confident art school student who recently graduated turned a quiet, delicate thing in his presence. You needed to be that way. If you made yourself smaller, maybe he wouldn’t seek to bother you like he did daily.

It wasn’t just your liking for him and his work that made it hard to be around him, he made it his mission to make everything 10x more insufferable.

You didn’t even know why he hired you, really. There were rumors that he purposely never hired fans, stating that their inspiration from him would blind them from using their own creativity, and you made it very obvious in your interview that you were nothing short of star struck. But, the job was yours on the spot, approved and stamped by Lewis himself.

Your excitement coursed through your veins, hungry for the ideas and tips he’d give you along the way.

Sadly, you were paid just about what dust was worth. As soon as you began working It seemed you were just there to be his punching bag, something he could take his anger out on when someone, or you, most likely you, pissed him off.

Boss!Lewis, who purposely overworked you, making you type up drafts for his articles just as he came up with it in real time. You wanted desperately to make him proud, so you listened to each syllable of each word, each well calculated, evil, full of venom sentence that could end someone’s career that poured into your ears. You pay attention closely as you type, because he himself remembered everything he said, and if anything was out of place or missing from his rant, then he’d be more than pissed.

“This is all you heard? Have your ears somehow popped off your head and walked out of the building?…You wasted my time, and yours. Get out”

He’d say as he shoved the papers back into your hands, still warm from the printer. Did he even give time to actually check if they were right?

Your palms turned white with how hard you clutched the papers in your hands as you walked out, heels stabbing the marble floor with every step you took. He enjoyed seeing your display of emotion whenever he corrected you. This would toughen you up. Maybe even teach you to do things right next time.

Your ears felt hot with both embarrassment and frustration nearly every time he spoke to you. You thought working for your hero would be fun and empowering, but day by day you were proved wrong. How could someone so humble and kind on screen be so cruel to such a sweet girl like you? You were only trying..

Still, you tried harder to gain his respect by working more than you ever had, sewing till your fingers bled, drawing up new designs for him to see that you were getting better, bringing him sweet treats when you could to get even the smallest of thank yous, but again, he wasn’t too fond of your work, or you.

And god forbid you propose the possibility that maybe he was the one that was wrong, he made the mistake and you just made the mistake of following his every word and direction.

Leaning over his desk, you present to him the digital catalog for this year's spring, items of different kinds of clothing littering your computer screen as you click each one individually until he tells you to move on.

“Stop” Lewis points to a picture to halt your scrolling, your heart skipping a beat as you think, ‘Fuck…now what?’

He tsks.

“This suit is from last summer. I specifically told you last year seasons go into an archive, these are not average pieces people can just buy”

You squint, your eyes glazing the screen. “But I didn’t hear- You didn’t say that at all”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

He turned to you in his office chair and closed your laptop down, his head tilted in question. You couldn’t even look straight into his eyes to answer, it was like you saw all the souls he captured day to day screaming for mercy inside of them.

Before you could even fully get a word out he was already giving you your second warning that day.

“I suggest you watch the way you speak to me”

You did so, limiting your criticism to none. You desperately needed to keep this job, the clout, and the money from it. You knew your ideas were good, you just needed Lewis to see that. You needed a little boost, and Lewis was well aware that you couldn’t afford to lose anything you gained this year, seeing as it took you an entire one to find a company like this to take you seriously, having the honor to work as close as you do with one of Europe’s top designers. One day you hoped to be one just like him.

The company had many young workers, some directly hired by Lewis himself just like you, many with the same plans as you to become some big designer or director in the city. Some are not as hardworking as you, so you wondered why Lewis wasted time bullying you instead.

You complain to your coworkers often, thinking you’ve found some kind of friend, but are quickly corrected when you find out someone’s been snitching about what you’ve been saying about your boss around the office..

Lewis towered over you as you sat in a chair facing his desk, hands fiddling in your lap with your head hanging low in shame. This wasn’t the first time you’ve been embarrassed in this very office, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

“If you spent half as much time actually doing what I tell you to do instead of wasting your energy bad mouthing me around the building, maybe you wouldn’t have to be a fucking assistant anymore” He chuckled as he flipped through a catalog of unreleased designs while pacing the floor in front of you. The tapping of his shoes synced with the hard thump of your heart, every ‘clack’ leading a loud ‘lub-dub’ that you swore everyone in the room could hear.

Stopping in his tracks, he sighs and shakes his head, neat braids that framed his face swaying with the movement. He often faked his pity, you learned that early on. He cared none if you were struggling for whatever reason, in his head you either pull yourself up by your bootstraps or sit and suffer.

“If you can’t take the little shit I give you, then how do you expect to get anywhere in life, princess? Pretty faces can only get you so far, especially when you piss off important people before you even become somebody“

You keep your head down, careful to not make the mistake of shrugging at his question like the first time he had ever asked you anything you didn’t know the answer to.

“Wow..And you’re fired”

You look up from your sweating hands, your heart skipping beats when you realize he was talking to the woman behind you.

“What? Me? But-” Her stuttering clearly didn’t help her case as she tried to find the right excuses to keep her position as head director, which would eventually become vacant regardless. Lewis spared her a glare, but it was more of a warning for her to suck it up. He hated seeing people cry.

“No one likes a snitch”

You exited that room that day with a thankfulness not even gospel could pull from you. You kept your job and your spot next to him. Dignity and pride was in question, but at least you weren’t jobless.

The next week, you focused more on yourself. You wore your own designs, hoping to catch some kind of compliments, and you did! Just not from Lewis. It was already known that Lewis hated your style, but you could at least say it wasn’t as bad as his last assistant, whom he told you dressed like, and I quote, he “walked into the closet every morning with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back with only his mouth as an option to pick up the items to wear”...

You tried your best to dress to his liking and incorporate his style into your designs while also keeping your signatures. You spent your nights reading magazines he did interviews for to pick up on what he was feeling was in this year, but it wasn’t easy when he was so picky.

“Is that rose gold?”

“Where?.. On my watch?”

Lewis stayed silent, his eyes scanning you fully before he spoke again.

“No, on the floor” He said with sarcasm plaguing his voice, making you raise a brow.

“Take the jewelry off. It looks tarnished”

He nearly swooped you up just then to get something that actually matched your skin tone, but that’d be him just stealing company time for something more..personal.

Boss!Lewis, who soon got tired of your poor attempts at outfits and began to dress you in things he thought were good looking, giving you a box of expensive new outfits at the end of the work day, each labeled for which days you’d wear them. He even invited you over to his for a few “required” trials. Y’know, just to see how good the tailoring was.

And you were ecstatic about it. You, in YOUR idols house, getting adorned in expensive clothing you only dreamed about. It made up for everything he said to you that week to make you upset.

He took you into his very own study and told you what colors look best on you in each season of the year, gave you advice on what jewelry made you glow and the places you should put them depending on the cut of your clothes, he measured your waist, arms, legs, bust, everything, and told you what would go with your body type. Though you wished he could turn the heat up as he did so, you were starting to get a little cold in just your bra and underwear..

“Look at that…it fits you so much better than what you’re usually in”

He’d turn you to a mirror as you tried to lower the mini skirt you wore, attempting to cover more than just the cup of your ass. You could nearly feel a breeze every time he passed you by to get a look from different positions.

Apparently his favorite was from the back.

“You won’t be wearing anything I didn’t put you in from now on. Think of it like a work uniform, since you dress like the world outside is blind. Now, gimme a spin, doll”

Your new look caught the attention of other designers. Some loved the bold look, seeing it as a statement, like how fashion should be these days. They applaud you for testing out the boundaries and limits of a workplace. How professional could you be with your skirt riding up? Others were confused on why your style did an entire 180, and why they could see the valley of your breasts now.

Your answer was simple. Evolution is how the world stays afloat. If you don’t change in time and willingly, the world around you will force you to before you’re ready. Lewis told you that.

Boss!Lewis, who wished he did this so much sooner. His very own life size Barbie he could dress up and down any way he wanted. It was just an extra perk to being able to say anything to you and you still coming into work the next day.

You were beautiful before, he never denied that, all his insults were technically on your intelligence. Nonetheless, he believed he outdid himself with this idea, he could truly see your potential now. Everything you put on brought out your features so much more, it was almost dramatic, and you were starting to truly live up to the nickname he gave you. Now he wanted to know if you were just as flexible as any other doll..

Boss!Lewis, who couldn't get enough of looking at you. It was never an innocent attraction, it was never about wanting to help a protege, this was all for him and him only, the fashion industry be damned. He didn’t care about introducing you to a world of anything as soon as he got half of your clothes off.

The amount of times he was imagining fucking you in front of everybody should have been illegal. He even debated fucking you in his study when he invited you over, watching you drool dumbly with a tiny dress hanging halfway off of your waist. Your very own icon using you for what you were worth. He was already imagining things before, but the daydreams were starting to prohibit him from his duties of CEO.

He had to do something. Fucking his hand in the privacy of his office wasn’t gonna suffice forever.

Boss!Lewis, who went to bed at night thinking of you. Thinking of the ways he could bend you, how many times he could make you cum in one round. When he was with you he pondered on what kind of panties you were wearing. Were they black? Pink, maybe? Did they have a cute little bow on the front like they did when he dressed you? Were they lace and see through? So see through that he could bend you over his desk and spread your ass with his hands to see the pink peeking from behind your brown lips. God, he wanted you so fucking bad from the start.

Boss!Lewis, who started to become irrational. Wondering where you went after work, if you had anyone else to see. God knows what Lewis would do to him, or get done to him. He even followed you sometimes when he couldn’t take the wondering, you were absolutely oblivious to the Ferrari behind you at every stop.

Boss!Lewis, who didn’t need to see where your house was, you worked for him, so of course he had your address, but he needed to see what routes you took. How long would it take you to get there after he snuck into your bottom floor apartment and stole a pair of your underwear after snooping through your things, carefully placing them back where they belonged before snapping a picture or two. Money took him a long way as he bribed the security with a few bills to ensure he wouldn’t speak a word of his visit. Of course the dumb fuck agreed.

You notice your underwear going missing, but you pass it off as just misplacing them in all the other clothes that were being delivered from Lewis.

You also noticed how close Lewis was becoming, but that just made you giddy. Someone you still adored as an artist finally warming up to you.. And as a boss, he had to watch you for reasons, right?

From the time you got to work and clocked in from the time you left, he was watching from his office, glass windows so clear that you could see the condensation from his breath on it as he looked down upon his workers. When you left, his curtains were immediately pulled close.

“He’s just being a boss” “He’s always like that, right?” “Don’t think too much, this is your dream, You’ll ruin your chances with him” Your friends would say when you confided in them about the constant watching, but they didn’t understand that he wasn’t watching everyone, he was watching you. You weren’t sure you understood that he was just watching you either.

Time passed and now he didn’t just watch. He visibly followed. He touched. Brushing a singular finger up your bare arm as you worked aside him, the silver ring on his finger sent shivers straight up your spine and electricity to your core. That jump started a second heartbeat that wouldn’t settle till you walked away from him.

Boss!Lewis, who was unashamed, barely hiding the lingering stares or brushing.

“Sir?”

You’d dare to speak as he pressed himself up against your ass. It wasn’t firm, but just enough for you to feel him. Your hands were unable to move to continue writing up a list of fabrics he needed for later that week. You became aware of everything around you. The ticking of the clock on the wall was loud, the cold wood of his desk pressing on your forearms as you wrote was noticeable.

“Keep going”

He nudged with a hand on your hip as you let out a shaky breath. It was hard to work like this, you could barely believe it was happening where it was, with whom it was.

He thought you sucked at your job before, you could be no better now with him breathing down your neck, grabbing at your curves and using the excuse of just trying to feel the fabric of your clothes.

“Silk?” He asked, his hand growing dangerously close up your thighs from the rim of your dress.

Your breathing hitched, your hand hesitantly swiping his off of your thigh before you nod, trying to distract yourself from the intense staring by grabbing the nearest needle and thread, pretending to touch up a bralette in front of you that was basically already done.

Lewis smiles.

Boss!Lewis, who hadn’t gotten any better with distractions since testing his limits with you for months now. Watching you squirm, anticipating what was next was so much more satisfying than designing these days. But you? You had no room to slack.

He’d call you in his office just to watch you work, then complain about not getting enough done.

Just under your breath, you’d make smart comments to release yourself from some of the stress of the day, unable to hear his complaining for hours without a word for yourself like you used to. You didn’t say it to his face exactly, but he’d be near, his cursing prompting you to speak. You weren’t the girl you were a few months ago, the less he criticized you, the more you expressed yourself outwardly. You knew him, and he was all talk for the most part, you felt you deserved to say at least one thing even if only you knew what was said.

“Maybe if you did your job instead of looking up my skirt all day, damn perv…”

He heard you. He heard everything, remember?

“Perv?”

Perv? No, No, No. Lewis couldn’t let that slide. He wasn’t the one that was being weird, it was you. Sure, he made you dress a certain way, but it was your fault you looked like that. He was not. a fucking. pervert..Fuck.

Boss!Lewis, who made use of your mouth that had started to get smarter and bolder towards him the longer you worked for him. He kept you on your knees, under his desk with his dick stuffed in your mouth. Your jaw ached, and every time you made it known, he’d shove you down further, more spit trailing down your chin. He didn’t care if anyone knocked, or walked in. To them, it was none of their business, too scared to even mention the red bottoms slightly sticking from underneath the desk or the abrupt choking sound they’d hear in the middle of their conversation.

It just made Lewis even harder that they knew something was up. But no one was bold enough to speak up about it, scared they’d get blackballed from the industry they so desperately wanted to be in. If Lewis said they weren’t to be worked with ever…they won’t be.

After he allowed you to stand, your makeup had already smudged off, kisses trailing down his abs and a red print of your lips stained around the base of his dick so perfectly, that he took a picture of it when he went home that night and sent it to you straight from his own business number, his unbuttoned work shirt, abs and tattoos in shot and all.

You gasp when you opened it, your phone flying from your hand to the carpeted floor. You hadn’t even recovered from the events, and here he was reminding you that it definitely did happen.

‘This would be a great new tattoo, yeah? XX.

-Sir. L’

Boss!Lewis, who finally got the excuse he needed to do whatever he wanted to you. Why didn’t he just start spanking you from the beginning? Would have been easier than yelling at you, you probably would have let him so easily. All he had to tell you was it was a crucial part of discipline, of becoming your true artistic self. You would have been putty.

Boss!Lewis, who wanted to leave your panties soaked with his cum leaking out of you almost every late work night. So he did. You wouldn’t work overtime if you didn’t want that, obviously.

With every step you felt your lips glide together, making the mess so much worse. Your coworker asks why you’re walking weird the next morning, you say you sprained your ankle in your heels, but you’re fine. If they knew it was really all because your boss was creampie-ing you at nearly 2 in the morning, you’d be shamed out of the building. Climbing the ladder by sleeping with the CEO? How whorish of you.

Unfortunately, your little sessions with your beloved mentor weren’t making your days easier. How could you work properly with your panties soaked with your own arousal? Sloppy work made you upset, but so did unresolved cravings.

Boss!Lewis, who made you ride him while writing up notes as a punishment now. There was no excuse for mistakes. You had all the time you needed to double check.

“Spread your legs. Good girl. Keep going”

You complained with a whine and spread your legs further across his while continuing to bounce on him. Your thighs were burning like you had just done three sets of squats back to back, you were sweating, and the seat below you two was no dryer. Your handwriting was fucked, you couldn’t read a word back to yourself, but if you stopped, you didn’t know what he’d do next.

He caressed your back softly as you work your hips down on him, the clap of your ass against his pelvis bringing a smile to his face.

“Oh, baby…you better hope I can understand whatever’s on that paper”

Boss!Lewis, who gave you new strict rules on not talking to any male workers. It didn’t matter if they spoke to you first, you walked right by without a word, your eyes glancing upwards and spotting a familiar dark figure watching from your boss’s office.

You now had to cover up more, afraid anyone would see the hickeys that would magically appear on your neck whenever you’d leave Lewis’s office.

If the turtlenecks wasn’t a telling sign of what was going on, the sound of your voice coming out of the room sure would have been.

He began gagging you with your own thong, shoving it into your mouth as he slipped his fingers inside of you, his rings and tattoos coated with a thin layer of your cum. He licked up your neck, flicking his tongue over the darkening bruises as his fingers slid in knuckles deep.

“Be a good little slut and cum for me, okay? Can you do that for me, baby?”

You squealed into the cotton fabric in your mouth and threw your head back, your bangs falling out of your face as his fingers simultaneously pressed against your spot until your pussy was squirting like a fountain, wetting his rolled up sleeve.

That happened twice more. Eventually, he couldn’t shut you up with just a gag, but his fingers down your throat made the perfect replacement.

“You got the new designs all wet. I suggest you restart on these as soon as you get home, okay?”

12 hours wasn’t nearly enough time for you to get those sketches done, but you did it anyway, thanks to coffee and binge worthy shows.

You did so good, this was just another excuse for him to be able to finish inside you again, a hand wrapped around your throat to keep you still in the small office chair as he sung your praises about how much you were growing under his teachings.

He’d caress your face sweetly before sliding his thumb into your mouth, watching you suck on command. He loved the way you did as you were told without question.

“My pretty baby. You take it so well”

So proud you didn’t even need prepping from his fingers this time, your pussy greedily swallowed his dick and allowed him to fuck the way he wanted to. Feverishly. Every touch from him so fucking needy that he could just bite you. Your ass would be next, the size of him deliciously stretching you out with the help of your own slick and his spit as lubricant.

Maybe this little exchange was making you better as an artist. It seemed so. The insults were coming less and less, your designs were getting accepted more and more.

Boss!Lewis, who took you out to celebrate your growth, gifting you a ring with a tiny L carved on the inside of it and red bottom shoes that would stun the office. He treated you with the utmost respect with the paparazzi watching, making sure the image was nothing more than him going out to eat with one of his protégés innocently tagging along. Then, he took you back to his place and fucked you like a slut.

Your mouth was left open so wide you were convinced it would eventually lock in place like that. He didn’t even let you make it to the bed, the floor and your arched back was all he needed to get as deep as he wanted inside of you. You could scream all you wanted there. You were sure his maids got the hint to stay away from the foyer by now.

After he finished using you how he wanted, stuffing you full with his cum until he was perfectly satisfied, he’d kiss you on your forehead as if nothing had happened and you’d thank him. For tonight, and all your opportunities.

“I think someone deserves a promotion now”

Finally, you were where you needed to be.

✮✮✮✮

💌— I really hope yall liked this cause I cannot get Boss!Lewis off of my fucking mind 😭 I need him so bad yall like I literally had to FORCE myself to stop writing more smut in this 💔💔💔💔

[damnfeelings09]

VALENTINE'S DAY COUNTDOWN

You're in love - Leon S. Kennedy x fem reader

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x female reader Tags: fluff, comfort, love, love, love, stablished relationship, memories, cheesy stuff. Word count: Prompt: you and Leon have been together for 10 years, yet every day still feels like the first. One day while Leon’s not home you find your old diary and find yourself reliving your love story. Notes: The tears/shivers/emotions I felt while writing this I can't compare to anything. I loved this one so much I'm totally writting one for Shadow just like this. It makes me very happy to be able to express my feelings and “relive” them even if only in this way, hopefully someday I and everyone will find a person who loves us just like in the books, until then I will keep pouring my heart in my writing.

The summer heat was present in your home. The sunlight reflected colorful flashes as they hit the window. The floor was littered with boxes, some marked with “fragile” others with “Leon stuff” but your attention was on the box with your name on it. In it you had found your childhood stuffed animal, pictures of your family, a few unused stickers and an old notebook. You recognized it perfectly, there was no way you could forget that beautiful blue notebook with green hearts that had been with you for so long. Having a diary sounded childish, but for you it was important to keep your memories somewhere safe and if you ever wanted to relive them you could do it. For more than half an hour you had been rereading all your witticisms, the stale jokes you made with yourself, the desires and goals you had set for yourself when you got to college. Almost halfway through the journal you found a sheet of paper with your name and Leon's name on it with a big heart around it. Of course you knew where that drawing was from, you had drawn it the first time you had seen Leon, turning the page you found the entry for that day:

02/02/1998

The University of Illinois is really nice! I am so excited to leave for the summer. Mom says she's not ready for me to leave home but she's secretly happy for me. We visited some stores, museums, but the best part of the trip was going to the Italian restaurant Olio e Piú. Our waiter was sooooo cute. His name is Leon Scott Kennedy, he is 21 years old and just finished the police academy, he said that being a waiter was only temporary while he was waiting for the draft to know where he would be sent. I almost fell out of my chair when I saw that on the bill was his number written. Of course I didn't waste a second and sent him a message on my way out of the restaurant. We are still here for 3 more days and he offered to show me around. I don't want to sound urgent but I think Ms. Kennedy sounds great.

You chuckled. Back then you were so love-struck and dreamy. Your younger self had so much faith in life, wanting to take it in hand, and besides, you were right about one thing, Ms. Kennedy sounded so good in you. You kept turning the pages until you found an important date, once again a heart adorned the page, this time only with Leon's name.

25/04/1998

I'm on my way to Ilinois again, I know, I know, you'll say I'm crazy, that we're going too fast because we've actually only been on 2 dates, but Leon and I text to each other every day. He understands me, laughs at my witticisms and I love his dad jokes. It may be soon but I would love for it to be him. I had to lie to my parents that I would be staying with my Aunt Sarah for the next 10 days, actually I will be staying with Leon, don't judge me, Aunt Sarah was the one who insisted on covering for me. I am very excited, Leon will pick me up at the bus station and take me to a special place. I'll tell you later how it went.

12:45 am

He asked me to be his girlfriend! There were candles, roses, strawberries and stars. I couldn't ask for anything more. I think I am in love with him.

At that moment you didn't really know what it meant to be in love, it wasn't just the butterflies fluttering in your stomach, it wasn't just the happiness of having him close to you or the excitement you felt every time you kissed him. Love was something very complicated to understand, even more to explain. It was like an invisible force that attracted you to him, altering all your senses, making you addicted to that feeling, excited, but at the same time it managed to keep the other emotions at bay, you felt protected, comfortable, whole.

11/29/1998

We had a fight. Leon told me he had to report to his new job in Raccon City, today! Today of all days. He knew how important it was to me that he come to this party with me and he didn't care. Right now he must be on his way or whatever. Idiot

06/29/2001

Leon is working. It’s almost been a year since the last time we saw each other and I don't know how long I can go on enduring it. It is unfair that all this has happened, stupid pharmaceuticals and their greed. If it wasn't for them we would be together now living in an apartment in Raccon City. I feel bad, I miss him so much, I miss his kisses and his kind smile, but I can't tell him. The last time I saw him his expression had changed, his eyes didn't look friendly anymore, they turned cold, he looked calculating, as if he was waiting for something to happen. I can't judge him, he has been through a lot, only the gods know how he is still in one piece after the massacre he lived through. I'm happy he's still with me, but I keep wondering if he's still the same Leon I fell in love with.

The Raccon City incident had changed the jovial, awkward, fun-loving Leon into a distant, apathetic, dry one. He had confided in you all that had happened, or at least a little more than the government had allowed him to say. He had cried in your shoulder lamenting for those people he had been unable to save, trying to justify his every action as self-defense. You had listened to him, wiped away his tears, stroked his back as he let it all out. You had shown him that no matter what had happened you loved him unconditionally, you had even encouraged him to take the job offered to him by the U.S. government assuring him that you would wait for him and you did.

11/11/2004

He came back. Three days ago, as I opened the door to take out the garbage, Leon was there, with his travel bag in hand and a bandage covering half of his right shoulder. I know he said he would, but part of me didn't believe it. The state he's in, gods, you don't know how I regret encouraging him take this job. Sometimes he wakes up screaming babbling about “the plagues”, when that happens he reaches for my chest, lies on me and holds his ear close to my heart, he says it calms him. I'm just glad he's back home with me, I don't know how or how long it will take but I'll help him put all his pieces back together, I love him, I can't stand seeing him like this.

When he left for spain, the fear of not knowing anything about his where abouts for almost a month was unbearable, then one day he shows up on your door. Beaten, bruised, tired, haggard and thinner than the last time you saw him, but alive, yes a few cuts and his shoulder bandaged but he was there. You couldn't help but run into his arms, he catches you in the air, and then both fell to the grass as you filled his face with kisses. The following days you took care of him, his nightmares were recurrent but your touch always managed to bring him back to the real world. The necklace you had given him before he left, a locket with his favorite picture of you and the phrase “Love, always” engraved on it, always in place, just like you did with yours, a small reminder of the love between you two.

05/06/2006

I said yes.

I can't believe it really happened. Seven years ago I dreamed it as I watched him clean the tables and today that dream came true. I know we are not perfect, I know Leon's line of work will keep him away from me more than I would like to, but I can't imagine my life with anyone else. I chose him long before I knew what would happen and even if I did back then I would do it all over again.

Leon recreated our first date, rented a cabin in Georgia, brought a blanket, a basket with candles, wine, glasses and strawberries. We sat under the stars and when I least expected it he got down on one knee in front of me, told me that I was the woman of his dreams, that he couldn't live without me even if he tried, that I was the only good thing in his crappy world, that all he thought about when he fought those B.O.W's was that he was making the world a little safer for me and that it didn't matter how many zombies he had to take down as long as he came home to me.

Of course I said yes. No matter what, he's the one.

You closed the diary, hugging it tightly, trying to push those memories into your heart again. Yes, things had been difficult, complex, sometimes the cost had been high, the tears, the anger and the loneliness had been more constant than you wanted to admit, but you wouldn't change any of it because somehow, the little piece of heaven seeing Leon's smile every time he came home, his scent enveloping your senses as he took you in his arms, was enough.

The sound of the door opening brought you back to reality.

“Hey honey, what you doing?” Leon said, putting down the bags he was carrying in his hands and walking towards you “I see someone got distracted and forgot to unpack” he laughed kissing you.

“You've no idea” you smiled intertwining your hands behind his neck, kissing him once more.

[lvmoure]

Petty, Pretty Arguments CS55

Pairings: Carlos Sainz x long-termgirlfriend!reader

Summary: In which he lets an argument pass a day

Warnings: arguments

The evening air was thick, a sense of tension that had simmered all day was finally breaking loose in Carlos' living room. Usually, this was your safe haven—where late-night talks, laughter, and gentle touches spoke louder than words. But tonight, the warmth was gone, replaced by a biting chill.

Carlos sat across from you, arms folded, his gaze hard and distant. This wasn’t the Carlos who had held your hand through your darkest days or whispered promises under starlit skies. No, this was a man barricaded behind walls, with his eyes fixed firmly on a point behind you, as if he could barely stand the sight of you.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, voice low but laced with a steely edge. The words struck like a slap, unexpected and stinging.

“Doing what, Carlos?” you asked, forcing your voice to stay calm, though it wavered at the edges. “Caring? Checking in on you? Wanting to spend time with you?”

“You call it caring. I call it clingy,” he shot back, his words sharper than you’d ever heard them. You flinched, hurt pooling in your chest. He’d never spoken to you like this before.

“Clingy?” you repeated, barely able to recognize the word in your own mouth. “Since when is it clingy to want to be with the person you love?”

Carlos rubbed a hand over his face, a frustrated sigh escaping him. “It’s like... like you don’t trust me to be alone for five minutes without you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Every time I turn around, you’re there. Every phone call, every minute I’m out of your sight—you act like it’s a crisis.”

“That’s not true!” you protested, feeling your voice tremble. You fought to keep control, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you unravel. “I trust you, Carlos. But you’ve been so... distant lately. You hardly talk to me anymore. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on with you.”

“Maybe I just need space,” he replied coldly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Did you ever think of that?”

Space. The word echoed in your mind like a warning bell, and a sinking feeling began to settle in your stomach. After thirteen years together, it was as if he were drawing a line between you that you couldn’t cross.

“I’m sorry,” you said, barely able to get the words out. “I didn’t know... I didn’t know you felt that way. But you could’ve told me. I would’ve given you space if you’d just asked.”

He shook his head, looking down at his hands as if the conversation were already over. “I did ask, but you didn’t listen. And I can’t keep doing this. I can’t have you hovering over me every second.”

The words hit like a punch, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Hovering? After everything you’d been through together, he thought of you as some burden, an annoyance he couldn’t shake off.

“So... what are you saying?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Carlos looked up, and for the first time, you saw something hard and unyielding in his eyes. “I’m saying... if you can’t stop, if you can’t give me what I need, maybe this won’t work anymore.”

You stared at him, feeling like the ground had fallen out from under you. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of love, of memories, of promises. And he was willing to throw it all away—because you cared too much?

“Is that really what you want?” you asked, your voice breaking. “To just... walk away?”

Carlos’ gaze softened, but only for a moment. “I don’t know,” he replied, and the uncertainty in his voice cut deeper than anything he’d said before. “But I know I can’t keep doing this.”

You felt tears sting at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Fine,” you said, your voice hollow. “If that’s how you feel... I’ll leave you alone.”

Without another word, you turned and walked out, each step feeling like a thousand knives driving into your heart. But you wouldn’t let him see you cry. Not tonight.

The next day was a blur of silence. You barely slept, the memory of Carlos’ words echoing in your mind until they felt like they’d left scars. By morning, a cold resolve had settled in you—you wouldn’t let him hurt you again. If he wanted space, you’d give him all the space he wanted.

The phone buzzed with messages from Carlos, but you ignored them. Your heart pounded each time you saw his name flash on the screen, but you refused to give in. You went about your day with mechanical precision, avoiding every thought of him, blocking out the ache that tugged at you with every passing hour.

By evening, you were back in your apartment, exhaustion seeping into your bones. You’d managed to avoid Carlos all day, but a part of you felt hollow, like you’d lost a piece of yourself somewhere along the way.

A knock at the door broke through the silence, and your heart leapt, knowing who it would be. You didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to face the coldness in his eyes again, but something inside you couldn’t resist.

When you opened the door, Carlos was standing there, looking more tired than you’d ever seen him. There was a desperation in his eyes, a vulnerability that took you off guard. He reached for you, but you stepped back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest.

“Are you here for more space?” you asked, your tone sharper than you intended. Carlos flinched, and guilt pricked at you, but you forced yourself to stay firm.

“I’m here because... I made a mistake,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t mean what I said last night.”

“Oh, really?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground. “I know. And I don’t blame you for being angry. But please... can we talk?”

You hesitated, the ache in your chest warring with the anger still simmering beneath the surface. Finally, you stepped aside, letting him in.

Carlos sat on the edge of the couch, looking more unsure of himself than you’d ever seen him. The silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable, until finally, he broke it.

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I pushed you away because... I was scared. Scared of how much you mean to me, of how much I need you. And I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

You stared at him, your mind reeling. This was a side of Carlos you’d never seen before, a side he’d kept hidden for all these years.

“So... what? You thought hurting me was the answer?” you asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice.

Carlos shook his head, looking up at you with regret in his eyes. “No. I didn’t think. I just... acted. And I hate myself for it. But please... give me a chance to make it right.”

Carlos didn’t leave that night. Instead, he stayed by your side, refusing to let you out of his sight. He was gentle, attentive, the opposite of the man who had stood cold and distant just twenty-four hours before. And slowly, you began to feel the walls around your heart start to crumble.

The next day, Carlos took you out, determined to make it up to you in every way he could. He led you to a secluded beach, a place he’d found on one of his training runs, where the world felt miles away. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the water, and Carlos pulled you into his arms, holding you close.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything. I know I hurt you, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But please... don’t give up on me. I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.”

You looked up at him, searching his face for any trace of insincerity. But all you saw was a man who was willing to fight for you, who was ready to tear down his own walls if it meant keeping you by his side.

“I don’t want to lose you, Carlos,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper. “But I need you to promise... promise that you’ll never treat me like that again. I can’t go through this again.”

Carlos nodded, his grip on you tightening as if he were afraid you’d slip away. “I promise,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll never hurt you like that again. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you know how much you mean to me.”

And as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, you felt the last remnants of doubt fade away, replaced by the quiet certainty that no matter what lay ahead, he would be there—holding you, fighting for you, and loving you with everything he had.

[sixstepsaway]

so here's the thing

i've seen a bunch of people say on twitter and stuff how... ed's behavior is very abusive and his anger is dangerous and he isn't romantic lead material because of it

and i get where they're coming from

but to me the main issue isn't putting ed in the position of a romantic lead, but not crafting the narrative around his characterization so that it allows for a spicy romantic pirates-in-love narrative instead of...whatever this is.

i'm going to try and explain this. idk if i'll do well but i'll try

the way she show presents stede is as an innocent baby who isn't really equipped for pirate life. he goes into a fugue/disassociative state whenever there's any real violence, apparently, and needs protecting by other characters when things get too rough - for example when ed is telling ned lowe not to take the poker to stede.

that's fine! it's honestly adorable to see a masc character being so soft around the edges and being protected by other characters this way.

(i'm not going to touch on stede's... eh... not great characterization this season rn)

then there's izzy, who is shown as a bit violent, a bit rough around the edges. he's more likely to draw a sword or throw a punch or hit someone with a chair or take a punch like a champ. violence is just part of life for him and that's okay, it just Is, from small things like smacking stede on the ass to bigger things like being wall slammed, it's not all that big or bad for violence to happen around and with him, he tends to give as good as he gets (there's some nuance here but i'm talking the macro themes not the micro of what izzy does vs is done to him)

and finally there's ed

ed is presented as violent (stabbing knives at guys, telling fang to use the snail fork etc) and used to a life of violence, and then in season 2 he's presented as really violent, his anger coming out in dangerous and terrifying ways

and frankly, i'd be super into it if he and izzy were the main ship and that twisted dynamic from the first two episodes of s2 was explored and fleshed out into something deeper

friends to enemies to lovers who fight and fuck. angry pirates who lay hands on each other, who break the whole ship with each other in the heat of passion.

except instead, s2 gives us... abuse. it gives us izzy cringing and lowering his head and trying to protect the kids crew from ed's angry outbursts.

so when stede comes back and he's still soft around the edges and ed headbutts him and it's deliberate, it's... not a great look, and the vibes are a bit skewed

if stede fought back, if when ed struck out at him he struck back, if they fought rather than it being one-sided, if it was friends to enemies to lovers and not presented as healthy, but maybe they can work their way there, who knows, maybe even more like anne bonnie and mary read because hey, they were doing something very similar?

except they were both into it. they were both enjoying the fighting and the fucking and the burning down the house.

stede's not enjoying it.

i cannot describe how much i hate this sequence just because of the way stede flinches

anne and mary don't!! mary jumps at the unexpected bang but she doesnt flinch, she doesn't cover her face like she thinks the vase will be coming for her not the wall and anne? looks so into it

and the thing is that in real life, no, you don't want to date someone who throws shit around, or headbutts you

but in fiction when it's two fucked up people doing this shit together like anne and mary?

that can be fun.

but instead what we've been given is stede flinching and apologizing to ed and then all of ed's...what, semi-redemption???? is done away from the other collection of people he abused, and then he spends some time on a fishing boat wearing a dog collar and everything is fine because he's good now and won't be doing anything bad ever again

and it's just... poor writing. the vibes are rancid.

i spent a really big chunk of time between s1 and s2 defending ed. i kept saying how what he did to izzy by making him eat his toe wasn't abuse, it was a one-off and abuse isn't a one-off thing it's a pattern, and then s2 made it a pattern.

explicitly. explicitly a pattern.

not just one toe but three.

jim saying "you're in an unhealthy relationship with blackbeard"

and all ed offered izzy was a "sorry about your leg" which might've been fine if izzy survived and they could work on this more, but instead that's all the apology and closure izzy will ever get

ed threw a chair and a vase and made stede flinch in fear and stede was right to do that. what part of any of this implies this will never happen again? that stede won't press the wrong button at some point and be on the receiving end? none of it

and if we'd been presented with a s2 stede bonnet who could handle himself and stand up for himself and fight back, then maybe i could imagine that turning into a weird sexy fucked up anne/mary like thing and maybe that could be why they put that episode in, but instead it feels like that episode was going, "look, see, ed's violence is fine because these two are fine with it with each other"

but stede isn't

ed and izzy or ed and stede in an unhealthy battle of a relationship could be such a fun, interesting and downright sexy thing to watch unfold on tv, and could honestly end somewhere far more down the chill end of the spectrum, but that's not what we've been given here

i cannot argue that ed isn't an abuser anymore, and not just of izzy but of the whole crew. he terrified frenchie.

it's not good writing to try and lean into the idea that ed and the pirates are violent and live a life of violence, so it's okay that ed's been violent, while simultaneously presenting his violence as traumatic and abusive, and then less than three episodes later saying oh it's fine now, he's just a little meow meow who can do no wrong, see?

especially considering they had him murdering people at the end of the season. and sure, you can say the english are just cannon fodder and they dont 'count', but they did before. ed explicitly did not kill before, and that included the english, or the spanish, or anyone else. so either they count or they don't, but flipping him on a dime makes no sense.

ALSO

having ed be the son of an abusive man who threw plates at his mother and made her cringe and then having ed kill his father to protect his mother and then a season later having ed become the kind of man who throws chairs and vases and makes his love interest cringe is, again, not bloody optimal

i want to say again i dont CARE about tv always presenting healthy relationships or tv always giving us aspirational goals. i want messy fucked up dynamics and terrible people making terrible choices, and still, to this day, i fucking love ed teach. i would honestly love to have seen them continue with ed's darkness and bring stede into it and see where they went with that, to have stede kill ned lowe and not just bury his feelings in ed but get off on it, enjoy the violence, and see where that led, but no

and so instead all we end up with is a protagonist who is being set up for a lifetime of abuse from an intimate partner, and a romantic lead who abuses his love interests (and yes. izzy is a love interest, he is set up like one and positioned like one and treated like one), frightens his love interests with his violence, is erratic and most of all inconsistently written. he was so sorry about scaring fang as though he hadn't been deliberately terrifying the whole crew for fuck knows how long? what?!

the whole fandom has spent so long saying, "no no, i know stede bonnet irl was a slave owner, but ofmd is using the names and not any real piracy, it's more disney piracy, you know? so that kind of stuff doesnt exist!" and then they flipped around and went "blackbeard is blackbeard and so he is evil and does all these horrible things" and i dont know how to rationalize the two sides of that because it feels so out of place

i'm getting rambly, this isnt a particularly well constructed thought process, i just feel like we were robbed both of a toxic, violent relationship that could be fun to see explored on tv and a soft and sweet love story between two middle aged men exploring their first loves in one fell swoop and there's no way for s3 to bring either of those things back because they got utterly torpedoed by making ed a horrible person

ugh

[dolliestfairy]

𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 ࿐ೀ

Jason Voorhees, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, & Michael myers with Fem!Reader who is a Victoria Secret Models ✧ 𓏲๋ ⊹ ֢

𑁍 Tw : Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Denial, Insecurities, Mentions of Killing someone/murdering somebody, the word 'rotten' and 'blood'. Mostly fluff. Reader Skintone is Unannounced.

❁ Authors&Note ; THIS TAKE WAY TOO LONG CUS I'M SO FCKING LAZY 'M SO SORRYY 😭 but yea i tried my best... what do you think? i'll make part two if you like this one :) check out my Masterlist to see more stuff like this with different fandoms and community! happy reading fairies 🧚🏻‍♀️𓏲๋ ⊹ ֢

ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ Jason Voorhees

• absolutely loved you with all of his dead heart and soul.

• and worship you as well, i mean how couldnt he? you're just soo beautiful! your beauty can even melt his own rotten heart.

• now we know that jason is a very insecure big boy, and sometimes he felt insecure and disgust at himself because he often thinks about the untruth that he doesnt deserve to have someone as pretty as you.

• now if you see him acting like this.. please reassure him that he's enough, because truth to be told; he really need it. he is just shy... you know?..

• but besides his insecurities he is absolutely over the heels for you, he also really support your carrier and would def 100% killed for you.

• if someone tryng to take down your carrier just tell him and he'll rip their heads off their own body.

• and again; this was all just for you, the only person he would love besides his mother, ever.

ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ Vincent sinclair

• 'another draw insipration huhhh?' thats what this big 'ol boy thoughts about you when he first saw you.

• absolutely would die & killed for you. and let me tell you this guy is also has a mad respect for you.

• its like princess treatment you know.. anything you want he'll gave you it.. you want a new beautiful wax sculpture of yours? no problem baby.. he'll make it for you just gave him 1 weeks! you want something but its outside of the city? no problem! bo would do it for him. if he doesnt want to? lester would be the one.

• loves seeing you pose for yourself. it really gave him more ideas. he sometimes love to think of you in a different type of clothes.

• also loooove your confiedence, really boost his energy. his place was usually has this gloomy and just plain walls and floor with a rotten blood scent 'dancing' through his room, but once you step your feet in then the atmosphere would just like.. change for the better.

• he is actually kind of insecure about himself, but everyday he get better and better once he got those bless-kisses from you into his cheeks, and he freeaking loves it!

ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ Bo Sinclair

• really cocky about it at first...

• but then turns out he was actually obsessed with you.

• he doesnt want to admit it though.. Hell, he would rather bury his own self alive than admitting his feelings towards you.

• its just that he felt like the feelings "love" is making him vulnerable and he just seems those as something as uneccesary and a waste of time.

• thats what he thought until he felt like he cant take it anymore as he just angrily confessed his feelings towards you with like zero preparations at all like it was all just... happen.

• this guy is a weirdo, but would never admit it anyway. and yeah... he likes you, a lot. but again.. He Would Never Say This Out Loud.

ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ Michael Myers

• doesnt really understand about the concept of those thing called "Victorian secret" you worked to.

• until he start observe and observe and observe.. stalking and stalking here and there.. trying to find the explanation.

• and when he finally got it, it was all just make sense to it. i mean you're a very irresistable person and it left him feeling so Struck-eye.

• but he would never admit this...

• it doesnt change anything at all tbh, the way he show about how much he loves you is that he doesnt hurt or even killed you.

• instead, at some rare occasion, you'll find yourself in your room with a strange yet pretty stuff besides it where it was covered in blood and shits.

• and yeah thats how this big dude show his scary intimidating love towards you <3 he's also always sometimes watching you sleep at night. i know its kinda creepy but uh.. at least he doesnt try to hurt you ig?.............

[majeoeje]

In the afternoon of this garden

Teru Minamoto x reader

Your touch that should have lingered far longer disappeared and left me to grow cold

"Teru...do tell me. Would you exorcist me if i was an apparition?"

You say in a tone that was unfamilliar to him, a soft, frigid tone, with a tinge of timid and nervousness that laces your voice. It was a hypothetical question. One as silly as when a girl asks her boyfriend if they would love them if they were a worm. Isn’t that what people who are dating supposed to do? Ask silly sappy questions?

But Teru wasn’t your boyfriend. Your soon to be marriage were arranged. And contrary to popular belief, Teru wasn’t willing to answer your silly questions with sappy answers. He was an exorcist above all else. And to someone who knew his true interior, he doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that he was cold

.

"In a heartbeat"

●●●

That day flashes Teru's mind seconds as he hesitated to draw his blade, the lightning that usually emitted from it dims down to small stings of electric waves

Today isn't as different as that day teru said to his mind. Nothing changed. He convinced himself

Though the thundering skies may beg to differ.

"Ahhh- my alyssum is dying!!" You moped, hovering an umbrella over it, in an attempt to save it for even just a little bit knowing well that the recent pouring rain of japan would kill this plant of yours.

You failed to notice right behind you he stood. Teru's heart thumped in a suffocating way

Thump

.

Thump

.

Thump.

.

Each and every heartbeat felt like it's going to rip his chest open

Lightning struck from from faraway, though when the light flashed your figure his eyes widened.

He shook his head, it's only an illussion, he must be imagining things...nothing's changed. He looks up after noticing your form no longer holds a shadow

There's no way you're...

The gurgling sound of thunder followed

You didn't flinch. You were used to lightning after all. Your initial fear of it became nonexistant after the first time you saw Teru’s exorcism. It had became clear that your admiration towards him could drive away any lingering fear in your heart. Now every sound of roaring thunder just reminds you of him.

"Maybe i should build a hut for my plants" you joked, looking back to him. Raising an eyebrow at his stiffness, he stood there unmoving, contemplating hard on his next move.

Your eyes examine him before coming to a fit of laughter

"And here i thought i was devastated! Ahahaha!" you joked once again, trying to lift up the mood, despite him staying silent. Your laugh only sounding like a distant voice outside of his dome of thoughts that he locked himself into

You went up to him, still frozen, now lifting the umbrella to him, worried he might get sick by how damped his uniform was getting, letting the rain hit you

Though you failed to notice for how much you stood in the rain, your uniform stayed ever so dry

"Teru, are you okay?" Your hand went to his cheek

You remain unfazed while Teru stood there still frozen from how he couldn't feel anything from the contact

the proof was right on his face yet he seeks more excuses .

He denied it. How you complained about how your friends ignored you, how you always feel cold these days, how you're never hungry or thirsty, how you would smile and say your body never hurts anymore. Each and every change that you present to him he ignored. He ignored every sign.

Perhaps he wanted to keep you longer than you should've lingered.

But with this simple gesture, it feels like reality is forcing him to wake up out of his stupid dream and just end your suffering.

Funny how he never once thought there would be a future where he is not by your side. He never thought to wonder if at some point of dreading his fate, he had turned to grown impatient of it. After so long the thought of not being married to you sounded despicable. He truly thought it was his rightful fate. Yet now it only felt like a distant dream.

He tried to remember that day again, closing his eyes, not wanting you to see how reddened his eyes are now

●●●

"In a heartbeat." he said

A cruel answer to give to the one you cherish in this very lovely garden. Though Teru could only realize his adoration when it is too late. Like right now when he saw your face contort upon hearing his answer. Were you disappointed?… he didn’t know but the thought of you harboring any negative emotions all because of him made him uneasy.

“Thought you’d say that” you said. Teru wanted to retract his words. But his pride had gotten in the way, and instead he rubbed salt in the wound

“We’re exorcist above all else. I hope you don’t forget that”.

This time, you didn’t face him, only silently watering your precious flowers. Your stiff movements only adding to the awkwardness

"I know". You said simply, smiling once more feeling the tense atmosphere. Trying to at light up the mood

You had always confused him.. But he wouldn't mind being confused the rest of his life, he just wanted you.

Was it guilt? Teru didn’t know. But at that moment he decided internally that from then on he’d answer your silly questions wholeheartedly. He doesn’t want you to look at him like that ever again. He’ll try his best for you. He has a lifetime to prove himself after all

●●●

"Oh Teru..don't cry"

you said, awakening him from his memory of you, a memory of a time where he first realized his awakening sweet hopes and dreams to be with you, as he now opened his eyes to the harsh bitter reality

He wondered how you could've noticed his tears in this heavy pour

"I can't-.. i can't..." his voice cracked, he only wished the rain could covers his plead to the gods wishing that this was just a long dreadful dream

"How could i even possibly-... you.."

he couldn't bring himself to finish that very sentence, the very person that he loved with all his heart became a being that he swore to erase

After years of being together, you had seen a lot of side of him, even a side which he cried and stuttered. Yet each and everytime you witness it, you never thought you could ever be the one who would ever hurt him like this.

You looked into his eyes, maybe for the last time. He could tell by the look in your eyes that you knew all along. It hurts him even more

All the signs...it wasn't just signs, it was sirens of clues that you lit for him to see. Yet he chose to close his eyes

With each and every thump on his chest, he can't bring himself to do it, he fell to the ground clutching his chest, his katana made a loud clunk when it collided to a stone, making it ring through the garden in an eerie way

You kneeled in front of him embracing him in what he feels like a gust of wind

"We’re exorcist, above all else"

.

.

.

(I srsly forgot most of things in tbhk but i do remember being obsessed to this guy)

[scary-grace]

PARIAH (part 3) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Shigaraki Tomura was buried three days ago, struck down at last by the affliction that’s haunted him all his life. Now, with muffled screams emanating from the graveyard and the same affliction striking down villagers left and right, the priest has ordered Shigaraki raised from the grave and put to death properly this time. It falls to Spinner, wracked with guilt over his best friend’s fate, to seek help from a monstrosity equal to the one that haunts Shigaraki — the witch who dwells in the darkest part of the forest. In other words, you.

Nosferatu AU, multi-POV, 10k+ words. Vampires, wolves, and witches, oh my! All the typical warnings one might expect for a fic about vampires. If you like Gran Torino this is not the fic for you.

part i part ii

part iii

You recoil from him with all the strength you possess, panic surging through you. You’re able to master it for only a split second – long enough to search out his vital signs, to confirm that his unconsciousness is a temporary state rather than a harbinger of his death – before your fear drives you back across the room away from him, so far that your back is pressed against the opposite wall. Even then, you can barely breathe. The taste of human blood still clings to your tongue.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, potent and intoxicating, the way alcohol must feel to humans whose metabolisms can’t grasp that it’s poison. But the taste of the human’s blood isn’t why you’ve fled from him, or at least it doesn’t feel like the reason. When you bowed your head to his neck and struggled to draw away, you weren’t battling a desire to sink your teeth into the marks the Old One left behind. It wasn’t his blood that you wanted.

Or was it? The hunger is insidious, you were always told. It hides itself in whatever form it must in order to lure you into satiating it. When some new sensation, some new emotion takes hold, you must always assume it’s vampiric, not human. You need no other reason to stay as far from this human as possible.

But you can’t do that. You can’t leave him sprawled out on the table; he needs to rest, and eat and drink when he wakes up, and that means you need to have something to feed him. You have to find a place to put him that’s more comfortable, and you can only think of your own bed, often unused and certainly going unused tonight, regardless of where you put the human. The human – Shigaraki. You don’t know his given name, but you can still taste his blood.

That knowledge above all else is what spurs you to action. You seize the bowl of water you were soaking the bandages in and raise it to your lips.

If the Old One drank this, even in its diluted form, it would burn him alive from the inside out. You hold it in your mouth, eyes watering from the pain, until you can take it no longer. When you stumble to the front door, open it, and spit out into the dirt, most of your taste buds fall away with it, salt from the inland sea functioning the same as acid would. You won’t be able to taste anything for a while. But you can’t taste Shigaraki’s blood, and that’s the important thing. You’ll never be pure again, but you are clean, and clear enough of mind to assess the situation properly.

The longer you think about it, the worse it gets. If all you had done was clash with the priest over an innocent man’s life, that would be permissible, acceptable, necessary. But the man in question is the Old One’s chosen host, and you didn’t just rescue him from the priest – you brought him to your home and deliberately stripped the Old One’s essence from his body. Even if you were nothing but a witch dwelling at the edge of the world, it would have been desperately unwise to do.

But you aren’t a witch dwelling at the edge of the woods. You’re one of three surviving members of the order Academia, dedicated to the defeat of vampires and the preservation of humanity, and you’re supposed to be in hiding. The other two are Professors, and it’s their job to kill vampires. Your job is to stay hidden, to preserve Academia’s vast stores of knowledge within both the archive and your memory, and if necessary, to rebuild the order from the ground up if all the Professors are killed. At this moment, however, the Professors are safer than they’ve ever been. All the Old One’s thought is bent on claiming his newest host, and you’ve stolen him. The Old One is after you.

You haven’t just endangered yourself. You’ve endangered the order, after being charged with protecting it when you barely understood what that meant, and worse still, you can’t see how you could have averted this outcome. Any course of action that included rescuing Shigaraki from the villagers inevitably ends here. The only course that wouldn’t have was to let him die.

When you think of the order members you’ve known over your time as the lighthouse keeper, it’s easy to imagine what they’d have done. To a fault, they’d have left Shigaraki’s fate to Father Torino. But the order is meant to protect humanity, and Shigaraki is still human. More human than you are. More human by half. If you deserve to live, so does he. You straighten up, breathe deep, and force yourself again to assess the situation. You may not be a hunter, but you are an archive. You know all you need to know in order to survive this night. The rest can be dealt with in the morning.

You’re certain of it, certain that no matter how far out of your depth you feel, you have the knowledge to prevail – but when you step back inside and see Shigaraki still sprawled on the table, multiple pieces of your resolve falter at once. The idea of going near him again frightens you. You know to be afraid of your hunger, no matter its origins. But you aren’t a child, and even when you were, you never stooped to drinking human blood. You delay as long as possible, rearranging your bed and fluffing the pillows, before turning back to the table.

Shigaraki’s been insensate, but absent the Old One’s influence clogging his veins, he must be a light sleeper. No sooner has your hand brushed his shoulder than he jerks awake, flinching away, one hand held out to forestall you. There’s some mix of disgust and resignation on his face. You think of how many times he must have been woken from sleep by the Old One, how little his refusal would have mattered, and take a careful step back.

The fight drains out of him in a rush. He slumps back against the table, averting his eyes from yours. “I thought you were him.”

You shake your head. “I did not mean to unsettle you, just to move you somewhere more comfortable.”

“To move me. You intend to carry me?”

“That was the plan,” you admit. Your face inexplicably heats up, making you wish for your veil. “It’s not far. You can walk if you’d like.”

Shigaraki shakes his head. “Carry me if you wish.”

If he’d like, if you wish. You do wish. The degree to which you wish strikes you as somewhat unseemly, some obscure outgrowth of the hunger that stalks the edges of your consciousness. You gather Shigaraki into your arms, and unlike the last time you tried this, he cooperates fully, his arms winding about your neck and his body curled in against your chest. Shigaraki has every reason to fear vampires, but he trusted you to save him, even knowing that it would leave him vulnerable. He has every reason to flinch from a vampire’s touch, but he holds onto you.

You label every unfamiliar feeling as vampiric in origin, simply because it’s the safest thing to do, but the feeling that chases at the heels of your pity and sorrow for him would be unmistakable even if you didn’t. When you think of Shigaraki in the Old One’s clutches, the rage that sweeps through you comes from a single source, a thought you’ve never had about anything, let alone a human. Something visceral, unassailable by virtue or reason: He’s mine.

That is not a thought you should be having. You set Shigaraki down on your bed perhaps a little too brusquely, then try to make up for it by drawing the blankets carefully over him. Even that gesture is tainted by possessiveness, heavy with hunger. You draw back to a safe distance at speed.

Shigaraki watches you go. “If you meant to drink my blood, you would have done it already,” he says. “I’m not frightened of you.”

He should be. Right now you are. “I must take my leave of you. There is much to do to prepare for nightfall.”

That brings a flash of fear to Shigaraki’s pale face. “It doesn’t matter what you do,” he says. “You cannot keep him out.”

“This place was built to withstand him,” you say. You leave out that it was built to withstand him at the height of his powers, and that it was intended to be guarded by a dozen Professors every night. With the Old One’s decaying body and only you to stand watch, it’s a much more even fight. “I make the same preparations every night. And tonight we have an advantage.”

“What advantage?”

“As they sleep in daylight, vampires are truly dead to the world,” you say. “The Old One won’t know you’ve shaken off his control until he wakes up.”

It’s an advantage that will last only for the night, but that should give you time to plan something better. It occurs to you on your way out the door that Shigaraki will need to eat, and the bone broth you’ve been simmering since this morning will be ready by the time you return. You gather the supplies you take whenever you walk the perimeter and set off. Seventy-three minutes until nightfall. Courtesy of your vampiric nature, you always know how much daylight remains.

Your defenses are solid, as they should be. You check them every night, as you were taught to do by the last lighthouse keeper before he and the archive he protected were both destroyed. The vampire who did that wasn’t the Old One, and he was underestimated as a result — and after he destroyed the archive, he escaped. Mirai taught you much in life, but his death taught you an even more valuable lesson: When it comes to vampires, you must never assume you hold the upper hand. When it comes to vampires, you are always about to die.

So you guard against both, the unnamed vampire who destroyed the old archive and thrust you into this role before your time and the Old One your order has hunted through generations. The wolf-dogs trail at your heels as you scatter concentric rings of salt, as you string nets of silver lace between the trees, attaching a few silver bells to each one. If a vampire should somehow manage to encounter the nets without howling in agony, the ringing of the bells will warn you, too.

You plant an extra row of stakes around the perimeter of your fence, ensuring they’ll stick out at an angle. Sometimes it seems you spend all day making stakes, creating spool after spool of lace, but this is why. You could fortify your home ten times over and still have supplies to spare.

The wolf-dogs follow you through the gate, and you shut it behind them, draping it in heavy silver chains that you polish carefully each morning. You still have a few moments before nightfall, and it’s going to be a very cold night. You bring in more firewood than usual, confident that a human who’s been habitually drained of blood will feel the cold worse than you do, then step back inside, ushering the newest additions to the pack of wolf-dogs in after you.

You can’t rescue all the pups from Father Torino’s edict that they be drowned, but you save as many as you can, and the litter of five pups that was born out of season was the largest single rescue you’ve attempted to date. Their eyes were barely open when you recovered them, but now they’re approaching four months old, and they’re rambunctious to the extreme. You’d keep them outside if you could, but their coats are too downy yet to keep out the wind and rain, and you’d rather deal with them inside each night than let them freeze. Besides, they’re an excellent distraction from your other guest.

Or a distraction for him. While you’ve been wiping the last pup’s paws clean, the others have discovered Shigaraki, and before you can stop him, he’s patted the bed and invited all five up to join him. Naturally, they oblige, and you can do nothing but stare in exasperation.

Shigaraki catches you looking. “What? It was their idea.”

“I saw you. Don’t lie.” You can’t begrudge him, though; although the wolf-dog pups are crawling all over him, for the first time since you met him, he looks something approaching happy. “They’ll never leave you be. Not now that they know you’re a soft touch.”

Shigaraki laughs quietly at that. His voice is all but ruined from screaming, but he laughs, and you turn away in a hurry. If you get the pups their supper, they’ll abandon him, and the sight of him cuddling with them won’t produce any more awful feelings inside you. Shigaraki speaks again as you’re filling the pups’ trough. “As if you aren’t a soft touch of your own. For the rigidity of the priest’s convictions and the presence of so many wolves in the mountains, surprisingly few wolf-dogs are drowned in the village.”

“What are you implying?”

“That the village brats know to leave their half-breed pups unattended,” Shigaraki says. “It seems they have a great deal of faith in you.”

You had wondered why the rescues were so much easier of late. “That odd one most of all,” Shigaraki continues. “He must, to turn to you for help in the face of a vampire.”

You aren’t surprised at all that it was Midoriya Izuku who sought you out. After all, it’s in his blood. “Then again,” Shigaraki says, and you look up in time to see the pups abandon him and charge for their meal, “you are not unlike a vampire yourself.”

He doesn’t ask a question, but you hear one, and you choose to answer, where you would have obfuscated before. “Half-vampire would be the most accurate term. Conceived by human parents, born to a mother who was either bitten or turned.”

“I read of your kind. In Sensei’s library, before he locked it away.” Shigaraki’s eyes are intent on yours. “I would have guessed for myself if my mental faculties were not so thoroughly decayed.”

“You spent quite some time buried alive. Anyone’s faculties would be corroded,” you say. “What did the Old One’s books say about my kind?”

“They concurred with the priest. You are unclean,” Shigaraki says, and you snort. “Those who create a half-vampire are obligated to destroy it, or else their own existences are forfeit. Vampires keep precious few laws, but regarding that, they are inflexible.”

“Oh,” you say. “So that’s where the Elders went.”

“What?”

“The Old One used to be one of a cadre of master vampires, but some sixty years ago, all but the Old One vanished.” You called yourself the Old One’s fatal mistake, but it seems you’ve been fatal for others, not for him. “Do you think he would take a death sentence lying down?”

Shigaraki laughs hollowly. “He defeated his own kind, equals in power. You have no chance against him.”

“Then it’s good that I don’t intend to fight him,” you say. “Our task is simply to survive the night.”

Night will fall within seconds. You leave your conversation with Shigaraki behind and shut the windows, lining each windowsill with rough crystals of salt. With the loss of the sun, you feel your newfound impurity more acutely, and it did not need the assistance. Your instinct is to descend into the archive and hide until morning, but you must be here to look after your guest. Whose blood you’ve tasted. Whose name you still don’t know. At this point it would be awkward to ask.

You bring him a cup of water and some bone broth, then retreat with your own meal to the bench nearest the window. Shigaraki’s voice follows you. “Do you usually keep such distance from humans?”

It’s not because he’s human. It’s because he’s himself, and you’re drawn to him in a way you don’t understand. You don’t think you’d take his blood, no matter how close to him you got, but you have no idea what you would do instead. The thought crosses your mind that your human side might know the answer, but your human side is quiet. It always has been, because it was never your human side that the Academia wanted you for.

“I am comfortable with humans at any distance,” you say. “This is for your comfort more than mine.”

“I told you already. I’m not frightened of you,” Shigaraki says. “I know evil. It does not look like you.”

Not on the outside, no — but there’s something monstrous within you, something you bury deep. “Do you think evil comes from within, or from beyond?”

“Does it matter?” Shigaraki is drinking more than eating, but at least he’s consuming some of both. “The result is the same, either way.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Within, I think. Sensei chose to become what he is. You didn’t.”

“I choose which side of my nature to obey,” you say. You think it’s important to tell Shigaraki, to warn him that you are not what you appear to be. “I never tasted human blood until yours.”

“I never asked a vampire to touch me before you,” Shigaraki says, and your face heats up. “Did you desire my blood?”

You shake your head, and to your surprise, Shigaraki presses the point. “Why not?”

“I don’t drink blood.”

“I asked if you desired it,” Shigaraki says. “There is a difference. Answer me.”

Some part of you bridles at being ordered around in your own home — the human part of you, you think. Your vampiric nature wishes to offer more information than necessary, and in your answer, you fail to tamp it down. “There are things I desire more.”

Shigaraki blinks. For your part, you avoid eye contact, staring down into your bowl of broth. It’s a poor meal. You should have made bread to go with it, but you were busy. Busy making mistake after mistake, endangering what scraps of the Academia still remain, opening yourself up to the baser instincts you’ve suppressed all your life. Your predecessors would be ashamed of you, your most recent predecessor most of all. Mirai would not have heeded Spinner’s call. He would have let Shigaraki die, and quite possibly saved the world in the bargain.

“I’m cold,” Shigaraki says into the silence. You set your empty bowl aside and return to build up the fire. The pups are mostly asleep, but at least one is still interested in Shigaraki, and when you take his own empty bowl away, you replace it with the pup he was holding before. “This is your bed. Where do you intend to sleep?”

“This night, I don’t,” you say. “I rarely sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Vampires rest during daylight, humans at night. There’s no time of day that feels natural to sleep.” When you were young, you slept days. Once the Academia found you, you slept not at all. “If you were concerned about putting me out, don’t be. You’re a guest, and you must rest if you want to be well for your friends’ visit tomorrow.”

Shigaraki studies you. The pup is already fast asleep and snoring in his arms. “What happens then?” he asks. You give him a strange look. “If I leave, Sensei will follow me, and all your work will be undone.”

“I will give you and your friends what you need to mount an effective defense,” you say. “I don’t plan to throw you out on your ear.”

You don’t want to throw him out. You want to keep him here. “Do you think we can find a more secure place to stay?” Shigaraki asks. “By tomorrow night?”

No. If you send Shigaraki away, he and his friends will die. “I must protect the archive,” you say. “If the Old One attacks at his full strength, all will be lost.”

“If he reclaims me, all will be lost.” An involuntary shudder travels through Shigaraki, and a corresponding chill drips down your spine. “It is in your interest to slay him, yes? When will you have a chance like this again?”

“You know little of slaying vampires,” you say sharply. “Say what you mean.”

Shigaraki holds your gaze for a moment, then looks away. “I feel safe here,” he says, and your innards twist so painfully that it takes a small miracle to avoid doubling over. “My friends and I will be safer with you.”

The human side of you answers him without hesitating. “Then stay.”

You go about your nightly work, struggling to maintain some veneer of reality over your increasingly tainted thoughts. Shigaraki is drawn to the safety you provide, not to you specifically. He would respond the same to any lighthouse keeper, if any of them were fool enough to take him in. You’re nothing special, except that you’re here. You could be anyone. There’s no reason for Shigaraki to feel the same magnetic pull towards you as you do to him.

He must be exhausted. You keep waiting for him to fall asleep, but every time you glance up from your work, you find him watching you, eyes half-lidded, expression relaxed. It makes you self-conscious. “What?”

“Sensei’s fatal mistake,” he says. “What did you mean?”

“It refers to an old text, written when vampires first arose to plague humanity,” you say. “The exact phrasing –”

It takes you a moment. “In their lust for death they sow the seeds of their own undoing.” That was it. You remember wishing for something more definitive. “Coupled with the avoidance of creating half-vampires, it was determined that half-vampires were the key to defeating the Old Ones.”

You remember Nana Shimura holding your face in her hands, smiling down at you brighter than the sun. You will be his downfall, she said. You will be our light. “It’s only a legend.”

“If it were only a legend, creating a half-vampire would not be punishable by death,” Shigaraki says. All the pups are napping with him now. They’re hard to look at together. You don’t like what seeing them makes you feel. “Who taught you this?”

“I had many teachers,” you say. “Professor Shimura was the first.”

Shigaraki’s eyes widen. “Shimura?”

Before you can say anything, before he can elaborate, a howl rises up from somewhere in the woods. It’s distant. You can tell by the way it echoes that the wolf is at the edge of the woods, but you know it won’t stay there. Wolves don’t set foot in these woods, warned back by the presence of the wolf-dogs and the scent of the direwolves. If one is this close, it’s being compelled to approach — and if it’s the Old One’s doing, it won’t be alone.

There’s a second howl, and a third. You hear a sharp intake of breath and glance away from the shuttered window towards Shigaraki, who’s gone pale. “Your defenses won’t work on them,” he says. “They’ll tell him how to find me.”

They will, if even one makes it within view of your home, and you won’t leave it to the wolf-dogs to face a threat you’re responsible for bringing down upon them. You decide on a course of action instantly, and scoop Shigaraki up from the bed, blankets, wolf-dogs and all. He puts up a desultory protest, but he’s shaking in your grip. You press the trick stone in the floor, impatience and frustration humming inside you, and you and Shigaraki are halfway down the hidden stairs before the doorway’s even opened completely.

It’s cold down here. So cold. You don’t want to leave Shigaraki here, but you brought the pups, too, and they’ll keep him warm. Your eyes adjust to the darkness quickly and easily, so easily that you almost forget that Shigaraki will need light to see. As you light the lanterns, the chamber below your cottage comes into view, and Shigaraki stares. “What is this place?”

“The archive,” you say. In the old archive, there were many comfortable places to rest and read, but in this one, hastily constructed in the aftermath of old archive’s destruction, has only uncomfortable stools and cold stone. “Once I leave and seal it, it won’t open until morning or my return. You’ll be safe here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To kill the wolves.”

Shigaraki’s eyes widen. “You can’t,” he says, as you wrap the blankets more securely around him. “You’re only —”

“Human?” You finish the sentence for him. “Only half. Stay here and rest. I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Shigaraki says, and you pause in the act of pulling away. He seizes your hand anyway. His fingers are cold. “Come back. Say you will.”

“I’ll come back,” you promise. On an impulse you regret the moment you follow it, you raise his hand to your mouth and press your lips against his frozen fingers.

You might regret the impulse, but it soothes the need, the hunger, that’s been tormenting you since you closed Shigaraki’s wounds. Shigaraki startles, but doesn’t retrieve his hand. When you pull away at last, he’s reluctant to let go.

You seal the archive behind you, then seal the cottage doors the same way. Re-entering will be painful for you, with so much salt and garlic and rose in your path, but it matters not so long as it protects Shigaraki. What happens to you matters little, so long as you protect him. You take off your shoes to lighten your step, arm yourself with a silver knife and a quiver of stakes, and set off through the woods at a speed only the direwolves could match.

Your human side is incomprehensible to you, but your vampiric side is all too familiar, and as you run, you turn it loose for the first time in decades. You allow your senses of smell and hearing to sharpen, allow your eyes to adjust to the night, search out the spark of violence that always dwells within you and work to fan the flames. The possessiveness, too, works in your favor. These are your woods. The wolf-dogs following in your wake are yours to protect, and the human is yours, too. Whatever seeks to harm them will find you waiting, and even as your senses identify half a dozen wolves prowling through the woods, your resolve doesn’t weaken. Half a dozen. If the Old One wanted to see his host reclaimed and his mistake unmade, he should have sent an army.

The first wolf appears before you, hackles raised but facing the other way. You leave the knife sheathed, the stakes undisturbed in their quiver, and you attack with bared teeth and empty hands.

<- part ii

tagging: @stardustdreamersisi @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @cryptidfuckerofficial @f3r4lfr0gg3r @minniessskii @lvtuss @issaortiz @evilcookie5 @lacrimae-lotos @xeveryxstarfallx @aslutforfictionalmen

let me know if you'd like to be removed from the taglist! this one is all-purpose, but I can make one for specific fics if need be

[unreliablesnake]

Thunderstorm (Simon Riley x f!reader)

Summary: Simon spoils his daughter and he’s always there when she needs him–even if it’s because of a little thunderstorm.

Note: MW3 is coming, I’ll be back on my bullshit. / If you want to know when I post new stuff, follow @unreliablesnakefics.

“Daddy, please.”

That was it. Simon was usually defeated by these two words that his four-year-old used every time she wanted something. After all, he was his little princess, the sweet child who often fell asleep on the couch next to him in the evening, the one who held tea parties for her toys and him every now and then.

Since he wasn’t home that much, and since he never knew when his luck would run out on the field, he treated every second with her as if it was the last time he saw her. You knew perfectly well that’s why he always spoiled her, why she quickly became daddy’s little girl, so you never said anything to stop him. They needed to bond so she would have good memories of him, and you didn’t want to take it away from them.

“One day you’ll have to stop letting her get away with everything, you know,” you told him one evening after he came back from his daughter’s room following a fight about bedtime that was over an hour ago. “We need to set certain rules.”

“I know, I know.” Simon took his place in bed next to you, an arm wrapping around your shoulder to pull you closer. “It’s just so hard to say no. I swear I’m trying.”

You looked up at him and before you knew it, his lips captured yours in a sensual kiss that aimed to make you forget about what he had just done. But you knew better than to fall into his trap, so you pulled away with a delicate smile and gave him an understanding look.

“I know that, Simon, but we need to be partners in this. It must be nice to be the good cop, but she’ll become a little monster if we let her do anything she wants.”

After taking a deep breath, Simon nodded. “You’re right. It’s just so tough to be strict when I’m away this much,” he admitted before placing a soft kiss on your temple. “By the way, did you hear that?” You gave him a confused look so he went on almost immediately. “A thunderstorm. It’s coming this way.”

Finally it made sense to you because you let out a sigh and said, “She’ll run in crying anyway. Go get her.”

He got out of bed, but instead of leaving the room, he just put his hands on his hips and asked, “You sure? I will be the good cop again.”

“Go.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

His daughter was terrified of thunderstorms. She had been like that since the beginning, always crying when lightning struck nearby, instinctively calling for her mommy and daddy when she was scared, or running into their bedroom right after the sound reached her. He knew she would grow out of this eventually, but until then he wouldn’t want her to stay in her room alone.

Those nights when she slept in their bed between them were his favorites. Sure, he loved to be alone with you too; to explore your body over and over again, drawing out those sweet moans and whines from you, and seeing you fall apart for him. But being together as a family, having his favorite girls so close to him was still better.

Simon liked to think of himself as a good father and husband. He broke the cycle, he became a better man than his father had ever been, and every day he spent home with you two was filled with actions that spoke louder than words. He wanted the both of you to know, to feel that he loved you more than anything in this world.

When he reached his daughter’s room and peeked inside, he noticed that she was sleeping peacefully under the warm blanket. For a moment he wondered if he should just leave her be for now, but then he heard the storm outside and realized you had been right and this was for the best. So he picked her up carefully and walked back to the master bedroom, laying the little girl on the middle of the bed next to you.

“Thank you,” you told him quietly.

Shaking his head, Simon leaned over to give you a quick kiss. “Anytime, love.”

You flashed a wide smile at him, but before you could say anything, your daughter turned on her side and cuddled up to you with her small arm wrapped around your waist. Simon was a little jealous, but he kept this to himself for now. Sooner or later she would wake up and cuddle up to him instead as she usually did.

[erissheiress]

Lonely Anymore

The Inner Circle x Reader

Warnings: depression, mentions of feeling numb, mention of blood and crying, alcohol, platonic intimacy, mentioned Feyre, Elain and Nesta, reader doesn't like Nesta and Elain bc I dont lol. Repost from my main blog.

Summary: You need your family, and they need you.

Word count: 782

Taglist: 

* * *

The window was wide open, harsh gusts of wind blowing into the room, disrupting papers on the desk and blowing your hair into your face, stinging your skin and making your eyes water.

Yet, you hardly seemed to notice the biting cold that struck your skin, hardly flinching, or moving from where you sat on the armchair, legs folded and arms around your knees, hugging them close to your chest. Your nails dug into the palms of your hands, nearly drawing blood, but again, it attracted none of your attention.

Your eyes were dull, dark bags under your eyes, from exhaustion mostly. Tears had streamed down your cheeks earlier but not anymore, you simply had no tears left to give to the world, nothing more you could offer.

You had given this world your blood, sweat and tears, your love and your dreams, and in return it had given you the one thing you always lacked;

A family.

The Inner Circle.

It had started with Rhys, Cassian, Azriel, and Mor. Then Amren, then Feyre. Nesta and Elain joined then, though you didn't like them very much, but that was possibly because of how they treated your High Lady, and finally baby Nyx, the newest, and your favourite, member of the family.

So the world gave you a family, and a chance of being loved.

But that was never going to be all, was it? It seemed that the world wasn't quite finished with you yet

No, it gave you hate as well as love, fear as well as joy, pain as well as care. 

It caused your dreams to turn to nightmares, your hopes to failures, your youthful innocence to turn to hardened pessimism. 

You're not sure when you stopped feeling like you were part of the family, perhaps it was over Solstice? Solstice where you sat in the corner as Feyre and Rhys cuddled Nyx in front of the fire, as Nesta and Cassian playfully bickered while Azriel and Elain laughed at their banter, as well as Mor who happily danced in the centre of the room, swinging a bottle of wine around like a weapon.

And you.. you just sat there, nursing your own wine, suddenly feeling lonelier than you had ever felt before. As you watched them each be happy in their own ways, a weight settled on your chest, and had stayed there ever since.

You did your job, played an active role as a member of the Night Court, but distanced yourself as well. They didn't seem to notice, only little Nyx, who crawled onto your lap one evening and poked your cheek, a frown on his adorable face.

"Sad"

"I'm not sad, Nyxie."

But he only frowned even more. "sad" before planting a wet kiss on your chin. "Happy."

"Yes darling, your kisses make me very happy."

Babies were so easy to satisfy.

So now you sat alone in your room, on an uncomfortable chair, without warm clothes, while the winter air froze your body, yet not bothering you at all.

You didn't feel anything, just numb.

You didn't feel anything when the window closed suddenly, or when footsteps entered the room. 

You didn't feel anything when strong arms lifted you to your bed, or when calloused hands stroked your hair softly. 

Or when four other figures clambered into the bed with you, three Illyrian males and one female. 

You only felt something when the blonde smoothed your hair out of your face and looked at you with the softest expression you had ever seen on her face.

"We love you, you know that right?" and you felt it all of a sudden, like a wave of emotion. Overwhelming you completely. 

You'd learn later that Azriel lay closest to you, and it was him that carried you to the bed and held you so snugly, that it was Cassian who stroked your hair so softly and it was Rhysand who shut the windows, using his abilities to heat your frigid room. 

You'd learn all this later but for now you let it out like a burst dam, as you sobbed into Azriel's chest, three other pairs of hands comforting you in some way, the best way they could. 

Your family.

A 5th figure, a shorter female slipped in at one point, taking a protective position at the end of the bed, comforting you the only way she knew how, and was appreciated nonetheless. 

You loved Feyre, and Elain and Nesta were part of the circle now too, but for now you needed your first family, and they mentally vowed to spend as much time as possible convincing you that they needed you too. 

That they needed you, that they loved you, that you were important to them, and that they'd always be there for you.

That you didn't have to be lonely anymore.

[leggerefiore]

do you suppose we could have some headcanons for Guzma coming across his S/O’s ex who, to put a fine point on it, didn’t treat them so well?

please, and thank you 💀

sorry its a little short, but I hope you enjoy still!

cw: light mentions of abuse (nothing explicit), guzma intimidating someone, threats

pairing: Guzma/Reader

💀Guzma🕶

□ Due to his affiliations with misfits around Alola, he was, unfortunately, more than inclined to hear abuse stories. Hell, he even had his own as much as he was not the type to talk about it. Your story, though, struck him harder than most. He was not going to lie and pretend that you were not clearly favourite to him, so hearing what you went through made him more frustrated than usual. Some poor random trainer got a hot battle by an angry bug man later that day to vent off the rage.

□ The details about what happened to you and anything about your ex were glued in his mind. He doubted that he would ever come across them, especially in the places that he usually roamed about. Yet, on the off chance that he did, they would get to know destruction in human form. He also let his grunts and Plumeria know about some of the details to make sure that they did not cross your path again. The last thing Guzma wanted was for you to have old trauma forced open by someone not even worthy of your presence.

□ But, as luck would have it, he caught a glance of them while he was in Malie waiting on someone. He had been leaning against the wall of the city's garden when they walked out. Guzma felt his fist unconsciously clench, and his eyes narrowed. This was the person who had caused you so much stress and suffering. Why? He felt bad when you got upset over him getting hurt after messing with that old man's cats. Purposefully drawing out that seemed painful. He strolled over to them while they were blissfully unaware.

□ Guzma easily cornered them somewhere isolated and forced himself to stand up straight to give a little extra edge to his intimidation. He was not going to be stupid and do anything that would make that old man have to come after him. No, all he was going to do was make a few things clear. His brows grew together as his lips pulled back into a harsh expression. A hand hovered over Golisopod's pokeball in case he needed an extra hand.

□ “You recall how you treated your ex?” he spoke with an edge that clearly made them want to curl away from him. Their eyes went wide at his words, and they nodded nervously. Guzma wanted to roll his own. With how you had described them, he would have thought they would have at least done more than look terrified. “Good,” he placed his hands on his hips and made himself seem bigger, “If I ever hear that you harass them again or do any of that kinda shit to anyone else, I'll completely destroy you. Got it?”

□ When they finally squeaked out a “yes,” he backed away and let them go. Quickly, they ran out of the area and into a nearby crowd of people. He almost wanted to laugh at how pitiful they ended up. Did they only want to beat down on people weaker than them? How disgusting. Guzma felt awful that you had to deal with someone like that at all – especially in a romantic capacity. He felt at ease now, at least. A feeling that they would steer clear of you entered him. And, suddenly, he had an urge to take you for a walk around the Malie Garden. Might be nice to do an actual date for a change.

[oceaneyesinla]

Please don't ask what this is. Not usually a Sukuna girlie but I watched the fire arrow scene again and it does things to me (hands + fire = !!!!). No-one look at me, I've never written Sukuna or smut before

Divider by @/cafekitsune

Smut below, enjoy!

You knew what those hands had done. You knew what they were capable of. The lives they had taken and the blood they had spilled, red dripping from those strong fingers and running down past tattooed wrists. You had watched it in real time, watched as they struck down those who would insult him and tore apart those who would oppose him. He was merciless, and those hands were the conduit through which he directed his murderous urges.

You knew their destructive power, and yet you couldn’t fear them. Not when those same hands had handled you with such care. The same hands which ripped a man’s head from his body, were also the ones which lovingly ran through your hair, separating strands as if it were the finest silk in the land. Those hands were often covered in viscera, but they were just as often covered in expensive oils, providing sweet relaxation with every pass over your skin.

Those hands, with long, thick fingers and prominent veins running along the back. Palms slightly rough from the times where his cursed technique wasn’t enough and he bloodied his flesh to get the job done in a way that would satisfy his bloodlust.

The world would say they were the hands of a monster, and maybe they were right in the grand scheme of things, but they didn’t know that the hands they saw commit only evil were also capable of such love. They would never know the man within that monster. They would not know the reverent gaze you were fixed with as those hands trailed across your body, mapping the skin they passed over. Nor would they know the deep chuckle that filled the air as those hands toyed with your nipples to draw breathy moans from your throat.

Those hands knew your body better than anyone else, and they knew how to reduce you to a whimpering mess within minutes. Warm palms would run up and down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each pass bringing them closer to where you wanted them most. Skillful fingers would tease at your clit, the fleeting contact making you squirm. Two fingers would scissor to pull apart your folds, so red eyes could see the evidence of your arousal. Thick digits would press inside you, seeking out that spot along your walls with focus and precision, determined to watch you arch your back and listen to you moan his name. Sukuna knew your weakness for his hands, and he knew exactly how to exploit it. It benefited him too, you came to realise. He wanted to feel your heat flutter around his fingers; he drew pleasure from feeling your arousal coat his skin, leaving a slick sheen. He knew just how to get his results, too - knew that every time he praised you; reminded you that you were so good for him, that you took his fingers so well, you would clench a little harder around him.

Those hands would pin yours to the bed, and they would rest heavy on your hips as he rutted into you, and one would come up to grasp your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes as you fell apart in his hold. After your lovemaking, those hands were gentle as ever, cleaning up the fluids coating your thighs and massaging sore muscles.

Those hands belonged to the man you loved, and no matter what horror they, and he, committed, you would never see anything more or less than your Sukuna.

[no2ticonderoga]

Still searching for a title... Part I, Part II, Part III

Leo found her before she could find Mr. D. Leo was a short, curly haired man who seemed to be perpetually covered in dust and grease. The theatre’s technical director, he could fix just about anything with chewing gum and shoe shine, it seemed. 

“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “I was up to my elbows in cables.”

“It’s fine,” Annabeth sighed. “I was just hoping to get to you before Mr. D caught me.”

“No kidding,” Leo snorted. “I only just avoided him by hiding in the lighting grid. What crawled up his ass and died there this time?” 

“Act two,” Annabeth replied.

“Madre di dios,” Leo muttered, followed by several other Spanish oaths. “Let me guess. Mr. D decided he wanted it to be ‘grandiose, and carry the audience away’?” Leo had an excellent impersonation.

“Yep,” Annabeth agreed.

Leo muttered more in Spanish and shook his head. “You got new designs?”

“If you mean the old designs that he rejected two weeks ago, then yes,” Annabeth held up her sketches. 

“Atta girl,” Leo grinned. “These the ones you already showed me?”

“Yep,” Annabeth agreed. 

“I’ll get my crews prepped,” he said. “Let me know which one he decides on.”

Annabeth nodded. “Have you seen him?”

Leo jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Last I saw him, he was headed for the lobby. He was complaining about something. Costumes, I think.”

“More delays?”

“Yeah,” Leo sighed. “You’d think the war was still on with rationing or something…nothing ever seems to come on time.” Leo gave a wave and headed off to talk to his stagehands.

Annabeth made her way through the backstage and out into the house, headed for the lobby. She had only gotten part way up the aisle, when she heard voices at the back of the house. One of them was Mr. D and he sounded…nervous?

She stopped and looked around. She spotted Mr. D standing in one of the doorways. He was standing with a man dressed in a black suit. He was very pale, with dark hair, and though he stood there holding his hat in his hands, there seemed to be something ominous about him. 

She couldn’t quite make out what the man was saying, but Mr. D was protesting about it, though not effectively. The man said something sharp, and Mr. D nodded meekly. Without another word, the man turned and left, leaving Mr. D standing there looking downcast. 

Annabeth hesitated a moment before approaching him. “Mr. D?” she asked.

“What, oh, hm?” he looked up, and Annabeth was suddenly struck by how hollow his eyes looked and how his who being seemed to be sagging. 

“I’ve got those other set drawings for you,” Annabeth said.

Life seemed to come back into him slowly, and he seemed to reinflate, like a balloon. “Ah, good,” he said, his voice returning to his normal pompousness. “Let me see.”

By the time  a new design had been selected, and Annabeth had helped Leo oversee the start of the modifications to the set, it was nearly dinner, and as Annabeth had skipped lunch, she was starving.

She went to find Piper. Annabeth figured she’d be in the rehearsal studio, and she was not wrong. The session was just breaking up, with chorus dancers streaming past her heading for dressing room. Inside the studio, she found Octavian,arguing with the show’s composer, Will, by the piano. But Piper was leaning against the wall, talking with Jason, who had one arm propped against the wall over Piper’s head. She was giving him come hither looks that probably would have melted steel. 

Annabeth normally wouldn’t have interrupted, but she was hungry. “Hi,” she said to Jason before turning to Piper. “Do you still want to get food, or are you…” she glanced between Piper and Jason. “Otherwise occupied?”

Piper laughed lightly, and pushed Jason away from her gently. “I’m all yours tonight, sweetie,” she said. “Jason will just have to wait his turn.” She gave him a wicked smile.

“I don’t mind,” Jason said. “I would hate to break up your dinner date.” He smiled brilliantly, and Annabeth was reminded again why everyone was in love with him. She felt no attraction to him, but even she had to admit he was objectively good looking. Even the scar on his face enhanced his good looks.

Annabeth sighed. “You’re welcome to tag along,” she said. “But I’m starving.”

“If you don’t mind,” he said.

“It’s fine,” Annabeth said. “As long as we go now.”

Piper laughed. “Let me go get changed. We’ll meet at the stage door in 10 minutes.”

They went their separate ways to get ready to go out. Annabeth went to wait by the stage door. While she was waiting, Mrs. Darrowby, the costumer, was getting ready to leave. “Goodnight, Mrs. Darrowby,” Annabeth said.

“I heard Mr. D was giving you a hard time today, dear,” Mrs. Darrowby said. 

Annabeth shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied.

Mrs. Darrowby gave her a sad grin. “Well, at least you were able to get something done.”

“What do you mean?” Annabeth asked, confused.

“My fabric for the chorus line costumes was supposed to arrive today, but it’s been delayed again. This is the third time,” she complained. “It’s like I’m never going to get these done. At this rate, the chorus girls will go on in their underwear!” 

“Well, that might boost ticket sales,” Annabeth joked.

Mrs. Darrowby snorted. “At this rate, we might need to do it anyway, just to keep the show afloat.” She shook her head. “Well, hopefully tomorrow,” she sighed. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night,” Annabeth called, as Mrs. Darrowby headed out the door.

Jason appeared. “Is Piper ready yet?”

“She’ll be here shortly,” Annabeth told him. “When she says 10 minutes, she really means 15,” Annabeth explained. Actually it was usually more like 20, but Annabeth hoped that Piper’s concern for getting food into her might actually move her a little faster.

“How long have you two known each other?” Jason asked.

“Since college,” Annabeth said. “The fall of ‘41.” 

“You’re pretty close, huh?” he asked.

Annabeth shrugged. “She’s the sister I never had.”

“So don’t break her heart?” Jason asked.

Annabeth laughed. “She’s far more likely to break yours,” Annabeth told him.

Jason looked like he was still trying to process this comment when Piper appeared. As always, her hair and makeup were perfect, despite her vigorous rehearsal session, and the dress she had on worked for her in all the right ways. Annabeth loved her, but when she was on the hunt, she always made Annabeth feel so plain and dowdy. 

Piper looped her arm through Jason’s. “Where shall we go?” she said. She grabbed Annabeth with her other arm. “Somewhere not busy for poor Annabeth, who skipped lunch, I think.”

“Yes, please,” Annabeth agreed. 

They ended up at a place close to the theatre district that did not look crowded and they were able to get a table right away. 

“You had a busy day, it seems,” Jason asked her when they were settled and the waitress had taken their orders. Piper and Annabeth shared one side of the booth, while Jason sat alone on the other. 

“You could say that,” Annabeth agreed. “Working with Mr. D is…an adventure.”

Piper laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Have you worked with him before?” Jason asked.

“Several times,” Annabeth admitted. “One of the reasons Piper was able to get me the job to begin with was he knew who I was.” 

“This is my first time,” Jason said. “Are his shows always this…” he trailed off, considering his words.

“Chaotic?” Piper provided helpfully. She was running her finger around a water ring left behind by a previous diner’s drink. 

“Well,” Annabeth considered. “He’s always been mercurial,” she said. “But now that you mention it.” She paused, brows furrowing a little. 

Piper looked thoughtful, cocking her head. “It does seem like we’ve had more than our usual share of disasters. Maybe the show is cursed.”

Annabeth and Jason spoke at the same time. “Why would it be cursed?” 

“There’s no such thing as curses.”

Piper huffed, and glared at Annabeth. “You clearly haven’t been in show business long enough,” she said, and then turned to Jason. “I haven’t been paying too close attention, but I did hear some of the chorus girls talking about a curse. Maybe it’s the curse of Achilles.” She made the last part sound spooky and creepy.

“That’s…not how that works,”  Annabeth said. “Have you even read the myth?” 

Piper made a mou face and brushed this away with her hands. “You don’t think a doomed love story can have a curse?” 

“Well, even if it did, and I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, it wouldn’t be the curse of Achilles. He’s barely in the show, it’s about the Trojans, not the Greeks.” Annabeth shook her head.

“He’s in the show long enough to kill me,” Jason pointed out. “But that feels pretty cursed to me.”

“All I’m saying,” Piper said. “Is this is starting to feel like a Scottish play production, and I’ve been in one of those.”

“Scottish play? You mean MacBeth?” Annabeth asked.

“Stop that, stop it now! Here,” Piper thrust the salt shaker at her. “Over your shoulder, now! Go on.”

Annabeth fumbled with the shaker. “What? Piper…”

“Now.” The look she gave was not to be argued with. 

Annabeth sighed and shook some salt out and made to throw.

“Your left shoulder,” Piper corrected. Annabeth dutifully threw the salt. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Annabeth said.

“I should make you stand up, turn around three times, and spit,” Piper said. “But this will have to do for now, since we’re not in a theater.”

Jason just looked amused. 

“Do you believe this nonsense?” Annabeth asked him.

“Hey, I grew up in theatre, too, don’t forget. And if that wasn’t enough, the war would have definitely made me a believer.”

Annabeth…glare was probably too strong…glower might have been better. She found it harder to discount men’s experiences of the war than Piper’s ridiculous theater superstitions. 

“What kinds of beliefs did you have in the war?” Piper asked.

“You never talked about how many missions you had until your rotation ended,” Jason explained. “And lots of guys had specific routines about checking out their aircraft before take off, or they carried lucky charms and stuff. In my unit, we didn’t have an aircraft with the number 13 on it, it was painted up as 12B.”

“What kind of lucky charms?” Piper asked. 

“Oh, all sorts of things. St. Christopher medals were popular, rosaries of course. One guy had a silk scarf that his girlfriend made him from the parachute he used to bailout in training when his engine quit.” Jason was warming to his topic. “One guy had a pair of stockings that he got from…” he stopped abruptly and colored. “Uh, from someone he knew.” 

Annabeth felt her face heat a little, but she smiled weakly. Piper, on the other hand grinned broadly, and she leaned in toward him, batting her eyelashes. “Oh, really,” she said, as she leaned her chin on her fist and gave him a look. “What kind of someone, hmmm?” she arched an eyebrow at him.

Jason stuttered and jumped, and Annabeth was fairly certain Piper had just touched his leg with her foot. 

Annabeth cleared her throat. “Piper, you promised.”

Piper sat up. “Right, I’m sorry.” She gave Jason a saucy look. “We’ll take that up again later, hmm?”

Jason’s eyes were a bit wild, but he grinned back gamely. “Right.”

“So, did you have any lucky charms?” Piper asked.

“I always went up with this old Roman coin that my dad gave me,” Jason said, shrugging. “I’m here, so I guess it worked.”

“And that’s a good thing,” Piper declared. “See, Annabeth, superstitions aren’t bad.”

“That...correlation is not causation,” Annabeth protested, but their food arrived, and Piper wasn’t in a mood to listen. Jason gave her a sympathetic look. 

They ate, and Annabeth felt worlds better after they were finished. It was clear to Annabeth that Piper wanted to find a way to extend her evening with Jason, so she plead exhaustion (it wasn’t hard), and said she didn’t mind going home alone. “Are you sure?” Piper asked. “I had wanted to talk tonight.”

“I’m fine,” Annabeth told her. “There’s nothing that hasn’t already been said, you know that.” Piper spared a moment to give her a sympathetic look. “Go,” Annabeth told her. “Have fun. Don’t stay out too late.”

“Yes, mother,” Piper laughed. “Don’t worry,” she assured her more seriously. “We have rehearsal tomorrow. Tonight is not a night for sleepovers.” 

For all her playfulness, Piper was completely dedicated to her craft, so Annabeth wasn’t really worried. She bid farewell to both Piper and Jason and hailed a cab. When the cabbie had asked her where to, instead of her address, her mouth said. “The Battery.”

She felt foolish as the cab cruised downtown, and twice she almost told the cab driver to turn around. But she got out and paid her fare, and walked to the edge of the wharf, leaned on the rail and stared out at the Statue of Liberty in the harbor. She sighed.

Anger or sadness? Which would it be tonight? She wondered.

But oddly, she felt neither. 

She felt strange tonight, like the summer air was somehow charged with electricity. It was almost like the city was holding its breath. Maybe it was the election, or maybe it was the growing tension over Berlin. But something…

Annabeth felt a chill, despite the warm air, and rubbed her bare arms. 

She recognized at least part of what she was feeling. And she didn’t like it. She knew this feeling, and it scared her. It happened once or twice a year, despite her best efforts.

It was the tiniest, smallest sliver of her that didn’t believe that Percy was dead. Or that he had played her. It was the hope that he was still alive, still out there. And that maybe he would come back to her. 

She bit her lip, looking out at the statue, remembering the feeling of his arms around her. Wishing he was here right now. She thought about Piper, off with Jason, the easy way she could talk to anyone. How easy it had been with Percy. Why? She had no idea, but it had been as natural as breathing. She remembered telling him things after only a few hours that it had taken her almost a year before she told Piper. 

“I want him back,” she spoke out loud.

No one responded, of course, but Annabeth suddenly felt a frisson up her spine, like a small shock. She jumped, and looked around, but there was no one.

Sighing, and feeling very foolish, Annabeth walked back toward State Street. Hopefully she could find another cab to take her home. 

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 3/4/2025

my desktop has Kicked It™️🫠 so this is shorter and worse bc it comes from my ailing phone. the tuesdaypost is generally a multi-tab multi-window affair and i completely forgot about the ten-image limit on mobile

listening

i bought this cd months and months ago to fill out the 8 items for $1 sale at my favorite religious thrift shop with the worst vibes, bc i saw the name and thought “oh i like the guy”. i was in fact thinking of nick cave. i would describe this as crunchier than nick cave. also janglier. my most deeply held american trait is that i am a sucker for a song about a road trip.

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reading

i struck out with Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe bc it made me desperately, desperately miss my maternal grandmother and we simply don’t have time for extra emotion this week.

bad news from the zone tumbleweeds i hated this one too. this is a fourth (!) 1997 printing of the 1992 novel by Claire McNab, Under the Southern Cross. 180p, it’s the same physical quality as all the other Naiad Press softcovers. i did not look up anything about Claire bc copying and pasting shit on my phone is horrendous: however, the frontispiece notes that she lives in LA “for love” and misses Australia. the draw and strong point of this book are the vivid and immersive descriptions of various tourist points down under by someone who really loves the country. it’s an effective travelogue!

The vast, forbidding Australian Outback… the grandeur of Ayers Rock… legendary Alice Springs… the Great Barrier Reef… the primal beauty of Cape Tribulation…

Two women, from different continents, with different values, collide with spectacular results… UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS.

American Lee Paynter has built her small travel agency into an international tour company. Brash, confident, openly lesbian, her great love is her business. Women? They’re to enjoy and let go.

Alexandra Findlay is pursuing a career in Australian tourism with quiet focus and determination, convinced that her career is the best she can hope for in her arid, closeted emotional existence.

Now Alex has been assigned to accompany Lee on the American woman’s visit Down Under, to win Lee’s company over to Australian tourism. Suddenly Alex’s quiet life explodes… And Lee is challenged by a woman unlike any she has ever known.

there were a lot of components i did not enjoy about this book, but the actual construction and hitting what felt like what the next emotional beat in a relationship Should be was there. nobody said anything outlandish and nobody’s crotches were engorged. the first lesbian romance in this project ive read in first person.

i find it extremely funny when someone is in a gorgeous location and having a fucking miserable time. just seething in competitive rage. alex at one point states that her family will never forgive her if she comes out and lee goes “oh? you’re super close with them?” and alex has to go “😠 no 😠”. their relationship is at its best when lee is like “you know you don’t have to live like this?” and kind of mentally drop-kicks alex into enjoying herself. unfortunately these moments are few and far between.

i mostly hated this book bc i hated alex, but it was sort of fun (though not really what i personally read romances for) watching in horrified fascination for 180 pages as she sort of train-wrecked her way through the book. i HATE this kind of sanctimonious unpleasant gay. someone who is extremely pushy about your boundaries (lee doesn’t want anything serious and says so from hour one) but doesn't want to do any work at all on her own boundaries or emotional growth (in only one example, pitches a fucking fit at the airport after lee has been very firm about how she loves to fuck and had a great time with alex but doesn’t want anything serious). this is cutting a little too close to home bc this is nearly all baby (and a lot of grown/post college) western mass queers. i had enough of that in real life and enough roommates like that. i also don't typically enjoy the divorced woman discovering her latent lesbianism storyline. the coming out storyline deserves its own graf.

this book does a good job of portraying alex as believably prickly for her own reasons, and not just out of contrariness or to fit a trope. she was very badly scared by watching her lover get fired and her almost fired at her post divorce job! that makes sense! i wish the arguments for and against coming out that she comes up with for herself rang less true today! however, she doesn’t come out in the book as a big emotional gesture to join lee in scary freedom, she comes out to stop her boss hitting on her and to prevent her coworker from blackmailing her. her coming out is such a significant point of tension and happens with such a fizzle! I think I would be giving the book too much credit to agree and say that sometimes coming out isn't a big deal and is kind of a fizzle, be she is constantly thinking about how her first lover was fired for being a lesbian. it can happen to you!!!

there is a very contrived, unnatural ending that requires lee to betray all her most deeply held relationship beliefs/make a lot of bad decisions and a deus ex concussion for alex. not that i expect every book to be a Victorian morality fable, but i didn’t want her to have a happy ending that felt so unearned. I didn’t want her to be rewarded for being such a pushy bitch while doing zero work on herself!

at least the sex scenes were some of the less awful ones ive read in this project

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watching

HOUSTON MENTIONED

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playing

look at my beautiful little bitches

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making

i am a firm believer that anything worth knitting is worth knitting well and as heirloom quality as you can make it, bc it takes the same amount of time to knit something in garbage single ply that will fall apart in one wash as it does to knit something in yarn that’s actually good. however, sometimes you need to produce an acrylic baby blanket bc a baby’s one job (as i have previously stated in this series) is to produce fluids and crumbs, and you love their parents and want to make their lives easier without adding a wool blanket to the mix.

this baby blanket is completed, only two years late. i did not measure this or even really unscrumple it before throwing it directly in the warsh. nineteen repeats across and twelve up of the tumbling blocks baby blanket, applied icord edging on the short edges which took six! total! hours! to apply. i think this yarn is bernat softee in mint? some sort of oil byproduct. phil is on my lap i cant find the band to check. i got very tired of this one and its 200 stitches across and am glad to see it out the door and to the tender graces of the toddler recipient. next on the docket is some socks for a grown person. i hope i still remember how to make socks.