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#ooc. → i’ve got a bad feeling about this.
ironunderstands · 1 day
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2.1 was so good holy shit (spoilers, obviously)
GOD THEY ATE AND IM SPECIFICALLY GONNA TALK ABOUT HOW WELL THEY WROTE RATIO IN THIS BECAUSE IM FOAMING AT THE GODDAMN MOUTH IT CHANGES HOW YOU VIEW EVERYTHING BUT IN A GOOD WAY.
so, let’s start from the beginning in 2.0 I want to walk you through my experience of it
ratio mean to aventurine, everyone gets mad. I feel weird about it, pre-2.1 I come to the conclusion that he got used as a plot device in that scene, since being racist contradicts his core motivations and the dialogue is awkward and has no real reason behind it, I chalk it up to bad writing but ultimately forgive it because 2.1 seems centered around Aventurine so they need setup for that
2.1 drops, my bsf plays the update throughout the night and we are losing our shit. He gets to the part where Ratio “betrays” Aventurine. I fucking lose it, I try to reconcile this with my preconceived notions of ratio, they don’t match up at all, his behavior that whole time doesn’t in the slightest. I am confused, I wonder if I have been wrong about him this whole time, if his whole speech on the Space Station and his character quests were some kind of fluke. I mean it could be in character? Knowledge of how a stellaron works could save millions if not billions of lives, invaluable information which Ratio would have trouble turning down because of its value. It still feels deeply wrong, Ratio isnt a backstabber, and he wouldn’t so easily bargain with Sunday over information he has no confirmation of (and could likely obtain in some other way).
The story continues, me and Haseeb (aforementioned best friend) are still pissed, I’m losing it because my favorite character just did something so unforgivable and out of character and I feel like a complete and utter idiot for interpreting a character to be a good person when they so clearly weren’t. Well, I (luckily) was so so so so so so so wrong about that, as it was all a setup, a plan devised by Aventurine to distract Sunday and forward their goals. I’ve never been happier, and suddenly every weird behavior, every “this doesn’t make sense” goes from “bad writing” to perhaps one of my favorite retroactive twists in fiction.
Ratio belittling Aventurine for his background doesn’t make any sense, I mean we literally saw the guy give a whole ass speech about how he believes all people deserve access to knowledge and that everyone is capable of being creative and having intellect, but that they just have to try for it, and if they are incapable of it, he DOCTOR Ratio is there to lend a helping hand. To cure the galaxy of stupidity, something which he views as not the lack of knowledge but rather the misuse and misinterpretation of it, how he depises the Genius Society because they mostly do not try and use their intellect from the betterment of other, and actively guide/encourage other scientists (and in Hertas case the researchers at the space station) to view knowledge as some sort of prize or commodity rather than tool. This notion is what causes Screwellum to acknowledge that Ratio is more like a medical doctor than a scholar. And this notion is something Sunday Isn’t Aware Of.
Sunday doesn’t know who Ratio really is, he may have heard of his various exploits, but Ratio has a reputation for arrogance, bluntness and insensitivity, something which Ratio plays up to the nines. The 2.0 scene with Aventurine goes from seemingly massively OOC for Ratio to him actively playing up his negative reputation to play into Sundays perceptions of the pair for their plan. Ratio->
a) makes it seem like Aventurine fucked up and he’s mad at him for losing the cornerstones, something which Sunday would see and go “hmm they don’t like each other
b) this “oh I can drive a wedge between them” notion gets worse (although in their case better) when Ratio brings up Aventurine’s (not entirely accurate) background. Sunday now thinks he has leverage over Aventurine and even more of a chance of getting Ratio to betray him. Ratio also makes it seem like he just learned this information by stating he “did his homework” and this supposed unfamiliarity with one another would give Sunday more confidence to try and drive a wedge between them
c) this makes it seem like the IPC are unaware of the Families constant surveillance, as it looks like they are having an important conversation in a private room, which would make Sunday think they are unaware of his eyes and ears everywhere
Now let me qualify this notion with more evidence because you could still try and argue that the deal Ratio and Aventurine struck was post 2.0 argument
Topaz (my glorious Queen). At the end of the 1.4 (or was it 1.5?) Belabog quest she has a conversation with Aventurine in which he requests for her help in Penacony, and we do not get a confirmation on if she said yes or not. Until 2.1, in which the the Topaz (and Jade) stone in in Aventurines possession, meaning she took him up on that offer prior to 2.0 because how else would he bring multiple cornerstones there, which we know there are many because Ratio says he lost the cornerstones, not just his own. Topaz would not give this item up easily or on a whim in between 2.0 and 2.1, meaning she would have to be let in on his plan prior, meaning the plan was formed prior. Since Ratio was also assigned to this mission keeping him in the dark would make negative sense and actively undermine their collaboration, something which he brings up in their fake argument
2. The Final Victory Lightcone. I originally thought this scene to be after their argument for complicated reasons, the most important of which being the minor snippet of conversation we see between Ratio and Aventurine during the first time we meet Acheron. Aventurine mentions 3 chips, Ratio doubts him, and the lightcone description starts with Aventurine questioning his doubt and firing three shots, a perfect correlation that made me place the order of events in that way. However, we get to see the snippet of conversation between Aventurine and Ratio in game, right before they meet Sunday, not prior to the lightcone events. However, they are still clearly connected for aforementioned reasons, just in a different manner, let me explain. Now we know the three chips reference not bullets but the three cornerstones, and Ratio openly expresses his doubt because the family is always watching (something which I will get into) and because a part of him does doubt this plan will go well. However, Aventurine prior reminds him of the events of the lightcone with the three chips. My interpretation is that Aventurine took that gamble in the lightcone to convince Ratio to go along with his crazy plan since if he can win a game of Russian Roulette with an unwavering smile on his face he an insane gamble means nothing to him (ratio doesn’t buy it because it’s ratio but the sheer audacity or you could say the “charming audacity” makes him go along with it). In my opinion this scene only makes sense pre-penacony, due to the timeline of events, which is why I believe it the reason for the events in it has to be Aventurine trying to convince Ratio to join in.
3) The family is always watching. During the 2.1 story quest it gets brought up several times in many different ways that it seems like the family has eyes on everything and everyone. Sunday’s fuckass bird is everywhere, and the man himself (minus being a goddamn biblically accurate angel) is covered in eye shaped shit and possesses close ties with the Harmony, which lends itself well to a character that knows things considering the Aeon itself is a conglomeration of many different perspectives. He fucking perception checks Aventurine, when the crew goes to look for info on firefly they learn the dream pools monitor people’s vitals and everything, even producing a dialogue option where the trailblazer states they feel like their every move is being watched. Topaz gets stalked by bloodhound members upon arrival, I could go on. TLDR Sunday knows almost everything that’s going on in Penacony, this is what leads him to believe the traitor is within the family, and his access to knowledge is something the IPC 100% knows about. I mean they have been presumably attempting to try and get it back for a while, and they would reasonably extensively try and learn everything about it. The Family notoriously hates negotiating with them so the IPC either learning and/or coming to the conclusion that the Family is watching their every move isn’t a ridiculous notion. If this conversation was genuine, if Ratio truly wanted to discuss this matter with Aventurine, why would he do it in a likely wiretapped, not very soundproof room where any passerby could hear Ratio loudly exclaim that Aventurine lost the very important cornerstones and that he is also one of the most despised groups in the galaxy because that would really do numbers for both their reputations. If you think about it, this not being staged is an incredibly stupid blunder on Ratio’s end (minus the deliberate OOCness) because of all the places Ratio could set up a very important meeting he does it in one of the worst places ever.
4) The dialogue in the scene. It’s awkward, it’s so awkward and the whole “also my family died I didn’t get an education” seemed so tacked on the first time I watched it. Knowing now, it seemed so tacked on because it was, Aventurine had to shove the info in there somewhere and their incredible conversational skills decided that was the best part in there. Ratio fucking leaving before Aventurine is even done talking goes from a “huh weird” to a “wow he is really playing up this arrogant scholar role”. And if Ratio is playing the arrogant scholar, Aventurine is playing the dumb, helpless, blonde to a T. Losing the cornerstones and acting nonchalant about it, letting Ratio insult him so callously and letting the insults slide, talking absolute nonsense at the end about random things that don’t matter, sadly lamenting into the distance that he’s alone again. Bro is playing it up and I live for it. They also and play up these personas in their little adventure prior to meeting Sunday, Aventurine asks stupid questions like wondering about the species of the bird that make up the statues and talking about how he wants to play in the sandpit and even insulting Sunday a bit, behavior that would make Sunday think him unprepared and unserious rather than cold and calculating. If Aventurine does that well, Ratio plays up his arrogant, uncaring scholar persona to the nines. He insults any and every decision or thing Aventurine does, loudly sighing of how happy he is to finally have some peace and quiet when Aventurine leaves his sight for 0.00008 milleseconds, pointing out his sarcasm, beefing with a random Pepeshi bodyguard no reason, pointing out his sarcasm, just the exaggerated way he talks in general, and suggesting he admit Aventurine into the Genius Society (even Ratio wouldn’t stoop so low as to suggest Aventurine was worthy of that).
Moreover, this is really, really tragic because I do think there are several moments of genuine banter and fun the two share “Ratio, you’re huge!” was not added to the script to enhance the plot guys. And obviously Aventurine knows most of Ratios behavior is acting, however he has such severe trust issues, and Ratio is so damn straightforward and blunt that he worries the man was serious about some of it which just breaks my heart. Soft Ratio please add it give me one conversation, the note at the end of 2.1 doesn’t count it’s too short.
Ultimately, knowing what I know now I can’t help but view the 2.0 conversation with Aventurine as being anything but staged, it simply makes no sense otherwise, and it happily obsolescent Ratio of his sins. This was a bit incoherent I honestly just wanted to rant (if you couldn’t tell haha) but I hope you enjoyed it regardless. I need sincere Ratio more then I need oxygen and I’m not afraid to say it.
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klineinie · 3 months
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𝐣𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐞 (𝐨𝐡, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡)
⤷ jubilee, a celebration of the passage of time ( and how all this, the good and bad, brings luke back to you) / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader
⤷ friends to lovers relationship study, whump moments, first love (twice), luke lives but with amnesia au + all titles referenced from the jubilee album by japanese breakfast
⤷ notes; pheww first fic of 2024 and it's long, the lockwood to pjo pipeline got me bad... please note that while i did read the books (in third grade), i chose to selectively ignore canon and aspects of luke's character, so things might be ooc asf
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♫ — posing for cars (woke from a dream in which you left me)
There are words first— muffled, swimming through his eardrums in the way that conch shells catch a tidal song in the waves, or how the sand grains that pass through the fingertips of children are just ten million quarter-fragments of unrealized history.
It feels like a veil laid over his senses, being submerged in water for too long, the pull of sleep waiting at the abyss between dreams and memory.
A voice says, quiet and dark, the gathering clouds on a horizon, a promise of a storm, “Luke Castellan will carry on a hero, but his crimes must be acknowledged.”
Another, low like the pulling tide, “Indeed. My son was quite adamant about his fate— we gods owe a debt, and I know you well enough to understand that you are eager to settle things quickly, brother.”
A pause in conversation, like a break in script for the characters to ponder. The veil of silence scratches against his damaged ears, crackles in the empty space like collisions between hydrogen atoms at the beginnings of a star’s birth.
“I’ve reached a decision. Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, will have his memories and dreams revoked until this council no longer deems him a threat. It is a far less cruel fate compared to others over the eons.”
Not a single protest, no curves or bumps in an otherwise linear road. Sound lies dead in the still air.
“Very well then,” says the thundercloud voice contentedly, “let him return.”
( He won’t remember much when he wakes up, only the voices and dulling pain and light— pre-dawn rays that play over his lax face, shine through the flesh of his eyelids so that his sight can be granted the small mercy to have something to fade to black from. )
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♫ — paprika (lucidity came slowly)
It’s really like a dream about falling, in a way. The fact, fleeting when he grasps it, tells him that his body is shutting down faster than his mind can keep up with, so it must fire an abrupt signal through his neurons in order to jerk him awake.
Luke Castellan lands, back bouncing upon the springs of a mattress as he’s jerked to consciousness.
Eight billion people on the planet and the first thing etched onto the blank slate of his mind is the rise of your brow and the scent of medicinal honey.
The dawn brings with it rays of light that slip over the curve of your face and refract through your irises golden, Midas-touched.
Eight billion people.
You.
( Seconds can feel like lifetimes. He only needs two to commit all of you to memory, the curve of your nose and the slant of your lips and the shape of your eyes, how the sun tilts shadows and highlights over the geometry of your features. )
“You…” He searches for the words, sifting through the little information left in his mind to try to compare this situation to something similar. He comes back with nothing.
“You’re awake,” you finish for him, and your voice makes his eyes flutter, a viscous substance sinking him deeper into a space removed from lucidity. Your face draws in on itself. “It’s too early, go back to sleep.”
He finds two of your knuckles lightly tapping the space between his eyes before they roll back as he falls once again into the dark abyss of sleep.
-✦✦✦-
“Chiron,” you whisper once Luke’s breaths deepen, gazing into the dawn through a windowpane, fingers sticky with the gold honey you’ve been smearing onto gauze, “what are we going to do with him?”
The centaur only shakes his head mournfully. “Even I myself am not sure. The gods have their own reasons for this.”
“They’re terrible at reasoning, then.”
Chiron’s mouth is a steady gash beneath his beard. “I can’t say that I disagree, child.”
Your hum of acknowledgment is curt, short in the way a dagger’s blade is sharpened and shaped. Chiron’s reflection in the pane nods in a silent goodbye before his shadow fades away to check on the other campers.
The room is silent now, save for the occasional stirring breaths from Luke. He shifts ever-so-slightly, sheets rippling around the familiar curve of his body.
You stop momentarily to gaze at the way his lengthy limbs splay crescent amongst the honey-soaked bandages that grace his skin, knowing that when he wakes again, he won’t find familiar comfort in anything, a discordant note standing out in an otherwise harmonious symphony.
You let him sleep, a stutter in routine wrapped with mercy and forgiveness. Shadows flit past the pane once again, the Apollo cabin by the singsong way they talk amongst each other.
They’re here for the bandages slathered in antibacterial honey, the smell hanging tangy and sharp in the air; a few linger in the doorway to glance at you in pity, Luke in wariness. You expect everyone to know now about what their parents decided to do to him.
Will Solace’s eyes meets yours momentarily, the blue of them shining crystalline in the dawn like the shallows of a sun-soaked beach. They glitter when he blinks, once at Luke, twice at you, thrice in understanding as he offers a small smile of thanks; a wish of good luck is tucked into the secret fold of his lips.
( You’ll probably need it. )
Luke makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat when he wakes. It’s a struggle for him to open his eyes— you know this because you’d administered to him a small amount of honey infused with a sedative when Chiron had first carried his limp and broken body through the door.
“You’re awake,” you repeat, a ghost of words, voice dipping low as to not startle him. Luke slowly claws his way out of the sheets, blinking dazed in the afternoon light. His eyes focus on yours in a haze.
“Who…”
“Am I, who are you, where are you?” you finish for him again, an old habit that never found its way to dying hard. He offers out his arm instinctively, trusting, when yours reaches out to pick at the corner of a peeling bandage.
Your fingertips, deft, are still wet with honey when you peel back the dressing wrapped around his underarm. The dagger wound there is nasty, but the draining ooze and pinkening skin means that it’s healing, and that the ambrosia worked.
“Yea,” he says around a cardboard tongue, reaching stiffly with his free hand to grasp shakily at a cup of water on the nightstand. He swallows it in a single backwards knock of his head and dabs at the corner of his lips with his wrist. “Everything you just said.”
Your mouth turns up, a beckoning lamp to his moth of curiosity. “Your name,” you start, “is Luke Castellan, child of Hermes.”
“Like the herald?”
“You remember your mythology. That’s good, it means you’ll have a better time adjusting.” Luke averts his eyes at the comment, ears shining pink. You continue. “I’m a child of Aristaeus, a minor god— he’s the patron of rustic stuff like beekeeping and home crafts, basically Demeter if she was a male who loved the cottage life.”
He snorts, childish, and it feels like you’re twelve all over again, rolling in the fields, mouths smeared pink with juice and strawberry seeds embedded in your tongues. The taste of your first summer with Luke still lingers unsoured at the back of your mouth.
“So,” he says while you pull off his old wound wrappings, “let me get this straight. You and I—” he gestures with a finger “—are like demigods or something, as in Perseus and Heracles?”
You nod. “Except Perseus and Heracles are—”
“Zeus’ kids, and we have different parents, yea.”
“I expected you to be calm, but not this calm.”
Luke’s face blooms into a tight grin, cracked and curled with a wilt at the edges, and it’s noticeable, the way his eye twitches. “I’m processing. Sorry, it’s just going so fast and I don’t know what to ask first, I…”
He sighs, frustration bleeding into his voice.
“‘How do I start’, you mean?”
Luke hums, a little sound that vibrates through the air, hangs like the first notes to a hymn. “Did we…know each other?”
“Everyone here knew you.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” and then again, “did we know each other?”
You turn to the window, silent, mind lingering on that grove a little ways from the strawberry fields, where the persimmons hang ripe during cold season and little camellias unfurl, an assurance of the coming spring.
“Yea,” you breath, a little puff of air that fogs the glass pane, like mist settling superimposed over the meadow outside, “you could say it like that.”
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♫ — tactics (memories of peaches, the sun on my neck)
You’d just turned fourteen when you first set eyes on him, all downy black waves of hair and dirt-smeared cheeks. He’s holding back tears, a glittering film of saline that obscures the deep brown of his irises; a little girl is tucked shivering into his side, wise eyes peering through dark curls— she can’t be more than six or seven. One of the newer satyrs, Grover, stands behind them, head tilted downward in shame.
Luke Castellan, Hermes, and Annabeth Chase, Athena, their names escape his mouth trembling like broken-winged birds trying and failing to flutter off south in the winter, but Thalia, she—
( There’s a new tree on the hill, looming tall amidst the gathering clouds that promise rain. Power radiates from it in waves, blanketing the camp in a humidity reminiscent of late Long Island summers. Ah, how uninspired of Olympus’ king. )
You follow in the wake of Chiron’s tail as he escorts them to the Big House infirmary, giving time to the Hermes and Athena cabins to prepare. Some of the Apollo kids are there already, restocking supplies; one with flaxen hair hands off two orange shirts and leather strings to the newcomers, and another with honeyed eyes dabs alcohol-drenched cotton over their lacerations.
“Do you want tea?” you ask when the old centaur’s tail flicks against your back, a signal to break the web of silence. “I have, uh…well, I only have chamomile right now.”
Annabeth nods quickly, lips pressed together as a chill passes through the infirmary window. Luke gives you a sidelong glance, wary. The curtains ripple in the night air, allowing the moon to lay soft on the curves of Luke’s face.
It gives him a somber look with the way the cold light paints his burnished edges, like clothes hung too long on a line, colors bleached away by the sun.
“What about you?” you ask, a murmur carried slow in the eddies of air left by the medics’ departing wake. “Honey, sugar, milk?”
“Whatever you want,” he responds curtly, mouth set in a line as hard as marble, bearing resemblance to the statues carved stoic in museums.
You huff lightly, already retreating to the kitchen. “Alright.”
Chiron clears his throat, steps forward and leans down kindly to meet Luke’s gaze halfway. They talk in quiet tones, secrets sewn into a memory only they will know.
Annabeth shuffles close behind you— she’s taller than you had been at seven, the top of her head just inches from your shoulder.
“Luke likes sweet things,” she admits, arms crossed in a loose defense, guarded when she glances at the dark windows. “I saw him eat three chocolate bars in a row before.”
“Really?” you laugh, soft in the way snow falls on Half-Blood Hill in the winter. “I never would’ve guessed.” She nods, lets down her arms. You step aside, making room for her to watch the kettle come to a boil, fascinated with how the dried leaves unfurl under the pouring braid of water. “First time having tea?”
“I had coffee before, it wasn’t that good,” she says. “Can I try it plain first, then add things until I like it?”
“Sure,” it’s a quickfire response. You’ve never met another kid so engaged in the art of tea making, whether they were acting or not. It’s a nice change of pace. “I think Chiron’ll live if we have a little sugar. Careful, don’t burn your tongue.”
Annabeth blows gingerly at the amber liquid, smiling at how the steam parts to make way for her slipstream breaths. She takes a small lap and you laugh at the face she makes.
“Wanna try some honey I made?”
She nods, eager to experiment. You grab a spoon, dipping it into the jar Chiron keeps at the counter, a gift from you to celebrate your claiming. Annabeth’s eyes glitter when the taste diffuses across her mouth.
“Hypothesis,” she offers, a true gem of intelligence, “I’ll like tea with honey only.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I think milk tastes gross, ‘specially whole milk. Chamomile is meant to be calming, so sugar would probably do the opposite.”
You grin, brows raised, when she hops to the cutlery drawer, pulling out a clean utensil to scoop more honey into her drink. She uses the spoon she’d already licked to stir, taking sips between additions to get a hang of the flavor.
Four spoons later, Annabeth nods in satisfaction. She studies the detailing on the utensil's handle, memorizing each cut in the silverware, curls bobbing along to each tilt of her head. “I’m remembering which spoon I used so I can get the same combination next time,” she says when you glance at her curiously.
“I’m happy you like it.”
She peers at you again, dark eyes flashing with a flame you’d find in someone older than their years. “I like you and your tea and your honey. You’re nice, a lot nicer than other older kids. Just like Luke.”
You smile at the compliment, warmth blooming in your chest, seeping past that ribbed cage of bone and spreading to the tips of your fingers. “Thanks.”
“We just met, but I think we’ll be really close, like siblings.”
Straight to a point, six steps ahead; that’s what you glean from Annabeth Chase. You can tell she’ll fit right in with the other Athena campers, maybe even make it to counselor; you know that the day she surpasses you is inevitable.
“I’d love that.”
-✦✦✦-
Luke can hear everything. It’s a thing he’s trained himself to do, a hunter’s skill honed, practiced, and perfected. Chiron only speaks a few words to him, condolences and basic camp rules. Says that his half-siblings will always be there for him, extend a guiding hand when the tunnel loses light.
( He doesn’t believe the centaur. )
He slides out from the doorway he’s been lurking behind, the shadows clinging to his shoulders, leaving their little imaginary claws in the fabric of his camp shirt.
Luke takes in the sight of Annabeth’s little form swathed in orange, perched on a chair with the toes of her shoes dangling a breadth above the floor. She’s sleeping, cheek pressed against the oaken table surface, cornerfolds of her lips sticky with content by the way they curl upwards.
The chamomile and honey combination must have done wonders for the demigod child. He’s glad, a joy that unfurls like tea leaves in his chest, that she’ll be able to sleep full nights at camp.
“Your tea’s starting to chill.”
Luke meets your gaze, irises overlaid with the warm tone of the ceiling lights, the dual beads wrapped around the leather of your necklace glimmering and gold-spun; Midas-touched in the way the sun shines through the veins of dappled leaves.
He threads his hand under the mug’s handle, cradling the warm glass in his cold palm. The tea is amber, the color of dried ichor, spilt godsblood, hazy with the addition of honey and sugar.
“Thanks,” he says, staring at how the liquid eddies with every tilt of his hand. “Chamomile, right?”
You nod, a light hum escaping the column of your throat as you slide into the seat beside Annabeth. You join her in resting your head against the table, watching her at peace, wood lacquer gleaming under your skin in a haze.
“It’s good for sleep. The Demeter kids let me pick some from their gardens,” you say, an offer for him to walk right into your life. “And I made the honey myself.”
“Who’s your parent?” he asks, curiosity an overwhelming tide that flows over him.
“A minor god,” you share, words pungent at the seams, a bite of rind. “Aristaeus. He does beekeeping and handy stuff— Chiron says that it’s close to something called smallholding.”
“You don’t have a cabin, then.” Your expression blooms into a bitter one; Luke didn’t mean for it to come out almost cruel. “Sorry,” he apologizes, stitching a tear before it gets too big.
“It’s okay, I’m used to it. I don’t really wish I had one to be honest, because I’d be alone in there. At least in the Hermes cabin, it’s warm at night ‘cause of everyone’s body heat. You’re a Hermes kid, aren’t you?”
“Yea.” The silence is a break in script so that Luke can finish his cold tea. The glass makes no sound when it’s placed back onto the table, beads of amber liquid distorted at the bottom. “It’s good. Sweet.”
“Annabeth told me that you had a sweet tooth,” you admit, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes are brown, the shade of toiled, nutrient-rich earth— the kind of soil that’d give year-round growth without tiring.
Luke chuckles under his breath, looking at the aforementioned girl with a swirl of fondness in his irises. “Snitch.”
-✦✦✦-
Two summers pass in a blur. You and Luke are sixteen, Annabeth, nine. She grows in height and prowess, climbing the ranks of the Athena cabin. You hear that they’re planning an election for the next counselor as the current one prepares to leave the nest for college.
“Don’t tell me you grew another two inches overnight,” Luke grumbles when Annabeth bounds up to the two of you. She’s fitted in a bronze chest-plate, blue paint smeared over it, and she grins when the boy tugs at the leather straps. “Wow, I wish I had this for the last game.”
Chiron strolls by, pats Annabeth warmly on the shoulder. “This is a good piece of armor. I can see it serving you well.”
When the centaur is far enough, Luke leans in between you and Annabeth, hand shielding his mouth. “I heard Clarisse’s new spear is electric. Travis got too close last Friday, said it hurt like a—” he looks past your shoulder to make sure Chiron is out of earshot; by the face he makes, wide-eyed and meek, he’s been caught “—ahem, he was out for the rest of the game.”
Annabeth makes a face. “I thought Hermes was Team Red last time. We beat and picked you for the next game, remember?”
“Yea, you did.” You cringe at the reminder, the unhealed bruise on your lower back throbbing purple and dark, a sore reminder of being pushed to the ground by a Dionysus kid. Luke thumbs his brow, the beginnings of a faint white scar carving its way into his skin. He says that he tripped over and cut himself on a prank wire that Travis and his newly-arrived brother had set up, in the middle of friendly territory.
The younger girl says, brows furrowing and lip curled in bewilderment, “Did Clarisse at least get punished? It’s against the rules to attack an ally.”
Luke scoffs lightheartedly, rubbing slim fingers over his knuckles. They’re bruised from hand-to-hand practice, little blushing peaks of tendon and bone. “Travis was just making a big deal out of it, you know how he is.”
You hum a note of agreement. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knocked himself out on purpose every time Hermes had to play with Ares.”
“I think he’s been out— or at least let himself get captured— three of the last five times we’ve played Red.”
“No way. He should’ve been on dishwashing duty instead of me! I say ‘fuck’ once and I’m arms deep in lava, he cheats out of Flag and gets pampered in the infirmary?”
“That’s because Chiron caught you saying it in front of a six-year-old,” Luke laughs, jostling your shoulder with his, warmth pressing into your side. His lips are peeled all the way back in a grin, eyes crescent slivers of joy and lashes brushing soft against his sun-drunk freckles. Like shimmering crow’s feathers.
You manage to wrap an arm loosely around his neck, holding him in a headlock that you know he can easily worm his way out of, knuckles finding home against his scalp. Annabeth looks towards the sky in exasperation, rolling her leather cord in her fingers, the two beads clacking against her father’s ring. “And who was it that swept my feet out, huh?”
“Oh please, you knew you were going to lose, champ.”
“‘Champ’ this, ‘champ’ that— just wait ‘til my bees get their stingers in you, Castellan, just you wait.”
-✦✦✦-
“Did you…” Luke trails off, like the wispy end of twine after being pulled too tight, stretched too wide. A clear snap in the middle, two limp pieces of string; one for before the war, one for the aftermath.
He shifts a little in the bed, sheets crinkling paper-like, wound dressing gone save for the little sticky spots of honey and medical-grade adhesive. His mouth clicks damp when he opens it again. “Was I loved?”
“Very.”
-✦✦✦-
A quarter-mile off from the Big House is the Big Shed (real funny name, hilarious, in fact), smack-dab in the middle of the verdant strawberry fields. The wood panels are painted robin’s egg, the same shade as the house, blue in the way the sky passes over camp during high noon.
It’s spacious, interior lacquered dark, cobwebs in the corners gleaming like star-spun gold when you creak the door open on a midwinter dawn. Luke yawns from behind you.
“Don't know why it’s called the ‘Big Shed’ when it’s more like a ‘Mid-Sized Cottage,’” he says, voice already creaking at the edges with puberty. He’s already gained a few inches too. “If you packed them like sardines, you could fit all the unclaimed and minor gods’ kids in here.”
“You mention this to anyone and I’ll be the one attacking allies next flag day. Chiron’s letting me use the shed for beekeeping and stuff, I don’t need a would-be Ares wrecking it up.”
“You have an unusual animosity towards the Ares cabin,” Luke tells you, swaying around in the wide space.
The dust suspended in the air shines white, luminated by the sunlight streaming in through the two windows built into the shed-slash-cottage; it coats him in a sharp and angelic glow, like exposure and brightness turned too high on a developing photo.
“Annabeth taught you that word, didn’t she?” you sigh, flipping an old lance in the corner, using the butt-end of it to take down the spun-gold webs. “I only dislike Ares’ kids because they go for your ankles with the blade’s flat side. Makes them bruise, and then you can’t run very fast the next game.”
“Aw, poor you. Need me to kiss it better, champ?” he says with sarcasm dripping off the honeycomb of his voice, holding the sheathed end of his sword to bat at the ceiling corners.
“If you’re fine with licking the blood-n-sweat-soaked heel of my sock, then feel free to go wild, Castellan.”
It’s easy to be with Luke; oftentimes, you find that your breaths fall into perfect step with his. Even if one or the other of you goes a little faster, your beats still match, syncopation; a musician could keep a time signature or compose a romantic waltz to it, whichever of the two.
Luke breaks the silence first, cracks it in the middle like spiderwebbed ice under the quicksilver blades of a skater. “I’m…going on a quest. I’ll be gone by the time spring ends and come back in the summer.”
“Oh.” You wish you could say more, but suddenly you’ve become Sisyphus, punished by the divine with the boulder lodged in your throat that is too heavy to push through. All you can manage without the weight crashing down is a stupid, “You’re leaving?”
“Only for a couple months. I thought against it at first, but my dad offered me the quest and I couldn’t refuse,” he shares, sheepishly palming the back of his neck. “I can take care of myself, you know. You don’t need to worry.”
Now that you’re looking at him, somber in the pale morning rays, you can see every second of the sixteen years and ten months eroded onto his face. He looks older than he should be, burdened with the stress of being a demigod.
The light shifts over his features as the sun reaches greater heights, bruised shadows spilling out from the sharp angles that all of Hermes’ children have.
“No,” you stammer, “no, why would I be worried? I know you’re good, better than me, even.”
“Don’t say that. You’re amazing too.” Luke gazes up through his fan of crow’s feather lashes. You don’t miss the way they shine dimly, wet with unshed tears. He laughs through it, blinking quickly as to not let the saline film burst. “You’ll make sure no one steals my bunk though, right? And you’ll burn offerings in my place?”
“Yea,” you breathe, the word condensed into a puff of icy air. It billows white, clouds your vision momentarily in a blizzard-like haze. When you come back from it, Luke is still there in front of you, eyes red, Adam’s apple bobbing in a muddle of emotion. “Course I will. You’d do the same.”
“Thanks,” he whispers. A spot of water falls at his feet, washing away a small dot of the dust that coats the floor. “I’ll bring enough drachmas so that I can Iris Message you whenever I’m safe.”
“You better. When you’re back, we can hang out in here. I’ll have a proper beehive outside by then, and I’ll borrow a loom and a spinner from the Athena cabin so I can teach you how to make yarn. We can weave a blanket together for Annabeth in time for fall,” you muse, to which Luke smiles at the thought, soft like the snow that blankets Thalia’s evergreen needles.
“Threatening me with a good time, champ? I might just want to come back in one piece.”
You breeze past the joke, taking a gliding step towards him, closing the gap, bridging the abyss. You both crumple to the floor entangled in each other’s arms, your head pressed underneath the jut of his chin.
The three painted beads of his necklace tickle your lashes. From here, with your forehead against the column of his neck, you can feel how his jugular pulses faster with the pump of blood that keeps him alive. The wandering point of your nose, a compass, finds its true north in the hollow between his collarbones; Luke curls closer, words unspoken, the tracing shapes of his fingers against your back a promise in a language only the two of you understand.
-✦✦✦-
“I have this feeling,” he confesses suddenly, years into the future, soil-rich irises soaked in hope. “That we’re like opposite poles of the same magnet. Like I’ve seen you in a dream that I can’t really remember or you’re a face that I’ll always look for in a crowd. You know what I mean?”
-✦✦✦-
Silence in a hazy dawn, lit by the midwinter sun, dust angels dancing around your melded frames on the floor. Then—
“I’ll wait for you.”
It’s all he needs to cup your face, place his lips on your temple. Luke lets himself be selfish just this once, the bitterness in his chest simmering down as if you’re the dying flame controlling its boil. You leave a kiss on the corner of his jaw, just underneath the thin lobe of his ear where the sun shines through it and paints his neck a blushing red.
( To Luke, it’s a blessing from you, worth far more than his father’s. )
He doesn’t need to say I love you, nor do you. You both know it already, like a forgotten dream resurfacing at the right time, déjà rêvé.
-✦✦✦-
“Yea,” you breathe, the words diffusing through the still air of the Mid-Sized Cottage. The beehive outside buzzes excitedly, a light breeze from an open window twanging at the wool fibers hung taunt on the spinning wheel, brushing over the empty loom, its return to the Athena cabin long overdue. “I know the feeling.”
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♫ — kokomo (though it may not last, just know that i’ll be here longing)
Luke keeps his promise, comes back the next summer now seventeen years old with a dragon’s claw in his fist. A scar runs from his eye like a tear track, splits his cheek, a single bolt of lightning.
He wades through the whispers and rumors, swims through the crowd in a straight shot to the cabin so that he can flop onto the bunk you saved for him and drift off in a dream about weaving looms and wool blankets.
You jump up when the entire cabin cheers as he walks through the doors, silhouetted by the midsummer rays. Luke sees that you’ve changed too, a little wiser, spine a bit longer, eyebags deeper and new scars littering your fingers like a healing constellation.
Later you open your palm, a bead resting in the bed of your flesh like a pearl in an oyster— he pulls you close by the waist into a corner and kisses you in earnest thanks, for getting an extra bead for him and for saving his bunk, the offerings, the messages, your love.
“I took in a new hive,” you whisper to him that night, cradled under the feather-soft down of his duvet. His knuckles brush over your scars, like five little Halfblood Hills blushed pink with dusk scraping at a star-freckled sky. “They make a habit of stinging. And then it gets itchy after.”
( You’d told him sheepishly during an Iris Message that you’d given up your own bunk to a little kid no older than four; he had just smiled sweetly, knowing you could never resist a child’s puppy eyes.
You can sleep in my bunk, Luke had told you, shimmering crystalline in the rainbow’s refraction, prismatic. It’s one way to make sure no one steals it. And when I get back, it won’t be so cold at night.
Didn’t realize you were such a flirt, Castellan.
You remember that he had winked, cheeky, like he was the male lead of some Hallmark romcom. It’s the natural Hermes charm, champ. )
-✦✦✦-
You’re tracing the soft pink outline of his scar when it hits you like a freight train. You realize then that he’s changed, gone through some kind of metamorphosis during his quest; it had been so subtle and overarching that it’d completely washed over you for a good couple of weeks; the occurrences had become so common, unremarkable and predictable like a flock of geese flying south for the winter that you hadn’t thought anything of it.
It’s not like you don’t understand that people change as time ticks on.
You know that your skin has started to prickle with cactus needles as your abilities grew with the increase in risk; Annabeth’s behavior is trending on the moody side with every new camper, waiting still for the day she can prove herself— she likes coffee now too; hell, even Clarisse calms down, temper dimming down to a low, simmering boil.
And Luke…. Call it intuition, hypothesis, whatever— you only know, a fact engraved so deep in your dermis that it punctures muscle and scrapes bone, that something’s wrong. But you trust, still, that you both will hang on, hold fast, brave the storm like all the heroes that came before you.
But the thing is, heroes don’t live happy. Perseus will turn himself to stone with the very weapon that bestowed upon him glory; Heracles will die deceived, betrayed by the unwitting hand of his lover; Achilles will perish in a ruined city, the indestructible man shattered by something so little and insignificant as a spear-pointed arrowhead.
Heroes don’t live happy, but Luke isn’t a hero.
You know this, a memory from the night he came back, woven in the dark warmness of the Hermes cabin, a tapestry of sleep-mussed mumbles.
You remember how he woke with a bare, rattling gasp, the raw and sandpaper-dry tremble of it reminding you of the sound that people make when they’re close to death.
“I failed,” he whispers into your skin when the rush of it ebbs, a sanctuary of truth. Luke swallows gasps between his words. “I wasn’t ready, wasn’t strong enough. He sent me to Hesperides, y’know? Told me about the apples, said that if I could get one for him, he’d share it with me.”
You hum in sympathy— a comforting hymn, balm against a bruise, kissing it better— thread your fingers through his hair and watch how the moonlight shines on the black strands. White and black, a sneer of ink on parchment by a careless hand.
“You wanted immortality from it?”
“No,” he says, quieter, a little wet sound wrenching from his throat, and you know, in a reminiscent daze, that this’ll be the last you see of him like this, vulnerable. “I just wanted to see if he’d still be proud of me.”
Luke isn’t a hero, and the whole of camp knows this, locks it away in their Pandora’s box of open secrets. But Luke isn’t happy either, so the habit you’ve grown of burning extra offerings never dies.
You think of it as a cumulative toast, of sorts, to the gods that never cared, hopes mixed into the divine ash like poison in wine.
-✦✦✦-
Luke disappears midway through the field trip to Olympus. Your fingertips are left cold in your coat pockets despite the crackling energy generated by Zeus’ domain, and it’s not until later in the elevator ride down do they warm up again.
He slips through the gaps to fill the one beside you, slides his hand into your pocket and twines your fingers together; you don’t miss how his sword-calloused palm pops with static at the contact with your skin. You ignore it and try not to flinch at the quick, needle-like pierce of pain.
“Sorry, I had to use the bathroom. Ate something bad at breakfast,” he murmurs, leaning into your side to kiss your cheek, curls brushing against your temple. Luke rests an arm along the horizon of your shoulders, slim fingers toying with your leather cord, watching how the seven beads— two more than his own— slide back and forth on the string.
“Do they even have toilets up there?” you whisper, amusement bleeding into the corners of your voice. “Ambrosia and nectar don’t really get digested normally, so I just assumed that gods never really needed to poop unless they did it on purpose.”
“You’re right,” he says between breathy laughs, wispy with the winded heaves of his chest, “Zeus probably wouldn’t look so high and mighty if everyone saw him hunched over in the middle of a shit. And to answer your question, the seats are solid gold.”
“Absolute insanity.”
-✦✦✦-
Percy Jackson is a sprightly boy of twelve, everything about him cool-toned in the way the sun shines and refracts under the sea’s waves. When Grover stumbles into camp dragging the demigod by the armpits, shouting of Minotaur horns and flipped cars and moms dissolving into clouds of ichor-hued dust, people obviously take interest. Especially Annabeth. And on a sourer note, Clarisse too.
Even Luke, who’d been in a deeply sullen mood, had turned his face up to the angle where the light played over his eyes just right, irises shining a liquid gold, amber and gilded, Midas-touched with something you’d only learned to identify as a revelation.
What kind, you weren’t sure, but it stung as badly as taking in a new hive, to know that your efforts to cheer him up were undermined by something as commonplace as a new arrival.
Though, you swear to yourself then that you don’t hate Percy for that. You get where he’s coming from, the sinking feeling of neglection because he’s unclaimed, the anger that comes with it; you know, too well, how it feels to think you’re unwanted. You’ve been in his shoes for your first year and a half at camp.
But then he gets claimed by Poseidon, and that summer, Luke leaves for good. It’s a flash of events, like a too-fast slideshow that you can’t take notes on or a seconds-long flipbook that took months to complete; you recognize the familiarity of an out-of-body experience when reminiscing about a memory you can’t really remember, the alien tang of it bitter on your tongue.
They talk of his betrayal for months, about how he had tried to kill Percy and his siding with the Titans; the gathering clouds draw close to Thalia’s tree, a promise of a storm and the coming war, a warning to the lightning thief.
You’ve accepted, another fact carved deep enough to shatter bone, pierce your heart, that Luke made a choice, the wrong one; you convince yourself that you made the right one by not blaming Percy for the stares and the whispers, the shoulder-checking and glares that scream about your suspiciousness.
Still, you keep his bed in Cabin 11, burn extra offerings in his place, check the Big House’s fountain for missed Iris Messages. Hope is a bitter thing, like poison in wine. You had swallowed it down anyways.
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♫ — be sweet (make it up to me and know it’s better)
“Where do you go at night?” Luke asks, swathed in his red knit sweater. The weather’s gotten colder still, a far cry from the humidity that had rolled a suffocating blanket over Manhattan on the eighteenth of August— the day he came back to you. His fingers tap a song on the glass in his hands.
“What d’you mean by that?” you deflect, spine shaped gentle in a curve as you sit at the spinning wheel, wool slipstreaming between your deft fingers.
The device makes a soft sound, a shh shh that comes with each press of your foot on the pedal, like a mother hushing a child to sleep. It’s a calming song that he’s used to hearing in the in-betweens of the cottage.
( He doesn’t dream, hasn’t been able to since he woke up that day, but sometimes he thinks he can hear it in his sleep, the hush of wool, like the blades of a rippling meadow rubbing together under a blanket of sun or the friction of a cricket song in the quiet summer.
He thinks that once, you told him that you’d teach him how to spin and use a loom, that you’d weave a blanket together for someone special; as far as he knows, it’s only a figment of his imagination used to fill the blank spaces. )
His thumb strokes the glass arch of his mug’s handle, amber liquid trembling with every movement. “You come at sunrise to take care of your bees or spin yarn and tell me stories, bring me meals and sometimes Chiron comes, and then you leave. If this is meant to be your space, then where do you sleep when I use the bed? Are you being forced to sacrifice your time, caring for me?”
“No one’s forcing me to do anything,” you say quickly with no room for insinuation. Luke realizes the absence of the wheel’s shush, you having stopped to fully lend him attention. You sigh, and it’s heavy, a weight that pulls your chest downward with the exhale; he’s reminded of rain catching leaves and how they sink with each drop. “I sleep in Cabin Eleven. There’s someone I’m waiting on to return, and I’m saving a bunk for him.”
“Who?” he gathers the courage to ask. His chest pangs— is this how monsters feel when their physical essence is ripped apart by Celestial Bronze?
You smile, set down the unspun rove of wool, soft like the waking of dawn, bitter grief sewn into the gentle curl of your lip.
“You. I’m waiting for you, and I always have been.” And the pain ebbs away, assuaging the muscle in his ribbed cage of bone.
“You know,” he starts, staring down into the eddy of tea, swirling with sugar and the honey he had helped you make. The words waterfall from his lips, spilling, escaping like fluttering doves, and you listen patiently— that’s what he loves most about you, among other things. “That on the day I went with you to the cabins, I wandered off while you talked to the Apollo kids. There was this girl, tall with curly hair— she pushed me. And then a guy, he had blue eyes and four beads, helped me up.
“He told me that he forgave me, even though I made the wrong choice. He was with another girl, she had black and blonde braids, one was white— she said that I was a good brother, and to stay out of the inner camp until they get everything sorted out.”
“Clarisse, Percy, Annabeth,” you name them in an exhale, pulling your stool over. He thinks, briefly, of cradling you on the floor in the haze of a midwinter dawn. A dance of dust angels to a silent, harmonizing symphony. “That tracks.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” he mumbles, bringing the mug close to his eyeline. Stares from the glass lip into his warbled reflection, studies the scar he can’t remember getting, watches it twist with each watery ripple. Monstrous. “I can’t remember things for a reason— the gods took that away. I angered them, killed people or something, and they let me live at a cost.”
Your chin dips down in something he can only identify as a mix of shame, reluctance, and grief.
“You can’t dream because it’s how—” and then you fade for a moment like a rove spun so thin that the fibers starts to separate “—you were exploited for vulnerabilities. Your memories, the dreams, they’ve been sealed until Olympus stops seeing you as a threat.”
And then Luke looks down at himself; the pills of wool on his red sweater, how the knit cuffs of his sleeves peel away from each other; the thinned knees of his jeans, washed white with use; the striped socks that clad his feet and the scuffed, extremely creased house-shoes he’s shoved them in.
“I don’t see how I’m a threat.”
It makes you laugh in a huff. He nurses the mug, laps at the last residuals as you continue, maintaining sidelong eye contact.
“To start, Kronos visited your dreams and manipulated you into starting the Second Titan War.”
( You don’t even blink twice when Luke sputters into the glass. )
It’s not even the worst of it, because then you tell him, “You were also blackmailed into taking a bath in the River Styx, then you got possessed, almost revived the Titan King, and at the very end you stabbed yourself in the armpit and exorcised him and somehow, you didn’t die instantly so—” you pause to take a deep breath, winded “—they chose to save you and here we are.”
“You’re lying. There’s no way they’d lift a finger to help the same guy who tried to overthrow them.”
“I didn’t believe it either, but Percy was being serious. He vouched for you.”
“No way.”
You clamp your jaw, seal your mouth and give him a pointed look. It’s all raised brows and pursed lips, bunched shoulders and splayed, shrugging hands. And though he’s dyslexic, he can still read body language to know that your expression is telling him, it is what it is.
Luke makes a face regardless, cards a hand through his black hair, fingers catching on the singular white curl he has, like a smear of correction fluid. “Come on, champ, you really believe that the Olympians would bow down to some demigod?”
“I mean,” you manage, and there’s a faraway haze clouding your irises, reminiscent, scar freckled palms scraping his when you pull the empty mug away, “they did to Percy.”
You trace the lip of the glass absently as Luke folds his hands together, twines his fingers so that the pinkened Halfblood Hills of his knuckles form a pale little valley.
“Okay, okay. Say he did,” he sighs, cupping his face in his palms, the pads of his fingers pressing white into his eyes in the way he always does when he has headaches. “But if the ‘me’ before Kronos saw how much better camp is doing, I’d be less inclined to revenge.”
And then the beats click together, syncopation.
“You think, Castellan?”
“I don’t think, champ, I know.”
You smile, genuine this time, and he takes a moment to engrain that into his mind too, the way your mouth curls upward like the peel of an orange, how your eyes crinkle half-mast into little crescent moons, the lines that are drawn onto your face.
He thinks, that in a past life, you must’ve been a mortal that gods and poets and rulers fell for. His Penelope, Hyacinthus, Psyche, Adonis; your Odysseus, Apollo, Eros, lover.
And Luke says, a whisper that fills the space, gold seeping into the cracked clay of your soul, ichor from the veins of a sun, healing in a spiderweb of scars— kintsugi, “I think I loved you in a life before this.”
You hum, the note of it hanging in the air like a maestro’s hand before a symphony. The small faucet in the Mid-Sized Cottage rushes with life when you turn it on, spilling water into the empty glass, a riptide of bubbles like seafoam. You come back, flicking droplets from your hands, and he swears that he sees you reach into your pocket for something.
“You did— but Luke, you aren’t the same without your memories,” you tell him, voice low, and it feels like dying. “You might have loved me then, but do you now?”
He sinks into a moment of the in-betweens, thinks about honey and ichor-hued tea, the cottage, the loom and spinning wheel, how the hush of it quells the ugliness that rears its head on the bad days.
Remembers how his first seconds felt like eternities, how he’s already spent a lifetime and a half with you; he likes it, and the scar on his face burns with secret greed and shame for wanting.
It all echoes around him, some jubilee of the things he knows, remembers, daydreams about. The half-moon crinkle of your eyes, the strawberry fields at dawn, the cricket song on that late summer night when you stayed in the cottage for once, the silence of your foot lifting off the pedal to listen, and how he wishes to pour all this and more into a flask, get drunk on it every night and feel the high of your kisses.
You extend your hand to him, scars and old sting-marks freckling your skin like a constellation, an untold story that he wants to dive into and never leave.
Cradled in the bed of your palm are two leather cords. One with five beads, the paint flecking off at the edges, and the other blank like a piece of notebook paper ready to be scribbled on, a tale waiting to be written.
Luke folds the first around his wrist and loops the second over his head. He gets the feeling that he’s been here before.
“May I?” You nod and he reaches the pads of his fingers hesitantly to graze the cord that’s wrapped around the column of your neck, studies how the autumn rays overlay the eight beads warm and gilded. “I’m sorry for making you wait three years.”
“That’s alright, I’ve forgiven you already.”
He hates himself for the way your voice cracks easily, hooks the red sleeve of his sweater over his thumb to dab at the tears that gather in your eyes, pale flesh peeking through the soft wool stitches.
Luke promises to himself that though the action is just a smear of antibacterial honey on a gaping dagger-wound, he’ll spend his days patching it up if it meant your happiness.
His hands splays out, the fit of his rough palm against the side of your face like laser-cut puzzle pieces that compliment each other perfectly; he pulls you in gently, the guiding rope to a docking boat swathed in river mist, and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
Luke’s lips part, tongue clicking damp when he whispers into the sanctuary of truth that is your skin, “I think I’ll love you in this life too.”
“Yea,” you say, little more than a murmur carried slow in the eddy of air that surrounds the two of you, and you tuck yourself under the jut of his chin, letting the wandering point of your nose find true north again in the hollow of his collarbone. “I know the feeling.”
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⤷ post-script; 8.5k words holy… i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! if i do write more luke, i'm considering a collection (not series) that just focuses on these two and the in-betweens/before and afters, drawing inspo from jubilee ofc.... as always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, i give you permission to respectfully scream at me :)
⤷ editor's note | 2/25/24; i ended up changing the ages of luke and jubi due to a misinformation issue regarding luke's show canon age that was incorrectly inputted in the official wikifandom way back in december, so now he's actually 19 as of tlt instead of the previous 16 yrs--and yes, i did read the books but i wanted jubilee's premise to be show-based bc of charlie bushnell. i made a little post abt it (warning; i swore a lot)
1K notes · View notes
dizscreams · 10 months
Note
can I request a hobie brown x fem reader where hobie swings to his friends apartment and knocks on her window and the reader has to patch him up and hobie is just kinda quiet because he hates people caring for him (he doesn’t want to be seen as a burden) but reader assures him its fine and maybe hobie confesses to her? <4
COUNT ON YOU
— Hobie Brown ★
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PAIRING: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader
A/N: DISCLAIMER I’ve never read a single Spider-Man comic in my life, this is PURELY based off of what I saw in the movie. THIS IS VERY VERRRYYY OOC BUT enjoy! :)
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You were finishing up on homework, even though it was 2 in the morning. It wasn’t uncommon for you to stay up late to finish your assignments. It also wasn’t uncommon for your best friend Hobie to knock on your window injured.
You took off your headphones and looked to see where the knocking came from. You saw the familiar Spider-Man mask with spikes staring back at you through the glass. He was holding his side and his mask was a little beat up. You quickly got up and opened the window for him. “Hobie? Are you alright?”
He climbed inside your room and ripped off his mask, throwing it somewhere on the ground. “Yeah, just peachy,” he said, his voice was low and very clearly sarcastic. You frowned and gently grabbed his hand, “C’mon lets get you patched up.” He stepped back and took his hand away from your grasp shaking his head. “No, it’s alright.”
“Hobie, you’re bleeding. Lets go,” you told him firmly. Before he could respond you grabbed his hand and started walking to the bathroom. You flicked on the light and pointed to the toilet seat, “Sit.” He groaned but didn’t argue against it, he knew better than to argue with you this late. He could see the bags under your eyes as he observed you grabbing the first aid kit.
He sat down and you walked toward him, placing all your supplies on the bathroom counter before looking over at him. His face was cut and he had a wound on his side. You grabbed a rag, you ran water over it before kneeling in front of him. “You’re lucky it isn’t that bad, I’ve definitely had to help you with worse,” you chuckled looking up at him.
He only nodded in reply which you thought was weird but didn’t question. You focused back on cleaning the wound, luckily it wasn’t deep, but you could feel his burning gaze on you. You knew he didn’t like getting cared for like this but he was your best friend, it was basically your job to help him. “You know I want to help you right?” You asked softly, breaking the silence.
You looked up at him seeing a look of confusion on his face. You explained further, “I mean you don’t have to feel bad about me helping you all the time. Your job is dangerous and I’ll always be here help you out.” You offered him a small smile and he snickered, “You’re corny.” You playfully hit his knee and the both of you fell into a comfortable silence with small smiles on both of your faces.
You took a dry towel and dabbed at his side. Once you cleaned it you put on a bandaid. You stood up and smiled proudly, “There!” He nodded and stood up, about to walk out until you stopped him. “Wait-” you grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down on the toilet seat. “You still have a cut on your face.”
“Just a small one, it don’t matter.”
You rolled your eyes, “I’ll treat it anyway.”
He glared at you but nodded, deciding that you might as well since you already cleaned his other one. He hated getting help and he hated people telling him what to do but he couldn’t help but let you. He wasn’t proud of it, honestly he was slightly embarrassed. But as long as he never admitted it out loud, he would be okay.
Except for the fact that he wanted to tell you how he felt.
He wanted to tell you he’s attracted to you and that he’s thought of being more than friends with you but he didn’t know how you felt about him. And it wasn’t like him to talk about his feelings, even to you. You began running the wet rag across his cheekbone gently. You made sure to wipe the blood off and clean the cut.
You noticed Hobie gulp and you looked at him, now noticing your close proximity. You smiled softly to yourself and continued your work on the cut. You grabbed a bandaid and put it on his cheek. Hobie slightly shivered at the contact but got up as soon as you were done. “Alright, cya later.” He walked out of the bathroom and went into your bedroom quickly.
“Woah woah woah, wait a minute,” you called out for him. He stopped in front of the window and turned around to look at you. “You’re just gonna leave? Not even a thank you?” You asked. He pointed at you, “Thank you, now goodnight!” He turned around to the window again but you pulled his arm and pulled him back to face you. “What’s gotten into you? You’re acting weird.”
“Not that weird.”
“Pretty weird.”
He tossed his head back and huffed out a breath. You raised your eyebrows waiting for him to give you a clear answer. He slowly lifted his head back up to look at you. He stepped a fraction closer to you, now close enough to able to feel your body heat. He examined your features for a moment before shaking his head.
“Nothing. Night.” He swiftly grabbed his mask off the floor and opened the window. “Bye Hobie,” you said quietly. He looked back at you and then forward again. He put on his mask and in a flash he was gone. You flopped on your bed and covered your face with your hands.
You stayed like that for a moment thinking about the interaction you just had. You shook your head to clear your thoughts and pulled the covers over you, ready to sleep. What you weren’t aware of was Hobie peaking his head to look into your window. It was too late to tell you about his feelings now, so he’d tell you another time! Probably in a year or two.
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sixosix · 6 months
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wc 900, guys i’m still a 4.0 lore player so forgive me if lyney’s getting ooc now 🙁 but anw ENJOY THIS MESS OF A GUY!! requested by anon
or, lyney can't stop staring at your lips
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Lyney is beginning to think he might be obsessed with you. Or that you’re bad for him.
He’s stumbling over his lines when he sees you in the audience, his fingers catch on each other when he catches you smiling knowingly, and he gets nervous—the most absurd tell. It’s unlike him to feel his heart pounding in his ears when he’s already started the show. None of this feels natural.
It gets to the point where Lynette has to drag him off after a scene, worry evident on her usually-passive features.  “What’s happening to you?”
“I think I might be going insane,” Lyney admits, running his hand across his face. “I can feel it, Lynette. I’ve gone mad.”
All because you kissed him and he damn near exploded on the spot.
It wasn’t a special kiss. There wasn’t even tongue involved. He didn’t even see it coming. Hell, it was half a second and only on the side of his lips. Can it even be counted as a kiss?
If kisses could drive Lyney to a point where he can’t stop thinking about your lips, it might.
Lyney makes a pitiful noise, like a wounded animal. Lynette sighs heavily, as in relief that it’s not anything serious. But it is something serious. How is he supposed to move on in his life when you’re the only thing running through his head?
“Lynette,” Lyney cries, “this isn’t normal. I’ve caught something. Check my temperature.”
“You’re lovesick,” she replies simply, batting the hand that’s trying to get her to place her palm on his forehead. “and you have a show to finish. Get it together, brother.”
Get it together. Yeah, he can do that—if the object of his desires isn’t seated in the front row. But for now, Lynette is glaring daggers, stern like a mother, and Lyney sucks it up and makes a point of avoiding your eyes later on.
Avoiding your eyes usually means staring at other parts of your face.
Lyney feels the last bit of his sanity chip away when you decided it would be a splendid idea to wear something glossy over your lips, as if he wasn’t already distracted enough as is. You have got to be doing this on purpose.
Your tongue swipes over your bottom lip. He feels lightheaded.
“You look desperate,” Lynette tells him, which is frankly enough to make him want the ground to swallow him whole.
This also gets to a point where Freminet pulls him aside and asks him if he’s feeling sick. He feels like it. Lovesick and desperate, as Lynette so elegantly put it.
How embarrassing. Is this what you’ve reduced him to? Freminet looked at him with all wide, worried eyes, and Lyney can’t outright say the reason for his predicament. He excuses that he feels tired, and he doesn’t mention that his lips are feeling incredibly lonely.
Freminet, precious and understanding and thankfully unaware, nods and says, “I hope you feel better soon.” Lyney finds that unlikely, but he thanks him anyway. “Oh, and you should look behind you.”
Lyney turns and finds you waving at him, gesturing for him.Your fingers curl and it almost looks like you’re calling for a pet. And Lyney, weak and obsessed Lyney, follows without a second thought. Try as he might, he can never stay too long away from you, because as much as you’re driving him crazy, seeing you, hearing you, is enough to brighten his entire day and momentarily forget you’re the reason why he almost messed up with his lines.
He stands before you with a bit of distance. You want him gone so you pull him by the collar until his head is dipped down.
“You look feverish,” you say. Feverish, desperate, the list could go on and on.
I feel like it, Lyney wants to say; instead, his words are caught on the tip of his tongue as your eyes trace over his entire face. He feels as if he’s laying himself bare for you, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it at all, not when he’s soaking up your attention like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.
“Hey,” you whisper, a testament to your proximity, a smirk on your face, “my eyes are up here, Lyney.”
Lyney frowns, feeling petulant now that he’s aware of your schemes. “I’m not being indecent; please don’t phrase it like that.” Or is it worse that he’s ogling your mouth?
You laugh brightly, and he melts just a little. “You’re too obvious, Lyney.” He loves it when you say his name. He’s addicted to how your mouth carves his name. A poke on his cheek startles him enough to look up to your eyes, shame crawling in his cheeks. “See? You’re doing it again.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Lyney.” You have got to stop doing that. Then again, he’s starting to think you’re doing it on purpose seeing how it affects him terribly. “If you want something, take it. Don’t stand around and do nothing about it.”
Lyney’s breath hitches, his blush climbing higher from his neck to his entire face. “Don’t just say that.” He can’t handle your crooked grin. He pulls you to his chest and buries his face on your neck—if it’s to keep your face away or to hide his expression, no one would be able to tell. “You can’t just say that.”
“I know what I’m saying. Don’t take me for a fool.”
Your lips brush his. His mind blanks. You’re bad for him—you have to be, but everything that comes after feels natural, at least.
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vamphrrr · 2 months
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%% tough love
in which the daughter of aphrodite is head over heels for the most ruthless warrior at camp, & all she can do is try to court her while simultaneously killing her.
— clarisse la rue x f!aphrodite!reader
warnings ; idiots in love, ooc clarisse?, pining on both sides, flirty & bold reader, flustered clarisse, tall & muscular clarisse / short reader (reader reaches her chest), fool clarisse (JUST SAY YES!!), bad flirting attempts (i’ve never flirted), a little bad since it’s my first oneshot srry guys
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There she was, the most beautiful girl you had ever know. Tall, dark, strong and powerful in all her mighty glory. She was sparring with one of her brother’s, Lucas? you presumed. They’ve been at it for hours, Clarisse beating him almost every single time. But no matter how many times Lucas fell or almost got his head cut off, he would just not give up.
You needed him to leave already.
It was as if the gods heard your prayers, because one second Lucas had Clarisse cornered, and then the next she swung her spear with all her might. A woosh was heard, nearby leaves shaking and falling with how much strength she used. Her brother's weapon went flying, and so did he.
Oh gods, you thought, biting your lip to stop a giggle from escaping. I love women who could destroy me in a heartbeat.
You watched behind a tree as Lucas struggled to get back up, clearly dizzy from the hit he took. He wobbled a bit, and Clarisse realized he could seriously not stand up by himself. She leaned down, one arm on his waist while the other helped put his arm around her shoulder.
Lucas stood up successfully, and you were able to see that he slightly looked over at your direction for a moment. You gasped, quickly moving so that your face was out of sight. If he saw you, he didn’t make a big deal out of it, but oh, Clarisse sure did once he told her.
She immediately stood up straight, pushing her brother back down to the ground and whipping her head around. A thud followed by a groan was heard as she sped walked towards the tree you were hiding behind. Not knowing that she was getting closer, you twisted your body around, about to peek to where you thought she was. Although, that thought seemed to not go as planned.
“Ow!” you said, feeling your nose hit a solid wall. I don’t remember a wall being there.
A familiar huff was heard, causing you to stiffen. Looking up, you made eye contact with Clarisse who had her arms crossed, muscles bulging from the pressure. Sweat was still clinging on to her face, and you saw as a droplet of water ran down her neck.
She made dirt and sweat look beautiful.
“Oh, hey Clarisse!” you exclaimed, eyes turning pink, pupils dilated. “Fancy seeing you here!”
She raised an eyebrow, ears slightly burning when she saw your eyes change color. “Hm, I’m pretty sure you were stalking us. Unless… you were waiting to spar, princess?”
You smiled, twirling a strand of your hair around your manicured finger, watching as Clarisse got a little distracted with that move. Oh how you loved when she called you that.
“No,” you shook your head, leaning a little closer to her. “I just wanted to ask if you were free later today.”
Clarisse wasn’t surprised. Every week you would do the same thing: follow her around like a lovesick puppy, waiting secretly for her to finish whatever she was doing. Someone would notice you and tell her, teasing her about how she held the heart of an Aphrodite girl, to which she glared at. Then she’d turn around to see you standing there, looking like the prettiest flower in a field full of plain boring wheat. She’d walk to you, and as soon as you’d see her, your eyes would turn pink. Which was a very endearing thing that she’d be an idiot to not know what it meant.
“Like I’ve told you countless times,” she began. “I’m busy.”
Which was true. Unfortunately for you —and her—, your timing was gods awful. As the counselor of the Ares cabin, she was expected to lead the new and younger demigods on a weekly camp journey through the wild. That, plus the fact she was in charge of training clumsy kids, did not give her a lot of free time. And it seemed like you always had a knack for asking things at the wrong time.
You looked up at her through your eyelashes, pouting your lips a bit in what you hoped was a cute way. “Awe, I was really hoping to take you out on a date this time. You know, I heard the little lake by the strawberry fields is a really good place to make out.”
Clarisse gulped, leaning her shoulder against the tree, feeling her heart beat faster than normal. Gods, she could not believe you just said that.
These Aphrodite kids are a danger to society.
She cleared her throat lightly and composed herself. “Well that’s a real shame princess. I guess you’re gonna have to find out if that’s true with somebody else.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Don’t kiss anyone else.
You gave her a pretty smile, touching one of her forearms with your fingers, painted nails tracing her scars. “But I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”
Oh, I really hate you. Clarisse thought.
“A-and like I said,” she breathed out, cursing at herself for stuttering. “I can’t.”
She moved away from your touch, taking a big step back, hating for the first time that she was in charge of all her siblings. She’d get punished if she didn’t do her duties. But, would it really be that bad?
“Ah,” you let out, eyebrows furrowing a bit, immediately being replaced by your eyes brightening. “Well then, maybe next time!”
“I—” Clarisse started, not being able to finish her sentence because you swiftly turned around, walking away. She clenched her fists. If only you stayed for a little more while, she would’ve gave in to your date. Cursing at herself for being a good counselor and taking her duties seriously, she groaned loudly.
You heard her, practically smelling her regret. Smirking to yourself, you laughed, knowing the affect you had on her. Others might have given up, taking her constant “I’m busy” as a sign of rejection, but not you. You’re the daughter of Aphrodite, goddess of love. You know when someone wants you, you can sense it. And, well, every time you’re with Clarisse, the love and longing that she had for you was strong. You know she feels the same way. It’s just a shame that she’s always so busy.
Oh well, maybe next time.
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pupkashi · 8 months
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boyfriend!yuta headcanons
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a/n: i have been having major yuta brainrot as of late ,, here u guys go ! i hope these are too badly ooc seeing as though I’ve only written for him a couple times ! they’re a bit all over the place so plz lmk what y’all think :3
wordcount: 1,183
masterlist
first things first this boy is an absolute nervous wreck anytime he’s around you before he asks you out, I’m talking stuttering and fumbling over his words, looking anywhere but you, trying his best to not embarrass himself (he inevitably does poor guy)
asks you out when it’s just the two of you, on a picnic or watching a movie, his palms are sweaty because what if he just hallucinated you saying you liked him back and this is a big mistake??
okok this boy would definitely wear those ‘i love my s/o’ shirts, starts off as a joke, then wears it unironically because yeah, he does love you, what about it??
the biggest simp in the world yall, does anything you want him to, buys you whatever you want whenever you want it, you tell him jump he’s asking how high while already jumping
it’s a serious problem, considering you now have to make it clear that just because you say something is nice doesn’t mean you want it
“this sweater is nice right yuu?” “yeah it is really nice” ,,,, “yuta why do you have two bags?” “i got you the sweater in every color you like :3”
you’re always getting packages at your door, handing them to him only for him to say ‘oh that’s actually for you!’
the worst part of this is he absolutely hates when you get him something, always telling you to spend your money on yourself or save it, saying he has everything he needs already
still accepts your gifts with open arms, over the moon because ‘you really thought of me ?? i love you :(‘ he literally is ‘🥺’ if it was a person
calls you every sweet nickname he can think of: baby, babe, sweetheart, darling, my love, honey (he tends to favor my love and darling)
you tend to call him things like: baby, lover, pretty boy, angel
he turns into an absolute blushing mess when you call him pretty boy and angel, giggling and trying to not forget what he was talking to you about in the first place
the kind of boyfriend who will buy you flowers weekly, no matter what.
ever since he overheard you on the phone talking about how much you loved his ‘just because’ flowers, he made it a reoccurring purchase at a local flower shop
gets you all your favorite snacks when he just so happens to stop by at a convenience store, handing them to you with a happy grin, ‘we can have movie night with snacks now!’
has your coffee order memorized before you guys even started dating, rarely asks if you want some, usually just surprises you with it <3
he is such a homebody boyfriend :( prefers calm and cozy nights in sipping on hot chocolate cuddles in warm blankets over going out
takes you out to nice restaurants though !! especially if you like going out, he’ll take you on all kinds of dates
goes ice skating, amusement parks, the fair, laser tag (you destroyed him), escape rooms, literally everything
at restaurants if you’re between two things to order he’ll get one of the ones you want so you get try both :3
if you don’t like what you ordered he’ll swap with you / will tell you to order something different, saying he’ll take the other plate home and eat it tomorrow so you don’t feel bad abt it <3
LOVES going grocery shopping with you </3 finds it so domestic and lovely to be able to pick you celery with you (he also gets excited when you ask him what he wants to eat so you can get the stuff for it)
he’ll always tell you he wants to bake cookies and other treats with you, grabbing all the ingredients and grinning at you sheepishly when the cart starts to get full
“we came here for four things, how did you manage to make me get all these things” “cause you love me” he giggles
giggles at everything you say !!!!! topples over laughing when you tell a joke (we get it bro you love us 😭)
it’s so easy to make him blush and flustered, literally just winking at him makes his brain short circuit (let’s not get started on when you two make out) (he whimpers 🤭)
has pictures of you as his lockscreen, always smiles a bit when he unlocks his phone, when he’s away on missions he finds himself checking the time more often than he really needs to
AMAZING TEXTER !!!!! will reply to you very quickly and address all your messages and reacts to all the things you send him (everyone is amazed because is this the same yuta who left them on deliver red for three days before replying ??)
he is SO the jealous type ,, he tries not to be, really he hates having negative emotions of any kind, but he can’t help it :(
his entire demeanor changed drastically when someone starts flirting with you, he’s standing up straighter, clenching his jaw and has that threatening look on his face, no sign of the once cheerful and bubbly boy
he’s wrapping an arm around you, tugging on your hand and trying to get you alone so he can make out with you and remind both you and himself that you’re only his <33
insanely protective of you !!! he’ll be holding your hand in public, always making sure he knows where you are, in crowded areas he has one hand on your waist to help you through the crowds <33
will obliterate anyone who even tries to threaten you, ‘look at them again and you’ll be wishing i had killed you’ but in a not creepy and actually very 🦋way yk ?
really listens to you and everything you have to say, asking questions about your interests and genuinely loves listening to you talk about the things you like <3
i know he gets u literally everything but he gives you amazing and thoughtful gifts for special occasions !! he manages to always get you perfect gifts every single time <3
he compliments you everyday without fail, no matter where he is in the world, he will ALWAYS tell you how stunning you look !!!
reminds you everyday how much he loves you, telling you and leaving you little notes, writes you love letters like he’s away at war even though he’s most likely to get back before the letter even ships
cooks you dinner when he has the chance (he’s actually a pretty good cook!!) going all the way with wine (if you drink of course) and roses
uses your shampoo and conditioner sometimes because he just loves the way they smell and they remind him so much of u hehe
has your skincare routine memorized to when you’re too exhausted to do it he can do it for you <3
he’s overall just a soft and sweet lover, doing anything and everything he can for you because he knows you’re the one for him <33
taglist (send an ask to be added!): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @4sat0ruu @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags
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safination · 1 month
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Partners in Death...and Life.
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Part I: Radio's not dead
| Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn’t Explain Himself. | Masterlist| ao3 Pairings: Alastor x wife!reader Tags: fem! reader, established relationship, human!alastor, hopefully not but just in case ooc!alastor (I'm trying my best to keep him as canon as possible) acroace!alastor
"Alastor! Pleasure to meet you. Quite a pleasure!" One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. You chuckle. "I don't think it will be quite the pleasure you think." "Is that so?" Alastor's smile remains constant. "And why would that be? You show him the tray you're holding "I'm here to do your sutures"
You pass the tissue box—the third one already.
Your patient blows his nose, rubbing snot off his snout. He has to stretch his arms to reach his nose. Alligators are known for their long snouts. His nostrils flare when he sniffles. Used tissue is discarded on the pastel-pink floor despite a pastel-pink trashcan stationed by his webbed feet. It’s been the same pattern for the last fifteen-minutes.
Tissue, Sneeze. Floor.
“—and I have this…uh…like this real bad itch on my eye. I keep rubbing and rubbing but it doesn’t do shit! My eyesight’s gotten worse—It’s already fucked up but this is just different. My roommate hissed at me about getting blood all-over the carpet floors if I kept scratching my scales. Oh. Oh! I’ve been snee—achew!” Alligator snot lands on the pastel-pink floors of the clinic.
Your eyes twitch.
He takes another tissue and waves it around his head. “The top of my head is killing me. Ya’know where that is right?” He blows his nose. “It’s right here,” he says, inching his head closer to you. “The last nurse I went to was blind as a bat! Literally, she had the wings and everything. It was kinda hot.”
“I’m well aware of the location of your head,” you say. “You can lean back now.”
Tissue. Sneeze. Floor
Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.
Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.
Pastel pink floor.
Underneath the mix of feathers and hair strands, the bustling of the waiting room catches your ear. Someone curses, booming and violent at another waiting patient. A cough, a sigh, a barf. Painful curses erupt after that. You bring a hand to your ears, wincing as your eardrum rings.
Pentagon City’s best and biggest hospital needs better doors, but those lazy sloth fuckers at the top invested at the first material they found. The alligator sneezes into another tissue. He flicks it with his wrist, and it hits the pastel-pink wallpaper adorned with closed eyes. Maybe Belphegor should be the sin of Pride instead, considering all items are covered in her symbol.
“I really feel like t’was those exterminators ya’know?”
You do not, in fact, know. Half of what this young man says is incomprehensible.
His snout sways left to right when he shakes his head. “It’s only my second one, and this was a close call, and uh…well, ever since then I’ve been like this. One even got to my roommate. “
You hum, leaning back on your chair. You should petition to for thicker doors. And while you’re at it, better interior design, and better paint—something that isn’t pastel pink.
“Ugh, and it’s so not cool that this new roommate of mine’s been shedding since the day they moved in,” he says.  “Speaking of shedding, do you think it’s because of those exterminators? Do you think they like spread some sort of weird pollen to make us sick? They’re totally the type to that.”
You take your pen—your pastel-fucking-pink pen—and poke his alligator sinuses.
Hell does have its own brand of humor. You gave your 20s to studying human anatomy, only to die and find yourself with the need to re-learn the boring part of biology.  (Two books on reptiles, four on mammals, and fifteen on sea creatures.)
“YEOWCH!” His teeth stick out again. You do not know what this means.  “What kind of nurse ar—“
“Doctor.”
“—you? That’s not the top of my head!”
You push back on of the feathers on your head. “Your roommate ‘hissed’ at you? And they’ve been shedding fur for two weeks now?"
“…Yeah…?”
You stare at him. “Have you ever considered that you’re allergic to your roommate?”
“Ooooooooooh,” he says. ‘Yeah, I was allergic to cats back when I was alive.”
You grab your (pastel-fucking-pink) prescription pad from the desk drawer. “Control it with some antihistamine. Four pills every 12 hours.”
His teeth start showing. You’re not sure if he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell. “Pills, really?”
You toss what you were writing into the massive pile of germs, mucus, and tissue. “I can give you a nasal spray. I’ll flush the mucus then insert a spray that prevents build-up,” you say. “They last for two weeks and then you’ll need to come back.”
He grabs the last tissue from the box. It still lands on your floor. “Ma’am nurse, do you have any more of this?”
You sigh and reach for a fourth box of tissue. “It’s doctor,” you say. “We keep nasal sprays here in the clinic. I’ll just grab one and you’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”
“No can do,” he says. “Before I died, my coach told me to stay away from that non-organic shit. It’ll mess us up real bad apparently. All those steroids.”
“You have phencyclidine sticking out of your coat pocket.”
“Pheny—what?”
“…Angel Dust.”
“The porn star?”
“The drug. You have drugs sticking out of your coat pocket.”
“Come on, nurse—”
Threads erupt from your fingers. It snakes around his wrist, coiling and twisting. He jerks his arm away and cries out when you tighten your hold. Your threads wrap around his legs. It pulls against his waist. Magic binds his arms, and tightens around every joint he owns. You stop, only when the alligator struggles, trashing against the clinic chair. 
His teeth bare and he snaps at whatever he can reach. You tug on one of the thousands of strings digging into his skin. His jaw snaps shut, and it will stay shut. Another tug and his back stretches to straighten. You move your fingers as if a piano laid before you, and he sits up like a good puppet.
Another month of clinic dury will be your punishment if those sloth from down below are lucid enough to do their jobs. Sadly, killing this idiot would have you suspended for three months.
“I am a doctor,” you tell him. “Do not make me repeat myself.”
The tension on your strings marks even the few scales scattered on his body. He’s a real idiot if he continues to struggle.
Delicate movements of your fingers bring him forward, his back still strained, and tilt his snout at a forty-five-degree angle. Your threads elongate as you move toward the clinic drawers. It loosens around you, careful at keeping you able to move freely. It’s one of the handier parts of your magic.
You shake your hands and the threads detach. It sticks to the floor to keep the alligator as your puppet. You scrub your hands thoroughly before taking the nasal spray and filling with with distilled water.
You place on nitrite gloves. It’s always best when dealing with bodily substances such as mucus. You place a pan underneath and jam the tube up his nostrils, hosing his sinuses with water. The tension of his binding keeps him still. (If you ignore his whining, then that’s your business. The brawl you heard from the waiting room drowned it all out anyway.) He starts breathing better when all the snot flushes to the pan.
“Finished,” you say with satisfaction. You grab your prescription pad and write one for a nasal spray. “I cleared the mucus buildup so you shouldn’t feel any more headaches. The spray will keep your nose clear for as long as you use it. Come back if you start to feel any discomfort. For the rashes just get cream.” You point at the pastel pink door. “The exit’s right there.”
The threads dissolve in the air. He rubs his wrist, trying to soothe the red marks that your strings bring. You hand him the signed prescription.
He doesn’t close the door on his way out.
The broom and dustpan are hidden in one of the taller cabinets—pastel-pink like everything else in the room.
(Well, not everything. The radio sitting on the corner of the counter gives a splash of red into the room.)
You sweep the tissues into the dustpan. Your control over your strings is much more proficient when living beings are involved. Inanimate objects whip around when you use your magic on them, and radios have been difficult to purchase recently. It’s more convenient to clean using your own hands.
“Tagatha,” you call out when the floor is clean. “You can bring in the next one in.”
Silence is your reply.
“Tagatha?”
Your ears quirk. The noises are faint—an occasional cough, silent weeping, and muted voices coming from the television. You peek out the door, eyeing the crowd formed around the corner of the hall where a pAstel-pInK television mounts on the wall.
The door closes with a faint click. You sink into the cushions of the office chair. Vox’s yapping bore you. It was probably some man-child debate about the new extermination date. Although… those serialized dramas he produces, sadly, are interesting enough to be consumed. If asked for your honest opinion, you’d tell them that they were a hot pile of smelly garbage, but you like to leave it playing mindlessly in the background.
Your husband will throw the television out the window the first chance he’ll get.
Too bad he’s occupied.
You grab a piece of paper from the drawer. Management is forcing you to write a thousand-word formal apology. There are about three-hundred words left to write.
Getting caught dissecting the dead bodies from the morgue is a mistake that won’t be repeated. One dead body and suddenly those lazy fuckers have diligence weaved into their DNA. The body was already dead, and it’s not every day a chance to poke around a chimera’s entrails appears. The sinner would contribute to something meaningful at least. You’re stuck on clinic duty until you dot your last sentence, and not a moment before
The coffee’s cold now, but consumable.
You reach across the desk, feeling for the knob of the radio. You twist until you feel the clink. Music fills the air—the same twenty-five songs on a loop. You stare at the radio for a moment. Just… a small… single moment.
…..
….
..
.
On your kitchen counter, that second cup of coffee should be cold by now. It’s always cold when you trudge through the door. It’s been cold and untouched for years.
Yet, without fail, that second cup you brew will always be waiting for its owner.
“Salutations!” You snap your head to the radio. “Good to be back on the air.”
…Huh? The feather on your hair bristle. You swipe the radio, your hold on it feather-light.  You turn the knob responsible for volume. The static noise stings your eardrums.
“—ile since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!”
Murmurs erupt outside your door. You blink and find yourself slamming it open. One foot after another, one step after the other, brings you closer to the television. Your shoulder throbs when you bump into someone, but you keep pushing until you see Vox and his tacky suit enlarged on the screen.
“What a dated voice!”
A reply comes from the radio. “Instead of a clout-chasin’ mediocre video podcast.”
Your feather rises higher. Laughter escapes your lips, it leaves a dry taste. That…that ṁ̵̭͔̲̙̦͎̝̜̲̠͙͇̂̏̃̐̂̓̊̂̕̕o̴̢̭̝̙̤̬͚͐̅͗̌̇̂̌̕ţ̷̛̝̂̿h̶̯̟̙̲̘̟̟͙͔̔̋͊̋̿̐͘͜͜ę̶̗̰͔̫͔̗̝̘̻̰̓̓̈̊͜r̵̨̂̏f̶͖̻̱̺͕̹̫̭̠̚u̸̬̺̯̟̦͖̅̂́́̌̚͝ć̴̖͙̰͈͕̉͌̈́́̈̔̀̉̍́͜͠ḳ̴̨̧̗̫̗͖̞̟̑͌̂̀̈́̀͆͒ę̷̛͓̼̟͍̆̆́͆̾͛͝r̵̹̮̤͓̗̹̈́̎̉͌̾͌̏͑̋̚͝.
“Doctor!” Tagatha screeches when she spots you. “I am so sorry. I’ll bring in the next one right away!”
Your eyes are trapped by the screen and your ears by the radio. “It’s alrig—”
Tagatha grabs the closest person to her and shoves you back into the clinic. The door slams shut just as everything goes dark and silent. (Well, it’s not completely dark, once your eyes adjust you can still see as if the lights were open. Another small perk to this body). Your radio, along with the power, stopped working.
“Oh my!” Your new patient bleats.
“We have generators,” you find yourself saying. “I’m sure the power will come on in a minute.”
The cushions of the chair do little to ease your nerves. You pat your hair, trying to get it in control. A pile of feathers starts forming on the PASTEL-FUCKING PINK FLOORS. T̴̹̜͇̅̅͗͜H̶̰̗̄Ơ̶̡̡̻̗͖̋̎̓̓S̴̨͉̝̻͋̽̆́͆Ẹ̸̡̢͐͐͠ ̷̨͚̞̙̀͒̆̆͊Ŭ̵͕̲̪͇͓͐̚G̷̹̝̦̬͊͒Ḷ̶̭͓̎̏̈͘Y̶͇̟̍̉̚ ̷̟͎͕̞͂͑̂̇À̶͉̍̄̈̚S̸͖̖͕͑̏͛̈́S̶͚̤̼̯̀ ̶̻͆P̷̬̝̉Ä̵͕́͊̌S̸̢͍̆̓͝Ṫ̸͖̲̠̾̉͜͝E̷̺͆L̷͖̏͐́͝ ̶̛̟̽͝P̷̪̔͜I̴̹̥̹͖̮͒́̏͘N̸̳̙̼̾̆̿Ķ̶̟̞̜̉͊̓̂̚ ̵͈̬̃̿̄̈́̋F̵̨̨̼̫̘͘L̸̙̠͎̓̆́O̷̧̘͚͉̤̓O̷̤̟̱̼̤͋̍͐R̷̰̝̓͌̌Ș̵̲̝̈́ "Excuse me?” You will paint this room red with the blood of management. You tap your foot again, and again, and again. “…Doctor?”
Your neck snaps in her direction, eyes wide and staring.
“The… uh… the lights are back.”
You blink at your patient—huh, she’s a goat. “I apologize,” you say, smiling. “Please, tell me, what brings you here in this hellish afternoon.”
She holds up her bleeding arm. “It’s been like this since the extermination,” she explains. “Some angle got me. Luckily, I was able to run off before I was finished. I thought it would heal on its own like it usually does but it just hasn’t. It keeps bleeding.”
“Well, angel-induced injuries are my specialty,” you say. Tucked away to the side, a mirror hangs. You catch your reflection, and you blow your hair away from your vision, your red sclerae “This will cost you. Injuries caused by angels are…difficult to stitch, but not impossible—not for me at least.”
“Oh, yes.” She bleats one more “Dear God, where are my manners? I’m sorry can I ask for your name?”
Your smile widens. “Of course. I’m—"
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“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow.
You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.”
“Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?”
You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” He steps closer to take a peek. You watch him as his eyes gloss over your matches then your needle driver, then the alcohol lamp. His smile wobbles when he lands on the syringe.
You move the tray, dropping it down on the little cart by the examination chair.
“There’s no need to worry.” You beam at him. “I have the steadiest hands in this city.”
“Hmmmm,” he says. “You must be the other doctor then.”
“Not at all.” You point to your uniform, where the initial ‘NP’ is embroidered next to your name. “Just the nurse practitioner.”
He takes a closer look and reads your name. “Then I have no reason to fret. None at all! In my experience, doctors usually have their noses buried in their books. It’s the nurses that actually get the hands-on experience.” Alastor’s hands move when he talks. “What’s such a talented practitioner doing in such a dinged-up clinic?”
“Management caught me in the morgue dissecting the dead—It’s how I practice my stitches.”
“Really, now?”
You bark a laugh. “Not at all—I’m far too smart to get caught.”
“A witty sense of humor and a steady hand! I am in good hands, indeed.”
You take a seat on the rolling stool. “Yes, yes,” you say, waving your wrist. “You make fine compliments, Sir. I’ll be sure to be extra gentle.” You point towards the examination chair. “But, please hurry to the chair. You’re dripping blood on my floor.”
Alastor glances down. His eyebrows furrow as he glares at where the blood seeps from his sleeve … almost… almost as if he’s angry. “My apologies,” he says, allowing his blood to drip to the floor.
Alastor shrugs off his coat. It’s rare to see such a dark red—only a few choose such a color. You hum. Alastor is a well-dressed gentleman. Lovely. Those are your favorite kind. He drapes his coat over the spare chair, ignoring the coat racks the clinic provides.
You turn away and wheel yourself closer to one of the drawers on the counter. It takes two attempts until you find the stash of sterile gloves. “Take your seat when you’re ready,” you say. “I’ll take a look once you are.” You place the gloves on the little green cart, right next to your tray.
Alastor takes his seat, landing with an audible ‘humph’. He smiles at you, sleeves rolled and arm ready. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
You hold your palm out. “May I?”
His smile wobbles—it’s a small change in expression that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking. “Of course.”
Along his forearm, a long and sharp cut wounds him. The sight of grime that covers the opened abrasions makes you inwardly cringe. You need to clean these as soon as possible. “Why was this not checked sooner?” You rest his hands on the armrest and use your foot to bring the cart closer. “This looks old, and not at all like a freshly deep cut. I prefer it when patients come to me with fresh wounds.”
You grab a bowl with distilled water and pour in a sterile solution. “I assumed it would heal on its own,” he tells you. “It was quite a surprise when it did not.”
“I need to clean this before you die of infection.” You dip his arm into the bowl. He remains silent, but you feel the tension of his muscles under your fingers. “Hopefully there will be no next time, but just in case, next time, please don’t wait a month.”
He laughs, and there, you faintly see it—a twitch in his eye. “It was only a week actually.”
You smile to yourself. “I’d prefer it if it was only a few hours.” You dry his arm with a soft towel, his arm still tensed underneath your touch. “There, much better.”  You release your hold to go to a shelf filled with different labeled vials and select the one you need. With the clean syringe, you draw the contents of the vial. “You’ll feel a bit of a pinch,” you say. You tap its side. “It’s morphine— wouldn’t want you screaming and writhing”
You study his face for a second. There’s just that same dismissively polite smile.
“You can look away if you wish,” you tell him. “It’s why we pin such…er…interesting decorations around…. May I?”
You feel it again when Alastor inches his arm closer. His muscles tense under your touch. It’s almost as if he wishes to pull away. You keep your hold feather-light, but firm.
“Are you a hunter by any chance?” you ask. You don’t prick him—not yet. Not when tension coils in your hold.
“You could describe it that way,” he says, chuckling like he’s told a humorous joke. (You don’t understand why.)
“I figured you were.”
Alastor slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You inject the morphine into his skin, right inside the soft pink tissue. Good. Alastor relaxes when he speaks, it seems. “I do love a good hunt,” he says. “How ever did you know.”
You release your hold and discard the syringe. “Your hands are rough,” you tell him. “And hunters always have this silly notion that injuries magically heal given enough time—along with farmers, actually. Although, farmers are usually much more deluded.”
He flashes that same polite smile. “I'm guessing you’re not a hunter then?”
“How ever did you know?”
You watch his eyes flicker to your palms as you re-arrange the needles. “Delicate hands.”
You flash the same polite smile right back at him. You take a match, and light the alcohol lamp.
Soap spreads all over your palms and up your arm as you scrub your hands. You slip your hands into the sterilized gloves, careful not to contaminate the surface. “I’ll begin now.”
Alastor hums in reply.
You take a scapple and pass it over the flame. You poke him, lightly, but he doesn’t react. Satisfied, you cut back fibrous tissue underneath the skin. You replace the scapple with a needle driver. There was a quiet click when you pinch the tiny curved needle. You pass it over the flame as well. “Can you do me a favor? Can you tell me how many stars are on that wall over there?
Alastor turns to look at you, but you block his eyes with your palm, shielding him from your stiches.
“The wall isn’t over here.”
“I assure you, I’m not afraid of a silly needle.”
“I’m sure you are,” you say. “However, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. The last three people who said that took one look and started squirming. One even fainted. It makes your life miserable, and my job harder.
He counts.
“Out loud please.”
He does as he’s told, rather reluctantly.
Hands steady and determination set, you pierce the soft pink tissue with your needle The tissue nearest to the surface is always delicate. You’re certain not to catch any fat in your suture, for fat dies, and a loose stitch is useless. “Well, isn’t this fun!” he says. “I really feel nothing.”
Your concentration does not break. “I don’t remember there only being twenty-six stars. I’m positive there are more.”
“Why is someone as talented as you only a nurse practitioner?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a nurse…,” you reply, tugging on the needle. “Well…we…. We certainly could be paid more.”
“Why not become an actual doctor then?”
“My father couldn’t afford it. He wouldn’t send me….and…hm…” You smoothly pull the suture thread and begin the next stitch. “And I enjoy this.”
He looks down at you. “Is this all you’ll be satisfied with?”
You focus back on your stitching, hiding your glare. You bring your needle underneath the flesh, making sure to catch the soft tissue. You’re doing an uncommon stitch, but it would be a shame to leave a scar. “You sound familiar.”
You pause to look at him, His smile brightens, and it actually looks like a genuine elated smile. “Why, I’m a radio broadcaster. You might have heard me there.”
“Oh yes...” you hum, turning back to your stitching. “Alastor... I remember now. The ladies and I listen to your broadcast as we do our crafts.”
“Knitting?”
“I personally prefer embroidery,” you say. “I get to practice my stitching and make beautiful art.” You pull the thread and begin a new one, stitching his skin like they were shoe laces. “You’re quite the humorous gentleman, I must say, and quite a lovely taste in music. We enjoy your broadcast very much”
“Do you have any of your artworks here?” he asks you. “I would be eager to see them.”
“Maybe next time.” You tug the suture, and his laceration snaps to a close. You tie a knot and snip the end. “Unfortunately, I’ve finished your stitches.”
“Next time then.”
You discard your gloves and go back to the shelf with the vials. You fill up another syringe. You jam the needle into his skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to scare him a bit. “To prevent infection.”
He jerks away from you. “What happened to that gentle touch of yours?”
“It’s still a sharp object, Sir. They tend to hurt.” You smirk and carefully clean the remaining blood on the skin around the sutured wound. You take a bandage from your cart and begin wrapping it around his forearm, covering your sutures. “Don’t forget to drink your pills every 8 hours, with a meal in your stomach, preferably. Replace the dressing every three days. You can come back here or if you’re able to do so, you can change them yourself. Any by the good God, please, visit the nearest hospital should this incident repeat.”
Alastor slides off the examination chair. He grabs his coat as if you didn’t just stitch him close. You start packing when you notice him fixing his bow tie, and smoothing his hair. Huh…There’s blood on his coat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Like he’s used to having it there. Like it’s just something he’s learned to live with. “You were wrong by the way.”
“Pardon?”
“It was quite the pleasure to meet you.”
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Hello, welcome to the hell that's been plaguing my head. In case you didn't know Belphegor is the ruler of the sloth ring, and she seems to be in charge of medical-related stuff in Hell. I have the story mostly plotted out, it's just a matter of writing it down. If you have any questions, ask away
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anasanthology · 8 months
Text
Always Close Your Tabs.
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WARNINGS: NSFW 18+ MDNI (I don’t care who reads just if your account age is set to under 18 don’t interact please), step-cest, pseudo-incest, stepbrother/stepsister pairing, degradation kink, light face slapping, very light praise kink, Dom/Sub, lowkey Hard Dom!Leon Kennedy, face fucking, oral (m receiving), mean Leon (I feel he’s a little ooc), like one mention of breeding kink, we got a little sweet aftercare at the end, not as tame as other stuff I’ve written, fem-specific gendered terms. Not proofread.
Notes: FIRST LEON FIC I’M POSTING 😚 actually feeling kinda good about this one! I felt like finishing this and posting it today so here so go!!! I hope you like it ☺️ as always, likes and—especially—comments are very VERY much appreciated 😌 if you have any tags you think I should add just tell me cause I’m not sure if I missed any 🧐 ANYWAYS, enjoy, lovelies 💕
4.5k words | Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Reader
The couch was irritating you, you were hyper aware of it, the texture, the firmness, everything about it. It didn’t matter where you sat though, everywhere was irritating. Everything was irritating. Your parents were out of town on some dumb anniversary. No. Your parent and her husband. Leaving you home alone with your stepbrother.
 Leon. 
He was annoying. He was rude, crass, and bitchy. When your mom had told you she was seeing a guy you were happy for her, until she told you that he had a son a few months older than you. Other kids was the one dealbreaker for you, but your mom loved this man so much and you didn’t exactly have much time left to live with her. You could deal with it. So you met Leon, he didn’t talk the entire dinner but to introduce himself and then order something. This was 8 months ago.
Now you live with him.
You were sure that there were worse people to live with, like… Bundy or Dahmer maybe. He always had those loudmouth friends of his over. Chris, who would spend the whole time yelling at the tv and Luis, who would just flirt with you the whole time. The worst of it was that they would only hang out in the living room so you were always confined to your room till they left. That was unless you wanted to hear, ‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THAT DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH ME,’ and, ‘Hola, señorita, ¿Qué pasa? You look gorgeous,’ which… you didn’t wanna hear that. Not to even mention how insufferable he was when they weren’t around. Which was the situation now. Sitting on the couch next to you was Leon Kennedy, staring up at the tv watching Desperate Housewives. He had this constant resting dick face that never seemed to go away, and along with that he also seemed to be followed by resting dick air everywhere he went. Especially now that his dad took away his phone and other electronics before your guys’ parents left for their trip. Because apparently that man cared jack shit for your sanity. Now, Leon was irritated. He was insufferable when he was irritated. It just radiated off of him and you were a porous permeable surface. You guys sat like that until…
“Can I use your laptop?”
“What?” You turned to him, his words bringing you out of your thoughts.
“Can I use your laptop?” He repeated himself.
“Uh… sure, I guess?” Shrugging you got off the couch before stopping in your tracks and pointing at him, “but I get to use your car!” Your eyes widen with excitement and you point at him.
“No, no way. You are not driving my car. Not gonna happen.” He huffed in amusement and shook his head.
“And why not?” Your hands went to your hips and you made a face.
“Because,” he mocks your tone, “you’ll crash it.”
“Says you! Leon, you are like the king of bad driving. You hit a tree last month! A tree! They don’t even move and they’ve been there for like years!” Your hands were flying everywhere at this point. You had your license, but since Leon was a little older and got his a little before you he got a car. And since he got a car—and only Jeff Bezos could comfortably pay for his car insurance—you didn’t get one, you had to share with your mom and stepdad. But since they were halfway across the country, you were stuck here.
“It was in my blind spot!”
“What about that mailbox last week? Or Ms. Anderson’s side mirror? Everything can’t be in your blind spot, Leon. That’s what windows are for.” you close your eyes and sigh, “you know what, I don’t care. Bottom line is, if you don’t let me drive your car, no laptop.” You knew you were reaching, but you didn’t care. It’s not like you lost anything if he said no. It wasn’t fair he got the car anyways, your mom promised you a year ago on your birthday that when you got your license she’d take you to a used car dealership and you could pick one. But apparently ‘situations change’ and ‘things don’t always go as planned’, so you were left having to explain to your friends that it actually wasn’t gonna happen. Leon could practically burn holes through your face with the way he was looking at you, honestly that’s probably what he was thinking about. He sighs and closes his eyes.
“Fine.” He opens his eyes and gives you just about the brattiest look imaginable. You just smile and giggle. Your eyes widened in surprise. You were not expecting him to actually say yes.
“Okay!” You practically sprint upstairs to your room, grabbing your laptop off the bed. You make your way back downstairs and bring it to him. “Here ya go!”
“Thanks.” He takes it with a scowl and gets up.
“Whaddya need it for anyways?”
“Because I wanna watch stuff.” He responds flatly.
“What kinds of stuff?” ‘Porn?’ Was your first thought, but you opted not to verbalize that. 
“Stuff you can’t watch on the tv?”
“Yes.”
“Why not?” You blinked at him.
“Because you’re watching the tv in here, dingus.” He didn’t look guilty. You know, like you would if you were gonna use your stepsister’s laptop to watch porn off of. He just looks annoyed. “Can I go watch some shit now or you gonna keep interrogating me, detective?”
“Jeez, moody. Sure, go.” You shoo him and turn back to the tv as you sit on the couch. He walks away to his room and you lay back covering your face with your arm. It felt like a weight had been lifted, the tension gone immediately. Part of you wanted to say it was just because he made the air so thick with irritation he could suffocate a room, but you knew that wasn’t completely true…
Leon was hot, like crazy hot.
It was frustrating being around that all day and night. Eating dinner across from an actual model… not easy. It was especially not easy when that model was a sarcastic asshole, and it was especially especially not easy when you kinda liked it. Yes every comment pissed you off, made you want to scream sometimes, punch a hole in the wall. but it also had you wondering… ‘would he… I mean in bed did he…’ god you hoped so. ‘Ew, no you didn’t.’ It was dumb—and entirely inappropriate—but that’s all you could think about when he was around. At some point all the irritation and hatred you had for him just living here, turned into… something you shouldn’t think about.
But who cares.
You didn’t have time to think about that. You had much more pressing matters to attend to, like… desperate housewives. You sit up and lay your body on top of your legs like you were folding yourself in half. You looked up at the screen and flipped onto your back kicking your legs over the back of the couch. It was like you just couldn’t get comfortable no matter what. 
“Mmmmmuuhhhhhh.” Sighing you sat back up like normal, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and onto your tired form. And then it hit you.
The computer.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.’ Standing up abruptly you started making your way to Leon’s room, practically running up the stairs.
You were tired last night. Really, really tired.
So maybe, just maybe, you forgot to close out of a tab last night. Or maybe a couple. Besides it is your computer, why do you need to close out of anything? You don’t, or at least you don’t when your step brother isn’t using your computer.
“Leon, I need my computer.” You knocked at his door and turned the knob quickly. Locked, of fucking course. “Leon?” Bouncing around a little on the balls of your feet, impatiently you step back from the door and shake the tension out of your hands. ‘Maybe he didn’t see it. Maybe he… didn’t even get on the computer yet. “Leon, I don’t… I don’t need your car. It’s fine, I asked Claire and she said she’d drive me this week.” His door opens like that’s exactly what he was waiting to hear.
“Okay, fine. Take it.” He steps away from the door and you walk inside, looking back at him you take extra attention to his expression. He definitely knows. You just turn back unable to think about that for too much longer, your face burning with heat as you pick up your laptop off of his bed. You feel a pair of hands snake around your waist and you tense up. “But first, I have to know why my slutty little sister thought it was a good idea to give me her laptop with porn open.” It was like your brain took a screenshot. ‘Did he just…’
“I don’t… Leon, I’m sorry. I didn’t-I forgot.”
“Oh you’re such a liar.” You could hear the smirk in his voice. “No, I think you did it on purpose. You’re such a smart girl, I don’t believe you could be so stupid.” Your breath got heavier at his accusation.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I fell asleep ‘nd forgot it was on there.” He didn’t respond but his hands started running up and down your sides. “Leon, stop teasing me.” Your voice came out just a whiny whisper, sounding a lot more needy rather than urgent like you meant it.
“You know, I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into that sort of stuff. Always get so nervous when Luis flirts with you, always get so flustered when people touch each other in a movie.” He was ignoring your request completely. “But it makes sense now, you get all shy cause you like it.” Your eyes widen and you squirm in his arms, not exactly trying to get away. Not really trying to get away at all actually. “Wonder how many times I’ve been sitting with you on the couch while your cunt gets all wet. So shameless, darling.” Your body is frozen in embarrassment, it’s kinda hot. ‘God. Don’t think like that Jesus.’
“No, never,” Liar. “Leon, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Yet you aren’t trying to stop me, are you?” His voice is so completely self assured and cocky. Asshole. It made you so wet. You aren’t trying to stop him. You don’t want him to stop, even though you should. He pulls his hands back a little for you, so that if you want to get out you can. Without as much internal protest as you’d hoped, you stay completely still. “See, I was right. You are just a little slut who wants to get touched by her stepbrother.” You visibly cringe at that but feel slick spill into your panties at his words.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?” His hands go back around you, pulling you close to him. You could feel the outline of his hardened cock against you.
“Stop… being weird.” You shifted around in his arms.
“How am I being weird?” He snickered.
“Because you’re… stop saying it like that?” Your face was burning at this point. He was pushing up against you, pressing your hips against the edge of his bed.
“Saying it like what? Isn’t that exactly what’s going on? A dumb whore getting wet for her brother?”
“Leon.” His hand dipped down the front of your pants, running his finger down your clothed slit.
“Oh but why? It feels like you like it when I talk to you like that. I mean… given the videos you were watching, I bet you like it.” You pushed up against him. You just want him closer, it doesn’t matter if it’s wrong. He knew what he was doing, making you feel small, degrading you. “You do like it, fuck.” He started grinding himself against your back. You did like it, you wanted him to keep going, keep making you feel small.
“No it… Leon, it’s weird.”
“I know it is, but you like it. You like how depraved it makes you feel. You can’t deny it, I quite literally have seen the stuff you watch to get off.” He was laughing a little, it only amplified how hot and humiliating this was. “Can’t say I haven’t thought about it. Everytime you’d roll your eyes when I’d tease you all I could think about was taking it further, pinning you against the counter or the couch and just telling you anything I could think of.”
“Thought you said you didn’t think I’d be into this?”
“You can be into anything I want you to in my fantasies.” His other hand snakes up to start running his thumb up and down the column of your throat. This really should not have such an effect on you, but it does. Your eyes flutter and you let out a soft needy breath as you lay your head back against him. “Oh you like that? You like that I just imagine you in any position I want?” You nod your head reluctantly. Your lips open and close but no sound comes out. He’s barely even touched you but it feels like your tongue is twisted up in your mouth. You can feel your resolve just slipping away the more he speaks to you, the more he touches you.
“Leon, this is… this is so wrong…” your voice comes out so quiet you aren’t sure he could hear you. Or maybe it’s just because the blood pounding in your ears is so loud that you can barely hear yourself.
“But you like that don’t you? Yeah, I know you do.” His finger travels further up to slide across your bottom lip. Involuntarily—you tell yourself—your lips part slightly. He just laughs softly behind you, the smirk that was undoubtedly plastered on his face was audible. “Does this slutty girl want something in her mouth? There you go…” he slides his finger past your lips and onto your tongue. His thumb starts pushing slow thrusts against your tongue. Your hands go to hold onto his forearm feebly, not trying to move or stop him but just needing something to hold onto. “Yeah? You like it when I finger your pretty little mouth?” You just whine and start sucking around his thumb. “Fuck, bet you’d do so good on my cock.” You turned around to face him.
It was stupid, and you don’t know why you did it… yes you do, liar.
“What?” He grinned down at you. Now being able to see your lips around his thumb he couldn’t get enough of it. You knew you were turned on but holy shit you weren’t expecting him to look like… that. His mouth was slightly parted and his eyes were lidded. A light blush dusts his cheeks. God he looked good. You imagined you probably looked something similar, probably worse. “I asked you a question.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth and slides it down your chin and across your neck. ‘Oh, right.’
“I um… can I?” You swallowed heavily, barely able to focus on your words with his fingers rubbing at your soft skin.
“‘Can you’ what?” He just laughs, he can tell you’re struggling. Your face heats up with embarrassment realizing just how fuck-drunk you already are. And then he just gets the cockiest look on his face. “Oh, you wanna suck my cock? That what this is?” You just nod weakly, you couldn’t deny it if you tried. “Hmm? I can’t hear you, what do you want?”
“I wanna…” you swallow thickly, “I wanna suck your cock, please.” You chewed on the inside of your lip and just looked at him. He felt like he could just about cum from how needy your voice sounded when you said ‘please’.
“Fuck,” his hand slide up your neck and went to the back of your head. “I know you do. Now get on your knees.” His hand tangled in your hair right up against your scalp and he tightened his grip a little, pulling your head back ever so slightly in the process. The way he was talking to you, how he was treating you, all like you were just some object for his pleasure… fuck, it made you wet. If this situation could possibly get any worse from you guys just doing anything at all in the first place, getting turned on from your stepbrother degrading and objectifying you would definitely make it worse. You moaned softly when he pulled your hair as you started to kneel down in front of him slowly, struggling to resist the urge of responding ‘yes, sir.’ When your knees were on the ground and you finally stopped shifting around to get as comfortable as possible you finally realized the position you were in.
You were on your knees in front of your stepbrother about to suck him off…
But at this point, all thought or consideration of morality and shame had long been lost on you. Instead the lewdness of the situation only fueled the fire and part of you was just getting off on how wrong this was. You felt filthy and all it did was make you want to continue. ‘Shit, what the hell is wrong with me?’, would be what you’d typically be thinking. And you were, just less in a self-deprecating way and more in a self-humiliation way. You bite your lip at the site in front of you, Leon’s clothed hard cock in his gray sweatpants. He had noticed how fixated you were and tilted his head at you with a smirk. 
“You want it?” You just stared up at him and moved your hands up to his thighs as you slid them up. “I asked you a question, answer me.” He pulled your hair a little harder this time and you moaned a little louder.
“Yes, wan’ it, Leon, please.” You were completely breathless. It had felt like your mind had turned to mush. You hadn’t even registered his question as a question when he asked, you just wanted to touch him.
“Yeah, I know.” He pushed your head forward till your cheek was pressed up against his cock. “Pretty little cockwhore just wants me inside her.” Your breath quickened when he started grinding up against your face. “Or she just wants to feel me however I please.” His voice was teasing now and he just ground down against you harder.
“However you please, just… Leon, need you.” You barely even sounded like yourself anymore. Normal you would have just pushed him away in the beginning as you made your second-hand embarrassment apparent. Normal you would have known that that was one of the easiest ways to mess with someone and would have totally used it. But here you were instead, a strong-willed smart girl who never pulled any punches now on her knees getting debased completely and absolutely loving it.
“Mmm, you’ll let me use you however I want? What if this is how I wanna do it? What if I just wanna take my cock out and rub it against your face till I cum all over you?” Even in this state you knew he was trying to trap you. He wanted to get you to disagree so he could hear you begging for whatever you really wanted. But you wouldn’t disagree, cause you don’t.
“Even then, just anything you want.” He grinned at your reply. He was tempted, he really was, but after wanting you for so long he wasn’t gonna waste this chance just to prove a point. ‘Next time.’ He pulls your head back just a little so he can see your face. Your lips are slightly parted and you just stare up at him with a grazed over expression.
“Take it out.” He says firmly and raises his eyebrows. You look down at his crotch and bring your hands up to take his dick out of his pants. You feel a sudden sting on your cheek as he slaps you across the face. “No, look at me.” He grabs your jaw and tilts your face up towards his. You make eye contact with him as you start undoing the string on his sweatpants. Part of you wants to look away just so that he’ll slap you again but you don’t. You start pulling his sweatpants and underwear down till his cock swings free. Your eyes dart down to his dick and are only able to just barely register what you’re seeing before he slaps you again just a little harder. “Did you not hear what I said to you? Look. At. Me.” You moan softly and shake your head.
“I heard you, ‘m sorry I was just curious.” You sound a little like you’re about to cry but you’re far from sad about all this.
“You’re curious?” He mocks your voice and pouts his lip before scoffing and leaning down ever so slightly. His thumb caressing your neck. “Don’t worry, once I fuck this little throat you’ll have every answer you could possibly ask for.” You shudder a little before just nodding your head and opening your mouth. You loll your tongue out and he grins. “Yeah, stay like that.” He slaps his heavy tip on your tongue and you can taste the bitterness of his pre-cum. “Open wider.” You obey him and open your mouth further. He leans forward and spits in your mouth. Your eyes flutter and you press your thighs together, which doesn’t go unnoticed. “You like that?” He laughs and rubs one of his fingers over your tongue. “You like it when I spit in your mouth? Fucking disgusting.” He grips his cock and guides it onto your tongue before pushing into your mouth. He groans and holds your head back against the side of his bed before he starts thrusting into your mouth. “Mmm, fuck. Such a good girl with a slutty little mouth. What would your friends say if they knew you’re getting face fucked by your stepbrother, and loving it so much you’re practically dripping onto the floor? What would your mom say?” You really didn’t wanna think about his second question.
“Mmm.” You just hum around his cock in response and he smirked. It’s not like you could actually respond. You kept your eyes on him, loving the way his jaw tightened when he hit the back of your throat. Or the way the muscles in his arms would twitch and flex under his tight shirt. He was right, you did love this and you could feel the discomfort of your sticky panties between your thighs, damp and uncomfortable. His hand went to the top of your head to grip your hair between his fingers and he started pushing in faster.
“Mmh, oh fuck… love sucking on your big brothers cock, yeah? Such a fucking cockwhore it doesn’t matter who it’s from.” He was thrusting at a fervent pace and it was evident he was just chasing his own high. Using your mouth as his personal fleshlight to fuck and fill. It was hot being treated like this, especially by Leon. He tightened his hold on your hair and pushed in a little too far which made you choke. It made slick pour into the gusset of your panties. Fuck, he was right. You’re a total slut. Your hands went up to hold onto his thighs for support as your eyes closed. Spit drooled down your chin and onto your chest, tears poured down your cheeks which Leon took pleasure in wiping away. “Maybe next time you’ll let me fuck that pretty pussy. Bet she’s just crying for me, you are.” ‘Next time?’ The thought made your skin burn with arousal. “Think you’re gonna let me fill up all your holes. Fuck. Yeah, I wanna see that. My obedient little stepsister leaking cum onto my bed, absolutely spent. Such a fucking whore you’d probably ask me to do it again. Fuck your little pussy till it’s sloppy and bred.” 
He wasn’t even looking at you. His head tilted back and his hips stuttered. You could tell he was getting close.
“I’m gonna cum down this slutty throat and you’re gonna swallow it all and thank me.” His face and neck were a little red and he had this sheen of sweat that the light from his lamp bounced off of. He looked like some kind of angel and if he wasn’t aggressively fucking your face you might’ve actually believed he was. “Fuck, oh take it.” He moaned and pushed his cock to the back of your throat. You could feel his hot cum paint stripes into your mouth. He rutted his tip right against the back of your throat while he moaned and mumbled. “Good girl, good girl. Take it, baby.” He pulled back out of your mouth and looked down at you while he stroked himself a few times to make sure he was done. A little bit of cum spilled from his tip and onto your thigh. You could finally swallow now that he was out of your mouth and god it felt good. You opened your mouth to show him that you really did it.
“Thank you.” You smiled up at him softly and he shuddered at your words. He looked away from you and cursed as his face got red. He was just talking earlier; he didn't think you’d actually do it.
“Quit it, you’re gonna make me hard again.” He seemed a little embarrassed. He moved your hair out of your face and went to the bathroom across the hall. You heard water running for a bit and then he came back and kneeled in front of you. He silently used a warm rag to wipe away the dried tears from your face and the little bit of cum that spilled onto your chin. “There you go.” 
“Thank you.” He wiped away the bit that was on your thigh and you guys just stared at each other for a second. It wasn’t really awkward but more like each of you had something to say that you just wouldn’t. 
He leaned forward and kissed you. It was soft and sweet and you had plenty of room to move away if you didn’t want it. There was such a contrast from what you were doing now and what you had been doing, hell, how he was acting with you now and how he had always acted with you; it felt like it was short circuiting your brain, but in a good way. He pulled back and set the rag on his bedside table before picking you up and setting you on his bed. He crawled in next to you and put his arms around you. It felt a little weird but in a nice comforting way. It was something you really needed. You almost forgot that you had been sucking him off—if you could even call it that—like two minutes ago. You really weren’t tired but you laid there with him for who knows how long. 
Maybe you really didn’t hate having a stepbrother.
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Would it be ok to request Vox with an affectionate s/o?
More than okay, nonnie! I’ve been getting so many requests bro, literally every time I post one, I get like 2 more in its place. IM LIVING FOR IT, KEEP IT COMING YALL! But also plz be patient with me 🥺 been waiting for a request for my flat-faced prince. Tbh the first time I watched Hazbin, my immediate reaction to Vox was ‘OH NO HES HOT!!!’ So, enjoy these headcanons 😘
Notes: gn!reader, maybe a little ooc Vox?
Vox x reader- Affection 💋
Also oh my fucking godddddd the vest, him in a vest. I need more Vox in a vest PRONTO…🥵
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Okay so like…bro is more dirty minded.
He’s genuinely confused when you kiss his cheek or hold his hand like ???
Oh….you’re not just trying to fuck him and get famous?
Cuteee~
Sure, he’s fucked and made out with ppl and probably done some other crazy shit but his experience with sappy romance and affection like you show him is very limited.
He’s pretty dense, he’s got a tough shell and doesn’t really understand love languages and stuff like that.
His love language is most definitely gift giving and I just know he’s terrible at actually showing his feeling through words or romantic gestures or physical affection.
It’s usually just like “Hey! I love ya! I got you this.” *insert item you’d flip your lid over*
At least he’s a good gift giver! He really does try to give you cool stuff he knows you’ll like but he’s still learning how to actually speak about his feelings and show it physically.
He tries to match your energy the best he can
Get him gifts!!! Plz he loves homemade gifts too- gift him art, sing him an original song, sew him something, whatever your skills or talents may be, use them and he’ll adore it and also praise tf out of you
You took time to make this just for him? ‘Marry me’
Besides fucking around with Val, Vox doesn’t get much affection so he very quickly falls in love with all the sweet affectionate touches you frequently show him.
It’s all so different than Val, so sensitive and genuine. It really makes him swoon~
Melts when you kiss the corners of his screen- there’s something about non mouth kisses that really gets to him
He gets a huge dorky love stuck grin when you sit in his lap and hug him close, also hugs you back super tight
Absolutely loves kissing you and then noticing the lingering smudges/lipstick marks on his screen later
Fix his bow tie while giving him a sneaky wink in front of his crew and he’ll huff and look away while trying to hold back a smile
Invites you on his nightly broadcast as a guest one time and quickly learned how embarrassed he becomes when you flirt and call him pet names on live TV in front of tons of viewers
After only 10 minutes of talking, giggling and giving him bedroom eyes, Vox was struggling to maintain his composure- you’re so fucking cute.
All you had to do was laugh loudly at one of his crude jokes about Alastor and call him your “honey bunny” and suddenly the entire V tower lost power.
Poor man literally short circuits over your darling voice calling him such soft names- he’s so down bad for you he can’t even hide it
Val and Velvette have that specific episode downloaded and saved to every device they own bc there’s no way they are letting this go, he’s never living this down
If you pause the video right before it cuts out, just before the power goes out, Vox has literal hearts for eyes and his entire screen briefly becomes this bright blushy pink color- that’s a color no one has ever seen on him
Just keep doing your thing, you little hopeless romantic, and you’ll see that color more often.
But Vox might have to leave you at home when filming bc he can’t control himself around you sometimes and you obviously can’t either 🖤
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satoruhour · 2 months
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nanami and geto=pulling hair
AHDJSKFMDKXJXUXU PLEASE I NEED THEM SO BAD IT HURTS
a/n: i dont write brat!reader often and i hate this but uhm .. :”) got inspiration for geto’s part from this fanart :3 also nanami’s inspiration here and here / tagging @jabamin @screampied @marimogf @redskyvenus @kizoken @osaemu @satorena @suguella @t4kio
wc: about 1.5k for each
warnings: hair pulling for both, fem!reader, brat!reader, geto is a lil rough, oral (m! receiving), deep-throating, semi-public sex, use of ‘slut’ (geto), tension, semi-public sex, a lil ooc nanami ig, use of ‘slut’, unprotected p -> v sex, squirting, breeding / creampie kink (nanami), n*sfw under the cut
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✶ GETO
geto’s grip around your waist only tightens when you press up more against him in the crowded business convention, purposefully grinding your ass into his front that’s already sporting a hard-on that looks like it hurts.
but suguru is a master at keeping his feelings in, like how this business partner of him is boring the shit out of him and how much he wants to push you to your knees in front of everyone and shove his cock in your mouth.
“don’t you wanna just do away with all this pretentious shit? spread me open and give a show to everyone in this boring ass convention?” you whisper against his skin with your head craned up just to see how his jaw tenses and he almost drops his flute of champagne, “hm? don’t you want everyone to know how good you make me feel?”
“behave, sweetheart.”
“no,” you giggle, and geto rolls his eyes with a small smile on his face. you know it’s all fun and games; he loves taming the brat in you, but the brat in you is just begging to be punished, “you know you love me.”
“that, i can vouch for, but making me hard in public? i’ll need you to tone it down, baby.”
“but i want you, don’t you want me?” you’re pulling out all the stops, now, tits in full view from how he was behind you just scouring the many businessmen and women walking about and making small talk. even now, your hips torture him in the best way, rolling slowly and bit by bit.
“you’re riding a thin line here.” he warns with a peck to your hair.
“i’d rather be riding your dick, sugu . .” it’s whispered so tenderly, so softly, your hands skilled when they close over his that rest comfortably on your waist. “in our hotel room, or on the balcony, please . .?”
all geto manages is a strained, polite smile to the approaching mr. mamato who seems a little puzzled at the rejection, but with reassurance from the former, all is well. your lover has no qualms about keeping a tight clasp around your intertwined fingers, champagne flutes abandoned and heels clacking quickly against the floor to the lift lobby.
and you cast your spell again, getting back on your brat shit once the elevator doors close since it was quite a ride to the floor of the hotel. geto sighs quietly when you trail your hand along his belt and down the zip where there was a noticeable bulge and you squeeze, relishing in the silent gasp he lets out. you both know that once he looks at you, you two would have to be pried from the elevator so he settles for deep breaths.
but it’s all sloppy, wet kisses once he’s got you pushed against your suite’s door, multitasking hands zipping open your dress and pulling your bra past your tits and revelling in your perk, erect nipples. a small jump is muttered from his lips and you follow easily, propped up so perfectly where his mouth fits just around your nipple and that draws a loud moan, hips grinding against his torso for any kind of friction.
geto is strong, with one hand holding you, the other lands a spank on your ass and he releases your tits with a pop!
“what makes you think you deserve that?” you’re on the balcony by now, the breathtaking view of the many other touristy attractions right next to the hotel but geto would rather look at your defeated expression, doe eyes, pout and all.
“i’ve been goo—”
your lover’s hand from behind goes up to pull hard on your hair, forcing you to look up at him and he smiles when he spots your thighs rubbing together.
“don’t lie to my face, baby,” he lowers you to your knees and each breath feels like it could kill you. you love every second of it — geto commanding you, the dark of his eyes and the parting of his lips, “we both know you’ve been trying to toy with me since the start of the convention.”
“i didn’t say when—” you grin.
“and don’t play smart with me, little slut.” a small moan leaves your mouth at that, eyes flicking between his eyes and his other hand skillfully unbuckling his pants and you let out a little squeal when his cock’s removed from his underwear. he’s always so big and heavy that it slaps against your face and you grin, immediately sticking out your tongue and he feels his chest swell with pride just a little at your obedience.
and he releases your hair, reaching behind for his cigs and lighter. the air fills with the familiar odour of nicotine, “suck.”
you do, planting your hands onto his thighs and making a big show of whatever you wanted to do, but you’re only suckling on his tip, smiling through the pre-cum that slips past your mouth. he’s quite lenient, letting you tap his tip on your tongue and stroking him with both hands alongside small groans, but it’s not what he wants.
“do you want to suck me off or not?” geto whispers, almost like a threat. cigarette in mouth, he grabs your jaw and it squishes your cheeks, “hm?” he gives you one last chance when you nod so adorably, mouth messy with pre and your saliva that he just wants to bend you over and fuck you dumb.
but when you go back to teasing him — tugging on his balls, keeping to sucking harshly on his tip (even if it feels so damn good), looking up through your eyelashes like you’re not doing anything is when he’s getting a better hold on your hair, gathering it into a makeshift ponytail and scoffs.
you’re really in for a treat, now. there’s no warning before he pulls on your hair and brings you in again, smiling when he hears you gag at how deep his cock had reached in your throat. he coos inwardly when he sees that there’s already tears forming, but all you have on your face is a little sick grin and so he continues his assault.
geto pushes and pulls, leaving you no choice but to bob your head along his veiny shaft with very little time to breathe. it’s too intoxicating each time you’re up to the hilt, pubes smelling like sweat and Louis V cologne as you moan continually against him, sending vibrations up his body. you know his body like the back of your hand that you know every twitch of his dick, every jerk of his hips into your warm, inviting mouth.
“f-fuck . . maybe she does know how to use her mouth properly,” he mumbles, eyes fixated on your smudging eyeliner while your mouth is stretched out to accommodate him.
“su— mmfgf—!” suguru leaves you no time to breathe, guiding you roughly with your hair while he continues to smoke without a care in the world, not caring that the sounds of you choking on his fat cock could probably be heard by the neighbouring suite rooms. in a feat of defiance, again, you come off of him with a giggle, saliva strings connecting you and his dick, but he’s having none of that.
with one forceful thrust, geto shoves his cock into you, enjoying the corners of your eyes welling up with tears as you gargle and sputter, breathing hard through your nose. “i told you, do it properly. need ya to learn your lesson.”
you look truly pathetic like this, on the balcony floor of the hotel you were just in the function room for, but now you’re stuffed full of your boyfriend’s length, hands periodically squeezing his thighs. he grunts out your name, mixed in with little groans and pants of just how much your mouth resembled your pussy, drunk on the way his tip feels at the back of his throat.
“mmm . .” you hum, more used to the feeling now when you’re feeling him twitch and pulse in your mouth and you make sure to swirl your tongue, keeping eye contact with him.
“just— just like that, shit . .” suguru’s grasp on your head loosens with each step closing to his orgasm, putting out his cig just so he could focus on you and you only, “take it, take my cock down your throat like a filthy slut.”
geto’s shivering, hunched over your figure while you take the chance to move your head a little, slurping up all the saliva with hands squeezing over and over, sending your lover’s senses into overdrive. it doesn’t take long until he’s cumming down your throat with your head held to the base of his pelvis, heart clenching when he feels your muffled moans and then sees his overflowing cum.
“let me see . .” he asks absentmindedly, feeling just a little bad at the way you’re breathing so hardly, but he knows you don’t mind when you wrap a hand around his cock again, milking him for what he’s worth and sloppily sucking the mingling of saliva and cum from your skin. you’re quick to get back to sucking again, desperate for dick, and geto knows he’s found his perfect half.
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✶ NANAMI
“these curses really need to stop emerging,” you frown with a groan, stuck in a never-ending meeting with yaga and nanami. in front of you were books littered with information about curses from the edwardian era, noting a similarity in both appearance and powers in the increasingly threatening curse that spawned in okinawa. so far, research has been scarce, providing for anything but the information you were looking for.
all the while, nanami’s looking at you through goggles, hiding behind the translucency of it as the open page of his tattered book is left abandoned only because he was so distracted by you.
you were stuck in a weird place with nanami — always getting stuck in precarious situations, mingling breaths, beating hearts to the point where you’d wanna throw up. you both knew relationships were a farce in the world of jujutsu sorcery, but even so, to deny the way you were the first one he’d check up on whenever you finished missions . . you might be falling off the deep end sooner or later.
“perhaps it would be wise to take a break, for lunch at least,” yaga only sighs, rubbing at his temples from his similar conquest, but none of you were actually able to match the photos to the drawings drawn up by sorcerers of the past. he takes the chance to leave the room for some food at the pantry, leaving just both you and nanami and the tension goes up by a hundredfold.
you don’t exactly hate it, but it becomes exceptionally clear when the universe seems to be against you from the first hour of research. from dropping your pen right in front of nanami that allowed a peek of your chest, to your printed photos flying right to the chair beside him, reaching over his whole body to retrieve them.
nanami is dying to smell you, again.
it’s loads of reading, glad for the knock of the door as you answer the call of the first-year students right outside the office, closed to a small gap since yaga asked you two to keep it confidential, but with the way you’re sticking out your ass . . he swears he can feel himself harden. before long, he’s hearing you bid goodbye to the three of them before your bracelet comes loose and it falls, and the sound of metal against wood is so loud that he’s glad he’s heard it.
because nanami’s attention is once again drawn to your plump ass, and he’s sure you’re doing this all on purpose with the way not one part of your legs are bent, and he can just see the peep of your panties. his skin burns.
“they wanted to know if they could help in any way,” you laugh when you return, albeit a little awkwardly after that whole thing you pulled. you weren’t even sure if nanami would look — he was a man set on ending work at 6pm and would want to do as much work before then, for god’s sake, so when all he does is nod curtly, you’re swallowing your feelings, not wanting to risk everything again.
once the clock strikes 6, nanami’s the first to stand, excusing himself with a bow, but not before he’s passing you a piece of paper folded carefully. so meticulously that he wanted you to open it without yaga seeing, pleasantly surprised when you see his graceful hand write out see me in the library.
you think nothing of it, taking the books that were from the library and making up some excuse of going to continue in there to yaga who waves you off with a grateful thanks, a yelp drawn from your throat when you see nanami just hovering beside the door frame.
he looks like he’s about the throw up — one look at his trousers tells you otherwise, breaking that barrier when you step closer to him courageously. “i don’t think we should waste any more time, dear (y/n).” 
“what do you mean?” nanami has such a way with that voice of his, that you let him take the heavy books from your hand without any fight, without any resistance, gasping softly as he grabs your waist almost timidly. but you have been dancing around each other for too many months, and everything just felt right.
“you know what i mean, doll.”
every minute nanami spends with your body becomes more and more intense, first starting out with a soft and gentle question to rougher, sloppier kisses, and down to your body right to your cunt where he stroked himself whilst eating you out; and the way nanami fucks, god. he’d take his time but . .
“wanted this fuckin’ pussy for so long, f-fuck . .” nanami groans, body flush against yours while he pounds into you from behind. the library definitely is not soundproof, but after seeing your pretty panties and tasting your cunt, sinking his fat cock into your hole was just perfect and god forbid he held back on the first time.
“k—kento . . please—!” the tatami mats of the school’s library were looking like crap, no doubt from the lack of use of this place, but you use it to your heart’s content, soaking the mats with your mixed juices and sweat. but that meant you had no anchor to hang on to, grasping and scratching at the floor for anything when nanami angles his hips and sucks hickeys into your neck from behind. “love it, wan’ more, wan’ more—”
“yeah? pretty little slut wants more?” nanami’s head spins at the way your hips move back onto his as well, head turning and nodding just so you can look at the man who’s blowing your back out in his alma mater’s library, hair tousled and sweat lining his brow. “after teasing me these few months — s-shit — can i really give it to her?”
he speaks with a strain, hypnotising hands moving up and down your back and onto your ass, spreading it just so he could see the way you take him, pussy stretched and all. nanami lets out a shaky breath, not believing that whatever he’s always fantasised about is coming true, and right after this, he’s sure to get you a bouquet of flowers and a decent day out, not before a morning after pill though.
“you’re so mean . . teasin’ me, showin’ me your panties,” he gives your ass a smack, groaning out loud at the recoil, “what makes you think ’m gonna give it t’you?”
all you had to do was look up at him with doe eyes, using a weak, flailing arm to grab out for him but failing and he finds it so goddamn cute that he smiles to himself and succumbs anyway, chuckling as he runs his hands down your back. although, they don’t stop there — they find your hair and he twines your locks around his fingers and pulls, prompting a loud whine from you.
“ken—!” your pornographic moans are downright obscene, together with the messy mix of your cum and his pre all around your core, it was truly disgustingly filthy, “f-fuuckk . . yes, r-right there!”
nanami all but follows your sounds, triggering your arch with such a strong pull on your hair that the pain translates into pleasure. with his knees, he nudges your legs to open even more and you cry out his name at how deep his throbbing cock reaches in you, gummy walls sucking him in and clenching around his length so harshly.
“pussy’s just so good to me, god,” he moans, feeling so hot in his work outfit that wasn’t even fully stripped down. his blue work shirt is soaked, as with his trousers, full of your cum that’s starting to form a white ring around the base of his shaft. he purposefully pulls on your hair to meet your lips, murmuring onto your skin, “’m close, baby.”
nanami’s thrusts are accurate, precise, hitting all the sweet spots in you relentlessly until you’re saying incoherent sentences, thighs already starting to shake until he starts rubbing at your clit. the sensations overwhelm you; the still strong tug of your hair, the pap! pap! pap! of his hips against your ass, the circles on your clit that matches the thrusts — and you’re cumming and squirting with a lax jaw and eyes that roll to the back of your skull.
“c-cumming, kento— ’m cummi—!” you babble, hips grinding back onto his for more even when you’re spraying juices all over, whole body convulsing from the climax, “s’good, s’good—”
just seeing you fall apart from his cock has him reaching his high, hips stuttering into your warm pussy to pump you full of his cum and he makes sure you catch every last drop, the hand tangled in your hair pushing right down on your head into the tatami mats.
nanami catches the ghost of a smile on your face before your body moves against his, again, using your own hands to spread your cheeks just to make sure he sees the cum he’s planted in you.
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iwritefandomimagines · 11 months
Text
I COULD KISS YOU — GREG HOUSE
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masterlist
pairing: greg house x reader
description: when an offhand comment to praise house for helping you diagnose a patient leads to the silent treatment, you’re both forced to confront the feelings that had been lingering unspoken for too long.
warnings: swearing, angst to a teeny bit of fluff, may be a lil ooc as i’m still iffy on fleshing out how i write the house characters but i’m trying <3
author’s note: had this idea and got excited so bashed it out quite quickly while i was motivated af — hopefully you enjoy !!! let me know what you think
“Gregory House, you bloody genius,” you exclaimed, clenching your fists in excitement, unable to stop the words that came flying out next, “I could kiss you!”
You’d been trying to diagnose your patient for nigh on a week now, and with the young boy’s symptoms rapidly progressing and his condition rapidly worsening, House’s diagnostic expertise provided exactly the breakthrough you needed.
You were ecstatic — mentally piecing together just how he had to be correct — and so without another word you practically skipped out of his office to run some tests and reach the certainty needed to treat the boy as soon as possible.
What House had suggested made perfect sense, accounting for every symptom and every adverse reaction to the treatments you had tried so far, and though you usually mocked his tendency to always smugly assume he was right, at present you were immeasurably grateful for his input.
You were disappointed, then, when you rushed to tell him that the young boy was responding incredibly well to the treatment he suggested and he simply gave you his smug “I-told-you-so” smile and rushed away from you.
He didn’t speak to you again for the rest of the day, choosing instead to actually take time to visit his patients rather than deal with encountering you again.
“What did I do to piss House off?” you asked Cameron, Foreman and Chase shyly as you stood near the nurse’s station with them.
They all just eyed you like the answer was obvious, but Chase shrugged, “When has anyone ever needed to actually do something to piss him off?”
“No, he won’t even talk to me right now,” you frowned, brows furrowed, “It’s weird. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong since this morning.”
The group all looked between eachother, as though deciding who would be the one to have to tell you the honest truth.
“Probably something to do with your little ‘I could kiss you’,” Chase replied, doing a terrible impersonation of you and batting his eyelids flirtatiously as he quoted you, “He didn’t seem to like that very much.”
Your mouth was parted in confusion, “Firstly, I do not sound like that. But secondly, why would he give me the silent treatment for that? Is the idea of kissing me that repulsive?”
Cameron scoffed, rolling her eyes, “You’re both as oblivious as each other, Y/N… He’s ignoring you for literally the opposite reason.”
You shook your head in disbelief.
Was she seriously trying to tell you that House was ignoring you because he didn’t like you joking about kissing him?
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“It’s literally painfully obvious, Y/N,” Foreman groaned, “You’ve had this weird sexual tension going on forever and given that he’s usually bad at giving a damn about people, he gets weird about you. And he obviously has feelings for you, so it rubbed him up the wrong way.”
Chase chuckled, “They’re right. He’s only mad at you because you’re the only person he’s never mad at but you hurt the feelings he apparently has.”
You pondered what he was saying for a moment, trying to piece together whether there was any semblance of truth behind their explanation for House’s weird behaviour.
Truth be told, it was the exact kind of petty and ill-fitting behaviour you’d expect from House.
For such a brilliant man, he could be utterly childish at times, especially if he wasn’t getting his way.
Your relationship had always teetered on the edge of professionalism — he was always making flirtatious comments, he always took your suggestions on board more than the others, always sung your praises to your peers and superiors.
Whilst everyone else was certain it was proof of his feelings for you, you had just thought he appreciated that you never pried into his life unless he offered to divulge information himself, and you were excellent at your job.
Of course, you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed your ambiguous relationship, given the crush you had harboured since very early on in your acquaintance. That’s why you always flirted back, always made sure your input was carefully though out, and why you were always singing his praises too.
But it was Greg House — a man who so famously behaved as though he didn’t care about anyone. So of course you didn’t think that things would ever progress past your unprofessional professional relationship.
“Where is he?”
“In his office,” Cameron smiled, “He told me to make sure nobody bothered him, and I think he meant you because he’s still throwing his toys out of the pram.”
You rolled your eyes with a laugh, “God, he’s ridiculous. I’m going to go and talk to him. Or try, anyway. Wish me luck.”
“Is this House we’re talking about?” Dr. James Wilson made an appearance at your side now, his brow quirked in curiosity as he butted into the conversation.
You nodded, “He’s being a baby instead of actually talking to me about why he’s mad.”
You hoped he’d have some kind of more concrete explanation, given that he was the only person House was even remotely honest around.
“He’s hardly an expert at talking about his feelings, is he? Or having them, actually,” Wilson chuckled, “But he’s been grumbling all day. Please do go and speak to him. For my sanity’s sake, if not your relationship’s.”
“Slow down, Wilson,” you scoffed, but though you didn’t want to get ahead of yourself, you couldn’t deny the fluttering in your stomach at any sort of reference to you and House’s potential relationship, “I’m going!”
You entered the room without even knocking, folding your arms over your chest with a stern expression on your features as you strode towards his desk and stood firmly in front of him.
“I’m busy.”
“Busy being petty and ignoring me?”
He looked up now, narrowing his eyes as he realised you were not going to meekly scuttle away like you had done every other time he’d dismissed you today.
“What makes you think that?” sarcasm dripped from his words, “I just so enjoy spending time getting to know my patients and doing paperwork!”
You huffed out a sigh, frustrated by him already trying to dodge the subject, “Greg.”
“Y/N.”
“Greg!”
“Y/N!” he matched your tone just to challenge you, and you scoffed, “Are you really going to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“So deliberately evasive?”
His lips drew together in a thin line as he eyed you carefully, “How’s your little boy from this morning?”
“You are so fucking frustrating, Greg,” you scowled, “Can we have an adult conversation here?”
He appeared to ponder over another joke to make, but apparently for the first time in his life thought better, as he remained silent and waited for you to continue.
“I’ve been so stressed out about that kid, and you helped me to help him massively — he’s likely to be discharged by tomorrow. I was so happy, so relieved, and I said I could kiss you,” you began, avoiding his gaze at first until your final sentence, “And it was a silly offhanded comment about how grateful I was, but at the same time I honestly could’ve kissed you because I quite honestly want to a lot of the time.”
Oh my God — you’d stunned the Greg House into silence?
Your breathing was jagged, “I don’t know if you’re just being an ass because you don’t like being on the other end of jokes, or if the team actually aren’t just blind hopeless romantics and you actually care about me. But I just wish you’d talk to me instead of doing all this and making me feel like you don’t care at all.”
He pulled himself up onto his feet, grabbing his cane to lean on as he inched closer to you.
“It’s a bit of both,” his voice was low, and you were sure that if you didn’t know him better you might believe him to be shy about telling you the truth, “I’m not good at caring, and I don’t usually like caring, but I guess I do. Sue me!”
You took another step forward, so that you were so close you were breathing right in each other’s faces.
You were trying to be brave and command the conversation, but your stomach was doing backflips as it dawned on you that what he meant was that he really did feel the same about you.
“Why would you go silent on me then instead of talking to me about it?” you bit your lip as you spoke, and caught notice of how his eyes trailed to your lips as you did so.
He swallowed thickly, “Didn’t feel right to. Hardly professional, is it?”
“Oh, because you’re the picture of professionalism usually aren’t you?” you laughed dryly.
“Point taken,” he shrugged, “Maybe I was little scared. And we’ve got a good thing going, it’s a risk pushing things any further.”
You weren’t happy with that, not when this was Greg House — king of taking risks and breaking rules — and you were certain that it was a risk worth taking anyway.
“When has risk ever stopped you?” you asked, whispering now as your eyes darted between his and his lips whilst he mirrored your behaviour.
“Point also taken,” he mumbled, before finally taking the plunge and bringing his lips to yours in a heated kiss that you leaned into immediately.
He quickly leaned back to sit on the edge of his desk, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you to stand between his parted legs.
You pulled back, suddenly aware that anyone could come in at this moment and see you — and whilst the biggest risk here really was endless teasing from the team or a scolding from Cuddy, you did still have some things to discuss too.
You didn’t want to ruin the moment, overcome with giddiness at what had just happened, but you wanted to make your feelings clear; Even if it was to a man who would probably make a jokey remark and underplay his own feelings.
“I don’t know your relationship history, and I don’t care to,” you shrugged, moving your hands to your hips but hardly moving away from him, “Well, I’m not rushing to. I can assume it’s not great, but I just want to take every day as it comes and see where things go because mine isn’t great either. I’m not gonna hurt you, Greg.”
The sincerity in his eyes as he gazed up at you made your heart melt, and you could tell that somehow, some way, you had gotten through to him.
“Don’t make promises you can’t be certain that you’ll keep, Y/N,” he mumbled, before shaking off his own words and standing back up to stare into your eyes intently, “But fine. Because it’s you, I’m willing to try. Provided there’s more of this,” he kissed you again before continuing, “And less of them ogling and concocting their little romantic stories about the lovely doctor Y/N and her damaged old fool.”
You turned around to see the entire team peering through the window, all smiles and whispered chatter at the sight before them.
You raised your middle finger to them, turning back to look at House and stepping back a little from him.
“Unfortunately, those nosey fuckers are not going anywhere,” you rolled your eyes, “If you’re willing to try then we’re going for dinner. Tonight. And we’re going to have a good time, and not talk about this place or about anything you don’t want to.”
He nodded, “I’ll pretend I’m not furious you’ve robbed me of making the grand romantic gesture of being the one to ask,” he cocked his head as he joked, truthfully very much pleased you were the one to ask and confirm that your interest in him was genuine, “But sounds good to me. I’ll wear my nicest tux, eh.”
“Yeah, yeah, ha ha,” you hummed, “Now I’ve got a living patient to go and visit thanks to you. Enjoy your afternoon with that lot,” you gestured to your friends, who were all still stood there watching you, “Good luck. Oh, and pick somewhere to book for us to eat. That can be your grand romantic gesture, hm.”
“Gee, thanks,” he laughed, shaking his head, “I’ll see you later.”
“See you later,” you grinned, swanning out of his office with the biggest smile possible painting your features.
You nudged past your friends as they watched you walk down the corridor, happier than they had probably ever seen you in the time that you’d known them.
They immediately filed into House’s office when you were out of sight, and his head fell back in irritation for a moment despite the smile still gracing his lips.
“Things went well, then?”
“Go away,” he replied, “I’m in a good mood for once, and you idiots aren’t going to ruin that, alright?”
“Woah, okay,” Foreman laughed, “Who are you and what has Y/N done with Greg House?”
———
thanks for reading !!! i hope enjoyed and this wasn’t too ooc lol. let me know what you though pleaaase & if you’d like — feel free to request!
in the meantime, here is my masterlist!
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materialprincess01 · 4 months
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⤷ ౨ৎ Whispers on the Phone ౨ৎ ⤶
🩰 Pairings: Theodore Nott x Reader
🪷 Warnings: 18+, Use of Y/N, mention and use of feminine body parts, Phone Sex, swearing, possibly bad Italian, Theodore might be OOC(If so, I apologise for that.), dirty talk, fingering, nipple play, Theodore talks you through touching yourself, not much plot but I’ve tried to include some so it’s more interesting, short and spicy story, filthiness all in all. All characters portrayed in all my fanfics are 18 years old and up.
💌 Synopsis: You can’t help but call Theo in your time of need.
🦢 Whispers from the author: My first Harry Potter world fanfic! I hope I have captured Theodore well enough for this to be passed off as him. Please pardon if he is a little OOC.
🕯Word Count: 1702
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The noise of your gentle moaning mixes in with the soft sound of your dorm bed covers being moved about by your restless legs, the heat bubbles beneath your slightly damp and bare skin. your fingers play with your aching cunt as your hips buck against your hand, your other hand plays with your nipple before an unsatisfied groan falls past your lips. You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling above you with a frown on your features as a huff blows past your lips, pulling your hands away from your core and nipple, you lean on your elbows as frustration racks through your body.
No matter how much you tell yourself ‘no’ and how much you remind yourself how occupied he is with the work he’s currently being made to do by Professor Flitwick to catch up with the work he’s missed out on, you can’t help but think: I need him. Regardless of how bad and selfish you feel, you find yourself reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside your bed. You just hope no one else is in the room with him. A victorious feeling blooms in your chest when your clean hand wraps around the device, bringing it up to your face: You immediately press on Theo’s chat and begin calling him.
It rings twice before he picks up, “Y/n?” He answers and a slight worry underlines his whispered tone, “Are you okay—“
“I know…” your hand travels downwards, and an exhale leaves your lips when your fingers brush against your aching pussy; even just hearing his voice has you pulsing, “Professor Flitwick is making you do your work to catch up, but — shit,” a wanton whine, “Theo..” you moan with no ounce of shame, “I need you.”
Theodore is quiet before a knowing chuckle cuts his silence short, “Are you touching yourself, Y/n?” His voice lowers which adds a slight rasp to it, and you hum shakily as your fingers begin playing with your clit; loving the sound of his change of tone. “You just couldn’t wait, could you?” he teases, although you know he’s pissed that he’s missing you playing with yourself by the slight edge to his voice, “yeah, I could, Just...” you trail off out as your hips buck against your hand, “don’t lie to me,”
Your hips jerk into your hand as you begin playing with your clit, “No… i couldn’t.. miss you s’much…” His heavy breathing in your ear makes you whine, he’s probably got his muscles flexed — fuck, that image makes you even hornier. “Missed me that much, sweetheart?” Theodore coos, a mocking undertone in his voice, he wants to hear you cry about how much you need him. And normally, you would deny him of this, deny him of the pleasure, the satisfaction, but right now: you need to cum. And Theodore always makes you cum. “So much..” your tone is breathy, needy, and Theo is loving every second of it. “Want… need you so much.”
Theo hums, happy to hear how reliant you are on him, “As much as I want too, Principessa, I can’t come over.” Even though you know he can’t, a whimper of dissatisfaction can help but part your lips, “But I’ll help you. You touchin’ yourself right now?” At first you nod, but then remember he can’t see you, “Yeah,” the word is hurried, dripping with desperation; the excited nerves mix in with the anticipation as you wonder what he’s going to say or do. Theo lets out a soft “okay,” and a few seconds later you can hear the sound of a door shutting in his background softly, “are you alone?” You question, “Yeah, I just had to close the door because he coming to check up on me.” Theodores’ words soothe you, “Okay..” He begins, “you playin’ with that pretty clit?”
You groan, having an inkling on where this is going. You don’t want to be teased - you want to be fucked. “Theo,” His name comes out in a drawl, pleading with him.
Theodore chuckles at how needy you’re being, it fuels his ego knowing you called him because only he can get you to cum, only he can make you see other worlds, “Okay, okay.. Spread your legs a little more — don’t argue, I know they’re not open enough.” With a roll of your eyes, you do as he says and open your legs more, allowing the air in your room to brush against your wet, needy pussy, “Done.”
Theodore grins, “Good girl, put the phone down and play with your nipples.” A noise of displeasure falls from your lips, “Theo,” you whine, “my pussy—“ Theodore knows where this is leading to, and quickly stops you before you can try and change his mind - make him forget all about his work and come fuck you, “Principessa,” his raspy, deep tone makes shivers go down your spine. Whenever he used that tone, you know you wouldn’t walk properly for a week. “We’ll get to your pretty pussy, don’t worry. Play with your nipple.”
Doing as he says again, you place the phone down by your face and, with much reluctance, pull your hand away from your pussy and grab your tits, your thumb begins to gently rub your nipples, “I’d kill to see what you look like right now, fuck.” Theodore groans, “ You playing with those perfect tits, baby? Makin’ yourself feel good to my voice? You know what I’d do to you, hm? I’d swirl my tongue around your nipples, bite them with just enough pressure that has your needy pussy grinding on me, suck on them a lil’ too,” You whimper in response to him describing what he’d do to you, “What else?” You whine, unable to get enough of his voice, “I’d massage your breasts, ’cause I just know they’d feel so fucking good, so soft and squishy, in my hands.”
“And then, I’d trail my hand down…” as he’s describing what he’d next, a hand moves from a nipple and trails down to your cunt, happy that he’s finally giving your pussy some attention, “And I’d cup that pretty pussy in my hand, and make you grind an beg for me to play with your clit.” Spoke too soon, it seems. You cup your dripping pussy and almost instantly begin to gently grind against your palm, “Theo,” you breathe, tone whiny and desperate, “Please.”
Theodore palms himself through his pants at your noises, wishing with everything in him that you were making those noises down his ear as he marked your neck up, “Come on, do it, be good for me.” With a huff, you grind on your palm and your brows furrow as frustration builds up inside of you, it’s not enough, “Carissimo.. m’so desperate, please.” Theodore loves it when you call him affectionate endearments in his own language. It’s a sly trick, in his words, you do to get at him. And it always works.
Theodore says nothing and that gets to you, you need to hear what he wants to do next, “Please.. tell me what you’ll do next.” Your grinding becomes needy, desperate to create some friction and hopefully nudge your pulsing clit, “Okay, baby, okay. You really wanna know what I’d do next?”
The loud cry that leaves your lips can be heard for miles, but you couldn’t care, “Yes, Theo! Fuck — please!” His voice and your orgasm is all you care about. “I’d slip my fingers into that perfect pussy of yours,” relief floods through your body at his words and instantly, your two fingers find their way inside of you, and a soft satisfied sigh falls past your parting lips, “And I’d slowly, very slowly, start to finger you. Feel your walls contract around my fingers, get you all nice and ready for my cock, my thumb pressing into your clit, listening to those perfect sounds you make so well f’me.” You would’ve preferred if he said something different. Something — anything other than that, but slowly fingering yourself and rubbing your clit is better than nothing, right?
Theodore groans softly, trying to keep his own noises down, as his own orgasm teases his peak,“I’d kiss my way down from those lips I love so much, to that neck I love marking. c’mon baby, let me hear those noises. fuck, you gonna make me beg now, tesoro?” As much as you want to make him beg, you know If you made him do that, you would be the one begging at the end. “ssshit..” you breathe, “More, keep talking t’me.” You don’t mean for your tone to come out demanding, but with how much this fucker is making you hold back — it won’t harm him. Theodore shakes his head at you, “So needy..” and chuckles, “You feelin’ that? My fingers fucking you? Nice n’fast?” You speed up your finger pace at his cue, “Need you s’bad, Theo..!” You cry out as you fuck yourself with your fingers, your other hand plays with your clit in a way that has you closing your eyes, “Fuck, please! Want your cock, fuckin’ need it!” Theo growls at your words, feeling his mental strength slip with every plea and cry you make for him, “Do you? Are you desperate for me?”
You struggle to form words at first, the pleasure becoming a little too much but it still leaves you wanting more, “So desperate! Want your cock,” your hips thrust upwards into your hand, “Kissin’ my fuckin’ cervix.” Theo swears under his breath, which swear word: you didn’t catch, “Me too, baby. I’d fuck you so, so good. You wouldn’t be able to walk. Want to know what else I’d do, huh? I’d bounce you on my cock, and watch as your tits bounce with my thrusts.”
You cry out, “Want you to cum inside f’me, so fuckin’ deep.”
He groans at your dirty pleads, “Yeah?” Cursing so softly as his orgasm reaches its peak, you’re unable to pick up what he actually said, “yessss!!” You moan, tone wavering and a moan rips past your lips as your orgasm washes over you, like a cool wave does on a hot day; it gives you relief. “Theo!!” You croak out as your back arches, your legs shake before you collapse onto your bed.
Twitches rack through your body as you try to catch your breath. “Theo..”
“I’m coming over, fuck this work.”
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(If these are wrong, please tell me and I will correct them! I’m still in the beginner stages of Italian.)
Tesoro - Darling.
Carissimo - Dearest.
Principessa - Princess.
materialprincess01© all rights reserved — these are all works of fiction written by me. do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any other platform. If you see my work on anything else, it’s been copied without my permission. I have only one Tumblr account, this one, and an AO3 account; one which whom I have not yet posted on.
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solannn · 2 months
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Have you seen black clover? If so, do you think you could write about a quiet (Bottom) reader who's secretly freaky and yami figures it out? For example, He flirts with the reader, and the reader flirts back but 10x dirtier and catches yami off guard. It's so out of left field for the reader that he's into it. If not, then thays ok don't feel pressured too. :3
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🍂┆ WHO’s gonna kiss the brown
🥥┆ haired girls ? — TV GIRL
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FLIRT,,
Quiet!male reader,Yami x Reader,nsfw(a bit),under 17 dni,fem aligned dni(she/her,she/they..) gender fluid accept. Reader being really flirty,ooc Yami
riding,penetration,dacryphillia(?)
═══ ⋆★⋆═══
You weren’t a lousy person,you were and always quiet.
You didn’t talk much,hearing the sound of your voice was rare.
You only speak when you feel like to,well some people wondered what your voice sounded like (specially Atsa)
But it doesn’t really matter,the Black Bulls didn’t mind not hearing your sweet voice of yours.
You loved quiet,you wish you were quiet all the times
Your relationship with Yami was quite special you guys get along without talking much,but he wish he could hear your voice more.
"Is your dad a terrorist ?because your a bomb" he said bluntly. You giggled making him irking was it that bad? He wasn’t a flirty,he don’t even noticed when he flirts but when he does it proposily it was something…
"My dad a terrorist ? But-wait I’ve got one"you took a deep breath to stop yourself from laughing,Yami was extremely irritated by you,waiting for your sentence "I swear to-" you interrupted him "Are you a motorbike ? Cause I’ll riding like a crazy." You teased you took his cigarettes and blew him smoke on his face.
Yami was taken off guard,did he find out you’re were freaky as hell and you fucking blew him smokes ? Yeah."Ahhh?" He was literally so shock,oh man,you aren’t going to walk today .
You were sitting on Yami’s lap,you felt the tips of his dick in your hole. The taller man puts his hands on your waist and pushed you down,making your lips let a moan. You put your hand on your mouth to make the nose more quiet.
"I want your sweet whine." He demanded as you removed your hand, you placed a hand on his chest, holding him down as you takes him inside. Your hips move back and forth,your rising to match his rhythm.
He founded your prostate and you thrusted faster,feelin’ your prostate getting abuse by the thrusted,tears rolled down your eyes.
"Ahh.." you moaned,you’re eyes were puffy from your tears,you rolled your eyes. "Nhh.." you cummed on Yami’s chest but he didn’t came into you.
"You’re less quiet in bed you know" he teased "s-shut up.. and fuck me already..I im tired" you groaned and as laughed at your pathetic face.
(Request open!! I don’t like it tbh 😓😓)
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doobea · 3 months
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ALWAYS BE MY MAYBE ─ MEGUMI F.
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synopsis: upon graduating and landing your first job outside of college, you soon realize that being in your twenties suck. outside of working nine hours everyday, setting time for the gym, and making shitty home cooked meals, you have a new stressor joining your team on monday - your ex.
MILESTONE EVENT || MILESTONE MASTERLIST
contents: gn!reader, second chances, office romance, lots of awkward tension, background satosugu, alcohol consumption, company mixers and gossip thrown around word count: 7045 (im sorry) a/n: thank you so much for requesting this @mymegumi !! this is my first time writing for megumi so i hope he isn't too ooc!! :3 this was def one of my fav ones i've received hehe also shout out to @popponn for beta reading this like a champ because wow this was a MESS and shes helped w a lot ;;
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Walking into the office on a Monday morning and seeing your ex first thing is something you wouldn’t wish on your enemy. 
To make matters even slightly worse, the team manager announces that he’s going to be the new software engineer on your team and that his assigned seat is, surprise surprise, next to yours. 
So this is how things are going now. 
Things have changed drastically between you and Megumi, having today being your one-year break up anniversary, and you’re still finding your ground here. And, it goes both ways, you suppose. The initial shock on your face was hard to hide and you could’ve sworn Megumi felt like putting in his two week notice the moment you walked through those doors. But you don’t blame him when he excuses himself to the nearest bathroom and you don’t blame him when he spends a suspicious amount of time in there.
“Does the new guy have IBS or something?” Your manager, Satoru Gojo, plops himself down at the corner of your desk, completely ignoring the fact that his ass is resting on the pile of documents that you’re planning to review. He’s wearing his usual black circular lenses inside despite it being not sunny on this cold, gloomy December morning. Gojo thinks he looks cool with them on, definitely not trying to gain a certain regional manager’s attention. He’s also disregarding the fact that you’re squirming uncomfortably in your seat. 
You cough loudly into your fist and manage to shimmy a packet from Gojo’s ass pile, trying to drown yourself in work and not engage in the conversation, knowing full well that Gojo can’t keep his mouth shut if he finds out about your relationship history.
“Maybe it’s just first day nerves,” you shrug back.
“I’m not paying him to take a shit at work,” Gojo huffs back, hands on hips like a mother hen. “There’s some Pepto Bismol in the first aid kit in the break room, go hand him that.”
You sigh, clicking the pen repeatedly in your hands in hopes that your manager gets the hint that you’re busy, but he just repeats it, emphasizing that ‘hey, no need to create a toxic work environment’ and that ‘everyone here is family’. 
“You can’t grab Nobara to do it?” You grumble out.
“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?” he replies back before hopping off your desk. Gojo adjusts his tie and smooths out his hair before sending finger guns in your direction. “Make Megumi feel at home and I’ll give everyone an extra five thousand on top of the initial holiday bonus, yeah?”
If there’s anything that Satoru Gojo is good at, outside of drunk whining about his ex, it’s bribing. You’ve been working at this company for just under a year and the amount of times he would throw money out in order to get others to do his responsibilities might be more than you can count but, in hindsight, it’s not a bad trait to have. He’s a good listener, attentive of other’s needs, and not a micromanager. And, while you desperately want to say no, you have to admit that having an extra five thousand bonus does sound incredibly nice.
“Fine,” you give in and push yourself out of the seat. “But that’s all that I’m doing for the rest of the week. I’ve got other things I have to catch up on before the end of the year.”
It’s not a lie. You’ve got meetings with clients scheduled back to back until the last week before Christmas and most of them are being indecisive about their app designs. Though, that’s the normal life of being a graphic web designer on a regular day.
“Yeah?” Gojo briefly glances over your calendar that you have pinned against the wooden cork board in your cubicle and hums in deep thought — which is usually not a good sign. “Y’know what? Megumi should join in on the meetings too.”
“H-Huh?”
“Why are you giving me that look? You give him the designs, he makes it look pretty, and then we have profit.”
“Yeah but,” you gesture your hands towards Toge’s desk behind you, who’s currently hunched over and deep into whatever line of code he’s attempting to fix for a particular picky client. “I’m already partnered up with Toge, I don’t think Megumi needs—”
Gojo enunciates your name, loud and slow, tilting his glasses down so you can see the intense blue of his eyes. “Can’t you see I’m trying to hook you up, right now?”
Oh god, so this is why he’s being so persistent.
You heave out another sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration and embarrassment. “Gojo, are you self projecting right now?” You swear he always does this.
“Am not!” Gojo quickly shoots back with crossed arms. “You look like you haven’t gotten laid in a while and I’d figure I play office cupid with you and the new guy!” Then, a small pause followed by a loud Teams’ message notification comes from his phone. You don’t need to guess who sent it judging by Gojo’s exasperated gasp. “Inumaki, please focus on your tasks instead of listening in on people’s conversations!”
Ping!
DESIGN TEAM - SUB GC [Toge Inumaki]: gojo needs to get laid lolol [Maki Zen’in]: say it louder for the ppl in the back
Gojo manages out another grumpy sound, more a whine than anything else; your grin widens and pat him on the shoulder.
“Pepto Bismol, right?” You snort.
“He’s still going to join—” Gojo starts to respond, but then gets cut off by another notification, and gives up. “Ack—whatever! Just make sure you look after him today, alright? Me and Suguru are going to plan for the holiday party for the rest of the day, so no interruptions!” He announces the last part louder than the rest, staring down at everyone else on the office floor. Gojo is met with a couple of weak ‘yeah, sure, have fun, bud’ before turning his attention back to you. He says the next part in a hush whisper, “Gonna increase it to ten thousand, you spend too much time at work anyway.”
You roll your eyes, nodding away just to agree and end the dreaded topic. “Aye, aye, captain.”
Then, Gojo has the audacity to drink some of your morning tea and sighs, content and relaxed as he’ll ever be, before strutting to the otherside of the floor and into Geto’s office. You and the others are pretty sure they have a secret room connected in there. No one’s ever been able to go inside Geto’s office without a special lock pad code. Something about protecting the company’s patented secrets or whatever. Doesn’t help the allegations that only Gojo has access to said special code.
Ping!
You look at your computer and see that Toge had sent you a private message. 
[Toge Inumaki]: u actually gonna flirt w the new guy?
You glare at Toge, who’s now flashing you a knowing smirk underneath the turtleneck that extends over his mouth. You know he’s celebrating inwardly because, yeah, you see that little glimmer in Toge’s eyes that indicates that he does know your dirty little office secret. How do you know this for a fact? Toge always looks up everyone’s personal and employment history.
It’s always the quiet ones who are freaks.
“No way,” you reply, probably with even more indignation than Gojo, if that’s even possible. “Also, keep the info on the down low and I’ll share some of my bonus with you, please?” If you’re going to survive this job, you might as well steal some of your manager’s tactics.
Without any opposition, Toge sends you a thumbs up.
This is going to be an interesting year.
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“You’re making it so not obvious,” Maki starts, sarcastically, as she refills her liter sized tumbler by the company’s only fancy coffee machine. It’s also the only functional one on the floor and Geto claims that it’s worth more than your entire yearly salary. What an absurd purchase but everyone abuses the shit out of it, so you guess it’s worth the price. 
You stick out your tongue in disgust as you watch her put five shots of espresso into the container and wonder how the hell is her body still functioning correctly. “You could’ve at least told me that he applied for the job, y’know?”
“And what? How was I supposed to know he was going to be on our team? Were you going to look for a new job just because he got it?” Maki shoots you an unimpressed look and totally catches the way you chew your lips as your fingers twitch at your sides. “Listen, as your friend and his cousin, I’m not really sure all the details that went down but I know that Megumi isn’t out to hurt you — you should know that too.”
“I do know that,” you angrily place down your mug underneath the machine, firmly pressing the cappuccino option on the touch screen. “We just… didn’t really talk after he had to move, like at all.” You frown.
Maki leans against the break room counter and sips her beverage. “Mind running it back to me again?” 
“It’s long, Maki,” you try to deflect, “Trauma dumping first thing in the morning is rather—”
Ping!
[Satoru Gojo]: did ya hand him the anti poop meds yet? 
“Wait, give me a second, gotta reply to…”
Maki laughs. “All good, take your time.”
[You]: not yet, getting coffee [Satoru Gojo]: losing employee of the month status as we speak  [You]: u being deadass rn [Satoru Gojo]: you wished your ass was getting aidhwkakha 
The sudden keyboard smash and offline status change is enough to lose your interest in the conversation. A chill runs down your spine at the immediate imagination of your supervisors getting it on with each other. As a small distraction, your eyes begin shifting focus around the break room before settling on the small first aid kit in the corner. And now you’re reminded again of the side mission that somehow became a main mission in your twenties’ story line. 
Handing your ex bowel medicine was not part of your bingo card. 
“I’ll talk to you later, Maki,” you release a groan when she laughs again. It’s light hearted, you know that for sure, but it still feels humiliating. 
You round the corner down the hallway leading to the restroom with the neon pink bottle in hand, mumbling to yourself ways to avoid talking to Megumi, before crashing dead on into something, or rather someone, hard. 
“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry—”
“No, it’s my bad, I—”
You regret ever opening your mouth. A heartbeat pause passes before you could gather your thoughts, coherently. You’re pretty sure you have this dumb, gawking, expression plastered over your face because Megumi is doing all that he can to avoid having proper eye contact with you. 
Instead of half expecting him to brush past you, he points at the neon bottle and asks, slowly, with all seriousness, “Is that for you?”
“F-For me?” You look down at the bottle and look up again, feeling warmth in your cheeks from embarrassment and… anger? You hastily shove the bottle into his hands, strongly ignoring the fact that he smells really good for someone who just spent the last half hour in a bathroom. “It’s for you, idiot!” 
For a split second, Megumi looks wildly offended that you would even consider that he needs something like this. You watch as he’s about to give it back to you or, knowing him, throw it away, when suddenly a tuft of pink pokes out from the corner of your eyes.
Yuuji had somehow acquired a ridiculous bright strand of Christmas lights that he’s looped around his neck. He’s got a Santa hat on, also holding an extra pair too, and you want to question where he managed to get the overly festive attire from, and if there’s some sort of weird in-office holiday event that you weren’t invited to. 
“Hey, hey! I was told to bring this over to the new guy!” Yuuji chirps brightly and stops in his tracks when he sees Megumi in front of you. “You must be him!”
“Megumi,” you wince at saying his name finally, pushing aside your previous strained thoughts due to the new company, and run a feverish hand through your hair. “This is Yuuji, he works in our sales department. Yuuji, this is Megumi, he’s part of the design team.” You reply in a sickly-sweet tone. 
“ ‘Sup! How are you?” Yuuji pops the ‘p’ and whistles.
“I’m charmed,” Megumi sighs and stares him down for a moment, before he finally grips the festive hat when Yuuji presents it to him. “Do I have to?”
“Of course!” Yuuji flicks on the switch to his necklace and it nearly blinds your eyes from how bright it was. The festive colors alternate, and there’s a small jingle that plays right after. Talk about a seizure warning. “It’s part of the company’s tradition!”
Megumi breathes through his nose, rolling his eyes. “The company was founded this year.”
“Yeah, starting today, it’s a company tradition,” Yuuji corrects. 
“Starting today, I’ll write up my notice,” he grumbles, only audible to you. 
You have to admit, you appreciate the dry sarcasm. There’s no denying that Megumi looks like he’s a second away from quitting all within the first two hours of his first day. But, as you noted earlier, you don’t blame him. 
“You guys are coming to the end of the year party, right?” Yuuji snaps a quick selfie with the three of you in it, explaining something about posting on the company’s Instagram story reels and gaining clout. Though, you’re pretty sure that only Yuuji was smiling in the photo.
“I was actually planning on staying home,” you answer sheepishly, not wanting to give away the obvious reason.
Yuuji frowns and immediately pulls out his signature puppy dog eyes. “Aww, wait really? You seemed so excited for it earlier last week.”
You’re shaking your head. “No, I wasn’t—”
“Yuh huh,” Yuuji fishes out his phone to pull up the fucking group chat receipts, showing it to both you and a perplexed Megumi. “You said you went out and bought an ugly Christmas sweater the next day!”
“It was a joke!”
Yuuji pulls up a photo of you in said ugly Christmas sweater. You die a little on the inside.
“You’re wearing it right here, though!”
“Yuu—” 
“A joke, huh,” Megumi kicks the bottom of his loafers against the floor, shoving the red hat deep into his pants’ pocket, before excusing himself, again. He holds up the pink bottle and turns around, back towards the restrooms. “Turns out I’ll be needing this, thanks.” There’s a hint of malice oozing from the last word, one that you pick up quite easily while Yuuji looks around confused. 
“So Gojo wasn’t overreacting about the IBS thing…” Yuuji muses.
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It’s now midday and a total of less than thirty words have been exchanged so far between you and Megumi. You two have been working in silence for the past hour at the cubicles and you’re beginning to feel awfully guilty about the earlier exchange. 
It wasn’t your intention to make him feel unwelcomed. Maybe you’re thinking too deeply into this than needed?
“Are you feeling okay?” You arch a brow, pulling your eyes away from your monitor for a moment to look at Megumi. Megumi stops typing and makes a small appreciative sound, nodding quickly enough. You know better though, whenever he has a far off look on his face, that his mind’s a mess. 
“Yeah,” Megumi tries to sound casual as he goes back to coding. “This is probably not easy for you either, right?” He lets an ear bud dangle from his side.
“That noticeable?” You let out a short laugh, knowing that you both know each other still pretty fucking well. “It’s just… been a year, you know? Haven’t seen much of you since you moved.” You’re waiting for him to take the bait as you have your suspicions, and you don’t voice them, but you swear, just for a moment, there’s a strange expression on Megumi’s face. Then, you blink, and maybe you’ve imagined it all, because his face goes back to looking as stoic as he always did.
“I’m,” he pauses his fingers, sinking back into his seat, eyes downcasted. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called you, at least.”
“I was worried sick like crazy,” you suddenly admit, the words seemingly flowing out at this point. “Was almost debating calling the missing person’s hotline until the mailman, of all people, told me that your family packed up and dipped.”
Megumi isn’t the most expressive person when it comes to apologies, having an already wildly unconventional childhood was enough to shell himself out from everyone else. Though, it’s hard to deny that he should’ve and could’ve done something earlier. 
Megumi chews methodically down on his lips. “Yeah, I’m sorry.”
You nod slowly, making note of the way his voice strained, and face back to your monitors. “It’s fine, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up at work,” a pause and then you continue, “Also, I’m sorry about acting like you’re the plague, too. It’s just—people don’t normally work with their ex’s, you know?” You whisper.
He sighs, there’s a finality to it, and puts back his ear bud. “Mhm, I don’t want to think about it.”
Yeah. It’s stupid. It’s stupid and somehow it really sucks, too. You’re absentmindedly nodding and maybe, you think, there’s a quick flicker of that same unnamed emotion you keep noticing from Megumi, one that somehow forces your stomach to twist up, making your insides all confused. 
“Okay, that’s fair enough,” you say, and you forget about it, at least for now.
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After a few days, working with Megumi is like clockwork. 
Greetings are short and brief or none at all. If he needed something, he would contact Toge or Maki since they’re the ones supposed to be in charge of him. If he ever needed to grab something from you… well it’ll just be exchanged via email or the work group chat — nothing ever in person. Which you’re happy that you’re both on the same page. Also, thank god for Zoom Meetings having a recording option. There was no way in actual hell you were going to sit through a two hour long call with your ex sitting across from you.
It’s halfway through the work week and nearing the end of the day. You’ve successfully got off the call with a client and just sent over the finalized web design to the rest of the team. 
Yuki Tsukumo, a self-made billionaire, reached out to the company three months back regarding a new app launch she had in mind. Ironically for you, it’s a dating app specifically designed for second chances and heartbreaks. Did you mentally suffer a couple of breakdowns from this? Of course.
Are you going to suffer another one because Gojo is currently ordering a last minute meeting with you and Megumi in a conference room? Yeah.
“What the fuck,” you say, intelligently. “Are you—are you crying?”
“W-What makes you think that,” Gojo sneezes into an already damp tissue. He’s got a stupid Christmas-themed sweater on, even got a themed set of earrings in, too. A little necklace with red and white candy cane beads hangs from his neck, and he’s got a dumb temporary reindeer tattoo on his cheek. Gojo is so themed that it’s almost disgusting. “Why would I—why would I—” and he bursts into tears.
You outwardly groan and Megumi stays quiet but makes his annoyance evident with a deep furrow of his brows. You do not like where this is going. Gojo breaking down combined with Geto suddenly taking off only means that—
“You want us to take over the planning.” Megumi concludes in a flat tone.
“F-For the party—yes,” Gojo hiccups and, fuck, is he also drunk on the job right now?
“Did you and Geto have a fight again?” You deadpan. 
“No.” Gojo frowns, going cross eyed. It’s not adorable at all, completely different from how he usually depicts himself to the rest of the office, which is why both you and Megumi stealthily slip out your phones and snap a quick picture… for blackmail purposes. “I-I was just…”
“We’ll do it,” you actually didn’t want to know the details, but you are slightly amused by how things turned out the way they did. “So, why are you drunk?”
Gojo opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “ ‘m not drunk enough to tell you the whole story,” he gravely replies.
Megumi scoffs as he graciously gets out of his seat. “Well, if that’s all then I’m going back to my desk.”
And, of course, in the end it comes down to Megumi fucking Fushiguro being your co-assistant to organizing the biggest end of the year dinner celebration. A ten thousand bonus is on the line and you could really use a long vacation afterwards. 
Gojo sends you to a file containing the event plans that they’ve completed so far and what’s missing. Food has already been covered, Gojo has a fancy restaurant catering information listed down, one he raves constantly about their tiramisu. Below that Geto makes a brief comment about needing an after party reservation at any local bar. Holiday decor still needs to be ordered and a DJ still needs to be booked. Not to mention setting up the office, organizing activities, creating and sending out emails to every—
“I’ll handle coordinating with the vendors, you can focus on the internal tasks.”
You blink. “What?”
He blinks in return. “What do you mean ‘what’?”
And, when you don’t say anything back, he continues.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” Megumi has his back turned to you. He’s unable to catch your slight frown. Those words should be a good sign. The less contact, the better. But hearing it makes your stomach clench uncomfortably, and you find yourself casting around for something to say back. 
You try to open your mouth to speak, but it’s a bunch of gibberish, nonsense syllables, the only recognizable word being a bleary, “together”. 
“Together?”
“We can work on it together,” you rephrased it more clearly.
Megumi tenses his shoulders and whips his head around, holding a slight sneer, though you aren’t sure if it’s meant for you or just towards the odd situation. “We are, that’s why I’m splitting the responsibilities up.”
“No, I mean like—”
“You don’t have to force anything.” Megumi says, running fingers through his unkempt hair. “I don’t want to make things more awkward than they already are.”
Of course, that sets you off a bit uneasily. You look around in the office and, once you realize that it’s just the two of you, you pull Megumi by his sleeves and find the nearest empty conference room. 
“You look upset,” you huff, completely ignoring the way he’s pouting. 
“I’m not upset,” Megumi shoots back, but his words are far too quick, a little bit heated, and he flushes instantly. He knows that he’s not fooling anyone, especially you.
You sigh, leaning your back against the wall next to the door. “Maybe not to others,” you begin, “I don’t want to sound like an ass but…” and you instinctively cringe when you think back to Gojo’s words from the beginning, “We have to work together for this project, at least.”
“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Megumi confesses, and you see the weight coming off of his shoulders as he says it. It sounded like he wasn’t planning on bringing this up at all, but the words are soon tumbling out. “Just… trying to get out of your way, you know? I still kinda need time to process everything.”
“Ah,” you’re looking down at your shoes, suddenly feeling… shy? Confused? You're watching him out of the corner of your eye. 
Megumi breathes out a long sigh, fixes the wrinkles in his sleeves, and leans forward, brushing shoulders with you as he reaches for the handle. “I’ll cooperate,” he forces out.
“Megumi,” you say quietly, and you’re watching his knuckles turn white as he grips the knob just a bit too tightly. “Let’s just start over, okay?”
He frowns, and he masks it after a moment, you know how to get him stirring in his emotions, because the thought appears to give him a pause. Megumi’s eyes widen a bit, and he’s back to chewing his lip, a bad habit he’s always had, before smoothing out again.
“That’s complicated, you know that,” Megumi says finally. 
You have no right to judge his answer, considering that you also played along in this weird tip-toe dance that you’ve both set. But is it really that complicated? Sure, you’re still pissed about what transpired during the relationship and ‘break up’, if you even want to call it that, but how long are you going to pretend that he’s not an important figure in your life?
“Life is complicated,” you stare into his eyes. “So work with me here, Megumi.”
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You begin to feel better when you check off the final bullet point on Gojo’s ridiculously long event planner. Miraculously, the two of you manage to have everything prepared before the end of the month, even if it means working slight overtime together. Not that either of you had minded, it seemed after that conversation, there’s been less tension. You’re both trying to move on from the past and that’s the part of growing up, like it or not, and things don’t really fall neatly in place anymore. 
So, when you get to the restaurant, you realize something real fast.
The seating arrangements are absolutely staged. 
It’s a small izakaya, so the price to rent the whole place out wasn’t as expensive as some of the places Gojo had listed down as recs in the previous email but, because of its limited space, you knew it was going to be a tight squeeze for all twenty of you guys.
For starters, it was apparent from the moment you sat down that no one wanted to sit next to you. You were wondering if it had to do anything with your body odor before noting two very important things — one, Megumi was going to be the last one to arrive because he’s picking up the cake and two, everyone was staring intently when he entered the restaurant and had no choice but to sit next to you. You were trying so hard not to get distracted but the scent of his familiar cologne and the proximity of his body heat traveled to the forefront of your mind.
Three shots of tequila followed by five lemon drops later and both of your supervisors have disappeared from the dinner table. You vaguely make out a trail of unraveled ties and belts down the restaurant’s bathroom hallway in the corner, no surprise guessing what your bosses are doing — hint, it’s probably with each other. Aside from that, you’re currently trying not to let yourself get distracted by the obvious questions that your other coworkers are currently throwing to you and Megumi.
“We heard from a little birdie that you two are ex’s?” Todo throws the fucking rock out there. 
Everyone is either currently drunk or getting to the point of being tipsy. One look at Toge and he has the word ‘culprit’ written all over his smug, redden face. You’d imagine that he told everyone at the table about it when you and Megumi excused yourselves to the restroom separately earlier in the night. Mai is giggling up a storm and Yuuji looks like he’s one sip away from making weird hand puppets of you two kissing. Maybe it’s hypocritical on your part, but you don’t get why they’re making such a big deal out of it. It’s not like you and Megumi are actually making the work environment uncomfortable and it’s also not like you guys are getting back together by seeing each other every day… right?
But you have to wonder, vaguely, when your body’s going to stop doing that weird, fluttering thing it does every time Megumi does look at you. You almost spill your drink everywhere when you catch his eyes again and mutter a string of curses under your breath, forcing your attention back to actually doing some damage control before it gets out of hand. 
The only way to stop them from spreading unnecessary rumors is to own up to it. The more you deny, the more relentless teasing you’ll receive. Both you and Megumi drain a shot of tequila for the sake of courage before answering Todo’s unwarranted question.
“Yes.”
“No.”
You stare at each other in disbelief before switching your answers in a panic. 
“No!”
“Yes!”
Yuuji starts nervously laughing and scratches his cheek. “Uh, guys…”
“We’re not—”
“We broke up—”
“You gonna take him out on a date?” Todo digs into his food, eyes never leaving the two of you. For some reason, you think he’s enjoying this a bit too much.
Megumi seems to pick up on this and groans. “I’m going outside for a bit,” he removes himself from his seat and pointedly avoids all the disappointed drunk mumblings from his coworkers as he makes a beeline towards the entrance with his coat in hand.
Okay, yeah, he’s smart for not falling for that. You, on the other hand, start pawing at your lap. 
“We’re not dating,” you correct Todo, and basically everyone at the table.
“What if… he thinks you’re dating and you don’t?” Yuuji slurs his words, half of his body is basically leaning against the tabletop.
You highly doubt anything you’ve done together would be considered date worthy. You’re pretty sure Megumi feels the same way and everything is exaggerated at this point. Suddenly, you feel really out of your element here, and this burst of anxiety, one that leaves you squirming in your seat, has you itching for fresh air.
“I’ll be right back,” you quickly excuse yourself, grabbing your belongings along.
It didn’t take you long to find him. Megumi is standing off to the side underneath the building’s overhang, eyes glued to the road, silently watching the first snowfall of the month before taking notice of your presence. He flashes you a soft nod and scoots a little to the left, inviting you into his space, which you end up taking.
“When are you planning to leave?” Megumi asks. His face is flushed at this point, the first couple of buttons of his collared shirt are open, and his sleeves are rolled up. He’s got his jacket tossed across his shoulder and, you soon realize, that your ex looks stupidly mesmerizing under the shitty neon lights outside the restaurant. 
The answer had been “in about ten minutes” but somewhere between your brain and mouth, the words had taken a detour to Megumi’s long lashes, because instead you say, “Whenever you leave, I guess.”
It’s not like you actually have plans after this anyway. Your apartment might need a deep holiday cleaning after wasting the last couple of weeks working overtime, and you might need to pay the grocery store a little visit to actually start cooking yourself a healthy meal, but that can all wait. 
Megumi makes a strange straggled noise at your response and hides his surprise through a long sigh, “So…” 
You cock a brow. “So?” You echo back.
Another sigh from Megumi and he finally floods out his words. “The next train arrives in fifteen, we can both make it if you’re fine with leaving now.”
It’s a rare invitation and, despite the initial tension, there’s no way in hell that both of you are letting this opportunity go. 
You say yes in an instant, fixing your winter coat around your body and doing a quick three-second check to see if you have everything only to notice that your phone is missing.
“Oh, um—”
“I’ve got it right here,” Megumi fishes out your phone from his pocket and hands it over. “Figured that you would’ve accidentally left it behind.”
For a moment, you wonder if you’re on one of those hidden camera shows. But the look that Megumi gives you, the look that you’re all too familiar with a year ago, it’s there written all over his face. You realize that you are, fortunately, not on a reality show — the alcohol and snow might be paid actors — and your ex, tipsy and but wildly attentive towards you, is completely still infatuated.
You take it without questioning. When you check the phone battery, it doesn’t surprise you to see it almost fully charged too. He’s always been the worry wart, even if he doesn’t show it half the time. 
“Gojo recommended this new book series to me,” Megumi says with a small grin, changing the topic. You’re grateful for that, slightly. Even though you can’t quite meet his eyes, your gaze lingers on the way his hand is idly tugging at a loose thread on his shirt, or the way that he’s subtly kicking at the growing pile of snow in the corner, like he can’t stay still. It’s endearing, and you’re left wondering what’s actually going through his mind outside of all things surface level.
You find yourself mimicking his smile, already knowing what might come next. “Bet it’s either a series about friendship and adventure or the nastiest smut he could find in the romance section.” You reply, rolling your eyes. 
Megumi lets out a choked laugh, and almost drops his coat. You hide a giggle of your own. “Not anything like that, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” Megumi momentarily eyes you, but then reaches for his phone, pulling it out and thumbs the title ‘Sorcery Fight’ into the search bar. Tons of images pop up, many featuring fanart of who you assumed to be the main character — white hair, wears a blindfold, oddly charismatic in its character description — wait, this all sounds oddly fishy. 
“Another self projection?” You realize, instantly. 
“Maybe,” Megumi agrees before shifting his weight around, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Did you want to check it out tomorrow…?” He briefly makes eye contact and diverts his attention back to his phone. “If you’re free, that is.” He quickly adds.
You pretend to be in deep thought for a moment, leaving Megumi wondering if he said something he shouldn’t have, because the look on his face screams ‘oh god, have I gone too far’ under all of his aloof persona. 
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll be free.”
Almost uncharacteristically, Megumi lets out a, “Fuck you,” and that seems like the wittiest response in the world, in that moment. 
It descends you into a full on giggling fit, and Megumi can’t help it, your laughter is contagious, and now you’re both giggling, on the verge of leaning against each other helplessly as the winter air is howling rough and bitter around. It’s a damn good thing that the alcohol is still running through your veins, giving you both that hot feeling of dumb immortality. 
“Let’s go catch that train,” he looks forward but extends a hand towards you, when you firmly clasp around his fingers, the slightest shade of red coats his cheeks and you’re positive it wasn’t from the weather. 
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Of course, Megumi ends up at your apartment after you decided at the last minute to pick up crappy, greasy takeout food on the way back at nearly one in the morning. The buzz from the drinks have worn off, but you find yourself slowly gaining confidence scooting besides Megumi as both of you take a seat on the carpeted floor in front of your incredibly dusty coffee table. It’s covered in finger smudges and scratches from all the other previous nights of takeout meals and accidental bumps. You pray that Megumi doesn’t point them out, but a part of you is glad when he wordlessly starts cleaning some of the spots away. 
Kinda feels like the old times, you think.
“You ever think that we’re the ones who can’t see what’s going on?” You ask during an opening scene to a British comedian podcast show. It’s a news channel that Megumi likes to watch sometimes, despite not believing half of whatever that’s being reported. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could’ve sworn Megumi’s cheeks are flushing, but it’s hard to tell in the dark.
It’s the takeout food talking. The fries and milkshake combo is making your stomach do weird little flips—or maybe it was from Megumi being close? 
You tip your head back, looking out your window, because the thought of looking at Megumi is… hard right now. It makes your heart tight, your throat dry. You’re wondering if he’s even going to show up at your door the next morning, or if you’ll see him the next work day and he’ll make a passing comment about how dumb everything was. Hell, would you even remember this tomorrow with how late it’s getting?
“I’m pretty sure we’re the ones who know what’s up,” Megumi replies, but the words sound hollow, coming from his lips.
“Maybe,” you say, quickly, and the laughter you force out carries the same empty sound that his voice did. “Next time, we should probably have a drink limit to keep them from chatting their asses off.”
“Or never letting them drink again,” Megumi agrees, somewhat, before stealing a piece of fry from your plate.
You hum before testing the waters and letting half of your body go slack against his shoulders. Everything is experimental at this point, so you’re glad when he doesn’t push you away, instead, Megumi leans into your touch, just a little.  
“How’s your family? Are they well?” He asks over a news segment. It’s about a modern urban legend, sort of like Bigfoot, but it’s just a guy cohabiting with a giant crocodile. This makes Megumi laugh. 
“They are! Parents finally retired so now it’s just me working while they’re relaxing at home.” You let the story wrap up before firing back the same question. “And you?”
“Dad’s still working overseas,” Megumi says with a slight frown. 
He’s never really talked about his father, even when you two were together, all you know is that it’s been a complicated relationship since his mother passed away when he was young. His father tried his best raising him all on his own while balancing work, though half of the time Megumi rarely saw him growing up. There’s a bit of resentment, you think, it’s understandable but you can also tell Megumi still holds him high to a certain degree. 
“You guys have been talking more though, right?” You vaguely recall a faded memory. 
To this, Megumi smiles fondly. “Yeah, we have. Once a month, if he’s not terribly caught up with whatever he’s doing.” 
Turns out neither of you have figured out his father’s occupation, which might be for the better. Megumi thinks it’s gang related, and doesn't give it too much thought as long as his father is safe. You, on the other hand, have thought of it being related to overseas construction work, something less… imaginative and dangerous.
“I’m glad to hear that, and also glad you’re doing well for yourself.” 
“Yeah,” and Megumi shifts a bit to get a better look at you. There’s fondness in his eyes that steels you to sit up a bit straighter. “I could say the same thing for you.”
“Well, my apartment could use a bit more loving,” you laugh, “It’s a bit hard to manage everything sometimes.”
“Maybe I can help?” Megumi says this with a straight face and you’re wondering if somehow the apple juice with his takeout order is somehow spiked with hard cider. 
When somehow you didn’t pick up a hint of alcohol from his breath, from how close you’re sitting against him, you choke on your saliva. “You’re serious about that, Megumi?”
“What? Don’t believe me?”
“No,” you say the words instantly, far too quickly, and feel the immediate warmth spreading to your cheeks, even if you’re trying to look cool and collected. 
“Well,” Megumi tips his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “It’s getting late,” he points out.
You glance at your wall clock and, sure enough, it’s three in the morning. You weren’t tired before but, somehow with him pointing it out, your eyes start to grow heavy. You’re grateful for the distraction and you think you just want Megumi to go away, but you know the second he does, you’re going to be obsessing over this conversation. Over the implications, the unsaid words between the fine lines, and well… just about everything that’s been there and been overcomplicated. And maybe Megumi is taking pity on you because he shifts his gaze to your face before settling a firm grip on both of your shoulders.
“Let’s get you to bed.” Megumi scoots a little closer, and you have a moment of panic. Then, you realize that he’s silently asking for permission to lift you up. “Are you planning to sleep out here?” 
“Are you leaving right after?” You catch yourself staring at him, a bit too longing, and jerk your head down but he catches your chin, before you can fully pull yourself away. 
“No, I’m staying,” he breathes out, his voice a low rumble in your ears. “Is that fine?”
You weren’t expecting that particular answer. You slowly lift your head away, gently freeing yourself from his touch, but staying close enough to nudge your shoulder up against his. Megumi is trying—he’s trying really hard to be open and you feel like your nerves are raging in your body again, although this time, it’s not an entirely uncomfortable feeling.
“I would like that,” Megumi smiles at that, and he lets you lean a head on his shoulder while he slips an arm around your waist, pulling your sleepy figure up, and both of you slip into a comfortable silence. 
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© 2023 DOOBEA. do not copy any of my writing and translate/repost.
TAGLIST: @hellothere9597 @sad-darksoul
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wetsocksinbed · 7 months
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shit people need to hear about COD:
Ghost isn’t some broken uwu boy. Infantilising assault victims is demeaning and disrespectful
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, König is extremely overrated for a character that only appears as a playable operator and not as anything in the campaign
You’re allowed to ship whoever you want, it’s a free world, but throwing a tantrum when people say they don’t ship GhostSoap or Korangi, and calling them homophobic (I’ve seen this too many times at this point) is disgusting and you’re essentially stereotyping us LGBTQ individuals as aggressive and pushy when it comes to queer ships. The characters of Ghost and Soap are canonically coded to be like brothers, and you need to stop thinking that a headcannon is the same as real cannon
Stop replacing Gaz with König, it’s giving ✨racism✨
Alex, König, Farah, Alejandro, Rudy and Horangi are not part of TF141, stop including them in it?????
König and Ghost are canonically enemies and wouldn’t have each other on speed dial just tag your fics as OOC at this point
the entirety of the Call of Duty franchise was coded for straight white “alpha male” boys who live in their mothers basements, stop acting like it’s anything more than that. You won’t find the representation you’re looking for in it and honestly with the way it’s headed at the moment, I don’t think you ever will
we can tell if you’ve never played the games based on how you write the fics. You don’t have to be a game fan or player, but at least do your research on the characters you’re writing about before you hit “post”
Makarov and Graves are terrible people and shouldn’t be idolised. Before you tag me with your “let people do what they want” let me remind you that Graves is canonically racist. @mockerycrow made a good post about why Makarov is a shit person and I recommend you read it
All of the characters have their flaws. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Price, they all have done bad things. Price is known to commit war crimes if it means getting the mission done
König having social anxiety doesn’t mean he’s a broken husk. You can function completely fine with the disorder if you can find a way to distance yourself from who you are as a person. Say, like, constantly wearing a mask? I promise you that the Austrian soldier wouldn’t be a sobbing mess because he got looked at funny
Also, he is only obsessed over because of his mask and the weird obsession people on this app have with infantilising people with trauma and mental illnesses (see first paragraph regarding Ghost)
The way some of the fans obsess over the actors is uncomfortable and genuinely creepy. It’s like this generation thinks that anything behind a screen isn’t real and can’t feel anything. They’re people who act. They’re not the characters you play.
feel free to add more to this, I’m tired and sick and wanted to rant
notes:
don’t attack me with the “yeah but not me” shit. Obviously I don’t mean everyone.
this doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the games the way you want, it just means don’t fucking police it and gatekeep it and expect everyone to accept your interpretation of it
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title: Weakness is For Fools (PT 3)
author: sciencebecameouraddiction
fandom: hazbin hotel
rating: PG
genre: Angst with a happy end
pairing: Alastor x Reader (Use of Y/N)
warnings: Alastor is not with it on this, unhinged, confused and a bit of back story sprinkled in. Rosie is also not having any of Alastor’s shit. Alastor may be OOC
summary: Alastor had never felt this before, and he swore he would never have a weakness.
← PART 2
╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗
“Alastor standing there in an apron is scary.” Angel murmured watching as the Radio Demon set plates down on a table.
“The only reason I’m standing here is because Rosie told me she made sure the food was edible.” Charlie added on watching from the bar.
“I still have a bad feeling about this…” Vaggie murmured. Husk grunted in agreement.
“C’mon Vaggie, we have to give him a chance, even if it is scary.” Charlie said, walking over.
“Do you want some help setting up or anything?” Charlie asked Alastor. He started to respond when Rosie peaked her head out from the corner.
“Nope! He’s got it all covered, don’t you Alastor?” Rosie asked, feeling like a mother of a century old being.
“I-I have this, my dear. Go back and relax. It’s the-“ He looks physically ill as he says “It’s the least I can… do. After everything.” Charlie nodded and left.
“Okay, did Alastor get replaced? This is like 180 for him.” Angel commented, taking a sip of his drink.
“I think more than his soul is gone now. Maybe like his frontal lobe?” Husk asked.
“Oh! A lobotomy! I had one of those alive.” Nifty pipes up manically chuckling as everyone looks down at her. Angel just pats her head as she scurries off.
“I’m really not sure. Maybe he feels bad?” Charlie added.
“Not gonna bring back Y/N though.” Husk mentioned. “It would be a miracle-“ Just then Husk was cut off and the door opened as you walked in. You smiled as you saw your friends and they all called your name.
Rosie came and stood off to the side and when you saw her you ran up to her and hugged her. “Rosie, oh my gosh, I’ve missed you!”
“I’ve missed you too ya little sweetheart. Glad you could make it to dinner.” Rosie smiled.
“Oh I wouldn’t miss it for the-“ You stop and stare seeing Alastor come around the corner holding what looked to be a pie. “World.” You finished softly, your hand gripping Rosie’s shirt tighter. Alastor looks up, wondering why it was quiet and immediately sees you. His damn heart flutters at the sight of you and grimaces at the feeling. He takes a step forward, not knowing what else to do, but stops when you take a step back from him. His eyes widen and he holds up his hands in mock surrender and leaves around the corner. Rosie sighs and then looks at you.
“Don’t you worry about him.” She says and brings you over to the table. “This is an apology dinner but it’s also so you and your friends can talk.” You nod and sit, everyone coming to the table as Rosie goes into the back kitchen where all the food was. That’s when she hears quick breathing and when she sees Alastor in the middle of a panic attack.
“Alastor?” Rosie asks gently.
“I-I can’t do this. Why can’t I do this? I’m the Radio Demon for fucks sake.” He growls, hands pulling at his hair.
“Because you’re scared.” Rosie gently says, pulling his hands away from his hair and smoothing it out. “You’re scared that they won’t accept your apology, even though you need them to, you’re not sure you want them to, because you feel you don’t deserve it.”
Alastor looks up shocked. “How?”
“Because I know you, honey. You’re my best friend.” Rosie says plainly. “Even if you are a little daft sometimes.” She sighs and grabs the last few bits. “They consider you a friend whether you like it or not Alastor, figure out if you consider them friends, and then apologize.” She says and walks out. Alastor grabs the drinks and carries them out, the conversation not dying down when he entered this time. Somehow, the only seat open was next to you, and you were engaged in a fully heated discussion with Husk and Angel on who the best housewife was from a show you all three watched. He sat down next to you, and just watched, looking to Rosie who smiled at him. A part of him, the small part he thought he buried, turns out he didn’t, wanted to leave. He had never felt more alienated and alone.
A glass clinging tore him from his thoughts as he looked up to Charlie. She thanked him and Rosie for the food and the preparations tonight and then handed the floor off to Alastor. He cleared his throat.
“I-“ He sighed and looked at Rosie again. She nodded in encouragement. “I am sorry.” The collective gasps were distracting but not as much as Angel pulling out his phone trying to film. “Angel, I do not wish to be recorded by your device, put it away before I snap it and then eat it.”
Angel’s eyes widened and he quickly put it away. “I am sorry.” Alastor repeated, as he did, he felt the old Alastor fall away, almost like a shed of skin from a snake. In its place stood something raw and something new. Something he had no idea how to navigate. To this version of himself, his… friends were important.
“I was wrong to be as horrible as I was a few weeks ago to all of you. It was inexcusable.” There was silence so Alastor took that as a sign to continue. “I… value… each one of you. And Y/N?” He asked you specifically. Your head whipped up. “I am especially… sorry… to you.”
You look at Alastor and the whole table seems to be waiting on your reaction. You get up and walk over to him, his eyes widen and he steps back a bit, but you follow until you are right in front of him. Your eyes searching his, when you suddenly wrap him in a hug. He freezes and slowly wraps his arms around you, relaxing in your arms.
“You’re an idiot.” You murmur to him.
“That’s the third time this week I’ve been called that.” Alastor murmured.
“It fits.” You quipped back. Alastor sighs and looks at you.
“I am truly sorry.” He says.
“I know. I know you are.” You say, nodding your head.
“Does this mean you’ll move back to the hotel?” Charlie’s asks, sliding up to you both. You look between her and Alastor, his ears perking up a bit.
“Yeah, as long as my room is still available.” You say, joking.
“Oh, you don’t have ta worry about that, toots. Smiles here made sure no one but him even went near your room.” Angel laughed and you looked at Alastor. He glared at Angel.
“Had to make sure it was ready for your return.” He whispered.
“You just assumed I was coming back?” You asked, gently bumping his shoulder with yours. He looked bewildered for a second and then shook his head.
“No. No. But I… Hoped.”
╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝
← PART 2
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