#I think I managed to make it look even uglier than it looks in the show

[alphinias]

JJ MAYBANK in OBX S3

[hyypnotix-writes]

Straight. Straight straight straight.

~ I really don’t know what this is. I couldn’t sleep and so, here we are. I’ve never written anything other than essays for uni before so ..this could go down like a lead balloon! we’ll see, lemme know! :) ~

~ it’s like ..10k words? because I really couldn’t sleep. so, it’s a long one ..if you have nothing else to do! ~

~ I don’t think it needs any content warnings, but please tell me if there should be! there’s some swearing, if that’s off putting to you.. ~

~ it takes a tiny while for A to show up, and she’s never explicitly named..but she is there, it is her ~

~ I’m talking myself out of posting, but this is too long to scrap now, sorry ~

~ good luck! good bye xx ~

________________

The club is a disgusting little place to be. Buried right in the centre of town, with drinks so extortionately expensive, they make even the cost of your London’s monthly rent, look a little reasonable. The music blares inside your head, the strobe lighting messes with your vision, and the smell of horny sweaty bodies is an assault on the nostrils. It’s your least favourite place on earth to be.

It’s somewhere you’d managed to avoid being, for all of your early twenties. You’ve had no reason to go to a club late at night. Not when you’ve had a boyfriend for the past 5 years to go home to. That dirty little desire to get drunk, and hookup with an attractive stranger, took a nice long hibernation.

For you.

Turns out, your ever-loving, ever-caring, fuckwit of an ex-boyfriend, still managed to find the time to go to clubs, and hookup with strangers in between spending nights with you. You really thought he was out working till the early hours of the morning, busy making a living for your future together? What an idiot you were.

So, you’re back in a nightclub, at the behest of some of your single friends, for the first time in over half a decade, borderline drunk out of your mind.

It’s still a comfortable level of tipsiness at the moment, you’d argue, despite stumbling a little on your way back towards the bar. You can easily identify the song that’s being blasted, you’ve been able to order more drinks independently without being refused service. Your inhibitions are long gone, but you’re still able to think clearly, and you’re ready to find someone to go home with.

Your friends are all dotted around the room getting off with men of varying levels of attractiveness. None of them have impressed you so far, you’re not so desperate for company that you’re willing to let your own standards drop tonight. You’re happy to wait for the best-looking man in the room. Looking around the room to scope the talent on offer, however, maybe you do need to lower your standards a little bit.

You approach the bar again, and order a shot of tequila for yourself. A friendly little liquid that’s had previous success with you, for getting you to sleep with just about anything.

“¡Dos, por favor!” Comes a call from behind you, from a woman you do not know. It’s rather ballsy of her, almost rude, but she holds out her card to pay, before you can get too irritated with her request.

“Gracias.” You offer, using your exceptional detective skills to work out the woman’s nationality.

“¿Hablas español?” She checks, as she leans next to you, and you wag a dismissive, drunken finger in front of her face as you shake your head.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you tell her, “only English. GCSE level German.”

She smirks, watching you, and you narrow your eyes at her, tapping the bar as you await your drink.

You’re handed your shot, with a lime wedge and some salt, and you nod in thanks, to the woman who bought it for you. You don’t wait for her to go first, you’re in a bit of a rush here. All the men in the room are getting uglier by the second, you need to act fast, before you see the light too clearly.

You lick your hand and pour on the salt, the woman watching you closely as you do. She doesn’t go through the motions at all for her own drink, she focuses solely on you, gently biting at her bottom lip.

You lick the salt, down the shot, and she holds the lime wedge in between her fingers for you to bite. You don’t question it. Not until you sink your teeth into the lime, your eyes meet over it, and time stand still.

She has very beautiful eyes. A mysterious looking hazel. They flicker over you as you suck the citrus juice, and you can see the crinkles in the corners of them as she smiles at you. It’s weirdly intimate, unnervingly so.

You pull away, wiping the juice from your chin as you point to her own glass for her to follow suit. You find yourself watching her as she does the same routine, but you don’t hold out the fruit for her, the way she did for you. It was a strange custom, one that’s already playing on a loop in your head.

“Can I get you another?” She offers, and you find yourself torn.

You’re not here for a woman, you’ve never been with one. You’ve kissed your girlfriends once or twice when you were younger, mainly as a gross way of attracting boys. It’s not something you thought too deeply about, it wasn’t exactly a lightbulb moment for you. There was never any secret yearning for any of your friends afterwards. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

The woman’s eyes seem to pierce through your soul, as she waits for your answer, like she can see something in you that you can’t. It draws you in, but you hold yourself back.

“I’m straight.” You tell her, and she smirks at you again.

“Congratulations! I didn’t ask,” she points out, “but thanks for letting me know.”

You frown a little as she turns her attention back to the bartender and orders two more shots for the pair of you. She doesn’t seem put off by your sexuality claim at all. It’s almost like she doesn’t believe you, and you’re not too sure you appreciate her cockiness about it.

In fairness, maybe you’re the one being cocky. She doesn’t have a badge on her saying she’s a lesbian, there’s no rainbow floating above her head. She’s not a stereotypical lesbian, not in the way that your little sister is. Maybe she’s just being friendly, and you’re projecting, because you’re drunk and full of yourself.

“Sorry,” you start, leaning into her so she can hear you above the music, and she pushes the shot towards you, “I just thought ..maybe you were coming on to me.”

“That’s very wishful thinking from you.” She says simply, turning her head slightly to face you. She’s exceptionally close, and your eyes instantly trail to her lips. Time’s stood still again.

She has nice lips, very nice lips. They’d probably taste very nice..

You have to pull yourself away.

“Gracias.” You say again, gesturing to the glass in front of you with a frown. You reach for the salt, but before you can lick your hand, she raises it to her own mouth to wet it for you. You really don’t know what to make of her. It’s very gross, it’s very rude ..it’s very sexy.

There’s a confidence in her, that has you questioning things. The warmth of her tongue sends goosebumps right up your arm. Which, she can undoubtedly see, as you don’t have long sleeves and she’s smirking at you again. You don’t appreciate her smug little attitude. Anyone would have a physical reaction to being licked by a stranger, she has no business being arrogant about it.

You must have been stuck in place for too long, as she pours the salt onto your hand on your behalf too.

You don’t like being outdone. If she wants to play it cocky, you can match her for it. You grab the lime wedge and indicate for her to open her mouth. It catches her a little off guard, which you feel a sense of pride in, but she doesn’t back down from your challenge. She welcomes your newfound confidence, with that same little smirk from before.

You place the lime, skin-side back, in between her teeth and you lick the salt from your hand with unwavering eye contact. You down the shot, and you pull her in carefully by her neck.

Your lips brush against hers, ever so slightly, as you bite the lime between her teeth and remove it in your own. It’s a deliberate move from you, maybe you’re feeling messy tonight. You watch as she raises her fingers to her lips, and you wipe the juice again with the back of your hand. You give her a nod with another little ‘gracias’, before heading away from the bar without looking back at her.

You’re stuck on a carousel of men once you return to the centre of the club. They are all admittedly, far better looking than they were before your little trip to get drinks, but there’s still no one drawing your eye. None of them like that cocky little woman at the bar.

She wasn’t really little, she’s quite tall, actually. Had a couple inches on you, that’s for sure, and you’re not short. She was impressively tall, she had nice posture. She didn’t slouch or look uncomfortable. She was just tall, and beautiful, with that endearing little smirk on her pretty little fa— what are you doing?

You need to find yourself a man, and quick.

You’ve trapped yourself between another one and a wall, only a few minutes later, and it feels like a mistake. His hands are on your hips, his mouth is dangerously close to yours, and frankly, no amount of alcohol could make you genuinely attracted to him.

“You’re really sexy.” He slurs, his hand grazing up your body.

No, next.

It doesn’t take long to find another, his arm wrapped round your waist as he shares his drink with you. He’s cute, you’re fairly certain. He does have a moustache, which isn’t your usual cup of tea. It’s like a little caterpillar resting above his top lip, twitching as he talks to you. He drowns it slightly as he has more of his drink, and it makes you cringe as he licks at it.

It’d probably tickle if he kissed you, or leave you with a rash, the hairy little ferret on his lip.

Do you know who didn’t have a moustache? Who you wouldn’t have to work out, how not to throw up in their face, as there’s no risk of their facial hair ever getting stuck in your mouth as you kiss?

Mhmm.

Straight straight straight.

You slide out from his embrace, twirling him around to go after some other poor soul and you return to the bar.

It’s disappointing to realise she’s no longer there, not that she should be waiting around for you. She’s probably found someone less rude to spend her time with, someone more gay.

Look at the state of you, traipsing back to a bar in search of woman you don’t know because she looked at you for a second too long and now you can’t shake her from your head. How embarrassing. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

You make your way through to the ladies’ room to splash some water on your face, and come to your senses. Of course, that’s where she’s hiding. With some new company of her own.

That shouldn’t hurt you. You don’t even know this woman’s name. You know nothing about her at all except that she’s tall, beautiful and has soft lips. Lips that are now on another woman and you’re incensed. You have no right to be angry about it, and yet, here you are.

You bash at the head of the tap, rather aggressively. Sometimes taps in nightclub restrooms don’t work, it probably needed a firm touch. It has nothing to do with you wanting to distract the woman, no no no. Because you’re straight. Straight straight straight.

You don’t need the attention of another woman, that would be ridiculous. That wouldn’t be very straight of you at all.

It doesn’t seem like your loud and theatrical washing of your hands has done anything to disturb the kiss to the side of you.

And good! You wouldn’t want to do that.

So, when you bump into them to reach for some hand towels, that’s just an accident. The fact that the tall, beautiful, soft-lipped, Spanish woman’s eyes flick to you as you dry your hands, is just an unfortunate side effect of your clumsiness.

The fact that it doesn’t stop her from kissing the other woman, however, is outrageous. Her watching you, as she’s busy with someone else? How disgusting.

Your heart shouldn’t be racing at the sight of her, your breath shouldn’t be as shallow at is, and it definitely shouldn’t be catching in your throat as the other woman kisses down her neck, and she’s still only looking at you. This isn’t attractive. This isn’t turning you on. You don’t wish it was you on her neck. There’s that infamous smirk on her face again as she stares at you. She’s unbelievable.

You throw your towels in the bin with an almighty clang as you let the lid drop back down, finally putting the other woman off her stride, and you make a swift exit back into the club.

The music’s too loud again, the smell is suffocating, all of the men are gross by comparison to the woman stuck in your head. It’s been an unsuccessful night and you’re ready to go home alone.

The hand that grabs you, has other ideas.

“You said you were straight!” She reminds you, as she pulls you outside with her.

“I am!” You tell her, still annoyed with her little antics.

“You followed me to the toilet?”

“I didn’t know you were in there!” You point out, even more annoyed with her cocky little attitude.

“You’re angry.” She tells you, smirking. “Didn’t like me kissing someone else?”

“I don’t care who you kiss!”

“No?”

“No!”

There’s a palpable tension between you both. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t know this woman. She doesn’t know you. It doesn’t matter that she kissed someone else. You were trying to kiss someone else only a minute before.

Why you’re so enraged by a woman who’s bought you two shots, getting with another woman after you walked away from her, is a question for future you. You’re not about to have an existential crisis in front of her. Questioning your identity in your mid-twenties, is absurd. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

There’s a curiousness, to her decisions, actually. To follow you, when she already had company. To drag you outside, to where no one else is. She’s very confident about you being interested, but she’s not exactly being apathetic herself.

“Why did you leave her?” You ask.

“What?”

“You followed me,” you point out, furrowing your brow, “had a pretty girl draping herself all over you, and you left her to follow me. Why?”

You’ve clearly touched a nerve; her smirk has vanished. You can see her tongue pushing against the inside of her mouth. She’s annoyed with you.

She slowly runs her tongue under her teeth, before wetting her bottom lip with it while rolling her eyes. She doesn’t miss how your breath hitches watching her. Her smirk is back, and she moves closer to you.

“Maybe I’ll go back to her.” She threatens, and your jaw clenches slightly.

“Maybe you should!” You tell her, taking steps backwards as she approaches.

“Do you want me to?”

You collide into the wall behind you, and she places her hands on it by your head.

“No.” You confess, breathlessly.

“You said you were straight.” She repeats, her face mere inches from yours as she leans into you.

You swallow down, your pulse picking up speed.

“I am.” You insist, your eyes locking onto her mouth. “I..”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do?” She questions knowingly, that all too familiar smirk, taking over her face. She tilts her head, impossibly close to yours. You can smell the lime that lingers on her lips, feel her breath that softly blows against you, but she still doesn’t let you have what you want.

“Are you going to make me beg for it?” You groan, leaning backwards into the wall as far as you can.

“Maybe.” She tells you.

You hate her holding all the cards like this. She has you like putty in her hands. She’s all cocky and in control. Who does she think she is?

You’re better than this. You’re not shy around people you fancy. You may have been caught in a pointless relationship for far too long, but you’re a catch, people are into you. This woman right here, is into you. You don’t need to be nervous with her, it doesn’t mean anything. You’re straight. Straight straight straight. It could be the worst kiss of your life, and why should you care?

You slink your arm up behind her neck, closing the distance between you even further, and her eyelids flutter shut.

“I’m not going to.” You inform her, emboldened by her reaction to you. You duck out from under her arms, blowing her a kiss as you walk back inside. To find a man to take you home. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

It doesn’t take you long at all to find another man to wear around you. One with glasses on. No, he’s not attractive. No, you don’t want to go home with him. But he’s here, he’s a man, and he isn’t driving you quite as crazy as the woman you keep running into. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s hassle free. It’s exactly what you came for, you’re ready to go.

________________

Waking up in unfamiliar sheets, is something you haven’t done in a while. You’re quietly proud of yourself. The sheets smell nice, your hangover headache isn’t half as bad as you thought it would be, and there’s a pleasurable little ache between your legs that tells you that, whatever happened last night, you more than enjoyed yourself.

You wriggle a little under the covers and take a peek to confirm that you are indeed, completely naked. Your eyes are allowed to trail the body next to you. You’ve had sex with it, you’re more than entitled.

You really don’t remember which man it was you left with. There was the one with the glasses, the tall one with the mullet, the man with the moustache, the unfortunate gentleman with the incorrectly placed toupee.

He’s probably the one you’d most be upset about seeing next to you. Not that he didn’t seem friendly enough, but he really wasn’t the attractive stranger you were hunting for.

You risk another quick peek under the covers and your eyes all but bug out of your head. No no nonononono. You pull the covers back down and shut your eyes, trying to remember what the hell went wrong. You had countless semi-attractive men all over you. How the hell?

You peek again. Maybe you’re seeing things. Your hungover little brain playing tricks on you.

No.

That’s definitely not a man’s body. It’s far too beautiful. It’s toned, smooth, sculpted by the gods themselves. You want to put your tongue on it. You probably already have had your tongue on it. Who knows what you’ve done to it, what it’s done to you. How the hell did you go home with a woman?

“Are you enjoying the view?” The voice outside of the covers asks, and you roll yourself over under the sheets away from her.

You’d recognise that accent anywhere. That cocky little tone to her voice. That insufferable Spanish woman from the bar. That tall, beautiful, soft-lipped, Spanish walking-headache, took you home, and had her way with you? You? When you’re straight? Straight straight straight.

The ache in between your legs, the dull satisfaction running through your body, and you have her to thank for it?

It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare. It’s a horrible, twisted little trick, that, if you keep your eyes closed to, maybe it will all disappear around you and you’ll wake up again next to a man. A gross, sweaty little man, with too much hair on his face and not enough on the top of his head.

There’s a snicker from outside of the covers and you let out a huff, as she taps at your body.

“What?” You grumble, making no effort to free yourself from the sheets you’ve cocooned yourself in.

You can feel her shimmy herself closer to you and you hold your hand behind you to stop her.

“No!” You tell her, quite firmly, as her torso connects with your fingertips. Her toned torso. Her taut, muscly torso that your fingers have somehow now spread out over. You can feel her breathing against your palm. She hasn’t edged any closer to you after your outburst, and you regret telling her off so soon.

You’d quite like her pressed up against you, if that’s what she wants to do. Maybe you were too hasty, too rude. You can still feel the shortness of her breath against your hand. You’re being inappropriate, touching her like this. You slowly remove your hand from her, still hovering it pretty close.

You reach back for her arm, trailing your fingers down it until you meet with her hand, and you pull it around you. You’re not entirely sure what’s possessing you, you just want to feel her on your skin. She doesn’t need much encouragement to nestle into you, and it’s definitely not a man’s body.

You tangle your fingers with hers over your stomach, leaning into her. She has nice hands. Hands that are quite a bit bigger than yours, it’s no wonder you have an ache.

She removes the covers from over your head, instantly placing her lips to your neck. It’s very easy to forget yourself with her mouth on you, it’s no real surprise she managed to trick you into coming back to hers at all. She frees her fingers from yours, moving her hand down your body, and you put up no resistance to her. You encourage it, if anything, moving yourself to make it easier.

It’s nothing like having a man between your legs. There’s no needless grunting above you, no mindless grabbing, or endless showboating. You don’t need to make excessive noises to boost her ego. She just really knows what she’s doing with her fingers. She has every right to be cocky with herself.

Maybe this is just what it is to be with a woman. Maybe they just know, it’s the same parts, after all. Maybe it’s an inherent knowledge that all women possess, but only a select few ever get to experience. Lucky them.

Lucky you.

You are still being quite loud with her inside of you. It’s not for her benefit, it just really feels very good. You grip at her head behind you, running your fingers down the back of her neck, and you bite at your other hand to mute your sound effects, to stop giving her quite so much satisfaction with herself. You can see that smug little smirk on her face, it’s impossible to know if it’s still annoying or just incredibly sexy. It’s a very thin line with this woman.

It’s hard to keep still with her going to work on you the way she is. You find yourself rolling back over into her and she welcomes you, easily capturing your lips with hers. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They are very nice lips, they do taste nice, and it’s not the first time you’ve kissed them.

Memories of the night come flooding back in.

________________

“I can take you back to mine?” The man wearing glasses offers.

“Perfect!” You reply, all too eager to get out of this frustrating little situation you’ve found yourself in. He places his cup on the nearest table, and winks at you, before leading you to the door.

Again, the hand that grabs you, has other ideas.

“You’re not leaving with him!” She tells you in no uncertain terms, as she holds you firmly in place.

“You can’t tell me what to do! Who the hell do you think you are?” She doesn’t give in, and as you turn to find the man, he’s already wandered off without you. “Are you joking? What’s your problem?”

You’re absolutely furious with the woman, she has no right to ruin your plans like this. You shake her off of you and head back to the bar, but she shadows you closely.

“You can fuck right off, following me about!”

“You’re really very angry.” She tells you, rather amused at your attitude. “Why, because I didn’t let you leave with some gross man?”

“He was cute!”

“He was about 50!”

That can’t be right.

He had glasses on, sure, but so do lots of people in their twenties. He had ..greying hair. Slightly less common, perhaps, but he had been cute.

Hadn’t he?

“Fuck!”

You rub your fingers over your forehead, trying to erase him from your mind, as the woman continues smirking at you.

“You can wipe that smug look off your face, right now!” You warn her and she chuckles to herself.

“Do you want another drink?”

“..Please.”

You down another round of shots together, being inappropriate with the salt and limes again. There’s an incredible amount of confidence in you. Whether it’s your new disdain for this woman, the fact that you’re unlikely to be going home with someone you’ll be happy waking up next to, or just the alcohol flooding your system, who can tell, but it’s a confidence that you’re more than willing to embrace.

You order another round of drinks and lick her collarbone ready to pour the salt on to. Her eyebrow quirks at you, but she doesn’t stop you doing it. She readies the lime in her mouth, as you down the tequila, and she pierces it with her teeth for you, dripping the juice into your mouth from hers up above.

It’s a very weird mating call from her, and it’s 100% effective. You grab her hand and lead her back to the hallway between the toilets. You bury your head in her neck as the moustache walks past you both, and you open the door to the smoking area to see if anyone’s about. No one is, so you pull her outside with you.

“Why are we back here?” She asks, that smug smile still tattooed on her lips.

“I feel more sober in fresh air.”

“Mm? You’re very drunk.”

“You’re very drunk!”

“Maybe, but at least I’m not on a ridiculous hunt for a man!”

“It’s not ridiculous, it’s meticulous!” You tell her, giggling slightly at your accidental rhyme. “I’m looking for a very specific man, preferably a good looking one, in his twenties.”

“Really? You didn’t seem too worried, that a man in his twenties was actually a man in his fifties!” She points out.

“Mm. I don’t know that I’m particularly worried about a man in his twenties ..being a woman in her twenties either.” You tell her with a rather casual shrug as you head to one of the tables. You sit yourself up on it, looking back at the woman who gives you a knowing little smile.

“You’re not very straight, are you?” She asks sarcastically.

“I really am.” You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I’ve never been with a woman, never wanted to be. I’ve only just got out of a long-term relationship with a man. I’ve only ever wanted to be with men.”

“Mm?” She mumbles, moving over to you slowly. She carefully pushes your knees apart and stands in between them, looking down at you. “I’m not a man.” She reminds you, and you trap your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Maybe I don’t want you.”

“Mm?” She places a curved finger under your chin, tilting your head and bringing your mouths very close together. “Tell me you don’t.”

There’s a feeling in your stomach at her challenge, a feeling lower than your stomach at her challenge. You do want her, and you’re not a good enough liar to pretend that you don’t.

“I can’t..” You admit, and she smiles again, before removing herself from you. You let out a frustrated little sigh as she moves backwards, and you swing your legs back together. “You want me too!” You tell her and she tilts her head to the side.

“Who told you that?”

“Tell me you don’t.”

“..I can’t.” She admits, and maybe her cocky little smirk has found its way onto your face.

You jump down from the tabletop and lean back against it, nibbling at the inside of your mouth. She casually walks back over to you, resting her hand on your hip.

It’s far less offensive than gentleman number 6’s grazing of your body. You don’t feel the need to push her away at all. She leans back into you, tucking your hair behind your ear. It sends a little tingle right down the side of your neck, and she smirks again at your reaction. You can’t not roll your eyes at her incessant need to be arrogant. She rubs her thumb across your cheek and over your mouth, pulling down on your lower lip gently.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes ..what?” She asks, and she’s ruined the moment. You shake your head at her chuckling lightly.

“If you don’t want to kiss me, it’s fine, we don’t have to. I’m not going to beg you for it.” You tilt your head, brushing her nose with yours. “Do you want to kiss me?” She nods silently, and you wink at her. “Looks like we’re both missing out then!”

You slip out from between her and the table and make your way over to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a man to take me home! I’m straight!”

You can hear her cocky little laugh as you head back into the club, and it sends a little thrill right through your body.

This bizarre game of cat and mouse continues between you both for a little while longer. You keep buying each other shots, drinking them in more obscene ways every time. You back each other into walls, threatening to kiss each other, before one of you walks away, and the whole process repeats itself.

It’s getting harder to compose yourself after each round of shots. You really do just want her to kiss you, you’ve had enough of fighting it, but you also don’t want her to have the satisfaction of you caving in. It’s a ruthless little battle that you’ve found yourself in. She’s incredibly competitive.

You have to commit. Genuinely find yourself a man. It shouldn’t be hard. There’s lots of them about, and you’re more drunk now than you’ve been all night. You’re embarrassingly easy prey.

You survey your surroundings, hoping for one decent looking man to catch your eye. It’s a truly talentless night. You find yourself grimacing slightly realising that all of your friends have already left the place. Some of them will definitely regret their choices in the morning.

As will you, if you don’t manage to get at least one kiss from this godforsaken woman.

“Looking for me?” She asks as she sidles on next to you, leaning against the wall.

“I’m looking for a man! I’ve already told you this.”

“Well ..there’s one there.” She tells you, gesturing to a random fellow in the corner. “There’s another there.” She points out. “There. There. The—”

“I get it, thanks. You have terrible taste in men.”

“I don’t have any taste in men.” She reminds you. “I have pretty impeccable taste in women.”

“Mm? Well, which one takes your fancy?” You ask. “There’s one over there. There ..there. Th—”

She grabs your pointed finger and turns it back towards you. It’s not a new answer, so god knows why you’re blushing at it.

“Then kiss me.” You tell her, little louder than a whisper. “Just kiss me, for fuc—”

She’s clearly had enough too. Maybe it was the tiredness in your voice, the obvious look of defeat in your eyes. Maybe she just doesn’t like you swearing. You’re not going to question it. Her lips are finally on yours, and she was definitely worth the wait. It ignites a spark in you, it sends your tipsy little mind fully into orbit, and she’s the only other person in the room with you.

There’s no sense of desperation in the kiss. It’s not messy, or chaotic. It’s deliberate from her, considered. There’s an air of caution perhaps, a worry that you’ll pull away from her. You’re straight, after all. Maybe she’s nervous that your certainty in wanting a kiss will waver now that she’s finally given you what you want. Maybe you’ve realised that you don’t actually want it.

It’s a new experience for you, surprisingly different from kissing a man, but it’s not one you want to pull away from. It’s not one you want to rush. It’s not one you really want to end at all. You can sense her apprehension, and it’s the first time that she’s had no snark. It’s not a cocky little kiss. She’s not doing it to get it over and done with. It’s not going to end with her smirking at you, like she’s done you a favour. It isn’t meaningless.

It’s tentative, and frankly, you’ve had enough of her carefulness. If she needs a sign that you’re not going anywhere, that you want her to keep kissing you, you’ll find a way to do that. Your tongue parts her lips, and the gasp you elicit is all the confirmation you need of her nerves. It’s endearing to have her be quite so vulnerable with you.

You deepening the kiss is clearly all the confirmation she needs that everything’s fair game, because she wastes no time in escalating the intensity. She clings to you, wrapping her arm around your waist, her hand gripping at your hip, the other cradling your jaw. She backs you up against the wall and muffles the moan that escapes you with your joined lips.

Her tongue dances with yours, and you let her take over all your senses. It’s just a kiss, and yet it’s like a journey to a whole new world. It’s entirely all-consuming, the rest of existence has melted to nothingness around you. You don’t care where you are, you don’t care who’s watching. Or do you?

Maybe there is a mild sense of urgency to it, because kissing is simply not enough. You need to have her closer, impossibly close. You need her, entirely, and regardless of how much you’re craving the feeling of her, you do still care about where that happens.

“Are you local?” You ask, breaking the kiss to catch your breath. She only gives a silent nod in reply. “I’m like ..20 minutes by taxi?”

“My hotel’s closer than that.”

“So ..back to yours?”

“Are you sure?” She asks, searching your eyes for any sense of reluctance. She’s unlikely to find any, but you nod, assertively, just to reaffirm. “I’m not taking you back to mine to ..play cards?” She double-checks with you and you chuckle, resting your forehead to hers.

“No, I’m sort of counting on that.” You tell her. “Unless you don’t wa—”

She cuts you off with a kiss again. There was no swearing this time, no tiredness or look of defeat. Maybe she just likes kissing you.

“Are you absolutely sure?” She asks again, because she’s polite, and underneath all her cocky annoyingness, she really is very sweet.

“Oh my god.” You sigh. You do still find yourself rolling your eyes, you don’t know how much more obvious you need to be with her. “..please.”

The rush back to her hotel room is fun, you feel like a teenager all over again. Waltzing through the streets of London, your hand interlaced with an attractive stranger’s, the promise of sex hanging in the air.

It doesn’t matter that it’s a woman you’re linked up with. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s a one-time little indulgence. An experiment, for research purposes. To find out what it is your sister’s been going so crazy over, ever since she was a teenager.

It doesn’t mean anything when she keeps kissing you against the walls of closed buildings. It doesn’t mean anything when you pull her back into you at the entrance of her hotel. Yes, it’s nice. It’s enjoyable. It steals the air right from your lungs every single time, but that doesn’t mean anything. How could it, when you’re straight? Straight straight straight.

You do keep your hands off each other when you get to the lift of the hotel, there’s an older woman in there with you, and you’re not about to put on a show for her. Not for free.

Maybe your eyes keep meeting too much, or the smirking is too obvious. Maybe you do keep touching once or twice, because something’s definitely giving you both away.

“Lesbians?” The older woman asks, with a very clear disdain.

“Hm? For tonight.” You reply with a nod, unperturbed by her demeanour. Your Spanish host shakes her head at you, smiling as she looks up at the ceiling.

You’ve dealt with a few homophobes in your time. Your sister isn’t exactly subtle with her identity. It welcomes dirty looks, offensive words, and you’ve never been one to shy away from protecting her. You’ve never had to defend yourself against prejudice, but she’s not exactly an intimidating woman. You could easily take her if she tries to raise her hand.

“It’s disgusting.” She mutters under her breath, and her unsupportive attitude is sort of spurring you on.

“Do you think?” You ask. “What’s so disgusting about it?”

“Two women. It’s a waste.”

“Oof. I am not about to let her go to waste, don’t you worry about that at all, madam.” You reassure her, offering a friendly smile that earns you a very angry look in reply.

You don’t miss the smirk that graces the taller woman’s face next to you in the mirror, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“It’s not natural!” The older woman tells you, and you nod your head slowly back at her. “It’s disgusting!”

“You’re very annoyed about it.” You point out. “It’s a bit unnecessary, no?”

“I think you’re both disgusting!” She hisses at you again.

“Oh dear.” You lean back against the bar of the elevator, as the older woman stares you down. “That’s an incredible argument you’ve put forward. I think I’ve seen the light!”

She not at all impressed by your relaxed sarcasm, you’re clearly getting on her nerves. Your lack of remorse, the fact you’re not begging for her forgiveness.

“I think it—”

“You think it’s disgusting, madam. We get it.” You interrupt, a little bit tired of her insistence. “Don’t spend your evening with another woman, then. We’re not inviting you to join us, so you can calm down.” You tell her, moving back towards the Spanish woman behind you.

She wraps her arm around your waist instantly and you lean into her touch. It’s comforting, subtle. It’s a very casual display of support without silencing you, without fighting over you.

She’s not dramatically shouting at the other woman; she’s not emasculated by you doing all the talking. She’s not making empty threats or getting up in the other woman’s face.

She’s not reacting at all in the way you’ve come to expect. The way that he probably would, to someone questioning him. Not that your ex ever defended your sister’s honour with you, but he certainly enjoyed getting into a scrap when he felt threatened.

It’s very attractive from her, actually, to just silently remind you that she’s there if you need her. That she’s with you, she does have your back, and you’d kiss her right there on the mouth if the woman opposite wasn’t glaring at you quite so intently.

Maybe you should kiss her regardless. There’s only a few more floors left till the old bat gets off. What’s she going to do, slap you both for some pda? There’s a security camera in here, she wouldn’t be so stupid.

Perhaps you can control yourself for a couple more floors, you don’t need to provoke the bastard woman. So what if she’s an unfavourable little witch, she’s not ruining your evening, you’re not going to let her.

Well, if that’s your logic, why should you let her stop you from kissing the woman when you want to? What courtesy do you owe to her? If she’s that upset about it, she’ll have to either avert her eyes like a petulant little child, or stop off at the floor below and hope she doesn’t choke on her bigotry when walking the rest of the way up. You don’t care.

Thankfully, neither does the Spanish beauty who matches your energy and kisses you back with the same fervour you’re showing her.

You’re instantly entirely unbothered by the third wheel once there’s an extra tongue back in your mouth, her Spanish hands on your face. You don’t care at all how uncomfortable you’re making the old bint. Frankly, you hope her eyes are burning at the sight of you both.

She doesn’t let you enjoy your moment for too long. Of course she doesn’t, the dark-sided little mare. She barges past you both as the doors open and she spits at the floor in front of you. The absolute nerve. She expectorates in the lift inside of a nice hotel, and you’re the disgusting ones? Absolutely not. You’re seeing red. You really could take her, you’ve been to a gym more than once or twice in your life, you’re not weak.

“You revolting little bi—”

The hand that grabs you, has other ideas.

“Let her go!” She tells you, laughing as she spins you back round to face her. “Por favor, she’s not worth it!”

“She spat at us! That dirty little cu—”

She kisses you again. Maybe she really does hate your swearing. Her lips are distracting, though, and you don’t mind learning that that’s one surefire way to get them back on yours.

“She really was a hateful bitch.” You murmur between kisses, and the Spaniard giggles against you.

“You’re a very angry straight girl.” She tells you, pushing your hair back off your face. “You don’t like homophobes?”

“Do you?” You ask, frowning at the woman in front of you.

“No,” she admits with a chuckle, “I’d have probably just let her get on with it quietly, though. Didn’t feel the need to anger her more!”

“I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”

“You didn’t, I’d have backed you if she kept going.”

There’s that sexy little smirk again. It shouldn’t do things to you the way it does. It shouldn’t set your whole body on fire. A small curve to her lips, and you want to rip her clothes off? You’re very tragic.

You drag your eyes away from her and scan the floor number you’re on.

“Bloody hell!” You sigh. “Did you really have to book a room on the highest bloody floor? I get it, you’re rich ..but fuck me!”

You drum out your frustrations on the handrail of the lift, it’s slow ascent through the floors seemingly never-ending.

“Are you sobering up?” She asks, and you nod at her, still tapping your hands. “Are you changing your mind?”

You stop your little percussive performance and turn back to face her.

“You’re very convinced that I’m going to back out?”

“I just want you to know that you can.”

It’s genuine from her. It’s not a perverse attempt at guilt tripping, she’s not trying some weird technique of reverse psychology. She genuinely wants you to know that it’s okay if you’re not ready. If your own act of confidence, is exactly that, just an act.

You take her hand and pull her back towards you. She rests her hands on the rail behind you and you lean in very close.

“Do you want me to?” You ask, and she shakes her head. You tilt her face to meet her eyes and you kiss the corner of her mouth. “Well, okay then, and neither do I.” You tell her quietly, your lips feathering hers. “So know, that until I revoke it, you have my consent ..to do whatever.”

“Careful,” she warns, “I might take you up on that.”

It earns you a deep kiss, and another cheeky smirk. There’s exhilaration shooting through your body and this goddamn endless journey through the sky is entirely unbearable.

“It’s very cute, that your hotel is so close to the bar, but it really would’ve been quicker to just go back to mine!” You point out, patting at her hands behind you.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t me that booked it.”

That’s very cryptic. What on earth is that supposed to mean?

“Please don’t tell me your girlfriend’s waiting for you in there.” You tell her, narrowing your eyes as you await an explanation.

“No, it’s a ..business trip.”

That’s still very cryptic.

“A business trip? What do you do for a living?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“No?” You chuckle, arching an eyebrow. “Are you a spy?”

She laughs back at you, shaking her head. “No,” she assures you, “but it’s too personal.”

“Too personal? We’re not allowed to know each other’s careers?”

She shakes her head, and you find yourself smiling slightly with narrowed eyes. It’s very intriguing. If she wants you to be less interested in her, that wasn’t the way to play it.

“So, I’m guessing, I’m also not allowed to even know your name?” You check.

“A.”

“A?” You chuckle, nodding your head. “That’s a very beautiful name!” You tell her, your hand resting on her chest as you push her away from you. “There’s no way your parents were that lazy!”

“It’s my initial.” She tells you, rolling her eyes with that classic little smirk, as she pulls you back with her across to the other side of the elevator. “My first name starts with A.”

“And that’s all you’re giving me?” You ask, resting your hands on the railing behind her as she nods her head. “You really don’t want me to find you after tonight?” You question her, with your tongue tracing the bottom of your teeth. “Haven’t even been with me yet, and you already know you won’t want a repeat?”

She dips her head to kiss you again, and your hands grip at the bar behind her. You pull yourself in towards her, desperate to be closer, and she cradles your head in her hand.

“It’s not that,” she tells you gently, “but I go home tomorrow.”

Shit. That shouldn’t be so surprising to you. She has a thick Spanish accent, she’s staying in a luxury hotel, paid for by a company on her behalf. Of course she isn’t staying in London for very long. What happened to your exceptional detective skills? How did you not work that one out?

“Fuck.” Is all that falls out of your mouth as you pull yourself back from the woman.

“I’m sorry..” she offers, but you shake your head with a heavy sigh.

“No, I should have realised.” You tell her, nibbling at the inside of your mouth.

It’s a bummer, certainly. There’s something between you both. Whether it’s just a physical attraction, a sexual desire, who knows? But it’s there. You can feel it, and you’re positive that she can too. It doesn’t have to be anything deeper than that. That would mean you really did need to do some introspective work on yourself moving forward.

She’s just a woman. The one woman. The world’s most beautiful woman, who’s turned your world upside down, in a matter of hours. Who bought you a drink, that left you confused. That kissed another woman, and left you annoyed. Who refused to let you leave with a random ancient bastard and has saved you from spending a fundamentally flawed night with a limp-dicked disappointment.

And tomorrow she’ll be gone. You only have tonight with her.

You can walk, she’s already told you that. You can turn around now, and not let yourself fall any deeper. Save yourself the pain of a perfect night that you’ll never be able to repeat. Save yourself from spending the rest of your life chasing an experience you can never recreate with someone else.

It’d be hard enough to find her in London. It’ll be impossible to track her down in Spain.

Leave her now, with just the mind-numbing kisses to haunt you for all eternity. Don’t give your soul to a woman you’ll never see again. Don’t let her steal your heart away with her. Don’t ruin a life of enjoying mediocre sex for yourself.

The elevator rings out, signalling your arrival at her floor and you stay rooted to the spot as she slowly makes her exit. She looks back at you, a sad smile replacing her arrogant one.

“I understand.” She tells you, as she disappears down the hall.

You don’t understand. You don’t understand at all why your body feels so drawn to this woman. Why your mind, your heart, your soul are so desperate for you to chase after her. It can only spell trouble for you. One kiss with her sent your head spinning. Anything more than that will undoubtedly result in irreparable damage. How do you recover from that? How do you move on? How do you let yourself make any other meaningful connections with someone after feeling so intoxicated by a woman you know absolutely nothing about?

It isn’t possible for you to feel this way. It doesn’t make any sense. Even if you weren’t straight. Straight straight straight. How the hell can you fall for someone, when you don’t even have the luxury of knowing her first name? You don’t know what she does, you don’t know who she is. She could be an evil mastermind. A dark-sided villain who does terrible things, all the way over in Spain.

Don’t follow her. It’s foolish. It’ll be the worst mistake of your life. A night you can’t take back. An act you can’t undo.

The doors start to close in front of you, and you wedge your foot in between to stop them. You’re an idiot. A damn blasted fool.

But how could you not go after her? How can you not chase after the rush she sends through you? It’s dangerous, it’s messy, but you want her. Even though it’s just for a night. You can’t walk away from a feeling this strong. A yearning so powerful every cell in your body is screaming out for it.

She’s annoying. Frustrating. Beautiful. Enticing. There’s something, and you can’t very well just turn around and walk the other way.

You follow her into the hallway of her floor, and she turns back to face you.

“I thoug—”

“I didn’t revoke.” You tell her, shaking your head as you walk towards her. “I didn’t come up all this way to play cards, and I certainly didn’t come up all this way to go straight back bloody down again!”

She chuckles at you, shaking her head.

“And tomorrow?”

“We’ll deal with that then.” You tell her. “If it’s only meant to be one incredible night, then so be it.”

“You think it’ll be incredible?” She asks, the smirk tugging at her lips.

“With you? ..yes.”

The smirk morphs into a full smile. One that reaches her eyes. One that transforms her whole beautiful face into the most breathtaking radiance as she beams back down at you.

“And what if it’s awful?” She chuckles.

“Then I’ll be packing your bags for you to go in the morning.”

She takes a step to close the distance between you and pulls you in for a slow deep kiss.

“Are you absolutely su—”

“For fuck’s sake!” You whisper, crashing your head to her shoulder to chuckle against her neck. “Yes! I’m sure! I’m very bloody certain, I want you to take me to your room. Yes!”

“Yes ..what?”

She’s incredibly frustrating. Just wilfully annoying. Childish, pathetic, addictive, perfect. She’s everything. She’s absolutely everything.

“Please.”

________________

You don’t hate this woman. She didn’t trick you into bed at all. There’s affection between you, a fondness. It wasn’t a drunken night of angry passion. It was intimate, careful, experimental. Perfect.

You have a desperate need for this woman you’re wrapped up in. A want to have her close, to keep her with you forever. An impossible request. An unattainable, hopeless little prayer.

“You’re leaving today.” You remind her, panting slightly as she calms you from your high.

“I did tell you that.” She whispers, her fingers trailing your stomach.

“I know, I just ..it just hit me.”

You look back to her, and there’s a sadness in her eyes that you can only imagine you’re reflecting back at her with yours. You stroke your thumb over her cheek and lean in for a kiss. It’s soft, impossibly gentle. It’s the most painful way to say goodbye.

“I should go,” you tell her, “my sister will be wondering where I am. Wondering what ..man I hooked up with.” You chuckle a little pulling yourself out of her embrace.

“What will you tell her?”

“He was beautiful.” You admit. “Foreign.. Italian, I think.”

She laughs to the side of you, leaning back over towards you as she shakes her head. She places a kiss on your shoulder, lighting a tiny fire with her mouth.

“I don’t want you to go.” She tells you, placing more kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips.

You don’t want to go either, not when she’s igniting an inferno inside of your body like this. It’s cruel, it’s sadistic. It’s the perfect way to say goodbye.

“What time’s your flight?” You ask, with a mild desperation to your voice.

“Not till this evening.”

“Do you have to be anywhere else today?”

“Not till this afternoon.”

“So, we still have the rest of the morning?”

“Mhmm.”

“It probably wouldn’t be the worst thing ..if I was late back home.”

“No?”

“Unless you’re kicking me out?”

She has no intention of doing that, as well you know. She straddles herself on top of you, and your heart starts racing again. Her body on full display in front of you. The most beautiful body. She’s in incredible shape. It’d be more intimidating to you, if she hadn’t repeatedly told you how beautiful she thinks you are last night. You’re not in terrible shape yourself, but you definitely felt the need to tense more to give yourself some sort of definition. Her abs are just naturally on full display without any effort from her at all.

“You’re very beautiful.” You tell her, taking her in. “You have very beautiful ..eyes.”

“My eyes are up here.” She tells you, pointedly.

“Mhmm. Very beautiful.” You repeat, ignoring her little biology lesson as you trace your fingers over her curves.

She traps her tongue between her teeth as she smiles down at you, before leaning back in for a bruising kiss.

“You might be my favourite straight girl.” She tells you, and you roll your eyes.

“Might be?” You ask, feigning offence as you push her back up.

“You’re in the top three.” She tells you, smirking.

“Woww.” You draw out sarcastically. “That’s very charitable of you, thanks.”

She chuckles to herself, collapsing back down to run her lips across your chest. She starts trailing lower, and you can tell where she’s heading. She’s already seen to you once this morning, she’s done more than enough. You’d like to repay the favour. Frankly, you could do with a rest.

You grip at her thighs to flip her over, and the smile on her face as you do, has you kicking yourself for not doing it sooner.

“Are you okay?” She asks as your eyes roam over her face.

“Mhmm.” You nod. “I remember ..really enjoying something last night.” You admit, a little cautiously.

“Yeah? I remember you enjoying it too.”

“Did ..did you enjoy it?”

“Mhmm.” She murmurs, and you can feel her body shifting beneath you. “You’re very good with your tongue.”

“Really?” You ask, a little too enthusiastically, as a tiny thrill courses right through you. You have to fight every instinct not to wet your own lips with it as she nods, that small smirk coming back into view. “Did it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“You tasted good.” You breathe, clenching your jaw slightly.

“Are you still claiming to be straight?” She chuckles, her eyebrow arching.

“Mm.” You laugh, collapsing back into her for a kiss. “It’s hanging by a thread.” You admit, smiling into her as her lips move against yours. “Do you want me to?” You ask, a knowing look on your face.

“Yes.” She admits, her back arching as she readjusts herself for you.

“Yes ..what?”

She shakes her head, with a disbelieving smile. Maybe you’re in love with this stranger. Maybe she feels it too.

“..Please.” She whispers, and you don’t need asking twice.

________________

The walk back to the elevator, has no reason being as painful as it is. Even after a morning together between the sheets, a shared shower before a very late breakfast. You’ve still only known this woman a little over 12 hours. You’ve learnt absolutely nothing about her personal life, who she is, why she’s here, whether she’ll ever be back. She knows nothing about you. It isn’t right for there to be a connection between you, when you have no fundamental knowledge of each other. You could have literally nothing in common, and your heart’s tearing itself in two at the thought of her leaving for another country.

Neither of you want to say goodbye to each other. That much is obvious as you tangle your fingers with hers and stare at the button for the lift. Both elevators are on the bottom floor, you’ll still have a few minutes together even if you request it now. You can’t draw an eternity out of a few minutes, but you can savour them. It’s like setting a little timer for you as you press the button. The lift starts its ascension up the floors and the seconds you still have together start to decrease.

“This is insane.” You admit to her, your eyes beginning to sting. “I shouldn’t hate leaving you this much, I don’t even know who you are!”

“I know.” She tells you, with the same shaky breath as you.

She pulls you into her embrace and you cling to the fabric of her sweatshirt for dear life. She’s given you one of her sweatshirts, to stop you looking too dishevelled as you do the walk of shame back home. It’s a bit oversized on you, and she told you you looked adorable when you had to roll the sleeves up a couple times to free your hands.

You sort of wish she’d stop being so sweet to you. Go back to being the annoying woman that had her lips on someone else. Go back to being the weirdly confusing woman with the salt and the limes. Do anything to make saying goodbye to each other just a tiny bit more bearable.

“Imagine if you weren’t straight,” she whispers to the side of your head, “imagine the breakdown you’d be having then!”

She’s an idiot, and it does manage to make you laugh, as warm tears escape your eyes, and you bury your head further into her neck.

She’s not straight, you remember. So, maybe it’s a subtle confession of her own struggle she’s having with you parting ways. She is holding you impossibly tight, like you’ll disappear from right in front of her in a puff of smoke, if she loosens her grip even slightly.

The elevator seems to be soaring through the levels without any people in it. It’s a far more rapid process than it was when it was holding the pair of you hostage last night. That isn’t fair. Who designed that?

“It’s going to be the longest journey of my life going back down without you.” You mumble against her.

“Hopefully you don’t bump into your best friend on the way!”

“For fuck’s sake!” You laugh, pulling yourself from her and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “That evil cow!” You let out a sigh and shake your head. “She’ll be fine with me today, to be fair. I’m straight again now!”

“Oh, of course! You can agree with each other about it being disgusting, then!”

“Mm. I mean ..we did do some pretty disgusting things to each other.” You remind her smugly.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate you giving her all the details.” She winks, and you grin as you pull her back into a hug.

“I really enjoyed it.” You confess to her, quietly. “I really enjoyed being with you.”

“Me too.”

The ding of the elevator signals that your time is up. The moment you’ve been dreading, has finally arrived. You head straight in. You don’t know if it’s better to get a clean break, or prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. The doors start closing, and her foot appears in the gap to keep you for a moment longer.

She fists her hands in her sweatshirt you’re wearing and kisses you across the threshold. It’s one that catches you off guard, but you match the passion in it as soon as you realise what’s happening. The doors try closing on you a few times, but you keep blocking them with a hand. You’re not letting them steal your moment.

She breaks the kiss but keeps her grip on you. You can see the tears in her eyes, feel the ones in yours. It’s ridiculous. You catch one with your thumb as it starts to roll down her cheek and you place a kiss to where you broke its fall.

“If you’re ever back in London..” you tell her, a small smirk on your face, “just ask around for my initial. I’m sure someone will lead you back to me!”

“I’ll have to try.” She tells you earnestly, letting go of your sweatshirt and smoothing it back down for you.

“I really need to go. It’s not possible to make this any easier.” You tell her, pushing her back as the doors start their final closing attempt. “Don’t forget me!”

“I won’t remember anything else.” She tells you, as the doors close, and neither of you have chance to change your minds.

It shouldn’t hurt like this. It was a one-night stand. They’re not rare. The pair of you crying after a single night together? That’s rare. That’s ridiculous.

Collapsing in on yourself as you try to catch your breath without her? That’s insanity.

The tears flow freely as you hold yourself up against the side of the elevator. You pull the neckline of her sweatshirt up over your nose and breathe her in. Playing make believe in your head, that she’s still with you. It’s a souvenir you’ll treasure. A living memory. Proof that it wasn’t a dream, and it certainly wasn’t a nightmare. It was your perfect little night, wrapped up with the world’s most perfect woman. The woman who’s running off back to Spain with your heart in her hand luggage.

All this longing, this desire, this love, for a woman that you barely know. A woman you have no hope in ever finding again. A woman you’ve fallen head over heels for, despite being straight. Straight straight straight.

[itoshiexx]

scraps

synopsis: you give him all you have. it's time to collect the scraps before there is nothing left.

pairing: itoshi sae x gn!reader | words: 797 | warnings: established relationship, angst

notes: do u guys remember the sae drabble i told y'all about some time ago? well, my depressive ass decided to post it now. i'm sorry in advance.

masterlist

the silence is deafening. it lingers thick and heavy in the air, nearly making you choke on nothing — or perhaps you’re choking on all the things you want to say that are stuck in your throat. you can feel your whole body trembling as the anxiety creeps further in, and you wrap your arms around yourself to try and bring some comfort. 

before, it was someone else’s arms that gave you peace, but lately, it has only been torment. 

it is why you’re standing in the living room of your shared apartment, staring at the teal eyes of itoshi sae while trying to hold back your own tears. it hurts. it hurts to look at him and remember the way he used one of your weaknesses against you in the argument you had minutes before, as if stabbing a wound that didn’t quite close properly, tearing the skin at the seams and turning it into a bigger, uglier, messier scar. 

you feel violated. 

perhaps you should have known better. maybe, if you listened to your mother, you wouldn’t have shown so much of yourself to sae, basking in a vulnerability that could only come back to bite you in the end. you gave him all the tools to hurt you where it stings most, and there was no one to blame but yourself for that. 

love made you foolish. you were tired. 

“i don’t think i can do this anymore, sae.” your voice is meek and hollow. only a shell of the person you used to be — the one that bled through its heart until all the life was drained. 

“what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, brow arched. defensive. ready to hurt you some more in case he became slightly uncomfortable. 

you breathe. in and out. in and out. rubbing your arm with your own hand, whispering to yourself under your breath that everything was going to be alright. even if it felt like nothing but that. 

“you… you’re hurting me, sae,” you manage to say with the lump in your throat. “you have been for a while. and i try to be better, but i… i can’t do this alone. and you’re not even trying.”

the tears welled up in your lash line start to fall again, and at this point, you know it’s useless to try and stop them. you also know they are the only thing that keep you sane, even if it feels like you’re losing your mind at every breath you take. 

sae doesn’t say anything, and you actually consider that a blessing. you don’t know how much more of his venomous words you can take before it destroys you completely from the inside out. something tells you his toxin has been spreading through your body for a while, although you only started to notice recently, when the fights got worse.

how long has he been killing you?

the weight of this question is enough to spike your anxiety once again, and you dig your nails on the skin of your arms to try to detain these overwhelming feelings, squeezing your eyes shut.

you nearly jump when you feel his strong arms circling your shoulders, bringing your head to his chest. you squirm and try to fight it — fight him —, but sae is stronger and more stubborn than you could ever be, and all you can do is cry harder and blow weak punches to his torso. 

“i’m sorry,” he says. it’s not the first time. the words make your stupid heart flutter with hope, but the hurt brings you back to reality. it’s not the first time, and he has done nothing to change for the better. he never fucking listens.

“you’re so mean,” you cry, ceasing the punches due to your lack of strength. you can barely keep standing, and you’re sure that his hold is the only thing keeping you from falling. “why are you so mean to me, sae?”

he’s silent again. you keep going. “i gave you my everything. i loved you with all i had. i-i opened up to you like never before, and you… you just…”

your stomach sinks. there aren’t even words to express what you’re feeling nor what he’s doing to you — the many ways he has been destroying what you spent years trying to put back together.

you were tired. 

in a final attempt to save what’s left of you, you raise your head from his chest to look deep into his aquamarine eyes. you want him to look at yours, too. 

“sae,” your voice is nothing more than a hollow whisper. you take a deep breath, garning all the strength and courage you can.

and then, you plea for the last time:

“please, give back what’s left of my heart.”

© 2023 itoshiexx. do not plagarise, translate, or repost any of my work on here or other sites.

[javarium]

all the good things | geto suguru.

someway, somehow, amidst all of the thoughts of chaos and spiraling ideals of a new “better” world, a light shines through to guide him to a path of true balance. that just so happens to be the second-year transfer from Kyoto, who’s more than happy to put him back on the right path..

warning(s): like 98% canon lmao, female reader, mentions of pregnant! reader towards the end, honestly just wrote and didn’t bother checking if this was coherent but here’s y’all a snack haha, also using new line dividers atm and they’re all all pretty, credits to the maker in the guidelines of my blog

note(s): as much as I wanted to wait I just can’t stand it so here’s this piece published earlier than I want lol. also I didn’t know who to tag for geto so I just went with these lovelies ☺️

You like the Tokyo school much better than the one in Kyoto.

By leaps and bounds actually, you muse.

Everything from the people down to the energy they give off was so much more different — more freeing.

Kyoto was just too much, too old school and too traditional, especially for you. The students there seemed to be more rigid, and the teachers seemed to sneer at you. More often than not for just being a female. That old way of thinking was most likely why they lost the Exchange Event almost every year.

Especially with sorcerers like Geto Suguru on their side.

You transferred to Tokyo during the last half of your first year, which wasn’t something commonplace. That time wasn’t exactly a pleasant time to transfer into. Geto and Gojo, your upperclassmen, had failed a mission protecting the Plasma Star Vessel, Riko Amanai. Yes, Gojo managed to take out the Sorcerer Killer, Fushiguro Toji (who was actually a Zen’in like Naoya) on the mission, but that was only after he had completed his mission — after they had failed to protect Riko.

Now you’re a second-year at Tokyo High, watching the third-year Geto Suguru fall into a spiral of chaos and warped ideals while his friends go their own personal paths and leave him to his own devices, completely unaware in their own worlds that they’ve left a storm brewing behind them, alone and lonely and more than ready to bring down its wrath upon anyone in its way.

You secretly wondered how much Gojo cared for the person who was supposed to be his best friend.

So why you decided to approach said storm to get a (very much well-needed) drink out at the machines while he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, you have no idea. Were you stupid? Yes. Did that matter right now? … Probably.

Your feet carried you to the vending machine, standing beside Geto. You weren’t bothering to look at him out of your peripheral vision, knowing that if you did, the universe would shit on you and he would look up and make eye contact.

Sounds like one of those romance animes or something, you think, nose crunching in distaste. Ew…

“It’s such a shame that you decided to withdraw from Kyoto, [Name]-chan.”

An even bigger problematic ‘ew’ came from behind you. You scowled and turned halfway on your heel, back facing your black-haired upperclassmen to stare at the smirking face of one of the two reasons you’d originally left Kyoto’s school.

You scoff, shaking your head to see Geto’s form standing tall, but still facing the vending machine to get something. That’s all right; you could handle your own battles anyway.

“You really have the audacity to come and talk to me like this? After what you put me through for the last two years? Ah, wait a second. It’s you. So I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Naoya shrugged. “All I asked for was—”

“For you to leave her alone, Zen’in.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the sound of Geto’s voice cutting through the air, but it’s only Naoya that scowls and turns his head to face his Tokyo upperclassmen.

And to your absolute surprise, despite Naoya’s scowl deepening to a point where you thought he couldn’t get any uglier, the male pivoted on the ball of his foot and sauntered off.

“Are you alright?” came the instant inquiry.

Geto moving to get a closer look at you made you sweat even more. Just for a different reason.

“I’m fine, Senpai.”

The tall male looks between you and Naoya’s fading figure, eyes narrowing slightly in distaste up until he sees the Zen’in male finally disappear from sight. Even he knows that the Zen’in’s are trash; Naoya just really takes the cake.

“That’s good,” he says.

And when he looks at you with gentle eyes, you’re surprised (and desperately trying to hide it). How instantly his expression and mood changed from mere moments before Naoya showed up to at this moment caught you off guard.

“Did you need something from here? I can get it for you.”

His offer is so sincere, so polite. Such a stark contrast from earlier. Especially with the way the bright smile on his face that reaches his ears and makes the corners of his eyes begin to crinkle.

Instead of the same uncertainty from before your approach filling your stomach, this time feels different. This time, it’s an excited, happy feeling; as if butterflies are rapidly fluttering away in your belly in eager anticipation of something wonderful to come.

“Um, yes,” you squeak, looking to the machines, “I was going to get—”

>>>>

How long does it take for one to fall from grace?

From one who’s fingers touched the pure white clouds of heaven to becoming one who’s knees were stuck deep within the obsidian tar pits of hell, it seemed Geto Suguru was destined to struggle with himself — with his morals and ideals of the world of jujutsu sorcerers and the world of people that lived outside of it — for eternity.

Someone that was so bright, so revered, to fall into a pit of hopelessness?

It must be a lie, others would think.

Watching him sink into the pits of chaos and despair while his best friend rose to a place where he became untouchable to all sorcerers… made something terrible, something spiteful, stir within the depths of your stomach. How much did the white-haired teenager care about the one he called his equal?

But as Gojo became more and more powerful and left his friend behind, Geto too, grew in power in his own right.

And a lot of it was with you.

Weeks of meeting at the vending machines for snacks during training turned into months of sitting on benches and eating lunch together. Even that progressed farther, to him taking you to everything from restaurants to the book store (as much as he’d laugh at you buying manga, he was just as much of a hypocrite with Inuyasha under his arm) to even pretty lakes across Japan, soaring atop one of his flying curses.

Doing things that friends do. That people more than friends also do.

But at the same time, during those times after missions or simply while spending time together in either his or your room, you’d see that malicious darkness fester up. You’d see the way his brows would furrow when you mentioned saving someone or his lips pull down when there’d be a mention of the higher-ups about a mission you’d taken recently that went sour.

In times like these, you wondered if Gojo Satoru really did once know Geto Suguru the same way you knew him now.

“I can see the sweat on your forehead,” the black-haired male jokes. “You shouldn’t think so hard.”

Suguru doesn’t chuckle, but the joking smile of amusement is still there. It’s just a faint one. He’s become less and less of a jokester lately, swimming deeper into the darkness. But for you, you think he tries a little harder to keep the mood and air between you two as light and positive as possible.

(For you.)

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” you quip back, “for the next time I see sweat on your brow for thinking so much. Hypocrite.”

For the first time all day, he finally chuckles.

“Hypocrite?” He muses, placing his cheek on his fist. “Really?”

“Yes!” You toss your hands up in mock frustration. “You heard me, Mr. I-Wanna-Brood-At-Weird-Times-of-the-Day.”

“That’s an awfully long name.”

“It sure does fit though, yeah?”

“So you say.”

The air had been tense and thick since morning, but the two of you were striving to get past it. Well, you slightly more, but the more you tried, the more Geto — ah, Suguru. He already told you to call him that, didn’t he? — seemed to try and help you push for a happier tone.

But the mission Suguru was to be sent on soon had him shut down mentally, closed off from you for the last few days. And today was the day you’d tried to pick him back up out of his crappy mood.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” you ask.

Suguru sighs, then nods his head. “It’s nothing. I’ll be back by the day after, if not sooner.”

You shrug, semi-happy with his response and accepting it. But the other half of you knows something — sees something — behind his pretty eyes that you wished you would have left alone.

But your heart loved to meddle when it wanted to meddle.

And in the future, you hoped Suguru would thank you for that meddling nature.

****

113 bodies were to be found five days after Geto arrived at the village he was assigned to.

But he hadn’t been alone the day he arrived.

Suguru just didn’t know that.

You’d stuck to him like glue. Well, as far back as glue could stretch in that regard. You’d silenced your cursed energy so much that you almost swore you didn’t even have any. And not once did the male turn around to bother to look around or check his surroundings, like he knew he was ever being followed.

Now, all you could do was watch as Suguru stepped into the house that the villagers brought him to. Supposedly, the house contained the reason why the villagers had been dying.

But that gnawing anxiousness in the pit of your stomach told you otherwise. It told you that something was about to go very, very wrong.

Very few people had been able to manage to near-fully suppress their cursed energy aura. It was a talent that could only be managed by a select few, one of which was probably Gojo Satoru himself. But when one successfully did it, all the stories told of how nauseous they felt; how overwhelming the sense of others cursed energy could be.

And it was all true.

Bile and your lunch nearly coated your shoes. Knees too had you let Suguru’s immense, Special Grade cursed energy make you sink to the ground.

It isn’t the same. It isn’t the same. It isn’t the same!

Eyes blown wide as saucers, you realized that something had indeed went very, very wrong inside that house. Because no longer was Suguru’s cursed energy driven by regular means like a regular jujutsu sorcerer.

No. All you could see from his cursed energy was pure malice and raw, unadulterated rage and anger.

Whatever these people said or have done to send him into such fury like this, you couldn’t move, only think. This is the day they die.

Out of the house comes two— No, three. Suguru being one of them. A man and a woman, both with ugly faces and ugly auras you didn’t like.

No wonder Suguru doesn’t like them.

A curse manifests from your friend’s fingertips, and you quickly realize what’s about to happen — the only thing that could happen.

But he can’t just kill them…

You step out of your hiding spot and shout his name. Shock enters Suguru’s eyes. Of course; he hadn’t expected you to be here. But then they glaze over with a mixture of emotions. Disappointment seems to be the most obvious.

Curse you, Yuki Tsukumo, for tipping him over the edge.

“Don’t even try it, Suguru.”

“You shouldn’t have come, [Name].” It sounded like a warning.

You scoff slightly. “And let you do something like this? I don’t think so.”

His eyes narrow. It’s an expression you don’t like.

“You need to leave.”

“So do you, apparently.”

“Don’t be like this, [Name]. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t anyway. Why let one awful circumstance, one awful event, define the rest of your life?”

“Do you know what they’ve done?” he asks, and you clearly hear the intent of violence behind his tone. You see his jaw clench up and a dangerous fire ignite behind his eyes. “Do you know they have two girls locked up in there, ready to kill?”

“Of course not,” you say, “but you were about to do something that was going to impact your life… Forever.”

“I think I’m ready for that.”

“You’re ready to lose everything?”

“If I must.”

You almost bite your tongue. But you don’t, and speak anyway.

“Even me?”

The thick, black smokiness of one his curses dancing on his fingertips turns to wisps, almost vanishing. You see what the question does to him, so you press farther. Deeper into the unspoken part of you two’s relationship you’d both been afraid to touch on.

Then, he admits something, dipping first into waters that haven’t been treaded into.

“I’d like to think you’d come with me, be by my side.”

Your heart thumps faster. It’s a declaration of many things: loyalty, friendship, trust.

But all your ears hear is a declaration of love.

Because you don’t miss the way his eyes shine as he looks you up and down like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. Like he wants you to actually follow him like he expected, to come with him and step in place next to him like an equal.

If not more than just an equal.

“I can’t do that,” you reply. “You know I can’t, Suguru. And neither can you.”

It’s written all over his face that he doesn’t like your answer.

“And why can’t I?”

“Because you’re better than this.”

…

…

Was he? What did that mean anyway: being better? After Riko, after his “talk” with Yuki, everything just seemed to collapse around him; everything he knew ripping apart at the seams faster than he could repair them.

Why? Why was he supposed to be better? How could he be better? Did he deserve to even become better?

“Don’t take the easy way,” you tell him. “There’ll never be a right answer, not right now at least.”

“Killing all non-sorcerers seems like a pretty good start,” he replies darkly.

“And how would you even manage that?” you retort. “If that’s the only thing you can stand on, that’s shallow.”

“Then what is the answer, [Name]? Do tell me, please,” he urges sarcastically, rolling his dark eyes. “Is killing every non-sorcerer not worth us jujutsu sorcerers having a chance to live?”

You answer as earnestly as he expects, “I have no idea, but at the moment, it sounds pretty stupid.”

Unfortunately, it takes him much longer than you want for him to put the monster at his fingertips away, for his cursed energy to dip down and go back to the way it was before it spiked in a rage you’d never anticipated to see from him.

The village is scathed with fire and terror: burned buildings with its inhabitants shaken to the core over the consequences of their actions — and what would happen if they tried to put more children in the cage Suguru found them in. It’s not ethical, and surely you’d hear about it from the higher-ups in jujutsu society.

But for the girls wrapped up in yours and Suguru’s arms, you heart and soul knew it was worth it.

Megumi doesn’t get along with Nanako too well. But you’re sure you know why, with his red cheeks and all.

“You think he’ll ever say anything?” you ask your husband.

“Doubtful,” Suguru chuckles, “considering he was raised by Satoru.”

It’s been a rough ten years raising the twins. There’s been a long list of issues, struggles over the last several years that have really put your relationship with your now-husband to the test. From the elders to Suguru’s own conflicting ideals; from his own coping mechanisms to making sure you and his girls are well taken care of, and those are just a few to list. But fixing Satoru and Suguru’s friendship was by far the most difficult thing.

Riko’s death really did change them in the most awful ways.

“Satoru has only gotten crazier over the years,” you hum, agreeing. “I still can’t believe Satoru brought Sukuna’s vessel here.”

“I think you mean stupid, darling,” Suguru chuckles. “And did you know he gave Itadori a second finger?”

“Disgusting! All in true Satoru taste, too.”

“Hey! I can hear you two, you know!” the white-haired male complains.

“Good!” you shout back.

And cue Satoru’s crocodile tears. “Suguru really did marry a witch!”

You feel the veins in your head twitch with irritation. You’d always hated that damn nickname.

You moved to stand up to go and whack the shit out of the manchild, but your husband’s hand settled on your knee. You looked at him curiously, sitting back down.

“Sit,” he says. “Getting worked up like that isn’t good for you right now. Shoko said to keep it minimal for now, remember?”

You snort. “You’ve drilled it into me, Sugu.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a moment.”

His hand rests on your belly for moment, presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, and then stands up to go and beat the shit out of his best friend to defend his wife’s honor.

And maybe to have some fun, too.

taglist: @vagabond-umlaut • @itzmeme • @dellalyra • @torusmochi

[ash-arts-but-sinful]

This is burning a hole into my brain, but what if new game+ gave you the option to summon Carlo instead of Specter and he offers stupid/witty commentary for each boss you fight with him. Tbh this is just for fun, but I wanted to share in case anybody else might like it

Might have to put this one under a cut it could get long. Also spoiler warning!

Scrapped Watchman

• I never liked cops, this is going to be fun!

• Do we really need a watchman this big?

• Okay Sparky, let’s dance!

• (if he gets picked up) Shit-! -> Ugh- okay that might’ve hurt a little.

• Haha! Good riddance! Don’t know what the local kids saw in that thing.

King’s Flame

• Oh boy, a walking furnace.

• Have I ever mentioned I hate the heat?

• The floor is lava! Shit!

• (if he’s set on fire) I know I’m hot, but this is ridiculous! / Hot! Too hot!

• Sigh, thank god. I could never work alongside that… thing.

Archbishop

• Oh wow, that is… hard to look at.

• Watch the chicken legs!

• Really?! With its tongue?! Disgusting!

During phase 2

• How did he manage to get even uglier?

• You should’ve stayed in your shell!

• God chose you to be an Angel alright. Just not a living one.

Black Rabbit Brotherhood

• Some rabbit, the big guy looks more like a pig to me!

• Would somebody shut her up!

• Half of you aren’t even rabbits! That stupid bucket looks like a dog!

• You are too full of yourself, bunny boy.

• These guys need better fursuits

• Pathetic… And don’t bother coming back!

King of Puppets

• Something feels wrong about this.

• That voice…

• No… It can’t be-!

Second phase

• Romeo?!

• Romeo please! Why won’t you stop, it’s me!

• How do we get through to him?!

• No!!! UGH Why wouldn’t you LISTEN?! *shakey inhale* Damn it, just go! Get out of this damn place.

Victor

• What do you want? Are we killing my best friend in disguise again?

• I finally get to see this guy in action and I’m the one who has to fight him! Seriously?!

• This guy really is all washed up.

• That can’t be good for you.

• Yikes, those fists pack one hell of a punch!

• That Simon guy is a real piece of work. Good luck with that.

Green Monster

• Ohh this thing looks disgusting.

• It sounds disgusting too, I think I’m going hurl!

• It slimed me!

Phase 2

• Not the giant cop again!

• Would you! Just! Sit! Still!

• I can only imagine what it smells like in that puppet chassis.

• That was truly vile. If you ever need help fighting a giant slime monster again PLEASE hesitate to ask.

Black Rabbit Brotherhood 2

• Didn’t you learn your lessons last time?

• Lord, are these guys full of themselves.

• If you couldn’t beat us last time what makes you think you can this time?

• Looks like the pig wants his bacon cooked again!

• You had to mutate yourself because you wouldn’t beat us last time? Now THAT is pathetic.

• Still losers. Still pretentious. Still pathetic. How disappointing.

Laxasia

• Hmm. Big sword.

• Oh and it makes lightning too, great!

• How can she move so fast with all that armour!?

Phase 2

• Ohhhh good, now she’s even faster!

• Weakness to it or not electricity still hurts like hell!

• There she goes into the air again. Coward!

• Well that wasn’t fun, but I suspect it’ll be even less fun in that tower.

Simon

• Isn’t that the guy from the exhibition?

• This guy is a real piece of work.

• And I thought the rabbits were full of themselves!

Phase 2

• I didn’t think it could get any worse!

• Who needs this many hands?!

• God or not this guy is going down!

• The last like after Simon is defeated depends on your playthrough: Truth “Until next we meet. Which will be sooner than you think, I can’t wait.” Punctuated by a dark chuckle. Lie “I’ll see you again soon. For what it’s worth though… I’m sorry.”

Bonus: depending on what playthrough you did the Nameless Puppet will actually talk and have different dialogue

Truth playthrough/Lie playthrough

• I’ve been waiting for this for too damn long. / I didn’t want it to come to this.

• You don’t deserve that heart! It’s rightfully mine! / Please, you have to understand! I need that heart!

• You stupid puppet, I hope you didn’t think father actually cared about YOU! / Gepetto never cared for you, I wish he had, at least you could’ve known love.

• Why won’t you DIE ALREADY!? / I deserve to live too, this isn’t fair for either of us!

• You will NEVER be me, just give up already! / You may not be me, but you deserve better than this.

During Phase 2 the puppet won’t speak, but Carlo’s dialogue will be inserted along everyone else’s, tbh I want to have him say something during phase 2, but there’s already so much going on during that fight. In a truth playthrough the ending will play out as normal and Gepetto will die, calling Pinocchio a useless puppet, Pinocchio will be the one to finish off Carlo’s vessel. In a lie playthrough Carlo will finally be able to control his actions and is unable to finish off Pinocchio, he shuts himself down while giving one final line.

“Maybe in another life we could have been… brothers.”

Gepetto is distraught and instead of shedding tears for his father Pinocchio sheds them for Carlo

A lot of his radient dialogue would consist of laughter that borders on unhinged and the usual exertion and damage taking grunts. Regardless of what playthrough you do he wants to keep either his heart or Pinocchio alive, so if his health falls below half he has a chance of reminding you to heal. Also depending on the playthrough he’ll either compliment perfect blocks, parry’s, dodges or hits for lies and for truths he’ll be a snarky asshole, claiming he could do just as good if not better

[iamgodsoopsie]

Astarion Headcanons (that you probably won't like) Pt. 3:

Part 1 link

Part 2 link

More Astarion headcanons that are mostly me projecting onto a fictional character to help me process my own trauma!

BG3 does an excellent job at depicting SA trauma and the beginning of the healing process/journey. Many of the headcanons I've seen floating around (intentionally or unintentionally) gloss over the uglier side of healing from (prolonged) trauma. I'm not judging anyone for magically healing him, he's fictional after all, but I'd like to make some more ...realistic... headcanons.

Disclaimer: Everyone's healing process looks different, but they tend share commonalities. These headcanons are based on my own experiences. Not everyone who is healing from their trauma will experience what I have or have experienced it like I have.

[Please don't message me with explicit details about your trauma. I am at the point in my healing journey where I can share my experiences, and commiserate with other's similar experiences, but I am unable to support others in a more personal manner at this time. I wish you the best of luck in your healing process/ journey.]

Spoiler warning

Mental illness, SA, & SH (suicidal ideation) Trigger Warnings: More descriptive and potentially triggering than part 1, but about equal to part 2.

These headcanons are based on an Astarion who is still a spawn and romantically involved with a Tav who honestly loves him and isn't abusive or manipulative. Also Cazador is dead and Astarion got to stab him. They also assume that he himself does not turn into Cazador 2.0 or wish.com Cazador.

Have things been going well for awhile? Is he reclaiming his sexuality at an exponential rate? Does he think he's practically conquered his trauma?

-> If you said 'Yes' to any of the questions above, then be ready for: A trigger he didn't know he had hitting him out of no where and setting his mental health on fire.

->-> If he's at a place in his healing journey that he is able to recognize what happening and use his healthy coping tools/ honest communication to process his unexpected emotional (maybe literal) flashback then it'll be a not fun time for him, but he'll get through it fairly quickly with minimal mental damage.

->->-> If this happens closer to the beginning of his healing journey then be ready for him to spiral and catastrophize. He'll insist that he'll never truly be free of Cazador, that he's broken, that he isn't allowed to be happy, etc. All you can really do during this time is be there for him. Reassure him that you love him and that you believe that he will get better.

->↑ This is a normal part of the healing process, it's shitty and God-awful- but it gets easier to manage and happens less frequently over time.

Even if he weren't an immortal vampire he's still a high-elf and will probably outlive you. And boy oh boy the pressure he's going to put himself under to hurry up and heal is going to be immense AND counterproductive!

-> Poor bby is terrified that he'll finally be happy only for it to be ripped away from him.

->-> Him rushing his healing will only make it harder for him to heal, and he knows this. But Gods damn it all he can't seem to shake the feeling that he's running out of time (okay Hamilton).

->->-> I gotta be honest, I have no fucking clue how to help him with this. I suppose that the only thing you can do is love him with the time ya'll have.

->->->-> TBH I can see him deciding that he'll KHS when you die. I know you have the best intentions, but asking him to live for you after your gone will (probably) be perceived as very manipulative.

->↑ I honestly don't think ya'll are going to come to an agreement on this if you're vehemently against the notion. It may be best to make your preference known and then leave the topic alone- as pressing it will only cause him to double down. (After 200 years of not being allowed to make any decisions for himself, he's not going to let anyone tell him how to 'live' or die).

Surviving "200 years of shit, PURE. SHIT!" had to have been exhausting. And healing from trauma is exhausting. All Astarion wants to do is rest but he feels that he can't truly rest until he heals from his trauma and he's so damn tired and has to keep dealing with this shit and he really wants to give up somedays but he'll be damned if he lets Cazador 'win'.

->↑ Healing is hard work. But it is so damn worth it.

I'll go back and edit any grammar and spelling mistakes later, but I'd really like to post this now.

[bubble-tea-blossom]

The Soldier and the Smuggler

4. The Crossing

Joel x f!reader. 4k. (this gif always kills me)

Previous chapter

Your eyes are closed but you aren’t asleep. Your body won’t let you, not here, not now- sitting in the corner of an abandoned doctor’s office. Your captor blocking your only exit like a grumpy hippopotamus. No one is getting out but also no one is getting in. This you can at least appreciate.

You hear the smuggler count under his breath accompanied by the click as bullets slide into a clip. Clip after clip, you hear him prep. He takes apart his revolver and sawed-off shotgun, cleans them, and then counts each bullet as he reloads.

He’s a little obsessive. You supposed there’s worse things to be obsessive over, working in this field. In yours too. You can appreciate that the man knows his way around firearms because you have your own obsessive tendencies when carrying.

Being careful means survival, and you doubt a man like him has lived as long as he has by being careless.

You hear the smuggler rise from the couch with a tired grunt before he starts making his way towards you. He gets closer and closer, until you fold and gave up your ruse of unconsciousness. You look up at him and he stops. You appreciate that as well.

The smuggler inclines his head as he speaks, “We leave in five,” and hands you a canteen. You take it, careful not to make any physical contact. He walks away from you to stare out the window, his arms crossed. The threadbare sleeves of his shirt strain against his arms when he does.

You wonder how successful of a smuggler he is if he can’t even find a better shirt. You keep that to yourself.

“So,” you say instead, “you’re a smuggler.”

He slowly looks down at you. “Yes.”

“And how long you been doing that?” You attempt for casual. You’d been trying to manifest the spirit of your aunt, (not blood related, but she’s the only family you have left) you’ve seen her diffuse countless situations that could have turned out a lot uglier. She does this by treating everyone with unflinching friendliness and genuine care that it shakes people up. Can’t hurt to try.

One of his brows arch towards his forehead. “I’ll give you one guess.”

It seems you are significantly less charismatic than your inspiration.

You shake your head in understanding. “Ah, same here I guess. Just,” you go to wave your hand as if to express your meaning but forget its stuck to the other one, “other side,” you finish.

“I’m not on any side,” says the smuggler.

He doesn’t sound annoyed per say, he just sounds…tired. You’re the one to drop your gaze first. The smuggler continues staring out the window, and you finish your water while you congratulate yourself for being terrible at speaking to men, no matter the scenario.

Your wrists are sore. You raise your hands to inspect the layer of skin that’s rubbed off from the rope. It doesn’t look too raw, not yet an open wound. You’ve seen people succumb to infection from friction burn just like yours.

Maybe the smuggler was thinking the same thing. Because he surprises you again when he places at your feet, the bottle of isopropyl alcohol he’d used yesterday.

After grabbing it, you look back at him and see he’s already returned to his spot by the window, staring out it like he has no periphery vision.

It’s slightly awkward pouring the alcohol onto your wrists with them tied together. You do everything you can not to drop it all over your lap. In the end you manage to coat the skin underneath the rope and feel a decent sting. You clench your teeth to keep from visibly grimacing.

“Thank you,” your tone is quiet in your surprise.

“You need to be unmarked for me to get the full payment,” says the smuggler.

His words are cold. But there’s this undertone like he’s trying to hide any shred of decency inside him with detached practicality. You can see why he wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable with him. It’s a much easier job controlling someone with only the fear of violence rather than violence itself.

You keep silent for the next while. Following the smuggler out of the pillaged doctor’s office, out into the streets. You keep close again out in the open, anticipating another confrontation from his fellow smugglers.

There is none. No one is outside the building when you exit, and the smuggler takes you in a different direction of the hub. You see no one as you get onto the highway other than a group of deer. They lay in clusters of two or three on the other side of the highway, settling in for the night as the sun sets. They eye you both with warily until it’s obvious that you aren’t a threat and then go back to ignoring you.

The cement of the highway beneath your feet is cracked and crumbling, tough grasses growing up to the height of your hips. This means those cracks and holes are hidden perfectly for you to be constantly stumbling and stubbing your toes.

The smuggler also stumbles occasionally, but nowhere as frequent as you do. That might be because you are thoroughly distracted by the jaw-dropping sunset adoring the sky.

Pink and yellow clouds fill the sky from horizon to horizon. The sun blazes a brilliant red, nestled in the crook of a group of orange clouds. To the north the decaying skyline of a mysterious city is outlined in gold.

It’s breathtaking. A feast of beauty you won’t deny yourself, you gorge like a woman doomed.

It feels like a glorious send off. One last taste of peace.

The weight of possibly never seeing another sunset falls on top of you like an anvil. It makes you unsteady on your feet, your heart in your throat. You slide down against the side of a car, taking a seat on the hood.

You keep your eyes on the sky, coveting the colours like a dragon hoarding treasure. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you smell the wild grasses at your feet, and the nearby trees in full bloom. And then completely unexpected you hear-

“You should see the sunsets on the prairie,” says the smuggler.

You keep your eyes on the sky and take your time to digest this. You’d expected a barked out command to hustle. A ‘hurry the fuck up, soldier’ would have brought you right back to the barracks.

But that wasn’t how he chose to speak. Out of context, his words and tone could be for a co-worker or someone, even a friend.

“You speak like a man from the prairies,” you say. You see from your periphery the smuggle sit down on a hood a few cars ahead.

“Once, I guess,” is all he says.

You tear your eyes down from the heavens to the smuggler. Watching him gaze up at the sky, his throat exposed with his chin tipped up like that…confuses you.

“If I can guess where you’re from, you let me go. Deal?” You propose.

The smuggler doesn’t bother answering, giving you a look as he slides off the car.

“Let’s get going,” he says instead. You return your feet to the ground and jog a few feet until you’re back in step with him.

“I say…Texas,” you declare, watching his reaction. He keeps his face forward, yet you can still see the eye roll.

“How’d you guess,” he says, voice flat.

You give a half shrug, “It’s my secret talent.”

Your boot hits an uneven crack of concrete and you stumble forward. But before you can fall more than a few inches, the smuggler grabs you by the upper arm, dragging you back upright.

You look at him. He releases you.

“Thanks.”

He says nothing. You wonder if he also wondering why you keep thanking him. You’re not really sure.

In the distance, a huge blockade of cars lies ahead. Forcing the smuggler to jump on top the hood and begin hoping car to car. You follow, thankful as you jump that at least your hands are in front of you, aiding your balance.

You keep your chin tucked down, eyes on your feet as you leap from car to car. The task reminds you of exercises you’d done in training back in the QZ. For a blissful, brief moment, your brain goes quiet while you concentrate on keeping your footing on the slippery metal roofs. You jump off the last car back onto the ground with as much grace as you can muster considering your sleep deprivation. How many days has it been since you slept? Two?

You keep your head down as the sky darkens and try not to yawn as the minutes turn into hours. Following from behind him, the smuggler is nothing more than a dark smudge in the shape of a man. You wonder if you’ve ever met him before, passed him on the street. You might have even chased him during a bust, not that you ever caught that many people.

“So, smuggler, how long you been in Boston?”

“You are full of questions.”

“Just trying to pass the time.”

Sometime after moonrise, you reach the edge of the city. You can see what must be the QZ walls a few miles ahead in the core of the city. Maybe this will work out in your favour, being taken right into FEDRA’s grasp. Unfortunately, not many things have, and the sight of the immense gray walls bring only the sense of entrapment, not safety. That, however is not a new development.

The smuggle brings you to where a partially collapsed building lies sprawled in the street, the asphalt underneath cracked like a stone eggshell. He hovers over the edge of the chasm that’s been created, and peers down it like he’s confused.

You really don’t like this.

“Things all are shifted, looks like that building is rotting away and collapsing,” he says.

“Which means?” You’re hesitate to ask.

“There used to be a ladder here,” he mumbles as he looks around like he’s really just speaking to himself.

He shines his flashlight down the hole, and all you can see is darkness yawing out of the pit like its screaming at you to run away. Then he shines the light on the lip of a slab of asphalt overhanging the pit. Dangling down into the mouth of the pit, is a braid of rope attached to the beam running along the edge of the slab.

The smuggler grabs the rope, pulling it through his hands as he examines it. It’s a synthetic green and yellow, looking a lot like mountain climbing gear.

“Looks like Alex’s work, but who knows,” he says, giving the rope a good tug. The knot remains fast.

He motions his head towards it, “Alright you first then.”

You follow his motion to the rope leading into the pitch dark abyss. You feel your stomach churn.

“Ah no thank you,” you say politely. “I chose life.”

The smuggler has the audacity to look annoyed. “You ain’t got a choice.”

You look down again to the dark pit this man is expecting you to climb down into, with your hands tied. Blind, weaponless. The very thought sends a chill through the very marrow of your bones. Every instinct screaming ‘fuck that.’

“I’ll fall,” you lie, “I could never do the rope climb during training.”

The smuggler turns to regard you, an exasperated look on his face like he doesn’t believe you. You feel another tick of anger, how dare he ask you climb down into a pit of unknown danger and be annoyed when you refuse.

“You’re gonna have to throw me in,” you challenge, stepping away.

Provoking him is risky, you know some men who would absolutely throw you in if you dared them like that. You don’t get that sense from this smuggler. 

You’d been hoping he’d fold and find another way to get to wherever he’s herding you. You knew that was unlikely. You’re weren’t entirely sure how the smuggler was going to respond, but this is definitely not it.

In a sudden surge of movement, he grabs your arm and throws it over his head, turning his back to you. Now your front is against his back, your arms looped around his neck. He reaches behind and grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you up, dropping you so you’re basically sitting on his lower back.

It’s like a less fun version of a piggy back ride. You’re pressed much closer to the smuggler than you’d ever want, your face pressed into his shoulder blade, his backpack pushing into your stomach. You have about a two second adjustment period to figure out what just happened before the smuggler walks off the edge of the pit, rope in hand, and begins belaying down.

“Oh shit,” you grit out, feeling the hair of your arms raise at the vertigo that slams into you.

With his legs at a ninety-degree angle to the wall, he walks down with small drops intersected with small pushes off the wall to control the speed. The smuggler seems to bare your weight fine, treating you like an extra heavy backpack, but when you wiggle, he grunts in annoyance, and halts in his descent.

“Just be still. It’s not far.” He waits until you’ve stilled before continuing, lowering the two of you into the jaws of the darkness below.

You have no response for him. You go as ridged as a day-old corpse, wrapped around the man like a spider, your eyelids slammed shut. It’s 100 times worse than a trust fall, literally hanging your life off a man you barely know. Sure, he looks like he’d probably be strong, and the fact that you haven’t plummeted to your death yet seems to corroborate that. Still, you hate the sense of helplessness the worst.

Focusing on your breathing, you try not to feel bad about breathing into the smuggler’s neck. In, and out. You breathe in and are surrounded by the very personal smell of the smuggler. You focus on that and feel an artificial calm for the moment being.

Some minutes later, you hear the smuggler clear his throat followed by a soft tap to your leg. This is when you realize that you wrapped your legs around his waist at tight as you could sometime during the descent. Then you realize that he’s standing on solid ground again.

You have to will your muscles to unstick from around the smuggler’s form, feeling a mild embarrassment that in no way compares to the relief of your own feet hitting solid ground,

Untangled at last, you have a moment to get yourself together while the smuggler rummages through his backpack. You hear a click and a beam of light floods the tunnel.

Flashlight back in hand, he gestures with his head for you to follow. Not wanting to be left behind once the beam of light and safety leaves you, you keep up.

“I always hated the sewers,” you shudder at the yawing blackness past the little shield of light. You recognize a sewer system when you’re standing in one, you also know all too well the things that could await you in the tunnels.

The smuggler doesn’t exactly respond, but he hums in a way someone who’s not really listening to the conversation would. You take this as all the permission you need to start nervous rambling.

“How many hours have I spent staked out in a sewer, waiting for criminals to not show up.”

This gets a more genuine reaction from the smuggler, a huff that sounds suspiciously like amusement.

“We might have crossed paths then,” he says, leading you through the left side of a fork in the tunnel.

You wonder if you have. You wonder if any of the criminals you helped capture and kill worked with him, were his friends. You wonder if he was the one who shot your friend through the skull, killing her and leaving you untouched and splashed with her blood.

“If we did, you were at little risk of actually getting caught. I wasn’t exactly the most, uh, invested in my duties,” you admit. You did what was required of you only to the point to avoid getting in trouble.

“Not willing to die for FEDRA?” He asks, a cool detachment in his voice.

You scoff. “Not if the person I was chasing looked anything like you. I usually try to avoid getting shot whenever possible.”

“Sounds like you chose the wrong profession,”

“Who said anything about choice?” You kick a stray pebble across your path, "I guess it doesn't matter, 'mgonna die for FEDRA afterall."

The smuggler looks sideways at you briefly, chewing on his bottom lip.

“What,” you ask at the expression on his face. His eyes narrow slightly. He just keeps walking, ignoring your question.

You don’t let it go. “C’mon, you were going to say something,” you pester, “look secret’s safe with me pal, seeing as how I’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

“They’re not going to kill you,” he huffs like he’s annoyed you keep bringing it up. “Look, you’re gonna be fine.”

“How the fuck would you know? Did they tell you their plans when they hired you?”

“No, but I know someone on their team. He would never allow this if you were going to be hurt.”

You roll your eyes in the dark. “Oh, you know someone. I feel safer already. Am I allowed to know who this moral kidnapper is?”

The smuggler chews on his lip again. “No. All you need to know is that he won’t let you get hurt. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

You wish his words comforted you. But they don’t. The sinking feeling in your gut is too strong.

“And when they realize I’m not the Lieutenant they wanted? When I’m just a loose end that knows too much? You and I both know how that ends. I’m not an idiot.”

The smuggler has no words for you. He doesn’t even look at you.

You come to a part of the sewer that forks off to the left and to the right. Straight ahead is blocked with a grate with a crank handle. You wait a few steps behind while the smuggler opens the grate. Or tries to. The handle seems to be rusting and it takes an arduous amount of effort for the smuggler to turn it even a quarter turn. The scarping of metal on metal echoes painfully loud.

You wait patiently, watching him struggle, grunting occasionally, arms straining. Suddenly, you swear you can feel someone watching from somewhere in the room. The goosebumps on your arms and the hair on the back of your neck standing up warn you to listen to your gut.

“Smuggler,” you breathe, not wanting to be too loud, “you hear that?”

This makes him pause, listening, the silence that follows seems to stretch on endlessly…until you hear it again. A skitter of feet coming from the right tunnel, flat fleshy feet, that stop when it realizes its being listened to.

Fuck.

There’s only one type of infected that try to sneak up on their victims.

“We need to get out of here, before we’re both dead,” you urge, feeling panic rise in your throat. You want to beg him to untie you, but you know that would just be a waste of air at this point.

The smuggler, a typical man, ignores you. He keeps cranking the handle, making the loudest noise you’ve ever heard in your life. This accomplishes two things, attracting all other manners of creatures to your static position, because where there’s one Stalker there are more. It also effectively covers any of the sounds you’d been hearing before meaning you’re blind and also deaf. This does not accomplish however, actually getting the door open.

You do what you can to constantly scan the perimeter the flashlight illuminates. Your head sweeps back and forth, trying to peer into the distance.

And then, you see movement from the corner of your right eye.

You put a halting hand on his arm, a warning Smuggler whispered, to which he thankfully stops wrenching on the handle. Instead, his hand goes for his revolver tucked in the waistband of his jeans. You hear the click of the hammer being cocked back; this brings little comfort when what you really want right now is a flamethrower.

The next ten seconds happen both in slow motion and also at double speed. The first attack comes from the left, while you’re both distracted from the other direction. You hear it coming, giving you a split second head’s up when the Stalker leaps from the darkness, aiming for the smuggler’s throat.

You move before you can think through if you want to risk your life for this man. All you feel is the overwhelming need to not be left alone in this place. You slam into the side of the infected, pinning it to the wall, your hand on the side of its fungus splattered face, keeping its snapping jaws away. 

“Kill it!” you cry out when the smuggler just stands there. He snaps out of it and places a bullet through the Stalker’s forehead, pulling you away from the body that slumps to the ground.

Neither of you have time to process what just happened when you hear the screams and wails of dozens of Infected including coming right for you.

You don’t wait for the smuggler to lead anymore, you grab his hand and run. You run somewhat blind onward, using your ears to guide you. Away from the screams, that’s your only goal.

You go to turn down another tunnel when the smuggler yanks you back, pushing you forward in the other direction. You pray he knows where he’s going, especially since his planned route is no longer feasible.

Just when it seems you’re gaining distance from the pack behind, you hear more come from ahead. You both slam to a halt, desperately searching for a different way to go.

“Please tell me you know how to get out of here,” you plead.

The smuggler lets out a curse, “How many you hear ahead,” he asks you.

You prick your ears, distinguishing the screams into individuals. “At least three,” you decide, more than what you want to encounter with your hands tied.

The smuggler nods. You have a bad feeling that his plan is to charge ahead and punch his way out. This predication turns out to be true when he sweeps you behind him as he enters the tunnel.

As you pass the entrance, you spot a lose segment of pipe fallen to the ground. You pick it up in passing, feeling more secure with the improvised bat in your hands.

Turns out there’s more than three. A mix of Clickers and Stalkers charge at the both of you. Two go down with the smuggler’s first round of fire.

The downside of revolvers is their slow reload time. While the smuggler is preoccupied painstakingly loading each bullet into the chamber, the rest of the infected don’t stop and wait. They keep coming.

Your body moves on its own, and you’ve splattered the ground with blood and fungus with your pipe before your brain catches up. There’s one less Stalker to worry about with it unmoving at your feet with its head caved in.

Your luck can only hold for so long because the next thing you know you’re holding a Clicker at bay with your pipe held like a bar. It’s too strong, and you’re being pushed backwards while the creature blindly thrashes itself at you, it’s high-pitched wailing piercing your eardrums.

Your back meets solid wall, and you feel your grip on the pipe slipping, the Clicker’s teeth inching closer and closer to your face. One nibble, and you’re as good as dead.

More gunshots ring echo somewhere up ahead. The smuggler better not be leaving you to die or you’ll find the bastard in the next life and kill him yourself.

Just when you lose hope that he wouldn’t so easily abandon a paycheck, and begin to accept as your strength wanes that this is how you die, the Clicker is dragged off you. You get front row viewing to the smuggler driving the shiv through the hardened skin of the Clicker’s jugular. This unfortunately means the side of your face is splashed with blood, and you immediately wipe it away as best you can, fear of transmission ever present when dealing in close quarters with infected.

The Clicker falls away, and the smuggler is there instead, “You bit?” he demands.

“No, you?” you ask. He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

Apparently you’d only escaped death by another minute or so, because the screams of pursuit from behind are only getting stronger.

“Great, so how the fuck do we get out of here?” You blanket your fear with sarcasm.

“Anywhere but back there,” the smuggler says, and pulls you back behind him as he takes point down the winding tunnels.

Next chapter

A/N: This will probably be edited a bit, I just really wanted to get it out there. I ended up splitting this chapter into two so the next part will be posted quicker.

[spadecentral]

🌲 Tree Decorating | Deuce Spade x Epel Felmier

>> requested: a little >> a/n: merry christmas @luminessdoodles !! it was very fun being your secret santa for @twstedsecretsanta

>> masterlist: here!! >> summary: deuce and epel decorate for christmas >> reader prns: none >> warning(s): slight misunderstanding; i feel like i got some stuff mischaracterized..

Standing in front of the stove with an apron still on from previous cookie baking, Deuce stirred the milk for hot cocoa. Epel was fluttering about in the other room, finishing with the decorations for the tree. The shorter of the two really had no true care for the ornaments that were put on the tree, nor did he care about how they were arranged; but Deuce did, so he did it for his boyfriend instead of leaving the room bare.

“Epel, what do you want in your cocoa?” Deuce called out from the kitchen.

“Some marshmallows ‘nd a candy cane,” was his answer.

“Alright!” came the extraordinarily simple response.

Epel was uncharacteristically glad that Deuce was there with him during the holidays. Epel was generally glad that Deuce was there with him, period. But, that didn’t really mean much anyway. Of course, nothing could ever beat the sled racing back at his home at the Village of Harvest. But there was something so different, so utterly magical, about spending the holidays alone with his boyfriend that he couldn’t help but place this experience above all of the others.

He stepped back from the tree for a moment to look at the beauty he had somehow created. But when he did, he became very annoyed with the fact that the star still wasn’t at the top of the tree. He was also acutely aware of the fact that the bottom half was much more abundant with the decorations than the top half. Epel began to groan, annoyed with how the tree seemed to get uglier and uglier every passing second he looked at it, only to be pulled away and pecked on the lips by Deuce. Unfortunately, that also meant he accidentally got flour onto his clothes from their previous chocolate chip cookie baking.

“Eww…” Epel cringed, pulling back from the embrace, looking down at the flour that had gotten all over his sweater.

But, Deuce didn’t see the almost obvious gesture that Epel had made with his body when he looked down at the sweater. So, he was unsure if his boyfriends displeasure, and couldn’t tell if the groaning was aimed at the kiss or if it was about the flour that he got all over Epel’s clothes. But instead of saying something, he just got a little pouty. Unluckily enough for Deuce, Epel could spot the smallest changes in his emotions. That’s what happened after a while of them dating, and Deuce still didn’t know how Epel managed to pull it off.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling Deuce’s face down to meet his eye level.

“Nothing,” Deuce answered, trying not to overthink about it.

“You’re gonna tell me what’s wrong,” Epel said, his accent laying thickly on top of his words.

“Epel, I’m sure it’s nothing, please.”

“Deuce, darlin’,” he said, the frown that covered his lips grew deeper.

“I’m just…” Deuce paused, the look on his face turned into one of sheepishness. “I’m just worried that you were saying ew at me.”

“What?!” a deep crease between Epel’s eyebrows formed. “Why would you ever think I’d say somethin’ like that to ya?”

“Maybe because after I hugged you, you mumbled ‘ew’?” Deuce said, suggesting that scenario to his boyfriend.

“Ah,” the dumbfounded look cleared almost instantly from Epel’s face.

A thick layer of awkwardness permeated the air as the two stared at each other, both of their faces heating up ever so slightly in embarrassment.

“I– uh– I didn’... I didn’t mean to make ya feel like I meant it towards you,” Epel said, exasperated with himself. “I kinda meant it about the flour.”

“Oh!” Deuce’s face started to heat up even more than it did before, if that was even possible. He forgot completely about the flour-covered apron he was wearing. “Oh.”

Almost immediately, he turned around and walked back to the kitchen, completely embarrassed with himself.

“Your uh, your cocoa is ready, by the way.” Deuce’s voice traveled from the kitchen, but he didn’t dare turn around since his face was still a bright shade of red.

But, he didn’t need to call Epel, since the purple-haired boy was almost right behind him, following on his heels.

“Deuce,” Epel’s voice wasn’t demanding, the soft undertones in his tone of voice wouldn’t let it seem like that. “Look at me.”

The taller of the two turned around, and looked Epel in the eyes. “I’m sorry for being such an idi–”

“Shush.” Epel shut down Deuce’s antics almost immediately. “It’s my fault.”

“But–”

“I should have been more clear with my words, and I’ll do that next time,” Epel said. “Alright?”

There was a pause that felt like forever–when in reality it only lasted a second or two–in between Epel’s question and Deuce’s answer. “Alright.”

“Good.” Epel said, squeezing Deuce’s hand. “Now, let’s go sit down and watch a movie or somethin’, I’m tired after puttin’ up all them decorations.”

Deuce only chuckled in response. Grabbing the two mugs, he followed Epel back into the living room. He set them down on the coasters that Epel laid out for them and went to sit down, but was stopped by him.

“Aht,” Epel said, and one of Deuce’s eyebrows raised in confusion. “Take off the apron.”

“Oh shit–” Deuce said, rolling his eyes at himself for how stupid that he was acting. Untying the back strings, he took the fabric off of his head and placed it on the counter, leaving it to be dealt with later. “Okay, is that better?”

Epel looked over at him from his spot on the couch. “Do a twirl.”

Deuce gave him an unamused look but did it anyway, which earned a quiet giggle from his boyfriend. “Am I clear to sit on the couch, sir?”

“I suppose you are allowed to sit on the fabric throne,” Epel said, putting on the most fake posh accent he could muster to match Deuce’s mock accent as well. “But do not sit too far upon it, lest you ruin the material.”

And totally opposite of Epels fake instructions, Deuce sat down on the couch harshly, before sprawling out all over him in a teasing manner. “Is this too far, Epel?”

“Not even close.” Epel laughed and rolled over on the couch, which caused Deuce to fall onto the floor.

Now, the both of them were laughing together, but whether it was at the predicament they were in or at each other, they couldn’t tell you even if they wanted to.

Taking a cookie from the platter on the coffee table, Deuce shoved it into Epels mouth, causing his eyes to light up.

“These are actually really good," he said after he took the cookie out of his mouth. “Here, try some!”

It was now Deuce’s turn to get a cookie shoved into his mouth. After he took a bite of Epel’s cookie, he hummed in agreement with a smile on his lips. “They are.”

“Deuce,” Epel said, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Epel.” Deuce said, the sentimental feelings that Epel radiated grew to affect him as well. “I don’t think this Christmas could get any better even if I tried.”

“I think so, too.”

>> twst taglist: @tulipluvlettr | @strawberry-hyacinth | @oseathepebble | @wisteriainslumber | @villaim | @pastelmages | @xphantasmagoriax | @atlasnessie | @divinesapph | @ze-maki-nin | @silly-ez | @l1vyatan | @savanaclaw1996 | @enigmatic-pers | @oepionie | @queerlordsimon | @kyraxiyn | @rayisalive | @monochromepalette

[sorrow-and-bliss]

Sirius Black x Crookshanks!Reader

Sirius Black x Reader!Animagus!Crookshanks

(For these purposes, Crookshanks is female.)

Warnings: None, I think? Mostly crack - which was not intended, lol.

Reader is a year or two younger than the Marauders and Snape. She and Sirius always got along well and even liked each other but both thought it was one sided, so they did nothing about it.

Reblogs are fine.

Masterlist

~

In the shrieking shack, pure chaos had erupted.

"Crookshanks stop! No, you mustn't kill it. Crookshanks give it here! No!" 

Hermione screamed as you (Crookshanks) darted under the broken furniture, refusing to give up the rat you had just caught in your mouth.

"Get it, Crookshanks, you brilliant cat. Kill it!" Roared Sirius.

"She's gonna bloody kill my rat! I always knew it'd be your cat!" Ron yelled at Hermione.

You hissed (as well as you could) when you were backed into a corner.

"I'm going to kill your bloody cat, 'Mione!" Ron screamed.

Your death was indeed looking imminent. The Weasley boy was incredibly distraught at the possible loss of his pet. Finally the moment had come, and you morphed out of your animagus form. Hermione shrieked as her pet turned into a human.

Sirius did a double take. It had been years. You seemed a bit grimmer and a bit ashen. But you still had your signature feistiness. There was fire in your eyes and unruliness in your hair. Just the way it'd always been.

"Y/n," he gasped.

You were still holding the rat (who was Pettigrew) in your mouth.

"Um, love, you might want to drop that, it's probably not sanitary." Sirius advised.

"Ober my ged vody," you answered through stuffed teeth.

Sirius was practically laughing to the point of tears, the sight before him was just so refreshing and so typical of you.

The children, who had sufficiently recovered, were already firing spells at you which you deftly dodged until you managed to get your wand out.

"Protego!" You shouted, a large shield appearing in front of you and Sirius, just as Remus Lupin darted in yelling "Stupify!"

Thankfully your shield absorbed it.

"Y/n!" He exclaimed.

"Thiriously, if eberybone woold jutht cawlm doawn fuur a momnt id be fine." Your speech once again muffled by a rat barring your mouth.

Remus calmed, and the children seeing this, followed suit.

"Exactly what is going on?" Harry asked, perplexed.

You went to speak again but were once again cut off by Severus barging in. "Expelliarmus!"

"Everyone shut up!" You bellowed, finally spitting the rat out of your mouth, as your shield once again absorbed the spell.

"Y/n?" Severus muttered in shock. "I thought you were dead."

"'Course not," you spat, disgustedly, holding the rat in a choke hold between your fingers.

"But how - " he began,

"Shut UP I said!" You yelled.

An unearthly silence filled the air.

"Alright. First things first. Sirius isn't guilty, Peter Pettigrew is - Yes he's alive! Pay attention to my tenses, Severus. Yes I'm sure, Remus. No I haven't gone to the wrong side, either of you. I've been hiding, trying to crack this mystery for years. Ronald Weasley, don't you dare interrupt me. Your pet rat is neither a pet nor a rat, he's an animagus who happened to kill your best friend's parents. Instead of your best friend's dogfather - fogdather - GODFATHER! here, as everyone thought. So put a lid on it." You finished, breathlessly.

Ron's mouth shut. Severus lowered his wand. And Remus looked lost in fond memories.

"Oh," Harry breathed, once his brain had caught up with all the information.

"That makes much more sense, my old friend," remarked Remus who embraced Padfoot.

"Still," Severus began to hedge, hoping his old enemy was still guilty.

"Shut up, Severus," you yelled for the third time this evening.

"Alright everybody, wands at the ready," you warned, pointing your own at the rat.

Everyone dutifully complied. "Demorphmagus!"

Then the bloated rat did indeed take its even uglier form of Pettigrew. Harry had executed Incarcerous just as Peter made a futile attempt to escape.

"Well done, Harry. Severus, do you happen to have any Veritaserum with you?"

"For another purpose..." He lamented. And handed over the tiny vial.

Wormtail began struggling. "Peter, if you don't cooperate, I'll use the killing curse right here and now," you promised.

"But little, sweet, kind, y/n wouldn't do that to her old friend, Peter," he tried dredging up old memories.

"Is that a challenge?" you threatened.

The man gave into blubbering and shivers, as you put one single drop into his mouth.

"That's sufficient, right Sev'?" You looked up at the Potion's Master. He gave a curt nod but you swore you saw his eyes soften at the use of his old nickname. He hadn't been all bad to you at school even taking it upon himself to help you with potions back then. You exclusively had called him Sev'.

Turning back to Pettigrew, the interrogation began.

"Peter Pettigrew, were you an ally of Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes, I was, and a very good one at that - " the man began rambling

"Were you Lily and James' Potter's secret keeper?"

"Yes, indeed I was! You see - "

"Did you turn Lily and James Potter over to Voldemort?"

"Well, yes, you see - "

"You did this knowing full well that they would be killed?"

"Yes."

You screamed in rage, bringing an infuriated fist down upon his nose.

There was a loud crack and the man howled in pain, but you were distraught and unknowingly crying.

"Y/n, now y/n, everything's alright now," Sirius put a comforting arm around you, as you sobbed into his shoulder.

Peter attempted to get free again, but Hermione was having none of it and shot him with a stunning spell.

"Remus, what's wrong?" You asked as he looked in alarm through the window.

"I've forgotten..." he trailed off.

"The moon!" You gasped.

"Quickly, y/n! You must take my memories to prove Sirius' innocence. I must leave - children get back!" He ordered with fear. Severus rapidly handed over an empty vial, with a distinct sourness. Then herded the children into the corner where he shielded them.

When you'd acquired the silver thread, Remus started running, making it almost to the end of the tunnel before his transformation began.

"I'll go after him, y/n, take the children back to the castle," begged Sirius.

"People think I'm dead! And you're too weak, it has to be Severus to take them back. I'll go after Lupin." You objected.

"I believe it will take all of us," Snape strained out. "Lupin has already left, Pettigrew is our immediate threat, and no one knows that either of you two are alive!"

There was silence. "You make fair points, my friend," you muttered.

Severus relaxed slightly.

"Alright, Sev, why don't you take the lead levitating Pettigrew in the front. You being near the front will dampen the shock of Pettigrew and me being alive, as well as Sirius being innocent. The children next - Harry, Hermione, support Ron between yourselves - "

"- And you will come next, while Black brings up the rear to protect us should his wolfish friend return." Snape carped tersely.

More silence...

"Fine." You spat apathetically.

"I'm sure you had other purposes in mind, putting me at the back - incidentally the most vulnerable position of our group - nevertheless I concur for entirely different reasons. I won't allow y/n to take the dangerous position of rear guard." Sirius said with grim amusement.

"Believe me, y/n's safety was among my highest priorities." Snape answered with scorn.

This was the best course of action, so that: Pettigrew wouldn't be able to escape, especially under Snape's pure hatred; Snape could plead everyone's case and apparent aliveness; and you would be an easy warm up shock for everyone before they saw Sirius.

"On second thought. Sirius, you should be a dog, so the Dementors don't try to suck your soul out."

Snape looked disappointed but Sirius assented.

"Alright. Have we got everyone? Wormtail up front." But the villain in question began to rouse again. "Hey Ron, give him a stunner for us since you lost your pet tonight."

"Gladly," said the Weasley boy, knocking his 'pet' out again.

"The traitor is in the front, I am coming next, Potter and Granger are to support Weasley behind me, and you are to come as second to last, with the animagus version of Black behind you." Severus summed up your thoughts.

"Thank you"

Sirius reluctantly morphed and nudged your leg to tell you he was ready. Then the procession started.

"Hermione, I do sincerely apologize for this. I needed to get here in order to unravel the loose threads pertaining to the mystery of the Potter's death and you were my best bet. Ronald -"

"I understand," young mister Weasley shook his head. "I've no desire to keep a murderer as a pet."

Hermione seconded that she understood. As you neared the Hogwarts doors, Sirius growled.

"Behind you," Hermione screeched.

You were just in time to deter werewolf Lupin with a stinging jinx, as Sirius charged forward hackles raised.

The werewolf swiftly decided it'd had enough for the evening and ran whimpering off into the forest.

"Thank goodness,"

"A little help ahead?" called Snape, nearing the Dementors. Harry had started to sweat.

"Expecto Patronum!" Your patronus - a swan - took full form and charged ahead driving away the dementors long enough for everyone to slip inside.

Thankfully the corridors were empty and soon everyone was tripping into Dumbledore's Study.

"Good evening, Severus, with the suspiciously well preserved remains of the formerly incinerated Peter Pettigrew.’

"And hello Harry, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger. And welcome apparently alive y/n with a dog. I believe I'm about to hear a most unique tale." Mused the headmaster, rounding his desk with alacrity to inspect the stunned Pettigrew.

He adjusted his spectacles, "Hmm, very interesting. If I'm not mistaken he's very much alive and not at all incinerated. What is equally curious is that y/n is alive and well. Welcome back, friend and former student. Most of us thought you were dead, but I was less certain."

You felt a bit flustered before the ever-calm Headmaster.

"Yes, Professor, sir, I went into hiding shortly after the Potters..."

He held up a hand, "I understand completely. Now what is the mystery before us?"

You took a deep breath, "Pettigrew is guilty, not Sirius Black."

You told the whole story beginning to end, as the headmaster gave very little response other than kind attentiveness.

"Well, I have no reason to doubt you, especially if Severus concurs."

Snape muttered something like begrudged agreement.

"I also have Lupin's memories of this afternoon and evening's events." You held up the vial.

"Excellent. Well done everyone. Now, I believe this dog here is in fact Sirius Black, am I correct?"

"Quite correct, sir." You answered.

"Very well, I believe it would be safest if y/n and Black retreated to a safer location while I sort this mess out. Mr. Black I'm very glad to see you escaped and well. I think you should keep to this form while actually at Hogwarts so the dementors don't sense anything. But if you and y/n hole up at the Shrieking Shack you will be safe to resume your human form."

You nodded.

"I shall put in a good word for all of you, including Remus, to the Ministry. 100 points to Gryffindor and off to bed with you younger three," the children beamed and left murmuring thank yous. Harry paused at Sirius, and hugged him. The dog nuzzled back, and watched the retreating figure of his dogson.

Y/n and Sirius left for the Shrieking Shack after Dumbledore promised to send food and blankets.

Severus stayed behind to assist Dumbledore.

“You know, Severus,” mused the headmaster, “I always thought something was amiss with the story of the Potters’ deaths, but could never put my finger on it. Then I always had a feeling that y/n was not dead but was still alive and well somewhere. I could just never conclude as to how or where. I should have known the two scenarios were interconnected.’

“Lemon drop?” He offered, but Severus was already drowning himself in firewhisky.

[saintsir4n]

LOVE AND WAR

what johnny tran said to brian during race wars.

WARNINGS: violence and foul language

-

Security surrounded the explosive scene. Dom was hastily pulled off Johnny. The accusation that Dom narc'd on Johnny was enough to throw punches. Even Letty let her fist collide with Lance's face.

Brian rushed over the moment he heard. Carson was off racing and Mia was cheering along, unaware of what was happening.

Just as Dom, Leon and Vince were about to rush off, Johnny continued his taunts.

"Yo Toretto tell blondie, that Summer is still available to me. that their little boyfriend and girlfriend titles don't mean nothin'," the injured man spat out from where he laid on the ground, growling at the street team who halted in their stride.

the vicious words drew Brian in, he managed to push passed security just as the other guys all exchanged looks.

"What did you just say?" Brian stormed over, his anger was as evident like the rest of them.

Dom sent a nod to Letty, advising her to go off, just in case things got uglier.

"You heard me," Johnny bitterly laughed, wiping the blood with his mouth and pulling himself off of the ground, just as the blonde appeared in front of him.

"Nah I don't think I did. say it again."

"Summer is easy --"

Dom and Vince had no chance to stop Brian before he threw a punch to the man's nose, the crack echoed through the rowdy crowd.

Leon didn't realise the full extent of Brian's feelings for Carson. Sure they would all go to war for the girl, but he was more than angry.

Was it more than lust, or was it just possessiveness? Or did he even love the girl?

"Dom get the buster!" Brian heard Vince yell as he pummelled Johnny.

His rage was undeniable but before he could throw another punch, Dom and a member of security dragged him off the man.

"Keep talking Tran!" Brian thrashed around, glaring at the man.

Adrenalin was coursing through him, so he couldn't feel his throbbing fist.

"Cool off O'Connor," Dom pushed him with Leon and Vince in tow, away from security and the rest of the crowds.

"You gonna let him talk about your godsister like that?" Brian didn't understand why they weren't as angry as him.

"Watch it," Vince hissed.

Dom's stare hardened, "I said cool off."

"Did you hear what he said?" Brian pressed with a crazed look in his eye.

Leon stood back, arms folded, not sure what to do.

"I heard what he said and I saw what he did. he said things that he didn't mean, said shit that doesn't make sense. Jesse ain't here and he's gonna want what is owed to him, so until then keep your hands to yourself," Dom jabbed a finger in his direction.

"What he said about the raid Dom --" Leon was cut off with a sharp look from Dom.

Vince stressed, "Let's get outta here."

"You wait for Summer to win her race," Dom demanded, staring at the infuriated blonde.

"Where are you guys going?" Brian pressed, sceptically glancing between the three.

"Wait here!" Dom repeated, raising his voice then Vince forcibly ushered them all along.

Brian stood there huffing and running his hands through his curls. He knew he shouldn’t have lost his cool, but it was Sonny, his Sonny. He wasn’t going to let comments like that slide, even if it caused more trouble.

But that’s the thing, trouble followed him where-ever he went, it was only an amount of time before it caught up and everyone found out the truth about what he was really doing in LA.

-

(unedited)

considering that brian is a police officer and is trained, he would 100% be beating up any and everyone just for slandering his girl. even throughout the film series, we saw how he was fighting someone every hour.

[tacodemuerte]

could use some advice on how to make fun art shamelessly and also. how to. where does uh. the drive. where do u get all that drive. i hav lots of inspo but jts hars to turn it into real drawings and then even if i manage to it takes so much thought and effort that i just stop after that bc i know i would have fun or do well if i go on

the biggest key to drive AND shamelessness is to just stop carING MFIOSMFOISHJD

like u gotta stop caring about what people think and what your work looks like! sometimes we think TOO much, because thinking is easier than actually putting the paint down. but then we over think and we've spent 2 hours on pinterest and suddenly we are out of steam!!

IM GONNA SHOW U SOME UGLY THINGS.. THAT I MADE..

if youve been around my blog youve seen this! but tese were super ugly little things that i drew bc i was trying to draw christian cage..i still didnt get a good grasp at him and started to feel like everytime i drew him he just got uglIER MOIFSMFOISHF

so i just like..was like ok FINE.. this WHOLE PAGE isgonna be ugly I GUESS!! and i ended up having so much fun making these ugly doodles! it made me excited to do more and draw him again in the future!

once you like , put away that 'butwhat if its bad' and pull out the 'ok its gonna be bad whatever' , you ironically give yourself more fuel and drivE MFIOSMFISH cause its like well if its gonna be bad, and you DONT care, what's stopping you? and you end up making something that's pretty nice! or ok, or just fun to look at!

this page was another case of that, where i just drew while falling asleep MIFOSMFOISD. i did this a lot for a short time, not the BEST for your health but if you can like the stuff you did half asleep, then you can give yourself some grace and not worry about your work when you out in 200%...

somethings are just irredeemibly ugly but making it is just fun.. remember that art should be fun! it's not all about getting gud..look at this ugly little man, i hate him, but i had fun making him hehe

[venus-cow]

Dabi and Shigaraki both have issues managing their anger, and thinking about the two as a pair would probably result in a lot of toxicity and the like in people's minds.

But! Riddle me this:

They make each other better.

They get along, yes they had a rough start at their first meeting but every scene between the two after that includes very little bickering. If Shigaraki tells him to do something he does it. And though Dabi acts like a huge brat, Shigaraki doesn't snap at him about it. In fact, I believe the times he does snap at people it's never at the League, it's at either the heroes or the Liberation before he takes over it to become the Paranormal Front.

But I'm not here to argue about how they are sweet to one another in their own ways in canon. No, I'm here to spread a possibility as to how they avoid becoming a horribly toxic relationship. So here I present a beautiful bittersweet headcanon written out of my mind and heavily inspired by all the different versions of Dabi in the cosplay community.

Ever see the Dabi cosplays where his scars are presented in different styles of art or themes for holidays? You most likely do! Beautiful Candy Cane Dabi that is so strange but I oddly adore. And completely white scars, where he is given white hair and a white outfit, everything about it being uneasily alluring, especially if gold staples are used instead, sticking out so much. These versions are some of the many versions you may have seen!

CREDIT: kefi_cos on TikTok

Now where am I going with this? How exactly is this going to lead up to a headcanon?

Painting. Shigaraki and Dabi enjoy it, they used to create works of art on their own and were strangely good at it. But the two were raised to do everything they did perfectly which is why they strive to perfect every piece they make. But after AFO was taken and the base was destroyed, they lost a lot of the canvases they used prior, and we're unable to get more because going out in public would be idiotic of them, less they be captured and imprisoned.

So how did they solve this issue? At first, Dabi painted on his scars himself in private, doing so if only to make himself feel pretty. He hates how he looks, if he can cover up those ugly scars and turn them into art he can admire and be proud of, he won't feel ugly anymore.

One day, however, Shigaraki walks in on him painting his scars, and Dabi freaks out, wiping the paint off and feeling so, so ugly in that moment. Uglier than he ever did feel, and so ashamed like he shouldn't be doing anything of the sort. But Tomura reassures him, but not with words. They were never a couple who felt obligated to talk, instead they solve things without the need of useless words. Tomura picks up a paintbrush, and before Dabi can panic anymore than he already was, Shigaraki smears fluorescent blue over Dabi's scarred wrists.

And Dabi freezes, staring down at the mess of paint he'd smeared and ruined all over his chest, but he's so much softer staring at the beautiful blue contrasting the mess of colours across his arms. And without a single word, without so much as looking at each other's faces to get confirmation on if it was okay, they sit down in front of Dabi's full body mirror, and they paint a deep blue ocean over him, knowing full well that they are safe there, in that moment, together.

And as Shigaraki makes art on Dabi, Dabi feels more beautiful then than ever before, his own art could never compare to Shigaraki's, and Shigaraki was actually able to reach his back scars with ease, making him a fully completed art piece to be placed in museums and gawked at by those who only wish they could ever have him to be theirs. But the art is a mark, a mark that only Tomura would be allowed to imprint on him.

And from that moment on, they painted over each other's scars, and they would spend every moment in that room until they finished their painting for the day. Do not disturb them, for even after they finish, they sit and admire one another, feeling pretty just because the other wants to stay with them forever.

[whatisreggieshortfor]

Ugly

Shibayama x gn!kuroo!reader

“I might be ugly, but I used to be uglier.”

You had just been joking with Kuroo- he was your brother and he was a pain, but you still loved him- you hadn’t expected to turn around and see the other first years looking borderline offended by the statement.

“What!?” Lev screeched, dramatic as always, “You are so pretty! What kind of nonsense is he putting in your head?”

“What the hell did I do?” Kuroo crowed behind you, “I didn’t even say Y/N was ugly!”

“You did say you got all the looks in the family,” Kenma added, not looking up from his game, “And you look like a rooster so I don’t know how you think that.”

Inuoka laughed as he shook his head, “If you had siblings you’d understand.”

“I have a sister!” Lev argued, “And she’s super pretty!”

“Just means you’re the ugly sibling.” Kuroo shrugged, cackling when the boy started sputtering about how plenty of girls found him attractive.

But Shibayama didn’t say anything.

You hadn’t outwardly noticed, too busy laughing at the clueless boys that tried to insult each other using the only part of their brain that wasn’t consumed with volleyball.

He wasn’t the most outgoing of the players, always nervous about how he’d compare. You figured it was just part of being a first year, you had the same fears before an injury kept you from playing anymore. So you took over managing your brother’s team when you got to high school instead, choosing to encourage the players the best you could. It felt like you were still doing your part.

So what every time your fellow first years were on the court you were a little extra encouraging? Regardless of the looks your brother shoots your way there was no special reason for it. Nope. No way.

Okay so maybe there was.

Maybe Kuroo wasn’t entirely wrong.

Maybe he actually noticed that your encouragements and cheering were especially enthusiastic when Shibayama was on the court.

Maybe he had been giving you shit about it, leading to the two of you arguing over whether you could actually ask him out. Kuroo had been the one arguing the affirmative, while you self consciously argued against it- until it had boiled down to him make a snarky remark about how he had gotten the looks in the family, and you made a self deprecating rebuttal.

And then all the boys but one proceeded to lose their shit.

When practice ended for the day, you prepared to walk with Inuoka and Shibayama like you always did- Kuroo always headed out with Kenma and you didn’t want him running his mouth anymore than he already had today.

Leaving Inuoka at his house, waving at his little sisters when they jumped out the door to say hi, you continued toward Shibayama’s with a comfortable silence surrounding you.

Until he broke it.

“You don’t really think you’re ugly, right?”

“What?” You laughed, startled by the sudden question, but he looked even more serious than he did when he needed to sub in for Yaku on the court.

“I just- you can’t honestly think your ugly.” You were surprised he was so serious, so sure in the statement.

You offered him a lighthearted smile, “I’m not the most attractive, but I’m not homely either.”

“You’re beautiful.” Your face burned, jaw falling open as you looked at him in shock, but he looked… resolute, “I’ve been thinking that all year,” he chuckled to himself, “Never thought I’d be able to actually say it.”

“I know that feeling,” you muttered, trying to draw in every bit of confidence that your brother so easily exuded, “I’ve been… well- I mean I-“

“Can we go out sometime?” Yuki interrupted quickly, but not harshly, like if he didn’t say it now he wouldn’t be able to, “You can obviously say no, but I needed to ask.”

“Why would I say no?” You laughed again, more at how incredulous the situation was, “I was trying to ask you the same thing.”

He smiled, but then you could see his face pale, “Oh, geez, how am I going to face the captain?”

“That’s how you do it! Go Y/N!”

You looked behind, seeing a disgruntled Kenma being forced to hide behind a bush by your brother, and you gave a huff, “I think he’ll be fine with it.”

Masterlist

[your-local-e-gorl]

Online Shopping

This is taken from a very self indulgent ff that I’m writing for a friend, taken after the relationship has been established for a while.

NSFW: Dacriphylia, age gap, bratty behavior, nothing too bad. Pure smut, breeding,mentions of smoking,read at your own risk. I wrote this while stoned a few months ago. YwThisIsProbsGonnaSuck

“Shouta, stop!” His hips stop slowly as he wears a shit eating smirk. “You’re not seriously considering what to wear, right?” I grip his thigh while trying to catch my breath. “I was, but someone is distracting me,” I snap. “I want to relax and pick out an outfit in peace!” Hips roll into mine again, friction pulling slowly through me. I gasp as he pulls me into his lap further, suddenly weak.

“That dress would look lovely on you. Maybe with a pair of heels?” I manage to view it and I instantly fall in love with the lace and the way it hangs from the model’s waist. “I actually do like it… maybe not in blue though.” His hand wraps around my thigh, grasping hard enough to bruise. Stubble brushes against my skin as he presses his nose to my neck. “See if they have it in black. That always looks good on you,” he instructs.

I scroll through the multiple hues, eyes blurring from his ministrations. Eventually, after flitting through blues and reds, I come across a jet black. “They do,” i sigh. His hips buck into mine effortlessly despite my added weight. “Add it to the cart. Now. “

The authority in his voice makes my body quiver. My hand reaches for the mouse yet he moves it out of reach. I look at him expectantly. Evil fuck. “Reach, baby. Go on.” I moan out as he presses against my sensitive walls. “Now shoes. You like pretty shoes. Right?” His tone shows how amused he is.

“Later. I t-think we should fin… finish first,” I chiose. “After all I have some nice ones-“ Fingers crawl up my leg and stop at my hip. “Did you forget that you’re being punished for your interruption? I said, pick out some shoes.” My chest palpitates as I write in his lap, his demanding words seeping into my thoughts.

“You’re being so-“ I gasp as he shifts a bit. “I’m being?” “Mean! If you’re gonna fuck me, then do it! I can’t take it,” I choke out. He stares at me blankly. “Aren’t you the one who wanted to see what I was doing?” I whimper with a nod. “I did. But now I want you to fuck me, Shouta. Please?”

Unexpectedly, he doesn’t cater to my request. Rather, he stops what he’s doing and pulls out his phone.

All I can do is stare in disbelief. There’s no way he’s going to leave me half satisfied. “Are you just trying to be a dick? Hurry up,” I urge.

“Not until you finish shopping. Continue.” I pout on top of his lap before clicking a random pair. “Done!” He glances over my desperate face before squeezing it. “Those aren’t your style, baby. How about we make a deal? I give you what you’ve been begging for, but if you stop scrolling then this-“ he gestures to his cock halfway in me. “Stops. ” I nod rapidly, pleased at the agreement. “Yes sir!”

He starts slowly grinding into me as I scroll, determined to waste his money. He’s got plenty of it anyways. I groan at the way he hits my cervix, the pain mixing with unadulterated pleasure. My fingers guide the mouse to the cheaper side of the site. I proudly look up at him with the ugliest choice of shoes. They’re even uglier than the first choice of mine.

His grip on my hips tighten, pulling me against his pelvis. Pleasure shocks my body as he suddenly thrusts up. I push his arm to squirm and face him, confused on the fleeting force, but with just one arm he restrains me.

“Aizawa! Zawa’ please! Just one kiss, please,” I ask sweetly while I struggle against his thrusts. He ignores me, clicking on the assortment of higher priced shoes. I guess he was serious about one thing.

“Shouta? Please- I. Just one. Please?” I bat my eyelids as his thrusts slow. He guides my hips up and fixes the posture, determination reflecting back for the screen.

My lips attack his with a hunger like never before. “T-thank you,” I whine. He clicks on a pair of beautiful gold pumps with red bottoms. “Baby, look. You’re a fan of this brand. Should I get it?” I groan and whine in frustration yet again before pulling myself off of him. “I don’t care! I just want you to ruin me. Please, Shou? Please. I’ll take everything you give me. I’ll be your perfect, pretty baby,” I coo in a voice that’s as thick and sweet as honey.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Sit back down or we’re through for the night. Last warning. Do you understand?” With trembling legs and teary eyes, I hurry to occupy his lap once more, his hands dragging me closer.

We both let out various, desperate noises, each moment tugging us further into a sea of lust. “You want it bad too. I know you do, Shouta. Just give in and fuck me. Why hold yourself back?” I coax breathily into his ear, tits bouncing as I ride him.

His hands cup my breasts before taking one into his lips. “You keep this up and I’ll be the only one cumming, tonight. But you’d probably enjoy that. Goddamn slut.”

I clench tightly at his biting insult before changing my tactic. I release my tears from the pent up frustration of his teasing. “If you don’t want to fuck me, then just say that!” I huff. Tears trickle down my lashes, seemingly pulling a look of regret from his face. “Or let me find it somewhere e-“

My words are quickly stolen from my lips by a deep, shuddering whine. My hands push against his thigh and chest. “T-too much! Shouta, it hurts,” I sob. He stares at me with a stern look despite my protests. He’s bottomed out and pulling me into him even further, as if it’s possible.

“What were you saying? About finding it somewhere else, that is.” I continue to push against him, unable to breathe from the overwhelming feeling of being full. He chuckles in my ear before pulling me upwards. I’m slammed down on him, successfully impaling me on his cock.

My mouth drops open in a cry as he bullies my cervix. “Stop, please,” I moan. “ ‘M sorry. I didn’t mean it- just wanted you to f-fuck me. Thou-ght isn’t was a good ‘dea.” But ‘s too much. ‘M too full.” My words are breathy as I attempt to accommodate his size.

“You’re getting what you wanted, right,” he pants into my chest. “Now shut up and take it.” The squelching noises reverberate in my ears along with a weak moan. All I can do is wrap my arms around his neck and as he said, take it.

His lips fall onto my neck, hot kisses trailing the skin around it while apologies fall from my lips. “Keep babbling, baby. Fuck, apologies sound so good coming from you.”

...

“I love you,” I sigh. “I really do.” His sweaty chest leaves my back as he rises from the bed. “I know you do, baby. Now, get some rest, okay?” I feel the mattress dip as he sits down and brushes my hair. “Shouta?” My lips are taken in his. “I love you too.”

A tingle runs up my spine and curls my toes, the warmth swimming through my heart. “You leavin’,” I murmur in question. My hand grasps his wrist in desperation. “Stay.”

Aizawa stands as he searches for what I’m assuming is the towel. “Just gonna go get something to drink. Here.” To my surprise he hands me a pre roll from the dresser. “Inside?” “Eri isn’t home and I know you’re gonna be sore for a while. Go ahead.”

I hug him tightly, sweaty hair sticking to him like little snakes. “I have to most considerate boyfriend.” With a chuckle and giving a flick to my forehead, he walks off.

By the time he’s back, laptop and two bottles of water in his giant hands, I’m already high as a goddamn kite. “What are you smiling about?” he grunts. “You’re pretty.”

I tilt my head up as he presses against me. “You must be trying to get another round out of me. Are you?” I can’t help but to laugh in pure delight. He’s just so wonderful!

“I just love you. Okay?” The cynical look on his face slowly melts away, replaced by the softest look I’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving. It’s so tender and relaxed.

“I love you too, princess. Enough to marry ya’, ya’ know?” I don’t get the chance to say anything as his lips close against mine. In one swift movement he’s buried in me to the hilt, both arms trapped in his grip. I’m so full that it hurts.

“Z-Zawa, pull out,” I plead. He groans and shudders into my neck, his much larger body threatening to crush me. “I just fucked you… you’re still this tight?” I gasp and claw at the sheets in attempt to break free. I want to touch him. I want to feel him.

“Stop fighting baby. Let me just get you ready and then I’ll let you go, ‘kay?” He knows just what to say to get me weak in the knees. I nod with a whine as he shifts. My legs instinctively close across his back, allowing us to be closer.

My head swims as he pounds into my contrastingly smaller frame. “Sora, look at me. You okay?” I try to focus my eyes on him as his hand grips my cheeks. “G-gonna pass out,” I slur. He blinks rapidly. “What’s wrong?” I whine reluctantly. “Don’t stop. Almost there, I need to cum.”

“Baby- you’re going to-“ “Please? Fuck me through it. You gotta.” He’s the only one I could allow myself to be vulnerable to, in this way. The only one I could express this desire to.

Thousands of tingles crawl throughout my body as my orgasm crashes into effect. His fascinated gaze and subtle groans as he spills inside of me manage to finally pull me under, the black taking over.

[sketchy-rosewitch]

So Simple Yet So Difficult: Bo Sinclair x f!reader

Warnings: arguing, threats, lowkey toxic, Bo has a hard time expressing feelings (duh)

A/N: thinking thoughts and thoughts we’re thinking into this :3

Masterlist

You stare at yourself in the mirror and smile swaying in your dress and messing with the Cupid’s bow of your lips.

You look gorgeous. You hadn’t dressed nicely in forever, but you managed to find some clothes abandoned in a suitcase in town.

You felt giddy and you wanted to show off to Bo.

You skip down the steps and pad into the living room where Bo is watching TV.

“Bo!” You smile. He jumps slightly and looks at you up and down. “Don’t I look nice?”

“Sure.” Bo says nonchalantly. He turns back to the TV.

Your smile falters. It shouldn’t, but it does. He’s usually uncaring or at least acts that way, yet this hurt a lot. You just wanted to look nice, you thought you did. Bo’s tone and answer told you otherwise.

“You know I bet your brothers would’ve said something nicer than ‘sure.’” You huff, crossing your arms. Bo looks at you with an eyebrow raised. “You didn’t even say anything about my makeup or that the dress is your favorite color. I could use a little ‘Looks great baby!’ But I don’t even get that from you and it’s frustrating.”

Your jaw tightens and your fists ball up. Why was this the last straw for you? It’s not like you NEEDED attention. Except, you did. You needed attention and praise and love and he just never gave it to you. Sometimes you felt like nothing. You only felt slightly better with him than without.

“You know and speaking of not getting stuff from you I never get any ‘I love you’s’ none of that! But I say it all the time! I compliment you, I love you, I take care of you. I mean I don’t get anything back.”

Your voice begins to raise. Bo stands up but you don’t back down. You’re sick of being treated like he doesn’t care. Because in his most vulnerable moments, that’s the only time he shows love. He doesn’t say it, he just puts it into an action. But you crave for him to say something to you. Anything.

“That’s cause I don’t care about you.”

“Bullshit! You act like you don’t care. But you do!”

“I don’t. You’re just something for me to use.” Bo crosses his arms. “The fact that you think you’re anything but that is sad. I don’t care for no one. Not you, not my brothers. You all are nothing to me.”

Your face feels hot, your hands ball up into fists before you stop and cross your arms, looking down.

“If I’m just something for you to use then why the hell didn’t you just use all those other fucking women who are now wax figures! Why the hell did you spare my life out of all of my friends? I’m so much uglier than all of them. You should’ve picked one of the pretty ones to have as some fucktoy!” You point a finger at his chest. Your eyes began tearing up.

Always the ugly duckling of your friend group. Yet he spares your life. Now all of them sit in a museum, freestanding, frozen in time. Forever talking to each other. Gossiping. Probably wondering how the ugliest one girl picked to live.

You stare at the shotgun sitting in the corner of the living room and make a decision to walk over and grab it. “If I’m nothing to you. Some fucking object for your own pleasure. Then fucking prove it fucker. Shoot me right in the fucking head and replace me.”

Your voice cracks. You don’t wanna be alive anymore. Especially if you’re used. Never to be loved. You wanna join your friends in conversation. You wanna be posed in a laughing position. Another friend whispering in your ear about some other wax man not far from you.

You shove the shotgun in his chest. He takes it, you back up a few steps. You wanna watch his face. You want that to be your last thought. He never fucking cared. He was upfront about it too. But you, well you just believed there was hope where none lay.

He aims it at your head. But just stands there. You see his arms shake, his hands shake.

He can’t do it.

He drops the gun to one hand and throws it into a wall. Surprisingly the wall doesn’t bust open. Just a small scratch. A mark from the barrel. He huffs like a bull getting ready to run into the red fabric.

“Fuck you. Fuck you for breakin’ my damn walls down. You’re everything to me. I couldn’t live without you, I couldn’t live without my damn brothers either.” He walks up towards you, his blue eyes glassy.

“You’re so beautiful. You look beautiful every day, but your dress, your makeup. Gorgeous. I- fuck.” He looks away from you and out the window, one tear escapes, you watch it run down his face.

“I have a hard time expressing myself. All I ever knew was to act out in anger or just not give a shit. The anger got me attention, not giving a shit got people farther away from me and not strapped to a damn chair.”

He crosses his arms again, looking down at you. “Ma and Pa ain’t ever cared about me, it taught me to be the same way. Also taught me that I can’t ‘scept help from no one either. You- you changed that. I don’t know what the hell you did to me. Treating you as a human, sparing your life cause you were different from anyone I’d ever met. Best decision I ever made.” Bo takes his hands and holds your face. “Ain’t right of me to treat you like shit cause I don’t know my own feelings.” He leans down and kisses you deeply.

“I love you.” You say when you let go.

“I love you too.”

[missnight0wl]

Seeing the last chapter of Beyond, there's the theory that Jacob's roomate and who will take care of him is Olivia, implying that maybe they could have a romance. What do you think about that?

I think Fugly Slut doesn’t deserve anyone’s care, definitely not Olivia’s. But if it really has to happen, I think he should prove that he deserves it. I mean, Olivia is an intelligent girl, y’know, so Jacob should prove his intellect by getting out of the Forbidden Forest on his own. If he manages to do that, then MAYBE he deserves Olivia.

*random voice from the back* Uhm, but he’s blind, remember? Wouldn’t it be nearly impossible for him to get out of the Forest without being devoured by creatures?

I’m sorry, did I stutter? I don’t think I did, especially since I’m writing all of this.

More seriously though, this is so wrong on so many levels – even if we ignore Olivia for a moment. And I know that Jam City didn’t think twice about any of that, but it won’t stop me from pointing out how stupid it is.

Ok, so this is how the conversation between Jacob and MC went:

So, since MC actually started looking for the flat like days before starting their job, and they allegedly decided to live with Jacob “months ago” and “shortly after” MC’s graduation, I have to assume that it was decided before MC found their current flat. And that means that MC was probably looking for a flat for two – whether it meant an additional room or just more space. Then they kept paying for the flat bigger than they needed, they were preparing for the needs of a blind person… only to hear that THEIR “DEAR” BROTHER CHANGED HIS FUCKING MIND. And to make it even worse, he didn’t even inform us about it. He just… made a decision. He basically said:

“I changed my mind, and I didn’t even bother to tell you about it because that’s how little I care about anyone who’s not me.”

If someone did something like that to me in real life, I’d be absolutely fuming, and I wouldn’t even hesitate before kicking that person out of my life. Again, I know JC didn’t think about it this deep and they probably came up with the whole idea just now, but… how the hell nobody realised that they portrayed Jacob as an even bigger jerk than he already was??

As for Olivia, I guess that V1Ch7 basically confirmed that Jacob lives with her:

And again, it only shows that he’s a fucking jerk. Because imagine that you decide to take care of your blind friend, you come home after a long day of work, you cook for them… and then they fucking complain that your chicken is too dry. Like, what the fuck, Jacob? And before you say that maybe it was more like a joke, or that you can’t get better at cooking without genuine feedback…

OLIVIA WAS SO BOTHERED BY THAT “CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM” THAT SHE KEPT THINKING ABOUT IT FOR THE NEXT DAY. AT WORK. And her face says that she doesn’t think it was a dick move, even if she doesn’t want to admit it yet.

Also, I really don’t understand what JC was thinking because like… they were never even shown as particularly close friends? You could expect that they would get close after they cleared things up between them, but the writers simply did show it. He doesn’t even like her puns! (Of course he doesn’t, he’s the worst.)

Sure, Olivia did visit him at the hospital, but it felt to me more like… just a polite thing to do. I mean, it’s not like she was spending there days or anything. So like… What the hell? It’s just random.

Finally, as for the romance aspect… Yeah, I’m afraid that JC will take it in this direction. Because otherwise, why Jacob wouldn’t want to tell us right away who’s his roommate? And I guess I don’t have to say at this point that I think it’s disgusting, revolting, stupid, and simply makes no sense.

I think that in-game Jacob should cease to exist, and Olivia deserves SO MUCH BETTER – both when it comes to a roommate and a partner. In-game Jacob is a jerk, he's childish, he's egoistic. He's the worst.

(Also, how it’s possible he's even uglier as an adult?)