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darkestprompts · 2 years

Note

Everyone's relantionship to the runaway?

(Continuing off this post)

Strap in, this is gonna be long.

Like I hinted at in the last post, I feel like Junia would have the closest and most complex relationship with Bonnie. They would bond over similar experiences, but while Junia internalized the teachings of the Sisters, Bonnie actively fought them. This would lead them to have straight-laced older sister vs rebellious little sister kind of fights as Junia tries to save whatever is left of Bonnie's faith.

Ultimately, I think having someone who lived the same life as her challenging her beliefs could help Junia get over her religious shame, and having someone who is kind and righteous but still wasn't considered good enough for the Vestals would let Bonnie know that she wasn't some rotten, bad kid.

Damian tends to be more pushy with the religious stuff and amenable to the idea that pain is good for you, but at the same time he’s very conflicted. He *chose* his burden, happily in fact, and he was an adult. The whole situation with Bonnie feels wrong and bad. He wants to help but isn’t sure how. It gets a lot better if he manages to talk to Junia, or someone more cool-headed in general, about it.

Bonnie is like a bundle of trauma triggers for Reynauld: an abandoned child, victim of religious abuse that would rather try her luck in the withered Hamlet than stay with under the Church’s gaze. He’s simultaneously distant and very protective of her. Bonnie figures knights are just all constipated like that.

Dismas doesn’t like the idea of a kid getting so close to their dangerous job, for obvious reasons. He actually complains to the Heir about it. When she doesn’t go away, he gets the habit of lecturing her about being a reckless little shit and dragging her out of trouble by the ear, if necessary. At first Bonnie thinks Dismas is mean and doesn’t like her, but eventually she figures out he’s just worried. Later on, their interactions go something like: “Go off, then, brat.” “Fuck you, asshole.” “Take care of yourself.” “You too.”

Barristan didn’t grow up in a super religious household so he’s shocked to see a little girl carry such grievous scars from physical punishment. He got a rigid education, sure, but he can’t imagine his sisters or cousins getting brutalized like that. So he decides this kid is getting her dose of pampering and fun from Uncle Barristan. He may grumble and pose when Junia says he spoils her, but he’ll wink when she turns around and Bonnie knows he’ll let her get away with anything.

Audrey encourages every bad behavior on the girl, at least according to Junia. Good girls don’t get what they want. You got to look out for yourself. And for the love of the Flame, girl, don’t get married young or get a habit of pre-drinking.

Boudica sees a lot of her younger self in Bonnie and treats her like a little warrior in the making, but still tries to instill in her the wisdom she failed to listen to in the past. Bonnie thinks Boudica is the epitome of cool and her pagan beliefs hold a lot of appeal for an ex-convent kid.

Missandei also feels a kinship to this orphan girl with a horrible past. Her way to show care is to teach her practical skills: how to wrap a wound, how to orient yourself on the battlefield, what kind of people not to trust, how to keep your equipment in top shape. Bonnie is grateful for the training, especially later in life when she starts to fight for herself.

William is the uncle with the cool dog. He’ll get on her case about getting into trouble but still be nice at the end of the day, which... shocks her?? Seeing him go “I’m not angry, just disappointed” is actually worse than taking a hit from the Mother Superior??? A moral authority that isn’t abusive and needlessly violent, what the heck is this???? And again: cool dog.

Baldwin is a bit worried that his appearance will scare the kid, but upon realizing the big tough guy is not mean at all, Bonnie would tell him that Mother Superior was much scarier (and uglier) than him and that would be that. He would read for her and try to teach her some letters. Although she’s not great at concentrating on lessons, he’s still much more successful than the vestal sisters.

Paracelsus didn’t pay too much attention to the kid, until she saw her messing around with her very dangerous, very combustible materials. And so Bonnie was forced into a Chemistry and Lab Safety 101 course that incidentally taught her how to make her first molotov cocktail.

Bonnie finds Amani intimidating at first: she’s all pretty and mysterious and tough (first baby gay crush ahoy)! Amani is very gentle to her, though, recognizing this child is a survivor just like her. She makes an effort to draw her attention away from the constant battles and disasters at the Hamlet. A kid shouldn’t worry constantly about her safety and where her next meal will come from. She tries to get her interested in music and dance, and even gets her a cute little doll from the Nomad Wagon.

Tardif thinks everybody is crazy to keep this kid around like a team mascot and tries not to get involved. Somehow he’s the one to bring up that, you know, this kid likes to set things on fire a little too much?? (Para insists that an interest in chemistry is good and healthy)

Bonnie used to be very scared of Alhazred. Running away doesn’t erase all the indoctrination about the dangers of occult magic and Alhazred has a literal monster inside him. With time, fear becomes curiosity. By the time she’s a teenager, she starts asking him questions. Alhazred is always happy to have a captive audience, especially if one is endlessly impressed by the things he’s seen and what he’s able to do.

Bigby hid away from Bonnie for the longest time, afraid he might do her harm or frighten her. The first time they really interact, Bigby has to transform to defend his friends (perhaps during Vvulf’s raid?) and Bonnie quickly realizes the beast doesn’t turn against the Hamlet’s inhabitants. She feels bad about him being so lonely and makes an effort to be nice to him afterwards.

Josephine didn’t worry about the kid until she kept finding her rummaging through her things. Bonnie gets a very stern talk about asking before touching and all the terrible things that can happen to you when you mess with an artifact that belongs to another. Overall, she’s fine with showing her wares as long as Bonnie doesn’t steal anything (otherwise she’ll cut off your thumbs).

Similarly, Bonnie is fascinated by Margaret’s musket. The loud bang, the burst of gun fire, it appeals to her. She might have been a musketeer in another lifetime, but discipline isn’t her strong suit. Margaret is happy to show her the gun (as long as she doesn’t try to take it) and give her demonstrations, but as someone who’s had a very normal life, she doesn’t know quite what to make of this girl who already went through hell and back.

Jester-Runaway relationship can be summarized as follows

Sarmenti: Hey, kid, what is going on?

Bonnie: Teenage rebellion.

Sarmenti: Fuck, yeah, stick it to the old people.

Bonnie *really* likes her uncle Sarmenti.

#darkest dungeon 2 spoilers #dd2 bonnie #dd2 runaway #dd ensemble #asks #tales of baby bonnie #dd lists

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ivy-and-vines · 2 years

Text

I need to vent about a professor, here’s the email report explaining it all:

Dear Dr______,

I have never been one to complain, though I felt it necessary to bring to your attention, one professor, ________.

The first few classes of his Sociology of health and illness course were bearable, and I felt I could push through his teaching style and personality. In all honesty, even if I agreed with his opinions (which I absolutely do not), I didn’t care for him harping on with only his personal views, rather than educating the class in fact.

My tolerance was tested to its limits on Thursday, September 20th, when I was singled out, spoken over, and purposefully embarrassed in front of my peers by none other than professor Ianucci. He started his lecture with questions and statistics on why poorer and minority communities had worse health throughout their lifetime, and often died earlier. I felt as though I had taken a blow to the stomach when he insinuated that poor communities were essentially lazy, and lacked self discipline. His lack of empathy, and sharing opinion as fact to such an impressionable class, was more than shocking.

To quote him, “poor people eat fast food and crap because they lack that self discipline, you don’t NEED that stuff”, to which another student answered back, “if I can play devil's advocate, aren’t healthy foods way more expensive?”. He responded with the most pompous eye roll I had ever seen and said, “But who’s fault is it if they CHOOSE to eat fast food? Theirs. Ive seen people in the ‘hood’, with better cars than me. They just don’t use their money well.” This was my breaking point. I'm going to include word for word what happened:

Abbie (Me), after being called on: “I can’t say I disagree with people just being handed things, of course some work needs to be involved- though people in poverty don’t have access to proper education- “

Him, across the table now from me: “Girlfriend, you have a whole world in your palm, an iPhone!!”

Me: “but these people don’t have access to iPhones-“

Him, laughing mockingly: “I’ve worked in those neighborhoods for years, they got nicer phones than me, nice cars too.”

Me: “you think I haven’t been the one living in those neighborhoods?”

Him: “Then you know, they all got iPhones don’t they-“

Me: “no. you’re generalizing “

Him, raising his voice: “yes they do, and you’ve seen it! I know you have”

Me: “are you trying to embarrass me?”

Him, rolling his eyes and putting his hands up: “no! I just know that they don’t use their money wisely because they eat crap and have iPhones and fancy cars!”

Then he walked away. I had tears in my eyes from how embarrassed, and belittled I felt. I understand that professors may like to playfully argue to make a point, or have you seen something from a different perspective… but this was not that in the slightest. I felt as though I had just been bullied on a playground, even by the fact that he addressed not only me, but looked for students approving glare. There were only a few. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the end of it.

In our power points from our textbook that he shares with us, there were about two or three slides regarding “every day racism”, which he brushed off as a ‘theory’, as well as slides about how minority women are more often the victims of domestic abuse and being ignored in the healthcare system. He’s often said, “I know what the author of the textbook would say, but I don’t agree so whatever”, as well as calling things like social services a “Left-wing agenda”.

For the last question of class, he asked, “Why do people work eighteen hour shifts? Isn’t it unhealthy?” So, quite a few people raised their hands. Though he had to pick on me. In a raised tone he says “No,” pointing at me, “Abigail, answer.” This is when I was rage filled, this was purposeful and directed just at me. So I answered, “Of course it’s unhealthy, but people are desperate for the money”. He chuckled. “The people pulling 18, 50, even 100 hour shifts don’t need the money, these are wall street bankers pulling these shifts.” I could’ve easily disagreed, but I didn’t feel like having him speak AT me, or arguing further when I was already crying.

After class I ran to my promise coach, Linus, and not only did he comfort me, but he helped me drop the class completely. This could’ve been the end of it, it was dropped and left my life. Though I refuse to tolerate any student who’s brave enough to speak up to feel as awful as I did by him. I know I am not in a position to dictate an instructor's work here at ___, but I do feel I have a responsibility to report him, and this incident. It would pain me greatly if no action is taken against ________.

Mr. ____ is a bigot, a bully, and refuses to let any student have an opinion other than his, as witnessed by both this incident as well as how he treats the class in general. He knows nothing of his students' life, and if a more privileged white girl was so utterly offended, I can't imagine how the students of color felt. It pains me to think that there are people like this educating such young, impressionable minds. I’m lucky enough to have been brave enough to speak out and pull out even more of his true colors. I truly do hope you see this issue as I do, and I do wish for action to be taken against him. I am not here to be belittled, but to be educated.

Thank you very much for taking the time to read my email, and I hope to have provided enough detail to express just how deeply I am hurt, and angry about this incident. I appreciate your time greatly.

#me #racism #poor #poverty #professor #personal vent #incident report #college #BLM #standing up #against #bigots

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maerambles · 2 years

Text

Chapters 20, 21 and 22

Keeper of the Lost Cities - Shannon Messenger (October 2, 2012)

I’m getting close to the halfway mark!!

Impossible pictures flashed across the walls during the entire lecture: elves using telekinesis to help the humans build the pyramids, a tidal wave swallowing Atlantis, an army of hairy, brown dwarves hollowing out the Himalayas to build the Sanctuary. (Ch. 20, p. 189)

Some world building lore! I love it.

Then she’d mumbled something about “history in the making” and return to the lecture. (Ch. 20, p. 189)

I think it’s already very obvious how much of a chosen one Sophie is, Shannon.

“The Council holds a tribunal, and if you’re found guilty, they lock you away deep underground for the rest of eternity.” Marella shrugged. (Ch. 20, p. 190)

Is there no inbetween? Is it either you are found innocent or you get locked away for eternity. That’s a little fucked. Also, why is Marella being used as a character that gives us information overload? She just says everything that Sophie needs. I think some of this stuff would have been better if Alden just said it (so he can be a bit more trustworthy) or if some other character said it. At this point, it just feels like Marella isn’t even a friend of Sophie’s but just a character that Sophie uses to get info out of.

Marella opened a can of strawberry flavored air and took a deep breath of the pink flumes that spritzed around her. (Ch. 20, p. 192)

Sounds like some fruity perfume, lol.

Sophie shook her head, deciding to shove the disturbing questions to the dark corner of her mind, where she’d push everything else that was too painful to think about. (Ch. 20, p. 192)

This was painful to read. :(

It was like King Midas had come through and turned everything he touched to gold. (Ch. 20, p. 193)

King Midas, another interesting reference to Greek Mythology! There’s been a decent amount so far.

Her cape was hunter green, made of silky fabric decorated with emeralds sewn in elaborate patterns. (Ch. 20, p. 193)

Lady Galvin is giving head of Slytherin, Professor Severeus Snape, vibes.

“It’s Alkahest,” she announced. “The universal solvent.” [Lady Galvin] (Ch. 20, p. 193)

I thought it was something Shannon made up, but apparently there is history behind it.

“I should be teaching masters to turn living matter into gold, not little girls who don’t know the difference between a tincture and a poultice. [Lady Galvin] (Ch. 20, p. 194)

Hey, cut Sophie some slack, I’m 22 and I had to google what that stuff was!

“You may be the biggest news to hit the academy since the Great Gulon Incident three years ago - which, by the way, I had nothing to do about. [Keefe] (Ch. 20, p. 196)

Gulon is a Mythical Scandanivian creature! They’re very interesting looking if you google them.

“Lady Belva has the worst crush on me.” [Keefe] (Ch. 20, p. 196-97)

Keefe, for your own safety, I hope you are joking.

He hooked his arm through hers and dragged her away before she could resist. (Ch. 20, p. 198)

Small tidbit, but Sophie so far seems like a reactionary character? The story only moves ahead if she, as this sentence states, is dragged into that situation. It does make sense, but I do wish that Sophie had some sort of autonomy.

“A banshee. Adorable, isn’t he?” (Ch. 20, p. 199)

Oh wow, what a twist for the typical rendition of a banshee.

Sir Conley joked that they’d have to work their way up to bottling fire in elementalism, so she wouldn’t burn down the store. (Ch. 21, p. 202)

Oh wow, this is kind of mean from a teacher lol.

Overnight she’d somehow become... popular. (Ch. 21, p. 203)

Was this really necessary to the story? I’m just not really a big fan of Sophie being the “weirdest kid in school” and then become the “popular girl” in a drop of a dime. This could have waited a few books, I guess.

So was catching wind in jars and bottling rainbows. (Ch. 20, p. 203)

Bottling rainbows? Where have I seen that done before, in a Lucky Charms commercial?

She even learned how to project mental images onto special paper -like a psychic photograph. (Ch. 21, p. 204)

Ah, this is so cool!!

“She’s just jealous. She’s used to being the prettiest girl in school.” [Dex] (Ch. 21, p. 205)

Wait... does Sophie have three love interests?? Fitz, Keefe and Dex? At 12 years old? Shannon, is this necessary? This isn’t really necessary. I hope Dex isn’t just friends with her because he wants to be her boyfriend. He’s one of my favorite characters.

She threw dead squirrels and rats and things she couldn’t begin to identify into the heavy burlap sack. (Ch. 21, p. 207)

Wait... I thought Grady and Edaline trained the animals to be vegetarians?? Why would they have dead animals in a burlap sack? Unless the sack was them trying to get the dead animals out of their stomachs, but wouldn’t they have digested it already?? What a giant plot hole, wow.

Here’s the quote about them being vegetarians:

“Grady and Edaline train the animals to be vegaterians by feeding them gnomish produce; that way they won’t hurt one another once they’re moved to the Sanctuary.”(Ch. 15, p. 129)

“An imp,” Grady grumbled. (Ch. 21, p. 210)

Just googled imps, Iggy seems MUCH cuter than the ones I saw on google.

Her human parents had been generous with hugs and touches, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d miss these gestures. (Ch. 21, p. 211)

Random, but I’m happy that the Fosters weren’t abusive towards Sophie. It first felt like something was off, so I’m glad it was cleared off that she didn’t live a horrible life. I do find it odd how quickly Sophie adjusted to elf life considering how much her family clearly loved her.

“Who’s ready for the Ultimate Splotching Champioship?” (Ch. 22, p. 213)

AH I LOVE FICTIONAL SPORTS!! LET’S GOOO.

Since when did she have the mental strength to face off against older kids with a lot more training and experience? (Ch. 22, p. 217)

Some more chosen one tax.

“Pink! Pink! Pink!” Make Fitz look pretty in Pink!” Everyone joined Keefe’s chant. (Ch. 22, p. 217)

Why do I feel like this has sexist undertones. I hope not, but considering some of the things that several of the characters have already said...

Ending it right here, halfway done, almost!!

#KOTLC #Keeper of the Lost Cities #KOTLC Reviews #Book Reviews #Reviews

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headspace-hotel · 4 years

Text

This Is How You Actually Take Notes In College, Bitches

it’s occurred to me that nobody fuckin knows how to take notes in classes and most advice about it is bad. What the fuck are “key words?”

So anyway here’s how I’ve gotten a’s in all my classes in college so far

I’m not gonna bother too much with telling you to take notes in class. Everyone knows that shit. But most people’s note taking skills suck ass and there are two main types of sucking ass I have observed

The first is the one where your notes look like a list of key terms and words. Sometimes they are underlined or there are dashes that connect them to other words. So if your prof was talking about Henry VIII you’d write down something like

Henry VIII

Church of England—divorce

DON’T DO THAT. Those words are gonna show up on the test, sure, but writing them down isn’t gonna help you with the test. What the fuck does any of that mean? High school is shit and your “key words” can’t help you now.

Here’s the other type of bad note taking:

It was necessary for Henry VIII to have a male heir who could succeed him, but his wife was unable to conceive a son. The Catholic Church

I stopped writing there because your professor moved on to something else. But, tbh, even if you can write fast enough to keep up with the content of the lectures (and you can’t for the entire lecture) it’s not helpful to have a solid wall of Everything That Was Covered In The Lecture, in grammatically correct complete sentences. Are you gonna read that shit again? No!

And honestly most people have like, sentences here and there that look important instead of the whole lecture. Which is also bad.

So what’s the not shitty way to take notes? It comes down to these principles:

Shorthand

Show Relationships of Things

These kind of go together

I cannot emphasize enough that you don’t need to write sentences like a normal person. Shorthand everything, and I don’t mean some fucked up studying shorthand you just came up with like “AmR” for American Revolution, I mean like...fuckin text/memespeak. Don’t write complete sentences, completely abandon formality. Abbreviate anything you would in a text message, you know what it means.

HOWEVER: You Must Show How Things Are Related To Things

To understand broad concepts you gotta understand how the things in them are related to other things.

That’s why writing down “Henry VIII” and “Church of England” isn’t gonna help you, because you’re not learning that there is a Church of England.

Did Henry VIII burn the Church of England? Cheat on his wife with it? Who knows? Definitely not you.

This is why you have to connect stuff like

Catholic Church says no divorce

Henry VIII—starts Church of England

But ya know you can make that more memorable AND more clearly show how one thing caused the other

Henry VIII: divorce >:)

Catholic Church: no

Henry VIII: fuk u *church of england*

I’m completely dead serious about this, this kind of slang is very good at indicating exactly how things relate to things in zero time and you know exactly what it means and you’ll remember it

But furthermore

You have to come up with shorthand to quickly indicate how things are related. Say you write down the definitions of two terms for like, opposing theories on government in class. That’s great but you’re leaving it to yourself to work out the opposing part later from what you write, and your brain’s a flaky bitch.

Like part of what you’re doing it giving yourself help with HOW to study your notes later.

So like. Do something like write a jagged line in between the definitions, indicating conflict. Write “OTOH” or “HOWEVER” in between in big fuckin letters. Writing down “Catholic Church” and what that is and “Church of England” and what that is, is fine. But like, if the main theme is the contrast between the two, “Catholic Church HOWEVER Church of England” immediately tells you the basicest basics. It’s like a tiny outline, telling you what to expect. Sure, you can figure it out reading your notes but I’m telling you how to write skimmable notes that you can glean stuff from even when you’re half spaced out and shit, okay?

Same thing for like, dates and sequences and cause-and-effect and stuff. Even if you’ve got the dates down...be sure to put arrows or something so even at a glance you’ve got basically what’s going on.

Also i know it feels like wasting paper but DONT scrunch all your notes together into small space on the paper. That lil dialogue between Henry and the Church of England is spread out over 3 lines which means if you have ADHD like me you can actually fuckin read it. Turn things into bullet lists. Indent things with little arrows to show things leading to things. If there’s a clear move to a new topic, new page. If you’re actually filling up the paper all the way that shits hard to read and it’s even harder to pick out the Big Important Stuff.

Last word of advice: If you end up like writing down two things and can’t tell what they’re for or how they’re related to each other...ASK QUESTIONS. Like “I’m sorry can you explain how the Church of England is related to the Catholic Church? I didn’t quite catch that.” If talking in class makes you feel like you might be percieved badly, you can frame it like a Nerd Question “So, what kind of relationship would you say the Church of England and the Catholic Church had?” or just play it off like you didn’t hear it like “I’m sorry, what was that last thing you said about the Church of England and the Catholic Church?”

Or just make a mark on your notes to remind yourself that you need more info and to go to your prof’s office to ask questions. I would really not be nervous about that, professors normally really like it when students show that they really want to succeed in the class and that they care. Unless they’re like, a complete dickhead, in which case, fuck what they think, right? You’re gonna ask questions and it’s their problem because you’re essentially paying them for your presence in the class.

So...yeah.

#college #studying #chaotic academia #studyblr #student

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sidespart · 3 years

Text

this was meant to be a question and turned into a theory..

genuine question does Logan actually get ignored more than the other sides or is that just his perception??

Like obviously there are points where they talk over him/Roman calls him a nerd but I don't think it's anymore than Logan talks over them /calls Roman/Patton stupid or what have you?? Especially in season 1

And then in season 2....

like i remember the whole 'ducking out' in moving on but that's resolved by the end of the episode (and tbf, he himself admits that his methods were not helping with that particular emotional problem) and he gives Patton the cat hoody, they apologise and explain that intense emotional situations makes it hard to hear him, he gets it, it all ends v maturely.

and then he has like a WHOLE SEASON of wins. He's stage manager in CLBG, he lectures on the different aspects of lying and everyone listens and engages. he's the one who identifies deceit by name AND he's the one who clams Thomas down and helps explain how having deceit as part of his personality doesn't make him a bad person. Thomas explicitly thanks him

then you have WWGOOBITM - him and roman both spend the episode ignoring each other, shouting over each other, explaining their side and eventually praising each other and being referred to as a team. they're both explicitly praised.

CTM - the man gets his jam

Learning new things about ourselves - so in this one he gets angry that the others arnt listening to him, but again he's equally not listening to them and refusing entertain the idea of using puppets to help Thomas learn. Vigil has some line that explicitly points out that Logan gets angry and lashes out when he feels frustrated, Roman admits that Logan is so critical of his ideas it makes it hard to be creative, Logan acknowledges that and explains his own frustrations, they all listen to each other, it ends positively

embarrassing phases - even tho its a Virgil driven episode he's the narrator, he delivers a load of mini lectures about phases, again everyone engages with it. They all remember the Yerks dodson stuff from season 1

SVS: OKAY so now he IS being ignored- but its very deliberately done, by Deceit, who benches the logical reasoning, and further tries to drive a wedge by saying its roman/pattons idea. Its very clearly not done by Thomas or the others.

DWIT - absolute king shit. runs the whole episode. 'You're so COOl' etc

SVS2 - gets yoinked away by deceit and comes back PISSED 'Not that any of you care, but I am unharmed, and I don't want to talk about it. I'm just here to deliver one last fact, then I will do you all a favor and spare you my company.' which seems like such a weird stance after DWIT???? And the rest of them were so worried when he got yoinked. Now you do have the 'skipping' thing but tbh. This didnt feel too different from moving on - the logical reasoning is not helping (when youre stressed enough that the embodiment of your feelings is about to turn into a giant frog, lectures dont help) but logan isn't able to see that. He's just mad.

WTIT - okay so THIS feels more like a Logan whose developed since moving on. He sets up a strict schedule but when Thomas can't stick to it, Loagn's able to acknowledge that his emotional state isnt conductive and offer alternative activities. Remus has to deliberately needle him, for a LONG time, to get him to snap and then Remus is the one feeding him the 'but its not really me you want to scream at' line

AND THEN you get the organe glow and Deceit talking to the camera at the end. and we KNOW he's the one responsible for keeping other sides hidden/revealing them...

like part of me thinks between SVs1/2 and the latest ep, Janus and Remus are deliberately fucking with Logan in order to unleash Orange....

even tho Jan has been accepted and is on Thomas's side, he's demonstrated several times that he's very much an 'ends justifies the means' kind of guy. So if he thought for whatever reason Thomas needed to meet Orange, and that the way to do that was through Logan?? I think he'd do whatever he thought was necessary

#logan sanders #ts spoilers #does this make sense or do i just love slow burn villain conspiracy theories #sanders sides #janus sanders

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dodo-begone · 3 years

Text

Crotch Goblins

Pairing: Purpled x Reader, Ranboo x Reader, Tommy x Reader, Tubbo x Reader

Request: wait would it be cringe if i like. requested your take on the yandere kids

Word Count: 1.6K

Warning: yandere, fighting mentioned, stalking, fear of abandonment, anxiety, stealing, kidnapping, the egg

A/N: This is all platonic! Nothing romantic.

Ranboo

This poor child lives in constant fear of forgetting you. His memory issues are a big problem and it affects everybody he loves. And his anxiety definitely doesn’t help his situation; it only feeds his paranoia of losing you.

To prevent losing any precious memories of you, he’ll write down so much about you. He’d probably have books on books just dedicated to things about you he wants to remember. Another way to always remember you is to never be away from you! It’s much harder to forget somebody if you’re constantly around them!

If you allow it, he’ll fucking cling to you. He loves the attention and reassurance you give him. Aw yeah he's a poor memory boy and constantly scared of Dream and enderwalking. Please stay by him??? Pretty please??

He’ll occasionally come over to your house in search of your company. Though he won’t tell you that directly. It’ll be under the pretense that he’s very scared of something happening and wanted to stay with you for some comfort. Not all of that’s a lie though. He always goes to you when he’s anxious; you’re his safe place. You make everything right and good again. You found it rather endearing that he trusted and liked you so much. Baked treats would always be on standby for his visits.

He’ll slowly start to stay at your house for longer and come back quicker. Soon he’s practically living with you. You’re not bothered by it at first, and you don’t think about it after a while. The domesticity of the situation just feels right. Why would you disrupt something like this?? And he deserves some of this. After all, the dsmp isn’t a nice place, and especially not to Ranboo. Why don’t you just let him have this?

Tommy

Tommy lives in constant fear of you abandoning him. Or worse, having someone take you from him. He’s lost so many loved ones already, and he doesn’t know how many more he can live through. You’re one of his most prized possessions, besides Tubbo and the Disks. Above Tubbo, but a close contender with the disks.

He’s gonna be clingy af. And he’ll do anything you want him to. By that, he really means anything he thinks you’d want him to do or something that’s “necessary”. Overall it’s just bad stuff. Be prepared for some warfare to happen just for you.

No thought, only fighting. Fights will break out over the silliest things. Like he wants attention from you? Fight! Someone getting too close?? Begone thot!! This is his friend! Not theirs! Back off.

After every fight, you’ll bandage his wounds while lecturing him. Not a single thing you say will be properly heard by Tommy. Your words would slur together in his ears, turning themselves into a beautiful song. Did you know your voice sounds really good? Oh yeah, you make the pain go away so quickly too. Your medical skills are just so fucking good, can’t you see?

There will be no question that he’d steal for you; he’d do it without question or request. If he finds anything that you might like or need? Yoinked as soon as the old owner isn’t looking. Finders keepers, after all. The smp is a dog-eat-dog world. And you deserve the fucking best shit man. If you find out it’s stolen, you’d return it in a heartbeat with so many apologies. You somehow found it somewhere and you didn’t know it was theirs. Wow you must like Tommy if you’re covering for him like that!

You’d be dragged around by Tommy on some days. All a grand tour to show you his creations, and he begrudgingly shows you some of the builds by the others. He feels somewhat inadequate when he eventually shows you his stuff. Like his multiple cobblestone towers. But you’re giving such nice compliments for each one. And they’re all so unique too. No two compliments are the same. He is a really good builder, huh?

Tubbo

He’s going to be protective of you. Not overbearingly so, but definitely is watching out for your safety a ton. With him having watched the lives of those he loves fall apart around them, he doesn’t want the same fate to fall upon you. He can’t go through that cycle again, and especially so soon. You’re so nice too. You definitely don’t deserve that fate.

Micheal took a liking to you really quickly. If Micheal likes you, that means that you’re a part of the family. He doesn’t care what you have to say, it’s just facts. You have a problem with it? Try bringing that up to Micheal. Want to tell him that you aren’t a part of the family? Exactly. So that means that you are a member.

Oh and you help him so much, which he’s thankful for. And it’s not just to a specific type of task either. You help with everything. Building, cooking, caring for Micheal, the whole biz. With you doing so much and putting so much effort into everything, that must mean that you love him like he loves you, right? Nobody does this much for somebody else without loving them. So the obvious answer is that you love him back!

Will do anything in his power to convince you to move in with him, Ranboo and Micheal. Like really hard. He pulled all of the charms and stops. And there’s a very slim chance that you didn’t move in. Though you would eventually. There isn’t a chance in hell that you wouldn’t be living in that house by some point. You’d be moving in with or without your consent. Maybe one day you just woke up in the mansion. Oh hey why do you look so confused? You agreed to move in already silly, don’t you remember?

There’s no and, if, or buts about it; he’d get Ranboo in on it also if he wasn’t already. They’re platonically married after all. And the three of you are all friends. So it’s obvious that Ranboo would be in on it as well. If he isn’t, then he’d turn a blind eye to Tubbo’s behavior. Huh, yeah he didn’t notice that at all. Nope, nothing odd happening here.

Would absolutely get you to help him on every little task that he could. Especially with building and taking care of little Micheal. The builds would be little cottage core stuff. Such sweet and quaint things. Not too much or too hard, but very pleasing to the eyes and the feeling of accomplishment the two of you got at the end of the project felt incredible. Children can be such a handful too, so any help for Micheal will be much appreciated. Plus it’s so much fun to play with children, especially children in Micheal’s age group. The more time you spend with them, the less time you have to spend with anyone else. Which leads to a smaller chance of being taken from them.

Purpled

This man? Oh he’s so fucking happy that you and him don’t have many relations outside of each other. It’s so much easier for you two. Since you two are so close, it’s easy to coerce you into living with him. Yeah it may be far from the rest of the smp, but that’s okay. It’s not like you had any friends there. It’s easier to stay safer so far away from everything. And you know what’s even better? Nobody would even notice y’all disappear!

Before y’all moved away, he always conveniently showed up at random times. It was always during times when you were alone or felt alone. Really helped you there; made you feel loved that somebody noticed and was there for you. Though it was odd how often he appeared at just the right moment. You wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth though.

He always knows what to get you. What your favorite flowers are, what food you like, what your favorite color is, your favorite gift items. He even knows your dislikes. Even the ones you don’t tell him. You know, anything a good friend would know.

If somebody even remotely offends/scares/harms you, they’re in fucking trouble. That? Yeah, that’s a valid reason to start a fight. He’ll beat them within an inch of their life and threaten to do it again if they even thought of hurting you like that. >:( Definitely got them to stop talking to you.

Since he’s working for the egg, he feels like the egg could maybe protect you?? Yeah he’s not completely under its control and he sees how crazy the other members of the eggpire are, but it can’t be that bad. The others are just praising it, talking about how it could make all of his deepest desires a reality. Not many people like going to the egg, and they wouldn’t be looking for prisoners there. So it should be safe for you. Well, safer than the outside world. And his deepest desire is your safety and love, so that should be easy to gain if he brought you to the egg, right?

There is no question: he’d kidnap you to bring you to the egg. Though it’ll be after a while of trying to persuade you to come with him for that. You heard so many horrible things about the egg, so it’d be better if you didn’t get involved with that. So if his attempts to get you to the egg fail, then some forceful measures will be used. It was for your best interest after all.

#c: purpled #c: tommy #c: tubbo #c: ranboo #tw: yandere #dodo writing #mcyt x reader #dream smp x reader #purpled x reader #ranboo x reader #tommy x reader #tubbo x reader #yandere #tw: fighting #tw: stalking #tw: anxiety #tw: stealing #tw: kidnapping

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mystic-sky · 3 years

Text

|✨Part 1✨| |✨Part 2 ✨| of the Friends with Benefits Series.

Your relationship with Suguru started off somewhat unexpectedly. A new semester romance, however it was unwanted after dealing with Satoru Gojo just last year. You tried not to blame yourself for the situation unraveling the way it did. You did your best to make Satoru comfortable with you- at least you thought you did.

He cut you off as soon as you made your feelings apparent. You wondered if he somehow did it for your own good, or maybe there was something deeper that went along with it. No matter, you remained optimistic. You were young, and bound to make mistakes. This was just a story to tell your children about in the future if you ever felt it was necessary.

But back to Suguru, who had wiggled his way into your life somehow. He wasn’t a random guy actually. More like a familiar face you’d seen in a few of your classes because you both were in the same major. Just so recently, he decided to talk to you.

You weren’t expecting to hit it off with him so easily. He was sort of scary looking, which led you not to engage with him in the first place. He never tried talking to you before 5 months ago. And neither did you, considering you thought he was so handsome he’d break your heart too somehow.

His arms were sleeved with tattoos that would bridge at his chest. The tattoos would sometimes peak out of his wide collared shirts if he chose to wear one that day. He had a thing for wearing these huge ear gauges that had his favorite anime on them. Though, you never noticed until you sat close enough to him to see the designs. It was a rainy day, and both of you ended up sitting beside each other in your sociology course in the back of the classroom. You were both late, having come in just after the other.

It was weird seeing him this close. He never did come late to any class you’d ever been in with him. Even if you wanted to sit with him, like Satoru, he never had any available seats beside him. He didn’t disturb you until the lecture ended, commenting on one of your anime themed mechanical pencils. That sparked your first conversation with him, and he wasn’t shy to ask you out for coffee right after.

He’s been keen on you since, and you just barely give him the time of day in the beginning. You were just cautious, after the whole Satoru situation. Suguru was fine with whatever you wanted the situation between you both to be. But you will admit, the conversations he’d keep you up with at night made it hard to not fall in love with him.

He’d take you out to dinner, study with you, and sleep with you from time to time since the sexual attraction between you was hard to deny. You think your favorite thing about messing around with Suguru was how he’d always pick your brain after sex with manga theories and better endings than the canonically debuted ones. He was a really good cook, and you often challenged him to make your favorite dishes. They were excuses to invite you over to his place, so he gladly took each one with merit. It was friends with benefits but with far much more substance to hold onto.

He never poked you about getting serious. Whatever you both had was still young at barely 5 months. He could tell you’d been going through something mostly because of how you sexed him. Sometimes you were the dominant one- you’d throw him on the bed and bounce yourself on his length until your knees were far too tired to go on. Other times, he’d steal the show from you, showing you just exactly what he was capable of.

He spread you onto the desk in his bedroom, face deep into your folds. He also loved to spoil you, like Satoru, but you did your best not to think of him when you both were together. Suguru had so much more hair to grab, considering his tongue work was so good it scared you.

“Be a good kitten and cum for me.” He said between sucks on your clit. You often couldn’t think, and that was a good thing. He numbed you in plenty of ways, he knew he had been helping you get over something. He had been doing the same thing but you could care less.

“Actually, I changed my mind.” He tore his mouth from your steaming sex, wiping his chin. You gasp as he lifts you up off the desk, holding your body without leaning against anything for support. You felt weightless, feeling his length prod at your entrance. You tried to hold back a giggle as he smiled smugly at you.

“You ready?” His eyes were sincere, asking for your consent again as he was aching to sink you onto himself.

You nod, feeling a bit nervous. “Stuff like this is about balance. Start flailing around again and I’ll drop you.” He teased. Your hands found some of his hair again, tugging on it a bit.

“Just fuck me.” You roll your eyes as he slams his length into you, making you cry out and clutch your arms around him. His large hands firmly grasp underneath your thighs, using the way your ass recoiled against his thighs to keep a steady rhythm. He’s immersed in the way your broken moans pour into his ear, fueling his stamina. He’s a stickler for teasing you the entire time, praising you for taking his length so well.

“Such a good kitten, you’re taking it so well.”

It was the third time he’d ever held you up to fuck you. After letting go of the fear of him dropping you it became incredibly easy to focus on the pleasure.

“You’re gonna cum aren’t you? Don’t worry about the carpet baby, make a mess for me.”

He knew how to mix things up the way you needed. On your rough days he’d sex you slowly, more passionately and generously. If you were happy and feeling frisky he’d fuck you accordingly. He was pretty good at reading your body just after the first few fucks you had. You hated comparing the two men, but it did happen from time to time when you were in solitude, plagued by your own self-deprecating thoughts every now and then.

It was weird how they emanated each other’s personalities in certain ways. And then you found out that they used to be good friends in high school until something happened. You never poked Suguru about it, since he’d seem to get irritated when you were around groups of friends and Satoru’s name was mentioned. You did your best to be satisfied with what you had. He was handsome, smart, and possibly wanted to be your boyfriend in due time.

But you couldn’t help but think about Satoru. Not only was your experience with him a wild one, but he was fucking everywhere. It’s always like this for you. It’s not until you’re trying to avoid someone do you begin seeing them absolutely everywhere.

You stared at Satoru over Suguru’s shoulder, poking your cheek with your tongue. The audacity he had, showing up in the cafe where you both first met while you and Suguru were on a routine study date. Well, it was a hotspot for a lot of students, so who are you to say he can’t come in here.

“I think I’m overworking myself today, we can go eat now.” Your mood change was evident to Suguru, but he couldn’t put his finger on why at first. He watched you get up and pack your things before shortly following.

As you tossed your bag over your shoulders, he took hold of one of your hands, squeezing firmly. He pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

“Is it something I can cheer you up from when we get back to my place?” Suguru was a bit smug about it, and also painfully intuitive about your emotions even though you’d been close for such a short time. Your cheeks went red, eyes burning holes through the floor.

“It’s nothing, really. Let’s just get out of here.” You manage to look back at him, just barely glancing at Satoru who probably had been looking in this direction. Suguru pressed another kiss to your forehead, wrapping his arm around you and leading you out the cafe. He nearly touched shoulders with Satoru and his own dame, smirking just loudly enough for him to hear.

Suguru wasn’t dumb, finally having noticed your energy change just a few moments after Satoru Gojo entered the cafe. This was your favorite place, and he hated how someone could ever ruin that for you. He felt urged to do something about it- with or without your consent. He doesn’t poke you about it until you’re in the car.

“Random question, but do you know Satoru Gojo?”

The question like a pin in your spine, making you visibly un-slouch in the drivers seat. He doesn’t look at you, feeling that would make it easier for you to talk. You take this the wrong way, and feel even more tense.

“I do, we were a thing at one point.” You manage not to stutter. You had no idea why you felt scared or touchy about the subject- you shouldn’t be. His entire vibe had changed, and he didn’t have his usual grin peaking at the corners of his lips.

“Oh,” he says simply. The longest ten seconds of silence reign throughout the vehicle. You’re anxious to turn on the radio, anything to rid the first bit of awkwardness the two of you had ever shared.

“He’s an asshole, isn’t he?” He randomly chuckles heartily, somewhat calming you.

“Yeah,” you’re exhaling properly now, “he really is.”

“We were best friends for about four years. I know him like the back of my hand. Granted, he’s probably changed a lot since high school.”

“But you’re both so-

“Different?” He chuckled. “Yeah, I know.”

“If he was an asshole then, he’s multiplied tenfold.” You roll your eyes. “You both don’t talk anymore?”

You knew they didn’t, but you took the opportunity to ask anyway.

“Nah, he’s a slimy bastard. I hope karma turns him rotten.” You’d never seen Suguru scowl before. He must really hate him, you thought. Still, what a small world; first Satoru and now his ex best friend.

“You still talk to him?” He pokes again. His tone is just barely playful. God, you changed your mind. You didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

“No, we don’t talk anymore. It ended pretty badly.” You say simply. You also decided not tell Suguru that the both of you messed around just before you started messing with him.

“Sorry about that. If we were friends sooner I’d have told you about him.” Suguru is apologizing for something you weren’t entirely ignorant about in the first place. You knew what you were getting into.

Satoru never tried to convince you the situation was anything other than what it was— until the end. The sweet things he started saying to you during those final months often echoed in your head- like he meant all of it.

The sex developed into something that it shouldn’t have. Sex that passionate should be forbidden if you aren’t already in love. And the things he said to you the last time he dropped you off didn’t make it any better. You wanted to slap his stupid, pretty face.

“I’m over it now.”

Suguru pans his gaze to watch you nonchalantly staring out the window. He knew better than to ask anymore. He was more elated that you didn’t interact with him at all. He didn’t need Satoru painting a picture about him in your head before he could first.

What sucks the most about dating people you go to school with is how often you’d see them. Satoru was fucking everywhere. The local restaurants, the library, the cafe, and he’d registered for two of your classes this semester. He didn’t speak to you at all, but he was always just there. Perhaps he’d always been around but since you’d been involved with him you were more aware of his presence.

You were standing in line in the library, attempting to return some books. He entered the space, and walked up behind you, standing on the line and giving your space. You turn your body slightly, peering up at him. You thought to leave, but just because you resented him didn’t mean you were going to cower every time you had to be around him for a while. You let out a sigh as you tip toed to peer in front of yourself; at least the line was moving.

Both of you had made it to the front, talking to separate librarians beside one another. When they both got up from their seats to head towards the back, he spoke directly to you, without actually looking at you.

“(Name), word of advice— I’d steer clear of Getou Suguru if I were you.”

Anger poured over you; you did your best to keep your voice low and eyes forward when saying this.

“That’s the first thing you say to me after almost a year? Go fuck yourself.”

He bites back a witty response, poking his cheek with his tongue. “Whatever. Find out the hard way.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve. Why the fuck are you telling me this?” You’re whisper-shouting, considering it’s a library.

“Because,” he turns to look at you, “I care about you.”

“What a load of shit.”

Satoru Gojo doesn’t care about anyone, you learned that the hard way.

He let out a sigh. He knew he had no right, but even if he couldn’t get you back, he wanted you to know what kind of guy you were seeing. He couldn’t say anything, he knew you wouldn’t listen. Not like this anyway. Both librarians returned, and gave you back your borrowing passes. You quickly departed, refusing to give Satoru another opportunity to speak to you. His words stuck with you on the way home. You didn’t have any reason to be afraid of Suguru, right?

Two months had passed since Satoru had “warned” you about Suguru. And nothing has happened to lead you to be cautious of him. Satoru hasn’t spoken to you either.

You’re sitting in the guidance counselor’s office as it’s the end of the semester once again. You typed away on your phone, telling Suguru you’d see him for dinner in a bit before throwing your head back and shutting your eyes. The heaviest sigh left your lungs, you were thankful the semester was nearing its end. You had quite enough of studying and needed to unwind.

You feel a presence on the end of your bench, making you open one eye. You see white tresses, and you catch the scent of familiar cologne.

Satoru doesn’t look at you, but he’s quite aware that he’s sitting beside you as well. You almost scoff, only crossing your arms and legs. Noticing the undone laces of your boots, you lean forward to tie it. Your loose bag on your shoulder which unfortunately wasn’t zipped, spilled small notebooks and pencils all over the floor. Spare change rolled across the walk way along with other items.

“Fuck...” you muttered. His head snapped towards you as you let out a sigh and bent down to pick up your things. Your phone that was your on your lap hit the ground as well. You saw his hand in the corner of your eye reaching down to help.

“I got it.” You say sternly, and shamelessly picking up your things. He retracts his hand, and instead gets up to pick up the items that were further away from you, ignoring your request not to help.

He sits back beside you, handful of change and pens. He holds it up towards you quietly while you attempt to fix your bag back to the way it was. You turn to look at him for what feels like the first time in forever, blue eyes pouring into your own (eye color) ones.

“I didn’t need you to do that.” You say, taking your things. You initially thought to take your things from him without a word. He went back to staring in front of himself, waiting to be called. You shifted uncomfortably, and fidgeted with your fingernails. You forced yourself into to pay attention to the soft music playing from the back of the office until he spoke.

“How have you been?”

For some odd reason though, you wanted him to say something to you. You had a lot of things to let off your chest considering the way things ended. You thought of giving him a piece of your mind right there in front of all the staff members, but you restrained yourself.

Instead, you found yourself saying “I’m doing great.”

“That’s good.” He says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t even sound sure of his own response. A few minutes of silence resumes after. You’re a bit startled when speaks again.

“I’m definitely out of line right now, but I’ve been wanting to talk to you about some things.”

“What could we possibly have to talk about?” A lot. You were bubbling over.

“There’s a lot of things, at least for me, that I’ve never really told you.” He’s looking at you now. “Can we talk somewhere quieter? Whenever you’ve got the free time, and only if you want to.”

He was offering closure to you a bit too late. Or maybe all this time you’d convinced yourself you’d moved on. You often found yourself replaying the morning he brought you home and all the things you should’ve said in that moment.

That’s not exactly moving on. Unfortunately, you also found yourself comparing him to Suguru more often then not. That’s not moving on either.

“Okay,” you said. “Later on today. Round 8pm.”

He looks thankful. Just as he spoke, your counselor called out to you to come into their office. You stand up, looking down at him.

“Cafe then?” He suggests.

“That’s fine. See you.” You shrugged. You didn’t care that much for the place. You heard him say goodbye as the door shut behind you.

You had half a mind to never speak to him ever again. Though both of you were using each other, he knowingly crossed a line, making you feel things for him in a situation where feelings weren’t supposed to be involved. And he never gave you a chance to truly address the situation. Now, almost a year later, he’s ready to speak to you on his own terms. You’d be sure to tell him you had no intentions of making amends with him. If you personally didn’t have interest in what he had to say, you wouldn’t bother gracing him with the ability to explain anything to you.

You would’ve made him suffer. He’s lucky you’re still a bit distraught about the situation. Any longer into your situation-ship with Suguru and Satoru wouldn’t even have the slightest chance at something like this.

Dinner with Suguru was transparent. He could tell something was on your mind but he didn’t pry much after his first attempt. The last time you both talked about Satoru he turned into a different person, and it didn’t sit right with you. You did your best to brush it off, assuming he was just protective over you. But Satoru’s warning in the library echoed in your subconscious more and more. Just what happened between them, and would it be okay for you to ask Suguru about it?

He wasn’t your boyfriend either, but you suppose he wanted to be? You hadn’t brought up the dating conversation in while and you probably wouldn’t until you situated the Satoru thing.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Suguru’s holding your face, brushing your hair out of your eyes. His smile is incredibly gentle and you feel guilty for keeping this from him.

Perhaps you should hold Suguru accountable too, for being so sweet to you like this. He informed you he wouldn’t up and leave unless you wanted him to and that he’d never say anything he didn’t mean. But after dealing with trauma from past relationships, affection like this was always perceived cautiously.

“I know,” you say, feeling his lips press against your forehead again. “It’s just not easy to talk about right now.”

“That’s alright,” he assures you. “I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

His lips connect with yours while his hands slide down your back. He feels you relax a bit, and that makes him smile. How could he possibly be a bad person?

“I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”

You nod, watching him part from you and get into his car. You never did come to understand how he could afford it; a black Mercedes Benz-Coupe. You assumed that and his nice apartment were inherited wealth from his parents.

You wave at him before going into the station. Luckily he had things to attend to, and you didn’t have to bother making up anything about tonight. It was just barely any of his business, right?

You had an idea of what to expect from Satoru when you got there. You were rehearsing things you wanted to say in your head, some of them incredibly mean. You wanted to hurt his feelings too, if you had it in you. It didn’t take you long to get to the cafe, and you’d arrived early, already finding Satoru in the very back, furthest away from people. You gripped your bag strap, before sitting across from him.

“Hey, you’re early.” He says surprised, looking up at you from his phone.

“You’re the early one.” You say, not even cracking a smile.

“How are you?”

“Same as earlier. What did you want to talk about?”

He’s visibly gulping, and you’ve never seen him this nervous. He places his phone face down on the table, turning the sound off. You cross your arms.

“Right,” he lets out a heavy sigh. “Where should I start?” He attempts to gather his thoughts, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“I’m not the kind of guy who really addresses his feelings, if you couldn’t already tell at the time we, you know... I’ve been fucked over a lot. I don’t have a lot of actual friends, and I’m constantly aware that people cling to me for my money or looks.”

He never acted like his entourages bothered him per se, but you did notice that he never bothered being around people anymore when the two of you were a thing. You prompt him to continue with your eyes.

“The only best friend I’ve ever had used me until I realized what was going on and cut him off. The first girl I ever really loved chose him instead of me shortly afterwards. Obviously, it’s not a legitimate excuse to have treated you the way that I did, but I guess what I’m saying is that I’m cautious of people and have been for a long time now.”

“But I never tried to use you,” you interjected. You felt a bit insensitive for spitting it out like that, but he really did hurt you.

“I know, and I realized that a bit too late.” He sighs. “But more importantly, I realized that I didn’t talk about or convey my feelings correctly. I know I confused you a lot, and you didn’t deserve that at all.” He tried to keep eye contact with you when he spoke, but your lion like force was pretty strong.

“And when I dropped you off— I shouldn’t have said those things to you. You were so much more than a warm body to me. You were the first real friend I’ve had in a long time. Things got so cloudy for me since we were sleeping together. I didn’t know how to address it, and it freaked me out when you told me you wanted more. I should’ve been elated, but I suppose I didn’t want my heart broken again either.”

“So basically...” He breathed out, “I’m really sorry. I’ve got some messy emotions, things I’m gradually learning to deal with. I’m not making excuses for myself. It’s just I never did talk about myself much when we were a thing, so I wanted to tell you something at least, and apologize. I hated the way I left things. I know it’s long overdue for an apology but...”

“But?”

“I still have feelings for you. I never stopped. The more time passed, the harder it made it for me to apologize and tell you how I feel. And then I noticed you were going out with... him, so I thought it was too late. But I still wanted to try, I guess.”

He looked so awkward, you almost laughed. Apologies were definitely foreign to him. You could tell he meant it, but even so, he wouldn’t be getting a relationship out of you, if that’s want he wanted.

You let out a large sigh. For some weird reason all the angry things you wanted to say wouldn’t come out. You wanted to be angry at him but you just couldn’t. And your heart was swelling at the idea of him still having feelings for you. Did he really mean that?

“We’re not together. Not yet anyway— it’s complicated.” You crossed your legs and leant back in your seat. Suguru probably would’ve been your boyfriend already if you weren’t so stuck on Satoru.

“Oh,” he said quietly. You’d never seen him look so small, it was definitely out of character for him.

“I forgive you,” you lean forward, holding your head in your hands. All this time and you still had soft spot for him.

“Really?” He’s surprised. Your friends will be too after you tell them this story.

“You want me to take it back?” You’re pinching the bridge of your nose.

He chuckles nervously. “No ma’am.”

“Are you... doing okay though?” He probes after noticing the stress in your brows.

“I can’t stay mad at you. And I want to so bad. It’d make my life simpler. Now I’m conflicted.” You drag your fingers under your eyes, before smooshing your own face, stressfully so. He thought you were cute, but he felt bad being the source of your distraught-ness.

“So I take it you still have feelings for me?” His voice is regular now, and just barely his normal cocky tone.

You won’t even look at him. “I mean...”

How do you explain to him that the only reason you’re messing with someone right now, who just so happens to be his ex-best friend, is because you were trying to forget about him in the first place?

“I get it if you don’t.” He says. “It’s been a while.”

“I do.” It’s almost instinct for you to correct him. “That’s the problem.”

“Ah, I see.” He’s rubbing the back of his neck again. You wished you could start over with a clean slate. School and dating shouldn’t be this difficult.

Satoru thought to warn you again about Suguru in that moment, but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to make it seem as if he was badmouthing him so you could favor him more, he wanted you to lean towards him naturally, if possible.

Silence reigned throughout your little booth in the cafe. The sound of rain hitting the window screen made it easy not to talk so much. It also made it hard to see a certain black, long-haired male in his Mercedes Benz, parked just across the street.

Suguru threw his cigarette out the driver’s window, continuing to watch the both of you inside. He shook his head disappointedly before starting his car.

“And that reminds me,” you say, making Satoru swallow hard and shift in his seat.

“What was that nonsense two months prior, about Geto Suguru?”

#gojo satoru #geto suguru #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #geto smut #geto suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo sensei #getou fluff #a lot of it

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disturbedbydesign · 3 years

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The Widow and the Wolf - Chapter 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x dark!exWidow!reader

Summary: After Natasha Romanoff took down the Red Room, the former Widows scattered to the wind. Raised to be a killing machine and released into the world with nothing and no one, you decided to use your newfound autonomy to take down the bad guys of your choosing. But now Natasha is riddled with guilt for leaving you on your own. She wants to recruit you, rehabilitate you, make you part of a team again. But the rest of the squad has reservations, and no one is more against you than Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Graphic violence; Mentions of domestic violence, rape, pedophilia, human trafficking, child sex trafficking; eventual Dubcon (not Bucky); eventual smut; slow(ish) burn enemies-to-lovers. [More warnings will be added as necessary but these are the Big Bads.] 18+ only, no minors.

If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here.

Chapter Two

It’s almost midnight by the time Garcia is officially gator food, but you’re too wired for sleep. You head out, driving the hour and change to Miami, with a stop on the way to clean yourself up a bit in a gas station bathroom. You check in to the swanky South Beach hotel you’ve decided to treat yourself to, because you’ve earned it. The world is a better place without that man in it, the impressionable young girls of Miami are a bit safer tonight, and that’s enough for you. For the moment, it’s enough.

Your next target is a man you’ve been searching for for a long time, and he’s your own personal project, but tonight you aren’t going to think about him. Tonight you’re going to allow yourself a moment to breathe, to celebrate your victories—a party of one, as usual, but satisfying all the same. You don’t have that much time left before last call at the clubs so you get yourself together quickly and hit the spot closest to your hotel. Even at this time of night, there’s a line to get in, but one look at you and the bouncer is opening that velvet rope and beckoning you inside.

The place reeks of sweat and unchecked hormones as you make your way to the bar, the booming bass drowning out any and all thoughts you might have, which is exactly the way you want it tonight. You order a double vodka rocks and you wait to see what kind of man will approach you this evening: angel or devil. Of course, none of them are really angels, not in the club at this time of night, but some are far worse than others.

You have no problem with decent men. There’s nothing wrong with trying to get laid. It’s normal, it’s natural—you know that now. You’ve even learned to enjoy consensual sex with strangers. At first it was difficult for you—your body having belonged to others for your entire life. But it wasn’t long before you started to enjoy the power of choice, of having control over what your body did and who with.

A man approaches you—brown hair, blue eyes, muscular—and you hate that your first thought is of him but you can’t help it. The Winter Soldier had always been the stuff of nightmares—a ghost story to some, but the Widows knew better. He was terrifying, yes, but the few people who had seen the man’s face and lived to tell about it had always remarked on how handsome he was, even with that cold, dead-eyed stare. You’d seen pictures of him after he came out from under all that brainwashing, and they had proven the reports correct, but you’d never seen him in person until tonight. You couldn’t stand the sight of him in some ways, but in others…

You turn to the attractive stranger and smile, waiting to see what he’ll do.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he yells over the music. You raise your nearly full cocktail in his direction and he smiles awkwardly. “That’s the best line I got,” he says, and he introduces himself with a name you don’t commit to memory.

You give him a fake name and he reaches his hand out to shake. He’s got a disarming personality, but that doesn’t mean you trust him. You know better than anyone that there’s no better tactic than to appear non-threatening. Still, he’s incredibly attractive and you’re in the mood for a party of two tonight.

You let him talk for a while—about his job, about his family—and you pepper in a few lies here and there. He hasn’t laid a hand on you or invaded your personal space in any way that isn’t necessary among the crush of people at the bar. When the bartender signals last call, you decide that he’ll do. You’re rarely wrong about people, and even if you are, you could snap his neck like a twig if necessary.

You allow him to walk you out, expecting him to make a move, but he doesn’t. He just stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, rocking a bit awkwardly on his feet.

You smile and tilt your head. “Nightcap?” you ask, and he follows you like a puppy to your hotel room.

You don’t want another drink and neither does he, but he waits for your signal before he tries anything. You try not to make it all seem transactional, but it’s not like your heart is in it. You let him kiss you and touch you, albeit briefly, and you pretend to enjoy it even though that’s not what you want. What you want is to be on top of him, using his body for the pleasure of your own, and it’s not long before you’re doing exactly that. Your beautiful stranger certainly doesn’t mind, not even when you close your eyes and allow yourself to think about someone else inside you—what his face might look like all twisted up and blissed out, what sounds might spill from his pretty lips, what the cold metal might feel like against your hot sweaty skin.

You make yourself cum and then kick him out (kindly). You’re gone by sunrise. You’ve got places to be.

*****

Natasha sits cross-legged on her couch, a pint of ice cream in one hand and scrolling her tablet with the other. After Miami, you’ve been a ghost. None of her usual contacts have been able to give her anything useful. You’ve gone underground, and she knows she won’t find you if you really don’t want to be found. Whoever your next target is, it has to be somebody big if you’ve covered your tracks this well.

She doesn’t regret not taking you in, even though Bucky had complained the entire ride back about how leaving you there was a mistake. But, as she’d told him, you have to want to come in. Trying to force your hand is not only incredibly dangerous, it defeats the purpose. Natasha doesn’t want to retraumatize you; she wants to help you. There’s no point in trading a floating cage for a gilded one.

She doesn’t realize she’s finished the pint until the spoon hits the cardboard. When she goes to pull another one from the freezer, her phone rings.

“What’s up, Rogers?”

Steve’s voice holds a barely contained anger that Natasha knows well. “You need to come in.”

She should have known Bucky would rat her out, but it still pisses her off. “Steve, it’s getting late. Can we do this in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” Steve replies. “Are you gonna steal another jet in the middle of the night?”

“Technically, I didn’t steal-”

“Natasha, please,” he says, and she can picture the set of his jaw on the other end of the line.

She sighs. “Alright, fine. I’m leaving now.”

When she gets to the tower, most of the usual suspects are gathered around the conference table. Steve looks pissed. Tony looks amused. Sam and Wanda look concerned. And while, to anyone else Bucky would be wearing no expression at all, Natasha can tell that he’s feeling a bit guilty—as he should, he gave her his word. He mouths “I’m sorry” when she sits down at the table and she raises an eyebrow at him that he knows to translate as a middle finger.

Steve tries to speak but Natasha cuts him off. “Save me the lecture, Rogers. I’m not going to apologize.”

Steve’s voice is stern but not unkind. “This needs to be a group decision, Natasha, and as of right now, you’re the only person who thinks this is a good idea.”

“That’s not actually true,” she says. “Wanda? Do you want to tell Steve what you told me?”

Wanda looks a little shocked to be called out but she answers, if a bit hesitantly. “It sounds like she needs help, Steve. Like she’s lost. I… I know what that feels like—when everyone thinks you’re a monster.”

Wanda and Nat’s eyes both turn to Bucky, looking for any recognition whatsoever that he, too, knows exactly where they’re coming from, but he’s completely stolid. Underneath his blood is boiling and he feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin, but the surface remains placid.

Tony pops a blueberry into his mouth and swivels in his chair to face Natasha. “So, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly, Romanoff. You want to bring in one of your former compatriots who has spent the last… what?... year or so on a globetrotting murder spree? Am I getting the general idea here, or am I missing something? I have to be missing something, because if I’m not missing something, this is categorically batshit.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Stark. But essentially, yes. That’s exactly what I want to do.”

Tony laughs. “Wow. OK. Well, Rogers—you and I rarely agree on… well… anything, but I gotta say, I’m Team Cap with this one.”

Natasha crosses her arms and huffs her displeasure.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, looking around and addressing the room, “but don’t we usually catch mass murderers? Isn’t that kind of our thing?”

The longer the conversation goes on, the more uncomfortable Bucky gets. It wasn’t lost on him that Tony’s eyes lingered on him when he threw out the term “mass murderers,” and he’s learned that it’s better to just let Tony go off when he feels the need. Still, he needs to get out of the room. He needs to take a walk, get some air, push all thoughts of you and this whole mess out of his mind, because if he doesn’t, he thinks he might go crazy.

“Are we done here?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve replies. “Sam? Anything you want to say?”

Sam takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “Look, Nat, I understand where you’re coming from on this. I really do. And it would be different if she was willing to come in on her own. But it sounds to me like she isn’t interested. She wants to be doing exactly what she’s doing. You can’t rehabilitate that. You just can’t.”

Steve looks apologetically at Natasha. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but it’s a no. I’m not necessarily saying we go after her-”

“I am,” Tony interjects. “I’m saying that. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Steve glares at Tony and it shuts him up. “Leave it alone, Tony.”

“You’re seriously telling me you want to leave this girl on the streets knowing what we know? Come on, Rogers.”

Everyone starts to raise their voice at once—everyone except Bucky, who is already sneaking out and halfway to the door—when Natasha shouts, “Enough!”

She takes a deep breath and blows it out, speaking softer now. “I’ll find her and I’ll bring her in, whether she wants to come or not. But it stays in this room—no cops, no agents, just the team. When I get her here, I’ll figure out what to do with her.”

“Fine,” Steve says, and the rest of the team assents. “Buck, you go with her.”

Every cell in Bucky’s body is screaming not to do it, but he never could say no to Steve. He grunts his agreement, refusing to even look at Natasha before storming out of the room and out into the humid mid-August evening. He walks all the way from Midtown to Brooklyn, but he still can’t shake the malaise that’s settled over him ever since Natasha first came to him with her plan.

Bucky knows that he should understand—and, in a way, he does—but he just can’t bring himself to feel anything for you except disgust. Natasha sees something in you that he just doesn’t see. All Bucky wanted to do when he finally got free of it all was prove to everyone that he was a good man—that he was not the things that he’d done. It took a lot of work and a lot of time, but he’s finally in a place where he’s separated himself from the Winter Soldier. That isn’t who he is; it never was.

Steve always knew that, and Natasha hadn’t taken much convincing. The others, though—some of them still don’t fully trust him, and if he thinks about it for too long, it cuts deep. So when Bucky thinks of you—free now, but still violent and bloodthirsty and absolutely unrepentant—it makes him sick. After all the work Bucky has done, how can Natasha look at you and him and think that you’re the same?

Not everyone comes out of their traumas unscathed. Sometimes people can’t come back from the things that have happened to them. That’s you. That’s who you are. You’re not good, you never will be, and as sad as it may make him, Bucky truly believes that you are beyond redemption. You don’t need to be saved; you need to be stopped.

Bucky gets a text as he unlocks the door to his Brooklyn Heights apartment. He’s been waiting for it, hoping for it, and now he has it. Natasha doesn’t know where you are yet, but he does. One of his contacts in Bucharest has a line on you, and he’s not going to let you get away this time. Much as it pains him, he doesn’t trust Natasha to keep her word to the team and take you in against your will. No, Bucky is going to handle this himself. You may be a Widow, but you’re no match for the White Wolf.

CHAPTER THREE >>>

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #dark!fic #dark!reader #the widow and the wolf

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ikroah · 3 years

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Whiskey river, take my mind, don't let her memory torture me. Whiskey river, don't run dry, you're all I got, take care of me. —“Whiskey River,” Shotgun Willie (1973)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #15 - Vegas Outskirts

Collaborative Issue! Guest Colorist: @malpaislegate / @socksual-innuendos

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Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own

Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

MAN that’s gotta hurt!! Volume 2 kicks off with a bang, literally if you count the gunshot and honorifically if you count Socks’ knockout color job on this issue. Look at those lovingly rendered bullet wounds!! Muah!!!

It’s been a relief having a month off from the comic as I handled a bunch of other things but there’s a lot to look forward to in Volume 2, as you can probably tell from that very forboding fist clench at the end there. Will Agnes and Cass get the revenge they’re looking for? Can they make it big in Vegas? Will it keep right on a-hurtin’? Find out next ish as Cass leads Agnes to meet the first of their new “friends.”

Original Pencils:

The pencils for this issue are like an autopsy report of all the things that can go wrong with your art if you don’t plan ahead and pay attention. Listen, friend, to my tale of woe, and learn from my mistakes so they don’t become yours!

First, you can see a lot of places where there’s floating objects, empty backgrounds, and incomplete heads. Part of this is because I always intended to just copy and paste repeated elements across each panel instead of drawing them multiple times, but other times I was forced to just because of my lack of planning. The top three panels on page two, for example, required me to draw the background I’d use for them on a separate page.

Second, you can probably tell that I actually had to flip the two raiders around in the final lineart because I forgot to keep the hands their were holding their guns in consistent—and since I couldn’t flip the middle panel on the second page without ruining the composition, I decided to flip all of their other appearances so that they’d be lefties. I doubt you even can seamlessly wield those particular guns left-handed.

Third, the size of the cart that Agnes and Cass are kneeling behind changes CONSTANTLY and is dramatically oversized from the third page onward. After inking these pages, it took a lot of work to correct the inks and shrink that cart in each panel, but fortunately it came out looking good.

And finally, I completely redrew the second panel on the fifth page because it wasn’t until I had already handed he pages off to my colorist that I realized having a second profile shot of Cass so soon after a first one was just...redundant and lazy-looking. So I went back to my sketchbook and whipped up a much more unique, striking angle (I also just wasn’t satisfied with the quality of my art on that panel, so I’m very glad I redrew it). But again, my failure to plan ahead bit me in the ass and my redraw attempt wound up taking up a lot more space than I thought it would, so after inking it I had to basically surgically remove it from the other inks.

I’ll be honest with you folks: part of the reason that I work in such simple, thick, high-contrast lineart is because it’s very easy to make corrections and adjustments with stuff you could technically color in Microsoft Paint.

Transcript:

EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE MOJAVE, morning. AGNES SANDS and ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY stand over the wreckage of a caravan, scattered over a dirt road.

CASS: Hell.

EXT. SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THE MOJAVE, midday. Looking over a second wrecked caravan, at the bottom of a ditch.

CASS: Fuck.

EXT. PRE-WAR HIGHWAY OUTSIDE OF VEGAS, mid-afternoon. AGNES and CASS survey a third wrecked caravan.

CASS: Shit. The proof is in the pudding. Or the pile of ash, rather. These attacks were done with Van Graff guns for Crimson Caravan caps. I'm sure of it.

As CASS explains her theory to AGNES, a short distance from the caravan two RAIDERS peer at the two of them from inside a barn at a ruined farmstead. They have snake-bite tattoos on the sides of their shaved heads and are holding rifles.

CASS: The scorchmarks and residue in the wreckages? That's energy weapon shit. Plasma and laser. Silver Rush special. Not like it'd be the Brotherhood. And Crimson Caravan must have bankrolled this fucked-up little hunting trip themselves.

The RAIDERS move out from the barn, sneaking up on two passers-by who’ve stopped at the caravan wreckage.

CASS: That explains why they bought me out...they needed the last loose end to saddle up back west with a tidy sum.

(NOTE: *Agnes delivered it and Cass signed it in IKROAH #7—Lou.)

CASS: It's a racket, Agnes: torch the local competition and it's win-win for both the f—

SFX: KRAK

A gunshot rips out from one of the RAIDERS’ rifles and sears across CASS’ shoulder.

CASS (gasping): —uckers.

CASS slumps down beneath the overturned caravan wagon on the road, clutching her shot shoulder.

CASS: —Aaggghghhhhhhh.

AGNES: Cass! Are you—

CASS: Fuck! Agnes, get down you moron!

AGNES ducks behind the cover of the wooden caravan wagon just as another gunshot splinters the top lip of it.

SFX: DTHWAK!

The RAIDERS advance on CASS and AGNES’ position, firing at them from off the road.

SFX: KRAK

AGNES leans over the top of the wagon with her pistol, returning fire.

SFX: BTAK BTAK BTAK

AGNES lands a shot right in one of the RAIDERS’ guts, and she drops her weapon and falls down.

SFX: SPLUT

CASS, leaning out the side of the wagon, takes as careful of aim as she can with her shotgun by holding it with her good arm. Trembling, she fires, connecting with the other RAIDER.

SFX: KBLAM

The would-have-been RAIDERS are dead.

AGNES: ...were those the Van Graffs?

CASS: No. Just some vultures.

CASS leans back behind cover to sit against the bottom of the overturned wagon again, wincing from her shoulder injury.

CASS: Ugghhn.

AGNES (slipping off duffel bag): Cass, your shoulder—

CASS: Yeah, it's been shot. I'm pretty fucking aware.

AGNES (unzipping bag): Quick, can you take your shirt off—

CASS: What!?

AGNES: —so I can dress the wound, Cass!

CASS: Oh! Good! So you weren't coming onto me on what remains of Griffin Wares Caravan.

CASS starts removing her shirt while AGNES produces a bottle of something from her duffel bag, and dampens a rag with its contents.

CASS: And since when are you a fucking field medic, anyway?

AGNES: 2269. NCR Certified.

CASS: What?

AGES: Yeah. I've been one kind of doctor or another since I was six.

CASS: What?

AGNES: Now hold still, this is antiseptic.

CASS: Since you were six!? I...shit, wait, hang on, Agnes—

AGNES pressess the rag onto CASS’ shoulder wound, and CASS winces instinctively. But, confusingly, there isn’t any pain.

CASS: ...isn't this supposed to sting like hell?

AGNES: No, not really. It's an acetic acid solution. Vinegar, basically.

AGNES begins cleaning the wound with the rag.

CASS: I thought you put alcohol on wounds to clean them.

AGNES: That's...a common misconception. It's good for tools, maybe, but too strong for skin. And it can complicate healing if you apply it directly.

CASS: So you're telling me, all my years, I've been wasting good whiskey only making my boo-boos worse?

AGNES: I mean...it's better than nothing in a pinch, but...

CASS: Well, then. Thanks for the lecture, doc. Can you just pass the whiskey anyway? Shoulder still hurts like hell regar—

AGNES hands her the whiskey bottle. She’d already gotten it out.

CASS: —dless. Oh. Thanks.

AGNES unspools a roll of bandages in her hands, then begins wrapping it over CASS’ shoulder and across her chest..

AGNES: So. It's a relatively minor wound, more of a deep graze than a real gunshot.

CASS: You'd know all about real gunshots, huh?

AGNES (unfazed): Uh-huh. I can suture it if necessary, but for now, these bandages will be fine. Just hold still. How do you feel?

CASS: I feel fucking pissed, Agnes!

AGNES recoils, taken aback slightly.

CASS: As I was saying before I got shot in the shoulder—which, however "minor" the wound, is real fucking close to my head, Agnes—this wasn't some random attack. These caravans, my caravan, got hit by the Van Graffs and Crimson Caravan. It ain't just some tragedy anymore. Now I've got names. Places. Faces.

AGNES resumes bandaging CASS.

CASS: I told you—ow! Don't pinch my tit, dammit—

AGNES: I said hold still.

CASS: —I told you, when you told me about this guy who shot you...when I let you drag me out of that fucking outpost...and when we went to Boulder City...that I would do the exact same thing in your shoes. Now, it is the exact same thing. This fucker shoots your eye out, these fuckers ash my caravan...these same fuckers I sold my own goddamn name to on a piece of paper. I mean...what else are we doing out here, Agnes? Getting shot at by Khans and Raiders just for kicks? Are we just fucking around?

AGNES finishes bandaging CASS, then leans back, pensive.

AGNES: No...no, I really guess we’re not.

CASS: That's what I thought. Your friend in Vegas can wait. Help me get mine, and we can get that shitheel together, and that's a prom—

CASS raises her arm to shake her fist as she speaks, straining her shoulder injury.

CASS: —mmmmmmghhhh. Ooww, oww, oww, oww...

CASS grabs her shoulder in pain while AGNES looks off in the distance and stands up. She looks out towards the horizon—towards VEGAS, and the pre-war casinos and hotels that still gleam and glitter in blinding sunlight.

Her fist clenches. Her brow furrows. Her body tenses, all over, staring at that city, that place.

The caravan wreckage remains alone on the highway, brahmin bones long picked clean by scavengers.

AGNES SANDS IN: IT KEEPS RIGHT ON A HURTIN’

VOLUME 2: MAKE IT BIG IN VEGAS

#fallout new vegas #fallout #courier six #rose of sharon cassidy #volume 02 #15 #ikroah archive

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letapollojusticesayfuck · 2 years

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I did some Exploring yesterday and then I wrote a thing and I can’t be bothered to properly edit it yet so I am going to just let you read it as is :) please enjoy 800 words of Kay and Ema bullying Klavier for his “wait, that’s illegal” attitude.

“Hey, Music Boy,” Kay calls across the breakroom to Klavier, waving her phone in the air. “Come check out these pictures I took on mine and Ema’s last date.”

Klavier, by now being used to requests such as these (though still slightly caught off-guard by the notion that Ema Skye would go out on dates), makes his way across to where Kay is sprawled backwards across some “modern” office furniture.

“You went somewhere with nice scenery, I take it?” he asks, as a general conversation-starter, but just gets Kay’s cell phone shoved under his nose.

“Isn’t this place so cool? They ripped out all the interior walls, which was kinda annoying because I didn’t have a copy of the floor plan and so there was no way I could even try to use Little Thief to recreate it, but it was fun to try and figure out what room was what based on, like, the tiling and fireplaces.”

Klavier hmms and nods, watching the pictures go past as Kay swipes through them. When she reaches the fifth or sixth one, though, he startles.

“Is that a...fence? Around the property?” he asks. Kay nods.

“Yeah—they replaced it pretty recently, I guess, ‘cause all the stuff on the internet didn’t mention it. Wasn’t a big deal, though.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t a big deal?” Klavier runs through the photos he’s already seen in his mind. “Wait, some of your photos were taken inside the house. Did you...were you and Ema trespassing?”

Kay purses her lips and reclines in her chair. If she’d been chewing gum, she would have taken the opportunity to blow a large bubble. “Depends. Is it trespassing if there was a giant hole in the fence that had clearly been there a while?”

Klavier’s expression takes a turn for the severe. “You can’t do that! The presence of the fence indicates that it is the responsibility of the general public to stay out of the area!”

“And? It was fine.”

“I cannot believe this. I should call the authorities on--” Klavier breaks off, having come to an awkward realization.

“...were you seriously just about to suggest that you should call the police on us? On Detectives Ema Skye and Kay Faraday?”

“...I have no comment.”

“You totally were! God, lighten up, you narc.”

“I stand against crime as a general principle. The fact that you’re both officers makes it worse! You should be leading by example, being reputable.”

Kay rolls her eyes. “You know, I can’t believe that all that PR shit you did with your band wasn’t just for show. You really are just like this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. But seriously, would it kill you to lighten up? Take a vacation. Jaywalk. A little criminal activity is good for a person.”

Klavier frowns, his eyebrows pulling together. He takes a deep breath, as though he’s ready to start on a longwinded lecture about why being law-abiding is every good citizen’s duty--

Except he’s interrupted before he can begin.

“Can it, fop—I can already tell you’re about to bore us all to death. Kay, I don’t get why you keep trying to involve him in our lives more than absolutely necessary.”

Ema Skye strides into the room, barbed tongue and sarcasm almost indistinguishable from her usual demeanor—but the sharp words are less biting these days, their vitriol lessened in the presence of her girlfriend of three months.

“Babe! C’mon, he’s not that bad most of the time. You’re just still bitter about that one time he tried explaining a motive for murder using music metaphors.”

Ema huffs. “And rightfully so! I shouldn’t have to research weird Italian terms for how loud something is in order to get through case documentation—the German was bad enough.”

Klavier seems to have recovered somewhat. “Might I remind the Fräulein that she studied abroad in both Germany and Italy?”

“No you may not.” Ema catches sight of the pictures still displayed on Kay’s phone. “Oh, those came out really well—can you send me those?”

“Yeah, totally. As long as you promise to find somewhere else like this we can go explore sometime.”

“Somewhere legal?” Klavier interjects, trying to sound casual.

“What are you, a cop?” Ema replies, rolling her eyes.

“No, you’re the cops here.”

“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter.”

Klavier makes a wounded noise. “This is why nobody has faith in our justice system. Police corruption, going all the way to the top…”

“Hey! Don’t badmouth Gummy! He’s the best police chief we’ve ever had!” Kay’s indignation isn’t feigned. Klavier raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay, ja, you win. This has been a lovely talk, Fräuleins, but I do believe I hear my most recent trial documents calling my name.”

“Oh, sure, leave before you lose. But are you sure it’s your case files calling your name? I’ve heard some awfully interesting rumors about you and Apollo Justice…”

Klavier walks away before he’s dragged into that conversation.

#lucy's thoughts #my writing #this is mostly about the Situation but also is #faraskye #and has implied klapollo #because i'm Me #anyway this is inspired by the fact that yes there was a fence around the place i went #but there was also a large hole cut into the fence #so y'know #also do you guys want to see pictures #i have pictures

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moon-light-jukebox · 4 years

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Learning Styles - [Reid x Reader]

Summary: Reader has worked hard to get to the FBI, but a misunderstanding has her feeling insecure.

Pairing: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Genre: Fluff

Rating: PG

Content Warning: Mention of normal criminal minds stuff briefly.

A/n: I got these two requests and they were so similar I decided to combine them. I hope that’s okay, but I feel like the stories would have been almost identical.

Requests: - I have a fic suggestion. Reader pretends to be dumb but is actually really smart. I’m thinking of that quote about marilyn ”you have to be really smart to pretend to be dumb”. One day spencer realizes that reader is smarter than she lets people know.

- Hi! Can I request a spencer reid x reader fic where reader isn't great with numbers but brilliant with behaviour and humanities (i.e. literature, history, sociology, up to you)? Maybe a dash of insecurity to spice things up?

-- Learning Styles --

My favorite professor in college told me that everyone learns differently; what works for one person won’t work in the same way for another. We are all different human beings that are shaped in different ways.

I had always been oddly insecure about my intelligence level. One of my earliest memories was my mother yelling at me while I sat at the kitchen table when I was in first grade. I was the only kid in my class who still hadn’t learned how to read. I just didn’t understand. All of my friends were progressing so much quicker than me and my mother was losing patience.

It wasn’t until my grandmother stepped in that everything changed. My elementary school teacher was training children to read by memorizing sight words, a concept I didn’t understand. When my grandmother sat down and taught me phonics. I distinctly remember everything snapping into place.

I was in 1st grade and reading at a 7th-grade level by Christmas. Once I finally understood my learning style, I really began to thrive.

But no matter what I did, I could still hear my mother yelling at me, telling me I was stupid.

In my line of work, I see just how much the throw away comments that parents make can shape a child’s development. Luckily, those comments just made me a bit insecure, not a murderer.

Up until I was 22, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do beyond this desire I had to help people. SSA David Rossi had come to guest lecture in one of my abnormal psych classes during undergrad. After I heard him speak, I was done. I couldn’t have done anything else with my life. I had obtained my master’s in psychology before I joined the FBI.

It took some time, but I was finally assigned to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico. I was so excited on my first day that I remember my hands physically shaking.

Until they weren’t.

I can still remember my first day so clearly. SSA Hotchner had introduced me to the team, saving the “best” for last.

“And this is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he had said. “He’s our expert on…well, everything.”

Reid was my age and he had his Ph.D. I remember feeling awed by him.

Until I didn’t.

"I hold 3 Ph.D.'s in Chemistry, Engineering, and Mathematics. I also have BAs in psychology and sociology."

I remember my jaw almost hitting the floor. While I was impressed by him, I wasn’t insecure about my place on the team.

Until I was.

My grandmother may have helped me master reading, which opened the door to me mastering anything else I put my mind to…except math.

I was fine at statistics, luckily. You couldn’t get a psych degree without a ton of statistics work. But statistics was different, I could see the practical use of statistics. I just couldn’t wrap my head around calculus or algebra.

On my first case with the team, Reid had calculated some insane mathematical equations on the whiteboard, running down the probabilities and applying a mathematical formula to the unsub’s behavior.

It wasn't until later, after the case was solved when I was standing in front of the whiteboard that my confidence was hit. Reid had come into the room and saw me looking at his work.

“Don’t bother trying to understand it,” he had said. “You’d have to be a genius to understand what I do.”

I didn’t have a word to describe the feeling that settled in my stomach at his words, I wasn’t sure such a word existed. The feeling was cold and heavy, but also made my body burn with shame.

I had just offered him a tight smile before I left the room.

On the plane home I had made a decision. I was no match for Dr. Reid, I doubt anyone was. So, I would take myself out of the competition. I couldn’t get hurt if I wasn’t playing the game.

And that is how the next year of my life went. I allowed Dr. Reid to explain things to me that I was an expert in, never saying a word. I acted like I didn't understand concepts that I had written papers on. The only thing I didn't dumb down was my profiling skills. Those were necessary for my job and for saving lives.

I don’t think anyone realized what I was doing.

Until they did.

The team had been called to Colorado to assist in capturing a serial rapist.

All of our cases bothered me, every last one…but something about ones with this vile element really struck me.

We had the unsub’s name, Tyler Childress. He had spent time in prison for sexual assault and burglary. It seems while he was in prison, he spent time perfecting his methods; it was only by pure luck that we found his fingerprint inside the victim’s house, making him the main suspect.

When we paid Mr. Childress a visit, he had managed to get the drop on Prentiss and Morgan, allowing them to escape. Morgan was furious.

All of us were sitting around a conference table in the local prescient while we let Dr. Reid talk.

I was trying to be calm, I was, but my nails were digging into my palm so deeply I was worried I was about to draw blood.

“Guys,” the expert on everything said. “He has to have some sort of accomplice.”

Rossi just sighed. “But the profile doesn’t point to him being the sort to do well with others; he’s a narcissist.”

Reid wouldn’t budge. “I know that, but he isn’t intelligent enough to pull this off alone. He’s just not. He had an IQ test done when he was 20. He scored in the mentally handicapped range. I’m telling you he has to have help.”

“Are you sure, Reid?” Hotch asked.

“Positive. I have his results right here.”

“IQ tests aren’t a good measure of intelligence on their own.”

I was so startled that someone had contradicted Dr. Reid that it took me a second to realize it was me who had contradicted him.

He turned to face me; his brown eyes wide. “What?”

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “IQ tests aren’t a good measure of intelligence.”

Dr. Reid laughed. He laughed at me like my comment was funny. “I don’t know where you heard that,” he began.

But I interrupted him. "IQ tests are classist and oftentimes racist. The man who invented the IQ test never intended for it to be used as a complete measure of intelligence. He regretted making the test.”

Reid sputtered. “You…it’s not racist!”

“Yes. It. Is.” I ground out. “If it wasn’t it wouldn’t be illegal to administer an IQ test to a black child in the state of California.”

"Wait, it's illegal to do that?" JJ asked, her brows drawn together.

"Yes. There was a court case in the 1970s over it. Teachers were using tests to separate white children from black children. The black children were put into special education classes they didn’t need to be in. Just because the teachers didn’t want those children in their classrooms.”

I should have stopped, but I was on a role. “They’re also inherently classist. How can you expect a child to answer a question about Romeo and Juliet if they haven’t heard of it?”

That had Dr. Reid scoffing. “Everyone has heard of it.”

I shot to my feet, unable to hold back anymore. “No, they haven’t. Children in underfunded schools that don’t have access to resources might not have heard about the most famous play in history because their school wasn’t able to provide the materials to teach them about it. There was a study done in a remote part of Russia right after the IQ test was invented. Every. Single. Person. Scored in the mentally handicapped range. Because they didn’t understand.”

I knew my voice was rising but I couldn’t stop myself. “Once the researcher took the questions and applied them to things they understood, they all scored as above average. They didn’t understand math as an abstract concept, but they understood it when it was applied to their businesses, to something they actually knew about.”

I cleared my throat. “The test isn’t fair, it’s not equal. Tyler Childress didn’t go to a good school and he didn’t have a stable home life. You can’t use one measure to calculate his intelligence. He’s gotten away with 7 assaults so far that we know of. He’s not stupid.”

The entire room was silent once I had stopped speaking. I couldn’t bring myself to regret it though. What kind of person was I if I played dumb because I was afraid of being mocked when a monster was out there attacking women? No, those women deserved to have me at my best.

And I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t give it to them.

Rossi spoke first, his eyes twinkling when he looked at me. “Took you long enough,” he said. “But y/n is right. We trust the profile; we don’t let personal bias cloud the way. That’s how we catch this bastard.”

Later that day, we were cleaning up the conference room while the local police processed Tyler Childress.

Pathological narcissism is a complex disorder, but we followed the profile and Rossi was right. Hotch set up a press conference in which JJ and Prentiss took center stage. They tore Childress’s ego to shreds on live television.

His narcissism wouldn’t allow that to slide. He got angry, he made a mistake, and we got him before anyone else got hurt.

While the cat was out of the bag about my intelligence and that made me nervous, I couldn't regret any of it. I got to be the one to tell our last victim that we got him. I got to hug her while she cried because now that he was locked up, she felt like her healing could begin. I wasn’t sure if my rant about structural racism and the classism of IQ tests actually helped anything, but that didn’t really matter. There was one less monster in the shadows.

Today was a good day.

I was alone in the conference room, untacking photos from the evidence board when I heard someone clear their throat from behind me. I turned my head to meet the wide, honey brown eyes of Dr. Spencer Reid.

Oh boy, I thought. “What’s up, Reid?”

He shifted from foot to foot, his hands twisting in front of him before he crossed his arms over his chest. “I asked Garcia to look into you.”

My eyebrows drew together. “I’m pretty sure any nefarious things I had done would have popped up on my initial background check.”

“Right, I didn’t mean like that,” he mumbled, the apples of his cheeks turning pink. “I asked her to look into you academically.”

Shit.

He went on. “You double majored in psychology and sociology before you got a master’s in cultural psychology. She pulled your thesis. I just read it.”

“I see.” I turned my attention back to the board.

“You also guest lecture on cross-cultural psychology at Georgetown several times a year. And you’ve co-authored two papers since I’ve known you.”

Meh, it’s three. But that doesn’t matter. “Did you read those too?”

I took his silence as confirmation.

He was so quiet I almost thought he had left, but the crackle of energy I felt in the air told me he hadn’t. “Do you need something, Dr. Reid?”

"Why didn't you get your Ph.D.?"

I had answered that question many, many times. “I didn’t need a doctorate to do what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to waste time. Once I figured out what I wanted, I charged at it.” Which was a far more honest answer than most people got about that from me.

“W-why did you pretend to be dumb?” he rasped out, causing me to look back at him. “32 days ago, you let me explain the long-term effects of gerrymandering and the complex causes of poverty.”

“Of course, I did,” I said, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“One of the papers you authored was about generational poverty.”

“Just because I know a lot about something doesn’t mean I can stop listening to information. That sort of thinking breeds ignorance.” I smiled, unable to not tease him just a little bit.

Reid took a step closer to me. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I just shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t have a good answer.”

In all the months I had known him, Spencer Reid had never touched me, not even so much as a finger brushing against mine when he handed me something. That fact is why I was so startled when I felt his hand on my upper arm, turning me towards him.

He licked his lips, his eyes darting around. “Did everyone else know?”

I shook my head, my teasing mood long gone. "No. I mean, clearly, Rossi suspected but…No, I didn't tell anyone else."

“I just don’t understand. You’re brilliant.”

I scoffed. “No, I’m not. I’m decent a psychology, sociology, stuff like that. I can’t apply math to behavior to find patterns. I can’t even calculate how much something is gonna cost when it’s on sale without a calculator half the time.”

‘What do you…” Reid trailed off. “Wait. The very first case. You were looking at the evidence board.”

Goddamn eidetic memory.

The boy wonder was on a roll now. “I told you that you’d have to…is that why you didn’t tell me?”

What else could I do? I just nodded.

Those brown eyes closed, and he let out a groan. “I said that because I thought you were going to…I was worried…” He huffed out a breath and opened his eyes. “I wanted you to like me. I didn’t want you to think I was just a nerd.”

Now I was confused. “Why?”

Spencer Reid’s blush went all the way down his neck. “Well…I just…Morgan said I should just talk to you. But I’m not…I’m not good at that. I panic, then I start to ramble. Like I’m doing now…”

“Reid,” I interrupted. “I’m not playing dumb now. I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I like you,” he blurted out right before he smacked both of his hands over his face. “Oh my god. I sound like a child.” I thought I heard him mutter idiot under his breath. “Emily says that my IQ gets slashed to 60 whenever I see a pretty girl.”

Much like that moment all those years ago when I was a child, I felt everything click into place. Oh.

I couldn't suppress my smile any longer. I rose up on my tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Well, we've already gone over how IQ tests aren't a good measure of overall intelligence."

With that, I quickly stepped away and hurried out of the conference room, leaving a stunned genius in my wake. When I turned back to look at him, I saw his fingers brushing over the place where my lips had just been.

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nugnthopkns · 3 years

Text

it all pours out after dark

word count: 5.8k

warnings: insinuated!fem reader, cursing, mentions of alcohol (but no consumption), expressions of self doubt

recommended listening: the knife | maggie rogers

series masterpost: here

a/n: first installment of hiiapl!! very excited about what’s to come. here is some bffs/roommates to lovers with petey :))

Elias’s friendship was a welcome surprise.

You hadn’t expected much when you met the Swede – after all, you were serving at the annual Canucks charity gala and he was the rookie poised to win the Calder trophy. There were a million other things you would have rather done than spend a Saturday evening walking around in sky high stilettos and passing out flutes of champagne, but the catering company paid generously, and you needed to come up with the funds for your next tuition installment. Vancouver may be beautiful, but it’s incredibly expensive.

So you spent the night with a kilowatt smile plastered on your face, staying silent in the background and making sure no one’s glasses were ever empty. You were barely legal to handle alcohol, freshly nineteen and waiting for an opportunity to experience the city’s nightlife for yourself. There was no way you should be regulating the alcohol consumption of adults but you were doing it anyways. The tips were very generous, more than you should have probably been receiving, but you accepted them with a smile because the athletes making millions could certainly afford it.

No one paid you any attention, but you didn’t mind. The night was beginning to wear on you and the event didn’t plan on stopping for another couple of hours. You debated on what to do with your tray while you tried to work out the knots that were forming in feet from standing for so long.

“Let me hold that for you,” a gentle voice sounded from behind you.

When you turned around you were face to face with Elias Pettersson. “That won’t be necessary,” you stated, tone kind but firm. If your supervisor caught you, you would have been fired immediately.

He didn’t take no for an answer. “Please,” he urged, thick accent ringing out in the space between you. “Your feet are going to cramp. Take your shoes off for two minutes.” The English was broken, but you appreciated the sentiment. He really wanted to help.

After a little more insisting from the blonde you agreed, and he diligently stood watch to ensure you wouldn’t get in trouble. It was a relief to be out of the torturous constraint of your shoes for a few moments, and you thanked him profusely.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, a small smile on his face. Shouting erupted from some other players then, looking for him.

“You better get back before they miss you too much.” You nodded in the direction of the voices, to which he begrudgingly agreed. Elias handed you back the tray of champagne flutes before taking one for himself.

He was about to fade into the crowd when he turned to face you again. “I never caught your name,” he stated.

“It’s Y/N.”

“Elias.”

With that he disappeared into the throng of people. You never expected to hear from him again, chalking it up to a kind interaction with a stranger, but a day later he had messaged you on Instagram after searching through the countless profiles that shared your name and were located in the general Vancouver area. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you, and you became fast friends.

☼☼☼☼

That first meeting was nearly four years ago, and countless memories had been made since then. You treasure your friendship with Elias, and truthfully it’s the one you hold closest to your heart. This could be because over the years you’ve developed a small crush on the lanky blonde, but it’s a secret you’ll take to the grave. No one knows of your true feelings for Elias, and no one ever will.

“E? I’m home,” you shout into the quiet apartment, wondering if he’s home from morning skate yet.

After you completed your undergraduate degree and your lease ended, Elias insisted you move into his spare bedroom. The offer was too tempting to resist – you got to live with your best friend and continue your education in a city you adore. Moving your stuff had been a bit of a pain, but your life fit seamlessly into Elias’s. The two of you worked well as roommates, and over the past few months the space began to reflect not just Elias, but you as well. Hair ties were randomly thrown on counters and the bookshelves began to fill.

You’re setting the few groceries you picked up from the local market on the counter when he comes down the hall.

“Hi sunshine,” Elias says softly, voice riddled with sleep. He must have returned home earlier than you thought and had a quick nap.

You smile at the nickname. Elias had gifted it to you early in your friendship when you were in a terrible mood. He had meant it sarcastically at first, but it stuck. Now he hardly calls you by your name.

“How was practice?”

“Really tough,” he admits, moving behind you to place the apples in the fridge. “Coach is being hard on us because we aren’t performing well.”

You frown but hold your tongue. Your degree in sports psychology tells you that isn’t the way to improve players’ morale, but Elias doesn’t like it when you lecture him on what the Canucks staff are doing wrong. He knows things aren’t perfect within the organization and hopes desperately the situation will improve when they start winning again.

The two of you put the rest of the food away in comfortable silence and then unwind by watching numerous episodes of House. You had recently decided to give the medical drama a rewatch, and Elias’s interest was piqued by the snarky physician who always saves the day. It’s become your favourite way to relax and it seems that both of you need it today.

“How does Wilson do it?”

You’re perplexed. “Do what?”

“Put up with House,” Elias sighs. “He’s an asshole.”

Laughter tumbles from your lips. “The same way I deal with you, grumpy.”

“No,” he scoffs, tossing a pillow in your general direction. “You’re House and I’m Wilson, sunshine. Being an asshole is how you got that nickname in the first place.”

You couldn’t argue with Elias’s point – he was right. Between the two of you, you’re the one most likely to be snarky with your anger and he’s more likely to shut himself off from the rest of the world. “Fuck off,” you giggle.

When Elias crawls on top of you and drops his weight you don’t flinch. You’ve become accustomed to his casual yet spontaneous displays of physical touch, and by now the two of you can frequently be found with your limbs tangled together.

The rest of your afternoon passes in the blink of an eye. You fall asleep a few episodes in, and you assume Elias did as well because when you wake up his body is still pressed against yours. Once your eyes adjust to being awake, you notice it’s well into the evening. Your stomach rumbles and you decide you have to get up.

“E,” you say softly, not wanting to completely disrupt his rest. The season is off to a rougher start than everyone hoped for, and he hasn’t been sleeping well.

There’s no response from the boy on top of you so you try again, voice a decibel or two louder. “Elias, please let me up. I’ve gotta start dinner.”

“Mhmm,” Elias murmurs, not opening his eyes. “Or you could just stay here. You’re so warm.”

You roll your eyes. “Dude, we’ve got to eat. Come on.”

He doesn’t move. In fact, he presses more weight on you, effectively trapping you on the couch. “We can just order food in a bit,” Elias suggests. “Please just stay and nap a bit longer.”

That’s all it takes to convince you, and you let your eyes flutter shut again. In the comfort of your best friend sleep comes easy, and neither of you move far from the couch for the rest of the night.

The next few days are incredibly busy, and you don’t see Elias much. School is heating up and you’re struggling to stay afloat. In an effort to get the team to put up a few wins, the Canucks organization is holding extra practices and development workshops in between games, so Elias is barely home. When he is he’s exhausted and spends most of his free time in his room, chatting with friends at home or playing video games.

You do your best to not let the distance bother you, but not being able to have a conversation that lasts more than fifteen minutes before one of you is running out the door is wearing you down. You miss your best friend.

Elias is set to go out with some of the younger guys on the team this evening, and though he invited you, you’re in a graduate student society meeting until well after they’re supposed to be leaving. He deserves the time to unwind, but a part of you is jealous he actually gets it. Both of you have been running around like chickens with your heads cut off and it seems like Elias can finally slow down. You on the other hand cannot.

Approximately twelve million things go wrong throughout the course of the day. First, you left your lunch and wallet at home, leaving you unable to eat. Then your advisor was late to your meeting and insisted it was your fault. To top everything off, the graduate student society dismissed your proposal for more funding into public outreach programs. You really, really wanted to be at home.

The door to the apartment is unlocked upon your arrival home, which you find strange. Elias isn’t one to forget to lock it on his way out the door. Brock was terrible about remembering that sort of thing, so you assume he was the last one out. You open it with a sigh and kick off your sneakers. It has been a long day, and you’re looking forward to opening the bottle of wine you picked up with groceries last week.

It doesn’t dawn on you that Elias’s shoes are still by the door or that the living room light is on. You’re so preoccupied with getting comfortable you don’t realize you aren’t alone until you hear a voice from down the hall.

“Rough day sunshine?”

Elias is standing at the end of the hallway, staring at you intently. It’s as if he can sense the tension rolling off your shoulders.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I thought you were going out with the guys?”

He just shrugs. “Didn’t really feel like it. Besides, I knew you were having an off day because you didn’t text me on your lunch break so I wanted to be here for you.”

You nearly tear up from his words. Elias is a lot of things, and kindhearted is certainly one of them. “Go have a shower,” he insists, “And I’ll start dinner.”

“Thanks E.”

A hand comes up to ruffle your hair on his way by. “Don’t mention it.”

The two of you spend the night tucked against each other, eating pasta and telling stories. You never make it to the fridge to get that bottle of wine, but you don’t mind because during your shower Elias made hot chocolate for you both. Conversation flows into the early morning, and by the time you head to bed you can’t remember why you were upset in the first place.

☼☼☼☼

The season drags on. The Canucks still aren’t playing well, and it’s beginning to wear on Elias. He’s spending more time in his room, reviewing tape and tweaking his workout regime to achieve maximum results. You worry he’s beginning to isolate himself and that it won’t be good for his mental health.

“Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?” you ask him at dinner. The team has a rare day off, and the coaching staff want them to decompress before leaving on a long road trip.

Elias shrugs, not looking up at you as he continues to cut his vegetables. “Not really sunshine. I have some clips I need to watch.”

You sigh loud enough to make him feel bad, and his eyes meet yours. “E, you need a break. Let’s go to that trail you like and just relax for a while. I’ll pack a lunch and we can just go slow.”

Whether or not he’s just appeasing you or genuinely wants to go you aren’t sure, but Elias agrees. He places a hand on your shoulder in silent thanks before loading his plate into the dishwasher and retreating to his bedroom. You take it as a victory, however small, and are glad he didn’t completely shut down the idea. The rest of the night is quiet, with you finishing a book and falling asleep on the couch.

Neither of you are quick to rise in the morning but it doesn’t matter. There’s no timeline for your upcoming adventure so long as you’re back before dark. You make it to the kitchen before Elias and take it upon yourself to make breakfast for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy, just oatmeal, but your best friend appreciates it when he finally makes an appearance. Elias looks like he slept for a maximum of three hours, and you have half a mind to tell him you’ll take a rain cheque, but you know he needs a change of pace.

The two of you chat idly throughout the meal but it isn’t tense or awkward. Neither of you are completely awake, and both like time to reflect in the morning. It’s nearly an hour later when you meet Elias at the door. You grab your keys, much to his surprise.

“What?” you shrug.

Elias cocks a brow in your direction. “You hate driving on the highway.”

He’s right – you have no issues navigating the traffic riddled streets of Vancouver, but as soon as you get out of the city and onto the freeway you freeze up.

“Gotta get over my fear at some point. Come on superstar.”

There’s no complaint from Elias, and you suspect he’s secretly relieved. Driving isn’t his strong suit either but you know he does it so you don’t have to. The ride is quiet, and once you hit the city limits the car feels lighter, as though Elias left all his stress behind. Some lo-fi playlist trickles through the speakers as you get closer to your destination. It isn’t your kind of music, or Elias’s for that matter, and you’re pretty sure Brock gave him the link. The parking lot is empty when you arrive, and you back into a spot with ease.

Usually Elias would comment on your driving quirk, teasing you because ‘no one under the age of sixty-five backs into a parking space’, but he’s quiet. You wonder if he even noticed. Nerves about the possibility of a far-away look in Elias’s eyes subside when he scrambles to get out of the car.

“First one to the top wins,” he shouts, metres ahead of you as you double check to make sure the car is locked. You let out a full laugh but don’t try to catch up – he’s going to win anyway so you might as well enjoy yourself.

The hike does wonder for Elias. Just being outside, in the fresh air that doesn’t hold any expectation of who he should be, is enough to lighten his mood considerably. You trail behind him the entire time, allowing yourself to marvel at his beauty from afar. The longer you live with Elias, the harder it’s becoming to mask your feelings. A couple of times he pauses to wait for you to catch up, and once at the top of the small summit he lifts you into the air in triumph.

“Alright E, put me down,” you giggle, squirming out of his grip. He obliges and places you back onto the rocky surface as though his previous act was the easiest thing in the world.

The two of you marvel at the view from the top of the mountain for a bit longer before making the trek back down to the car. Halfway down the trail you fall behind significantly, exhausted from not only hiking up a mountain, but worrying about Elias and stressing over some school deadlines that are rapidly approaching. Elias slows his steps so you can catch up, and insists you jump up to piggy-back the rest of the way. You try to protest but he isn’t having it. Eventually you give in and doze off with your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

You let Elias drive home, too worn out to think about the traffic you’ll inevitably hit. When you get home you allow him to tuck you into bed, and don’t tease him when presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

The road trip both flies by and drags on. At home, you're busy with school, work, and taking care of Brock’s dogs. Coolie and Milo have become a welcome responsibility, and truthfully you love having them around. They make the absence of Elias less apparent. Each night you curl up on the couch, a dog on either side, and watch the game intently. The Canucks seem to be on the up, winning the first three games with ease. It’s like something has clicked between them and on-ice communication is no longer a problem. However, that changes quickly, and they lose the entire back half of the trip.

You do your best to comfort Elias from afar – sending him periodic text messages of encouragement, random memes you find on instagram, and calling after every game. The streak of misfortune is getting to him, and it’s beginning to affect his play. He adds only one point the entire trip, an assist that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things since they were blown out of the water. When you talk to him it’s easy to hear how upset he is, and you imagine he’s hearing a lot worse than what you’re telling him from the coaching staff. It makes your blood boil – how they’re treating him – but you’re helpless. Nothing you can say will undo the potential damage.

The Canucks get back late, and you’re tucked into bed with the dogs, nearly asleep. You’ll return Brock’ pets in the morning. If you hadn’t had a disastrous meeting with your advisor you would’ve met them at the airport, seeing as it’s Friday and you often don’t go to bed until well into the morning, but your body is thoroughly exhausted.

You don’t hear the door open and are only alerted to a new presence because the dogs perk their ears. Footsteps echo through the silent apartment, and you think you can hear Elias grumbling in Swedish. He makes no attempt to find you so you assume he thinks you’re sleeping. You should be. Up until three minutes ago you were on the verge of sleep, but now you wait with baited breath to see if you can hear any indicators to Elias’s mood.

A door closes and seconds later the shower turns on, so you assume he’s feeling alright. Most certainly not great, but well enough to maintain his normal routine. You don’t try to move, knowing you’ll talk to him in the morning, and finally allow yourself to commit to sleep. There’s a few minutes of bliss where you’re almost unconscious, but your slumber is disrupted by a quiet knock at your door.

“Sunshine?”

Elias’s voice sounds like a different type of exhaustion that you’ve never heard, and you know right then that you won’t deny him entry to your room.

“I’m awake E,” you mumble, praying he can hear you because you spoke so softly. The door creaks open and you can just make out his facial features in the dark.

Standing tentatively in the doorway, Elias looks at you with tear-rimmed eyes. “Y/N, I think I’m going to get benched.”

☼☼☼☼

His suspicions were, unfortunately, right. The decision to bench Elias had apparently been made on the plane ride home, but he wasn’t informed until the team meeting after practice the next morning. You knew something bad had happened because when he came home there was no conversation. He slipped through the door like a ghost and disappeared into his room. You knew better than to go after him right away – Elias is the type of person who needs to process his emotions alone before sharing them with others.

You busy yourself with editing the chunk of your thesis proposal that has occupied your brain for the past few weeks. It’s getting closer to the end of your first year of graduate school, and you need to get approval for your topic soon. You hope to research the effects of locker room speech on athletes’ mental health. The focus group will be the Vancouver Whitecaps, and you’re excited to work with them. Your advisor has some personal connections and pulled a few strings to get you the gig and you’re extremely thankful.

An hour or two passes before Elias pads his way into the main living area. Wordlessly he flops onto the couch and holds his arms up in the air. You can read Elias like a book – you know he wants you to stop working and lie on top of him. The action brings him comfort, which he desperately needs in this moment, so you don’t have an issue with it. On your way over you grab a banana from the fruit bowl and offer it to him. He takes it, but sets it gently on the coffee table.

Once you’re settled, Elias wraps his arms around your body, holding you to him like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers otherwise. You absentmindedly trace patterns on his forearms for a while, letting the silence soothe him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s a shot in the dark, you know, but you try anyway. Elias doesn’t answer, instead asking you what you did while he was gone. You indulge him, knowing it’s the only way to take his mind off the heartache, and narrate the menial chores you did in painstaking detail. It seems to help, and eventually Elias brings his own anecdotes into the conversation, telling you something dumb Brock had whispered in his ear at practice.

Eventually Elias has to get ready to go to the rink. Though he isn’t playing he’s expected to be there, dressed sharply and watching from the press box. You help him as best you can – ironing his favourite tie and filling his lucky mug with just the right amount of coffee.

He gives you a short hug in thanks before bending down to tie his dress shoes.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” you ask. “I can easily get a press pass and we could sit together.”

Elias shakes his head. “You have work to get done. I’ll be fine sunshine,” he says, doing his best to convince himself along with you that everything will be alright.

You watch him open the door and gingerly blow him a kiss as he turns to wave goodbye. It’s a silly ritual the two of you started a few years ago, before you’d moved in with Elias. He insisted you spend time with him before each home game, which meant you wound up cooking dinner and making sure he drank enough water. To annoy him you started blowing him kisses as he left, and the tradition continued once his place became yours. Elias catches it with his left hand and blows one back.

Not much work gets done while Elias is gone. You’re too worried about him to focus on your proposal and end up with your eyes glued to the television as you watch the game. The Canucks desperately need a win, something you hope they can get so your best friend can be put back into the lineup. Your eyes zero on Elias every time the camera pans to him sitting in the rafters, and your heart breaks each time you see the defeated look in his eyes. It seems to have worsened since he left home.

The game does not go well for the Canucks. It’s as if the team isn’t communicating with one another on the ice, and a lot of passes don’t connect. Shots aren’t on goal either – you know Elias is fuming from within the press box. He feels responsible for the team’s deterioration even though he isn’t playing. You watch the rest of the game with furrowed brows and think of ways you could support Elias.

After sharing a space with him for almost an entire trip around the sun, you know Elias doesn’t like ‘grand’ gestures. He’ll hate if you draw him a bath, and besides, that’s not something roommates or best friends do for each other. That’s strictly reserved for romantic partners – something you’re sure you will never be to Elias. Ordering food is out of the question because he refuses to eat after nine-thirty, and sure it’ll be past ten before he walks through the door. You settle on warming up his favourite blanket in the dryer and making the both of you a cup of tea. If he wants to take them into his room to spend time alone and decompress that will be okay with you.

Your phone chimes from its resting place on the kitchen counter. Wondering if it’s a friend wanting an explanation to Elias’s absence from the game, you grumble on your way to the device. The notification is from Elias himself, and you open it with baited breath. You know he’s devastated and pray he’s only letting you know he’s on his way home, not sharing bad news.

Heading out now. Probably going to get stuck in traffic, got any sad song recommendations?

The message makes your heart break, but you respond with a playlist link that features your favourite songs to cry to. A short message is tacked on to the end to let him know you’re always ready to support him.

Hopefully this fits the mood. I’m here for you.

Elias’s response fills you with a small bit of hope.

I know.

You set your plan into motion, and finish pouring the boiling tea into your favourite mugs as the door opens.

“Hey,” you say tentatively, not sure what Elias’s mood will be like now that he doesn’t have to have his guard up. “I made you a cup of tea and there’s a blanket in the dryer that should still be pretty warm.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t make his words any less sincere. You can tell Elias is drained in every sense of the word by looking at him, and you decide you aren’t going to push him to talk tonight. The communication can come a bit later.

The blonde trudges down the hallway to the small room where you keep the laundry and reappears moments later wrapped in the plush navy blanket you had prepared for him. Elias doesn’t even bother to change, too exhausted to get out of his suit. You blow some of the steam away from his mug before picking it up and padding over to where he’s sitting on the couch. Elias takes the mug gratefully, and tries to smile at you in thanks. It comes out more like a grimace.

It’s silent as the two of you sit side by side, staring out the large window at Vancouver’s skyline. The absence of noise isn’t as unsettling as you feared but it still puts you on edge. You can tell Elias’s emotions are beginning to boil over, and you aren’t sure what to do about it.

“It’s my fault,” he says, voice small and fragile.

When you turn your head to see him, you’re met with two ice blue eyes brimming with tears. Your heart breaks for what feels like the hundredth time that night. “Elias, listen to me,” you urge, grasping his hands in yours. “The game wasn’t your fault. You not being on the ice did not cause the team to lose.”

Elias scoffs and rolls his eyes. For a split-second, hurt seeps into your bones, but you dispel it because you know he’s upset and didn’t mean to be so abrasive.

“Not the game!” he shouts, anger clearly winning the mental battle of what emotion to present. “The entire fucking season. We’ve played like shit all year and it’s my fucking fault.”

“Elias,” you say as calmly as possible, knowing it’s important for one of you to be rational. “You’ve consistently put up points all season, and you’re only going through a short dry spell. You pick up the slack where needed and try your hardest to succeed. You’re a damn good teammate and the best hockey player I know. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.”

It’s then he breaks, collapsing into your wide open arms and sobbing. You hold him close to your chest, afraid that if you let him go he’ll disappear in front of your eyes. The sounds of his ragged breathing and your gentle encouragement bounce off the walls until all you can focus on is his heart rate returning to something in the ballpark of normal. Elias cries for an unknown amount of time and you don’t even bother to calculate it. He needed to let everything go – hopefully he can now turn the page on the past couple of months.

When he seems like he’ll respond again, you speak. “I know they put a lot of pressure on you, and I know that you’re a professional athlete, but what they’re doing to you isn’t right. E, you don’t deserve to feel like this, regardless of how you’re playing or where the team is in the standings.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Elias hiccups. “Everything has become a lot lately, and it keeps piling up. It’s affecting my play, and I just want the team to be successful. I want to be successful.”

You wrap your arms around him tighter and card your hands through his hair. “You are successful, and don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m always available to talk, but if you’d like I can book you an appointment at the clinic and you can talk to someone who’s actually qualified.”

“You’re so close to being fully qualified,” he encourages, always wanting to make sure you matter too. “But that would be really nice. Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

That phrase had first confused Elias when you first directed it towards him, but he now understands it’s your way of saying ‘Of course. I’d do anything for you’. You rarely use the phrase with anyone else, and it makes him feel special inside.

Eventually you untangle your limbs from Elias’s, getting up to refill your mugs and insisting he change into clothing that’s more comfortable. He’s gone a lot longer from the couch than you are, and you begin to worry he won’t be reappearing. The creaking of a hinge wrangles you free from your thoughts. Elias pads back into the living room, dressed in a pair of ridiculously patterned pyjamas you had bought him two Christmases ago.

“Hey,” he practically whispers. “Can I tell you something?”

You do your best to keep the alarm you feel from appearing on your face. After the conversation you just had, his mind could be going in a million different directions. “Always,” you reply, volume matching his.

“If it weren’t for you, I don’t know if I’d still be playing hockey.” You make a sound of protest, but Elias doesn’t let you form it into a thought. “I’m dead serious. The night we met? I was a wreck. Sure, I was in the middle of a rookie season most players dream of, but I was so miserable. I cried every night on the way home from the rink and felt completely alone. You were the first person in Vancouver that didn’t expect anything of me, that still doesn’t. I’m so fucking thankful for you. I love you.”

Tears flow freely from your eyes and you raise the sleeve of your sweater to wipe them away. Elias isn’t one for heartfelt confessions – that’s much more your style. He shows his appreciation through random acts of kindness, so you deeply treasure his words.

“I love you too E.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “I really love you. I don’t mean it platonically, and I never have.”

You’re sufficiently shocked. “Don’t say something you don’t mean,” you mumble, pushing off the couch to go hide in your room.

It’s Elias’s turn to grab your hand. His grip is gentle but still firm enough to let you know he isn’t going to drop the conversation.

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

“Because,” you sigh, “You’re Elias fucking Pettersson. You’re the star centre of an NHL team and there’s a million other people better suited for you than me! Sure, I might be head over heels for you but we aren’t on the same level. I’m your best friend E, and that’s okay. I can live with that. What I can’t live with is you letting emotion get the better of you and confessing something that isn’t true. You’re grateful for my support, and I think we should just leave it at that.”

He shakes his head fervently. “This isn’t a spur of the moment decision Y/N,” Elias says. “I’ve been debating telling you for months, but the season kind of derailed my plans and got in the way. I love you.”

Before you can process the gravity of his words, Elias is pressing his lips to yours in an effort to show just how sincere he is. You falter for a split-second, shocked that this isn’t a dream – your best friend, who you’ve had a crush on for years, is in love with you and you’re in the process of kissing him – but you recover quickly. Kissing Elias feels like a long awaited homecoming. It’s as though you’ve found true peace, and nothing will ever be as good as your lips connecting. You lose yourself in him quite easily, and only focus to your surroundings when he pulls away to look in your eyes.

“So,” Elias sheepishly tucks a misplaced strand of hair behind your ear. “Think I could take you out, like on an actual date?”

You beam at him, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to his lips. “That can most certainly be arranged.”

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @jamiedrysdales @kiedhara @tortito @boqvistsbabe @iwantahockeyhimbo if you want to be added just shoot me an ask :)

#god i want to be petey's roommate turned lover so bad #elias pettersson imagine #elias pettersson x reader #elias pettersson fic #vancouver canucks imagine #hockey imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #cwrites #hiiapl

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mammons-tax-returns · 3 years

Note

Hey! I saw that your ask box was open, so I was wondering if I could request how the brothers (if not all then just Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Leviathan) would react to the mc defending them! Like they get into a fight and their only response was "they were talking bad about you" or something! -🥀 (Also side note, do you right for GN! MC's, or just male?)

BROTHERS REACTING TO MC DEFENDING THEM

Hey anon! Thanks so much for requesting! As for your question, This is TECHNICALLY a male reader blog, however, if it isn’t necessary, I will use he/him pronouns loosely. In other words, if the prompt doesn’t specify/depend on it being a male mc, it will be gn!mc! Hope this clears up some confusion! I’ll start putting whether a post is for a gn or male mc at the very beginning of said post from now on.

✖️GENDER NEUTRAL MC✖️

fluff, some angst :).

Lucifer was more angry than anything to hear that MC had gotten in a fight. The one thing he made sure they did was to stay out of trouble. And yet, they seem to be a magnet for chaos.

He stumbled upon the fight before it got bad, and had the demon dealt with as he accompanied MC to an empty room at RAD.

Although he seemed to be sweating out of exasperation, it was easy to tell that he was simply worried about them.

Well. Kind of.

If you look past the hour-long lecture it is.

MC tries countless times to explain themself, and yet he never fails to reroute the conversation back to his lesson on running from a demon before things get bad.

It gets to a point when MC has to put a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

Only then do they explain what happened, and what caused the fight to begin with.

First, he is absolutely shocked. And he can’t really find the right thing to say.

Then, his eyes relax, and his frown seems to melt away. He truly wants to be mad still, to teach a proper lesson. But he just can’t do it.

“It is true that humans tend not to think things through, I suppose.”

He crosses his arms and continues, “Well, I appreciate it, but I don’t need the protection.”

After ruffling their hair, he smirks a little.

“I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you if you rush into situations like that. Maybe put you on a leash.”

After things are cleared up, he finds the situation a little comical. A human defending a demon.

Luckily, the wounds aren’t bad, or else Lucifer wouldn’t have hesitated giving some sort of consequence to the MC.

Mammon is, unfortunately, not around to witness or intervene into the fight.

So when the next time he sees MC there’s a dark magenta ring around their eye, he loses it.

He wastes no time taking them home from RAD. We know he never really cared for classes anyways.

Unlike Lucifer, he wants to hear them out on the way home.

Although he physically feels himself getting butterflies in his stomach from the idea of being cared for, he clears his throat and tries to push it aside.

He knows that they’re not going to be taken away from him anytime soon. At least, not with his unintentionally vice grip on their wrist they aren’t.

And yet he can’t help but constantly flick his gaze back to them and their wounds.

We were all waiting for this one: he feels horrible that they got hurt because of him, albeit indirectly.

He puts emphasis on steering clear of hotheaded demons— or, all demons that aren’t the brothers for that matter.

“I hear ya, The Great Mammon is a gem that all of devildom should be tryna’ protect! But... You’re better off ignoring that... I mean, look at ya! All beat up and stuff... N-Not that you look bad or anything. Well... Um.”

When MC laughs at him, he’s both relieved that they’re not upset enough to sulk, and embarrassed because of his wording.

So they have to reassure him that they simply find him worth protecting— for exactly this. He cares for them, and is probably willing to protect them too.

As he’s sloppily tending to their bruises, he offers to spend the day with them.

He says its his payment, and that he would defend them when Lucifer found out about today.

But it’s more so the fact that he wishes more than anything to spend every day for the rest of his demonic life with them.

Levi is another brother who is unfortunately not around at the time due to his home schooling.

That’s why he’s one of the last people to find out about it, and he feels guilt hit him like an 18-wheeler.

The injuries are a little more severe, but nothing that would keep someone from going about their daily life. Nonetheless, Levi is demanding to be the one to patch them up.

As soon as MC cuts him off before he can start rambling, they make sure to explain the situation, i.e. “I had to defend you! Or else they would have kept talking bad about you.”

He turns red and covers his mouth, undoubtedly mumbling something about how impossibly romantic the situation was.

But after that, he shakily asks that MC tries not to talk as he takes time to let everything sink in. He still can’t believe it.

So he finds himself shakily asking questions like, “So... You just heard him and decided to-... To defend me? No one asked you to?”

For every reassuring nod that he gets, he feels his head spin a little faster.

It takes him a while, but all the wounds are properly sterilized and taken care off beneath his cold fingers.

He leans back in his seat, and blows out a slow puff of air. “MC... You’re badass. Seriously. I don’t really know what I, a demon, have done to deserve you... But... Thank you.”

The conversation ends with tears, but they couldn’t have been anything but happy.

He just can’t believe someone could go as far as to fight for his sake over a simple ill-intended comment.

Satan witnesses the event. Which... May or may not be a good thing.

MC doesn’t notice him at first. They’re too busy with the demon that has her hands on their uniform collar.

But then they see the green flames licking at their peripherals, emitting from somewhere behind them.

The demon girl in front of them seems to lose all color in her face at the sight of those same flames. She instantly drops MC to their knees, and attempts to run.

As Satan steps forward to grab the female student, he spins MC around with ease so that they won’t have to witness whatever he’s about to do.

MC doesn’t know how much time has passed due to the shock of the moment. It could be seconds or minutes. But when Satan pulls them back up to their feet, he is stone faced.

MC walks stiffly to the House of Lamentation with Satan, careful not to set anything else off in him.

The entire walk to his room is silent. The first time he speaks is when he offers a seat on his bed, nudging books aside with his foot.

He takes a deep breath before he begins diligently tending to the injuries.

“Mind explaining what happened?” He doesn’t sound angry at them, but it’s hard to tell with him.

Satan notices the hesitation in answering, so he gives a small smile. “Are you scared? You shouldn’t be. I’m just a bit... Tense, is all.”

After a moment, MC tells him the reasoning for the fight.

Satan sighs once more and places a hand on theirs. Oh to be so selfless yet still be a fragile human.

“MC... Demons talk. And it’s not always nice. It’s best to just let it go, okay? Well... Give me their name first, but I can’t have you losing a limb for me. Who knows what i’d do then.”

MC can’t completely promise that they’ll simply forget about anyone that talks badly about him, but Satan only gives a helpless sigh.

“What ever will we do with you.” He is much more relaxed than before, and his tone is affectionate.

MC doesn’t know what happened to that girl, and you figure it’s best to never ask.

Asmodeus is preoccupied with a hand mirror, but a circle of gathering demons certainly catches his attention.

He hums, interested. He’s always been one for drama.

But as he peeks over the crowd, his heart sinks impossibly deep in his body.

MC isn’t bloody, but by the looks of it, they may be very soon.

While he’s ridden with shock, a punch lands on their face, and the crowd roars. The yells overtake his own, and he can’t get through the group of people pushing and shoving.

Diavolo and Barbatos were alerted of the congregation of students, and are only just now arriving. And at the sight of them, students scatter like bugs. Leaving MC on the ground and clutching their face in pain.

Diavolo and Barbatos leave MC in the care of Asmodeus while they turn to resolve the problem with the attacker.

Asmodeus is frantic, fanning his face as he helps MC to sit up. He doesn’t know what to do first, does he ask to see the wound? But what’s the point when he doesn’t really know how to treat it in any circumstance? No one has ever socked him in the face before.

So he opts to carry them off to the infirmary, bridal style. All along the way, he gives reassuring words that seem to slightly calm the injuried MC.

“Hey, beautiful! Ughh, the nerve of some demons! I can’t even begin to— Oh right... The ice pack, I’ll get that now, so sit tight, love!”

While he allows them to press the ice to their eye themself, he is massaging his frowning face. All while he seems to be worried about all the wrong things.

“Is this type of injury permanent on humans?? Your face is too good for that!” “That low-level demon... I wish I could ruin his face a hundred times worse than what he’s doing to innocent bystanders!”

MC patiently allows him to vent, because hearing him fret of the most “Asmo” things somehow brought light to the situation and distracted from the throbbing in their face.

An hour must have passed before Asmo actually takes in the situation. “Oh, but I haven’t even asked... What in devildom were you doing with such a grotesque demon? Do I have to replace Mammon in guarding you?”

Finally, MC explains.

He’s less than shocked. Instead, he holds his own arms with an almost sympathetic smile, “Oh, darling... It’s better to talk to Lucifer about things like that... If at all. As the Avatar of Lust, It’s kind of part of the program to get nasty birds twittering about you... Fan behavior.”

MC seems less than convinced, replying with a small, “But...”

Asmo grins and puts a gentle hand on their shoulder. “It’s adorable that you’d do that for me, MC, really. I wish I could just dress you up and show you to the world, show them how special you make me feel! But please. Don’t sacrifice your complexion for a-ny-thing!”

Even Asmo can feel himself get butterflies when MC does the smallest of things for him. But taking care of that face is no joke to him.

Beel is at the gym when it happens, and is the last one to hear about it. The brothers are all discreetly trying to decide whether or not to tell him. We all know how scary he can get.

MC listens to Mammon... For some reason. And that entails avoiding Beel until the scrapes and bruises on your body heal.

Bad idea. Beel now looks like a hurt puppy, and is desperately trying to figure out what he has done.

The fateful moment of realization for him comes on a Tuesday night, less than a week after the incident. MC walks into the kitchen, searching for a late night beverage to drink and also hold against their wounds.

Beel is already there, instantly looking ashamed when he sees them.

“Beel...” MC starts, forgetting that they were supposed to be avoiding him. They stop themselves before hastily pulling their sleeves down to cover the lingering bruises.

This catches Beel’s attention to detail when it comes to others.

His eyebrows furrow a bit, and MC gulps. There was no getting out of this.

Before completely explaining everything, MC has to calm him. Because if not, he’d be checking every inch of their body for serious injuries. And even if there were none, he’d never let them leave bed for the next week. At least.

They take a deep breath and start with the people poking fun at his soft personality in such an intimidating body. And then finishing with the plan of steering clear of him to keep him from getting worried. (you leave out mammon’s part last second)

At first, his eyes are serious as he listens intently, silently going over things more than once in his head to ensure that he was understanding the story properly.

Once MC has finished, his eyes change completely. They’re soft, and concerned, but not overbearing.

MC felt a bit guilty seeing him like this.

Beel reaches out to hug them, but is hesitant, worried that they’d still be hurt. So MC has to let him know that their wounds have healed for the most part.

“MC.... Firstly, thank you.” He pulls them into a soft hug. “It makes me all happy on the inside when you do things like that.” His voice is quiet, but much too unstable. MC knew that this was a telltale sign that he was near tears.

MC doesn’t hesitate to reach up and stroke the back of his hair, feeling him bury his head into their shoulder.

“Beel? Are you okay?”

“I should be the one asking you that.”

‘you should know better’ is what he wants to say. But maybe they don’t, he thinks. Afterall, when was the last time a human with such limited magical capability was surrounded by demons 24/7?

“I just need you to promise me.” He carefully pulls back and sucks in a breath, keeping himself from imagining MC scared and hurt without him— because of him.

“Promise me that you’ll tell me about things like that first. Before you get yourself hurt, or... Or worse.” There’s another word that he has to stop himself from saying. He doesn’t know how he could handle that thought.

There, he thinks. If they didn’t know before how serious it was, now they did. Hopefully.

The brothers notice that Beel is a bit more normal than the days before, so they assume that things have been cleared up for the two.

Although they have to pretend as if they had never heard about the incident when he mentions it.

Belphie was definitely not there when it happened.

But unlike with every other brother, MC was unable to be saved immediately after having found themselves in a brawl with a low class demon.

MC silently curses as they find themselves limping through the halls of the House of Lamentation.

They’re lucky to have only gotten out of that with an injured ankle, they remind themself. It didn’t seem... Broken. But it definitely needed more medical attention than it received now— A knee-high sock they pulled off of their foot wrapped tightly around a ruler they used as a makeshift splint.

They were sure that the majority of the brothers were at school, so they’d have at least a few hours to figure out what to do.

How would the brothers react if they saw them like this? Would they feel that this was a mere inconvenience? Afterall, this may just be a bad sprain, and now look at them. They can barely limp. Much less walk. But maybe after a bit of rest, it would magically heal.

They decide to head to the music room (?), where they knew that none of the brothers would immediately run into after school.

After finding a stool to sit on, MC hisses when they bump their ankle on the floor. The throbbing seemed to shake their whole body.

“Holy shi—“

“MC?”

A sleepy drawl from the couch behind them causes them to freeze. They wanted to slap themself. Of course Belphie would be sleeping here, why didn’t they think of that?

“What’re you doing h—....” He stops.

MC can already tell that he had noticed the poor job they had done with their ankle. “I fell down the stairs. But it’s okay, I just—“

“MC. I’m not stupid. Why are you home so early, alone? If you skipped or left early, Mammon would have sniffed you out like a dog and be here, too. Spill it.”

If Belphie was good at anything (besides sleeping), it was reading emotions. There was no lying anymore. And so MC simply explained the fight and its causes.

When they turn to look at him, he simply blinks. He doesn’t seem very concerned, but he sleepily walks over to inspect their leg.

He’s careful to support their foot as he lifts their entire leg, checking the swelling.

“... Geez. You’re stupid.” His eyebrows knit together with an unknown emotion. Worry? Irritation? A mix of both? “I don’t care about what such irrelevant demons think, and you shouldn’t either.”

MC is a little speechless, but only laughs. “Yeah. It was a little dumb looking back at it. But you should have heard them, Belphie... There was no way I’d go without a fight, okay?”

Belphie smiles back. “If you wanted to prove yourself to me... There were other ways, you know?”

“Should we get Beel to help us set up the pillow fort?”

“Well, how else are you gonna heal? You can’t get better if you don’t rest with me.”

#obey me #obey me swd #obey me gender neutral mc #gn mc #fluff #fanfic #lucifer #mammon #levi #leviathan #satan #asmodeus #belphie #beel #belphegor #beelzebub

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floraliaison · 3 years

Text

[ melodrama ] ― track i | homemade dynamite

political au. ushijima wakatoshi x fem! reader.

3.1 k

masterlist. next.

If there’s any one word you would prefer people to describe you as, it would have to be unquestionably loyal.

After all, it’s just past seven, and you haven’t yet drunk enough whiskey as you would like to, but when Oikawa tells you about a new guy you must hate, you don’t even think twice before agreeing.

He shifts the drink in his hand, ice cubes clinking together while he side-eyes the group of men from across the veranda, no doubt burning holes into the back of his intended target’s head as he mutters, “And there he is.”

You whip your head to the right, not caring enough about subtlety because this is your house and you can and will look at whoever you damn please.

His directions don’t really help much, you soon realize, because there are a hundred and one of Eita’s friends huddled around the end of the buffet table where the drinks are located.

“There are a bunch of ‘he’s over there, Oiks. Which one?” you hiss under your breath, craning your neck to see if you can pick anyone out from the crowd.

There’s Leon, Kenjiro, Hayato, and a handful of other people you recognize but can’t recall the names of. All that matters is that they’re all annoying, and they’re all here.

You’d think Oikawa’s taste in men has improved in the six years you’ve been gone, but if he actually says it’s one of them then you’ve apparently thought wrong.

“The tall one, Y/N,” Oikawa says as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. His rings glint in the dim light as he discreetly points at one in the far back. “The one with the white jacket.”

Finally, you spot whoever it is he’s referring to, and the next thing out of your mouth is a crisp “What the fuck?”

Oikawa snorts in derision – why he would when he’s the laughingstock in this particular situation, you’ll never know, but that still doesn’t stop you from echoing the sound back.

“I leave my best friend alone for a few years, and when I come back you’re suddenly all broken-hearted about Ushijima Wakatoshi?” You say, equal parts incredulous and disappointed. Said best friend only shrugs in response, chugging the rest of his rum before slamming the empty glass down on the table.

“Save it, princess. Iwa’s already lectured me about the whole ‘you have terrible taste’ and ‘you should stop going after guys who you know are only going to break your heart’ thing,” he shoots back, his use of air quotes telling you that no, he didn’t – and probably still doesn’t – follow Iwaizumi’s advice. You roll your eyes, comeback already on the tip of your tongue, when —

“Hold on,” the boy next to you suddenly sits up straight, eyes wide open and staring at you. “How come you know him?”

“Well who doesn’t know him?”

Although you deliver it in a way that comes off as mildly sarcastic, all of his prominent social, athletic, and political embellishments have served to establish Ushijima Wakatoshi as a household name; both in Tokyo and throughout the rest of Japan.

But while that’s true, you for one can’t say that you know the man in the way that Oikawa is implying. Despite belonging in the same political circle, what with both your fathers’ professions, you have yet to properly interact outside of the social niceties required for the few parties and fundraisers you’ve seen him at.

From what you are able to discern the first few times you have been able to talk to him though, you are one hundred percent certain that you disliked the man to an almost frightening degree. His stoicism, apparent indifference and boundless pride rub off of you the wrong way, and you’ve been actively ignoring him at every meeting afterwards.

Your friend lets out another snort – you’ve half a mind to change his contact name to horse at this point – while you raise an eyebrow at his accusatory finger-wagging, almost daring him to say what’s so clearly on his mind.

Because despite wearing a short white number to stave off the summer heat that dominated the venue just hours prior, you have absolutely zero qualms about giving Tooru a thorough beat-down if necessary.

“There you guys are.”

Someone plops down into the vacant seat to your left, and when you turn to see a familiar, non-douchey face, you break into a smile.

“Hey, Haji,” you greet Iwaizumi as you lean against his side.

The faint blush that spreads across Oikawa’s face doesn’t escape you when you sneak a glance at him. Despite having his mind preoccupied by Ushijima, it looks like the brunette still hasn’t let go of his little crush on the final member of your trio. “Iwa-chaan, we waited forever. What took you so long?”

“Got lost, your house is fucking huge Y/N,” Iwaizumi explains, setting down his glass of his newest alcoholic concoction as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Good thing I ran into your brother, few more minutes and I would’ve lost my mind in there.”

You snicker at him, a low mumble of “and you claim Tooru’s the stupid one” escaping you because honestly, your house isn’t that big. He might just not admit it but it’s common knowledge that Hajime’s a bit... directionally challenged, to say the least.

Ignoring the glare he sends your way, you nonchalantly pick up his drink and take a sip. “Ah, very nice. You really should consider bartending, Haji, you’ve got the talent for it,” you remark, handing Oikawa the glass for him to taste.

Iwaizumi’s skill in mixing spirits was one the three of you discovered during one of your first parties, when you and Tooru had complained about how shitty the drinks were. Hajime, in a true gentlemanly fashion, had grabbed a couple of bottles off the counter and kept the two of you well-provided for for the remainder of the event. (and for every other event that came after it.)

The spiky-haired lawyer only rolls his eyes at your words, plucking the crystalware out of Oikawa’s hands before he could finish it off amidst the latter’s ungodliest of whines. “What were you doing anyway? Looked like you were discussing some deep stuff when I came in.”

You separate from him, putting your hands on your hips and adopting a haughty tone, “We are slandering Ushijima Wakatoshi, and his ways of ill-repute. You, by declaration of the Mistress, which is me, and by Friendship Code 70040, is hereby required to join as well.”

“I’ll pass, Wakatoshi’s cool,” Hajime comments around a sip of alcohol, and the casual use of Ushijima’s first name is enough to give you pause.

“Okay, first of all how are you on a first name basis with him and second, you’re a guy.” you exclaim, throwing your hands up for emphasis. “Of course you’d think that!”

“First question: I worked with him for a bit two years ago, not gonna say anything more because company rules, but we talked and he’s really nice,” Iwaizumi holds up two fingers. “Second, sure I am, but even your brother thinks so, too.”

“The world doesn’t just consist of Eita.”

“Alright, you both better shut it because the topic of your very heated conversation is heading right here,” Oikawa interrupts, poking you in the side and sending a look at Iwaizumi.

You groan in response and shake your head. Even during your time abroad, you’ve been unable to escape his presence; from the posters promoting his team for the 2014 World League to the numerous brand advertisements three years later, Wakatoshi was everywhere.

But - and you’ll never admit to this out loud, not ever - even though all you’ve seen of him was in print, on the television, and in the occasional social media update, you could never deny the fact that the man was handsome.

Tooru is attractive, as evidenced by the sheer number of his admirers in high school, Hajime has received his own fair share of confessions and Valentine’s Day chocolates, and you have to admit that your brother is objectively good-looking as well.

And while it’s a confession you have to make under duress, Wakatoshi is a completely different case altogether. You’d thought you were stunned when Miya Atsumu came to your offices to help promote the newly rolled-out banking app, but even he can’t really compare.

Nothing can really do with perfectly gelled olive hair, pristine three-piece suit slightly strained against a muscular build, and the undeniable aura that exuded power and demanded respect.

One would have to be practically blind not to feel attracted to Ushijima (but even then, you think that the timbre of his voice can still make anyone weak in the knees), but because you have no shame and are definitely not above pettiness, you maintain a disgusted-looking sneer as you watch him make his way to your table.

“Hey Toshi,” Oikawa says, the red from before making a reappearance as he takes in the newcomer with eager eyes.

“Good evening, Oikawa,” Ushijima replies, but it’s clear that his attention is focused elsewhere; namely, on you.

Your skin crawls at the weight of the stare he’s pinning on you, but you veto the urge to flip him off right then and there because that would be against proper decorum. Your patience is running thin though, and he needs something else to stare at immediately or so help him God you will do it.

“Wakatoshi,” Iwaizumi intervenes, bless him, and offers a hand towards the taller. “It’s been a long time.”

“Hajime,” Ushijima grasps the appendage and gives it a firm shake, but his gaze still hasn’t left you. ”It’s good to see you.”

“Yo Ushiwaka! Get back over here!” One of the miscreants across the veranda calls out, standing beside what seems to be a set-up for a round of beer pong. You can’t help but make a face when you catch sight of it because what did they think this was, some messy Saturday night college party? These guys really had no taste.

Ushijima finally turns around to head back to his friends, but not without shooting you one last cursory glance over his shoulder; a glance that you dutifully avoid despite every single cell in your body pushing you to return it and have him catch sight of the hellfire burning in your gaze for doing whatever it is that he did to Tooru.

Because damn it, no one hurts your friends or family and gets away with it. Not even over your dead body, because God knows you will rise from the dead just to get retribution on their behalf.

The minute Wakatoshi’s out of earshot, you scoff into your glass of whiskey, hastily downing it in one go because you’d need more of it in your system if you wanted to survive tonight with him around.

In the entirety of your 26 years, never have you once thought yourself as unlucky. Horribly ill-timed, sure, but unlucky? Nope.

Or at least, not until tonight.

“If it isn’t Miss Semi,” a smooth baritone sounds from behind you, nearly causing you to drop the container you’re holding in surprise. “Good evening.”

You seethe, ready to give the person a piece of your mind for almost being the (however indirect) culprit to the destruction of a 20-year old piece of china, and you have the gall to be so confrontational because you actually know who it is. Only one person in this entire house can be in possession of a voice that deep.

True enough, when you turn, it is Ushijima Wakatoshi who stands at the entrance to your kitchen in all of his six-foot-three glory, eyebrow cocked in a perfect arch as he regards you. He’s holding an empty wineglass in his left hand, and it looks like he’s come in here to have it refilled.

You aren’t sure what exactly about the situation brings all the blood rushing to your face; be it the anger you feel at seeing him so callously walk into your kitchen like he owns it instead of going to the refreshments table outside, or the feeling of something else at the sight of him in only his deep purple dress shirt; sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone.

That, along with the fact that his hair is now slightly tousled, leaves you thinking that he looks positively sinful, if not for the smirk that’s painted on his stupid face. That one tiny detail pushes you to choose the first, and safer, option.

You roll your eyes.

“Yes, hello Ushijima,” you respond drily, slamming the cabinet shut to punctuate your tone. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

He simply raises the glass in his hand in response, and you are unable to get a biting comment in about how he should instead look for a refill outside instead of in here like some privileged dick when he speaks.

“Congratulations on the announcement,” he begins, stepping beyond the threshold and into the kitchen, thick carpet muffling the sounds of his polished Italian leather shoes as he makes his way towards you.

When he gets dangerously close to the boundary of the minimum three-feet you need to have between you and him at all times, you briefly consider getting violent and chucking the bowl at him just to be done with it, but he seems to have other plans when he stops by the marble island, a full one inch away from your protective perimeter.

Looks like your grandmother’s favorite crucible will live to see another day.

You see him eye you expectantly from his position, and realize that you’ve yet to respond to his statement. “Thank you. I understand that the same is in order for you as well, what with your succession of Madame Junko’s position.”

He nods, less confirmatory and more ‘I’ve found your answer satisfactory,’ and you cannot suppress the white-hot lance of annoyance that shoots through you at the memory that comes barrelling along with the simple gesture.

Suddenly, you’re both no longer OS Post Holdings or The Ushijima Telegraph and Telephone Corporation’s newly appointed presidents and CEOs, but mere fifteen year olds attending middle school at the same time.

Ushijima has always been the star student, and while your father has pushed you to make friends with the quiet boy, you’ve never found it in yourself to brush aside the vast difference present in the way he looks at Wakatoshi, with eyes and gestures full of a soft sense of pride, and then at you, all strict words and interactions that feel more business related than anything else.

You’re not stupid, never was and never will; you know that your father wanted a son to follow in his footsteps. And although he had twins - a girl and a boy - he saw Eita as more of a disappointment because of his unwillingness to live the life the patriarch of the family wanted him to.

So while your brother pursued his dreams in the music industry, you were left to shoulder the responsibility that came with the Semi family name. You studied rigorously, honed your talents, and polished your social skills until you shined, determined to be the brightest gem in the industry and the daughter your father would be proud of.

But even though you were not stupid, you were definitely naive. Naive to have thought that he would be satisfied with what he had, naive to have thought that he wouldn’t look somewhere else to fulfill his own personal dreams.

And that’s how you first met Ushijima, the son of Governor Utsui and your father’s new protegee, as he so proudly told you over dinner with him one Thursday night.

The only thing that kept you from breaking down then were the years spent at etiquette lessons, so you settled instead on gripping your silverware until your knuckles turned white. You could feel Eita’s eyes on you from across the table, and you didn’t have to look to know that they were apologizing for something that he didn’t even do.

The other two males in the room seemed oblivious to your imminent spiral, happily talking with each other and discussing whatever it is that they deemed important, and the fire in your heart that burned for the olive-haired boy grew into a full-fledged inferno.

That day marked the beginning of your lifelong grudge against Wakatoshi, and you still haven’t given it up to this day.

“Attention! I would just like to thank everyone for coming tonight -”

Your dad’s booming voice is what breaks you out of your reverie, and you realize that you have been staring - glowering, really - at the object of your ire for far too long than what can be deemed normal.

An open bottle of Romanée-Conti rests on the countertop by his elbow, and his previously empty wineglass is now half-full, the deep red liquid catching the fluorescent lights as he idly swirls it around.

Much like his wine, there is also something swirling in his sharp eyes, but you neither need to or wish to know what it is. You let out a disgruntled huff before heading out to the living room, shooting him one final glare as you round the corner and disappear.

Wakatoshi sighs to the empty room before he too, decides to head on out and meet with Representative Semi - your and Eita’s father - to offer him his congratulations.

He finishes the drink in his hand, wine tasting oddly bittersweet as it goes down his throat, and as he exits the kitchen, he wonders for the nth time that night how come you seemed to hate him with such a passion.

He’s not stupid, not like the way everyone seems to think he is just because he’s blunt, but if it’s taken him this long to realize that your feelings towards him go much deeper than a simple dislike, then he thinks that he may never find out the real reason as to why.

The thought doesn’t deter him though, and when he catches sight of the back of your head while you talk animatedly to Oikawa Tooru, laughing your heart out as though you weren’t staring daggers at him just minutes ago, he thinks that he will gladly spend a lifetime figuring you out.

You are a mystery to him, and one that he will stop at nothing to crack.

[ note ] ― and there we have it! first time we’re meeting the cast, and if the overly zealous descriptions about ushi isn’t enough to display how whipped i am for him then probably nothing ever will. hope you all like this one as much as i loved writing it <3

also this is dedicated to @cafemiya for giving me the push i needed to make this entire series. hi issy i love you bae 🥺💖

#ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima angst #ushijima fluff #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #haikyuu x reader #hq ushijima #hq ushiwaka #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #ushijima x you #草花 #hqradiostation #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #semi eita

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andypantsx3 · 4 years

Text

if i could keep cool | 4

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 20,322 words / 6 chapters

summary: A villain attacks Shouto Todoroki’s apartment and kidnaps what he apparently believes to be Todoroki’s secret lover. The bad news—for both you and the villain in question—is that you’re just there to clean the place. That’s how it starts.

tags: romance, reader-insert, accidental sugar daddy shouto, misunderstandings

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

There was no other word for it. Todoroki was a menace.

Though his schedule seemed to return to something approximating normal, he was still in the apartment often enough that you began to anticipate him being there. Even when he wasn’t, however, he made life difficult enough for you by leaving behind gifts, with progressively more disappointed notes if you didn’t take them. You didn’t know how it was possible to convey that flat tone in the shape of his letters, but you could practically hear it as you read them over.

Worse, he seemed to know exactly which of your weak points to exploit to get you to want the gifts--leaving you several more books, a bag of the really nice coffee beans from the coffee shop you’d told him about, and a sinfully soft scarf as the weather turned colder. When you continued to ignore the insane amount of money he seemed to think passed for a tip, fresh vegetables started cropping up on the countertops with notes that said things like I’m not going to eat these, if you don’t take them they will be wasted to guilt you into compliance.

A month into it, an entire grocery order started showing up every Thursday shift. My refrigerator is full so don’t try to stuff any of this in there, his note commanded.

He was a master of manipulation, it seemed, and to what end you didn’t know. You made mental notes to not mention any further likes during your conversations, but when he was there, Todoroki’s conversation was so easy and so natural, he continued to pull all the details out of you with ease.

So things you really, really liked kept turning up. And as you talked to him, Todoroki was turning into a thing that you really, really liked as well.

It was overwhelming.

The final straw was a Friday afternoon when you hit up the fancy coffee shop just outside campus. You walked in with the extra money you’d saved up not buying your own groceries, and the vague idea that you would get a head start on an upcoming paper. And then, the barista very obviously glanced between you and a sheet of paper taped to a corner of the register, and refused to let you pay for your order.

“Your order is free!” she chirped cheerfully.

You stared. “What?”

“It’s already taken care of!” she said, and immediately, a cloud of suspicion settled over you.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked.

She smiled. “The occasion is someone already paid for you!”

You glanced around the coffee shop, but you could find nothing but a few unfamiliar students purusing books or churning out work on their respective laptops. You turned back to her.

“And if I were to walk into this coffee shop tomorrow, would the occasion also be that someone already paid for me?”

She nodded. “Yes! All your future orders are paid for, please come as often as you like!”

You gaped at her, and she cheerfully stuffed your coffee into your hands. Then you glared down at the white paper cup accusingly, and it stared back at you, looking like one half of a certain menace’s hair color.

Oh, he was in for it.

You stalked over to a table and whipped out your cell phone, shooting off a message so fast your fingers practically burned.

todoroki what the hell

To your surprise, you received a reply almost immediately.

It’s Shouto.

Like hell it was.

first names are for friends, not psychopaths. did you really pay for all of my future orders at the coffee shop?

Is this your first time there this month? he answered. Where do you usually go?

You stared at your phone. He’d done this a month ago? Also, no way you were telling him your budget spot where you picked up lukewarm bean water when you couldn’t afford four dollar americanos. The last thing you needed was for him to buy them out, too.

You got to your feet, marching back over to the barista.

She smiled. “Back for something else?”

“Yeah, how do I cancel the all my orders are paid for thing?” you asked. “Can you just delete whatever info he left you and charge me from now on?”

She looked you up and down. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

She stared, then leaned in to whisper. “You do know who paid for all your orders, right? Are you actually sure you want to cancel?”

A migraine started in your temples. Had Todoroki actually come in here himself to give his information? Was he trying to get you caught up in the secret lover bullshit that was still swirling in the media?

“I’m extra sure,” you smiled, then went back to your table, satisfied.

No sooner than you had dug out your laptop, though, when your phone buzzed. You looked down at the name on the screen and paled. Todoroki was way easier to deal with via text when you couldn’t hear that low, smooth tone directly in your ear. His face and his voice were absolutely fucking mind-melting, and it would be hard to maintain your stubborn stance even in the face of just one.

Still, though, this was the last straw.

“How many times do I have to tell you that friendship is free?” you hissed quietly as you picked up.

“They told me you tried to cancel,” he said flatly, and your head whipped up to glare at the barista accusingly. She smiled.

“Todoroki--”

“Shouto,” he said.

“Fine, Shouto,” you said, “It’s been a month and maybe I let you get the wrong idea by accepting all of the vegetables and everything, but this ends here. I told you that it doesn’t cost anything to be friends with me, and you had better stop apologizing. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but--”

“Then do,” he said simply.

“What?”

“Then just appreciate it,” he answered. His voice was somehow even lower on the phone and a shiver went down your spine, despite your frustration with him. “Just accept them. Why is it so bad if a friend gives you things?”

God, he was such a rich boy, wasn’t he?

“Shouto, I do appreciate it,” you said. “But I don’t need any of that. And I know that you know this isn’t necessary--I highly doubt that you are buying Midoriya all of his weekly coffees or draping Bakugou in soft scarves. All you need to be friends with me is to just hang out, the same way you do them.”

Shouto was quiet a moment. “Hang out,” he finally said, slowly, like he was tasting the words in his mouth. Then, “Are you free right now?”

“W-what?” you managed.

“You don’t have class right now, right? Your last lecture just let out.”

You were surprised that he remembered your class schedule. Just how much had you told him?

“Uh, yeah?” you asked.

“Good, stay where you are. We’re hanging out,” he pronounced the words like they were foreign on his tongue, then hung up.

You stared down at your phone in shock. He wanted to hang out with you? Like, outside of his apartment?

There was no arguing the two of you got along relatively well, now that the threat of your crazy fandom and the weight of his mistake no longer hung over your relationship. You talked easily enough the one or two times you saw him during any given week. But so far your interactions had been somewhat limited, confined to the familiar space of his apartment and limited to the time that you had to be there. You texted a little outside of that, but you’d never just casually hung out.

Then the weight of his words really hit you. He was coming here? To the coffee shop? In full view of your entire campus? Was he insane?

You ran through a mental checklist of things in your bag that could be used to disguise him but came up short. You didn’t know exactly what he planned to look like when he put in an appearance here, but you were not interested in fanning the flames of the secret lover garbage that was still all over twitter and splashed across the glossy pages of the magazines at the grocery store.

You shot to your feet and threw your bag over your shoulder, then ran out the door, dashing for the campus shop that sat just outside the student center. You blew through the door and dove straight for the apparel section, grabbing the least heinous hat that looked like it would cover most of Shouto’s distinctive hairstyle while also drawing the least amount of attention to its wearer. You also helped yourself to a plain pair of sunglasses that would probably be kind of inappropriate in the fall weather, but would go a long way in hiding his eyes and that scar.

Why did he insist on having so many distinguishing features? Would it kill him to have dark hair and dark eyes like most of the rest of the earth’s population?

You threw the items and a wad of bills down on the register counter, then paused. A few small, slightly-wilted looking bouquets of flowers sprouted from buckets just beside the register in the colors of your university. You didn’t know what the colors or type of the flowers were supposed to mean, and they probably didn’t give off exactly the message you wanted to send, but Shouto had gotten you flowers as the first gift he’d ever given you…

You grabbed the least wilted looking bunch and threw them on top of the other items.

The cashier rang you up with all the urgency of a sloth, and you tapped your foot nervously as you waited. How was Shouto getting here? How long would it take him? Would he be at the coffee shop already?

You stuffed the flowers into your bag, then launched yourself out of the campus shop like a rocket, catching that mop of red and white hair just outside the entrance to the coffee shop. You put on a burst of speed and managed to jam the baseball cap down over his head before he pulled open the door. He turned to you in surprise.

“Y/N,” he said.

“Yes, hi, hello,” you managed while also trying to ram the sunglasses onto his face.

He let out a small huff of amusement. “What are you doing?”

“What you should have done before coming here, you absolute wackjob,” you said, finally managing to slip the shades over his high-bridged nose without poking his eyes out.

Shouto let you manhandle him to your liking, until his face and hair were mostly hidden under your university merchandise.

“Okay, you should be good now,” you said, looking him over. He still stood out, honestly, too tall and outrageously handsome, even covered up as he was. The sweater and well-fitting jeans he’d chosen would still draw anyone’s gaze straight to his trim figure, but it would have to do.

“We can’t go inside, though, you’ll look too shady with the cap and glasses,” you said. “We need to go somewhere outdoors.”

He stared down at you, one eyebrow lifted over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s fall.”

You thought for a moment.

“How do you feel about izakaya?” you asked. “There’s a street-side one not far from here that’s mostly outdoors. They’re good, and I think they’re still open.”

He nodded. “Do you go there often?”

You eyed him. “Oh no. If I tell you places I go, you apparently buy them out. The whole point of you being here is to prove that buying me things is stupid when we can just hang out.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was being told a joke you couldn’t hear. “Lead the way, then,” he said evenly.

You pulled him down a few blocks, expertly navigating your way through the winding city streets. You would never admit as much to him, but this place was one of your faves for good beer and cheap yakitori, and you could probably easily find your way both blindfolded and drunk. Shouto followed you easily, a tall, silent warmth at your back.

There were few people at the izakaya when you arrived, considering it was still a little early for dinner, and no one gave the two of you a second glance when you pulled back the curtains and helped yourselves to pair of stools in the corner of the stall.

“Okay, you have to get a beer and yakitori first," you said. "You can do whatever you want after, but the first round has to be that. Just trust me.”

“No vegetables?” Shouto asked.

You laughed. “I know that’s my brand. And there are good veggie side dishes. But there is nothing like fresh, warm, cheap yakitori and a really good beer, especially on a cool fall day like this. I know what I’m talking about.”

A soft smile pulled at his mouth. “So you do come here often.”

You stared up at him accusingly. “If you dare throw a single dollar at them, you’re in huge trouble. I know where you live.”

He smiled down at you. It was easier to notice how boyish his grin was when the rest of his face was hidden by his sunglasses, and heat flared in your cheeks. He was just so damn good looking.

It suddenly dawned on you how forward you’d been with him, sending him sassy texts and putting your hands all over him when you were attempting to stuff him into your university swag. Your relationship had progressed somewhat since that first book he’d bribed you with, but honestly, this was completely new ground for you.

Your face burned hotter. You’d been so, so inexcusably forward. Had you lost your mind?

Shouto seemed to be thinking about the hat as well. “So, do I look like a student at your university?”

You looked him up and down. Aside from your school’s name emblazoned across his baseball cap, he looked nothing like a student, too put together in his dark sweater and jeans that probably cost more than your monthly rent. You wondered if he’d even been within ten feet of an instant ramen cup in his entire life.

“Uh, no,” you said. “You look like someone forced you to wear a hat they panic purchased and it just so happened to be the least horrible one available.”

A smile played about his mouth again. “What were the other options?”

You grinned. “It was this one or a proud dad of a college grad cap.”

He let out a small huff of amusement. You smiled, then leaned forward as the man at the counter came over to take your order, making sure to cut Shouto off before he could attempt any rich boy tricks. You put in an order for two beers and what was probably a concerning amount of yakitori, then turned back to Shouto and almost fell off your stool when he was much closer than you’d expected.

“Do you have a teleportation quirk I don’t know about?” you asked, internally panicking at his proximity. He was close enough now that you could feel the heat of him and catch the scent of his cologne, light and fresh and disturbingly good.

He smiled that boyish smile again and your heart suddenly forgot how to do its job, freezing in your chest. “It’s cold.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have a fire quirk.”

You felt the air grow a little warmer around the two of you. “I meant for you,” he said.

You were torn between relaxing into the sudden warmth and freezing up in embarrassment. It was beginning to dawn on you just how attentive and thoughtful he always was, and you wondered vaguely if the gift giving was actually just a really extreme manifestation of that personality trait. Maybe being an awkward rich boy with a weird way of making friends was just part of the issue.

Your heartbeat suddenly kicked into overdrive. He was already so overwhelming to look at, incredibly brave, such a good listener, and way too easy to talk to. You did not need to pile on other endearing qualities to the frankly alarming number of things feeding into what was quickly becoming the fattest crush of your lifetime. Did he have to be so good all the time?

A hand suddenly reached out, pulling you closer so that you were practically fused to his left side. You stiffened, resisting the urge to curl into the warmth pouring off of him in thick waves.

Not good, this was so not good.

“Uh, you don’t have to do that,” you said, tongue thick, like you were speaking through a mouthful of applesauce. “I’m wearing the scarf you got me.”

Shouto tilted his head, and though you couldn’t see his expression behind the sunglasses, something like satisfaction curled the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he said in his deep tone, “but this will help too.”

“Really, you’re my friend not my personal space heater,” you insisted, trying to squirm away from him. “You don’t need to do this.”

He flared hotter, and a strong arm went around the back of your chair, halting your escape. “I don’t mind,” he said.

God it was like he didn’t even know what effect he had on people. People, of course, being cleaning ladies with twitters full of zoomed in pictures of his abs. It was not good for your health to be this close to him, couldn’t he just let you sit ten thousand miles away from him where both of you would be a little safer?

The izakaya owner interrupted this train of thought, pushing two beers and a plateful of yakitori between the two of you.

You instantly seized on the distraction, bringing a beer to your mouth to give you a couple moments for your brain to turn on again. It was refreshingly cold, and the flavor was nostalgic, tasting like breaks after class with friends and late nights stumbling back after several rounds of karaoke and drinking. You wondered now if, in the future, you would taste it and think back to the one time you’d hung out with Shouto Todoroki.

“It’s good,” Shouto said, looking at you over the rim of his own beer.

You smiled. “I told you.”

Then you shoved a stick of yakitori at him. “Now eat this and tell me I was right about it too.”

His fingers slid along yours as he took the stick from you, calloused and warm. “...You were right about this too,” he said after managing a bite.

You felt yourself puff up. “Of course I was.”

He smiled and helped himself to the rest. With the food and drink absorbing some of your attention, you were able to calm down somewhat, and the conversation returned to normal, you doing your best to forget about the sinfully warm arm curled around your back.

Here, too, Shouto was absurdly easy to talk to, the new venue doing nothing to dull his charm or the easy way that he pulled information out of you with a few, short, well-placed questions. Over the course of a few hours, you worked your way through a few beers and several more side dishes, the conversation never letting up. Shouto was just as intelligent and thoughtful as ever, and he made you laugh with a couple of unexpectedly short tempered comments. Even the discovery that he was not as princely as he usually seemed just fanned the flames of your crush.

It was only when the people around you began to shuffle off of their stools and pack up that you realized how late it had grown, and that you’d spent the entire evening hanging out and talking.

Shouto helped you off your stool when you stumbled a little, the number of beers you’d consumed suddenly making themselves known. “You’re more of a lightweight than I would have guessed by the conversation,” he teased.

You looked up into his face, realizing that he’d shed the sunglasses at some point during your conversation and you hadn’t noticed. Had anyone else noticed? No one had come over asking for an autograph. Maybe he was so unexpected at a place like this that the hat had been enough of a disguise.

You blinked, realized you’d been staring. “Nonsense, I’m a pro. I’ve put in many more beers at this place.”

Then your eyes narrowed at the slow movement his hand was making along the counter, what looked suspiciously like a stack of bills underneath. That little shit.

“Are you trying to distract me?” you demanded, grabbing his hand and stuffing the money back into it. “This is on me. I haven’t paid for groceries in weeks, thanks to somebody.”

Shouto smirked, looking strangely pleased with himself. His hand curled around yours, and his other came up to take your free hand. It was only when he’d transferred both of your wrists into one large palm that you realized what he was doing, plopping down a handful of bills on the counter quickly with his free hand, then pulling your backpack over your shoulder and tugging you away from the izakaya before you could make a scene. You’d been thoroughly outmaneuvered.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, steering you back out into the street. “Give me your address.”

“Shouto,” you whined, “this whole evening was supposed to be about proving you don’t need to spend money to be my friend. We were supposed to hang out.”

“We did hang out,” he pointed out, looking down at you from under the rim of that ridiculous baseball cap. “Your point was very much made.”

It was a testament to how tipsy you were, probably, that this warmed you. You forgot your annoyance with him almost immediately. “Really?”

He huffed a laugh. “Really. Now give me your address so I can take you home.”

You did and he plugged it into his phone. Then he led you along with one hand curled around yours. You spent the whole walk musing on how warm his fingers were in yours, how much larger his hands seemed than yours. Why was even his stupid hand so nice?

It was only as Shouto walked you to the door of your apartment that you remembered the last thing you’d gotten for him in the campus store. You quickly unzipped your backpack, shoving the bouquet of flowers at him.

“For you,” you said, pressing them into his chest. “You got me those flowers. These ones aren’t as nice, but I thought that you should have some too.”

He stared down at you, something strange glinting in his eyes. “You got me flowers.”

“Do you not like them?” you asked nervously. Was it weird to give a guy flowers? It was probably weird…

“I like them,” he declared, and a genuine smile flickered across his mouth. His eyes looked a little brighter, and his gaze was growing more intent by the second. “Now, you should probably get inside before I forget my manners.”

Forget his manners? You stared up at him in confusion.

He looked down at you for a long moment, and then he was suddenly very close, his face dipping down to yours.

“Get inside,” he said quietly, voice deeper than you’d ever heard it. “Please.”

You nodded, swallowing. You had just enough presence of mind to turn and unlock your door. Shouto guided you gently inside with a hand on your back, and then stepped back outside, smiling.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” he said.

You waved. “See you on Tuesday.”

You watched him make his way back down the street, only closing your door when you saw him turn the corner and disappear out of sight. Then you sank down against the door frame, heart feeling like it was going to beat straight out of your chest.

Shouto was the most overwhelming man on this earth. You were in such big trouble.

#shouto todoroki x reader #bnha #todoroki x reader #fanfic #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #shouto todoroki

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