#Once a thief

[hadephobic-a]

"At what age are you allowed to look back on your life with nothing but regret? Is 29 too young?"

[yishuns]

sometimes, kaito thought, he really hated magic. of course, it was fine when he did it, because he was a genius and knew was he was doing most of the time, not to mention that his kind of magic was backed by scientific theory, but when it came to actual, inexplicable, dimension bending magic, kaito would rather it stayed far, far away from him, thank you very much. of course, it wouldn’t be kaito’s life if everything went as smoothly as all that. cue kuroba kaito, phantom thief: meet kuroba kaito, ghost detective.

“it’s not what you think it is!” kaito the thief— and oh, this was going to get confusing quick, he could already tell— raises his hands in surrender, smoke bomb carefully wedged behind his fingers and kept out of sight as a contingency. “i’m not— well, i am kid, but i swear i’m not trying to impersonate…” he gestures vaguely at the sky at that, hoping kaito the detective caught his drift.

kaito the thief had read up a little on his counterpart’s situation once he’d figured out the situation he was in, and it seemed, in this universe, as though the existence of kaitō kid had vanished with the death of kuroba tōichi. kaito the detective must feel awful seeing someone running around playacting as his deceased father’s secret identity, which was something kaito the thief could relate to, considering he was the same person and was likely to have feelings along a similar vein.

“look, i can explain, but i think we’d both prefer if we had that conversation in private.” he’d already confirmed, prior to this encounter, his suspicion that the jewel he’d heisted tonight wasn’t likely to bring him back to his own universe, so with a disappointed hum, kaito the thief tosses his prize back in kaito the detective’s direction. “and this jewel’s not even the one i’m looking for, so i’m really gonna need your help. so, uh... you can handle that, and i’ll meet you in the secret room when you’re done, yeah?”

@yoakkemae, for kaito. call.

[distopea]

50s Mads x Nezumi 3. –hello

@nezumivc103221

Kiss meme 💋

Night shifts were an usual thing for policemen. Los Angeles downtown was quite busy, and a lot of crimes were done; even among the police itself. Mads preferred to avoid those nights of duty, but he couldn’t escape those shifts forever, even if it meant he wouldn’t be able to work by his side, and most important activity. Plus, well, it required Nezumi to stay alone at his apartment. Not that he thought that he couldn’t handle it at all, but he had voiced for more than once that he didn’t like to be alone in the end. 

When he put the key inside the front door, Mads tried to perceive the sounds coming from the inside of the apartment. It was still very early in the morning, but he had a feeling that Nezumi could be awake for multiple reasons. He entered his home quietly, removing the black hat covering his hair, along with his long coat. He felt exhausted to the core, his body only begging for him to find his bed and sleep until the evening, but his feet did otherwise. 

From the living room, he heard the familiar buzzing sound of the radio, but the volume was almost nonexistent. At this hour of the day, the station wouldn’t be airing anything, only interference escaped the machine. Mads understood that Nezumi was probably there, half asleep or already deep in his dreams, with a book pressed on his lap. Quietly, he moved to the living room and found who he had been looking for, but as he thought, despite his exhaustion, he could see the color of his eyes. Mads smiled softly, untied his tie, then sat on the couch and grabbed Nezumi’s shoulder to invite him to his side. It wasn’t a hard task, it felt like manipulating a rag doll at that point. 

“Morning.” Mads greeted him while he clipped Nezumi’s hair behind his ear and tenderly pressed a kiss on his skull. He was welcomed by grumbles and side looks, a comment regarding the fact that he couldn’t sleep at all and that he was hungry, before Mads retrieved the book Nezumi had been reading. “Scottish Art History. With that kind of reading, you should have been dead asleep for a long time.” He joked, then made himself more comfortable, kicked his shoes off and eventually laid onto his back.

“There were robberies all night long. Those summer nights are full of criminals in the making, I swear. I didn’t find the strength to stop grabbing breakfast.  I don’t know how long I have been running.” He commented, before he eventually caught Nezumi’s arm and dragged him onto his chest. “I’ll sleep here. You too. Breakfast can wait a few hours, mmh?” He yawned, chuckled a little bit because Nezumi tried to pinch and fight him, before he couldn’t witness what was happening anymore.

They had probably fallen asleep together like this, with the buzzing sound of the radio and the book on the floor. 

[clvric]

        ❝ ... Long hair is a hazard from a survival standpoint. ❞

[bombsonboard]

metal arm brrr

Summary: Every problem needs a solution. Bucky just isn't the biggest fan of yours.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1k

Tags: Fluff in the highest degree, old married couple, Swearing (It's Bucky, duh)

A/N: I just needed to give you guys something, it's been too long since i've written on here and you guys are the best :) I've barely checked this over so I apologize for any typos.

*****

“Can you stop moving, please?” 

Bucky Barnes half asleep is not someone you want to mess with. The first time you shuffled he had hardly made a sound, the second you were met with a low grumble (a warning you knew well) and the third strike, he was thirty seconds from kicking you out of the bed. 

When Bucky had finally learnt to sleep in a bed again, mostly thanks to you, he steadily became a big fan of his beauty sleep and god help anyone who ended up disturbing him. He had a lot to catch up on. Once, you had violently shaken him awake because his phone was ringing and when he heard Sam on the other line, you were deemed a ‘sleep thief’ for a week and a half after. Bucky Barnes was a bitch when it came to his sleep. 

You usually wouldn't have any complaints about being in his vice grip but it was January and the nights were still cold and having a boyfriend with a metal arm meant that you were held to him with an ice cold grip around your waist. When the Summer came, it was a life saver, your own personal refrigerator but you still had a good few months to go before you were hanging off his arm everyday. 

“Sorry.” You mumbled and tried to convince yourself you were comfortable without another word.

Nope, can’t do it. You shift again. 

“You’re kidding- what is it?” He pulls away from you and sits up on his elbow, glaring, he dares you. “Go on.”

With the most innocent doe eyes you could muster you slip your bottom lip between your teeth and debate the argument you could spark when your gaze slips to his vibranium arm in the semi darkness.

He doesn’t miss a thing, you’ve come to realize.

“I swear if you say-”

“-It’s cold! I’m cold! It’s just too much cold!” You burst, arms flailing in desperation. 

“It’s my arm! You said you wanted to sleep on my left, this is my left arm, nothing I can do. Okay?”

“There has to be something.” You search the room for solutions, briefly lingering on the sock drawer. 

“Oh yeah, sorry, let me just take it off.” Bucky grunts, dripping with sarcasm. 

“...If you could?”

“Seriously, fuck you.” 

Bucky falls back into his beloved pillow, eyes shut and wishing he has chosen a partner that let him sleep peacefully, then again, why would he want that when you exist?

“Look, either come to the other side or deal with it.” 

Silence finally reaches your bedroom and Bucky is deeply in dreamland while you lie awake, scheming away. 

In the early hours, you slip out of bed without a sound and make a beeline for the sock drawer, knowing you had some old pairs of slipper socks stuffed at the back. Scissors in hand, you snipped off the toes and smiled at the D.I.Y leg warmers. Oh, he was gonna be mad. 

With nearly medical precision, you held out the slumbering Bucky’s arm in front of you and one by one, slid the fluffy socks up the freezing metal until it was sufficiently covered. Thanking the universe, he was a pretty heavy sleeper, you shuffled back under the covers and happily wrapped the soft arm back around your waist. 

You slept like a lamb after that.

*****

When the morning came, you woke up before him like usual and briefly left him to his own devices as you made coffee, two mugs sitting on the counter beside each other. 

Through the wall, you faintly hear the rising of the soldier before heavy footsteps quickly storm in your direction.

“The fuck is this?”

You look up to see him in the doorway, and find yourself the subject of a stare that would send millions running. Not you. The multicolored socks lined up his arm kind of softened his hoped effect and you had to stifle your laughter. 

“A solution?” You shrug.

“No.” He points at you with his flesh arm accusingly “Nu-uh. This? This is not how we solve things.”

“Is it not? I’m really digging the rainbow on you.” The giggle you had tried to push down had spilled over.

“You’re a fucking menace.” 

The giggle now a full bodied laugh that had you clutching at your chest as you were overcome with the image of your big, scary, ‘world’s most deadly assassin’ boyfriend glaring daggers at you while donning the most fluffy and most colorful socks up his arm.

Bucky was fighting a grin with all his might, your laughter was like an ugly disease, incredibly contagious, hard to avoid, and annoying.

Something soft hits you in the face and you halt your hysterics as you peer at the slipper sock now at your feet. Lifting your gaze, Bucky is smiling smugly, and working a second sock off his arm. 

“Bucky!” You yelp and duck under the counter as the rainbow sock flies in slow motion over your head. 

You probably shouldn’t poke the bear but-

“Y’know, for the best shot the United States army had ever seen you sure do miss a lot.” You taunt from your hiding spot.

When there's no response, you make a break for the couch and get shot squarely in the forehead.

“Say that again.” He dares with narrowed eyes.

“Okay, truce. Truce!” You raise your hands in surrender. 

“Say sorry for last night.” The pink ball of fluff in his hands, a deadly fate, and you’re consigned to concede

“I apologize for last night.” You sigh, approaching him with caution “Now, it’s been ten whole minutes and you still haven’t subjected me to your obscene morning breath.”

He beckons you with his head and you happily plod over, throwing your arms around his neck. The kiss is sweet, and full of promised mornings to come.

It’s welcomed by you. Until you feel the coldest thing known to man, his left arm, writhing under your shirt and sending immediate shivers down your back. 

“Bucky!” You screech and his strong laughter descends on your morning with malice.

Desperately wiggling out of his hold, you escape to the bedroom and yell from your stronghold:

“That was an act of war James Buchanan Barnes!”

[vanishingstarrs]

sweet treat thief !

katsuki bakugo x reader, aged up, established relationship OR harmless banter between you and your bf over the last cookie

( been dying to get into smau’s, here’s my little attempt at one while my brain recovers and allows me to write since there has not been one coherent thought up there in a hot minute <3 )

p.s. much to katsuki’s disdain, izuku has the day off and you invite him and his wife over to eat his ice cream sandwiches with you. not one hour after his last text to you, when he finally gets a free moment to check his phone during his patrol, he opens up your text messages once more to find a selfie of the three of you enjoying the sweet treat he’d made solely for you. he rolls his eyes at it, but can’t find it in himself to get mad, he gives your message a thumbs down, though he still texts you back that you better save him at least one. he also texts that he loves you and hopes the dessert has helped your bad day improve at least a little bit until he’s able to make it back home to you because he knows only his presence could truly make you feel better when you’re upset.

[sarahowritesostucky]

Happy Little Family

📖"A Clever, Tricky Little Kitty Cat: Just like her Mommy"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4407

Tags: dark!Bucky, mafia/mob au, dubcon/noncon, a/b/o, threats and coercion, rape, forced pregnancy, forced domestic "bliss", yandere, kid fic

Summary: You thought you'd left behind the man who turned out to be more dangerous than you'd ever imagined. But one day he walks back into your life and reminds you that, come hell or high water, you're all going to be one happy. little. family.

This chapter: Bucky shows up unannounced at your cottage, shattering the peaceful life you thought you'd reclaimed for yourself and your daughter. He's reclaiming what's his, and he isn't planning on accepting a "no."

Nickname Dictionary: vorishka = "little thief" mamochka = "mommy/little mother" kotenok= "kitty/kitten" omegya = (made up) Russian spelling of omega omegechka = (made up) "little omega" shlyukha = "slut" krasotka = "Pretty(n.)/pretty one"

1. A Clever, Tricky Little Kitty Cat, Just like her Mommy

"And then the knight took the princess away to his castle, and they lived happily ever after."

You're just outside the nursery when you hear his voice, and ice cold fear instantly floods your chest. You drop the laundry basket and run into the room, and there he is: seated in the chair you nurse from, reading one of the antique fairytale books that your mom gave at the shower, holding your baby. 

"James," you breathe, horrified. He's been smiling down at June, but now his face smooths out as he looks up at you. He isn't frowning or glaring, but you know him, and there's a storm behind those eyes that makes dread curl heavy in your stomach. "Hi Doll," he says quietly. "It's good to see you again."

Your heart pounds in your chest. You feel sick. One wrong move and who knows what he'll do. You take a cautious step forward, eyes searching James' body and anywhere nearby for a gun. You don't see one. You take another step. "James," you warn,

June makes a happy gurgle at seeing you, and James coos down at her, "Aw, yeah Sweetie. I'm happy to see Mommy too."

Mommy. Hearing that word come out of his mouth, in a setting like this, is a nightmare you've woken from more than once. You lick your lips and hold out your arms, pleading, "Please give her to me."

He acts like he hasn't even heard you, smiling and tapping June's body with one finger. "We were just reading a story. Little lady is gonna be a big reader one day, I bet. Gonna grow up to be real smart." His gaze slides back to you, with what you interpret as a world-of-hurt-coming-your-way look glimmering in his eyes. "A clever, tricky little kitty cat. Just like her Mommy."

A whimper escapes you, unbidden. 

June starts squirming in his lap, eager to get to you. When he doesn’t hand her over, she starts to fuss. He coos at her and bounces her in his arms to calm her, kisses the top of her head while keeping his somber, reproachful eyes on you. “You left your door unlocked,” he says. “She was alone.”

She’d been down for her nap when you went downstairs and popped across the street to visit with Hilde, your one friend in the world. It’s so common for mothers to do, in this tiny, Nordic village you’ve settled in. It’s the culture here. It’s supposed to be safe. You swallow thickly, eyes flitting around to try and think of what to do. You think of your gun, so far away. You’d talked yourself out of keeping it tucked behind your bed, so now the only weapon you own is down in the kitchen. But maybe … maybe if you can get him away from June … 

“You should be more careful, Little thief. You never know who might break in and take everything you love.”

“The only thing we had to guard against here was you,” you hiss. “And I’m not fool enough to think a locked door would keep you out.”

“You’re damned right it wouldn’t.” He tosses the storybook aside like trash and stands up with June in his arms. “But you are a fool if you thought there was anywhere in the world you could go where I wouldn’t find you.”

You flinch forward compulsively, unable to think of your own safety over your baby’s. “Please, James,” you beg. “Please. Just give her to me.” 

“Oh no, Dollface,” he purrs, voice deceptively soft. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and you aren’t gonna want her in the room when it happens.” His hands tighten threateningly on June’s little body. “Whose baby is this?”

You blanch. “Don’t hurt her.” 

“Aw. You don’t want me to hurt her?” 

“No, please!” The sob that’s been working its way up in your throat finally breaks. It’s killing you not to rush forward and snatch her from his arms. “Please, I'll do anything.”

“Is that so?” He stares at you long and hard. The few seconds of silence are torturous as he holds your daughter away from you. 

James is one of the deadliest people you’ve ever met, and he’s capable of horrendous violence, but he wouldn’t hurt a baby, that much you do know. What you have to worry about most right now isn’t him physically hurting her; it’s him wanting her, whisking her away right alongside you, when he inevitably takes you from this place. There’s nothing you can do to prevent your own fate, but if there’s anything you can do to keep him from getting his hands on June, you’ll do it. Your eyes flit around the nursery frantically, its pale, dream-like decorations taunting you as you try to think of what to do. It feels surreal to have a man like James standing in this room, feels wrong.

Your heart leaps when he suddenly moves, but he’s only turning to walk over to the crib, bending and placing June in it with a surprising amount of care. Something painful lances in your chest at seeing him handle her so gently, but when he turns back around to you, all of that gentleness is gone. “Come on,” he snaps. “To the other bedroom.” 

You hesitate, not wanting to leave your daughter alone, but he stalks forward and grabs your upper arm, herding you out of the nursery and down the hallway. In your bedroom, he pushes you onto the bed. You land in a heap and scramble to prop back up on your hands, trying to swipe the hair out of your face.

“Whose baby is that?” he demands. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

His Voice. God. After almost a year and a half it should be lessened. The pull you feel when you hear it has no right to tug at you the way it does. You’re not even mated, which makes it all the more insulting. It gets in through your ears and spreads throughout your body, like an invasive plant, growing and sinking its roots into you and tug, tug tugging on your will: Whose baby is that.

You fight the awful urge to tell him, as you rapidly, fearfully weigh your options. It’s hard to think when you’re so frightened, so taken aback. Most people might think it wise to admit the truth, but you know this man, this alpha, and you know he’ll never let her go if he knows that she’s his. Anything, you think. You have to do anything you can to keep her from that life, that world. 

Heart in your throat, you insist, “Noone.”

“Noone?” His visage darkens. “Artificial insemination, then? I know they’re progressive and all up here, but don’t take me for a fool, mamochka.”

“It was just some guy! Just a one night stand, I swear!”

He surges in, gets one knee up on the bed and pushes you onto your back when you try to get up, leaning over you and holding you down by your shoulders. “So you did let another man fuck you,” he growls.

You jut your chin out and hiss, “Yes.” (Lying Rule #1: deliver your bullshit with confidence).

“Who? Was he alpha?”

“Why do you care? It was one night in Oslo.” (Rule #2: add in one or two unimportant details.)

“What’s. his. name?” 

A bitter sound escapes you (Rule #3: attach honest emotion to it, if you can). “I don’t know his name. I never did. I was just racking up a roster, just wanted to get laid after getting away from you.”

He bares his teeth at you in a snarl, furious, and shoves you harder against the mattress. You cry out and try to hit him, but he catches your wrists and holds them down to the bed easily, shoving you again, one of his powerful thighs pressed up between yours. “You’re mine,” he growls, getting in your face, lying on top of you. “Noone else’s. Not ever.”

You whimper and nod, shaken and keenly aware of his body on top of yours, his strength. James is a massive hulk of an alpha, capable of overpowering you in any situation, and even through your frantic thoughts, you know you’ll never be able to get away from him in close contact like this. He’s so angry, his scent gone thick and choking. You’re too panicked to plan out what it is you’re going to say next, you just wind up instinctively trying to placate him, blurting out, “What do you want?”

He leers down at you. “I want what’s mine. What’s always been mine.” On your wrists, his fingers tighten cruelly. “You’ve had your fun now, and gotten away with it for too damn long. You’re coming home with me, Little thief.”

You gasp as the pressure on your wrists increases painfully, mind flying to that cold, Siberian fortress and the life that awaits you there. You might be able to get away from him before then, but you might not, and you can’t risk June being trapped there as well. “Okay, okay! I’ll go with you, I will. Wherever you want. Just … Please let me give her to the neighbor. Please.”

He smiles nastily down at you. “Oh, you don’t want her to come along? Another man’s pup?”

Tears press at the backs of your eyes at the thought of leaving your daughter behind, but you shake your head. “Please. Just take her over to the woman across the street. She’ll look after her. Please James, she's my daughter. I won’t fight you if you leave her there. She’s nothing to you. Just let her stay where it’s safe.” 

Something in his expression shifts, but you don’t have time to figure out what the emotion might be, before he shutters again. He leans down and purrs, “Oh, I don’t know, vorishka [little thief]. You stole some very valuable things from me. And since I don’t see any fucking Picassos hanging in this hovel you call a house, I assume they’re in the wind.”

It wasn’t as though you’d simply been able to run away. Escaping had required finances, techniques, firms of dangerous men hired to plant false leads, erase tracks, ferret you away into oblivion, and then move halfway across the globe and buy yourself a new identity. The bribes alone had eaten up most of the money. You shudder in his grip, knowing that the paintings wouldn’t save you, even if you did have them. “They’re gone.” 

“I know they’re gone, Little thief.” He shoves his thigh down against you. “So how are you gonna make it up to me?”

You whimper. “I can’t,” you plead. “James. I don’t have anything.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I can think of a few ways you can start repaying your debt.” He runs one hand down your side, groping your waist as he breathes softly against your ear: “For instance, do you have any idea what she’d be worth on the black market?”

It takes you a split second to figure out what he means, and your heart seizes in terror as soon as you do. You know James is involved in every type of shady, illegal dealing there is in the world, but you’d never even considered the idea of human trafficking. Now that he’s said it, you panic that you’ve made a huge mistake by lying that the baby isn’t his. “James,” you whisper, horrified. “Alpha, please.”

“Oh, it’s Alpha, now, is it?” He chuckles meanly, the sound making your stomach churn. You’re about to say something else, beg in some other, pitiful way, tell him he’s June’s father, but instead you cry out as his hand fists in your hair and yanks your head to the side. His breath hits hot against your skin and he drags his nose up the side of your neck, scenting you. “Mmm,” he hums darkly, pleased. “You spread your legs for another man, but you didn’t let anyone in here.”

You squeak when his teeth scrape over your still-unmarked glands. “No!” you gasp, just as much an answer as it is a plea for nim not to bite you. “I didn’t, I didn’—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, closing his teeth down on the spot. You whine as he pulls your hair and slowly increases the pressure of his bite, threatening to break the skin. Horrified, you feel your body responding with arousal, heat blooming deep in your core. You squeeze your eyes shut, and sure enough few seconds later James is inhaling deeply and chuckling. “Oh, kotenok [kitten]. Still the same as ever, huh?” He shifts, hand slipping down between your legs and cupping you from over the fabric of your dress. “Ripe for your Alpha’s touch, even after all this time. How sweet.” Humiliated rage bubbles up inside of you and you glare up at him. He’s looking down fondly at you, eyes heated and lip drawn into his mouth. He lets it slide back out between his teeth and murmurs, “It’s okay, you know. It’s everything to me, omegechka [little omega], the way you respond. It’s only natural.” You growl angrily, but he just hums and tugs your hair again, other hand molding to your mound and rubbing. “Shh sh sh,” he hushes, when you cry out louder. “Don’t want to scare the whelp, do you?” 

You freeze, listening to try and hear June. She’s whining from over in her room,  not understanding why she’s been left alone when she can hear her mommy’s voice just down the hall. “Please,” you whisper, locking eyes with James again. “Please. Let me go to her.”

He grinds the heel of his hand against you. “I told you, Dollface. You don’t want her here for this.”

He kisses you on the mouth, chaste and lingering; so gentle that for a split second it makes you ache for what you once had with him. James always was very good at making love to you, at lavishing you with a softness and a tenderness even in the darkest of times. But now you can only shiver underneath his weight, because you know that’s not what’s about to happen. 

“Seventeen months, moya omegya,”  he rumbles quietly, lips brushing yours with the words. “My bed suddenly cold, not knowing if you were alive or dead. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

His tone of voice is so intimately familiar that it makes your heart clench, bringing back memories of a life you’ve fought so hard to put behind you. “Please,” you whisper. “Don’t do this.”

He tuts and shakes his head softly, as if he’s actually remorseful. “How this goes depends entirely on you. I want you to know that.” He hasn’t stopped working his hand against you, rubbing his palm against your clit and smiling at how you shudder beneath him and your body betrays you. You watch his nostrils flare as he smells the reaction he’s pulling from you against your will. “Sweet girl,” he coos. “You just can’t help it, can you?” You toss your head and screw your eyes shut, but he’s having none of it. He yanks your hair and hisses at you to open your eyes. “No,” he warns, once he’s got your attention. He moves back, getting up onto his knees and shrugging off his jacket. “You’re going to watch. The whole time.” His hands land on his belt, the buckle clinking as he opens it and undoes his pants. “I want to look right in your eyes while I take back what’s mine.” He shoves his pants down along with his underwear. His cock springs free, already hard and wet at the tip. A part of him that’s been inside you hundreds of times, probably. Something you’ve craved and debased yourself for. 

Seeing it reignites your shame, but it’s the way you feel your cunt pulse and release a fresh wave of slick, that really makes you start resisting again. “Nnh!”

“Ah ah ah, Dollface. That’s not gonna work.”

“Nugh! Lemmo go!”  

You fight, of course you do, but it’s almost worse that way, as it only points out how comically mismatched you are to him. He laughs at you and holds down your thrashing body, barely even grunting from the effort of subduing you. “Shh sh sh,” he hushes, chuckling breathily as he forces you down with one hand and strokes himself with the other. “I have to tell you, kotenok. I’ve been looking forward to this.” 

“I hate you!” You manage to get a hand free and you flail, hitting and clawing at him. He inhales sharply as your nails scratch his face. He knocks your hand away with a surprised hiss and, wide eyed, touches the spot where a tiny line of red is welling up on his cheek. The next thing you know, he’s backhanding you, sending spots into your vision and knocking you out of your senses for a few seconds. Your ears ring and you blink, stunned.

His hand appears at your throat, squeezing, pressing up against the arteries. You briefly grapple with him, grabbing his forearm and fighting, but then his thumb notches into place and digs into your glands. Your cries taper off and you go limp with a pathetic, mewling whimper. “Nnnh …”

He leers down at you, adjusting his grip, still jerking his cock as he subdues you with the Hold. “Weak,” he says. “But that’s just how I like you.”

His thumb rubs in circles, sending a rush of liquid gold through your veins. It worsens the situation between your legs, and you can’t hide that any more than you can hide the humiliated tears that prick to your eyes as he shoves your dress up and rips your underwear straight off of you. He coos when he looks down and sees how wet you are. “Oh, omegechka.” He knees your legs further apart and drags his cockhead through your folds. “And this is you hating me?”

You shake with a silent sob, despising him with your whole being, hating yourself for reacting this way. Before James, you’d never met a man who coveted your omega nature so much, hadn’t known what it was to need an alpha that way, to have your body need him. And to think: you used to like it.

He lines himself up and sinks inside of you in one, unyielding push, forcing you to open to him, carving out his space inside of you. You cry out at the force of it, body clamping down hard and the delicate skin at your entrance stinging from the stretch, but he doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated. “Fuck,” he groans, grinding in deep, his pubic bone pressing against your clit, laughing darkly when it makes you squeal. “Oh, you sensitive?” He does it again, and again, doesn’t stop until he gets a high pitched, warbling moan from you. “Theere she is.” He digs his thumb in harder against your glands and stares right in your eyes as he watches the effect it has on you, soaking up the flush in your face and the furious tears welling at the corners of your eyes. “I know, Sweetheart, I know,” he murmurs. “You really can’t help it, can you?” You whimper and he nods along in mock sympathy. “Poor little thing. I can’t imagine what it must be like, to need it that bad.” 

“James,”

He pulls out halfway and shoves back in, hard, rumbling in pleasure when it elicits another yelp from you. His other hand grabs at your waist, fingers digging into the soft give of your body. He hums dirtily. “I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised. You look good for having just pushed out that pup. You look healthy.” You whine in protest and he fucks in hard again, baring his teeth in a mean smile. “Yeah, momma, you heard me.” He pulls out, thrusts back in. 

“Ss-stop.”

He laughs. “Don’t be like that, krasotka [Pretty(n.)]. I like it. You always were too skinny for my taste.” He runs his hand from your waist up to the top of your dress, yanking it down along with the cup of your bra, and groaning when your swollen breast spills out. You squeal in rage as he curses quietly, eyes going molten and unfocused. “Fuck, Honey, look at you.”

You start thrashing again hard, trying to hit him, but you only get a glancing blow to the side of his head before he refixes his hand on your throat and clamps down in another Hold. He gives you a firm shake. “Settle down. I told you: I like it..”

“Nnn, fuck you!” You spit on him, but he only laughs and wipes it away, leering down at you and continuing gleefully,

“Shouldn’t be skinny like some damn underwear model. Mm mn, naw. Now you’re nice and soft, just like you should be. Somethin’ for Alpha to grab onto. Bitty waist and a fat ass.” He grabs your waist again and pulls you down into the next roll of his hips, changing the angle and hitting that spot inside of you that makes stars burst in your vision.

“Ah!” 

“Mmhm. Right there baby? Yeah, thaat’s the spot. I remember.” He’s panting open-mouthed, breathless as he taunts you, “I remember everything. What you like. How you feel. The sounds you make. Fuck.”  He shoves into you hard and holds there, his licked-red lips curling up wickedly. “Your cunt’s fluttering around me, Sweetheart. Clamping down so fucking hard.” 

“Nnh!”

He laughs, but his smile slackens as his own pleasure continues to build. He angles back and looks down your body, stares at where his cock is disappearing inside of you with lewd, wet sounds. “Shit, momma. And this pussy snapped back real good, didn’t it?” 

You cry out angrily, but it’s what he wants: to see you aroused and humiliated and furious at him. He sets a punishing pace, his hips slamming against you hard on the end of each, brutal thrust; his open belt and the zip of his fly digging into your ass every time he grinds inside. “You haven't been fucking anybody,” he says smugly. “How long’s it really been, mamochka? Hm? How long since another man was in this cunt?”

You moan miserably, his cock driving hard against your walls, too rough but not painful enough to keep it from feeling good. James is big, has an alpha’s cock, and it’s never been a physical possibility for him to be inside of you and not rub against every spot that makes your body light up in pleasure. You shake your head and try to close your eyes, but he pushes his hand up harder underneath your jaw, shaking you. “Uh uh. Look at me.” 

You can’t fight off the command of his Voice, not when he’s already dominating you so completely. Your eyes open against your will, full of tears, and he rumbles in satisfaction. 

“Better.”

Every whimper and mewl you make drives him on, stoking the angry satisfaction that’s burning in his eyes—eyes that you can’t look away from as you cry out again and again, little “Ah, ah, ah's” that interrupt the cadence of your skin slapping together, all of his eager growls and satisfied grunts.

“That’s it, shlyukha,” he pants, hips snapping in hard, again and again. “You—ugh—you let Alpha know how good that feels. Don’t hold it back from me.” His breathing is getting heavier the closer he gets, his composure and even his anger losing some of their hold as he fucks you harder, sinks down on you farther, covers you with his body fully as he ruts into you in pursuit of his climax. “Shit,”  he hisses not far from your ear, face stuffed in your neck. 

You keen high in your throat at his proximity to your bonding glands—a plaintive sound that directly contradicts the panicked ‘no!’ that flashes in your brain. His hand leaves the front of your neck and scoops around behind instead, gripping you at the nape in a Scruff that feels just as toe-curlingly right as the Hold had. 

For a very split second, his breath hitches and his growling trips into a needy whimper. “O-oh …” And that’s when you feel it: his knot starting to catch on the end of each thrust.

“Ah!” You cry out sharply and grab onto him, helpless to keep your body from seeking out more, from clinging to him and clamping down hard as his knot grows and triggers you into orgasm. “Hhgnn …”

He goes feral when he feels your body locking down on him, growling and shoving in and grinding to ensure that he catches inside and ties you together. His hand abandons your neck entirely as he gives in to the instinct to rut, both arms wrapping around your waist, scooping under your back and holding you still for him to fuck furiously against. The tug of his knot inside your cunt makes you sob and come harder, losing sense of yourself as the pleasure cuts through you like a knife. 

“Fuck, fuck, ohhfuck …” The sound of his deep voice, so lost in the desperation and helplessness of his own pleasure, makes your belly flare hot with new arousal even as you’re coming down the other side of it. You gasp and pant, and eventually whimper as the bliss dissipates and you become more aware of him on top of you, grunting and groaning and fucking into your tie as he rides out the long, debilitating climax of an alpha.

You keep your eyes closed and cry, hating that it still feels good as he fucks into you, grinds down on your clit and gives your another orgasm, and another. You wait for him to finish as your brain fills with the high that comes after, that unavoidable pink cloud that you know is going to seal your fate and make you helpless to him for the next thirty minutes, at least. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head in the direction of the pillows. 

As the high starts to take you, you think about how, if you’d just kept your gun holstered behind by the headboard like you’d planned, you could be blowing his brains out right about now.

A.N.: Soooo ... This is the rape-iest thing I've ever ever written. I hope y'all are okay. Just wanted to drop a note to let you know that this fic WILL lighten up and not be quite so, well, rapey, in the future. Thanks for reading! 💖Sarah

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[purple-writer8]

Heather - ACOTAR

Azriel x Winter Court Reader

“But I watch your eyes as she walks by. What a sight for sore eyes, brighter than the blue sky… she’s got you mesmerized. While I die.”

warnings: unrequited love, pining, evil thoughts, intrusive thoughts, lesser fae thinks shes not enough, hating on girl, self doubt, oblivious az

1.2k words

Masterlist :)

Crushing on the shadowsinger was a bad idea, you knew that since the moment you joined the Inner Circle centuries ago. It was a family, and familiar dynamics could very well be affected by your stupid little crush, but that didn’t stop your heart from beating for him.

You were a master of lies, Azriel’s second in command as Spymaster— you were good at being a chameleon— at lying. So you’ve spent your entire life in the Inner Circle, lying to everyone, hiding your feelings for Azriel because surely you were not worthy enough for the shadowsinger. 

He was one of the strongest warriors in Prythian, the only current shadowsinger, an Ilyrian. You… you were just a sneaky thief turned spy. A lesser fae from the Winter Court, with eyes so white, you were terrifying to your enemies. Fingertips so cold, that with enough conviction, whatever you touched turned into frost. 

You weren’t enough for Azriel, or anyone really. The High Lord had found you three hundred centuries ago, you had somehow snuck into Hewn City, and then you had stolen heaps of artifacts and sold them in the Winter Court for profit. You were stealthy and quick, something he had appreciated when Cassian and Azriel finally brought you to him.

Rhysand gave you two choices: to be handed over to Kallias as a criminal, or stay in his court and serve him— because he was sure you would excel as a spy. In exchange, you got a family, gold, clothes, and a warm bed. It was a no-brainer for you.

Azriel and you were a dream team and with time, your feelings for the shadowsinger went from admiration to adoration. Who wouldn’t adore him? He was perfection, he was everything, and he was the love of your life— you weren’t his, though. 

You had never expressed your feelings because, frankly, you were not sure that you could handle rejection. So you pined and loved him in silence, hoping that one day a miracle dawned on him, and he would somehow fall for you— a frosty lesser fae. You knew you two were not mates, but cauldron, you could wish and yearn. 

It was more than wishful dreaming, though sometimes you thought that just maybe— maybe he reciprocated your feelings. He was so kind to you, so doting, so careful.

Though, that all stopped when Elain Archeron dropped into all of your lives. You liked Feyre, and loved Nesta— but Elain, you hated her. The middle Archeron was perfection, everything you were not. She was soft, kind, beautiful, High Fae, and… Azriel liked her.

You knew it was bad that you hated her for being of his interest, but you had never once claimed to be a good person. Two years into her arrival and you could not stand the likes of her. 

You were sitting in the River House, playing board games with the Inner Circle, Nesta, and Lucien. Much to your delight, Elain hadn’t joined. It was the beginning of winter in the Night Court, and though you were made of ice— you weren’t immune to the cold. You shivered as you laid down one of your cards, and it caused Cassian to laugh at you.

“You turned my room into ice last winter solstice, and now you shiver?” He teased you, making you roll your white eyes at him. “Should’ve brought a coat,” Feyre taunted you, and you nodded. “Guys, I really thought it wasn’t as cold,” you chuckled, rubbing your cold as ice hands together to get some warmth, which was to no avail because there was no warmth inside you. Frost appeared in your hands at this action, causing you to groan. 

 Your heart stopped, though, when you felt a warm sweater wrapping around your shoulders. Your eyes flickered to Azriel, who gave you a small smile, “thank you,” you said softly.

 “It looks better on you than it does me,” the shadowsinger shrugged, his shadows coiling around your frozen hands, trying to warm you up. You smiled, about to answer, but his eyes snapped away from you, as did his shadows. Your eyes followed his gaze, meeting with Elain as she walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Your heart dropped, she was a sight for sore eyes, a sight for Azriel’s eyes. 

 She had him mesmerized, and you felt like you wanted to die. Inching away from Azriel, you continued your game, dropping his sweater unto the couch behind you. You were an ice fae, you could manage. 

When dinner came around, you were quiet all through the affair. You seethed in silence as you watched him drape the very same sweater he had given you, over Elain’s shoulders. The cold pulsed through your veins, and soon your utensils were turning into ice as you watched the scene unfold.

Elain told some story about her up-and-coming garden, and you got the urge to go and freeze her flowers to death. Obviously you did not. She was an angel, a good person. 

You kind of wished she were dead. You reprimanded your mind for being so evil. How could anyone ever love you? You were terrible… and not even half as pretty as Elain. Your thoughts were dark, and your heart made of stone-cold ice. Love was not something you would ever get. 

After dinner, you seethed outside. The snow that fell over you felt like fire on your skin, and you could feel your fingertips freezing as they created small snowflakes. “Come inside, it’s so cold outside,” that husky voice you worshiped spoke from the from door, causing you to turn to him.

His shadows rushed to you, swirling around your body to shield you from the snow. You turned away from Azriel, not wanting him to see you in your essence. Your veins shone black underneath your pale skin, your eyes glowing white, while ice slipped from your fingers and wrapped itself around you. 

You heard his footsteps crunching in the snow, then large wings wrapped around you in a protective manner as he towered over you. “Don’t look at me,” you mumbled, your eyes casting downward, not wanting him to see your eyes.

“Why?” He asked softly, scarred thumb wiping away frost that had gathered on your cheek. Then it clasped around your chin, tilting it upward so you looked up at him. 

His hazel eyes skimmed over your face slowly, “what’s wrong?” He asked softly, making you tilt your face away from his grasp. “Don’t.” You stated. You wished he knew, wish that you had been obvious enough, because you were so tired of pining for someone who did not love you back. 

“What?” He asked, a puzzled look happening upon his chiseled and devastatingly beautiful face. “You gave her your sweater,” you did not care how preposterous you were being, you couldn’t hold back. You had enough of this. 

"What? It’s just a sweater, does it matter?” Azriel asked, his shadows coiling around his ear to whisper in his ear. Jealous girl, jealous fae. 

 “You like her better.” The jealousy was pouring out of you, manifesting in ice that crawled all over your body. 

 “I can’t keep wishing I was Elain.” 

-

Part Two

Author’s Note:

IK the elain/azriel x pining reader is done a lot butttttt i love this song and i wanted to write my take on the triangle with heather as inspiration!

Taglist: @mybestfriendmademe

[aeiigumii]

imagine yuuta as your roommate...

content: perv, panty thief roomie yuuta (aka best yuuta 🥰). male masturbation. slight exhibitionism. obsession.

roommate!yuuta who becomes obsessed with you the moment you arrive in the front door of what was going to be your shared apartment. he was hooked; from the way you let out small giggles at his attempt in breaking the ice, mind wandering to how you'd sound when he did other things to you, to the manner in which you carried yourself, so uptight and reserved around him. he yearned to break that shell.

roommate!yuuta who does all the work around the house, making sure you never have to lift a finger when you're home. after all, if he didn't become the best roommate for you, lord knows where you might run off to. he's always either in the kitchen, cooking a dish for the two of you (he also always ensures the fridge and cupboards are never empty and filled with all sorts of snacks), or dusting shelves and wiping tabletops.

roommate!yuuta who volunteers to do even your laundry for you, which you initially hesitated to agree on, because 'it would be weird to leave that kind of task on the hands of someone you just met'. but upon the boy insisting how tired you usually looked from work and how you needed rest, you eventually succumbed. what harm could it do, right?

roommate!yuuta who takes the opportunity to take a few soiled underwear from your laundry basket. you were just too easy, too trusting; his cock hardens at the thought of all the other things he could ask you to do with some sweet talking. while his moves were all calculated, he doubted you'd catch on if he even slipped up once. it was adorable.

roommate!yuuta who gets off using your panties, one at his nose so he could take in your scent and another wrapped around his erection, the pastel pink cotton slowly turning dark from his precum. he thrusts into his fist, getting high off of your scent with each deep breath, grunts falling from his lips as lace rubbed against his shaft. yuuta secretly hoped you'd walk into the apartment at that moment and help him with his problem. his cock twitched thinking about how your hands would feel around him instead of his own, how heavenly you'd sound taking him in, and how pretty you'd look with your panty stuffed in your mouth to keep your lewd noises down.

[shiratamahatsumiyo]

Ruggie Bucchi with Ice Bear reader

• The cafeteria was pretty packed with hungry students standing in line. When it was finally your turn, Grim kept pointing at every dish displayed like a child picking their most desired toys at a mall.

Grim: "Hey, henchman! Pick that one for me! Oh, and that one too! That one also looks good, pick it for me! Hurry up, I'm hungry!"

Ice Bear: "... Ice Bear will pick food. Grim go wait on table."

Grim: "Aawww man..."

Ace: "Oh? Does baby Gwim feew sad?"

Grim: "Fnyagh! You wish!"

Deuce: "Can't your hunger wait for the food? It'll only take a minute."

Grim: "The Great Grim ain't waiting on any table on an empty stomach! I'm gonna stand here until I get my food!"

Ice Bear: "sigh"

• You can only grab whatever food you can afford. You chose an omelette for yourself and a sandwich for Grim. Once you give him the sandwich first, you ordered him to wait on the table with Ace and Deuce. By the time you got your tray, Grim was already running to you crying about someone stealing his food.

Grim: "Fnyaaaagh! Henchman! That scumbag thief just stole my sandwich!"

Ice Bear: "?"

Deuce: "Stole it? You gave it to him."

Grim: "I did not!"

Ace: "Yeah, you did. We saw the whole thing."

Grim: "I didn't wanna do that! My body moved on its own!"

Ace: "Just cut it out already, man. If you wanted a smaller sandwich you could've just said so earlier."

Grim: "Fnyaagh, no one believes me?! Henchman, just get that guy already! I swear, he did steal it!"

Ice Bear: "...Ice Bear will share food."

Grim: "Fnyaagh...."

• Despite complaining about the loss of his sandwich, Grim ate most of your food. You think that this might be the time that you must go grocery shopping in order to save money and pack lunches for the two of you.

• You've heard about Sam's Shop from the ADeuce. Since the shop has almost everything a student needs, you decided to stop by on the way home and shop there.

Sam: "Hi there! Oh, you must be the monst-- I mean, Bear I've heard about so much! Welcome to my shop! If you need anything, just ask me."

Ice Bear: "...Ice Bear needs food."

Sam: "Aha! Then that'll be on that aisle over there. Anything else?"

Ice Bear: "Nothing. Ice Bear says thank you."

Sam: "Hahaha! You're one funny bear!"

Ice Bear: "?"

• You didn't mind Sam's comment and just strolled through the aisles. You take a nearby shopping bag and fill it with all the things you need for this month as long as it fits your budget. You spot a can of tuna and thought of Grim, so you reached out for it. Your paw stopped after you feel a hand reaching for the can.

Ice Bear: "?"

Ruggie: "Wha..."

Ice Bear: "..."

Ruggie: "....."

Ice Bear: "......."

Ruggie: "...Uhh hey... You takin' that one?"

Ice Bear: *nods*

Ruggie: "Sorry but I really need this thing, y'know, and uh, this is the last can..."

Ice Bear: "..."

• You don't seem to show any movement of letting the can go, so Ruggie thought of two ways to get it. First way is to make up a convincing excuse...

Ruggie: "Look, I get how much you need the can but I have to get this can. You see, Professor Trein ordered me to fetch this for him so he can feed his cat, Lucius. And if I don't do it, he'll give me a failing mark... So please, could I have this?"

Ice Bear: "..."

• Your paw is still holding on to the can as well as Ruggie's hand. Ruggie awaited for an answer from you but you still won't let go. For some reason... You think that Trein is NOT the type of person that just abuses their status for his personal gain. You stared at Ruggie and your instincts tell you that he's tricking you. You take the can and apologized.

Ice Bear: "....Ice Bear is sorry for you."

Ruggie: "Wait, hey!... Ugh..."

• Welp, looks like the old sad excuse failed. Now there's only one way... Take and run for it!

Ruggie, pointing: "Hey look over there!"

Ice Bear: "?"

Ruggie: "Shishishi!"

• You looked at where Ruggie pointed and the hyena beastman saw an opening. He steals the can before you could react.

Ruggie, running: "Better luck next time!"

Ice Bear: "!"

• You ran after him but it looks like he has experience in running away more than you think. You ran to an aisle displaying pencils and pens. Quickly, you take three unsharpened pencils and threw them at Ruggie before he could ring up to the counter.

Ruggie: "Almost there-- ACK!"

• One behind his right knee, he slows down...

Ruggie: "H-hey... OUCH!"

• Next one at his hand, he drops the can...

Ruggie: "GAH!"

• Last one at the nape, he collapses...

Ruggie: "...Uhh...."

• You take the can after you send him a glare. Fortunately, Sam and the counter are two aisles away so he couldn't hear the commotion. You place your items on the counter and Sam handed your change.

Sam: "Thanks for shopping here! May I also interest you in these buy-one-take-one bags?"

Ice Bear: "Ice Bear is fine."

Sam: "Alright! Have a nice da-"

Ruggie: "Damn. All that for a tuna can?"

Ice Bear: "😠"

Sam: "E-excuse me, are you ok?"

Ruggie: "Yeah, this guy just got his hand on the last tuna can."

Sam: "Ah! Darn it, I forgot to restock those..."

• ... So yeah, another bad first impression but hey, after the whole Savanaclaw Trying To Cheat fiasco, you two actually managed to get along. Sometimes.

• That one time when you and him are partnered up for Chemistry class, you avoided him. Then you realize that you have zero knowledge on potion making which resulted in failure. Ruggie laughed and offered to teach you, only if you apologize and give him something in return. Although you labeled him as a 'scumbag thief' as Grim says, you don't want to have a failing grade. Reluctantly, you accepted.

• Ruggie happily chowwed down on the food you made for him. He's never eaten anything that good for a long time. Either you owe him or not, he'll steal food from you now. Good luck.

• If Ruggie owes you something, then it's going to be him handing you test answers from when he was a first year. Aside from giving him food, you also help him around Monstro Lounge. He keeps pushing you away from the kitchen to waiting duty because he doesn't want Azul or Jade see you cook. If they find out about your talent, that'll blow away his chance to get free food, now won't it?

[hadephobic-a]

They got a tail! Sometimes it falls off.

[cobrakaisb]

daylight

summary: he did the one thing he promised you not to do. now he’s begging for your forgiveness because you’re both in too deep

featuring: ANGST (heavy on that), betrayal, another vaping scene (it’s their thing okay??), book confrontation scene (aka not how it went down in the show)

word count: 3.9k

author's note: this is the last part that takes place during the lightning thief 🙌 and i swear that i'm going to be better about putting these out in a more timely manner, cause i feel so bad making you guys wait...anyways get your tissues ready and enjoy!

series masterlist ||| previous ||| next

“they think they know who the lightning thief is,” he grumbles, gaze still distant and cold. 

“what? who?” you ask, stepping closer to him. while it’s only the two of you in the room, you don’t want to risk anyone else hearing; this isn’t the sort of thing that should be spread around camp, even if you hate the majority of the people here. 

“clarisse,” he starts, “but they’re wrong.” 

“how do you know?” you ask, nothing but confusion plastered all over your face. 

“because it’s actually me,” luke replies, finally meeting your gaze.

the confession crashes into you like a rough wave on a ship at sea. your lips part, and you look at him with nothing but shock and betrayal on your face. then, like a switch flipped inside you, you harden. your back straightens out and your hands clench into fists at your sides as you throw him a glare as cold as ice. he steps forward, trying to reach out for you, but you dodge his shaking hand. 

the tremble is barely noticeable, but you notice everything about him. so how could you have missed this?

“you’re lying,” you decide, voice even as you continue to study him and feed into your delusional side.

his body language is tense, and there’s a slight shake in his hands that fidget with the pocket of his green cargo pants. he turns, facing away from you, putting you and his jagged scar in a staring contest. 

“tell me you’re lying!” you demand, anger and hurt coursing through your words. 

“i can’t,” he whispers, finally meeting your gaze once more. 

his brown eyes, ones you’re used to glowing with the warmth of golden sunshine, are darkened, weighed down with either the guilt of his actions or the burden of ones yet to come. you can’t decide which you’d prefer at the moment, especially after registering the sincerity in his voice when he uttered those two words: i can’t. 

“why would you do something like this?” you ask, trying to grapple with his feelings and understand where he’s coming from. maybe if you come from a place of understanding it will be easier to forgive him. 

“the gods need to be taught a lesson,” he starts, revenge coating his words. “they’ve gotten away with ignoring us, abusing us, and manipulating us for far too long,” he continues. 

he steps closer to you, and this time you let him. you give him an inch, but he takes a mile, his hands coming to rest delicately on your upper arms. his fingers, calloused from training, rub small circles on your sunkissed skin. 

“it was the only way,” he whispers, his breath brushing over your face.

“how long have you had it? the lightning bolt,” you ask, wincing slightly as the words leave your mouth. 

“since the winter solstice,” he admits. 

his voice is mixed with vulnerability and pride. he’s proud that he pulled off such a major heist, and is still getting away with it, but worried about how you’ll take his admittance. deep down he knows you’ll side with him; you love him too much. plus, who at camp would believe that you weren’t involved somehow? he’s one of the only people you talk to, and the two of you are practically attached at the hip. 

“how did you get away with this? how did nobody catch you?” you ask curiously. 

“not here,” luke murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. 

you go to protest, but then you hear the creaking of the floorboards, an unmistakable sign that someone else is in the big house. the door to the room where you and luke are standing opens, revealing the head counselor for the aphrodite cabin, christine. she smiles teasingly when she sees the two of you, and you realize that to anyone else, the pair of you look like your lovey-dovey selves.

“i didn’t realize this was the hook up spot,” she says, almost proudly. 

“we were just leaving christine,” luke explains, flashing her a charming smile. 

she blushes at his words, stepping aside as he guides you out the door with a hand on the small of your back. you’re so confused, still reeling from luke’s confession and it’s aftermath, but christine seems to think it’s because she caught the two of you. 

“don’t worry luke, i won’t say anything. you can trust me,” she replies. 

“i’ll hold you too that,” he says, throwing her a wink as the two of you leave christine behind and exit the big house. 

“you know she’s gonna spread that all over camp,” you hiss. 

luke huffs, giving you an unamused look. “that’s better than some of the alternative gossip,” he mumbles, and you immediately know what he’s hinting at. 

“i’ll meet you tonight, and i want answers, luke,” you whisper, poking at his chest. 

your words sober him up, and he nods before saying, “you’ll get them.” 

****

you’re the first to arrive, taking a seat on the rock between a small opening in the trees near the edge of the cliff leading to long island sound. the spot was deemed yours and luke’s fairly early on in the relationship; you can’t even count how many private moments the two of you have shared here. as you look out into the horizon, you wonder where everything went wrong. you shiver, whether it’s from the chill of the night air or the thoughts racing through your head you don’t know. before you can really contemplate it, someone places a sweatshirt over your shoulders.

turning your head, you're met with luke’s burning gaze. his lips are quirked up in a small, shy smile as he hesitantly takes the seat next to you. it’s silent between the two of you as you sit shoulder to shoulder, nothing touching but the toes of your white converse and his black ones. you nudge his foot with your own, holding out your mango ice vape: an olive branch. he chuckles, but takes a hit, his fingers brushing against yours as he removes the item from your hand. 

even after you each take a couple of hits, the silence stays. deep down, you know you have to be the first one to break it. so, with a deep breath you do: “when?”

“the winter solstice,” he answers, looking straight ahead so you’re met with a view of his scar and jawline. 

both of them look sharp in the glow of the setting sun. the white lines and ridges that make up his scar seem to be extra precise, as if ladon was trying to create an intricate pattern on luke’s skin. his jaw is clenched, clearly defining his jawline and the spot where his scar meets the hinge. before you can stop yourself you reach up and cup his cheek, thumbing at the hinge of his jaw. 

luke looks at you from the corner of his eyes. he’s not facing you head on — he doesn’t deserve to meet your eyes yet — but he can still see you out of his peripheral vision. your head is tilted slightly to the side, a small furrow in your brow as your thumb moves back and forth over the spot where his tanned skin and bottom of his scar meet. the vape, a staple in your relationship, is clutched tightly in your other hand. 

“how could he let you go?” you whisper. 

the question’s rhetorical, at least luke thinks it is. you seem to be thinking out loud, your mind lost in thought elsewhere as opposed to in the current conversation. or maybe you know more than you’re letting on. could someone have told you about ares? about new jersey? 

“how could he let this happen to you?” you ask, drawing him back to the present. 

his eyes flutter closed. he feels the warmth of your hands, and hears the quiver in your voice as you speak. he doesn’t need to be looking at you to see the tears collecting on your waterline; he’s sure they’re there. he almost wishes you didn’t say anything, because now all he can see is a whirlwind of images: coloring books, broken crayons, burnt cookies, green scales, and red blood. 

“he’s the reason you’re doing this, isn’t he? your father,” you ask, and luke realizes that he’s only answered one of your many questions.

he opens his eyes, clearing his throat before turning to face you head on. he settles his gaze on you. he hadn’t even realized that you’d switched positions, now sitting crisscrossed on the rock, the toes of your converse brushing against his right thigh. you’re hunched over, and his zip-up is hanging loosely off one of your shoulders, causing the hood to rest near your rib cage. you look sad, he realizes, and on instinct he pulls you into him. 

luke expects you to fight him off, and you do too, so it comes as a shock when your arms wrap around his neck. pulling yourself closer, you feel his hand slip to the hem of your jeans, fingers sliding between the denim and cotton of his sweatshirt. you take a deep breath, inhaling his scent — artificial mango and camp half-blood soap — before placing a delicate kiss on the spot where your thumb had rubbed circles previously. 

“he ruined my life, which is expected, but he didn’t need to ruin her’s too,” he finally admits. 

you don’t need to ask who the “her” he’s referring to is, you already know: his mother. luke rarely mentions her above the bare minimum needed to understand him and his upbringing, but you know that she’s unwell. and the blame falls entirely on his father’s shoulders; on a god’s shoulders.

“they need to learn that their actions have consequences. that we aren’t just toys for them to play with, to wear down and ruin, until they find us boring. stealing the bolt, it’s the first step in our master plan,” luke explains, lips brushing against your hairline. 

“our?” 

“mine and,” he hesitates and tightens his grip on you just slightly before continuing, “kronos.”

you pull back, eye to eye. nothing but disbelief and shock covering your features. of course luke, camp half-blood’s golden boy and master thief, could never pull something of this caliber off on his own. you knew that, you’d already convinced yourself that that was true. yet, deep down, a small portion of you hoped that all of this was a solo mission. regardless, never in a million years did you imagine kronos as his partner in crime. 

“like the titan lord?” you ask stupidly, still struggling to process who exactly you’d be teaming up with. 

luke doesn’t answer, he just stares blankly at you, his hand moving up and down the length of your spine in a slow pattern. his palm rests against the sweatshirt, and his nails occasionally scratch across the surface, but he doesn’t even bother entertaining your question with an answer.

“they called it the golden age when he ruled. the gods, they were nonexistent. they were nothing, and yet they were still too selfish and power hungry for their own goods. he wants revenge, and so do i,” luke explains, finally looking back at you. 

“is that what this is? a revenge mission?” you ask, a slight scoff in your tone. 

“partly,” he starts, and when he notices your disapproving stare he changes course. “there’s more to it though. all the campers in cabin eleven who will never have a true home, a true family, because their parents refuse to claim them. and even the ones who do know who their parent is, like katrina and ethan, they still have nowhere to go. our lives are already a living hell, the least the gods should do is acknowledge us. but they won’t, and that needs to change. kronos, he’ll make that change.” 

you let luke’s words consume you for a minute, pondering over the truth behind them. maybe luke’s manipulating you, playing into your loyalty and need for a happy family. or maybe he’s telling you the truth, one you've been too blind to see as a result of your mother’s love and devotion. as the queen of the gods’ only daughter, you hold a special place in her heart. she cares for you (you’re fairly certain she was the brunette woman chasing you towards the camp) and claimed you almost immediately, albeit conventionally, but she still acknowledged you. at times, you swear you can feel her presence; her disapproving, judgemental stare, resting on the back of your head. 

a heaviness settles in your chest with the newfound realization, and your mind wanders to the power you hold. hera’s only daughter — that must count for something. how many lines could you cross? what limits could you push, before getting yourself into any real trouble? your mother is spiteful, everyone knows that; it’s a reason why you have so few friends at camp. what would hera do if harm came your way, especially at the hands of another god? it’s chilling and daunting to think about the potential power you hold over supposedly all-powerful beings. no one’s dumb enough to strike you down, you imagine, because no one’s looking to fall right into one of hera’s traps. 

but even if you did talk to hermes, or any of the gods for that matter, what would you say? “hey! you’re an absolute asshole for leaving your son with his obviously mentally ill mother at such a young age, sending him on a quest that's destined to fail, and then ignoring him for the rest of his life. maybe you should change that!” nothing seems right, and whatever you say will most likely lead you to a permanent spot in the fields of punishment, regardless who your mother is. 

you clench your jaw, anger replacing the heaviness in your chest. it washes over you, covering you from head to toe. while you expect it to last a little longer, at least the duration of this conversation with luke, it doesn’t. the anger fades to helplessness, because that’s what you are, helpless. there’s no clear solution here; luke will always hate his father. katrina, and the other children of the minor gods, will always be left without a cabin. the unclaimed children, ones who sleep on the floor of cabin eleven, will stay there until their parent decides they are worthy enough for recognition. the thought makes you sick. 

you clear your throat, turning your attention back to luke and the conversation at hand. “you said stealing the bolt was the first step, what’s the second?” 

“convincing percy,” luke continues. he’s eyeing you the same way he does when he’s trying to determine if a new camper can be trusted, but you ignore it. 

“and if percy chooses to stay?” you wonder.

“he’ll be sorry,” luke mumbles, looking over your shoulder onto long island sound.

“luke, you can’t hurt him,” you beg, pulling his attention back towards you. 

his eyebrows furrow at your words, and you can see the gears turning in his head. 

“he’s a kid, luke, a legitimate kid. if he disagrees, promise me that you won’t hurt him. we can walk away, with or without percy,” you plead, fingers clutching at his shoulders as your eyes frantically search his face for a sign that he agrees. 

luke struggles to come up with an answer you’ll both accept. he knows kronos is listening, he can feel his ominous presence in the back of his mind; both a constant pressure and reminder. yet, your eyes are on him, so earnest and sincere that he doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to muster up an answer to your pleas. he decides that pleasing you, his girlfriend and valuable asset to his upcoming army is better than pleasing a lurking titan, who’s totally dependent on him.

“i won’t hurt percy. i promise,” luke says, licking his dry lips. 

you breathe a sigh of relief, head dropping forward to rest against his shoulder. you’re so trusting that you didn’t even think to make him swear upon the river styx. maybe that was your first mistake. 

*****

in the coming days, the already high tensions of camp half-blood begin to rise. cabins find themselves aligning with either zeus or poseidon, preparing themselves for the impending war. although she hasn’t said it, you know what side your mother has chosen, and you know the same is expected of you. yet, you hold out hope that percy, annabeth, and grover will appear before the summer solstice. 

that, however, seemed more like wishful thinking as the days leading up to the solstice decrease rapidly. at the same time, you and luke are spending more and more time together; something that wasn’t inherently sinister, but was slowly becoming such. 

“you need to pledge your allegiance to him,” luke grumbles, standing next to you as you line up your bow and arrow for a shot. 

you scoff at his words, releasing the string for a perfect bullseye before turning back to him: “no the fuck i don’t. i’m not loyal to him.” 

luke sighs at your words, rubbing the spot between his brows and his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. he knows you’re right; there’s not a bone in your body that will every be loyal to kronos, no matter how appealing the new golden age is to the both of you. yet, he can’t seem to rationalize taking you with him, risking everything he’s worked for — on top of your safety — just for kronos to end you anyways. 

“so who are you loyal to?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“isn’t it obvious,” you start, removing another arrow from your quiver, “you.”

luke freezes, his lips parting as he watches you continue to hone in on your archery skills as if this conversation is completely normal. 

“what?” he asks, even though he heard you clearly the first time. 

“i’m loyal to you, luke castellan. i’d burn the world down, tear olympus to pieces, brick by brick, if it would make you happy. i thought that was obvious,” you explain, looking at him over your shoulder as you drop your bow to your side. 

his mouth opens and closes not once but twice as he tries to understand the gravity of your words. they shouldn’t phase him though, given your parentage and actions thus far. everything he’s told you, all the plans for the future, you’ve supported wholeheartedly, rarely trying to convince him that he’s making a mistake. and hera, well she’s still zeus’s wife is she not?

“and that’ll have to be enough for him,” you state with finality, and all luke can do is nod and hope that you’re right. 

*****

the return of the three teenagers is supposed to be a happy one, yet all you feel is dread. there’s a heavy rock sinking to the bottom of your stomach, and you know it has to do with your upcoming betrayal; with luke’s betrayal. you struggle to form coherent sentences and words as percy and annabeth grill the two of you on why clarisse is still running free. 

“she’s the lightning thief! didn’t you tell chiron?” percy whisper yells, but it’s basically normal volume. 

luke gives him a pointed look, one asking if he can keep it down. “look,” he starts, “we didn’t want to raise suspicions. tensions are at an all time high right now, so we all agreed to talk to her once you guys got back,” he finishes calmly. 

you’re amazed at how easy it is for him to lie. he’s lying to his sister and his mentee, yet they don’t suspect a thing. it’s both admirable and disturbing, but you can’t determine which one outweighs the other. 

“you’re too quiet, what’s going on with you?” annabeth asks, her arms crossed as she turns all her attention towards you. 

your mouth feels like sandpaper. deny. deny. deny. “I’ve been so worried about you guys, and now you’re here, it’s a lot to take in. i guess when it took you longer than expected i got nervous,” you explain, but it’s half-assed. 

annabeth raises an eyebrow at you, like she doesn’t believe you, but your words are sincere. you hate that you couldn’t help them on their quest, and hate that you can’t help them now. in a matter of seconds, her gaze softens, and she wraps her arms around you. your heart lodges in your throat, and your eyes glass over as you reciprocate her action, pulling her tightly against you for what you know is the last time. 

“so tonight, after the fireworks?” annabeth asks, pulling away from you. 

“tonight,” luke agrees, but shadows behind his eyes tell a different story. 

*****

your designated rock in the forest feels awfully quiet and secluded. the usually warm stone is chilly against your bare legs, and you shift in your seat once more. tonight will go either one of two ways — you leave with luke, or you leave with both luke and percy. 

you can’t shake the feeling that luke will fail, unable to convince the young son of poseidon that he’s right. then, your mind wanders to how luke will retaliate (even if you begged him not to). your leg bounces in anticipation, and you really wish you hadn’t let katrina borrow your vape.

the first pop of the fireworks should be exciting, happy, but it does the opposite. the noises and bright colors heighten your nerves; no one will be paying attention and no one will hear them. your leg bounces faster. you reach beside you for your bow, clutching it tightly in your hand. the smooth wood calms you, but only slightly. a golden firework goes off, and it feels oddly ominous, especially as luke appears in front of you, sweaty and breathless. 

“we need to go. now!” he instructs, grabbing your hand to pull you off the bench. 

you stumble to your feet, white-knuckling your bow. “what happened?” you ask. 

luke cocks his head to the side, a dark look in his eyes. his scar is illuminated by the glow of the fireworks, and while you’d normally think he looks stunning, right now everything feels sinister. 

“percy refused, so i sent him a message,” luke explains, leading you further into the woods, away from your rock; away from camp.

“you said you wouldn’t hurt him. you promised,” you reply, stopping in your tracks.

“and we both know i couldn’t keep that promise,” luke whispers, and at least he has the decency to sound sorry.

“now are you coming with me or not?” he asks. 

you struggle to answer, debating if you want to leave percy and all your friends behind, but even luke knows the answer. 

“i’m coming with you. you know where my loyalties lie,” you answer, squeezing his hand. but do you?

luke’s always been a liar, and now you’re one too.

oh i love it and i hate it at the same time // you and i drink the poison from the same vine.

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[delicrieux]

…TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS ! ⋆｡°✩

⋆⭒˚.⋆ chapter summary. you did this to yourself.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader warnings for this chapter. swearing (i think) wc. 3.5k author’s note. and with this, we end our lil pre-relationship arc! and what's prewritten, so now y'all will have to wait. but not for too long since i'm very generous and also the best. it's almost time for a kiss xx

ੈ ✩‧₊˚

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CHAPTER 7: the missionTM (3)

right, so. a few things need to be established before facing the present moment.

first, once you were thoroughly exhausted by utahime, you returned to the room. her persistence to wrangle you into her and mei’s shared bedroom, which, in fact, had two nice, large beds, enough to share and not have anyone breathe down your neck, was indeed very tempting, and you almost succumbed. you didn’t for a reason you’re not yet sure of; all you know that each time she looked at you, pleading eyes and hands clasped close to her chest, an image of gojo left alone among the festival goers flashed in your mind, and you couldn’t force out a confirmation.

by all means, you have shared a bed with utahime. it had been nice and comfortable, and the two of you giggled under the covers, discussing the crushes on the tv show actors you had at the time. it was your first year at jujutsu tech, and you were sent on a mission with kyoto to establish rapport between the schools (no one else was willing, and yaga-sensei deemed you pleasant enough to be successful), and to say you were fast friends was an understatement – you clicked instantly, upon first glance, maybe. there was something about utahime’s tenacity and honesty you admired, and there was something about your openness and thick-skin she liked. kindness didn’t sabotage your backbone, and thus, you found a lot of things in common.

mei you like as well, though not as much. you feel she is quite cold underneath that clement smile, gaze curious but never attentive. however, it’s not mei’s presence that dissuaded you from joining them. you wish it was. god, what a mess.

it all sort of accumulated. fleetingly, you thought that gojo had returned to tokyo. you didn’t meet him once during the festival, which left you oddly desolate, as it was prime time for him to ruin your reunion with your dear friends – no trying to trip you up, no swiping at your ice cream, no public declarations of “hey! she stole that!,” no covering your eyes with his hands once the fireworks began so you’d miss the whole display. it was a bit unnerving, and you kept glancing over your shoulder enough for mei to ask, “are you expecting someone?”

the answer was, of course, a startled and incriminating, “no!”

when you did decline utahime’s fifth try to lure you into bed, she became suspicious. brows pinched and a displeased look, “how come, huh? you’d rather stay in a room with him?” she didn’t even say his name; utahime tried to avoid forming the syllables because she said it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

you held up your hands, like a thief caught red-handed, “no, no, i’d rather be with you two, really,” and you meant it, despite the something clattering in your brain, back and forth, back and forth, distant and strange and completely incomprehensible, “just that we need to wake up early tomorrow, and we’d hardly get any sleep if it was the three of us.”

for the first and likely only time, mei came to your rescue, “hmmm, she’s right,” she was already changing into her pajama’s, languid and elegant with the expensive, gleaming material hiding her body, “i am a bit tired after today. those curses…”

utahime shuddered, “don’t remind me, please.” a sigh followed, and you knew you’d won, “you sure you’ll be okay, though?”

“course. we got separate beds, and it’s not like he would actually try anything.”

“he better not,” she grumbled, “scream and i’ll actually rip him to pieces. i will do it with my bare hands—no, i’ll put on gloves first. i don’t want to actually touch him.”

“or better yet,” mei hummed, “send him here.”

the implication left you weirdly discontent. a pinch in your stomach where his hand had rested, so real that you had half the mind to look behind you to make sure he hadn’t manifested to defend himself. he didn’t. somehow, that was worse.

“absolutely not,” utahime stated, and you fought the urge to nod in agreement. she plopped down on her bed, exhausted, “no man is ruining this sanctuary.”

you exited with that. a bit confused and nervous, like some parts of you were rearranged perfectly but in the wrong manner. the door at the end of the dim hallway was suddenly intimidating, because finding a vacant room would make you extremely happy…right?

right. and that’s where you are now, palms clammy from sweat that surely accumulated from the dreaded heat plaguing the whole day. the night had cooled, rising harsh winds and bringing heavy clouds that obscured the stars as soon as the fireworks ended. maybe if he didn’t leave, he locked the door. then, at least, you’d feel vindicated, which is much better than that flutter pulling at your nerves. was this a part of his plan, too? set you on edge? it was, no doubt about that.

the room is, in fact, not locked, nor is it vacant. light spills from behind you, dousing the inky dark in vague silhouettes and shadows. gojo is here, and he’s sleeping, breathing soundly in the bed made for one. there’s a spot left for you beside him, a small space fit for another body. he could’ve easily taken up the whole mattress and then some, but he didn’t.

you’re not very good with deep contemplations – getou, you think, is, because he has the patience to untangle carefully. you don’t. all those neurons snapping just leave you angry.

still, you shut the door quietly, and still, you weigh the pros and cons of playing into this game. the lonely matt by the door is not exactly inviting, and you’re in too deep anyway. so, as silent as you can manage, you collect your pajamas and toiletries and lock yourself in the bathroom for a quick bed routine.

this is so silly. you want to giggle into a pillow because of how fucking ridiculous it is, but, when you leave the bathroom, changed, teeth cleaned, and face fed generously with skincare, his shadow in bed doesn't look silly. more so daunting, almost threatening, like he has more power over the situation than you want to give him credit for.

the first splatters of rain hit the closed windows. it's very dark, dark enough for you to have trouble discerning where's what, and you grapple for surfaces, afraid to trip over. the floorboard squeak and groan under your stealthy steps, and you can imagine him, sprawled there, twisting in annoyance until you plop down beside him.

you find your way there eventually, lower yourself carefully. no purchase, as a sudden movement would have you falling off the bed, which would hurt. it's very warm for your shower-cooled skin. and then... then. you don't really know. the raindrops pelt, and a flash of lightning cuts the world in half.

...a hand clasps at your thigh and pulls you close to a body, "mmh... where've ya been?"

the room fills with a thunderous, yet not exactly grating, noise. your breath hitches when his forehead bumps against the nape of your neck and you get a whiff of the floral bath soap he uses. so weirdly intimate.

"how are you not asleep?" you complain.

"was, until you opened the door," his voice is quiet. slurred, almost, like he's drunk, but gojo doesn't drink.

"..."

he has the audacity to press his chest close to your back, almost hugging you. the palm at your thigh makes no move to grope or linger, resting peacefully as another would, and you almost feel like it's innocent. or was that his goal the whole time? to tease, and nothing more?

warm. too warm. why does it make you flush?

"don't worry," gojo mutters, words pressed against the dip of your spine, "i promise i'm a gentleman," he gives a little squeeze, "mostly."

"most is not all," you snip, but don't shove him off.

he chuckles and the tremors buzz down to your toes, "too true," his palm flattens over your stomach, and he burrows deeper, "still. get some sleep."

something about his calm voice and warmth, and the thunder-rain-light show outside makes you sleepy, the type where you struggle against your eyes drooping and shutting for good. gojo isn't being very accommodating, the fingers playing with your shirt like they're making a decision. you'll hear him sigh and you'll be tugging your clothes into a semblance of respectability. he'll hum and you'll try to move away from the pleasant vibration. he'll curl even tighter and you'll want to lie there for eternity.

*

suguru: you awake? 3:49am

you: morning! sorry, i was already sleeping. what’s up? (o´ ▽ `o*)ﾉ 8:25am

you: i got you a souvenir ☆ i hope you’ll like it. gojo said you wouldn’t, but he’s a useless liar so 9:01am

you: i was thinking that we could all go to the arcade once we get back from the mission. have a nice weekend all to ourselves. i asked shoko, she said it’s ok as long as we go for a beer later. haibara-kun and nanami-kun also agreed. will you be free? 10:30am

at exactly 12:59pm, you are almost pressing the dial button, but gojo snaps your phone shut before you manage.

“hey!” you bristle, turning to your discontent seatmate.

his expression is shrouded by the lenses, but you see the tilt of his mouth, and he hasn't once left you alone for more than 30 seconds. he snatches the cell phone and slips it into his pocket, "that's theft."

he shrugs, "so sue me. i'll win in court, obviously."

"obviously," you seethe.

a clear, childish snort and the grin brightens considerably, and for a second, your gut churns – just for a moment, as fast as a breeze whipping the treetops and disappearing again. the train ride back to tokyo has so far gone in a similar fashion: him trying to annoy you and you somehow managing to refrain from clocking him in the jaw.

he is, however, not as irritating as he usually is, which is a feat in itself. it's... normal. nothing too special, nothing too bad. the gojo of 5 hours ago, waking you gently and shaking you and talking to your sleepy, bleary, barely conscious mind was different, kind, almost pleasant. and now he is like he always is, and it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as you wish it did.

right now, there is no reprieve, but, thankfully, you're used to his behavior.

"’sides," he leans his cheek on a fist, elbow on the armrest, "am i not entertaining enough for you?"

"seriously? begging for attention? are you that desperate?" you reach into his pockets, and, honestly, gojo could prevent this easily. you could tell; his technique is flexible in the physical department, too. so, letting you get too close is, in fact, quite voluntary on his end.

 maybe he wanted to fluster you. it's not working. you're just irate as per usual, which must disappoint him.

"woah!" he stops you suddenly, hand on wrist, "at least buy me dinner first."

your anger fizzles into irritation when you notice you've garnered more than a few spectators. several pairs of curious, judging eyes glare at you from over the rims of magazines and newspapers and even laptops, and, yes, gojo's existence commands a lot of attention. he's always in the peripheries of every person within a mile radius without even trying.

so, the anger rears up again, because his antics have definitely ruined your chances of a peaceful, uneventful ride home, "gimmie my phone."

his grip is quite strong, holding you at an arm's length, "nah."

"you're an asshole, you know that?"

"stop thinking 'bout my ass, gosh, you'll make me blush," he takes that same hand and fans himself playfully, "but fine! since i'm the sweetest, nicest, and the kindest."

he fishes out your phone, lays it in your waiting palm, and then just looks at you like he's expecting something in return.

"what?"

a few seconds pass, his head tilts to a side, and you're left befuddled when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, "my thank you?'"

the first instinct, the correct one, is to say "go to hell" and forget this conversation even happened. the second, which you voice, is, "you expect gratitude for stealing my phone and then caving under zero pressure to return it?" your eyebrows must be all the way to your forehead. he is astounding.

he looks away, displeased, "not zero. you basically tried to fondle me. in public. in a train, even, how shameless of you."

"i did not."

"you did."

"not."

"did."

"oh god," you rub at your temples. a headache is oncoming.

gojo laughs. it's pretty, rich in pitch and loud, and more than a few people crane their heads, but now the stares are full-blown wonder. a bit sickening. you wouldn't be surprised if someone came up begging for a picture.

"could you please stop drawing attention to yourself?" you hiss.

"me?" he points at himself, glasses riding down. a flutter his pale eyelashes, "impossible," and a charming smirk. his pupils dart to your mouth, a full 1.5-second pause that makes your neck heat up. and, after what seems like a break for a wink and an allure, the spectacles are back.

what.

you open and close your mouth, unsure whether you saw correctly. the light must have been playing tricks on you, because whatever the hell that was, it was too honest for gojo. and all too out of character, too, because he's been calling you ugly for three years now. his first words to you might've been, "ew, what the hell is wrong with your face?"

what a bunch of shit, actually. now that you remember.

he's definitely just being his usual self, trying to rile you up, and to prove some point about being irresistible. typical, predictable, and so normal you relax instantly, letting go of any concern or interest in that strange glimpse.

*

once back at tokyo, you grab him by the sleeve. it's an involuntary reaction, but to be fair, you don't exactly even see gojo. he is simply the nearest person, and thus, subjected to your weird whims.

he stops, looks down at you, and he must see something he doesn't like because his placid expression crumbles, "...what?"

"neeeee!" you tug and tug and tug, and there might be stars in your eyes, and maybe a dopey smile, too, as you stare at the figure getting swallowed by the people rushing to their platforms, "i think i just saw ueda-san!"

"who?"

"ueda tatsuya-san. from kat-tun!" you finally, after a lot of effort and some seriously heavy panting, arrive at a secluded corner, "he was there, i swear!" you glance back. there's no one even remotely resembling the idol and a part of you is disappointed, the fan in you crying out to at least see an outstretched hand in a peace sign, "isn't that exciting?!"

the distaste only increases tenfold, but he hides it by shoving his hands into his pockets, a bored slouch, "so?"

your world freezes, a full 5 seconds before, "what?! what do you mean ‘so’?! this is such a cool coincidence! like...it's..." you inhale sharply, "fate!"

"haaaaaaaah?!" he stares down at you like you've gone insane, mouth open, a glimpse of teeth, "fate?"

"yes!" you respond enthusiastically, "do you think he saw me? this is my chance!"

"to die?"

"what?" you squint, confused, "why would i die? i want an autograph—"

"how'd you even know him, huh?" gojo pokes your forehead, pushing you back slightly, "have you ever talked to him in your life? he doesn't even know who you are," and, yeah, you'll admit, you don't have any arguments for that, and you hadn't really expected gojo to be the respectable, thoughtful adult in this situation.

still. surely fate has placed you and ueda-san in the same, massive tokyo train station so you could have a meet-cute like in the movies and fall deeply in love. you would quit your sorcerer job on the spot, travel with his band, gosh, the songs he'd write about you. this is all too much. you clasp hands on your cheeks. your head is spinning.

and all while gojo, a fan as well, or so you'd assumed, stands and watches you break down into a puddle of lovesick nonsense.

"oh god," he breathes, "stop," the distress leaks, "woman, snap out of it," his voice is strained.

"gosh, i dunno, gosh," you shake your head, "i don't think i'm ready to marry, i'm only 20. this is crazy,"

"the hell are you acting like he proposed to you? you maybe just saw the back of his head," gojo's agitation rises steadily, a tick in his jaw.

you clutch the material of his shirt, "no, it was really him. maybe i should go check?"

"no!" he puts his hands around your elbows, half-pulling and half-guiding you, "what’s gotten into you? snap out of it."

"but i gotta run after him," you jerk and struggle. the hallways, the other people are mere smears to the focus of your tunnel vision. ueda was just in sight, and he'll soon be slipping between crowds you could never catch in a million years, "this is my only chance!"

"like hell!" gojo grits, "quit it! be a normal fucking person."

"w-wait a minute—"

gojo places two large palms on either side of your head, forcing you to look at him, and the fog clears as your eyes meet. the calm, composed, and serious glower shuts you up on its own merit and, shamefully, all you can think is how striking his features are.

he's breathtaking.

"breathe."

it comes as an order, though soft.

"and think."

your gaze lingers on the slope of his nose and how he holds himself, his entire posture radiating a fierce and all-consuming type of pride. his chin, his jaw, his cheekbones, the tilt of his lips, and you become overwhelmed. the need to shrink in and hide away has you clenching your teeth.

his grip tightens, "no. look at me."

and so you do. you have a mountain of complaints: to yourself, to the unfairness of this moment, because those fingers holding you up shouldn't exist, not around you. he shouldn't hold your face like this, tender, almost comforting, a thumb stroking your cheek absent-mindedly.

"good."

and, yes, a spark goes through you, and no, it is not that kind. it's panic, full-blown terror and the epiphany of what the fuck are you even doing?

"okay?" he asks.

"mmh," you nod quickly, "yeah, mhmm,"

his hands lower, come to rest atop your shoulders, and they're just as hot as a branding iron, "do you see why you're an embarrassment?"

and the magic ends as soon as it came, and he is repulsive again.

"buzzkill," you mutter, defeated.

*

“shoooko!” you barge into her room unannounced and uninvited, like it was your very own, and it might as well be by the amount of time you usually spend here. holding up a small gift bag, you present it with flourish, “i come with gifts!”

“welcome back,” she says dully, lounging on her messy bed and flipping through her fashion magazine, “how was the mission?”

you hum, tactfully avoiding the question by plopping down beside her, “i think i saw ueda-san at the train station!”

“ehhhhh?” now that gets her attention, and she’s all interest, “did you get a picture?”

“no, no,” you sigh, “was stopped by a lanky loser. gojo really is good for nothing.”

you miss the small smirk and the slight narrow of her eyes, “stopped you, huh? now why would he do that, i wonder..."

"because he's an asshole that wants to see me miserable?" you provide helpfully, getting more comfortable.

she flicks your forehead, and you wince, "you two are so silly."

*

"haibara-kun! nanami-kun!" you find them training in the dojo, and you barely manage to take off your shoes before you're sprinting full force to greet them, a gift in each hand, "i got you souvenirs from hitoyoshi!"

"mah, aren't you excited?" nanami stares with slight distaste when the box of sweets is literally shoved into his unsuspecting hand.

haibara, on the other hand, looks like he might grow a tail and start waggling it, "thank you so much, kawakami-sempai! these are so thoughtful, i appreciate them!" he immediately tears the packaging off, takes a hearty bite.

he sighs, content.

you wave off their praise like it's nothing. well, haibara's praise, but you’re used to nanami’s polite demeanor and quiet nature, so it must mean he is beyond ecstatic to receive such a thoughtful gift, "of course, of course! i gotta take care of my juniors,"

nanami grunts and examines the chocolate-coated cakes and cookies with an air of someone that is reluctantly pleased, "mmm, thanks."

you flash him an exaggerated smile, and he averts his gaze. got him, ha! you are the best sempai on this entire planet.

*

once you distributed the souvenirs, you swung by getou's dorm room. knocked, waited, only to realize he's not there. you left the gift bag by his door.

later, you find out that he’s gone on a mission, and that he likely won’t be back soon.

tags (couldn’t tag the marked). @shokosbunny , @jotarohat , @alygator77 , @fortunatelyfurrygiver , @finnydraws , @mastermasterlist1p1 , @eolivy , @letsmyy , @staruus , @k0z3me , @damnshorty , @kaeyakaikai , @n4melesspers0n , @midnightwriter21 , @sillymercury , @byakuya61085 , @stillnotherapy

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER ONE — THE POISE, INTEGRITY and LUCK OF A KENNEDY

MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you go head-to-head with your new neighbor, eddie munson, and lose something precious to you in the process. content warnings: NSFW / MINORS DNI swearing, classic 80s classism, tommy hagan jumpscare, eddie munson jackin off word count: 3.4k

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you it ends well for you. 

I wish I could tell you that this is nothing but a bad dream, or a fugue state, or an extremely vivid hallucination brought on from that weed your friends buy from that burnout in the horrendous denim vest that is now your next door neighbor. 

I wish I could tell you that you’re not sitting on your designer suitcases in the weed-ridden lot of a trailer park, watching your mom (who is already it’s-five o’clock-somewhere drunk) charmlessly haggle about the rent. 

See, you used to have money, but now you don’t. 

You used to have a dad who wasn’t incarcerated, but now you don’t. 

You used to have integrity, but the IRS seized the last of that along with your childhood home in Loch Nora. 

I wish I could tell you that you weren’t totally fucked. But it seems that there’s no way this total shitheap of a situation could get worse–

“Need a little help with that?”

–except there is. There totally is.

You flex your hand, relieving it from it’s writing cramp. You’ve been hunched over your journal, perched on your ready-to-burst luggage for what seems like hours now– admittedly, you’re the kind of girl that’s used to valet service. Bellhops carrying your suitcases to your room when you used to join your dad on business trips. 

But valets never looked like this. Squinting at you from beneath his ratted-out waves, Eddie Munson gives you a once-over that makes your stomach lurch. You know him the same way everyone in Hawkins knows him– either barrelling through the hallways like a tweaked out autocrat whose only dominion is over his group of unwashed dorks or palming off baggies at parties. But there’s something about Munson that’s always rubbed you the wrong way. He’s so loud and defiant and achingly obvious, smug when he’s got no right to be. 

Especially now. 

“Excuse me?” you drawl, snapping closed the leatherbound journal. 

“Just wheeling out the welcome wagon. It’s not often we get new neighbors with so much…,” he pauses, gaze scanning over the boxes and bags and randomized ephemera being loaded out of the cheapest moving van Hawkins has to offer, “Shit.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, Munson, I’d say you were casing the joint.” In fact, you find yourself wondering where exactly your jewelry box is– y’know, the leftover shit your parents didn’t already pawn. The millieu of your grief made you forget about the high possibility of people in the trailer park stealing your stuff.

Munson grimaces. “Do I look like a thief to you?”

“You look like a drug dealer to me,” you snipe, smile all fake. “You might be looking to diversify your criminal skillset. How should I know?” 

From where you sit on your straining suitcase, you’re about eye-level with Eddie’s crotch. And call him a weirdo, call him whatever, he doesn’t mind the view. As much as he’d like to pretend he’s above the discordant buzz of Hawkins’ gossip scuttlebutt, news of your family’s downfall is hot shit. He can barely believe it’s really happening, and right in his front yard; Hawkins High’s stoniest, coldest fox and her equally foxy mom were packing their fur coats and shit into a double wide. Eddie couldn’t lie– he liked seeing people like you get knocked down a peg. So he’d come to gloat. A little. 

But you’re all snappy and full of venom– not like in school, where he’s almost positive you’ve never made eye contact with him.

He doesn’t mind that change in attitude either.

“C’mon. That luggage looks a little heavy for you, princess,” he says. “I don’t entirely trust you getting it inside the trailer without breaking a nail.” 

“I don’t need your help,” you say, shoving that tattered journal into your book bag. Eddie wonders what kind of bullshit you’re always writing in there– every time you’re not in the middle of some idiot milleu with your popular cohorts, you’re practicing your longhand. 

“You could use it, though,” he counters, and the condescension in his tone makes your cheeks flare up. You spring from your seat on the suitcase, making Munson take a shocked half-step back. His eyes blaze, rounding out as he takes you in at your full height. 

Still taller than you. He'll be okay. He thinks.

“I’m a goddamn cheerleader, you Neanderthal looking dipshit,” you spit, “I’ve got a core of steel.” 

You turn and dip, reaching for the thick leather handles of the case and discover–oof–that’s a little bit way heavier than you were expecting it to be. But spurned by sheer stubbornness and a need to get away from him as quickly as humanly possible, you brace yourself against the screaming muscles in your arms and wobble the baggage all the way to the trailer door. Your mom stands in your path, dress slipping off her shoulders, blearily looking toward the Munson kid as he retreats to his own trailer with a languid backwards tread. He can’t look away from this scene. 

“Mom. Mom, can I fucking–” you struggle through gritted teeth, “The bag, Mom. Get out of the way.” 

She moves out of your way at an aching half-speed as Munson’s eyes burn hot on your struggling frame–he’s loving this, he’s loving seeing you in the shit just like everyone’s loving seeing you in the shit–and you deposit your suitcase in your brand new matchbox-sized bedroom with a heaving gasp. Shit.

You cross the room in about three steps, heading to the window to close the blinds– shshk. Sshsk.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

The blinds begin to close, but stop dead not even halfway across the window. They’re stuck, leaving you without a particle of privacy. Which sucks, of course, because you were really banking on some scheduled crying time tonight. 

You had held it in for as long as you possibly could, all that hurt and frustration at the disaster your father had landed you in, promising yourself that you’d let it all out once you and your mom had a safe place. A place that wasn’t your estranged aunt’s basement couch, or a motel you could barely afford. A place that you could at least pretend was home. In your minds eye, you had envisioned something modest-if-shitty– the sunnier end of Cherry Lane, maybe. You hadn’t counted on a place that required a gas hookup. 

You tug on the beaded chain with a desperate force and no give– exasperated, you let your head slump against the filthy windowpane. The bedroom window stares directly into the window of the trailer opposite, where a warm yellow light flickers on and illuminates another bedroom. 

Peeling posters and a guitar on the wall. Of course. Of course you’ve got a bird’s eye view into Eddie Munson’s fetid cave. He spots you in the window and pouts a big ol’ pitiful pout– poor little rich girl. Missing your velvet blackout curtains? 

You can’t flip him the bird quick enough before he closes his fully functional blinds. 

–

You sleep like shit. Exhaustion couldn't even beat you into a slumber. You couldn’t be bothered to begin the unpacking process and instead fished out whatever closest resembled pyjamas from your luggage (an oversized t-shirt from a father-daughter trip to Columbia University), curling up on your bare mattress with your coat thrown over you, but the thing that was really keeping you awake? You couldn’t find your pen. 

Your prized possession pen, your fountain pen in the ruby-red casing. Your journaling pen. You refuse to write in your diary with an inferior instrument, alright, that’s just not how it’s done, but it’s nowhere to be found. It’s not rolling around the bottom of your book bag, though you’ve emptied the thing three times. It’s not anywhere.

You ask your mom if she’s spotted it anywhere, but she’s still in a Valium haze when you’re buzzing around, trying to get ready for school. 

That’s a whole other ordeal. Your acceptable school clothes are, again, buried in some suitcase that was hastily packed as agents waited for you to vacate the property. And by appropriate, you mean your carefully chosen pastel color palette– the very best of the very trendiest, the ra-ra skirts and the bomber jackets that sit so perfectly on your poised shoulders. The kind of clothes that make someone like Tina go, God, I wish we could trade dads. Just for the credit card. 

Now, all you’ve got to hand are the clothes that feel like your dirty little secret– thrift store suede and dark, rich knits, dresses of velvet and leather boots. The kind of things you collect just to collect, to dress up in when you know no one’s going to be looking at you and think someday. Someday you’ll be someplace where you don’t have to wear the exact right JCPenney piece of shit to fit in with a crowd. Because these are the kinds of clothes that feel right, but make people, important people, people like Carol go–

“Jesus, Lacy, dressed for a funeral much?” 

You hadn’t though the ensemble was too dark, but hey, in the harsh light of day. You bashfully shrug your jacket closer around you, faux fur collar tickling your ears. “I’m in mourning.” 

“Shit, I hate driving out here,” Tommy Hagan squawks from the driver’s seat, already agitated first thing in the morning, “I always feel like I’m gonna get carjacked.” 

Forget your shitty car; the only thing they’d be stripping for parts out here is you, Tommy, you want to quip, but you just fasten your seatbelt. Carol had managed to guilt him into giving you a ride this morning, an effort in pity and also because she wanted the gossip from the trailer park before anybody else. 

“Yeah, how was it, Lace? Did you like, deadbolt the doors and shit? Because you really gotta do that out here.”

“You should get a bat to leave by the door. Y’know, for intruders,” Tina blankly adds, staring into her compact mirror. 

“You should get a gun,” Hagan says, peeling out of the park with a quickness, “if that’s who you’re livin’ next to.”

“What? Who?”

“That Munson freak,” you sigh, resting your head against the windowpane again, “He like, basically threatened to rob me when I was trying to move in yesterday.”

A chorus of disgust rises up in the car that makes you feel good– warm, surrounded, accepted. Even though it blatantly wasn’t true, you’d do just about anything to win your friends’ approval these days. You noticed a certain waver in their stares when you revealed where you’d be moving to, after your dad was sentenced and everything.

A lot of the time, you didn’t feel like they wanted to be there for you, more that they wanted to be the first to hear the dirt on Hawkins’ most scandalous family. 

Usually you’re the one on the receiving end of their deep, dark secrets. 

It’s like they feel like they finally have something on you. 

Or, no! That’s crazy, you’re just being paranoid. These are your friends. As much as high schoolers can be friends. 

“I’ve got just the thing to take your mind off it, Lacy,” Tina says, pinching your arm, “Kegger at Harrington’s on Friday. He even asked about you–”

“--he said he could give you a discount at Family Video if you need it–” Hagan sniggers, earning a smack in the ear from Tina. 

“--shut up! So, you’re not a total social pariah yet, okay?”

You blink. You know Tina means well, but sometimes she is so fucking tactless. “Um. Didn’t think I was one, Tins, but thanks for the reassurance. I guess.”

–

He’s not a thief. He swears to God, or whatever the cooler alternative of God is, he’s not. 

But he’d be lying if he didn’t consider keeping the stupid red pen just to see if you’d miss it. It’s engraved, he noticed, while rolling it between his fingers as he lay in bed last night. And Eddie Munson is a man not unfamiliar with the value of a decent writing utensil. Those D&D campaigns don’t write themselves. You want something that’s going to be in it for the scribbling long haul and this thing’s not bad. Etched in teeny tiny letters on the pen cap are your initials– the letters of a name no one calls you anymore. 

Which is the part that makes it stupid, obviously. What is it with rich people and putting their monogram all over everything?

God, she’s obsessed with this fuckin’ thing, Eddie thinks. Wonder how much it’s worth. A lot, to you, obviously. You’re always etching with it in English, using it to push a lock of hair behind your ear in the library. Tapping it against your lips when you’re standing at your open locker, the tip settling right into your Cupid’s bow, the red casing bouncing off the plush pink of— woah. Pause. 

Eddie had to take a beat. 

He’d been tapping the pen against his lips too. Thinking about you. Thinking about your lips. That nasty little pout you gave him outside your trailer, the snarl it curled into when he goaded you on. 

Fuck, was that kinda… were you kinda…

It’s enough for him to jam the pen into his mouth and palm himself over his boxers, just to make sure. And— yep. He’d hummed, a kind of well whaddaya know! and slipped his hand under the worn elastic waistband. He even gave himself a couple of tugs, just to make sure. 

And the thing that made him really sure was the Technicolor vision he had of confronting you in the library’s restricted section.

Yanking that pen away from your mouth and grabbing a fistful of your hair.

Clamping his mouth onto yours and sinking his tongue so deep inside he could taste the cherry Tab lingering on your uvula.

Guiding your hand, your writing hand, past the undone clink of his belt and waistband of his jeans so you could stroke him to the head. 

Ink stains mixing with precum. 

Moaning into your mouth. 

Giving you something to write to dear diary about. 

So now, back in the harsh light of day, this stupid rich bitch pen is burning a hole in his pocket. 

Almost like payback, as if you’d embarrassed him by making him hard in the privacy of his own trailer, he approaches you in the most audacious setting imaginable— the cafeteria. 

You sit there, among your usual gaggle of Gap zombies, but you look— different. You’re dressed different. Cool jacket, Eddie involuntarily thinks before mentally slapping himself. Shut up! We’re here to humiliate her, remember?

“Lacy,” he says, but he draws it out all over his tongue so it sounds like laayyyy-ceeee, and you are visibly disgusted by this. He looms over the table, barely containing the twisted grin on his face. He's playing the part of fake bashful here, you see. “You, uh, dropped this outside my place last night.” Your shoulders go tense. Eyes of your space cadet friends snapping back and forth, from Eddie to you to Eddie to you. 

Because it’s true. Technically, you did drop it and technically, it was outside his place but the implication is what's killing you. 

Eddie can barely outstretch his hand before you snap the pen from him, icy fingers a shock to his skin. This sick thrill gathers like a twister in his stomach as you freeze in place, staring him down with a laser pointed glare. Fuck. Off. And. Die, it says. 

But he doesn’t! “Oh gosh, no need to thank me, Lace! Really, it was no trouble at all— what are neighbors for!”

Mocking giggles start bursting from the popular kid peanut gallery. But the flavor is… off.

Eddie scans the little in-crowd that are scoffing at your expense— which, okay, is totally what he came over here to do but… these are meant to be your buddies, right? Shouldn’t Hagan be threatening to beat Eddie’s ass right about now?

But instead they’re just… letting you stew. No one’s telling Eddie to back off, no one’s calling him their second favorite F slur (freak, naturally). 

Nicole Summers is laughing into her sleeve. That’s rich. Underclassman Carver is almost looking at him like, Yeah man, you got her good!

Which does not feel good. Feels kind of shitty, actually. 

Too easy of a win.

You didn’t even get a chance to fight back. You couldn’t. 

Fuck. 

Eddie turns heel and heads back to his table, a gaggle of befuddled Hellfire heads eager to know what the hell was that, man?! But even he can’t quite put his finger on it.

He feels… bad for you. 

—

“Anybody got bleach?” 

It’s the first thing you manage to choke out after a chorus of ooh, Lacy, what a good neighbor! and Hope that’s all you dropped outside his trailer, girl! All through lunch period, you’re the fucking laughing stock squared thanks to that long haired douchebag. 

“Bleach ain’t gonna cut it,” Carol smirks as you both exit the girls room and head toward your respective lockers, “That thing is totally contaminated with freak cooties. Better toss it— unless you don’t mind.”

See, that’s the thing. You do mind, because it’s your stupid goddamn special idiot sentimental pen and now he’s gone and— and— freaked it up somehow. Exploiting the fact you’ve had to make a major lifestyle downgrade because it makes him feel better. It makes you feel even more exposed than you’ve been getting used to feeling lately. 

Before you can get into it any more, Carol is clotheslined by Tommy to go, I don’t know, finger each other behind the basketball bleachers or whatever it is they do instead of going to study hall. You’ve lost track. 

You push past the gathering rush in the hallway to access your locker. Just as you slam the door closed, it appears again, like an insistent apparition. 

“What, Munson, are you here to tell me you put a bomb in my book bag? Because, if so, great. At least that’ll kill me.” 

Munson stands there, leaning against some poor bastard freshman’s locker, brow all tight. 

“Was I kind of a dick earlier?” 

You stare at him, incredulous. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I was. Shit, I knew it!”

“Why the fuck are you talking to me.”

“I didn’t mean it to come off like that— well, okay, I kinda did, but that was pretty cold. I mean, your dirty laundry’s already all over Hawkins, I probably shouldn’t have been like, waving your panties around—“

“Munson.” You gesture toward him, as if you’re going to clutch him by the forearms to shut him up, but halt at the last second. Fuck, you can’t stand him, you can’t stand the way he’s standing there with this earnest look in his eyes, on some hair metal Ferris Beuller protagonist of reality bullshit.

Your eyes flare white hot, jaw flexing.

“Listen to me. We may live in a regrettably closer orbit now, but that does not require us to acknowledge each other as human beings. In fact, if you try and pull some shit like that again— in fact, if you even so much as deign to look in my direction again, I will slash the tires on that fucking decommissioned World War II ambulance you call a van. You do not exist to me, and I better not exist to you. I am not your neighbor, I am a figment of your fucking rotted pothead imagination at best. Leave me the fuck alone or I will eat you. Capiche?”

You know for a fact that these are the highest volume of words you’ve ever spoken (or will ever speak) directly to Munson, and he knows it too. You don’t let loose like this— you don’t even talk to anyone outside your friend group unless extracurriculars or group projects call for it. Not because you’re shy, but because you’re discerning. 

Munson has managed to disarm you of all that with one stupid little pen. 

He’s staring at you with a deviously shiny-eyed gaze, one that makes you feel like you need to button the modesty button of a blouse you’re not even wearing. 

“M’kay, well, let me know if you need a ride after school!” he chirps and shrugs and takes off down the hallway to some class he’s certainly failing. 

And you’ve just earned the first big fat F of your life, by letting Eddie Munson get under your skin.

author's notes: hi! if you've read this far, i owe you my eternal thanks. been a hot sec since i wrote fic so i appreciate it. - thee perennial reference to lacy's nickname— best imagined sung to yourself in your bedroom mirror and having a classic 18 year old existential crisis, lol! - the journal and fountain pen motif is a not entirely subtle reference to veronica sawyer from heathers. please expect this trend to continue - as far as timelines go re: steve's working life and tommy and carol's high school careers, bear with me. all will be discussed or at least briefly mentioned but will there be inconsistencies? of course there will, babe. i'm here to fuck around, i'm not here for continuity - horndog eddie munson you WILL live forever! - please reblog, like & comment to show support! i've got some killer chapters planned for this fic and i live to entertain u

[lilylovestowrite]

Could I request Gepard with a chef! reader who enjoys cooking for him?

Reader loves to spoil Gepard with homemade bread or cake. Upon realizing that he skips meals, reader decided to take action and make him boxed lunches.

SWEET LIKE BUTTERCREAM! ୨♡୧

PAIRING ୨♡୧ (Gepard Landau x Gn! Chef! Reader)

WARNINGS ୨♡୧ None

SYNOPSIS ୨♡୧ Your husband has been neglecting himself, and you decide to spoil him rotten. 

WORD COUNT ୨♡୧ 1.5k

A/N ୨♡୧ Thank you for the request, Anon! I know you didn’t specify whether the reader was married to him or not, but Gepard is so husband material that I couldn’t help myself. Hopefully you don’t mind! Please enjoy!

Divider by @/cafekitsune

“Honey,” Gepard echoes through the entryway to the kitchen, “I’m here.” 

You can’t hear him through the chaos, but he can hear you barking orders at your coworkers. Even your yelling soothes him to a certain degree. Still, he wants you to talk to him, so he shuffles through the tight squeeze in between the kitchen island and the ovens. Honestly, even though he’s a guard, his workplace is almost as dangerous as yours. The smell is heavenly, saffron and spices waking him (and his stomach) from a stress-induced daze, but the discord is immeasurable. 

He can hear you asking (shouting) for someone to check on the tiramisu, followed by a louder, “Thank you!” which makes him chuckle. That’s what the blond first noticed about you: even in dire situations, you never forget your manners. The memory of a rainy day in Belobog flashes through his mind: on his daily rounds, he finds a figure dressed in an adorable frog raincoat, beating a thief with their matching frog umbrella, hollering tearful apologies with each strike. Whilst as a Landau, his teachings have raised him to believe that ‘manners maketh man’, that scene was a rather overexaggerated use of the phrase. Nevertheless, the second he met your teary gaze, he was so enraptured by you that he nearly stumbled into a puddle. He’s about to melt into one too, watching you work away with that little look of concentration that makes him want to scoop you up. 

“Darling?” Your husband calls once more, just metres away from you. Finally, you turn around. Meeting his deep blue eyes, taking in his tired tiny smile and outstretched arms, you leap right into his arms. You’re not one to throw yourself at people, nor are you one for physical touch, but of the many years you’ve known him, Gepard will always catch you if you fall. It’s that trust that allows you to dive into his embrace every time he visits you at work, he’s just so reliable. 

“Hello handsome,” you hug him so tightly he nearly stumbles backwards, “back from work so early?” It’s then that you do a double take at him. Gepard is never home from work early. He’s a doting husband, yes, but he’s an equally hard-working Captain. You hug him harder and realise just how much skinnier he’s gotten. “You must be sick, sit down. Let’s get you to the private lounge.” You take a deep breath, ready to yell once more, and Gepard shuts his eyes in anticipation of another wave of noise-barrier-breaking-banter. “Jiaoqiu, I trust you’ll keep things running?” The new foxian chef nods, and you leave your domain with your husband behind you. 

Working as a chef in a hotel is a stressful job: entitled customers who plant hairs in their food to get a discount, waiting staff who hand in an order that is completely illegible, the loud hustle and bustle of the kitchen. It’s not for the weak, and your employers are appreciative of that fact and give the cooks a little lounge. Even for a five star hotel, it’s amazing they even considered it in the first place. You take full advantage of their kindness and lead your husband to one of the cream coloured couches. The sea is visible from the lounge, full glass windows making you feel as if you’re trapped in an ice cube. The hues of sunset begin to paint the sky, light red casting light on the hollows under Gepard’s eyes. 

“Geppie, you haven’t been overworking yourself and skipping meals again, have you?” 

He looks away, slightly red: “It’s not that bad. It’s just a few meals.” He winces, his soft voice jaded from fatigue. To make matters worse, his stomach rumbles ferociously. He covers his stomach with white gloved hands, blue eyes widening with panic. “Listen, go back to work, love, I promise I’ll eat once we get home. Just, don’t do that thing where you go insane trying to cater to me. You work a full-time job too, don’t let me get in the way. I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself.” 

“You’re a grown man when I saw you are, Geppie. I’m bringing you pasta, just the way you like it.” You flash him a pout, frustration building up inside of you. You hate seeing your husband neglect himself like this, every time you see him convince people around him when he’s fine when he’s obviously struggling, it hurts. You two lead your lives in effortless synchronicity, like a perfectly executed ice skating performance, so observing his health deteriorate when you two are so close it’s like you share the same chambers of your heart is hurtful to you too. You’ve given him his space, but now it’s time for an intervention.

“You don’t have to cook me pasta, darling, I can cook too, you know?” 

You grab both of his legs and rest it on the white fancy coffee table in front of you so suddenly, he startles and jumps back like a frightened rabbit. You fetch him a blanket from the hotel cabinet and drape it over him. “I know you can, love,” you run your hand through his soft hair and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy, “but just let me handle it tonight, okay?”

He yawns, finally giving in. “Okay honey, but only for tonight.” Gepard replies, his Captain’s authoritative lilt leaking into his words. 

But that voice doesn’t work on you, it seems, because the next day during his patrol, you bound up to him like a puppy. Gepard may walk into you at times, and you will greet each other, maybe share a kiss. But you know not to interrupt his work, as any lack of diligence may result in casualties in rare cases. But Gepard doesn’t want to take that gamble. Today, however, in this picturesque sunny day, the sky the shade of his eyes, there is something hidden behind your back. 

“Darling, hello! Are you enjoying your day off- oof!” The second he reaches out to kiss the back of your hand, you smack an adorably wrapped box into his arms. Although he is in his uniform, perfectly built to protect him, he does stumble back slightly. He assesses the box, unwrapping the floral pink fabric that holds it, and finds a bento box. “Wait, love, I love your cooking but we have food at work, don’t waste your day off on-” His voice trails off, because as he looks in front of him again, you’ve already vanished. He shakes his head dismissively, “What a sly fox.” But a few of the Silvermane Guards at the same post as him watch as a wide smile breaks out on his face, along with a blush that turns the tip of his ears a deep pink. 

It has become a daily thing now. And although Gepard feels a bit ashamed that his partner is babying him, the complete truth is that on your days off, he intentionally ‘forgets’ his bento box just so you can find him and hand it to him then. It’s no different three months later, when you stomp up to him in your wellie boots, under your frog umbrella. “Hello, love.” He greets, ruffling your hair and taking the bento box. He looks at the fabric that decorates it and tilts his head to look at you better. “I like the ducks on this one, it’s cute.” When he laughs with the same softness as a tiny bell, you swoon softly, even more so now that he’s gained some of his baby fat back on his cheeks after your rigorous diet schedules. It makes him seem so much more peppier, and now that things are a bit more difficult for you at work, he’s been stepping up and taking care of you too. It shows now more than ever that he’s less overworked. There’s a pep in his step, all signs of tiredness in his face replaced with a healthy glow and rosy tint in his cheeks. He makes your cheeks bloom with heat when he kisses the back of your palm, his common Prince-like greeting. “So, what did you make this time?” 

“I made some linguini and I had some leftover battenburg cake, so that’s in there too! It’s a bit chilly today, so wrap up warm, sweetheart. I’ll get going now, I have to pick up some groceries.” You’re about to turn away, but Gerpard calls your name in such a way, it resembles the light and sweet taste of buttercream. 

“Wait! Before you go,” he sets the bento box on a nearby bench and lifts you up for a kiss. You meet his lips and exchange a cold kiss that ends up warming the both of you up significantly. “I’ll see you at home, angel.” He smiles, putting you down. You say your goodbyes and walk away, heart swelling with affection and excitement for the next time he opens the door to your house so you can leap into his arms once again. 

[periwinklemoonlight]

little sunshine ⋆ boatem knights au

my second short story set in bee @applestruda 's boatem knights au and canon to the plot written by zera @hopepetal !! also make sure to check out bee's bkau gem and etho designs <3 !

cw: decapitation, murder, blood

if you prefer, you can read it on ao3!

⋆⋆⋆

“-And you’re sure this is the man responsible?” The room was spacious, more than big enough for hundreds to fit in, yet the tension in the air filled it with an undeniably claustrophobic atmosphere. Precious artefacts lined the walls and occupied the floors, meticulously positioned in a perfect pattern to suit the path of a would-be museum goer. Now, however, one was missing. And only the most ancient and irreplaceable of the lot, of course.

“Completely.” An odd chill ran up the spine of the curator as she spoke. It shouldn’t have been possible, she thought, she had barely taken her eyes off of that corner of the room for a second before the amulet had vanished into thin air. All she had caught a glimpse of in the aftermath, she was sure of, was a man with stark white hair and a mask darker than the deepest night sky, fleeing the scene with a swiftness she could only ascribe to a seasoned thief.

She had only ever seen that man once before, yet something in her gut was absolutely sure it was him. A few years back, she had stayed at an inn just out of town on a business trip. Her stay had been all-around pleasant, the owner undoubtedly a delight to talk to, full of cheerful stories and helpful advice for travel. The same couldn't've been said for their companion, however. 

He had brooded in the corner of the inn, shooting her occasional unreadable glances as she conversed with the owner, any emotion beyond ice cold eyes concealed by a mask of blackest night. His back to the wall, practically blending in with the shadows around him, she had nearly cancelled her stay the minute she spotted him. 

The only thing that had convinced her to stay despite her better judgement was the owner’s utmost insistence that that man was nothing to fear, that she’d be completely and utterly safe at the inn. Something in their tone had been so, so earnest, she couldn’t help but be inclined to believe them. They were right, she had been entirely safe after all, yet she never could quite shake the cold chill that permeated her body every time the man passed her by. 

“Then it seems we’ve got a bounty on our hands.” The guard concluded with a severe nod.

“Bounty, you say?” A cheery voice asked from across the room. The curator whipped her head around to watch as polished hooves clicked onto the museum flooring. 

“How did you-?” The curator asked, before cutting herself off to fully take in the person before her. There stood Gemini Tay, adorned in finely crafted emerald silks and lightweight armour, wild red hair expertly contained in a sweeping braid, and absolutely armed to the teeth in various weapons hanging lazily across her waist. It wasn’t a bad look for the most notorious bounty hunter in the land, all things considered.

“Word gets around,” Gem replied with a grin, absentmindedly twirling an intricately carved knife in her hand as she approached. “And I’m always down to lend a helping hand!”

She paused, then eyed the curator’s own ostentatious outfit. “...For a fair price, of course.”

“Of course,” The curator repeated, a keen smile worming its way to her face. 

⋆⋆⋆

If there was one thing she relished in being known for, it was that once she had her target in her sights, Gem wasted no time.

It wasn’t hard to spot him, after all. The description the curator had given her was one of the most interesting she’d gotten in a while. A man known only as “Etho”, with a harsh red scar blinding him in one eye and never once seen without a dark mask obscuring half his face. During her journey, Gem had learned that nobody in the area could quite recall when he’d started working at the inn, or even if he actually worked there at all. In fact, it was a popular local rumour that the man was simply a vagrant that the kind innkeeper had taken pity on during one particularly frigid winter and never thought to kick out afterwards.

Regardless of whatever his backstory might have been, Gem couldn’t really care less. All she really cared to know about him was that he was the only thing standing between her and a ludicrously lavish payout. 

It was only a lucky coincidence that the innkeeper wasn’t in when she arrived. There was her target, standing far too nonchalantly behind the counter and looking as if he was preparing to greet her. She wasn’t about to give him the chance. Instantly she swung at him, hard and fast, looking to get a clean kill. To her astonishment, however, he suddenly disappeared within a blink of an eye, reappearing once more just as fast and now on top of the counter. Gem watched as a dark, smoky substance wafted off him as he jumped down and dissipated as quickly as it appeared. 

When she looked at Etho now, it was as if he were slightly transparent, blurred at the edges. She blinked, and he was whole again, no trace of anything amiss. She growled and swung again with impossible force, heaving as her sword broke the floorboards where it landed. Again, she could have sworn that some dark substance was following him, aiding him in his escape. 

“Hey, hey! I don’t know what I did but, uh, I’m sure we can settle this some other way?” Etho offered as he slid backwards on the wooden floors like they were an ice rink, smoke trailing off him and weaving through the air. 

“No can do sir!” Gem replied as she swung once more, again missing him by a fraction of a centimetre. “You got a hefty bounty on your head, and I intend to take it!”

The fight escalated with Gem’s frustration. She spun herself around and leaped at Etho, sword high in the air and aiming to plunge it deep into his skull. Instead, she hit the inn’s counter, splitting the wood and knocking several small objects astray. Her hooves skidded against the floor as she reeled backwards, and wasted no time forcefully wrenching her sword free. 

Wood chippings now scattered across the floor, Gem paid them no mind in her pursuit. The action seemed to distract Etho somewhat, discontent flashing across his heterochromatic eyes, and she took the opportunity to strike. 

Finally, with a lucky stab, she managed to pin him down against the inn’s wall, plunging her sword into his shoulder with a devastating crack and watching as what must have been blood seeped out from it. He gasped, eyes darting to the wound. A wild grin found its way to Gem’s face.

“You’re a tricky one, aren’t you?” She asked, using the moment to catch her breath before unsheathing a second, smaller sword from around her waist. The sharp blade glinted in the deep, warm light of the inn. The reflection didn’t make it to Etho’s eyes. “Shame I’m gonna have to take you out like all the rest of ‘em. I’ll make it quick, though. You’ve earned it.”

It was odd, she thought briefly. Despite the sword driven straight through him, he didn’t appear to actually really care about it all that much. His breathing was as steady as ever, and he barely moved at all beside a futile effort to scoot away from her intense gaze. His eyes were calm, watching her every move in something almost akin to silent fascination rather than the fear she had grown accustomed to. No matter, though, Gem decided as she made clean work of him, lopping off his head in a single swing. 

It fell to the ground with a solid thunk, rolling slightly before making its stop like any old head should. A tenseness she didn’t know she was holding finally released, and she breathed again. Blood was splattered all over the inn’s floors, and she grit her teeth as she imagined the cut from her paycheck she’d have to give the keeper to get it cleaned. All this for some measly priceless artefact? Still, it was over. 

She picked up his head by the hair, and stepped back in shock as she felt just how cold it was. Instantly, it called to mind the way it felt to grab a fistful of snow with no gloves for the first time, fingertips fully immersed in the unadulterated icy chill. For a brief moment, it reminded her of… home. Gem had never considered herself the squeamish type, especially not with an occupation such as hers, but the realization gripping hold of her in that split second was enough to make her gag.

Her grip on his hair loosened for a second, but she caught herself before the head could drop. On a second examination, she noticed what looked like snowflakes scattered in his white hair and decorating his long eyelashes. It was then she finally heard the faint crackling sound that had been slowly spreading around her. The blood that had been flowing freely from Etho’s body was freezing up, and fast.

Gem could do nothing but watch in horror as the blood on the walls and floor turned to thick ice, cracking and shattering into pieces around her as soon as it solidified. Within no time it had spread to his severed head, and she gasped as the blood that still dripped from his neck froze midair and fell to the floor, fragmenting into dozens of tiny pieces. 

She broke her gaze from the head in her hands just long enough to witness a mountain of ice emerge from what remained of his body’s neck, accompanied by a low hissing noise that made her stomach churn. Gem realized then the shape that it was forming. Fractals of ice packed in and around each other, working in tandem to sculpt out a new head identical to the one in her hands. The only difference being, there was nothing to cover the lower half of his face. If she could even call that half a face.

Once the hissing had stopped, that same dark substance she had seen swirl around him in their fight began to seep out from the wound, covering the newly formed head in a thin black layer and obscuring his features. Her heart dropped as she watched the shadowy liquid be absorbed into the ice, revealing a brand new head on Etho’s shoulders, indistinguishable from the first and complete with a new mask. His eyes fluttered open. 

“That wasn’t very nice of you, now was it?” Etho asked as he turned his head to look over at her, an amused smile painting his voice. Gem screamed.

⋆⋆⋆

Gem had never fainted before. With the amount of blood and guts she spilled with a smile on a daily basis, she hadn’t thought it was even possible for someone like her. Evidently, though, everyone had their limits. 

More confusingly, though, was that she had awoken tucked nice and neatly in a warm bed, with at least a dozen pillows cushioning her head and antlers. With a slight turn of her head, she could see a still-warm cup of cocoa resting on the table next to her and causing a sweet scent to waft through the little room she now found herself in. 

She groaned, sitting herself up in the bed and trailing her hand up her forehead, where she could feel a piece of gauze sticking out. Another glance around her surroundings revealed that her weapons were nowhere to be seen. Gem cursed under her breath. 

Her eyes darted around the room. It was quaint, with wooden walls and flooring and a decorative carpet in the center. Faint light streamed in through a window, accompanied by the warm glow of a candle. Must be early morning, she thought. 

Oddly though, the corner across from her seemed to be completely wrapped in shadow, defying the soft sunlight that should have illuminated it. Gem found herself unable to tear her trembling eyes away as the shadowy corner suddenly warped in her vision, the dark matter collecting and solidifying together as a familiar figure materialized before her. 

Etho drifted nonchalantly towards her, stopping by the table to eye the mug, something almost disappointed flashing in his expression as he noticed it hadn’t been touched. Gem faintly spotted a stitch in the shoulder of his tunic. He turned his attention to her.

“How’re ya’ holding up?" He asked, his tone both concerned and casual at once. “You took a pretty nasty fall back there! Never seen anything like it, it was crazy.” A small laugh punctuated his last sentence.

She blinked, then blinked again, but found herself unable to erase the image of what she had just seen from behind her eyes. It was the kick she needed to jog her memory though, and she leaped backwards away from him, nearly hitting her head on the wall behind her. 

“You… What in void’s name are you!?” She squawked. Etho furrowed his frosted eyebrows quizzically. 

“Well, I was hoping maybe you’d be a little bit more appreciative of the setup you’ve got going on here. I even made you a hot cocoa! Iskall told me you guys love that stuff!” There was something genuine in his voice that made Gem calm somewhat, even if his words only added to her bewilderment. She turned back to look at the mug, and slowly reached a hand out to grab it.

Pulling it close to her chest, she spoke, “You made this? For me? Why? I tried to kill you! I did kill you! At least, I think? I’m… still not entirely sure what happened back there.” She stared down into the mug, feeling a weird sense of shame bubble through her. Having the man she’d killed standing right there in front of her, it felt like talking to a ghost. The bounty hunter wasn’t used to having to think about the aftermath of her career beyond what minor property damage could ensue from a struggle, nevermind like this. Her grip on the handle tightened.

“What, this old thing?” Etho asked with another laugh, pulling up his own severed head from the ground next to Gem’s bed. “I left it here for you, since you seemed to really be after it. Figured it could make a nice souvenir from your stay here, you know?” Etho seemed to pick up from Gem’s appalled expression that she did not, in fact, know. 

“Okay, okay, uh, well, you can take it with you when you leave if you want.” A pause. “This… is what you’re after, right?” Gem could make out tiny frozen droplets still connected to the head’s neck, suspended in time and ice. Momentarily, she considered being alarmed at the notion that she’d been sleeping soundly next to a severed head, or grilling him on why exactly he thought putting said head in her room was a normal thing to do in the slightest. The thumping pain rattling around in her skull made the decision for her.

“Partially,” she replied curtly, evidently still attempting to win her staring contest with the mug. Finally, she broke the one-sided tension, and dared to take a small sip. 

It tasted… cold? No, that wasn't right. The liquid was sweet, if a little watery, and at a comfortably warm temperature. It was more as if the ethos of the mug itself refused to be hot. Like it had reluctantly taken to the liquid, yet refused to be any more than a temporary vessel for its warmth. Or, perhaps even more strangely, as if the liquid itself wasn't quite sure it knew how to be warm. 

Despite Gem’s own lukewarm reaction, Etho lit up. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, his normally chill and steady voice brightening with excitement. An amused look found its way to Gem’s face at the sudden change. 

“It’s nice,” she replied simply. She took another sip, then paused to close her eyes. She swore she could hear a triumphant noise from beside her as she tried to calm her searing nerves. Having the head as proof was good, sure, but the curator had expected — and promised payment for — much more. Gem needed that artefact back. She turned back to face him.

“To be honest, Etho,” She began, “Your head’s not all I’m here for. You don’t just get a bounty on your head for nothing, you know. I’m also here to retrieve that artefact you stole.” 

Etho blinked. “The what?”

Now it was Gem’s turn to furrow her brow. 

“You know. The amulet of the ancient Sun people? The last surviving of its kind? You took it from a museum just a few days ago.” She tilted her head, not even trying to hide her bafflement. Etho squinted at her. He tapped his fingers on the nightstand beside him thoughtfully.

“Ancient amulet… ancient amulet…” He mused. “Oh! Is that what that shiny gold necklace was? It was just lying around on a shelf at that ‘museum’ place Iskall took me to! I don’t know why nobody else thought to take it, to be honest. Here, check it out!” He tugged at something unseen underneath his mask for a minute, before producing the very artefact Gem had been seeking. He handed it to her casually as her shaky hands returned the mug to its nightstand. 

“You’ve been wearing it this whole time!?” She exclaimed, yelping when the item made contact with her skin and reeling backwards at the sudden burst of heat running through her fingertips. 

“Ah, yeah.” He didn’t appear too upset at its departure, though Gem couldn't help but notice his lively attitude had faded somewhat. She brushed her thumb over the deep amber pendant, briefly fascinated by the perpetual heat emanating off of it. 

“It’s neat, right? I’ve never seen a necklace like it. I wasn’t planning on taking it, at first, but I really wanted to figure out why it made my fingers melt like that.”

“You really are something,” Gem muttered. “But, I’m afraid I’ll have to take this back. A job’s a job.”

He gave her a nod. “Yep, yep, fine by me. Is that all you need?”

“Oh, I have one more thing, actually,” Gem replied, tucking the amulet away safely.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I want my weapons back.”

⋆⋆⋆

The curator grinned and clasped her hands together as she spotted Gem, a full-looking satchel and small brown bag now decorating her waist alongside her clanking swords and knives. The bounty hunter approached her desk with a matching smile, untying the smaller bag and placing it before the curator.

“I see you’ve returned! Remarkably fast as well. This is?”

“The amulet, back safe and sound without a scratch. Very pretty, might I add. Anyone would be able to see why it’s the prized jewel of your exhibit. And why a rotten thief would want to take it.” Gem placed the satchel next to it.

“And this…?”

“That deplorable thief’s head, just as you asked. I can assure you, he won’t be any more trouble for you now.”

“Excellent. Then, I believe you are deserving of your reward.”

“Yes,” Gem repeated. “Excellent.”